Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On the night after his meeting with the Elonian Ambassador’s mate, when Optimus had come to him in their berthroom and admitted what neither he nor Jazz had wanted to say, Megatron had asked a simple question. 

"Well," he'd said, "I can tell you all I've discovered, and all I've done. But how much would you really like to know about what I have planned?"

And Optimus, in that wise way of his, had said: "I won't ask you to do what I can't yet."

"And what can you say?" Megatron had asked then, not for the direct answer but for a reason.

And Optimus had replied: "I won't lose you, and I won't endanger our team. I have scheduled an unsanctioned ride off this planet, and that's all I am willing to say for now."

Megatron had smiled and said: "Wonderful. So have I. I love redundancy."

And that had been that.

Megatron trusts Optimus's intentions to a considerable degree, which is why it is so impressive that he trusts his skills even more. If Optimus claims his ride, whoever or whatever it may be (and Megatron has some opinions on this), will get them off Inquila tomorrow afternoon, then it will. And if, somehow, Optimus has misplaced his trust, Megatron is even more convinced of Optimus's ability to survive. Megatron trusts his own plan as well, naturally, and his ability to keep the embassy staff alive long enough to escape. Redundancy. He does love it.

They are in Optimus's office, just after midnight the day before the afternoon when Optimus's mysterious ride (could he have contacted the Lost Light, the one that escaped? No, Megatron had never told him of it) will collect them.

"Are we absolutely sure of a conspiracy against this embassy?" Tungsten is asking. "Leaving guarantees the loss of any protection the Inquiek might provide."

"I'm sure enough." Jazz is leaning against the corner of Optimus's desk, working his jaw in clicking circles. "’Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action,’ to quote the boss. We can either hole ourselves up in here or take it on the run. I like the flexibility of getting gone."

"We have no back-up," adds Optimus. He is sitting behind his desk, chair spun out to face halfway between Megatron and the wall. "I would rather ensure everyone’s safety by evacuating. Our choices are to stay here tonight and tomorrow night, or to leave now for the safe-house Megatron has procured and await pickup there. Tonight's failed assassination may inspire further action from whoever ordered it-"

"The Black Box Consortia," says Jazz, with confidence. Both Megatron and Optimus nod and accept this, and personally Megatron also finds it the most logical conclusion. 

"-or encourage action from opposing forces," continues Optimus. "If there is some subset of the Inquiek government working with the Galactic Council to capture any of us in an extra-judicial manner, now would be a strategic time for them to strike. I believe removing ourselves from Inquiek hands as quickly as possible is our best option."

"Seconded," agrees Megatron. 

And so they have a plan. It goes something like this:

1. Evacuate the Embassy (Preferably, without their movements being reported back to the Senate Chief and the Chief of Planetary Affairs).

2. Get to the safe-house Megatron had fortuitously procured from the Secretary of Alien Affairs.

3. Depart on Optimus's ride (Ideally, without getting shot down).

4. Arrive on Waleria in time to meet the Alimenta, set up a shield generator, and begin energon processing.

5. Skedaddle on Megatron's ride, taking the Galactic Council's attention with them. And-

6. Hopefully go home

It's a decently solid plan, if one with some wiggle room for the disasters (and saving graces) undoubtedly still hidden up everyone's sleeves. Megatron has a feeling Optimus's mysterious ride is being kept secret for a reason, though Megatron is, perhaps, seeing his own guilt in that. But Jazz will have something up in that processor of his, Megatron does not doubt that. Whether it be disaster or saving grace (or both), Megatron expects he'll find out soon enough.

Their plan, decently solid as it may be, faces two substantial and immediate problems: firstly, that they've already caused quite a scene, and have as such acquired a front yard's worth of Inquiek responders; and secondly, that they happen to have with them quite a few mecha and an Inquiek schoolboy, which is too large a posse for an effective escape.

"And there's no reason not to think the Secretary won't just funnel us into a holding station," adds Jazz.

"Well," replies Megatron, mildly miffed, "if she does then our plan is destroyed on a fundamental level. There is no sense trying to alter the plan for such an incident - we will need another entirely."

"Is she trustworthy?" questions Optimus. "I mean, I suppose the bomb thing-"

"The bomb thing?" whispers Tungsten. Jazz sighs.

"We have the press at our front door, Ila downstairs, and 12 people to get to District 3," Megatron declares. "So let’s focus on that."

"13." Jazz crosses his arms defensively. "Talia is still downstairs."

"13." Megatron in-vents. 

"And Shobu," says Tungsten. "Downstairs, remember? Or, well, not to bring. But to deal with."

Optimus taps his fingers on his desk, one two three one two three four, and then, after the second fourth, he says "There is no sense hiding in here under the guise of planning. Snowbank is likely being overwhelmed downstairs - I will handle him and the Inquiek. Jazz, pack emergency bags and deal with the student. Megatron, rustle up the second floor, and quietly. I don't need Ila looking up and seeing 10 Cybertronians with duffel bags. Then escort Shobu out of the building; I can't see a reason to add her to our evacuation list. Tungsten, secure the side and back of the property. Firmly escort any strays to the driveway. We are going to need some way out." With that he places his hands firmly on the desk and pushes himself to his pedes. Then he opens his desk drawer, pulls out his quill box, and passes it to Jazz. "Please put that with my stuff."

"Sure," says Jazz, "but you are forgetting something."

"Yes?"

"The Stentarian - or rather, the chameleon pretending to be the Stentarian girl.”

“Leave it,” says Optimus. “We have enough to juggle as it is, and we will need all hands on deck. Our escape will make her presence on this planet irrelevant to us, and I have no great desire for revenge against a failed attack.”

“Well I do,” mutters Jazz. “But fine. We'll leave it and hope it doesn't stab us in the back.”

Megatron is happy to find that he doesn't particularly care for revenge either, in this instance. Perhaps if it had truly been Shobu…

“Get to work,” Optimus orders, and so they do. 

They've crossed into the realm of real disaster, and in doing so they've unlocked a magic power in Optimus. Tungsten opens the office door and as Optimus steps over the threshold and is met with the low bubbling roar of an embassy in distress he transforms. A tired conjunx raises his right pede and a stalwart commander sets it on the floor. Megatron wishes the same would happen to him, but instead he gains only the strong urge to drink an engex-shaken and fuss the staff into an orderly evacuation line.

He watches Optimus descend to the second floor in a stupefied state.

"I like when his shoulders get like that," Jazz whispers. He has stepped to Megatron's side on the third floor landing.

"Hm?"

"Ya know, ready to tackle something, instead of all…nervous. You know how he gets.”

"I was usually the tackle-ee,” says Megatron. “I like that mood too.” Saying that, he feels some moving-thrill well up within him. He grips the banister and leans forward to peer at the second floor. Jazz heads back into their rooms to fetch the emergency packs. 

Anticipating the ruckus he is about to walk down into, Megatron makes a quick call to the Secretary.

"I'm sorry to wake you," Megatron tells her. "But we are experiencing an unfortunate situation here at the Cybertronian Embassy, and I would like to have the presence of an Inquiek friend to help ease our worries."

"No need to apologize," replies the Secretary slowly, and there is an additional pause as she likely pulls up the news. "I can see," she says after. "An intruder? Are you physically safe?"

"Yes, but your company would be appreciated."

The Secretary naturally understands his desire not to speak openly over the phone. "Of course. I will be there shortly."

She hangs up, and Megatron sets off down the stairs. As he walks, he makes lists. Optimus, Jazz, Megatron, Tungsten, Pickaxe, Snowbank, Fiber, Alloy, Dicer, Killjoy, Grinder, Highpass, and Talia. 13 people to evacuate. He needs to get them packed, handle Shobu, and discuss plans with the Secretary. 

He is thinking of these things, and calculating the arrival time for the Secretary, and planning the most effective route for his to-do list, as he reaches the second floor and begins to turn each curious mech around and send them off to their rooms. They'll have an hour or two to depart, he assumes, giving the Secretary time to work and Optimus time to clear the ground floor.

"Pack your bags," he tells Dicer. "Then one trolley for emergency rations. Fill people's subspaces. Feel free to stick your fingers in and make room. Don't go downstairs until it has been fully cleared." And he turns her about and back to her room, and as she enters Highpass exits, looking a bit put out at being woken by sirens. Megatron turns him around next. Then he continues down the hallway, turning each curious staff member by the shoulder and returning them to their rooms with promises of fuller explanations later.

He finds Alloy in front of the last door. Alloy hikes a thumb over his shoulder, pointing through the doorway, into a room occupied by a wide-eyed Inquiek boy.

"I've got the kid," says Alloy. "What do I do with him?"

"I believe we are going to have to take him," says Megatron. "I suppose...did we collect his things last night?"

Before Alloy can reply, Jazz has materialized by his side. "I'll handle this," he says, in that determined, honorable Autobot sort of way. Megatron has no great desire to handle another Inquiek youngling, and gladly hands the task over. Anyway, it might do to keep Jazz from running off.

"I will keep you updated on the plan," he tells Jazz, who nods and steps into the room. Talia, whose feathers are straight and erect and whose eyes couldn't possibly grow wider, looks like a prisoner awaiting execution. He has woken up in a strange house after his friend's murder, and Megatron imagines fear will be his primary emotion for quite a while yet. What a mess.

He receives a comm from Pickaxe. ::Hey, ETA on coming down here? Shobu is looking real terrible, and I'm getting antsy protecting the kitchen.::

Megatron has reached the end of the left side of the hallway, which is now empty of mechs - he had manually steered every occupant back inside their rooms. The hallway is a horseshoe; he returns to the stairs unbothered, and as he does he lets out a deep sigh. He practices a technique Rung had suggested, feeling the floor rise through his pedes and up to his chest and out with an ex-vent. The only issue is that he can never quite remember what the exercise was for, though it seems to work half-decently as a distraction for lulls between action. He completes the second hallway, then walks down the stairs.

Megatron finds Shobu in the kitchens, where Pickaxe had squirreled her away under Tungsten's orders. She is cradling a cup and looking about nervously. Dicer is half inside the walk-in icebox, pulling out and stacking ingredients, and Shobu's optics dart to her and back again a few times before they catch on Megatron.

The door swings shut behind him, but does little to muffle the energetic conversation between Snowbank, Optimus, and Ila.

"Shobu," Megatron greets. "You did not have to come here tonight." It is not a reprimand, and neither is it a question. He is trying for something more akin to gentleness in his tone. Shobu's head feathers ruffle.

"I got a call," she whispers, glancing at Pickaxe and Dicer, and back to Megatron again. Megatron nods, and Pickaxe bows and leaves the room. At the moment of silence that follows, Dicer turns, meets Megatron's optics, and steps fully into the ice-box, which shuts behind her.

Megatron pulls one of the Cybertronian stools across to the Inquiek side and sits down beside Shobu. "What kind of call?"

"From a friend, from my old job." Shobu's claw-like hands shake, and her cup trembles with them. "They said that during the evening there was an emergency meeting. The Senate Chief was there! And she was curious about it, so she pressed her head to the grate."

Shobu pauses there for a moment, and Megatron dutifully nods her on. As he does, his attention is drawn back to her trembling hands, and they upset him. He reaches one servo forward and wraps it around her wrist and claw. She looks down at this touch blankly, then seems to accept it, and continues on.

"She didn't catch much of it. But she knows they mentioned you and your mates."

It seems to Megatron that the most logical conclusion would be that they had intercepted word of the assassination and were discussing whether or not to order Sonum in to prevent it. He doesn't tell Shobu this. "We experienced an attack," he informs her. "I'm sure that is what they were meeting about."

But Shobu shakes her helm. "No," she whispers, in that hitching young voice of hers. "Well, maybe. But then why would they be talking about me?"

Megatron leaves Shobu in the kitchen with Pickaxe, to whom he comms strong orders not to leave the girl's side. He'd prefer to send her to the third floor, in fact, and is suddenly over-aware of the several entrances to the kitchens and the first floor, but he does not want to alarm her further. The shaking had not resumed when he had lifted his servo, not after he had promised her safety, a promise that he could not keep. But she had believed it, and though he might have been concerned about such lies before, he finds he has had a change of spark.

So he leaves her under Pickaxe's care and excuses himself to the back door, outside of which the Secretary of Alien Affairs’ guard has taken up his post.

Megatron slips outside with no fanfare, the first floor now mostly deserted, save for Optimus who has pushed Ila to the front door and Dicer, who moves from the stairs to the kitchen. The back garden is almost deserted - Tungsten had ordered Payla to guard the sides from any errant reporters. But, while it may appear empty, it is far from secure. Megatron allows the guard in, and behind him follows the Secretary.

It is easy enough to get her up to the third floor, now that Snowbank and Optimus have emptied the place of Inquiek. They don't say anything until they are in Optimus's office. Megatron pulls out one chair and braves the broken one himself.

"I had no intention of ‘calling in the favor’ so soon," Megatron begins, once settled. "But I hope you can agree that the situation calls for it."

The Secretary huffs a laugh. "It certainly does," she agrees. "Your Embassy is compromised. My sources claim this was the work of a BBC spy. Do you corroborate?"

"We believe it was a BBC attack."

"The housemaid, they claim. Shobu."

Megatron freezes. "The house- no, no." Shobu's conversation is piecing itself together. "No, it was not. What benefit would your government get from claiming that it was?" This he asks quietly, and mostly to himself. 

The Secretary's face pinches together. It serves well enough as a response. 

"We need short-term housing," Megatron says decisively. "One day. One night. Is the house prepared?"

The Secretary nods. "I took the liberty of making some calls on the drive over. I can transport you there tonight. I assume that is the request?"

"Indeed." Megatron pauses, then adds. "For the entire embassy."

The Secretary's head feathers dance. "Ah," she says. "You are not expecting to return."

Megatron shakes his helm. "I will continue to provide my expertise as required. As per the agreement."

"I will make some additional calls. Limited luggage, I would suggest. I have appropriated you a train car. A single train car."

"Understood." Megatron can't imagine his war-veteran staff will complain much about the conditions of their emergency evacuation. Well, no, they might complain to great lengths, but never with any stubborn refusal.

The Secretary pulls out a communication device with the sort of obviousness that implies Megatron ought to leave for politeness' sake. But he has something he needs to ask first. 

"The first day we met," he begins, and then pauses for a second, rethinking, before he continues. "You told us you felt there were certain members of your government that are...'more afraid of their own downfall than concerned with the Inquiek people'. I have two young Inquiek who...might be among those people whom certain individuals may be less concerned about."

The Secretary lowers her communicator. "The housekeeper."

"And a student."

"I-" The Secretary pauses for a long moment. "Those individuals I referred to... they believe that it would be for the best if the Inquiek people were not aware of where the landmine you disassembled originates from."

And there, Megatron thinks, is where Shobu has had her bed made. The life of a housekeeper, one who knows far too much about the Chief of Planetary Affairs, is no difficult sacrifice to make, to keep the presence of BBC influence on their civil war quiet. The Secretary had said it herself - the Inquiek knew it had been the BBC who had sent the chameleon. It unfolds in Megatron’s mind: Sonum would kill the fake Shobu, perhaps he would have Megatron and Optimus’ helms to present to the Galactic Council, or perhaps he would have their trust. And Shobu could be thrown away with the rest of the Chief of Planetary affairs dirty laundry, the homegrown traitor. There is no BBC presence on Inquila.

"If you assist us in departing, Secretary, and grant safe return for the two younglings in our protection, I may be able to assist you in the other conversation we had. I have a great deal of experience in disrupting supply chains."

The Secretary's tail thumps against the chair leg. "I am sure our alliance will continue to be mutually productive," she says, and raises her communicator again.

Megatron returns to the living room to provide her privacy, and busies himself checking his go-bag, which Jazz had helpfully collected. He'll lose his table, he thinks. It had been a lucky find, and he'd had to bargain for it with deep-fried circuit chips - 12 bags for the table, 8 more for the chairs. The mech he'd bought them from had found them Primus-knows-where in the wasteland of Cyberton's underbelly, and had been afflicted with some strange processor ailment that had left him wanting only to live in a collection of empty imported oil barrels stacked like a mansion, multiple floors and all. 

It doesn't matter, obviously. After he has confirmed that he can survive off of what is in his bag, he empties all of it into his subspace. His is larger than most, expanded during one of Shockwave's many experiments. He folds up the bag and sticks that, too, into his subspace. 

The Secretary finds him in the living room just as he is stacking his conjunxes' go-bags by the door. "I have appropriated the required cars," she says. "However, my driver found it extremely difficult navigating onto the street. You are surrounded, I am afraid."

Megatron had anticipated such. "We will not be able to depart in these numbers from our doorstep," he tells her. "If you could have your drivers meet and stand-by, we will determine an appropriate location for pick-up."

The Secretary nods. "I will leave then. It was simpler to get myself in than it will be to get all of you out; I will not add to your number."

Megatron had learned a great deal about gratitude on the Lost Light. Mostly, he had learned that it is an annoying debt to have, but also a debt to be treasured. Now, with the worry in the Secretary's voice, he fears he has over-extended his reach. But there is a way to return their equal footing. 

"Secretary," he calls, as she turns towards the door. "I have some information for you. I told you our partnership would be beneficial to the Inquiek people."

She turns her head back, eyes squinted in a questioning manner. He continues. 

"Those weapons of unknown origin, I am sure you know they can be traced back to the Black Box Consortia. But perhaps this is new: they are being funneled through their Stentarian accomplices."

The Secretary blinks, her head feathers flicking back and forth slowly. It sinks in moment by moment; she mulls over the information as if tasting a bitter wine. 

"They were suspected," she says, eventually. "I appreciate the confirmation."

Megatron understands how this information might be used - and how it might benefit his enemies. "There is more," he tells her. "Those colleagues of yours. They are not fighting against invasion from within, but for invasion from above."

The Secretary reacts the same as before, though for some time longer. And then she says "There is a difference between alliance and control. There are Inquiek dead. The Galactic Council has not gained a member in ten years. I do not intend to allow Inquila to be the next abandoned plaything."

"An honorable goal." Megatron steps forward, then pauses. "You are assisting us greatly, and I am very eager for action. Give me the location of the train tracks - we will handle the Stentarian problem. We won't have much more time to assist you."

The Secretary mulls over the offer for a moment, and then flicks her feathers. She doesn't say anything more, save her goodbyes.

Megatron escorts her downstairs. Before he can lead her to the back exit, Optimus comes in through the front. The door closes behind him with a shuddering thud, silencing the considerably dulled but still present whirring of activity from the front steps. He brushes his servos down his thighs as if wiping away nonexistent dirt, and then he beckons Megatron over.

"Our front yard is mostly clear," he tells Megatron. "Ila tells me she is going home. I expect we will have optics on us for a while yet. Do we have an evacuation route?"

"Yes, but we have 12 mechs and 2 Inquiek, and probably a dozen optics on the house at all times. We aren't known for being a quiet species."

Optimus nods slowly. "We will have to consult the expert," he says. 

The Secretary watches this, then adds “We will have the cars pull up at another location. You may know this better than I - are there any adjoining embassies your mechs could walk to without alerting the officials in the front?"

"One second." Megatron reaches for his comm, only to be beaten by Optimus, who walks to the stair steps and yells out "Jazz!"

Megatron sighs. He'd never summoned his spies like that, but he'd never had to summon Soundwave at all - he had always appeared suddenly and with a knowing air about him.

Jazz materializes a minute later, leaning over the second floor banister, and Megatron explains the question.

"We could sneak out behind the bushes," says Jazz. "Could get as far as the Probat house."

Optimus grimaces at the mention of the guano embassy. Megatron has better things to think about.

"If we can get to the Probat embassy, it is only a few moments longer to the Elonian embassy," he says. "Have your drivers pull up there, Secretary, please”. 

The Secretary's feathers flick. “I will make a call,” she says and so the plan falls together.

Optimus pulls Megatron to the side as soon as the back door shuts behind the Secretary. "Have you spoken with Shobu yet?" he asks, in a voice that betrays some fear of eavesdropping through the door. 

"Yes," says Megatron, "We will be taking her with us."

Optimus nods. "I believe that is wise. We should take her to Waleria."

It does not necessarily surprise Megatron that Optimus would agree, or even agree so enthusiastically. But it does betray some new knowledge, and he tilts his helm and nudges with his field in silent question. 

"Ila apologized for whatever role the Inquiek embassy staff might have played in the attempt on our lives.”

Megatron sighs through his teeth. "Is she actively working to place blame on Shobu, or was she purposefully misinformed?"

"Or do her bosses believe it?" counters Optimus. "I could not say. My instinct is that they would prefer a narrative about Sonum stumbling upon a plot by Shobu, the real traitor and spy. Ila mentioned fears that Shobu had been spying on the Chief of Planetary Affairs, perhaps even using an emotional attachment to get into his home. They, too, would be victims in that case."

Megatron nods. But this interpretation matches well with his instinct, a dangerous combination. "Or they are telling the truth and she is a spy," he says, "or they are lying and she is their spy, and this is their attempt to salvage it."

"Something you might have done. But I believe it is too complicated a ruse for the Inquiek government. They could hardly keep us here a fortnight before they lost us."

"They are losing us, but not yet. They still have time," reminds Megatron. "Shobu is either a plant or a young girl caught up in things too great for her. In any case, it is better to bring her along."

Optimus nods and begins to move away. There is a ping to Megatron's comm - a location tag. Megatron catches him by the shoulder and pulls him back. 

“I need Jazz,” he says. “It's not for revenge.”

Megatron wakes Alia up, and easily receives permission to utilize their driveway. "It would be a pleasure to visit your government on Cybertron someday," she says. "To come as a friend of your mates...we could see each other again."

"It would be our great pleasure to receive you," promises Megatron, "when the opportunity arises."

In the past, Megatron might have made a false promise as easily as this, and thought no more about fulfilling it. But he takes pity on the Elonians, resource-strapped and under Galactic Council supervision, kept like children. And why shouldn't they have access to Earth, to Cybertron and her colonies? If they make it home, he will invite the Elonians to call on them. Hopefully Optimus will retain something close to influence. Hopefully the Galactic Council will allow it.

Afterwards, he returns to his wrangling. He follows Optimus up the stairs, but pulls off on the second floor to fetch Jazz from Alloy's room. Talia is sitting on the berth, twiddling his thumbs. 

"Where is Jazz?" Megatron asks. Talia shifts. 

"He said he needs to find something for me to eat," he replies. "I told him I could survive until the next feast day, but he says I might not see a next feast day."

The phrasing leaves something to be desired; Megatron hopes the message had not sounded so ominous in the Inquiek tongue Jazz had used to deliver it. "You might not experience one on Inquila for a while, but Waleria will have something for you to eat," Megatron assures him. "Did anyone collect your things last night?"

"Not yet.”

Megatron nods, readjusting his plan. "Come with me." He turns on his heel and exits the room, once more on a spy-hunt. Perhaps Optimus has it right, he thinks. A yodel wouldn’t take nearly as long. The thump-thump-thumps of Inquiek feet pad follow dutifully along behind him.

The Cybertronian staff are visible through the doorways of their rooms, small go-bags being packed and subspaces being stuffed, urgent showers being run, under-berths and closets searched. They peer over as Megatron walks past, Talia following like a duckling. Then, momentary curiosity sated, they return to their work. 

Megatron finds Jazz on the first floor, shuffling through the Inquiek side of the kitchens. Shobu is watching him curiously, Pickaxe stands professionally to the side. 

"Jazz,” Megatron calls. "Come here."

Jazz peeks up over the counter. "Yeah?"

Megatron removes his empty go-bag from his subspace and tosses it across the room into Jazz's hands. "Come here."

Jazz hops up and over, and meets them by the Cybertronian-sized counter. "Yeah?"

"New mission," Megatron says. "Take Pickaxe, Shobu, and Talia. Grab her things, then his - limited to necessities; Dicer will pack some food, and the safehouse will have more. Then meet us at these coordinates." He sends Jazz and Pickaxe the location. "You've got two hours. The late night train leaves with or without us. Go out the back."

"Righty-oh," agrees Jazz, almost cheerfully. Shobu and Talia look at each other, and Megatron realizes this will be the first time they've met. 

"We are working on both of your safe returns," he assures them. 

"Thank you," says Talia, unconvinced.

"Thank you," says Shobu, with total trust. Megatron sighs. 

"Jazz, here a moment," he adds, beckoning Jazz forward. He walks to the door, Jazz trailing after. 

In a lowered voice, he says "Direct them to Shobu's apartment, then slip out and handle the chameleon, please. Optimus has been read in."

Jazz grins, reaches up, and clasps Megatron on the shoulder. "Wonderful," he agrees. "I knew you'd find something appropriate for me to do. It's nice to have you on my side.”

Megatron pauses at this comment, long enough for Jazz to herd the group out the door, and even twenty kicks later, as he's leading a group of mechs unqualified to play hide-and-seek behind the back hedgeways he marvels at it. What a thing to say.

Chapter Text

Jazz brought a blue shag rug home from Earth. A large, fluffy, ocean-blue shag rug. It had taken Primus-knows how many sheep shorn to make it, and must have cost a fortune, but the mayor of some small Illinois town had asked Optimus what a proper thank you might be for their rescue, and Jazz had jumped into Optimus's comms with enough exclamation marks that Optimus had read his request aloud in a state of confusion. The mayor had thought for a few seconds and then replied that it would be an honor to get Illinois-wool onto the floor of an Autobot spaceship. A few months later, Jazz had a shag carpet. 

He lies in it now, threading his digits through the thin braids and pulling upwards gently to feel the wool - which he had realized some years ago must mostly be acrylic - slide through his fingers. He is placing a great deal of attention on this repetitive movement so as to avoid thinking about his conjunx, returning on his stupid second-hand dinghy with the mech who had tormented both his real and professional life for millions of years. His conjunx, the brilliant commander, the foolish optimist, the terrible romantic. 

Jazz braves a glance to the digital clock on the wall-side monitor and sees that the stupid little dinghy will have set down his stupid little conjunx and his stupid little obsession a few minutes ago. He extracts his fingers from the carpet and rolls to stare dramatically up at the ceiling. He'll have another hour then, until he has to fall madly in love with the Universe's greatest scourge. 

"You do not have to like him," Optimus had said. "Or even...allow him into our lives. I only ask that you give him a chance to...be here. Allow me the chance - you do not need to let him into our home. I will not even speak to you about him, if you wish." Optimus's stupid optics had been entirely honest, which Jazz finds to be the most frustrating thing about his stupid face. Even the thousands of light years between them could do nothing to distort or lessen the intensity with which Optimus projected his desperation and hope.

"Don't be fragging stupid," Jazz had replied. "He'll live here. We have a guest room. And you can't just inflict him on our unsuspecting neighbors. He should stay up here in our tower of jaded war vets.”

He ought to have said "inflict Cybertron onto Megatron". But he hadn't known Megatron then.

He dramatically pushes himself off his shag carpet, inspects their guest room to confirm that it remains just as it had been not an hour previous, then flings open the cupboards to ensure they have enough cereal, in case they go into emergency lockdown for a month. Then he parks himself by the door and waits. 

The difficulty is that it does all feel very dramatic, but it doesn't quite feel dramatic enough. It's as exciting and as mundane as bringing home a new puppy; their lives will be forever altered, and yet it is something done by so many and so often that it is...a natural part of life. 

Except that other people's puppies tend not to be ex-warlords; but Jazz conjunxed a Prime, and the natural consequence of becoming so involved in dramaticisms is that puppies tend to transform into warlords. 

He is doing his very best to morph his anxiety into annoyance because he feels he has every right to be annoyed at Optimus for running off to 'have a conversation' with a puppy, only to call and proclaim that he has had the bright idea to bring the puppy home, and won't Jazz please let the puppy live in the house and eat his cereal, because- 

The metaphor is getting away from him. Jazz's conjunx is insane and is bringing him a universe-conqueror, to whom Jazz has lost plenty of fine mecha, and Jazz has agreed to it because he wants to be supportive, and Optimus so rarely asks for things - especially things he has wanted for eons - and also because Jazz is curious.

Jazz hadn't been there for Megatron's surrender. He hadn't spent much energy on the trial either. He had tried to keep himself away from the thick of things. Megatron is such an enticing character, and Jazz loves enticing characters, but it had seemed a dangerous sort of enticing, even captured and kept. 

Here was a mech who had haunted his conjunx for centuries, an existential threat of immense proportion, now theoretically tamed. Now a new person. Jazz is intrigued. 

He loves a good mystery. More than that, he supposes, he wants to protect Optimus should the mystery turn out to be a long con. Should Megatron be as he always was, monstrous and clever and uncaring, should Optimus be left sparkbroken - Jazz needs to protect him, and himself. And should Megatron be truly reformed...that would be just as exciting as otherwise.

And so he has said yes to letting this mech into his home. And now the door rings its unlocking chime. 

Jazz hovers in the center of their undecorated living room, atop his shag carpet, and watches as the door slides open to his conjunx's tired face. His battlemask is up, the fool, as if Jazz would start a fight now. 

It is evening now, and the last light flags through the window behind Jazz and onto the face of his newly acquired house guest, revealed as Optimus takes a cautious step forward. 

"Jazz," Optimus greets, but Jazz pays him no heed. The Great Megatron appears above his shoulder, and Jazz is overcome by his diminishment. 

The Great Megatron is pale. He is led forward by Optimus's movement, easily falling into place behind him. His optics are downcast, his digits fidget slowly around the bag he carries to his right. 

"Huh," says Jazz, as Optimus, noticing Jazz's attention, steps to the side. Megatron stands in the doorway now, bag in hand, and looks up from the doormat to meet Jazz's optics. And then he smiles like a chronically unsure 8-year-old inquiring about the pony rides. 

"Hello," says Megatron. "It is a pleasure to meet you under better circumstances."

Jazz perches atop the banister of the third floor. The go-bags sit beyond the doorway behind him, pre-packed and checked. His legs swing out above the mayhem below. Optimus has taken over the first floor, in full command mode, and firmly banished the Inquiek from sight. All save Ila, that is, who stands by the door and attempts to persuade him to allow investigators inside. Optimus promises her entrance in the morning, and the straightness of him makes it clear that the morning will not be coming sooner than the sun. 

This is an attractive vision, but not where most of Jazz's attention lies. Instead, he watches Megatron, who has wrangled control of the second floor with a grace characteristic of a well-trained air traffic controller. 

He stands below Jazz on the second floor landing, acting as a sort of security guard and preventing any curious Inquiek from entering and any ill-prepared or poorly-packed Cybertronian from departing. 

"Collect your things," he informs a sleepy-opticked Fiber. "Everything into your subspace and one bag. You might want to shower, but be quick."

"What happened?" asks Fiber, the natural question. 

"We have no active combatants. Prepare for possible evacuation. No statement to Inquiek outlets," Megatron replies, in the professional manner of a Crisis Manager, or perhaps a General. 

When Fiber acquiesces, her place is quickly taken by Grinder, who is dealt with in a similar fashion. 

"Allow me to assist Optimus," he requests. 

Megatron firmly turns Grinder about and reorients him towards his room, with strict orders to prepare. With each individual Megatron takes another step forward, until Jazz needs to lean dangerously forward to watch him. It is fascinating to see him move, with firm hands on shoulders and a lowered helm. It reminds Jazz of Optimus, if somewhat more focused - when Optimus is firm and guiding there is always a sense of being lost about him, as if he were trying to staunch a wound that spurts from new cracks every second. With Megatron, every move is driven - not meant to comfort, but meant to control. 

Jazz doubles back to this thought in something of a start - how easily it had slipped through his processor. But, he decides, it is because Megatron’s intent is not what it might have been before. Today’s control is, at its soul, a tool to provide comfort tomorrow. If he were a more philosophical mech, Jazz might attempt some sort of analysis of this, but he prefers not to for his own sanity. It is both startling and comforting to see Megatron exhibit such confidence. Jazz will not ruin it for himself with over-consideration.

Downstairs, Optimus is not in his usual lost and firm and guiding state, but has instead been elevated into a stately certainty. Where Snowbank had thrown his servos in the air and raised his voice, Optimus stands with his back straight, his servo emphasizing his quiet words with slow motions. And despite his lowered volume, the room watches him with far more attention. Even the paramedics, those few still milling about as if waiting for another body to drop, lean in closer and then turn and file out upon his command. 

Jazz taps the balcony bar and ponders his own place of control. He is annoyed that it is not in the empty bedroom of the Stentarian girl, as it might have been before. His two conjunxes fall so easily back into their previous roles. He, who had maintained the same career, is at the moment stuck and useless. 

The chameleon is a threat. He should take her out. 

He should not abandon the embassy mid-crisis. 

Such are the complications of life. It is all the more difficult a place to be - swinging his pedes on the banister - when some darker piece of him so desires to kill her.

Unprofessional. It is entirely unprofessional. If he were the sort of mech to look deeply inwards (he tries so hard not to let Optimus influence him like this), he might think of it as his processor protecting itself from his failure, from his anxieties. The chameleon’s life is something he can control, even if he has no plan for their escape. He could avenge his own failure.

But he has been ordered to leave it. He’s been ordered to assist evacuation. So that’s what he will do instead. He huffs his distaste and jumps back down to the floor, and then down the staircase to join Megatron at the end of the hallway. 

"I'll handle Talia," he says, because at the very least he can handle an asset. He takes Talia by the shoulder and guides him back into Alloy's room. He is shaking. 

"They didn't come for me?" He asks. 

"Not at all," replies Jazz. The boy is immediately calmed. Jazz claps his servos together. "But," he begins, "We are going to have to go on a trip. Let's get you packed, shall we?"

Talia does his best impression of confidence, which is poor indeed. Jazz hides his grimace with a much more practiced ease.

Jazz likes life's little ironies as much as life does, generally speaking. A nice turn on the head, a good stop-and-wonder kind of moment, usually a good laugh. It's the universe's way of making sure its participants understand the luck of it all - that no one could ever see the thousands of little lines she has strung between the past and future. It's a good reminder to a spy that not all lines can be hooked in and analyzed, and a bit of 'relax and see' can work out well enough.

Jazz is well-versed in ironies, and prefers to lean heavily into them, for entertainment value and education all the same. And so, when Megatron pulls him to the side and gives him the perfect order, the perfect Decepticon order, he lets it wash over him gleefully.

He wonders what purpose Megatron had conjured up to convince Optimus. A few days ago, he might have found it suspicious. But now, in the thick of it, Jazz finds that he has accepted that Megatron - no matter his lingering worries - is not nearly as loose a cannon as he had once feared. And, irony of all ironies, he takes the request for assassination as an order like those from Optimus during wartime, and approaches the task with a professional efficiency.

Megatron had given him a schedule - Shobu, then the Stentarians, then Talia, and for good reason. Shobu lives on the outskirts of the city, not terribly far from Embassy Row. It is easy enough to tell Pickaxe that he needs to slip out and run an errand, and he'll be back in an hour. Pickaxe doesn't question it, and the two Inquiek are now so absorbed in each other's newness that they don't think much of it. Talia looks at him curiously for a moment, but Shobu draws him back into a conversation about a new trend of treat shops, and he responds with the enraptured delight of a child looking for escape in another child.

An hour will be plenty of time for Shobu to pack her things, and probably enough for Jazz to get back to Embassy Row, if he's quick about it.

Jazz can do it quickly.

Megatron probably made the sensible argument that an assassin running around is a bit of a Chekhov's gun (using some other term, he's sure), and wouldn't it be better to send that little spy of ours (Jazz imagines it with those words - 'that little spy of ours') to burn off that loose thread. Or perhaps it had to do with Megatron's escape plan. Or maybe it is a matter of revenge for him as well.

Whatever the reason, Jazz takes a vindictive pleasure in hopping between the fence lines and shrubbery back to Embassy Row. This chameleon first, he tells himself, and then whoever it was who ordered Tip's death. His money is on the Senate Chief and his posse - the Chief of Planetary Affairs and General of Amphibious forces. 

He should never have let Sonum be carried away on a gurney, he chastises himself. If he'd had him alone, if the chameleon hadn't been a distraction, he might have learned something. 

The Stentarian embassy is quiet, but unlike his previous visit, the silence is not comforting. Instead, it threatens him with soon-to-awaken sleepers. He knows the squeaking step this time, and the sight lines of the security cameras, and it is not so difficult to slip up to the top floor.

He has watched their windows for long enough to know which door he ought to open. He engages his blaster, presses an audial to the door, and slows the beat of his own spark.

It is entirely quiet.

Jazz wouldn't call himself an expert of psychology, but it seems to him that the aftermath of a failed assassination attempt is not an ideal time for a nap. The most likely possibilities then are as follows: the chameleon is not inside the room, or she has anticipated his arrival and is waiting to kill him. 

Had Jazz been less experienced, or too intent on vengeance to think clearly, he might have entered the room and looked, gun raised. And, potentially, that version of himself might have been strangled, or shot, or otherwise made a fool of. 

But Jazz is plenty experienced and, while he does want a bit of revenge, he wants the chameleon off the board much more. So instead he turns around and heads back down the stairs. If the chameleon had been waiting, Jazz might have been injured or killed, and at the very least the house awakened. But, if the chameleon is instead panicking, preparing for an emergency departure... well, Jazz is familiar with just the place a nervous, vulnerable Black Box Consortium spy might go running to. 

So Jazz hunts down the entrance to the basement, lifts it and slides himself down. As he lowers himself he hears action below. He would prefer not to enter the room blind and pede-first, so he flips himself upside down on the ladder and peers into the room. 

It has changed little since his last visit. The table remains in the center, communicator activated, the security feeds show the house he had just trapped through, the wall is covered by a large metal container rack. 

The room is also in a state of disarray, as frantically distressed as the individual flitting about it. She - the chameleon, the young Stentarian girl, the not-Shobu, the thing (for at this moment it has taken the form of a mutating thing) is running about the room pulling things off shelves. She is performing a thousand little tasks at once, and doing them all messily. The communicator is humming and pinging as it tries and fails to connect to a satellite not currently hosting a connection. She checks it every time she passes, twice a second, as she skitters from one side of the room to another. She has a go-bag open on a chair, haphazardly filled with electronics and fabrics and the prominent end of a blaster. 

When she runs to the far end of the room, to the wall covered by the metal storage, she digs through one of the many open boxes. She rummages around for something or other, throwing rejected items to the floor, until she locates it, and she runs to the other side and throws it in her bag, checking the communicator as she passes. The floor becomes invisible, hidden by a carpet of clothes and information disks and empty ammo bags. 

A messy, messy retreat. 

This is the issue with chameleons, Jazz thinks. Born with all that skill, all that potential, never having to work a day in their lives for it. Governments scoop them up, half-ass their training, and send them off like newborns. Natural talent is the natural enemy of skill; their careers develop rapidly on the backs of their morphing features, and when the shit hits the fan they are untrained and panicked. Messy. 

They can evade notice easily enough, sneak past a thousand protective measures, but when they have their gun aimed at the helm of a target, their follow-through is as talented as a toddler’s. 

Jazz almost pities the girl. Almost. But he has orders, and she tried to shoot Megatron through the helm in his bed, and it doesn't trouble Jazz much at all to aim his blaster just where her head always pauses to look at the pinging communicator. And the next time she stops, he puts her down on the carpet of her clutter.

Chapter Text

The train car is hot, despite the darkness outside and the coolness of the season. Megatron had shut all the windows for fear of sound carrying in the wind and calling on some curious onlooker. Now the frames of ten anxious engines puff heat into the dark, tight space, until the temperature becomes uncomfortable even to the extremophile Cybertronian body. 

“Keep your fans off,” Megatron orders. “It will only make the heat worse, and several of you need to have your screws tightened - it will be louder than a maraca filled with bells.” Optimus records this human simile and sends it to Jazz, for taunting at a more appropriate time.

The rumble of on-boarding passengers a few cars ahead acts as a gentle reminder not to complain.

The train station is a large, brightly-lit, domed building, completely unlike the governmental campus. There is no trace of nature there, no climbing vines or hedges, only cold white stone. The Secretary’s drivers had dropped them off a block from the station, where a chain-link fence had separated them and the tail-end of the train. They had hopped it, passed their cart of energon (which now blocks the aisle) over the top, and let themselves into the second to last car. 

"The last few compartments are saved for extra luggage and animal passengers," The Secretary had explained. "The ticket-checkers will not come, and the conductors have been instructed not to pass through your compartment. I suggest you do not do anything to excite the curiosity of the passengers."

So they are whisper-quiet. Quieter than whisper-quiet. It is a difficult feat for a Cybertronian, or any creature as large and metal as they, but his crew performs admirably as Optimus's internal clock ticks closer and closer to departure. Grinder shifts, and the scratch of his plating on the wood-like substance that makes up the back of the bench echoes across the room and is lost to the distant crashing and closing of metal doors. 

It's as quiet as their engines can be. And so, when the door they had delicately shut swings open with a bang nearly every glowing optic flinches.

"Sorry!" Exclaims Shobu. Then, in a whisper, "Sorry!"

"That's alright," says Highpass. He's closest to the door, and he extends a hand to help Shobu into the compartment. Optimus leans to the side, into the aisle, and lets the moment of fresh, cool air flow over his plating. Shobu is followed by Talia, feathers flattened, and then Pickaxe, who fist-bumps Killjoy as he passes. He sets the younglings’ bags on one of the tables, where Snowbank and Fiber sit on one side and Alloy the other. Alloy picks them up and, bending over, shoves them in the hollowed out space between the backs of the benches. 

Jazz enters last. He shuts the door lightly behind him. Optimus settles back into his seat, the soft flow of fresh air now blocked. The door closing also shuts off the light from the streetcars, plunging them back into their optic-lit darkness. Pickaxe shuttles the Inquiek into a booth, then sits by Alloy. Jazz slides in beside Optimus. His plating meets Optimus's with a click. Optimus feels like his coolant tubes might melt. 

"No," Optimus protests in a whisper. "Too hot. Go over there."

Jazz rolls his optics with exaggeration, so that his entire face conveys the movement. This is the most visible part of his face, and he looks almost like a floating, bemused visor. 

He does slide out, then switches to Megatron’s side. "I've been kicked out," he declares. 

"Thank you for getting them here safely," replies Megatron. The two Inquiek are also whispering, and so is Dicer. There is the shifting and the coughing and the in-venting of any crowd. It all sets Optimus on edge, which naturally leads to worrying about other things.

Like how this utter mess might change the mind of a certain General of Aerial Forces. And how he is going to convince Megatron to get on a Decepticon rescue ship. And how he is going to convince the Decepticons to let them go, afterwards.

"It was easy enough to handle," Jazz replies. "And that drop-off you had me do - easy as pie."

So at least they won't have the Black Box chameleon on their afts. Optimus doesn't find it that comforting.

Over comms, Jazz adds:

::Listen, I'm thinking we've got a limited time here to cripple our Inquiek opposition, ya dig? Cuz once we are off planet we lose access to the big players. You gotta let me track down whatever military hospital Sonum's at.::

It does not take a sparkbond to understand Jazz's motivations. ::The Inquiek will not be chasing us at any speed worth giving a damn about.:: he comms back. ::According to your own math, Jazz.::

::I'm....a novice at math::

::I understand you want to avenge your asset, but I do not believe splitting up will benefit our main objective, which is a safe evacuation.::

Megatron jumps in here. ::Optimus, I understand the caution, but we have other objectives as well - to return the Inquiek youths to Inquila safely, and to free the planet from this proxy war which so devastates it.::

::I fragging knew it:: says Jazz. ::Revolution was not on our list of goals.::

::Not a revolution. Overthrowing a foreign power. It's completely different.::

::I told Optimus you would go straight towards overthrowing the government.::

"Why are you arguing with me, Jazz? I am trying to be on your side."

Optimus places his helm in his hands and rubs his optics with his thumbs. ::I planned on leaving Shobu and Talia on Waleria:: he interrupts. ::Our goal is to keep the green energon out of the hands of the Galactic Council, the Inquiek, and the BBC, and to keep you out of their hands as well. I assume this planet will fade into the background as we lead both invading parties on a scraplet-chase to Waleria. Once Cybertron extends its protection there, that planet will interest them much more.::

Which reminds him. He drafts a comm to Snowbank. The Cybertronian Senate will need to commit resources to assist in the holding of Waleria, in conjunction with the planet's government. The planet's government which, at this moment, is only a rudimentary, unofficial thing, standing mostly for the sole purpose of approving the usage of Inquila's aid and land sales.

::Yeah, we've got something:: says Snowbank. ::A good majority of them want the Inquiek out, but they are going to have to kill some of their higher-ranking, bribe-rich colleagues.::

::Well, they have two days:: Optimus replies.

In the meantime, the comms between his mates have continued.

::I have promised the Secretary my support::

::I gave my support. And my phaser power. She'll have all she needs to take down the BBC-Stentarian alliance on Inquila, with what I collected::

::Now you are arguing against your original position::

::Frag, you're right. Let me go back and take out the Galactic Council's minions, too::

::Unfortunately, it will not solve the underlying problem, which is the segregation and treatment of the lower districts::

::Wait:: says Optimus. ::What did you collect?::

::What?::

::From the Stentarians. What did you collect?::

::More of what I had. Communication records, incriminating files, that sorta thing. Enough for the Secretary to get other Black Box Consortia allies thrown off the planet. Or killed I suppose. Whatever she wants.::

Optimus blinks. ::We are going to have the BBC after us.::

::We knew that:: says Megatron. Optimus shakes his helm.

::Killing their chameleon - they'd hardly care. Ruining their entire alliance? Now they will have a greater reason to pursue us than simply wanting to slag off the Galactic Council. Or whatever Megatron did to them on the Lost Light.::

The train lurches forward with a screech.

::I don't know,:: Megatron comms. ::We....killed a great number of them. They definitely want me dead. Probably quite passionately.::

::Who doesn't?::

::Fine:: says Optimus. ::Our main concern is not the Inquiek. Jazz, we are going to another District and we will be staying in that District.::

::Technically I don't work for you:: replies Jazz petulantly.

Optimus sighs. ::Good luck getting confirmation for a mission from this train.::

::Would you two knock it off?:: says Megatron, as if he had not just been locked in a similar back-and-forth. ::Let me talk to the Secretary about travel and the political implication of…the hypothetical deaths of carefully-selected high-ranking officials. But might I remind you both that the evidence suggests the Chief of Planetary Affairs and Senate Chief have an under-the-table relationship with the Galactic Council, and not the BBC? There is no sense in sending Jazz off to kill anyone if it will only backfire; the Inquiek are attempting to publicly join forces with the GC, and may be inclined to ignore a conspiracy against us, even if the Secretary is not pleased with it herself.::

::Fine.::

::'Kay::

::....::

::This train is moving very slowly.::

An hour later Megatron dares to crack a window. A minute later, every window has been opened just a bit, until thirty kliks later Snowbank spots the lights of an oncoming town and they are all shut again.

Optimus sits and worries, until the windows are re-cracked again. And then, relieved by the reintroduction of fresh air, he begins to act.

His greatest concern is that, upon discovering the absence of the Cybertronians, the General of Aerial Forces will deny entry to 'Swerve's' ship. This is the most immediate threat to their plan and, as a military general once more (for this evacuation surely counts as a military maneuver), Optimus's primary responsibilities begin and end with safely moving his staff off planet.

He might have to drug them to get them onto that Decepticon ship. But so be it. That is what Jazz is for. 

The Inquiek are clearly divided, and that might play well for him. He drafts a letter.

To: The Office of the General of Aerial Forces: For GAF Eyes Only

From: Cybertronian Embassy, Office of the Ambassador

Greetings,

You may be aware of the attack made on the Cybertronian Embassy last night. For our safety, we have been temporarily moved to an undisclosed location. We will return when the threat has been handled. In the mean-time, I am contacting you to inform you that our existing diplomatic position is being fully upheld, including all decisions made to benefit the Cybertronian-Inquiek alliance.

Regards,

Optimus Prime

Cybertronian Ambassador to Inquila

"Jazz, see to it that this gets sent safely," Optimus says, passing the message along. Just in time - Shobu calls out another incoming town, and the train car becomes a stifling hotbox a minute later. Because the universe is smiling upon them, this town happens to be their stop and they need not remain inside. Unfortunately, it takes over 20 kliks before they figure that out. 

::I don’t have GPS:: Megatron defends himself. ::Anyway, we have to wait for the train to be fully disembarked and the station closed.:: 

They finally exit the stifling train to a cool, salt-smelling wind. Optimus has always been fond of seaside air, having none of the rust-paranoia typical of the Cybertronian people. No-one with half the contents of a first aid box had died from a basic rust infection since...Primus knows when. Since the Quintessons, perhaps, and Optimus doesn't find it nearly as itchy as Jazz pretends to.

"We'll be covered in it," mutters Jazz. "Infernal Decepticon plot." But his field betrays a general calm, and even some joy and a great deal of love, so Optimus doesn't bother to argue. 

Anyway, Optimus is too overjoyed at being free from their little train car to care. He stretches his entire body and takes in the distant flickering of low house lights and the sweet coastal air.

"Wow," says Fiber, somewhat awestruck. "That'll all be salt water then?"

Optimus sees her green-tinged optics by the end of the train, and he walks to her and stops by Snowbank to see the endless pure blackness of the sea. 

"You've seen the Sea of Rust," replies Snowbank. They are all speaking quietly, in almost whispers. 

Fiber shrugs, an motion audible if not particularly visible. "It's not the same."

The silent moment is shattered by the echoing clangs of disembarking mecha. Optimus winces when Killjoy's pedes hit the train step too harshly. Shobu is whispering to Talia, and Talia is whispering back. Dicer has unloaded the storage cart filled with energon. Its wheels click on the rocky asphalt. It's all, Optimus thinks, a little unbearable, to hear the clanking of Cybertronian footsteps while looking onto the endless blackness of immeasurable alien life. 

"The aquarium really was something," Shobu is whispering. She has been pushed closer to the aft end of the train so that Alloy can disembark after Killjoy. 

Megatron gathers their attention by snapping his fingers several times in quick succession. Everyone gathers closer. "We are going to walk along the beach," he tells them. "Follow me. Quietly."

Megatron leads them around the last car - past Snowbank and Fiber (Optimus sees that their hands have interlinked) - and to a cliff, which would have been invisible to anyone without light in their optics. 

"Careful," he warns Shobu, who had fallen into direct step behind him. Optimus is fifth in line, and feels no desire to advance. 

"There are stairs," Megatron tells them. When his pede hits the first step there is a creaking sound, like stepping on rotting wood. When Optimus follows him down, he feels as if his pede might punch through the material and send him sprawling into the sand. But it doesn't, and soon enough he is stepping down into a thick, cold mixture of sand and water.

Behind him files Jazz, and then Snowbank and Fiber, and behind them he hears Dicer quietly cajoling Grinder and Killjoy into carrying the energon wagon between them.

They trudge forward in the dark, lit only by the cold light of their optics. Optimus does his best to place his pedes in the dark impressions of Megatron's pedesteps, to avoid the feeling of sand creeping into his joints.

Optimus thinks humorously that he feels a bit like a foot soldier storming a beach - or rather, as advanced warfare tends to prefer, slinking up a beach in preparation for a stealth invasion.

Through the faint blue light cast by his optics he sees Shobu stumble. She lets out a subdued squeak, and Megatron turns about, but not faster than Talia can reach forward. He catches her under the arms and gently rocks her back forward. 

"That's sweet," whispers Jazz, at the same time as he grabs Optimus's attention (and frame) with two well placed servos on Optimus's hip struts. "You know what would be even sweeter."

Optimus knows exactly what Jazz wants. He had already accepted that he would be picking grit from Jazz's pedes in the morning, and as Jazz speaks he already begrudgingly prepares himself for this incoming request. "I am carrying my bag," he whispers back, half-heartedly. 

"But you're so big and strong." Obviously this sort of flattery does not work on Optimus, but it doesn't have to - he knows that Jazz knows that Optimus will agree, if Jazz insists. So he does. "And really, it is much harder to walk in this deep sand when you're my height."

"I'm shorter than you, mech," mutters Snowbank from behind Jazz. Jazz ignores him.

"Please?"

"Fine," says Optimus. He doesn't turn around and doesn't stop. Jazz requires neither of those things to jump onto Optimus's back. His bag swings back and forth and threatens to tangle with Optimus's own, until Jazz finds his balance and yanks it upwards and over his own shoulder. Jazz's free arm wraps around Optimus's neck, his warm frame protects Optimus from some of the wind, and this is far from Optimus's greatest physical trial. It's...comforting, in a way.

They walk for another few miles; let no-one tell you that the life of a political exile is romantic. In Optimus's experience, it mostly involves cold mud (or sand). Jazz ex-vents warm air against his finial, sounding like the wind coming off the ocean.

The Inquiek are beginning to flag, and Optimus is considering de-seating Jazz in favor of taking one of them when Megatron speaks up again.

"Up here," he says, a little louder than he had spoken at the railway station. Optimus can't see the path ahead, but Megatron's pedesteps ring against metal steps, muted by a good layer of sand. The Inquiek follow him, and Jazz jumps down into the sand to allow Optimus to climb unhindered.

The staircase edges up a cliffside over the water, and is a substantial climb. Megatron walks slowly, for the benefit of the Inquiek and Killjoy and Grinder, whose fans are louder than the wind. Optimus turns to offer himself as a carrier, only to find the staircase too thin to allow him back down to them. He looks down to Jazz to commiserate on his inability to assist, only to find him gone.

Optimus is not particularly concerned about this, but even if he had been, he would have been relieved very quickly, because he hears Jazz only a moment later, up with Megatron. He has clearly had no difficulty passing the Inquiek.

"-to speak with the Aunt," Jazz is saying. "I'll play Moses."

"Fine," replies Megatron. A moment later Megatron's pedesteps become louder, more hurried, and then quieter as their distance increases.

Jazz plays guide easily enough, and as bookends they shepherd the Inquiek up the staircase.  They emerge some minutes later on a concrete platform, lit by the dim light of a lamppost. Below the lamppost is an electrical box and, when Optimus looks up, he can make out the shadows of a large light-system.

"Nice of her to give us a landing pad," murmurs Snowbank. So it is.

"This way," whispers Shobu. She and Talia have approached the rightmost portion of the pad and are standing in front of what must be a path, but to Optimus looks more like a hedge. They follow the hedge for only a moment before they find a light. It comes from a porchlight, and from the cracks between the curtains covering a large glass sliding door. 

The two Inquiek, still first, press their snouts almost to the glass and look at each other nervously, then glance back at the parade of Cybertronians as if to say ‘what are we about to inflict upon one of our people?’ or, perhaps ‘how rude are we being, to knock on a door so late at night?’

Optimus performs a similar sharing of glances with Jazz, and within their chests he can sense the presence of Megatron, somewhere in the room beyond. He steps forward, and it is enough for the Inquiek youths to jump apart and skitter back. Better him, he supposes, to undertake such uncouth behavior. 

Optimus feels for the edge of the door and pulls it open. The curtain moves with it. Inside, Megatron is standing by a low counter, speaking with an Inquiek with long, purple feathers, who looks up at the intrusion with a curiosity that easily melts into familiarity. 

"Come in," says the Inquiek. "Come in!" She waves him forward. He ducks into the room, and finds that his helm just barely grazes the ceiling. He releases the pneumatics in his lower plating and deflates minutely. Or, one might say, he sinks into his tires. Then he steps further inside the room, feeling the curious gaze of Shobu peeking its way in behind him.

"Tian, this is my mate Optimus," Megatron introduces. 

"The Ambassador," says Tian. "Unfortunately, I do not have any beds that can fit you, or hold your people."

Optimus bows his helm in the Inquiek fashion. "I can promise you my people have fared far worse, and are grateful for your generosity. But would you happen to have any beds for two of your own kind?"

He takes another step forward, better revealing Shobu half-hidden behind him. She squeaks in the fashion of a mouse meeting a new and exciting addition to its cage.

"Megatron said you had acquired some strays," says Tian. "I'll show them upstairs. Come here, girl."

She beckons Shobu forward with one claw and Shobu, head bent, obeys, dragging behind her a more sedate Talia. 

"I have a double bed upstairs," Tain explains to them, turning about. Then, to Megatron, "it would be best if your men settled down soon. You will have to hide inside as soon as the sun rises, but until then they can stretch out."

"Of course, Tian," replies Megatron. "I will inform the Secretary we have found safe harbour."

Megatron waits for Tian to disappear up the stairs before turning to Optimus and Snowbank, who has entered in behind him. 

"If we power down all light sources, we may recharge outside, preferably in alt-mode," he says, gesturing for them to move backwards in a pushing motion. Optimus backpedals once, then turns around as Megatron continues. "But we have to be inside before morning hour 4-"

"Great," mutters Snowbank. "2 hours of power down."

"Shh," says Megatron, pushing Optimus gently out the door and closing the sliding glass behind them. He tucks the curtain back into place, which blots out the light of the inner room. Then he turns and addresses the whole crowd, which Jazz had successfully shepherded into a semicircle around the door. Optimus steps to the side. 

Megatron repeats this order, and no bot grumbles too greatly. "Stay far from the cliff," he adds. "There is an Inquiek sport that takes place on the shallows of the beach in the early morning. Do not be spotted."

"Can we all fit inside tomorrow?" Asks Grinder, squinting upwards. There are two lit windows now, proving the existence of a second and third floor. 

"We will squeeze in," Jazz replies. "Find a patch of concrete and turn your optics off."

The Cybertronians disperse, though not far. Dicer's wagon squeaks as it rolls to the corner, and Optimus can faintly make her out, passing energon around. 

Megatron pulls Optimus over to the wall where, as they slide to the ground, he says "Grinder is not wrong, it won't be particularly pleasant. And we are putting Tian in some danger. When can we expect your ride tomorrow?"

Optimus shrugs. "I cannot turn on the communicator now," he replies. "But around noon, I believe. The satellite will open tomorrow at 7-"

"-8" interrupts Jazz. "We've moved into a new timezone."

Optimus checks his chronometer, then manually sets it forward an hour.

"I will confirm then," he says, with unearned confidence. He knows his conjunxes can tell he is nervous - the challenge is not to hide his concerns, but rather their nature. 

Megatron pushes himself away from the wall and settles down on the floor, and a moment later Jazz (having donned his night vision visor) settles atop his chest with his line of sight on the gaggle of mechs and one audial towards the second floor. He won't stay there long, but long enough to get Megatron to recharge. Optimus lies down beside them and does his best to assist. Megatron has done his part, for now, and his time of tense plating ought to be over. Optimus fills his field with calm and tucks his helm into Megatron's neck, and decidedly does not worry about getting him onto a Decepticon ship in the morning.

Chapter Text

Optimus’s pede twitches rhythmically against the leg of the berth – the closest to the door and the farthest from Megatron. It makes a quiet thump with each grazing hit. Knock...knock...knock...like a caller at the front door waiting impatiently to be let inside. The guest room is too small for two mechs of their size, so he must sit on the berth. His armor is pulled tight to express his own discomfort and to reinforce his own foreign-ness. There is something deeply upsetting to him about this – mimicking the smallness of an intruder while Megatron slowly finds a position of equally limited comfort against the headboard.

They hadn't spoken much on the ride over. It was a solemn funeral march, locked in their own helms and their own universes and their own chairs. They'd needed to recharge in shifts, his small hopper having only one berth. They don't talk now either. Optimus doesn't know what he should say. 

Megatron had been just as tight-plated on the Lost Light. His room aboard the ship had been empty, his existence on the hopper fleeting, and now, here, comfort resists him still. Optimus understands this, and is doing his very best to force ownership of the room upon Megatron.

Megatron is not as comforted by Optimus's discomfort as Optimus wishes. He is fiddling with the padding and flicking concerned glances at the door. In the living room, Jazz is ordering energon very loudly. This, too, is an act. Megatron is visibly unconvinced. 

"Well..." starts Optimus. "You are all settled in..."

Megatron had brought only three things, or only three that have made it out of his subspace: a photograph of the Lost Light crew, a Rodimus star, and a datapad. They are all arranged neatly on the top of the empty dresser. All settled in. 

"Why is Jazz ordering energon?" Megatron asks. "Does your apartment not have a faucet?"

"Cybertron has changed drastically in the last few years," Optimus says. "We have restaurants now."

This catches Megatron's interest. His optics dart to Optimus and settle, his digits stop moving. "You are purchasing food?"

"We each receive a commission for our positions," Optimus explains. "Neither of us are exemplary cooks. And both of us are sick of battle rations."

Megatron nods.

"You..." Optimus feels the urge to cough. "You, obviously, are free to have - is there anything you would like him to order?" Primus, it does feel as if there is something lodged in his throat. Perhaps he can blame his inability to speak on this imaginary thing. He had always been so comfortable with Megatron before, had he not? Cozy, as Rodimus put it. But not anymore; this entire trip he has been a stumbling mess. It is a miracle Megatron agreed to come at all.

Megatron raises an eyebrow. "Are we still supposed to be pretending I can drink only Fool's Energon?"

"Not-" Optimus's processor catches up with his vocalizer. "Is that what you were drinking on the flight here?" he asks. "That slagged Fool's Energon? It is only-"

"It is only terrible tasting energon, I know," says Megatron. "But Primus knows how you managed to convince anyone to let you keep me here. I can subsist on Fool's Energon for as long as is needed to settle any fears."

Optimus flinches into himself at the reminder, then, in a fit of some emotion too incredible to name, replies: "You can have the most expensive high-grade on Cybertron, Megatron, whatever you want." Once again he must wait for his processor to catch up to his voice box, at which point he corrects himself. "As long as it is below 40 shanix. We have a budget." He pauses a moment. "Make that 26.7 shanix, daily."

Megatron snorts, which gives Optimus the greatest sense of pride he's felt in three decades. "Your commission wouldn't happen to be about 80 credits a day, would it?"

"Jazz pays for energon, my own commission covers other things," says Optimus.

"What do they commission you for? I can imagine Jazz’s position easily enough, but you..."

His tone is almost playful. Optimus is enthralled. "I am ashamed to say that at this point I am primarily paid to stay away." It comes out as more of a boast than an admission. "Though there has been talk of making me an ambassador lately."

"Ah," says Megatron, "To keep you even farther away."

"Indeed."

They lapse into a moment of silence, which Optimus is inclined to break. "We will order you something. What are your preferred flavorings?" How could he not know that? He thinks. He had once thought he had known everything about this mech. But not his preferred energon flavorings.

Megatron's face performs something akin to a wince, exhibiting a nauseous look. "I would rather take something plain," he says. "My experience with flavorings as of late has been negative."

Optimus grimaces his sympathies and, with a pat to the berth, stands. "Then plain energon you shall have, and Jazz's bank account will be all the happier for it."

Megatron snorts again and Optimus momentarily transcends his mortal failures into that god-like state which Megatron had previously only granted him through violence. In the most mundane of moments, Megatron has proven this power once more. When Optimus descends, it is a disorienting feeling.

"Would you like the door closed," he asks. 

Megatron pensively wipes away the wrinkles on the berth cover. "Yes, thank you," he decides. Optimus nods, and shuts the door as he leaves.

"Yeah, make it plain," Jazz is saying. "Last addition. Yeah, large. Well it's not for me, T, and you've got my money to waste."

How one manages to eavesdrop while chatting up the cashier is a mystery to Optimus, but he isn't surprised at Jazz's capabilities. He sits down on Jazz's shag rug and enjoys the feeling of something that is not the stiff ship's berth. Jazz's chatter is soothing, and Optimus lets his optics flicker off, and slowly-

"Hey," says Jazz. Optimus blinks open his optics.

"We’ve ordered?"

"15 minutes."

"They used minutes?"

"I used minutes." Jazz remains standing over him, his frame blotting out the living room light. Optimus stretches out on the shag rug, feeling for the first time in a long while like he might fall asleep in a world that is just beginning.

Then, Jazz speaks. "What are we doing?"

Optimus groans. "We had this conversation before..."

"That mech does not look pleased to be here."

"He wasn't pleased to be there, either."

"Optimus-"

"-Jazz."

Jazz waves a chastising finger at Optimus. "Don't make me the dick here, man. I don't trust him at all, but I thought you two were, you know..."

"Sleeping together?" Optimus asks.

"Please tell me y'all are fragging," Jazz begs.

Optimus shrugs. Jazz looks down at him with such intense disappointment that Optimus begins to wonder if he is ruining the greatness of the shag rug merely by existing on it. "I want this, Jazz."

"It would be so much easier if you were the hero here, mech," Jazz sighs, his hands on his hips in a pose unfamiliar to his usually loose frame. "If you two had had this conversation before; if you were fragging or, I don't know, if you'd..."

"Yeah?"

"If you were the hero sweeping in to lovingly rescue him from his tower, Optimus. That's what I was envisioning here. Frag the rules, love conquers all, ya know. But the Destroyer of Worlds in there looks pretty confused."

Optimus shrugs. It is a pathetic defense, but how to explain that everything between them had only ever been left unsaid? "I wanted to bring him here," he says, instead. It's about as far as he has ever thought. Now that he has, he'd say it is the biggest, grandest, most terrifying thought of them all.

Jazz deflates, bringing one servo up to cradle his face as if to say 'Primus, this mess and this mech of mine'. "And does he want to be here? Or does he just not want to be dead?"

"We could have found another way out..." says Optimus, slowly. "Let the Lost Light carry on; he could have stayed there."

Jazz raises one eyebrow. “He'd have been in the hands of the Galactic Council eventually. I'm not trying to be cruel, Optimus. I'm just saying maybe we could have thought this through a little better. We are taking a big risk here. Your ambassadorship might be on the line, my work...I want to know that mech is here because he wants to be, and not because you ran over there and promised him a safe place to stay. 'Cuz it ain't safe here."

"Nowhere is safe," replies Optimus. "I don't care about the ambassador position. No one would dare fire you, Jazz; you may claim to have nothing to do with this, if you wish. And, and-" Optimus in-vents. "To be perfectly candid, love, I have never given a single slag about the Galactic Council. I will never allow them to touch Cybertron, and I will never allow them or Cybertron to touch Megatron."

"Well, I suppose that's that, then." Jazz crosses his arms. "That's that then."

And Optimus loves this mech, but he simply cannot find it within himself to care whether his hesitation has crossed into disapproval. Their love is not conditional on Optimus' making good decisions; Primus, their bond would be long dead if it were. 

Optimus commits fully to his own selfishness, tugs Jazz down into a conciliatory cuddle session, and wishes he could pause time. The guest room door remains shut.

Optimus watches the brightening horizon out of the half-covered window of the large sea-side mansion. He and his people had been pleasantly surprised to find the complex far less cramped than the night had promised. The first rays of daylight had revealed a second house behind the first - a garage, in fact, complete with its own helicopter. They'd sent Megatron into the main house as an envoy and, upon his victorious return, had excitedly and delicately transported the helicopter, two cars, and supporting vehicles out to the tarmac. They had then filled the empty hangar with their own alt-modes, earning a few more hours of sleep for the rest of his crew.

Optimus is in the main house, sipping on a cube of cool, slightly salty smelling energon, and taking the coming day into full, nervous consideration. On their final day on Inquila, he is finally willing to admit that he has found himself in a bit of a pickle, as Jazz might say.

He is a hard-headed mech, he knows it. He is as stubborn as a turbo-fox gnawing on the gory remains of a petro-rabbit. The issue with this analogy is that, unlike the remains of a petro-rabbit, Megatron is alive and kicking, and so much more difficult to drag down to the safety of a den - or, in this case, a Decepticon ship.

There are some hard truths that Optimus would prefer to ignore about himself. But now, sipping his energon and watching the sunrise on his last day on this ridiculous middle-of-nowhere planet, he must admit that his hypocrisy and stupidity have come to bite him on his selfish aft. That is, he supposes, unless he manages to pull this off. If he can, the energon he will provide Cybertron will more than soothe his guilty conscience.

He had been so incapable of hiding Jazz's secrets, had felt such terrible guilt about keeping Inquila's civil war from Megatron that he had broken. He has had this secret for less time, but the duress of their situation and the full trust his conjunxes have placed in him made it an easier one to keep. Until the sun had begun to rise on the day when it might all come crumbling down. 

It had been only a back-up plan, when he'd first started this. He had not actually imagined - not allowed himself to imagine - that he might one day be here, peering out at the brightening landing pad, waiting for a Decepticon invasion that he had planned to come and sweep his merry band of Autobots away. He would be surprised at the lengths he is willing to go, but he must be perfectly honest with himself now, and this is not a new behavior. It is an iteration of the same selfishness that had sent him away from Cybertron, pulled him back, and sent him off again to the Lost Light. It is a series of easily followed road signs that he has deliberately ignored; he should have listened to the danger warning on the ship-dock when they'd departed the Lost Light, to the fiddling of Megatron's digits smoothing the berth covers Optimus had ruffled that first night. 

Foolish, foolish, foolish and selfish. Optimus had not cared much about the comfort of others then - not Cybertron's, not Jazz's, not Megatron's. And now, he will force his crew and his conjunxes into a Decepticon's care all because he cannot stand the thought of losing what he has gained. He is once again trading Autobot loyalty for Megatron’s safety, and once again it is without Megatron’s full involvement.

It had been a spur of the moment decision. Jazz had not even suggested their need for an escape, but Optimus had seen the writing on the walls. And he had acted.

"I only need a minute," Optimus had said the very moment the line had connected. He'd been surprised even to have the chance; he could not imagine they did not know where the call had come from, even if Optimus had bypassed official channels. "I am contacting you without permission, and in secret. Give me a minute of your time."

There had been a moment of silence. This was no holographic projection call, and Optimus had not known who had answered until, finally, he heard:

"State your business," in that distinct, cybernetic voice.

"Soundwave," Optimus had replied, relieved. "Good, I am calling about a common enemy of ours."

"..." The crackling silence had rebounded around Optimus's office, a 'go on' from a mech who ought to have hung up.

"The Galactic Council. They have followed us to a planet - I am sure you know where."

"Assistance required? Assistance denied."

Optimus had pulled at his digits. The channel had not been disconnected, and so he had known he had the audial of the Decepticon Empire. "Is this channel private?" he had asked. "I want to discuss motivations."

"Affirmative."

"Then let us be honest. We are of the same mind, Soundwave-"

"Negative. You are an Autobot Prime."

"I am a traitor," Optimus had said. "I am making this phone call, and I am making it for the very reason you will be sending a ship to Inquila to lift 12 mecha from here to the planet Waleria."

"Probability: low."

"Because," Optimus had continued, "You, like I, are far less interested in war than you are in getting answers. I got my answers, Soundwave, years ago. I have him, he is here, and this might be your last chance to ask him what you need to ask."

"Optimus Prime will not let him die."

"No, I won't. That is why I am calling you." Optimus had drummed his digits on his desk, waiting the silence out. It had lasted a very long time.

"The Decepticon Empire: wants him dead," Soundwave had said, finally. Even with his muddled voice and a million miles between them, it had been the most unconvincing lie a Decepticon had ever told.

"No, it doesn't." Optimus had stopped his drumming. "I never wanted him dead, not after Sherma Bridge, not after Massunstrad, never. You don't want him dead now. He told me about Ravage, Soundwave."

The line had disconnected.

It had reconnected the next day.

The colorful horizon fades into the plain sea-side blue. A perfectly cloudless, sunny sky. When the ship descends, there will be no hiding it.

He turns and, over his shoulder, watches as Megatron pushes his glasses up his nasal ridge. Through the bond he radiates calm, and Optimus is amazed that Megatron can trust like that. To be able to read, at a moment like this—to trust that Optimus's ride will arrive today and take them to Waleria, not knowing what Optimus has done.

And Optimus, holding his little treasons close to his chest. He ought to walk over there and admit it now. How would that conversations go?

"Megatron," he might say, announcing his arrival with two servos on Megatron's shoulders, massaging the aches in his craned neck.

"Yes?"

"About our ride today..."

Even in Optimus's imagination he can go no further. He once believed no one understood Megatron like he did, and that once was true. But it was another Megatron he had understood, so very very different from the Megatron he had taken home with him, those years ago. And so very different from the Megatron he has now.

Jazz is on the tarmac with the helicopter, playing companion vehicle. To see him, Optimus shifts in his window seat and cranes his neck to get the proper angle. He could tell Jazz, he decides. He knows how Jazz would react - momentarily angry and then professionally proactive. He would know how to get a group of Autobots out of a warehouse and onto a Decepticon ship. He would do it unthinkingly, unerringly.

Optimus sighs. Then, quietly so as to avoid attracting Megatron's attention, he shifts his windshields. With some trial and error, he works a beam of reflected light over to Jazz's windshield. Then he waves a servo, rhythmically blocking and releasing the light. It is an old code, useful for short range communication, and almost always to inform a companion to activate their energy-intensive confidential channels.

Hello, he says. Attention, Attention.

Jazz's headlights flash on and off in patter. Hi, Handsome.

Assistance required. Switch to confidential comm channels.

Aye Aye, Captain.

::How long do you estimate we have before our absence becomes a problem?:: he asks. 

:It already is:: replies Jazz. ::They are hunting us down, bossman. They’ve been hacking—I mean physically hacking, like with an ax—at our ship’s security for the last hour. At some point we need to destroy it, or they're gonna be coming at us with our own experimental technology. But that’s gonna be a loud announcement of our real departure::

::It’s not ideal:: Optimus winces.

::We can extract it later. But not too much later, you dig? They started in on it the moment the embassy went dark.::

::There is no Autobot ship able to extract it:: Optimus says. ::Not until the next supply restock::

::Then we better blow it to the pit. And your ship better be coming.::

::It is:: says Optimus, and now would be the moment to reveal his folly. Jazz, he knows, would follow him anywhere and everywhere. Should the ship land on the ground between them now, Jazz would prostrate himself in front of it, waiting and trusting that his mission would continue. Jazz would have no compunction about the use of their enemies, would have no moral qualms about what was promised in return. Jazz would assume Optimus had considered it all and would act accordingly, assured of his correctness by virtue of his faith in Optimus's own.

But to tell Jazz now would be to admit that Optimus had not weighed those moral considerations, had not strategized, nor agonized, nor struggled to the righteous conclusion. He had anticipated the need for a desperate escape, calculated the distance from reinforcements, and made the easiest and most difficult choice. He had not agonized over Megatron's welfare beyond acknowledging his own desperate desire to keep him alive—and that had been Optimus's foolish tendency since the beginning. He has traded Megatron's choice for his own comfort once more, and convinced himself of its righteousness by prioritizing life over freedom.

In the same way, he will get Jazz off this planet and to his next mission, and he will do so by walking onto a Decepticon ship tomorrow and assuming that Jazz will be at his heels, herding their flock of angry Autobots aboard too.

Everyone will survive this, Optimus tells himself. And it is better if there are no questions. Jazz will not ask questions if the ship is there in front of them, but he will sense Optimus' lack of confidence if he despairs about it over comms. So Optimus does not tell him.

::A few more hours:: he promises instead, his optics trained towards the sky. ::I will warn you that our ride is not ideal. We are too far from Cybertron for reinforcements::

::I assumed:: says Jazz.

::I will need your help getting us all onboard in an orderly and quick manner:: Optimus orders. It is better than asking forgiveness. Jazz appreciates it more.

::No worries:: says Jazz. ::I could walk them straight into a black hole, if you needed. They'll go.::

And there it is, Optimus thinks, but he smiles all the same.

At some point during the late morning, Snowbank trundles into the kitchen wearing, as usual, a Ratchet-esque frown and a data-pad case over his shoulder. He presses one hand to the seat of a stool and gently rests his weight upon it. When it does not immediately buckle beneath him, he leans farther and farther until, at some point, he straightens up entirely, nods to himself, and goes about hoisting his bulky frame onto the thin seat. Optimus watches all of this with the distracted curiosity of a mech much more interested in his own soon-to-be demise. But as Snowbank's troubles with the stool continue and his attempts at mounting it become increasingly wobbly, Optimus's attention is taken in full. A moment later, his processor catches up.

"How did you get in here?" Optimus asks.

Snowbank pauses. "Uh, through the door?"

Optimus blinks and resists the temptation to turn and look at the front door. "Your altmode is a...high traction vehicle?"

"Yeah."

They stare at each other, uncomprehending. "Did you walk across the open landing pad in broad daylight?" Optimus asks, finally.

"No. I scootered."

"You what?"

Snowbank looks at Optimus as if he were the stupid one. "I transformed onto the loading vehicle, kept one leg in alt-mode, and scootered across the tarmac."

"Uh-" Optimus freezes, attempting to imagine this feat. "That does not sound like a stealth maneuver," he says, eventually. 

"Jazz cheered me on," Snowbank replies. "Anyway, I needed to get out of there. I have work to do. And I need to speak with you."

"Okay." Optimus shifts in his window seat so that he is fully facing the kitchenette. "About the Walerians?"

Optimus had given Snowbank his communication device, it presumably being more secure than Snowbank's own, and had given him the duty of informing Cybertron of their movements. Optimus felt it best he did not lie to his direct supervisors. To Starscream, who has been surprisingly understanding about Optimus's little treasons. Snowbank, at least, can claim he was working under orders. And it is good practice for the role Optimus will assign him on Waleria.

Snowbank nods. "Do these Inquiek speak any Standard?" he asks, in Standard. Optimus shakes his helm.

"I can't imagine so."

"Alright then. Let me just-" Snowbank's voice fades away as his mouth is utilized for more important things - namely, maintaining a determined expression and biting his bottom lip. A moment later, he has successfully maneuvered himself onto the stool. He swings his datapad bag back over his shoulder and empties it onto the marble countertop. Three pads clatter out, of which he selects one.

"When you first asked me to secure our arrival, I identified the representatives to the Walerian congress. Theoretically they have a Walerian-majority representative congress, which is how they maintain their independent status. But their Inquiek representation is a loud minority, completely disproportionate to the Inquiek population, and the Inquiek stakeholder group has considerable sway over Council machinations. Also, it just so happens that the head of their Asylum and Immigration Congressional Group happens to be a part of the minority isolationist council. Ironic, no? Well, that’s because the isolationist party doesn't give a damn about non-Inquiek immigration, but they can't go around telling people they are the anti-Inquiek party, can they?" Snowbank explains this all with the fast-paced, clear voice of an infomercial salesman, and searches through his datapad all the while.

"So I sent their office a formal request for asylum. And you remember when I told you all they had to do was a little rearranging? Well, that was after they sent me a nice reply back, telling me if we actually have that planetary protection device they'd love to do a little congressional restructuring."

"Just how much 'congressional restructuring' are we looking at here, Snowbank?" Optimus asks. "When we first spoke, I understood there were only a few members to remove from their positions."

Snowbank waves a servo. "Probably. It's less ideological and more a matter of monetary influence. Half the council will turn on the Inquiek as soon as our alternative seems a little better."

Optimus raises a doubtful eyebrow. "Our alternative?"

"Yes. But here's the thing. My latest message-" Snowbank raises the datapad, flips it around to show Optimus the screen. He is too far away to make out the words, but it is clearly a headlined communication. "Tells me they've got everything all in order, but they aren't going to pull the trigger until we've confirmed the existence of our planetary defense capabilities and our willingness to use them. And more importantly, they want assurances we are actually going to show up."

Optimus nods along. “It would be incredibly dangerous for them to act before our arrival. Should we renege on our agreement, they would be left with an angry Inquila and no protection.”

“Yeah,” says Snowbank. “So here’s my issue. We have a circular problem – we need the path cleared before we can land. They need to know we are going to land before they can clear the path.”

This is troubling. Optimus, ever-wary of the audials through the doorway and up the stairs (though only Megatron’s would easily understand their language) does not waste words over assurances of Decepticon arrival. He stays silent for a long while, mulling over the possibilities. They could provide the live location of the Alimenta, if they were willing to risk the possibility of a leak. Foreign knowledge of the ship's arrival and cargo was risk enough, never mind the exact location. Perhaps a general promise that, should Optimus and his team fail to arrive, the Alimenta would still land and provide its aid – though this was still only words.

His thoughts, as do the thoughts of most generals in times like these, turn to mutually assured destruction. In his usual experience, such pacts generally devolve into exactly what they promise – destruction of doubled magnitude. Such had been the case countless times during their war. But on occasion they were successful in alliances with organics; when an outside foe threatened both, and when the Autobots received more in supplies than they lost in protecting their allies. Killing Decepticons was hardly a deviation from their original goals.

A similar situation is playing out now, and a similar design develops in Optimus’s processor.

“Snowbank,” he begins slowly. “There is an additional problem Jazz has recently reminded me of. One concerning the ship which we arrived in, currently empty and stranded amidst a crowd of hostile Inquiek intelligence officers. It needs to be discarded of, and the only mechanism we have available to us is incredibly loud. I assume the Walerians have some access to satellites, or to the Inquiek news outlets?”

Snowbank’s mouth becomes one thin, thoughtful line. His brows furrow momentarily, then relax. “Yes,” he says, having followed Optimus’s implications. “They would know immediately should a Cybertronian ship go up in flames, even if it happens on Inquila.”

“And they can track ships within what distance from their planet?” Optimus asks.

“They have transmission capabilities up to and including the Inquiek sector. The Alimenta will enter their extended reach within 14 joors. It is coming from the opposite direction, which is part of the difficulty - their capabilities are focused in this direction. They will see us long before they see it.”

Optimus nods and taps his fingers on the kitchen counter. “Speak with Jazz. Acquire an Inquiek satellite with a longer range. Let’s make them aware of the lack of alternative Cybertronian rescue ships. Our ship will be identified as a trading ship under Swindle’s ownership. Provide a general snapshot location of the Alimenta. Make it clear: if we do not arrive on Waleria, there will be no other rendezvous.”

“And then, presumably, we tell them to turn on their televisions?” Snowbank asks.

“There is no alternative rendezvous,” Optimus promises.

"So," Megatron says, in a tone that presages the descent of a thousand seekers from the sky to bombard Optimus personally with a thousand nukes. "I suppose you don't have any problem at all with sparking revolutions on organic planets, just as long as I am not the one advocating for them?"

Optimus grimaces. Megatron had entered the kitchenette the moment Snowbank had departed on a Jazz-approved scooter-ride, which ought to have been signal enough for him to call in back-up. “I promise you, it is not your position that influences my decision,” he says.

“No.” Megatron walks forward so that his hip bumps against the countertop where Snowbank once stood. “I am concerned, Optimus, that my arguments of right and wrong went in one audial and out the other. It is odd to see you so brutal in your strategems.”

Optimus rubs his optics. This is not an accusation, but a conversation, and apparently they must have it now. “It is honestly not so shocking,” he admits. “You should speak with Jazz. My sympathies have turned selfish of late. I've become a true high-octane fanatic.”

Megatron half-smiles at the levity, or at the admission, or perhaps at the honesty. “Who is operating the ship? Obviously not Swindle. You don't have the shanix.”

“I’ll have you know Jazz’s commission has increased dramatically,” Optimus attempts, but the humor evaporates. Megatron sighs and slides into the seat next to him.

“Don’t tell me then,” he says. “Be it mercenaries or rerouted Autobot scouts. They better have weapons, Optimus, if we plan on heading into a civilians’ revolt.”

“Snowbank and Jazz will have that managed,” Optimus promises. “It will be quick, and Snowbank assures me only a minority will require removal.”

Megatron hums. He reaches over and places one servo over Optimus’s, stopping the nervous tapping of his digits. “Did Jazz have anything to say?” he asks. “About whomever you have coming for us, and this plan for Waleria? Has he expressed any doubts?”

“I have not told him who is piloting our rescue,” Optimus admits. “And he has not made any complaints about Waleria known to me.”

Megatron nods slowly. “I am concerned,” he says. “He listened to me earlier, yesterday, when he should not have.”

Optimus tilts his helm.

“He assassinated a foreign officer under my order, Optimus,” Megatron says.

“He trusts you.”

Megatron looks away. “He was always a loyal soldier. He would make a good Decepticon. He lets you concern yourself with moralities on his behalf. Us now. Clearly that is a poor choice.”

He suddenly releases Optimus’s hand and stands, rolling his shoulders back, his creaking joints betraying the stress to his frame. "I am going to check on Shobu and Talia," he explains. "Does your ship - I assumed the ship would have appropriate environmental features?"

Slag. It hadn't even crossed Optimus's mind. He must visibly wince, because Megatron obviously holds in a snort. "The Inquiek need oxygen," he reminds him.

"I am sure the ship will have oxygen," Optimus assures him, making a mental note to ensure it does. Not that there is time for anything other than a haphazard, MacGyvered solution should it not.

Megatron smirks knowingly, but his voice is soft. "Thank you." Optimus manages to hid his grimace. Guilt gnaws at his tank, just as it had with their secret-keeping before. He'll have to come clean, he knows it. And he begins to work himself up to it, certain he can blurt it out before Megatron turns fully around. He has Jazz's support - two-thirds of the vote - they are getting on that ship whether Megatron wants to or not, but he needs to tell him now. They cannot fight this out on the landing-pad, he must-

"Shobu came down this morning while I was talking to Tian," Megatron says, interrupting Optimus's self-flagellation. The burning feeling at the tip of his glossa disappears at the excitable glint in Megatron's optics. “She and Talia are getting along very well.”

Optimus smiles. “At some point you are going to admit you’ve grown fond of some organics,” he says slyly.

“Hush,” Megatron chastises with similar mirth. “This is only another one of my astounding Decepticon manipulations.” As much as anything rooted in circumstance could be, Optimus adds silently. He looks to the window and the sun rising ever higher over the horizon, and his digits begin to tap once more.

Megatron has taken on the semblance of a statue, one designed by an artist attempting a philosophical discussion about the mindlessly minimalist preferences of modern interior designers. This is, in Optimus's repressed, innermost snark, to say that Megatron stares at the walls and the chairs and Jazz's shag rug and judges them silently and apathetically. The arrangement of the non-existent living room furniture does not seem to irk their newest housemate precisely, but its absence does keep Megatron's optics searching for… something. One day, in the most active state Optimus has captured yet, Megatron had pushed gently at his dresser as if to move it, before - sensing Optimus's presence - he had paused and returned to his berth.

He spends a great deal of time on his berth, sitting down with both pedes placed flat on the floor, staring out into the vacant living room. On occasion, Jazz and Optimus will flop down upon the shag rug and watch Megatron grimace and avert his gaze, search for something else at which to stare and, finding nothing, glare almost angrily at them for daring to have so uninteresting a house.

"Did he switch sparks with Ultra Magnus?" Jazz asked, once. 

"I gave him our library access," Optimus replied. "I think he is just..." he had paused then, uncertain. He could not understand Megatron's inaction. For a mech so famously tireless, he trudged about their apartment with a startling slowness and weight.

"He has nothing to do," Jazz had decided. "That's the problem. He's always had some bigger purpose. Now you've gone and captured him, roped him on home like a wild bull to be tamed. Of course he's miserable. We gotta give him something to do"

"His bigger purposes involved planet-conquering and murder," Optimus said. "I do not think we can feasibly provide the stimulation he might require. Perhaps I should not have..." No, he decided. No, this was the correct thing to do. To take him back, so the Galactic Council could not take him. His home, be it ever so boring, was surely more stimulating than spark imprisonment.

"He feels like a guest," said Jazz. "He has nothing to control." He nodded to himself, humming some little plotting tune. "I have this," he declared a moment later. "Let me handle this."

"Are you sure?" Optimus had asked. He was treading a thin line, he'd been aware enough of that. Jazz had been willing to let Megatron into their home, but he had expressed doubt. Optimus had assumed - no, Optimus had not thought much at all about what would happen next, but he had assumed he could handle it.

But Jazz was grinning, and it seemed to Optimus that this might be luck. Perhaps this was a step towards something better, something together, something, Primus and the Thirteen willing, stable. Or at least a real plan.

"I will trust you on that," he replied.

Chapter Text

Megatron gazes up at the palace of oil drums in a dazed amazement he hasn't felt in...Primus knows how long. He is suspended in a disbelief more intense than when he'd learned of Starscream's election. He has ascended to a level of sheer astounded wonder he had thought had been taken from him by his stay on the Lost Light.

He blinks. The two-tiered palace of oil drums stares down at him, more intimidating than Darkmount, more beautiful than any Primal chateau. He has seen works of scientific brilliance to rival the Gods, machines that traversed universes and time like highways, death blasters and planet-enders that played with the nature of atoms themselves. Never has he seen anything as majestically brilliant as this.

The mansion exists in a balanced state, simultaneously fragile and unbreakable, the rickety stack of barrels and the weight they support counter-poised in a startling juxtaposition. How can this pyramid—the kind of thing a drunkard might create from high-grade glasses—hold another floor and, atop that, the unmistakable presence of an entire city block, reduced to rubble and piled up? As Megatron stares, a mech appears on this stupefying rooftop. He approaches the edge of his creation and peers over.

Megatron blinks, and is subsequently hit with an empty oil can. The tin kind.

Megatron, still stunned, is incapable of irritation. He is trespassing on this mech's magnificent abode, after all.

"Pardon me," he addresses the homeowner. "I did not expect to find you here."

Megatron takes great pride in the patience he has nurtured during his time on the Lost Light and in the Functionalist Universe. The patience he has harnessed, redirected from the goal of total victory to a quieter domestication and expiatory self-exploration. Patience for Autobots, primarily, and for himself. And so he had managed an entire week and a half in the guest bedroom - which Optimus insists is Megatron's own now - before admitting to his own boredom. There is only so much one can do in a small room, even with the occasional peek into the main rooms for energon. He'd studied every wall, and the mostly empty living quarters as well. But the entertainment was as lacking as the furnishings, and the conversation sporadic; every word with Optimus had been as halting as on the ride over, a bland approximation of what had been said that first night on the Lost Light. Jazz had presented a more jovial and more comfortable mien, as befitted a spymaster, but even he was so obviously cautious that Megatron was thankful for the many days he spent away.

Megatron is not one to readily admit his own insecurities, but he does understand that there is something intangibly important to him that relies on Jazz's good opinion. Something beyond his own safety. Nevertheless, after a week and a half, he had decided both that he could stay no longer in his room and that he could stay no longer in the periphery. He had done his best to curb his enthusiasm for taking charge, but on occasion it is called for.

So he had waited for Optimus to leave one morning and approached Jazz with a simple request.

"I would like to leave the apartment," he'd said. Jazz had raised an optical ridge.

"Then go. You're not a prisoner."

Megatron had looked at Jazz. Jazz had looked at him.

His first thought had been that Jazz knew Megatron could not leave the apartment without encountering a city of Autobots and was baiting him into. It would not be beyond the spy. Such a formidable enemy for Soundwave, smart as a whip. Smart as a whip, but also an Autobot, whose collective peculiarities Megatron had begun to get quite familiar with. Autobots, Megatron had concluded, could be cruel, but they rarely expressed their cruelty snidely. And so he had chastised himself for his immediate assumptions and asked for clarification.

"I understood my situation to be… sensitive. I do not see it benefiting you or Optimus Prime should I appear alone in the city center.

Jazz snorted. "Yeah," he said. "So I suggest you use the back door."

The 'back door' is an escape tunnel leading north from the basement of the apartment complex for seven miles, complete with a paved road. Jazz had accompanied him down the elevator and swiped his card through an inconspicuous slot to open the tunnel for him, patted him twice on the back, and said "If you're comin' back before dinner, let me know. I'll order you something."

So Megatron had walked, pleased that Jazz did not seem at all concerned at sending him off to Cybertron's countryside to do as he liked. He felt around his own plating to identify but not destroy the tracking device Jazz had undoubtedly placed upon him and, upon finding it between his shoulders, smiled and left it be. He had exited the tunnel and found the Universe's worst safe house. And then he had been assaulted by a tin can.

"Who are ya and whadd'ya want?" shouts the mech. He is about Nautica's size, with a wire-link beard and about a thousand unrecognizable armor-details which serve mostly to clutter his dark green frame with enough black to make him nearly invisible in the dark. Megatron raises one hand in greeting.

"I am Megatron," he answers, truthfully. "I don't want anything except to appreciate what you have built." The barrel mansion is more structurally sound than the Decepticon Empire, he thinks to himself.

"..." The mech squints down at him from his tower-top. "Haven't heard of ya."

"Okay." They stare at each other for another moment. Megatron is caught off-guard, the mech’s aggressive tone leaving him more unbalanced than the gorgeous debris-dwelling in front of him. Eventually, driven by something he can't quite name, he asks: "Can I come in?"

“That...is Swindle’s ship,” Megatron says, dumbfounded. “That is actually Swindle's ship. What did you do?” Optimus's eyebrows pinch together like he is trying to decipher a complex code, or has just bitten into a particularly sour energon gel. Megatron's tanks churn in discomfort. "What is wrong?"

Optimus grimaces, sending the slowly descending ship frantic glances. "Er," he says, and Megatron is shot back to that night a few days ago when Optimus had come to him with equal guilty embarrassment. The look makes Megatron nervous.

"I do not like that face," Megatron tells him.

Optimus makes it harder. "It is not Swindle, I promise you."

"I don't mind if it is Swindle," Megatron says. "Only that it would cost - how much did Swindle's ship cost us?"

“Ah, well, technically nothing,” Optimus replies, and the uncomfortable shifting of his tires undercuts his already unsteady cheerfulness. Jazz appears suddenly beside him, his go-bag flung over his shoulder, and looks between them with raised eyebrows.

“Whatcha talking about?”

“That’s actually Swindle’s ship,” Megatron informs him. Jazz snorts.

“Yeah,” he says. “I got that.” He looks pointedly at the advertisement screens that blanket the ship’s side, each blinking with obnoxious yellow print. ‘Best Prices This Side Of Sgr A’ announces one such sign. ‘Replicas of The Universe’s Greatest Weapons!’ reads another.

“It was free,” Optimus assures them. Megatron raises a disbelieving eyebrow. Optimus grimaces again. “It was free in the monetary sense,” he corrects. “Megatron, I assure you, I did what I could.”

That sounds ominous. Megatron exchanges a glance with Jazz. Jazz shrugs. “Whatever gets us off this planet,” he says. “We did just explode our only other way home. On we get.”

Megatron looks suspiciously at the grotesquely consumerist vehicle which has now fully touched down onto the tarmac. The main engine cuts, and from this angle Megatron can watch the staff peer out the hangar door. Pickaxe scratches his helm in clear confusion, and he is pulled back and replaced by a similarly curious Alloy. Killjoy and Fiber lean out beside him, vying for better views of the obscene flying advertisement that will be their salvation.

Jazz ducks around Megatron and walks out the door. “I think the jig is up!” Megatron hears him call. “Can’t really hide anymore. Everybody out.”

Optimus follows him. “Perhaps we should explain-”

He is interrupted by the heated hissing of a pneumatic door lock disengaging. Swindle’s ship is large enough that it boards from below. A ramp extends from the belly – the larger warframes will have to duck, but otherwise Megatron expects they will all be able to board and travel safely. That is not his concern. Neither is the large advertisement for porn that pops up on the closest side. No, Megatron’s biggest concern is the mech riding the platform down.

Soundwave is just as Megatron had left him. His plating is unmarred but worn, his shoulders tired and tense. He is a mech pulled taut. Megatron can say no differently for himself.

"Hey! Is that fucking Soundwave?" Killjoy calls. Megatron imagines a world where the answer could possibly be no, but the mech in front of him could be no other. There are cracks by the sides of his eyes now, Megatron realizes. They are close enough that Megatron can make that out, even in the shadow of the ship. Then Soundwave steps into the sun.

There are gasps from the hangar. And then Jazz, speaking over them all, corralling and demanding. Megatron pays little attention to it. Soundwave has emerged, and the light reveals thinner paint and a thicker visor than Megatron remembered. He walks towards him, and Megatron's spark stops. But his path leads to Optimus instead. He extends a servo, palm out. Optimus meets it with his own.

"Your assistance is appreciated," Optimus tells him, as if this were nothing other than a hand out of a ditch. Soundwave dips his helm.

There is no part of Megatron that is certain, in that moment. It is not so unusual a state for him - or it had not been before. On the Lost Light, and before, and for some time afterward, he had been so entirely uncertain in every endeavor. It had felt as though each pedestep was a question, and each time his metal met ground once more he was relieved.

He had not felt that way this morning, nor the morning before. There was no moment when he had stopped, only...only that he had. He had retaken command with comfort, but he is not in command now. He watches as their palms separate, and as Optimus glances his way, then back to Soundwave, and asks:

"Swindle still has those storage rooms for live organic material?" Megatron would like to kill him.

His anger overwhelms him. Oh, he would like to beat Optimus over his sorry helm. He would like to take Soundwave by the arm and pull him far far away from the little something that he has created here, with these people. His past has come to drag him back, and he is scared, and he is angry, and he had something, hadn't he? The sudden and all-conquering loss he is feeling is the evidence of the something he had. He had this.

Soundwave nods. "Your Autobots may enter and reconfigure the atmosphere," he says, in that same voice that makes Megatron's energon boil.

He had solved this. He had solved this so long ago. And now it has come back to him. Optimus has brought it back to him.

Megatron turns around and marches back into the house.

The tetchy old mech does not allow him into his trash mansion. Not that first day, and not for many days after. But Megatron is nothing if not persuasive, and his time on the Lost Light had done little to temper his stubborn determination. Upon Megatron's third journey out, Jazz hands him his swipe card and pats him onward.

"I'm off on a work trip," he explains, when Megatron expresses his doubts with well-timed disbelieving glances. "And let's be real, do you really think I give a slag?" Maybe not, Megatron concedes, though the trackers tacked on his frame reveal the true source of Jazz's lackadaisical attitude.

Optimus Prime has a simple schedule, which he follows with a rigidity Ultra Magnus would envy. Megatron overheard him speaking to Jazz about it in their berth, one night when Megatron had crept from his room to retrieve energon.

"I think it is beneficial to set clear...expectations. I will be gone at these times and back at these."

"He isn't a skittish cat, babe."

“No, but…” Optimus had trailed off for a moment, his voice hushed by the blackness of the apartment and the thin door separating them from their intruding house-guest. “I know what its like to be alive when you didn’t expect to be. It’s not the same, but it’s not different. These things help.”

So he knows that Optimus won't be home until 5. He doesn't know whether Optimus approves of Megatron's wanderings, and he doesn't care to find out. He returns each day with time to spare. Sometimes, when Jazz is on assignment, he even orders their energon. Sometimes - not often - he orders something besides plain for himself, when he thinks he has made progress on the barrel house and wants to celebrate. He hardens his jaw when he does, and does not allow Optimus's curious looks to spoil the iron shavings. Optimus Prime had already spent his reputation on him, what more was a few extra credits? Having a goal is making Megatron more bold.

The old mansion-lord's name is Crank. His metal beard is unkempt, his optics cross to a concerning degree, and he is a meticulous housekeeper. He is easily irritated, bird-nervous about strangers, and prone to desultory ululation. He is Megatron’s new best friend in the entire universe.

He speaks a maximum of twelve words a day. Everyday he allows Megatron another step closer before throwing his collectible projectiles, and upon the eighth day Megatron finds a barrel garden table has been set up before the door. The can thrown at him that day is full, so Megatron sits and sips quietly.

Crank is undeniably out of his processor, but he is more grounded than any mech Megatron has ever known. He is as crotchety as Ratchet and as tight-lipped as Soundwave. He extends his courtesies in a politeness grander than any noble mech. He is also a craftsmen of the highest order. The garden table, constructed partly of re-used barrels and partly of cemented trash mosaic, is the prettiest thing Megatron has seen on Cybertron since the war began.

“Could I buy the table?” Megatron asks him, a few weeks in. Crank grumbles incoherently.

“No. I don’t sell nuthin,” he finally enunciates.

Megatron thinks about the empty rooms of their habsuite; it had seemed to him when he arrived as if every piece of furniture that had once been in the apartment was now in the guest room (his room, he corrects, Optimus had insisted). The oil drum table would give them a place other than the shag rug to drink their energon - perhaps Megatron could join them, then. He imagines the scene, the three of them around a table, discussing their days. Jazz would bleep out half of his own words, Optimus would speak of what new policy he had helped implement, and Megatron would talk about his clipped conversations with Crank.

But it isn't his place to bring home a table, and he doesn’t have a single credit to his name. Still, he asks Crank again every few days, for the joy of having an ambition.

Megatron removes every one of Killjoy's infused energons from his subspace and lines them up on the kitchen counter. He orders them by color, then reads the small hand-written labels pasted to each side. Copper for energy, gallium for peace, tungsten for strength, iron for recovery, bismuth for desire, all mixed with a dozen other ingredients for calming teas and energy boosters. Megatron takes one that promises him 'Total Zen', peels off the lid, and takes a long and slow drag.

Shobu finds him slumped against the counter. "Your ship has come," she says. "Are you fueling for the road?"

Megatron turns to look at her, and imagines the ship outside firing its weapons into the house, striking them both down. "Preparing," he agrees. "Are you packed?"

"We are!" Shobu does her people's feather-lift of a smile. "Talia says that on Waleria there are oceans made of sand. Bigger than oceans, he says, because they go on for so long that you won't see the end until you turn around." She tells him this cheerfully, as though such a desert might be an enjoyable phenomenon and not a miserable slog followed by a life spent dumping sand from her clothes. At least organics have far fewer places to get sand trapped in. Megatron recalls one time during the war when he had required Lugnut (in some quarantined washracks with the door both locked and solidly blocked) to hold him by the pedes and shake to get the last of a desert planet out of him. He sighs and takes another sip of Total Zen. 

"Sir," Shobu says, stepping closer. A daring move. The youth of any species is more daring than its elders; Megatron certainly was. He has a momentary sense of epiphany—that is what he is feeling, that he is old and his terrible youth has come to shake its sand all over him. Or maybe not. He drinks deeply from Total Zen. 

Shobu continues. "Is there something wrong?" she asks. "I am scared."

Megatron inspects her, her wide optics and tilted feathers, and feels scared too. 

"You will be fine," he promises her. "The commander of this particular ship is competent, extremely so. One day you will return here, and Inquila will be different."

Shobu doesn't reply for a long moment. Then she says: "I understand why I am here. I know the Chief tried to get rid of me." Megatron hadn't been certain just how much of her situation Shobu had comprehended. It is something of a shock to hear her speak of it now.

"I know he tried to use the Cybertronian embassy to be rid of me, months ago and the other night. Inquiek don't work like Cybertronians," she says. "We don't have mates. But we have love affairs, and I did love him."

This is one of those conversations that really ought to be handed over to Optimus. Unfortunately, Megatron has found himself the primary carer for this particular youngling, and despite his discomfort it is his duty to carry on. And, he reasons, he had long known there was something suspicious about the Chief of Planetary Affairs. What information he can glean from Shobu might be useful for the Secretary's efforts to remove the influence of foreign powers over Inquila.

"I don't see why he would want to be rid of you," Megatron says, gesturing for her to step closer. She comes to the long bar counter, but does not sit.

"I am a house cleaner," she says, matter-of-factually. "I was in my last year of the creche when we met, and I had already decided then not to carry on with schooling. And I wasn't-" her feathers bend and shift. "I wasn't interested in doing things right. You are supposed to find lovers of the many sexes, but I was only interested in him. It's not proper. Doesn't help fill the nurseries. I was just too young for it."

This is the problem with organics, Megatron thinks. None of their reproduction is simple. They have to construct entire social systems around them, and police each other, and then hurt each other. And then high ranking government officials try and discard younglings they shouldn't be having affairs with, and Megatron ends up having terrible conversations in strangers' living rooms. Still, he will admit some affection for the girl, and she is in a difficult situation.

"How did you meet?" he asks, in the hope that she will find comfort in the telling.

"He inspects the creches, the warming rooms and the schools. He asked me to show him around the premises. I think it is part of his job," she says. "So I did. He inspects them every year. So maybe he found someone new, and he wants me off the planet in case I decide to love him again."

"You should probably avoid that," Megatron agrees. "He is dangerous, and too ambitious. You will return to Inquila one day, Shobu, and he will not be able to send you away. In the meantime, consider this an adventure of a lifetime."

"I have enjoyed seeing the ocean from our window." Shobu's feathers dance, though whether she is mollified or simply distracted, Megatron does not know. "It is so big! And the desert will be bigger."

"Yes," says Megatron, because it is easier to agree. A part of him is grateful to Talia - a part of him which had been so much louder the day before and is now drowned out by worry - for helping the girl where Megatron could not. "Go collect your things, and your friend," he orders. "It is time to get on the ship."

All of Shobu's feathers waver and tilt, and then all at once spring upwards in confidence and excitement. "Yes!" she says. "Thank you." She performs that dangerously leaning half-bow of her species and scrambles up the stairs with an energy that Total Zen cannot hope to match.

He has only a minute to imagine the conversations happening outside. The act of gazing intently into his energon does nothing but force the scene outside into his cup, where it swirls around in fascinating pictures. Yes, there is Jazz corralling the Autobots. He'll ask no questions, but even from inside Megatron can hear his cattle-dog corrections. They spur the movement of energon. Megatron watches him shove Tungsten in the patterns.

"I don't give two hoots whose ship it is!" he calls from outsides. "Wait, no - it's Swindle's ship. Who cares. Aw, he's just the driver. No worries."

It almost makes Megatron laugh. Actually, it does - hysterically, and briefly. Then Alloy shoves his way through the door. He is grinning audial to audial, and covered in some sort of mysterious oil-like sheen.

“Get the girleen and the teen,” he calls. ”We got ourselves an atmosphere out there.”

Megatron nods, sets his energon down, twists his body towards completely around, and shouts up the stairs: "Shobu, Talia! Time to board!"

Three Inquiek appear at the top of the stairs. Tian brushes her feathers against the top of Shobu and Talia's heads, then looks to the mechs downstairs.

"Megatron," she calls, "I am speaking with the Secretary now. She is journeying here and will talk with you, should you still be here when she arrives." To the Inquiek, she adds: "Stay safe and obey him. I will see you again someday." Their feathers wave in that Inquiek nod, and Tian pushes them gently onward.

During their admittedly short stay on Inquila, Megatron does not think he ever saw an Inquiek run. He did not think such a thing was physiologically possible. But Shobu manages it down the stairs - though, upon second thought, perhaps it might be better classified as enthusiastic falling. Talia follows at an only slightly more sedate pace.

"To Waleria!" Shobu exclaims. Alloy beckons them on, but both Inquiek stop and drop their short bows to Megatron. He nods back at them, which is enough of a bow. Alloy holds the door open for them and they tumble out, and when Alloy turns to follow another hand catches the door above him. The other hand is a familiar one, and it is no surprise when Optimus enters as Alloy departs .

"It is marvelous to be in the presence of genius," Megatron says by way of greeting. "I will be sad to be parted from it."

Optimus pauses six paces away. "You will be getting on the ship," he tells him. "The captain may be regrettable-"

Megatron laughs harshly. "Regrettable?"

"There are no Cybertronian ships large, fast, or close enough to get us to Waleria in time to meet the Alimenta," Optimus says, as if he were reciting facts from a history textbook. "Our ship is under lock and key, and does not have the supplies to get us home. We don't have the supplies to get ourselves home, Megatron. I was thinking ahead."

"My ship could take us to Cybertron," Megatron replies. "And it will. I will reroute them here, and they will pick me up and take me to Cybertron, and I will wait for you to rejoin me there. I am sure Cybertron will love to see you disembark from a Decepticon ship."

Optimus sighs. "You said your ship - which you have failed to name - is still a week away. Are you spending a week in Tian's beach house, then?"

"I might," Megatron declares. He doesn't mean that, and he knows he does not mean that. But he must make Optimus work for this, if only to make him understand the depths of Megatron's displeasure. "I might stay and assist the Secretary in a political revolution. I have gotten rather good at that, haven't I? Did Cybertron twice, Inquila will be easy enough. If you can do it on Waleria, I'm certain I can do it twice as fast here. We can have a race." Even as the words come out of his mouth he regrets the petty sting of them. It is not what he means, and the planetary revolution cherry-picking is not the root of his anger.

Optimus understands this, because he replies with a tired sigh. "I am allowing Snowbank to assist in a leadership change to protect us and Cybertron. To stay behind and attempt to implement a regime change on Inquila wile being chased bgy the Galactic Council is foolish."

Megatron opens his mouth and raises his finger, his whole frame ratcheting up into the upper stratosphere of 'a hell of a talking to'. Optimus interrupts before he can begin. "And, as I recall, I did give Jazz permission to go back for the chameleon, as you requested. Was it not you who said the information he had collected would repay the Secretary for her support? It is her world, and we have given her enough ammunition. More importantly, it is dangerous. I am in charge, Megatron, and I am the one who has to get us all home safely. Will you please get on the ship?"

"It is not a safe ship," replies Megatron, somewhat petulantly. This, too, is not the reason for his distress. In fact, he had assumed the ship would be perfectly safe because of (and not despite) its captain - had allowed his fellows and Shobu to board it, and had not thought twice. Had Swindle been at the helm, he might have thought differently. But Soundwave will deliver them safely, if that is the promise he has given. Megatron is certain of that, at least. "Primus knows how Swindle circumvented safety regulations," he says instead.

Optimus crosses his arms. He does not bother with a reply.

"I do not want to get on this ship," Megatron tries again. "I do not know what you promised Soundwave as his end of the bargain. Am I being traded away?"

"It can't be the Lost Light," says Optimus. The non-sequitur shocks Megatron. "It is over in the Alpha Quadrant being towed back to Cybertron again. It would take them years to arrive."

"You've been tracking the Lost Light?" Megatron asks.

"I have always tracked it."

Megatron shrugs. "The Lost Light is an interesting ship. It ends up places one would not imagine possible."

"Yes," Optimus agrees. "But it cannot galaxy-hop. And it is far too large to fit on an Inquiek beach. Come outside and get on the ship, Megatron. You are the last one."

"Jazz rounded everybody up?" Megatron states more than asks. "All the complaining, and he shoved them on board, didn't he? Did he know beforehand?"

Optimus looks askance. "No," he admits. "I was worried you might abscond." An answer to a different question. One Megatron needed to hear answered, but unsatisfactory all the same.

"He might abscond?" He corrects. Optimus shakes his helm.

"No, I suppose that was not the worry."

"He is a good little soldier," Megatron says. It reminds him of the conversation they had had the day before. "He should not be so willing. I'm not so willing."

Optimus sighs. "I called the one mech I thought had motive and opportunity to aid in our escape," he says. "You and I both know that Soundwave poses no danger to us alone. He is on the ship of a third party, which Alloy and Jazz are currently inspecting. I drained no accounts in this venture - the Decepticons paid for usage of the ship. The only thing I traded was a conversation with you, and I expect you can manage to keep that conversation civil. You've proven yourself a skilled diplomat."

Megatron's laugh is harsh and clipped. "Are you so certain a...productive conversation between Soundwave and myself would be safe for the health of the Galaxy?"

Optimus frowns. "Megatron, there is not a single part of me that believes boarding this ship will endanger the person you have become. It had been my impression - and Jazz's as well - that you have become confident in your abilities to command Autobots in the...Autobot fashion-"

"I occasionally prioritize life," Megatron agrees.

"Do you honestly fear Soundwave alone could..." Optimus's optics flit about the room as if searching for the next word. "Could return you to your old ways? I do not believe your dedication to peace is so fickle."

"My confidence is a direct result of my command. Your position as ambassador has elevated me - it was a dangerous feeling, in the other Universe. As it is here, now. You say I have become a skilled diplomat - it is only using a power which-"

Optimus cuts him off. "The truth," he tells him, "is that I do not care. I do not believe you will be tempted towards domination, nor do I believe the Decepticons will take you back. I only half expect Soundwave to draw weapons, and if he does I am certain of our ability to restrain him. You will get on the ship, Megatron, so that we may escape the two galactic organizations who want you dead."

"And set up energon supply chains for Cybertron," Megatron reminds him.

Optimus nods. "Yes." It is almost laughable, that key detail being tagged on as an afterthought. That is not what drives Optimus Prime forward. How Megatron has brought them both low.

He knows he will have to get on that slagged ship. He knows what conversation he will have to have. He needs time. He looks back down at Total Zen, now half-drunk. Then he makes a decision.

"How long does Jazz think the ship can stay here before the Inquiek get eyes on it?" Megatron asks. "Your General of Aerial Forces - was he expecting it to land someplace in District 1?"

"Officially, it has deviated from its course due to a mechanical malfunction," Optimus says. "We told them the captain wanted to ensure any crash-landing would be in the ocean, but that he managed to set down safely in the sand. There is only so long they will believe he is 'completing minor repairs'."

"Is only the General of Aerial Forces aware of its presence?" Megatron asks. "The deal was made with him alone?"

"And his office."

Megatron nods. "He will be hesitant to bring others in, then. Not with the political position on this planet as it is. We have some time."

Optimus's frown deepens. "Not much."

"Get an estimate from Jazz then," Megatron replies. "Bring me the latest possible moment I could board the ship, and that is when I'll board."

Optimus's field blooms, and with it his evident frustration. "Megatron..." he starts. Then he stops. Then he sighs. "The Secretary will be here soon," he says. "I will speak with Jazz. We can further inspect the ship for sabotage."

"Exactly," Megatron says, as if those were his reasons. He had not even thought of them. He had only needed time. 

Optimus retreats to the landing pad, and Megatron retreats into his Total Zen.

Chapter Text

"Don't you got anyone else to sit with?"

Megatron is once again at the garden table, savoring the grimy, murky taste of the low-quality canned oil that has been left out for him. Crank speaks to him from his second floor balcony. The 'balcony' is a series of metal slabs jutting from beneath the first barrels of the second floor wall. Megatron is certain the entire structure is held up only by the lever force of the barrels.  The great beauty of the haphazard mansion is its maneuverability and Crank, a dedicated architect, changes the floor plans with an impressive regularity. The balcony is one of the newest features.

"You remind me of a friend of mine," Megatron tells him. 

"Bluh," spits Crank, and that scintilla of speech is all Megatron gets for the day. He drinks his canned oil in perfect peace, an idling that, unlike his inactivity in the apartment, carries a comforting acceptance. Crank scratches around in his house until the hour of Optimus's impending return, when Megatron calls his unreciprocated good-byes and leaves.

And then, the next afternoon: "This friend died?"

"No," Megatron says. He traces the jagged edges of the mosaic pieces of the table absentmindedly with his thumb.

Crank blows his cheeks out. His beard jiggles and sways. He is on the same level as Megatron today, poking a cautious helm out of a window. "Everyone's dead," he comments. Megatron shrugs.

"Not everyone. Not that it does me much good. We don't talk any more. I expect I am dead to him."

"Everyone's dead," Crank repeats. He slams the window shut. It has two engraved panels which, upon closing, reveal a pattern of meticulous swirls all over their surface.

Soundwave was never so mercurial as this mech, and never so artful, and rarely so verbose, though he carried an elegance and eloquence this mech would never aspire to achieve. Still, there is something about Crank that has Megatron reminiscing for the first time in years; he would not call his more recent miserable self-reflection 'reminiscing'; 'mourning', maybe, or 'languishing'. But now, at the garden table, Megatron lets himself ponder the things he has thrown away. Like friendship, or whatever mangled version of the idea existed between him and his third in command.

It's easier now, to think of it fondly, detached from what they did together. Megatron recognizes that is is his presence which drives mechs to madness; it was he who led Soundwave to the miserable place he is in now, and certainly he is responsible for Optimus's foolish decision to carry him home. That is his great difficulty: no matter how hard he tries, he inherently brings out the worst in other people. Or maybe not. Maybe he only befriends the ambitious sort of mech who builds castles out of oil drums.

He sighs, stands, places his half-empty energon cube on the sill by the doorway as Crank had previously requested, and leaves. Jazz will be coming home from a mission today. He even smiles at the thought. The patio table has a magical sort of power, like that.

"This is mumba," Tian tells him. She has pulled a large bottle from behind the counter, which she sets in front of Megatron. "I do not believe you can drink it, but I can!"

The bottle has a wide base that slopes dramatically inwards, so that the majority of the bottle has a diameter only as wide as his finger. It is a muted yellow color, and the liquid which she pours into a glass is a deep amber. He very much doubts he can drink it. A shame - he had finished his infusion some time ago.

"I cannot speak your language," Tian continues, "But it is obvious enough when an argument is taking place. So you have decided to stay on Inquila?"

"For a few moments longer," Megatron agrees. Even as he sits and she stands across the counter, he must look down at her. "And you are drinking mumba for...?"

Tian's feathers flick in amusement. "There are aliens in my house," she says. "My emergency landing pad is occupied. And my dearest friend is returning from the capitol to tell me all about her obscenely dangerous plot against the standing government. Surprise, I am now implicated in it." She taps her glass twice against the counter-top and takes a long sip. Megatron doesn't say anything. Perhaps this morning he might have apologized, but he, too, is upset about the ship on the landing pad. It feels better to be obstinate.

"So, you did not expect your rescue ship to resemble a down-district mall?" Tian continues. Megatron huffs.

"It is the surprise driver who is the problem. My dignity is not as it used to be - I will flee in the walking advertisement if need be."

"Well, needs be," replies Tian. "Can't stay here."

"No," murmurs Megatron. "I suppose not."

They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, until there is a sound from the door. Tian slips out from behind the counter and ushers the Secretary in. Their tails thump together, the Inquiek hello. Megatron stands to greet her.

"Secretary," he says, lifting his hand in lieu of a proper tail thumping. The Secretary responds in kind, and then her eyes fall onto the mumba.

"You got started without me," she chastises Tian. Tian does not appear very chastised.

"My mumba," she replies. "I had this mopey guest of yours, dear. All falling over the counter. What have you done to him, hmm?"

The Secretary appears momentarily confused. She tilts her helm and her feathers flick. "Mopey? How have you been treating the guests?"

"Miserably," promises Tian. "Sit down next to this alien you've brought me, yes, and make him tell his tale."

Megatron smiles, then remembers not to bare his teeth. The Secretary does not seem to mind his slip-up; she approaches the bar seat next to Megatron's own. When she scrambles onto it, he sits as well. 

"I truly am thankful for your hospitality, Tian," he says. Tian huffs. 

"So much he doesn't want to get on his escape ship. Hear that, girl? I'm hostess enough to snag me an alien man."

"You don't want to get on your ship?" the Secretary asks. Tian pours her a cup of mumba.

"It is complicated," Megatron says. "How were things in the capitol?"

"Going according to plan. The information your mate provided is secured. Should I die, it will be released by other means."

"Good." Megatron hums, and the Secretary sips her mumba. 

"Shouldn't say things like that," says Tian. "No, you shouldn't. You'll call it forth."

"If I die it'll be by my actions, not my words," replies the Secretary, easily enough. "And anyway, I have a plan. That's what I'd like to discuss with you, Megatron." She sets her cup back own on the white counter top with a clink, and doesn't wait for Megatron to reply before continuing. "Dismantling trade networks in wartime - you told me once that you chose to burn down the side which could not produce for you; you struck down the Teelies and kept the Halians-"

"If I remember correctly, I told you we should have left the trade triangle intact," Megatron interrupts. "And substituted ourselves in the Autobot's place."

"Yes," the Secretary takes another lingering sip. "I did not mean to offend."

"No matter." Megatron had killed the Teelies, he can hear it said. He must be reminded of it, rather. He is about to get onboard a ship with the mech who helped him do it. "I am wiser now."

"Yes," the Secretary agrees. "The proof I have of involvement between the Black Box Consortia and the rebellions is enough to incite riots. I am taking your advice. Not to be crude, but uprisings of the people are notoriously, caustically uncontainable. To release the information outright would be a massacre. I am taking your advice. A massacre, perhaps, but with less death."

"Less death," Megatron agrees. "I understand your intention. To eliminate with precision for optimum effect with minimum death. A military coup."

"Yes."

"Eyet," hisses Tian. "I will leave for this. Goodbye, Megatron."

"Goodbye." Megatron bows his helm, and she returns the gesture. The Secretary waits for her to make it up the stairs before continuing their conversation.

"This is a trade agreement-" she says. "Trade in which one side provides weapons and the other provides war. I have collected the allies I need and made secondary arrangements, but I would like your advice on deconstructing this trade efficiently and safely."

Megatron knows exactly how to direct the Secretary. He has been considering her next moves since their departure. The train had left plenty of time for consideration, and the relief of having a simple goal had left his processor in perfect condition to plan a planetary take over. Still, he is unpracticed in the art of minimal-casualty events. He has long worried he is incapable of keeping even his allies out of danger.

"You understand that my solution then had been to eliminate nearly an entire species?" he warns her. "And that at no point did I ever actually manage to integrate myself successfully into that trade triangle."

"You also said-" the Secretary pauses. "You told me hindsight had improved your strategic abilities. That should have devalued their technology-"

"Which we did," he agrees. "When I taught you how to disable their landmines, has that not been useful?"

"Immeasurably so," she says. "But it is not only the BBC trading weapons. The information you provided on BBC guns and bombs will allow for the aligned districts backed by the Galactic Council to recapture vital territory, but..."

"But you do not want the aligned districts to recapture the splinter districts. You want all districts together under the rule of you and your political allies."

"I will not have my people toyed with by the Consortia or the Council," she agrees. "I will tell you what I have learned about the Galactic Council, but first, let us discuss a more simple trade. The BBC is, at least, a more straightforward villain"

Megatron had thought plenty about this, but his plan is imperfect. It relies on a certain compliance from their enemies. Still, it seems the least likely to devolve completely into disaster. "I assume your forces stormed the Stentarian house as soon as we left?" he asks. This he had anticipated before dispatching Jazz.

"Yes. We took the Stentarian ambassador and his mate into custody."

"Your custody, or...?"

"Mine."

"Good." Megatron nods to himself. "Good. The chameleon was a true BBC agent - the Stentarians were cover actors. They will be easier to sway."

"Will they?"

Megatron grimaces. "I hope so. The proof Jazz gave you implicates them in crimes against your species. What is the punishment for that on your world?"

"Death," says the Secretary. "There is little leniency for alien spies."

"You want to weasel your way into a trade deal? You have one side under your control." Megatron really wishes he could drink mumba. This feels wrong. It feels wrong because it is so easy. Hadn't he been thinking just that only a few days ago? How easy it is to conquer these organic planets. It is a more distressing thought with Soundwave outside. "Did Jazz inform you how the chameleon contacted the BBC?"

"His report was thorough," the Secretary says. "It would not be so difficult to have the weapons shipments rerouted to warehouses under my control. I have leveraged what I've learned from you to expand my reach in the splinter districts. And as we are in possession of the mechs through whom the rebel groups communicated..."

"You will have no difficulty insinuating yourself into the weapons flow," Megatron agrees. "The Galactic Council is a more difficult matter."

"It is easier to crush a revolution than enact one," says the Secretary. Megatron laughs. 

"You could say that," he agrees.

"What would you sell this patio table for?" Megatron asks, one day. "If you were to sell it, I mean."

"Not sellin'" huffs Crank.

"Sure. But if you were?"

Megatron is back in the garden, which has no plants and no crystals but plenty of interesting organic gadgets. The barrel mansion had, sometime over the last few days, lost its top floor. Instead, it now bears a magnificent tower in the back right corner, like that of a human castle, if a human castle were constructed from old oil drums. It should have looked more precarious than it did. It rose two times as high as the original third story, and atop it stood a lightning rod. 

Crank was not up in his tower. He was on the second floor, staring at Megatron from the balcony.

"Why don't you have no-one else to talk to?" Crank asks. "Gotta come around bothering me?"

"Well, I don't know if you've seen the news..." Megatron jokes. Crank doesn't catch the humor.

"Got a mate?" He asks.

"I am...living with two mechs," Megtron reveals. It feels safe to do so; Crank won't tell anybody. Crank has no one else to tell.

"They have any money? Why don't you ask them to buy you a table?" Cranks leans over the 'railing' (oil barrels cut in half and lined against the balcony edge).

"We-" Megatron pauses. "We are-" again, he stops. What is he to say? He hardly understands the three of them. Optimus had brought him home. Jazz lets him through the tunnel gate. They order energon for dinner. The conversations are awkward. He lives in the guest room. How to explain that? He eventually settles for whatever his glossa can spit out.

"I don't know if they would want me to bring your table home." he admits. "It feels as though they brought me home on a whim. They took most of the furniture in their habsuite and put it into the guest room for me. I am living off their charity. They are taking a major risk to keep me alive - a lot of people have taken risks to keep me alive lately. I am not certain I believe I am worth it. I have done terrible things in my life, Crank. And I - I kept myself alive long past when I should have been dead. I was bent on survival. I took leadership whenever I could find it, and led people towards what I believed would keep me alive. Now all I am is the mech in the guest bedroom, and I am not certain I deserve to be there."

Crank stares down at him for a long while. "Alright," he says eventually. "Well, you should ask them if they want a table before you go buying one. And not that one. I have better ones. Indoor ones. You have a garden patio?"

"We live in on the fifth floor," Megatron says. He appreciates how Crank slips past everything he had said. It reminds him of Soundwave, again. 

"Well then, not that one," Crank declares. The poetic part of Megatron recognizes that to remove the patio table from the 'garden' would be to take away what makes the table so truly awe-inspiring. The littered oil cans and scattered debris over the marred Cybertronian surface, complete with the ornate windows and the dotted crystal pots, create a semi-magical haven. He would take another table, he decides.

"I'd want city-folk things for it," Crank tells him.

"City-folk things?" Megatron asks.

Crank disappears into the house and returns a moment later with a bag. From it he produces plastic trash, which he throws down at Megatron. It is reminiscent of their first meeting. "I only get these empty," he declares. "I want them full."

Megatron snags the plastic trash from the ground and the table and gently pries them them from each other to read the labels. Titan Master Crunch, says a large box. Others are deep-fried circuit chips of various flavors, or wheel-nuts in sweet energon. Each option looks more disgusting than the next - Titan Master Crunch is an electrifying neon blue, the deep-fried circuit chips don't contain enough energon to be considered food (in Megatron's opinion, as a mech who, before the war, survived only on the sorts of cast-out store rejects that filled the tank but not the lines). The wheel-nuts at least had energon - though the toughness of them was bound to break some mech's dentae.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Megatron asks. "Your technique is impressive, truly artistic. Would you not prefer actual credits?"

Crank spits. "What'd you think I'm gonna do with credits," he asks.

"...That is a good point," Megatron agrees. "Alright, well, maybe I will find some of these-" he waves one of the packages in the air, clenched between the very edges of his two least favorite digits. "And purchase a table from you."

"Humph," Clack humphs, and turns back inside.

"So," Megatron says, once the Secretary has finished her mumba. He can hear the engines of Swerve's ship of sin begin to thrum, but Optimus does not come for him yet. "Tell me about the Galactic Council factor. What have you learned?"

"After you mentioned-"she begins, and then pauses and grits her large jaw. "No, it is not something you instigated. I had my theories before."

"You had," Megatron agrees. He remembers their first meeting. "About many of your government's most senior officials."

"I suspected that they had reason to promulgate war," she says. "For their own political gain and, it seems, by suggestion from the Galactic Council. We do - we do want to join the Galactic Council, you understand?"

"It is only natural." Inquila will remain stagnant without galactic support. They may never be allowed to join the conference, but they depend on trade with GC worlds for economic growth. That is, if they want to join the galactic stage.

"I had previously thought my own people shrewd, and to some extent I still do," she continues. "But I underestimated them. I was not wrong when I told you that many of the leaders of my own government would rather see Inquiek dead than the war ended. They have ambition, ambition to join the Galactic Council and to maintain their own power in a GC-aligned political culture. I have some evidence that members of our government are perpetuating the violence against the outer districts by Galactic Council request."

"As predicted," Megatron says.

The Secretary runs a claw through the only feathers she can reach with her short arms. "Yes," she agrees. "But I had not anticipated this. The Galactic Council has now taken a step I had not foreseen them taking. There are GC troops entering our splinter districts as we speak."

The words undo whatever minimal benefit Total Zen might have had. A primal sense of fear trickles down to Megatron's spark. There had been GC diplomats on Inquila, certainly, but to invade? No planet hosted GC troops unless they were part of the council. Had they come for him? He had imagined, in the last few weeks, what total spark annihilation must feel like. He had only just decided he would not turn himself in. To have Galactic Council soldiers on this currently neutral world-

"They are mobilizing to city centers," the Secretary continues. "It is happening too quickly to be a response to your disappearance, I believe. The Chief of Planetary Affairs has been on diplomatic trips to several of the government-controlled splinter districts. Heavily guarded. They are calling it his usual yearly inspections - the government offices, the defenses, the hospitals-"

Megatron recalls what Shobu had told him before. "The nurseries?" he asks. The Secretary freezes.

"...Yes," she confirms. "Why do you ask?"

Megatron grimaces. "It is something I noticed upon our first visit to you governmental offices. You keep your younglings together in crèches. I have...some evidence that your Chief of Planetary Affairs pays them too much notice. I had assigned him other motives, but I know what my own would have been."

"What?" the Secretary asks.

Megatron smiles, and does not stop the baring of his teeth.

If his time on the Lost Light had taught Megatron anything, it was that it is better to ask forgiveness than permission. If living in the silent ward of this apartment had taught him anything, it was that no one was likely to bring anything he did up in conversation. So Megatron decides to purchase the table.

After all, he reasons, he could always place the table in the guest room (which Optimus insists is his) and take the empty dresser back to the empty living room where it once must have lived. Thus, Megatron will have actually mitigated his own intrusion. It is a fine plan, excepting for the need for purchasing power.

Their kitchen is as bare as their daily take-out order would imply. He sighs as he shuts the last cabinet, tut-tutting to himself. He could live like this, in a barren kitchen, but surely two Autobots with busy work days would require additional nutrition. Did Optimus refuel at the Autobot headquarters? What of Jazz, on the days he has off. Does he eat nothing? Megatron can't seem to recall.

He opens the cool-box. It is also empty. Empty empty empty. Megatron stands in the center of the small kitchen and turns in a full circle. No, no, no - a wasteland! There are no pots nor pans - what if one wanted heated energon? Megatron has not had heated energon since the war, but he imagines when the fancy strikes it is no good having no pots in which to heat some. And a functioning household should have some flavorings, shouldn't it?

At the end of his revolution he spies a cabinet he had not inspected before, underneath the sink. He walks to it and peers inside, only to find a few washcloths and a basic cleaning solution. He sighs.

"Whatcha looking for?" Jazz asks. Megatron jolts upwards in alarm, hitting the back of his helm beneath the sink. He hisses in pain, and extracts himself with an embarrassed shuffle.

"I am looking for..." he does not want to say 'snacks'. He does not want to give Jazz the impression that he would ever desire wheelnuts or, Primus forbid, Titan Master Crunch. Jazz stands patiently, leaning against the counter. He appears, as usual, bemused at Megatron's inadequacies. 

"I am looking for packaged food to give to Crank," he settles on. 

Jazz frowns. "Crank?"

"Barrel-house mech," Megatron tells him, feeling a brush of pride at knowing something Jazz did not. "He desires...snacks."

Jazz looks Megatron up and down with squinted optics, roving as if Megatron's lies might be discovered on his thighs. "Alright," he draws out. He places both servos on the countertop and crawls up it in a manner simultaneously ungraceful and captivating. Megatron stares. Jazz pushes himself to his pedes, throws two finger guns down Megatron's way, then slides across the counter.

"I've got some stuff," Jazz tells him. "What does he want? Gear-Changers, Wreck-ems, Glossa-Gluers - those have got that incredible tar texture-"

"Uh-"

Jazz has made it to the end of the countertop and has opened a panel which Megatron had previously assumed to be an air vent. It is, instead, filled with aluminum bags and cereal boxes. Jazz roots through them as he talks.

"Are we talking sweet or savory here? We could do the Earth combos - chocolate covered wheelnuts and high octane turbo juice. That's just 94 at the pumps. Gets me kinda jittery-"

"Crank requested Titan Master Crunch and deep-fried circuit chips and.. energon-covered wheelnuts." Jazz twists around to frown down at him.

"Well, he's not getting my Titan Master Crunch, but he can have some deep-fried circuit chips." Jazz sticks his entire arm into the cabinet (air vent?) and pulls out as many bags as can fit in his servo. "Uhh," he pulls one bag out of the mess and inspects it. "Here's energon drizzle-" he tosses the bag over his shoulder. It crinkles when Megatron catches it. He reads each flavor out loud, in case Megatron has a preference, and then throws them over with impeccable aim. "Gear-buster spicy, refined oil, energon drizzle again, choco-waco - hey, have you ever had chocolate? Who am I kidding, course you haven't. We'll save one of those bags for you. Gear-buster spicy, tire iron (that's a terrible name), oh, concentrated speed. I think that's actually magnesium dust, but they color it bright red. More energon drizzle, choco-waco, refined oil again..."

Megatron catches each bag with increasing distress. On the second choco-waco, he inspects the bag for more information on the flavor profile. He did not expect anything sensible, but it still manages to surprise him. "Cybertronians cannot consume organic foods!" He exclaims. "What are these flavors, Jazz? What are you consuming?"

"Oh, no species in the whole universe eats only what they can actually consume," Jazz replies. "Here, he can have another tire iron. Hate that name. Like, it's not rubber flavored at all. Tire iron should be a rubber-iron combo, right?"

"I am going to - this should probably be enough," Megatron decides. The last bag had landed precipitously atop the pile in his arms. He is carrying the whole end of civilization in outrageously colored inedibles. Jazz turns around a shrugs. 

"If you say so. Why does oil-mansion man need circuit chips?"

"Well..." Megatron considers lying, and immediately feels ashamed. He's going to be dragging a large table through their front door, Jazz will find out sooner or later. Better not to lie. "He is a craftsman. He does not take traditional forms of payment."

"Cool," says Jazz. "Whatcha getting?"

"A...A table." Several of the bags threaten to avalanche, but Jazz hops from the counter and pushes them back up into Megatron's arms.

"Nice," he says. "We don't have enough furniture. We should put it in the kitchen. I mean, look -" He sweeps a finger in a large circle, indicating the complete lack of anything in the kitchen. There are countertops, and an ice-box, and then the kitchen morphs into the living room, which is equally empty. Save for the shag rug, that is, and a small couch. "The place needs a personal touch."

Having Jazz's approval lifts a weight Megatron had not known he carried. "A personal touch?"

Jazz shrugs. "There's no you, is there? Hey, you need help getting that table up here?"

Megatron does not want to say no. Here is another casual olive branch. There could be no turning it down, not if one day he desired to have actual conversation at that table. "I don't think Crank would appreciate me bringing someone new," he says, and then quickly adds: "but I could use help bringing it upstairs and choosing its place. Do you have to leave today?"

Megatron sincerely hopes he does not. This is a new phenomenon - normally, Megatron prefers the apartment empty. Not so empty, like when Jazz disappears for days at a time, but empty with the knowledge that its occupants will be home for dinner.

"I'm free as a bird," says Jazz. "Got some assignment in the works for later this week. Something sketchy -I gotta get Optimus to approve it. You know he's not security classified right now? When I don't trust something's a good idea I read him in though. So maybe that'll all fall through. Let's go get your table. I'll wait in the tunnel."

"Alright," Megatron agrees. "I did not realize Optimus had been dropped from Autobot security clearances. All of them?"

"Only the highly classified stuff." Jazz starts out the door and Megatron follows. "His clearance might go up again if they actually give him that ambassadorship position." Before, Megatron might have found being locked in a moving box with the Autobot spymaster a deeply concerning predicament. Now it is only an elevator ride. Jazz exudes casual. It is surprisingly comforting, and the conversation is interesting enough. Megatron's months of confinement have left him a little too eager to know the details of this new political reality.

"What planets does Cybertron have ambassadorial relationships with?" he asks. "And which of those do not want Optimus Prime dead?"

Jazz shrugs. "Mostly unaligned potential energon-rich organic spots. It's a little more difficult with you here. They need to find a planet that won't kill him, won't kill you, and wont leave me bored. Its taking a while."

Megatron grimaces just as the lift comes to a jolting halt. "I apologize for the inconvenience I have made," he says. He hopes Jazz understands the depths of his discomfort, in having shaken up his life so. And in having his own life orbit so heavily around his guest bedroom. Jazz just snorts.

"Eh, it was always going to take forever. You just have to go with the flow of life. Things will happen when they happen."

Megatron shakes his helm. "Truly? You believe that? After all of this?"

Jazz looks up at him and grins. "Sure," he says. "Why not? Optimus came home with you one night, and now we are going to pick up a table from a guy who lives in a trash mansion. Change is the way of the Universe. If we are gonna end up on some far away crazy planet, that'll happen. Until it does, there's no sense thinking about it."

It is a little fitting they are walking through a dark escape tunnel for this conversation, Megatron thinks. "You are remarkably calm about me," Megatron tells him, cautiously. "Because the Universe will do as it does?"

"I considered you had some plot," Jazz replies. "But I dunno, you've convinced me. You kinda act like you aren't certain if you're wearing your own plating or someone else's."

"I am not certain I could ever be a good mech," Megatron admits, counting on the minimal emergency lighting to obscure his face.

"Me neither," says Jazz. "Not for myself, I mean. But that doesn't matter. I don't think you have an evil scheme involving Optimus's helm on a stick. At least, I don't see what befriending the wacko oil-barrel mech could get you."

Megatron laughs. "My plan was to let the Galactic Council kill me," he says.

"Eugh. That is a terrible plan. Well, then I'm glad you're here. Optimus is slag at interior decorating. Does Crank have any paintings or something."

Megatron shurgs. "I don't know," he admits. "He's a bit of a crotchety old mech."

"You have a tendency to pick up crazy-ass friends, you know?"

"Yes," Megatron laughs. "But at least this one has only moderate ambitions."

The Secretary had poured herself another glass of mumba. She sips it slowly between sentences, which come out equally slowly and with a heavy weight to them. "There is something I do not understand. The Council simply does not have enough at stake to be committing their own troops to battle on Inquila. This has been a proxy war for nearly a hundred years. We are the planet which hosts the current front in a long crusade, which the GC has done its best to avoid elevating into true war. Inquila has no resources their own planets do not. They have not even bothered sending their own weapons before. What do they gain from military control they would not have through political sway? Why now?"

"You must think larger than Inquila," Megatron tells her. "It is not Inquila which the Black Box Consortia and the Galactic Council are fighting over - it is your entire sector. You are a strategic base for resources beyond your own planet."

The Secretary pauses mid-sip."Is it your arrival? No, it could not be - this has the marks of a plan long in the making, and nurseries in District 9 have nothing to do with you."

Megatron hums. His presence could be the instigating factor - he is rather skilled at drawing conflict to himself. That is his most persistent woe. Proof of it is sitting outside three-fold. Still, he doubts this was just him. After all, it was the BBC who had attempted to assassinate him, and Sonum (working for those loyal to the Galactic Council) who tried to save them. 

"No," he agrees. "But there would be something that happened recently, something that would-" he cuts himself off. "Ah," he says. "Waleria."

Perhaps Jazz would have been faster on the uptake. Optimus certainly. Megatron knows this has been another worry on his mate's mind. The Secretary peers at Megatron over her glass.

"There is energon on Waleria," she says. "And so you are headed there. I am choosing to ignore whatever political play you intend there. I have enough troubles of my own. Unless you believe the two are interconnected?"

Megatron hesitates to tell her what conclusion he has come to. The discovery of yellow and green energon may not have made it past the Senate Chief's meeting desk. It should stay that way, especially if the Secretary did come to power on Inquila. So instead he tells her: "I must speak with to confirm my suspicions about your nurseries. In the mean time, I would find loyal troops and deploy them to every large-populated area the Chief of Planetary Affairs visits in the splinter districts. And in your own districts as well."

"There are easier places to acquire energon in this galaxy," says the Secretary. Her gaze is piercing.

"I will travel to Waleria," Megatron tells her. Conviction is as enjoyable as certainty, he supposes, and having some greater ambition eases the dread of his method of travel. "We intend to secure the planet from both Galactic Council and Black Box Consortia forces. That may aid your own struggles, or worsen them. I will get in touch with you from the ship. Your secure line will remain secure through space relays?"

The Secretary pauses in consideration. "As secure as anything can be," she decides. "But not entirely so. Relay only minimal detail. You will not tell me what this inciting factor on Waleria is?"

"I cannot," Megatron tells her.

Her feathers flick. "Fine. And you believe the attacks may take place in the aligned districts as well?"

"Perhaps." Megatron sighs. "By my current knowledge, the Chief of Planetary Affairs has intimate knowledge of the creches in District 1. This is all speculation, but if I were him..."

"If you were him?" The Secretary asks.

Megatron grimaces. "There can be no rumors that attacks on nurseries were carried out with the government's approval. They will attempt to pin this on the splinter districts. It is much easier to do so if the aligned districts are attacked as well. Hospitals, nurseries - I do not know how you will mitigate the danger, but I would act quickly."

"The next shipment of BBC weapons will land soon," The Secretary says. "I will reroute them. And then I will deploy my own forces. I suggest you get to Waleria as quickly as possible."

Megatron glances away from her, towards the door. From outside he hears the whirring of engines, masked slightly by the mutterings of those advertisements with accompanying voice-overs. Optimus has yet to come, but Megatron will go anyway.

"Yes," he says, and he stands. "It has been an honor, Secretary."

She bows, and he returns the gesture. And then he boards the ship.

Chapter Text

In what might seem the most absurd of the Universe's little mysteries, Jazz had gone and conjunxed himself two fine, straight-backed war generals. He's no slouch himself, of course, except for when he does slouch, which is most of the time. Still, its a bit odd he'd done it twice.

When conjunx number two finally boards Swindle's low-down sales ship, he's got that straight-backed single-mindedness of a general entering a battlefield. His gait alone seems particularly portentous to Jazz, who immediately forecasts one hell of a storm on the horizon. It is the true inverse of Optimus's unique, powerful and sedate stroll; with a long stride and quick tread, which might remind the average onlooker of a similar scene before the appearance of a large fusion cannon.

Jazz is not the average viewer. He is instead thinking that it is not so attractive a war-walk as the one the night before. He thinks the problem might be the set to Megatron's jaw. Or perhaps the annoyed misery flowing through their bond.

He pays it no mind. The thing about these weaker preliminary bonds, Jazz understands, is that commenting on how a partner's emotions are so massive as to be shared usually only worsens the emotion, and directs more of it at himself.

Megatron is also herding two young Inquiek up the ramp. They are struggling to keep up with his aggressive pace, so his stride is broken some four times on the way up. Jazz takes a photo of this odd procession and smiles to himself. Then he remembers he is on a Decepticon ship and he frowns, so as not to appear overly fond of the situation. He'd never gotten the hang of a proper scowl, and the frown itself is kind of forced. They are so unnatural for his face. It's in his metal to be upbeat, he has always said. He has resting not-bitch face, Sideswipe said. He doesn't need to keep up the frown for long; he decides by and by that this Decepticon ship being piloted by Soundwave is reason enough to smile again.

"This feels like a bad idea," Snowbank complains. Jazz turns from the window. He glances pointedly about the room, then back at Snowbank himself, then rolls his helm for another glance about the room.

"You are already on the ship, mech," he says. "You shoulda argued before climbing the ramp."

Snowball rolls his large arctic-colored, ever malcontent optics. "If the general says get on the ship I get on the ship," he huffs. "Doesn't mean I can't complain 'bout it. I'm just saying that if we end up in a Decepticon prison just shoot me dead. I'm sick and tired of this whole quest anyway. I want a bottle of Vosian engex, red label, and a nice berth. And if I can't have that I want you to shoot me dead." Jazz doesn't take that sort of facetious moaning seriously, but Fiber interjects to add:

"Don't you listen to him. He's a grouch. If we end up on some Decepticon warship I'm stripping my badge and pledging loyalty to the Decepticon throne. You play along." Jazz isn't sure if that last directive was aimed at him or at Snowbank, whose mood visibly perks at the opposition.

"Oh, sure," he replies, placing his servos on his hips, which only serves to highlight that he is several heads shorter than she. "That makes total sense; you are working on an Autobot ambassadorial project, but you are so naturally treasonous that you switch sides at the pointing of a single gun. They'll definitely take you."

"Don't be absurd," Fiber laughs. "I haven't been working for an Autobot embassy, I've been undercover attempting to capture Megatron so as to return glory to the Decepticon empire."

"Oh? How exactly do you think-"

Jazz takes a moment to thank himself for not taking that fool's bet with Megatron all those months ago. Those two were going to end up conjunxed before any of them returned to Cybertron,  though be that from their own expedience (unlikely) or their (infinite, no end determined) journey (more likely), who knows.

He beats a hasty retreat. He slips from that cargo hold over to another - most of the ship is half-empty cargo holds. Jazz had already done a security check, but now he amuses himself by running another. The second cargo hold currently houses one probably now unemployed Visa secretary and two definitely still employed cooks. No Decepticon has sprung down upon them in the time Jazz has been apart, and a quick peek into the vents (boosted by an enthusiastic Killjoy) reveals hose have remained empty. In the whole shebang of it all the vent gates seem to slip from his digits and clatter to the floor. He shoots Dicer's disapproving face some finger guns, to which she replies by thumbing back onto her wagon with a long resigned sigh. He bids them adieu with more finger guns, which both Killjoy and Highpass return.

The third cargo hold contains one rambunctious Alloy and two sedate children. Talia glances over and the movement of the door and, when Jazz steps through, thumps his tail in recognition.

"He says it is safe to stay," he reports. "But we can't get out until Waleria."

"You're internals will explode!" Alloy cheerfully announces. "Or you'll asphyxiate. Depends if you try and hold your breath."

Shobu's feathers flatten along her back just as her eyes widen. "This is not safe."

"It is perfectly safe," Alloy reassures her. "As long as you don't open the door. Because then you will die."

Shobu does not seem particularly appeased, in Jazz's opinion. Talia flicks his eyes and feathers over to Jazz as if to ask 'We have to go, right? We have to?'

"I'm sure it is perfectly safe," Jazz tells him. "As long as you don't open the door."

The organic cargo-hold Alloy is preparing to atmospherize has not been cleared as the others have. Instead the walls are blocked by newly stacked towers of unstable boxes, held together by ratchet straps and faith. While the younglings get settled in (by shifting the boxes into a less dangerous pattern) Jazz re-checks each box for contaminants and weapons. He covers each security camera he finds instead of breaking them, less out of respect for Swindle's property and more because he knows that damaging them will get him rightfully sued, and Primus knows the Galactic court system doesn't look favorably upon him. And even Primus doesn't know what is going on with the New Cybertronian justice system.

"It'll have Inquiek gravity- the entire ship will, not that you'll notice," Alloy is telling them, as he fiddles about with the humidity settings. "But the rest of the ship is going to have minimal atmosphere. You guys get specialized treatment in 'ere. I've got 68% nitrogen, 16% oxygen, and 20% carbon dioxide."

"That's 104%" exclaims Talia, following his remark with several pointed and anxious glances at the room's venting system.

Alloy waves his servo dismissively. "It's close enough."

"Are you sure?" asks Shobu. Her timid countenance has this question sounding more like a mouse chittering at a mouse trap that contains the largest, most gorgeous piece of cheese and also the tail of a dead mouse."I don't remember what our atmosphere is made of exactly, but that doesn't seem right."

"Too much carbon dioxide," Talia mutters.

"At least 2% too much," agrees Shobu.

"Its fiiine," Alloys says. "It's only a day's hop. The important thing is that the vents are closed and the atmospheric pressure maintained." At that moment a vent-cover falls from the ceiling, clipping Alloy's helm as it falls. "Oh frag," he hisses. Then, at Jazz's bemused stare and the terror on the Inquiek's faces, he adds: "Well, I'm less sure now. Give me another 20 minutes."

"I think we have...Argon too?" suggests Talia.

Shobu shakes her helm. "We don't need 105%" she says. "We need less."

Jazz finishes the last of the organic-bay re-inspections to the sweet tunes of Alloy attempting to pass technical skills to the next generation. Their skepticism over the machinery (and impressively mild fear for their lives) functions as strong motivation for them to learn the ins and outs of life support systems.

"Don't take any of those rags off of their marks," Jazz tells them on his way out. “Unless you want to be on Swindle’s next emporium TV show.” He pauses for a moment. “He always has bangin’ soundtracks though.”

“He steals copyrighted music,” Alloy tells him. “Doesn’t pay a credit in royalties.”

“I think we should have gotten a different ship,” whispers Shobu. Everyone ignores her because everyone agrees.

Like a sheepdog counting his flock, Jazz sniffs his way back to the second cargo bay. It had been hastily stripped of all contraband before the ship had been pilfered for nefarious Decepticon rescue missions. This is disappointing to Jazz, who would not have minded stealing a cygar from the Universe's most notoriously annoying importer. Alas, Swindle had deplaned them along with most of his valuables, leaving only a berth, a small closet with a makeshift shower (sized for minibots, sadly), and an aggressively large collection of cheap dinosaur-themed stuffies. Jazz had thoroughly investigated these fluffy threats and determined they were both innocent and cuddly. 

Now he finds about half of the embassy crew loitering about the open, dusty space. Grinder, Snowbank, and Fiber had all migrated to the middle bay, probably drawn in by the abundance of soft dinosaur themed toys. The only mecha missing are Optimus and Megatron and his guards, probably hovering about the bridge.

Grinder and Killjoy are fighting over the berth, which is of an ostentatious size considering Swindle's length. Jazz is firmly of the belief that berths of this quality belong in large decorous room with in-wall stereos and a hot enemy spy he must seduce information from. It looks like an information-seduction berth. Oh, the things he could make a Decepticon divulge with a good massage on that thing.

"We can't share it," Grinder argues. "We are both too big."

Unlike Grinder, whose disposition borders on territorial and would be visible for light years, Killjoy resorts to his usual brand of humor. “I’ll tell you what, if you can shrink yourself down to minicon size I’ll tuck you under my arm like a cube and let you on."

“I-” the comment has its intended effect, if its intended effect is to silence Grinder for half a second. But Grinder’s ambition is stronger than any linguistic attempt to squash it. “I am of higher rank. I could order you to sleep on the floor.”

Jazz laughs heartily at this assertion, which had immediately undercut-itself by the unsure lilt of his voice. Killjoy does not laugh, not because he does not want to (the humor in his optics is unmistakable) – but because his unspoken response is so clear that to reinforce it with laughter would only be cruel. And anyway, it is Killjoy who passes out dinner. The chain of command is subservient to the chain of power.

Grinder deflates from the inadequacy of his own argument. Jazz gives him props for not following up with a deeper dive into petulance. Instead he says – “Optimus Prime has ordered me to take up contact with Cybertron-”

“He thinks they won’t yell at you!?” interjects Highpass with accompanying laughter. “Of course the first thing he delegates to you is Starscream.”

“I mean-” continues Grinder, ignoring the interjection. “I mean that I need to sleep now so that when the slag starts spraying I can be an effective communicator.”

“Then sleep on the floor!” Killjoy smiles jovially. “I’ll tell you what, you can have a pillow.”

“Oh, for – what are you going to do with a better night’s recharge, hmm? It’s not like we have a kitchen!”

“I do plenty of work,” retorts Killjoy. I carried the energon wagon.”

Dicer, who had been sitting upon the very wagon and kicking impatiently at those disembarked cubes now scattered about, interjects. “I carried the wagon,” she corrects. “You are only the sous chef.”

“I’m a chef!” agrees Killjoy. “I should get the bed.”

“Now, lets do this right-”

It is at this point in the conversation when Jazz has finished reinspecting the cargo-hold. As he had already investigated the insides of layabout cubes and pillow stuffing (them being of odd organic origin a metal scan worked fine), he concludes that his time here is done. He waves at Fiber and Snowbank and Dicer, who have all taken a seat on the wagon or the floor and are watching the two large war-builds squabble like children over a pillow. Killjoy is losing the tug-of-war, but Jazz expects he is only insisting on the bed for his own personal amusement.

Jazz stops abruptly in the doorway, overwhelmed with the desire to be magnanimous. “You do know that is Swindle’s bed, right?” he declares. There is a brief moment of pause, pillow mid-torn through.

“He can have it,” decides Grinder at length. He looks expectantly at Killjoy, awaiting a similar response. Killjoy shrugs.

“Sure, what do I care?” Killjoy plops down atop the mattress, which promptly attempts a courageous buckle. Alas, Killjoy shifts his weight in time, and his equally distributed tonnage does not crumple the inner supports.

“You know what?” says Dicer. “I think you are too big for that berth. We need someone slightly shorter, and much older, who would really appreciate a place to rest her pedes. Especially after all that wagon carrying.”

Jazz laughs on his way out the door as the debate resumes its riotous pace.

At a great contrast to the Autobot-filled cargo holds, the bridge is so Decepticon Jazz can smell it. He can even smell the Decepticon of it through the three times as many Autobots occupying the room. This is because Soundwave has expanded his artificial field over the entire room, making himself into a menace of electromagnetic radiation.

“Hey babe,” Jazz greets as he enters, the target of this affection unknown to even himself. “And Soundwave, long time no see!” Soundwave stares blankly at him. “Oh come on, you remember me!” Soundwave stares blankly at him some more.

Contrary to popular Autobot myth, Soundwave is usually an expressive person, if not in field than in posture. Now he is stiff as a corpse, so Jazz decides going in for a hug would not be well received. He places his gracious appreciation upon Optimus instead, because he is standing the closest.

Optimus gives a little start at this, having lacked the foresight to recognize a Jazz-hug coming in. Tungsten sighs. Soundwave stares.

Jazz keeps the hug brief, but long enough to let the rejected potential participant know just what he could have had. This has the benefit of bringing a sly tilt of the head from Soundwave, as is to say ‘I do not have the energy to deal with your bullshit today, Jazz.’

Jazz likes Soundwave, always has. To be so skilled, and so loyal, and so intelligent while also being simultaneously the most interesting and dull person in the room. To be the perfect junkyard dog – listening to the beatbox by his new master’s pedes, then scurrying away to the end of the Universe to hunt down a squirrel. Jazz likes interfering with that chase, and occasionally he finds enjoyment in being the squirrel, though those situations are when he comes closest to death. Soundwave is much smarter than a dog, and impressively more skilled at data analysis and strategy. Ah, Jazz thinks, I miss getting caught in his vents. He still has the bite mark scars.

Tungsten and Pickaxe are bracketing the bridge, The former watching the points of entry, the latter watching the radar and communications channel. Jazz leaves them to it. Soundwave probably won’t break his word, at least not until he gets what he wants. What he wants it the thing that concerns Jazz the most. Still, Optimus must have some plan, and it must be one where everybody ends up alive, so Jazz lets it slide.

Like water from a duck’s back, life slides easily over Jazz. In his genuine, honest to Primus opinion, hitching a ride with Soundwave is a brilliant tactical decision. To start, it is the sort of bizarre choice that stuns one’s enemies, so unthinkable an action that it may send their pursuers into conniptions. The remains of the Decepticon armies are not constituents of the Galactic Council or the Black Box Consortia, have no alliance with either, have split all ties from Cybertron, and most importantly they are a true pain in the aft. When Soundwave exits the Inquila atmosphere he will be sending out the signals of a third party, one both the GC and BBC might expect to be intent on capturing Optimus Prime and Megatron. Jazz imagines a GC boardroom of panicked generals calling their lawyers – would taking this ship be declaring war on the Decepticons? The broken and beaten remains of Cybertron with which they have a tenuous relationship is one thing to handle, but the Decpticons? Even far past their prime, no one particularly wants to be at war with the notorious band of planet destroyers.

Jazz has always been a fan of true pain in the afts. He’s also particularly fond of this one, that sort of fondness which grows between neighbors who send passive aggressive notes about the others’ flowerbeds. You should really start your garlic now, if you haven’t the mulch you can borrow some of mine. No, that’s alright, I get the premium Kellogs flowerbed mulch delivered. Have your tulips decided to actually sprout this year, or are you still keeping them in the freezer? It’s been quite a while since the last freeze. Oh don’t worry about my tulips! I’ve only decided to try marigolds this year. Well, they are easier to maintain.

So Jazz had made a career out of spraying herbicide on Soundwave’s peonies, and in doing so forced Soundwave to spend quite a bit of his own time constructing large garden walls and chopping down Jazz’s fruit trees (the metaphor has devolved somewhat, but at this point in his internal monologue Jazz is mostly enjoying the fact that he can name all these different Earth plants. He knows plenty of fruits too, at least half of them, probably. Cherry for the band that played that funky music, and bananas.)

Anyway, he is fond of this fellow data gardener and so is not particularly worried about this trip ending in complete disaster. Jazz has never gotten the sense that Soundwave is interested in suicidal-homocidal endeavors. He has something else to gain in this trip, which Jazz expects will be a futile attempt at coercing Megatron back to the dark side. He hopes Megatron has the sense not to reject him completely until they’ve landed, but just in case he procures several nodules for hijacking computers from his subspace, and he’ll place them as soon as Optimus convinces Soundwave to leave the bridge.

“The Inquiek are aware of our departure,” Optimus is saying. “Jazz has done the math – with the speed of our pursuers we need to be on Waleria before-”

“Jazz – has a poor grasp of mathematical concepts,” Soundwave interrupts.

Jazz beams with the excitement of old feuds reignited. It is nice to be remembered, and to know not all of Soundwave’s valuable speech has been saved for Megatron. Being appreciated is always nice.

“Babe you shouldn’t flirt with me in front of my Junxie!” He replies coquettishly. Soundwave shows no evidence of having heard this remark, save the annoyed flick of a single digit. This is proof enough for Jazz, and as is the proper fighting way, he kicks when his opponent is mildly wounded.

He turns to Optimus and adds: “Now, here’s the Decepticon you should have brought home. Coulda got a 2 for 1 deal.”

“Your opinion has been noted, Jazz,” replies Optimus, but his brief glance askance and the crinkling of his crow’s feet shows his good humor. It is a nice change from the previous air of tense distress, and even Tungsten snorts his amusement when Soundwave crosses his arms in anger.

“All parties accounted for,” Soundwave says. “Waleria arrival time estimated. One passenger still boarding.”

That would obviously be Megatron. From what Jazz had seen before, and the sudden explosion and shrinking of Megatron’s particularly expansive field, he understands that at this moment Megatron is not feeling inclined to participate in this little convo. The set of Optimus’s face implies a frown beneath his battle mask, and his straightened general’s shoulders warn Jazz that Optimus’s methods of persuasion usually garner a pretty extreme reaction from Megatron and Decepicons alike. He’d offer to go down and fetch their wayward lover himself, except that he needs an empty bridge to start planting his devices.

There is no helping Optimus out of this one, he decides. Whatever Optimus had told Megatron before-hand, it was either lacking in detail or lacking in intensity, and now he gets to go deal with it. He tells Optimus as such over comm.

“I will go speak to him again,” Optimus says. “We need to depart quickly, to-” he pauses and tilts his helm in the way he does when receiving a peculiar message. After a moment, he straightens and continues. “He is on the ramp. Soundwave, would you please join me?”

Soundwave provides Jazz with a look so strongly disdainful that it pierces through two visors and into Jazz’s processor. The looks says: ‘Your ploys are obnoxiously obvious. I don’t need to leave you alone, but I will, because when I return I will crush every little bug you’ve planted, and I wish you miserable luck in breaking into the control system. You pain in my aft, it is good to see you again.’ Or at least that is how Jazz interprets it, and he smiles innocently to earn himself an even greater glare.

Optimus files out first, then Soundwave, who has secured his safety by having his absurdly fast reflexes at Optimus’s trusting back. The two guards filter out after, seemingly intent on watching the whole thing play-out. Or maybe they have decided that this is what they were hired for, which is a ridiculous conclusion in Jazz’s book. They are guards, not an audience for a musical. Or a play, or whatever they call acting without music. A boring, that’s what it should be called.

They leave the bridge entirely unattended, and Jazz makes great use of the time deploying his hijacking modules about in as concealed manner as possible.

When he has accomplished this he types at the control panel, attempts thrice to break the password, gives up when ‘123456789’, ‘Soundwave Superior’, and ‘AllGloryToTheDecepticonEmpire’, don’t work, and then meanders down to the ramp himself.

In what is becoming a frighteningly common sight, Optimus is standing at the bottom of the ramp looking like a sparkling who broke an antique vase. This stands in great contrast to the rest of his frame, which stands so straight-backed and armour puffed as to be on the cover of an Optimus Prime look-alike propaganda calendar. He is watching Megatron walk up the rest of the ramp, perhaps guarding the exit in case he decides a last minute attempt at his own mutiny. Jazz sees this by ducking and peering under Soundwave’s arm, which earns him a solid thwap upon the head. Megatron’s frown deepens.

“You are already assaulting my friends,” he says dryly. Soundwave doesn’t respond verbally, but he must express something, because Megatron sighs. “Let’s leave the atmosphere. Let’s leave the atmosphere and then we can get it done.”

The walk as a group back to the bridge, performing a headcount along the way. Or, Megatron performs the headcount as some sort of distraction technique, Soundwave confirms the count, Jazz tells them both he’s already counted twice, and Optimus hides in the rear. Jazz slips back when it becomes clear Megatron is going to drag out a recount.

“Soundwave already hit me,” Jazz teases Optimus. Optimus bravely brushes the lingering touch of Decepticon fist from the top of Jazz’s helm.

“Your sacrifice is noted and commended,” he says.

Jazz thinks about the whole Inquiek government doing their best to hunt them down at the moment, and how some poor swindled General of Aerial Forces might be getting a bit curious about where his under the table deal has landed, but he's not the type to hustle unless under orders. Soundwave doesn't seem concerned about peeking through doors and counting Autobots. 

After the third cargo bay has been re-reinspected, Megatron marches them onto the bridge. "Let's go," he says, waving towards the control screens. Then he makes towards a door to the side, which is an office so small two war-builds turn it into a clown car situation. Jazz is about to warn him about that when Soundwave says:

"Negative."

Megatron pauses and turns back around. "You'd prefer to stay on this organic planet until the Galactic Council swoops us up."

"Negative."

Megatron raises an eyebrow, then opens his mouth to respond (hostile, Jazz predicts), when Optimus interrupts.

"This is something of a unique situation," he begins. "A cross-faction alliance, commanding a singular ship." Jazz snorts. Calling upon Soundwave or the Decepticons is far from a novel proposition. Such team-ups have occurred so frequently that Prowl was known for having one specific hissy-fit speech whenever the topic was broached. Jazz just thinks that’s life. Sometimes you kill them, sometimes you kill with them. It doesn’t effect his job much.

"But Soundwave is in charge of this vessel," Optimus continues. "Have you a reason for delay, Soundwave?"

Soundwave stares at Optimus for a while, and then he says: "Discussion with Megatron, imminent."

"After we leave the atmosphere," Megatron interjects forcefully. "Not on this planet." Good, Jazz thinks proudly. And Megatron will draw that conversation all the way out to Waleria. Jazz doesn't conjunx idiot generals.

Soundwave considers this. "Agreed. Autobots, prepared?"

This is the moment, then. All of them, encased in Soundwave's domain. But this particular team-up is unique in one comforting way: when compared to previous iterations of a Decepticon-Autobot alliance, the circumstances today favor his own side to a substantial degree. The limited personnel (Soundwave and Soundwave alone) combined with the relatively newly collected ex-warlord, are advantageous enough to cancel out the foreign territory. And if it is a trap, he thinks, then they can whack Soundwave’s helm clean off. That would suck for may reasons, but primarily because he hasn’t seen his rival in what feels like a bazillion years, and reuniting for murder would be particularly depressing.

He compiles his analysis of their situation and sends it to Optimus over comm. ::No hidden recorders. I slit open every damn box I could find. No detectable explosives either. Vents clear. Four improvised control-modules placed under the bridge controls in case we hafta mutiny. Three of those are redundant, but we should keep an optic on Soudners, make sure he doesn’t catch all four. Everything Is right on rolling, bossman.::

:Thank you, Jazz:: Optimus replies, then, out loud. “We are prepared for take-off.”

Chapter Text

The whole ship relaxes when they leave atmosphere. Literally, Jazz thinks, the ship itself relaxes. It settles like he might rock back upon his tires at a stop sign, or might melt into the berth after a long day. He taps suspiciously at a console, but there is no evidence that the ship is itself alive. He can't imagine any 'former willing to let itself be strung with porno-ads and filled with dinosaur plushies, anyway. He is forced to conclude that the ship-metal is only reflecting the feelings of its inhabitants.

Despite being carried away by the new Lord of the Decepticons himself, his Autobot companions are all chillaxed. Highpass and Alloy are a little drunk (but not on duty, they tell him), and Killjoy is drinking a large cube of some infusion (the infusion might be engex-based, but Jazz doesn't check). Even the guards are giving Optimus his personal space, which either means they believe Soundwave isn't a threat, or that they think something outside the window is a much larger one. As for himself, Jazz has no worries in the world, except for all the normal ones. He has found himself a chair on the bridge, has his pedes thrown up on the dash (after checking Swindle's ship was not secretly alive), and is nonchalantly scrolling through Swindle's files. He is learning a lot of things about interplanetary smuggling rings. There are smuggling rings for stuffed dolls. Why anyone would feel the need to smuggle a doll, rather than visit their local shopping mall, Jazz is dumbfounded.

All is at peace. He taps his fingers against the glass screen. He twitches his pedes to and fro. He rolls his tires and stretches his neck. He glances around as if to ask 'hello, is anyone else interested in anything at all?'

It's just that the dolls aren't even that particularly interesting. They're like, standard. They have little bodies and little heads and they are shaped like different species of people. Some of them are brown, some of them are red, some have 2 arms and some have 6. Some of them have hair, some of them have scales. Some of them are shaped like dinobots, and some are shaped like little fuzzy balls. You can get them anywhere. 

But anyway, the ship is at peace. There are no suspicious noises emanating from the cargo bays. He and Optimus and Soundwave and Pickaxe are just hanging on out the bridge. And his digits are tap-tap-tapping on the armrest. 

"Jazz," says Optimus. "Can your digits stop, or are you the victim of a servo malfunction?"

"You can buy these dolls anywhere," Jazz feels compelled to tell him. "Why would you need to smuggle—look, they are 4 cred 50."

Optimus makes a half-sparked attempt to lean left and view the screen, which Jazz obligingly tilts his way. Optimus has to crane his neck to see it, and the view must be poor, but he nods regardless. 

"I don't know anything about doll smuggling," he says. "I do not believe cracking down on it is high on the Autobot priorities list."

Jazz cackles. "No!" He cries, somewhat manically. "But hitching a ride on Bus-Decepticon is!" Soundwave looks over, boredom clear through his visor. Optimus pats Jazz solemnly on the shoulder, still stretched across the aisle, then retreats. The touch does wonders for Jazz. He realizes, in his first brush with a true epiphany, that his body is stuck someplace between activity and disuse. In a normal mission, this would be the time to prepare or to hibernate. Once he spent two months hidden in a storage crate playing solitaire puzzle games, and not once did he feel as he does now. He obviously can't decompress with Soundwave right there, but neither can he take down an interplanetary doll-smuggling ring. 

The clank of his helm hitting the back of his chair echoes through the bridge. He stares at the ceiling, and Soundwave stares at him. He sighs. The ship continues on its way in perfect tranquility.

"They're regular dolls," he mutters. "Just regular — can you hide drugs inside a doll? They are small...not a lot of drugs."

Soundwave doesn't so much as twitch, but Jazz feels his curiosity regardless. Or he feels his own curiosity reflected off of Soundwave's perfect shiny visor. He sighs again then, with a concerted effort, throws his legs from their place propped atop the control desk and stands. His cables feel bunched and twisted like rope. He stretches his left arm across his chest, then his right, diverting himself with the ache of it.

"I'm gonna go look for drug dolls," he says and, despite having already searched the ship twice over, he means it. It is either that or be driven slowly insane by his own pede-twitching. 

"Good luck," says Optimus, but he doesn't really mean it because his attention is now entirely concentrated on Soundwave's movement calculations for the Inquiek and Council forces.

"Save me a doll," says Pickaxe. He also doesn't mean it. His attention is entirely concentrated on Optimus Prime, because Optimus Prime is not watching Soundwave. Jazz skedaddles without a reply.

The ship is shaped like a large beetle, and the singular hallway which connects the three cargo bays is short and curved like an upside-down cup with the bridge at its base. Jazz runs into Megatron by the organic cargo bay, which is when his poor processor comes to the conclusion that Megatron was who he had been seeking all along. He'd escaped the bridge just after take-off. Now he stands hunched by the organic bay door, peering through the little glass window and pressing the button next to the intercom.

"-don't know," he is saying. "But it seems unlikely to me." He has to stoop to see through the little window, which fogs up with each twitch of Shobu's snout. 

"Really?" She asks. The speaker garbles her voice until it is nearly unintelligible.

"The Secretary knows of your innocence," Megatron replies comfortingly. "I'm sure she is already clearing your name. It is only that it is easier and safer with you out of the way. But they won't be looking for you. They have bigger fish - er - saebuk to fry."

Jazz slides up behind him and snorts. "Ha, fish," he says, then grins wider when Megatron startles. "Human reference. You owe me a quarter."

Megatron, who had turned about in shock at Jazz's appearance, now does not even have the decency to look ashamed for his use of organic idiom. "One moment," he replies instead, then turns about and returns his finger to the speaker button. "It won't be a long flight," he tells her. "Why don't you take advantage of the time and get some sleep? I will be contacting the Secretary shortly, and I will ask about your return."

"There are no beds!" is the distorted reply.

"Then cuddle with the boy on the floor," Megatron tells her. He releases the speaker before her scandalized reply, then straightens, rolls his shoulders back, and smiles at Jazz. "Your intelligence contact is ensorcelled by my wide-eyed housekeeper," he says.

"You're collecting organics," Jazz teases. "I personally always leave my lower lifeforms at home when I travel, but it is sweet that you think they are worth the hassle."

"Hush," is Megatron's fond reprimand. "I am not saying that organics are as worthwhile of our protection as fellow Cybertronians. Our first loyalties are too our own clans. I am merely stating that we are in the midst of a budding organic romance, and we can appreciate the entertainment of it."

Jazz snorts. "They are locked in a room, relying on Alloy's Mcgyvering skills to breathe. I think they have other things on their minds." They have begun to meander down the corridor towards the junction of the second cargo bay and the bridge. Megatron's field is calm but his steps are slow, and Jazz does not want to let the moment pass without showing Megatron his appreciation. So he adds, in full sincerity: "It was good of you, to come speak with them."

Megatron looks at him, and does not reply for a while. Then he says "Who on this ship do you believe is the most loyal to me?"

The ship is small, and they are approaching the bridge. Jazz stops. The conversation has turned into one best left far from Decepticon audials. He's run a scan for bugs already, but he runs another now.

"I suppose Optimus is," he says, when that comes back clean. "If you mean—if you mean—what do you mean?"

"I mean," Megatron stresses, "that I have few true allies aboard this ship. In fact, I believe all I have is an organic housekeeper."

"And me," Jazz replies. "And Optimus." He does not bother to insist that the crew would not betray him - they are loyal, but they are loyal Autobots. Jazz might say the same for himself, but he is beginning to understand that the sands beneath his own pedes had begun to shift the night Optimus came home with a stray. It's a thought he chooses to ignore.

Megatron shakes his helm. "Optimus does what he thinks is best," he says, "And you...you are more loyal to him than yourself." Seeing Jazz's frown, he adds: "I do not mean that poorly, Jazz, none of it. I mean only that there is a single person on this ship who trusts me most, and unfortunately it is a young organic. I'd be a fool to toss her aside."

"So you have a responsibility." Jazz takes a cautious, slow step forward. He wishes the ship were larger, that they had just a little more space. He thinks then that Optimus would never understand Megatron, not the way that Jazz does in this moment. His spark is as close to Megatron's now as it ever has been, more even than that evening when they'd gone and let their chests open. "Well," he say, "It was kind of you to lie like that, nonetheless. And I appreciate you taking my informant along with you."

"I wasn't lying," Megatron lies. Then he pauses and corrects himself. "The Secretary has made a promise. Shobu will find her way back someday."

"The Inquiek only live around 50 of their years," Jazz tells him. Megatron grimaces.

"Perhaps not then."

They walk along in silence then, agreeing among themselves to pass by the bridge door and continue along the passage until they hit the second end and are forced to turn around once more. It's a quiet communion, them gnawing on their own wafers, both as thick and hard as bones. He couldn't say what Megatron might be thinking, but his own processor troubles him. Jazz has never considered loyalty to oneself to be anything more than self-confidence, and he has never worried for his own lack of it. He knew what he wanted and he knew he could do it. But he imagines his loyalty to Optimus to occupy one side of a weight scale, one of those human justice scales on which they place their heart to be judged. And he places this knew idea of loyalty to himself on the other, and it feels nothing but right when Optimus's side dips to the ground. That isn't want troubles him. It is the sentence before, because Megatron had placed a subtle but distinctive lean on 'thinks'.

"Optimus does what he thinks is best

Jazz could not say that he has never doubted Optimus. Only that every time he has he's been proven wrong himself, and it never takes long for Optimus's way of things to reveal itself to be wise and moral and right, even when it is naive and dangerous and wrong. Optimus Prime's failures were proof that moral struggles led to fallible mechs, but never that the moral struggle was incorrect. Optimus was the sort of mech who believed that to lose was to win, if it was done with righteous intent. And so, so was Jazz.

But he'd doubted before. He'd doubted when he'd found Megatron himself outside his door. And how had that turned out?

"Optimus has always felt protecting you was the right thing to do," Jazz tells Megatron. "Even when I didn't."

Megatron hums. "But you went along with it?"

"And he was right," says Jazz. "Wasn't he?"

Megatron only hums again. They walk past the bridge a second time.

"Perhaps he wasn't," Megatron says. "Or he won't be. He's a mech. I believe that an all-encompassing dedication to one's principles—if those principles find their roots in compassion, I've been made rather recently to understand—is the key to righteousness-"

"-and," Jazz interjects, "while maybe not always right, better than the alternative."

"Better," Megatron agrees. "But not always right. And dangerous. Because I was always certain of my own principles, just as you are in yours."

"I think you said I don't have my own principles," Jazz retorts. "I borrow mine."

Megatron snorts. "I mean," he says, "that it is dangerous to trust that righteousness comes from a dedication to one's principles, because one's principles can led one astray. And that, if Optimus believes that saving me is an extension of his virtues of compassion and freedom, then he is both mistaken and astray."

By now they have turned about and begun the entire hallway trek once more. When they pass the bridge Megatron's voice dips, and Jazz's as well. The door ought to be soundproof, but there is something confessional in this speak that must be treated with deference. Like whispering to the kid next to you in the back of the classroom about the injustice of a recent assignment.

"I think he did the right thing," Jazz decides. "Maybe the selfish thing, but the kind thing. That's the whole point of it."

Megatron stops then, and glances back to the bridge door. "And what if it had not been kind?" he asks. "What if I asked him to leave me there?"

Jazz is a master of bullshit. "Did you?" he replies.

Megatron half-smiles, pitiful like. "No," he admits. "I should go speak with Soundwave."

And here Jazz had thought he'd bonded a tactician! "Now?" he asks, with the sort of tone that ought to gently instruct one's supervisors to avoid their current direction.

Megatron huffs. "He is not going to betray us, Jazz," he says. "I am his principles."

"You were."

"That is true." Megatron ponders this for a moment, then adds: "Then he has his own now. Well, you think that is better, don't you?"

"I admire your optimism," says Jazz. "Love that it's only directed at Decepticons. And an organic teenager."

Megatron laughs and pats Jazz heavily on the shoulder. "Come babysit Optimus for me?" he asks. Jazz nods, and they backtrack to the bridge.

The bridge is as boring as he had left it. Megatron's return does little to excite anyone, at least not that Soundwave would ever reveal. Optimus tenses up, so Jazz parks himself by his side and purposefully relaxes, just to show his own confidence in Megatron's Soundwave-soothing abilities. Optimus watches Megatron approach his ex-spymaster with unchecked distrust. A lot more than Megatron displays, which is none at all.

They murmur together, those Decepticons, and then Soundwave directs them to the little office off to the side. The door shuts behind them with a loud click, mimicked closely by the sound of Optimus's jaw. Well, Jazz isn't an idiot. He waves Pickaxe and Tungsten out of the room, and when they — surprisingly — comply he turns and says:

"What did you do?"

It had never occurred to Jazz before that their little trio might ever exist in pure peace, or domestic bliss, or anything of the sort. Megatron had never been shy about entreating his own death—in a startling reenactment of Optimus's usual sacrificial tendencies which made their bizarre union more understandable to Jazz —and that would always anger Optimus, and they'd bicker about it and Jazz would go on doing his job. He supposes this is the next iteration of they same pattern, and if it were normal he would be perfectly content to let them bicker and edge around one another like they had bombs strapped to their chests. But his spark won't have it this time. This time, he thinks, he might have a real emotion about it.

Optimus looks around as if to say 'what have I not done?' "I called Soundwave," he tells him. "Megatron is not pleased about it. What more is there to say?"

Jazz wags a finger. He thinks this might be an appropriate finger-wagging time. "Don't pretend. I know him, if you asked him to throw himself off a bridge to prove himself worthy he would. So if he agreed to talk to Sounders he'd do it, and he'd do it eagerly. Where's the catch?"

Optimus sighs and looks longingly towards the office door. "Maybe he is just reading my nerves. I do not enjoy having Soundwave here. There is too much...history."

That is a lie if Jazz has ever heard one. "Reading your nerves?" Jazz repeats slowly, so Optimus knows just how stupid he sounds. "Megatron didn't even greet our savior in there. Turned rudely about—when have you known Megatron to be rude to someone we need? Mech has been a maniac but never impolite, as long as you don't count murder. So-" And Jazz has had a theory, but now it seems undeniably proven. "You didn't tell him? He found out when the ship landed?"

Optimus looks askance, then pulls his shoulders back so as to increase his height by the amount of one digit-tip. “I needed to get him on board,” he says. “Would you have told him?”

Jazz thinks it doesn’t matter much at all. Optimus hadn’t asked what Jazz thought before, and he won’t get the answer now. Jazz isn’t an expert in this sort of thing, anyway. He wouldn’t have thought of calling Soundwave at all. He is only a tactical genius when there is a guy with a gun between him and a target.

“You know, he might have said yes,” Jazz replies slowly.

Optimus does not blink, only stares at him for some time, and then finally delivers the conversation's end. “He would have, or we would have knocked him unconscious and dragged him aboard. How are the Inquiek settling in?”

Jazz has more to say, more to say about kindness and righteousness, but he has the tact not to let decibels increase when on enemy territory. "Fine," he says. Megatron's closest ally indeed. "Doing just fine."

Optimus edges around their new kitchen table like it might explode if glanced at or commented upon. It is, in Jazz's estimation, hilarious. Were Jazz in a poorer mood, the indecision might annoy him. But Megatron is clearly holding back a smile and the night is young, so instead the game of musical chairs occurring in their kitchen is adorable. And, he decides, there is something to be learned from however long Megatron allows Optimus to suffer.

It isn't long at all, to Jazz's further delight. Megatron takes pity after a few minutes and graciously explains that yes, in fact, the table is new Optimus. You hadn't simply been oblivious to your own furniture. He had brought it home himself.

"I purchased it this morning," he tells Optimus, breaking the silence. "So we no longer have to eat standing up."

"We sit on the rug," says Optimus, somewhere between dumbfounded and petulant. "Jazz's shag rug."

"And now that rug is a little bit disgusting." Megatron turns his attention to Jazz. "I mean no offense by that."

"I dunno how to wash it," Jazz admits, affecting a cheerful tone. He always utilizes this tone for admissions and the like, as it does wonders to cure judgment from others. And, he has been told, it makes him seem a lot cooler.

Megatron's eyebrows pinch together, but he doesn't comment. Optimus pokes one of the new chairs with his pinky, as if it might disappear into thin air. Jazz, who had been the only one sitting, and having his pede so conveniently close (propped atop the table) kicks out so as to strike Optimus's servo.

"You can only touch the chair when your vibes are good," he tells Optimus. "Get your vibes in order."

"My vibes are fine," Optimus says. With that he pulls out the chair (it cries as it is dragged) and sits himself down to finish his dinner. Megatron watches this, his full energon cube in hand, and then follows him. All three chairs now occupied, the table remains silent.

"So, how was work?" Jazz eventually asks, sensing the table's vibes about to be ruined for all eternity.

"Fine," replies Optimus.

"Great," says Jazz. "Fantastic. Megatron has had an adventure today, one including my entire snack cabinet and a crazy trash architect."

"Not an adventure," Megatron grumbles, but he describes the events of the day anyway.

Later, Optimus tugs Jazz by the waist until they are curled together, his thick arm over Jazz's waist, and whispers "Don't you think that was a little foolish?" Jazz presses his back into Optimus's chest and pushes his arm lower. Optimus resists his movement just long enough to prove that he can, then acquiesces to the manhandling. 

"He's been surprisingly tolerant of ya, you know? Went out the back, the only person he's talked to is an absolutely bat-wild old truck. He seems like he's sticking around, and being pretty polite about it too."

Optimus tightens his hold around him, and sighs in his audial. "He can't leave the planet, not without protection. He has a target painted on his back. I'm not even sure he should be leaving this room."

"Well, you could try chaining him down, but I'd be disappointed if he didn't fight back." Jazz pauses for a moment and ponders this sentiment. He is a mech who speaks before thinking, unless a gun has been drawn, but he is not a mech who does not think about what he is speaking. He supposes it is the Autobot way to find affection in all places. But it is not the Autobot way to find delight in Decepticons smashing their handcuffs and running off to cause trouble. Megatron has always had a tom-cat charm to him, though, and Jazz can't say that he never enjoyed watching the mech escape from traps with beautiful displays of taunting, brute force, and trickery.

The Knights loophole was a real thing of beauty, frankly ridiculous as it was. Jazz had had a wonderful time listening to Optimus's distressed and optimistic retelling. Optimus has always had a way of recounting Megatron's more exotic feats, a way which always happened to include the exact width of his shoulders and an exact ranking of the craziness of his smirk (when compared to other notable smirks).

"Anyway," Jazz continues, "One day he's going to have to saunter on down to the mall, Autobot badge on his shoulder, and make himself known around town. It won't be any safer then than it is now."

"No," replies Optimus, his voice faint in thought. "No, you are correct."

"I always am."

"We need a way to defend him when we are not immediately present. We need to keep him close when he is far. We need to know if he plans on doing something foolish."

"Oh boy," Jazz mutters into the pillow. Optimus has the inkling of a plan.

"Do you think he would agree to a spark bond?" Optimus asks.

"I think you are out of your mind." Jazz twists around in Optimus's hold, reaches up wags a finger by Optimus's optic. He punctuates each word by tapping Optimus's helm. "You are out of your damn mind. Only you would twist up your wanting into a protection plot. Out of your mind."

"He would," murmurs Optimus. "It would protect him. He would agree."

"Not if you said it was to protect him," says Jazz. "That's the damn problem."

Chapter Text

Their plan requires speed and precision. Each moving part must meet and spin in the same direction at the same time - it is like launching a nuclear weapon into orbit. It takes a delicate touch and 15 million Newtons of brute force. They gather in the bridge to plan it out. Soundwave listens from his place in the Captain's chair, and Optimus finds he does not mind. The mech will know what he will know, and do what he will do, and Optimus will handle him accordingly.

Wasn't that sweet? To live in a time when the Decepticon in the room was the least of his worries?

He had thought, uncharitably, that Soundwave would emerge from his discussion with Megatron and lash out with wounded anger. But instead he wore his signature calm. Optimus had thought that if anything in this universe were to rile Soundwave to disaster it would be Megatron, but then again Optimus had always envisioned himself with a similar calm, one which Megatron stripped from him regularly.

"The Alimenta will arrive within hours of our landing," Jazz tells them. "But we gotta get there first, or else we are in major trouble."

"We still have the chicken and egg problem," says Snowbank. He has never been to Earth, and the metaphor comes strangely from his mouth. "We have a plan to clear our arrival, but they want proof of purchase. They aren't keen on harboring us without that planet protector. I can't blame them for that, but if we aren't dropping the Alimenta until after we arrive - and that sounds like the smartest plan to me - then we have a conundrum."

Optimus studies the map of Waleria on his panel. "Can we land in an isolated area and wait?" He asks. "If we could be there to protect the Alimenta during landing and set-up, we do not necessarily require an immediately friendly government."

"We'd be spotted," Megatron says, at the same time Jazz replies:

"Cross our digits and pray to Primus, maybe."

"It is inadvisable," says Snowbank. "I don't feel the need to be dodging missiles on the way down. I think we should call their bluff."

Jazz snickers. "Yeah, calling bluffs never gets ya shot at."

Snowbank crosses his arms and grumbles for a moment. Speak up, Optimus would order, but Snowbank requires a second of pure universal irritation to function on a good day, and today is far from one of those. Eventually, he emerges from his personal misery cloud to clarify his position. "If we are going to get shot at, we might as well take everybody down with us. I'll tell our sources that we are dropping down, and they can either initiate their operation or we'll have the Alimenta fly on by. Sure, we get lambasted by the Inquiek-Walerian missile defense system, but they don't get their planet-protector. You know how far from my job description this slag is, right?"

"Yes, Snowbank, I know," Optimus replies obligingly. "We are thankful for your effort."

"Yes we are," agrees Jazz, "Because I do enjoy dying in bizarre prisoner dilemma situations." Optimus flashes his field in disapproval of Jazz's shit-eating grin, but Snowbank seems to cheer up at the taunt. He pushes himself from the wall, at least, and crosses his arms even harder to gleefully embellish his general disapproval of the Universe. 

It is then that Megatron finally speaks. "Snowbank," he says, "This is out of your wheelhouse-"

"Wheelhouse," Jazz whispers. Megatron shoots him a quick glare.

"But we have a communications officer," he finishes. "Does this not seem like a communication problem?"

"You want me to ruin Fiber's day too?" Snowbank asks. He lets that hang for the briefest of moments, then smiles with a glee that rivals Jazz. "Sure! I'll drag her in. I'm sure she'll get a real kick out of this."

Snowbank leaves them to their own devices, a whole minute and a half for the four of them to stand about in the cramped bridge and watch the stars slowly change out the window. Optimus sighs behind his mask.

"Hey Sounders," starts Jazz, not even a klik into this stifling silence. "You think you could take this baby through a missile show and come out the other side fine and dandy?" The look with which Soundwave responds indicates that the answer is a confident no. Optimus must admit that, in the conception of this particular plan, he had not considered the maneuverability of Swindle's ship so much as the speed and its non-Decepticon identification badge.

"We could fly past," suggests Megatron, but his spark isn't in it. "Skip Waleria, rendezvous with my ride past the system, reroute the Alimenta home."

"And who might your ride be?" Optimus asks. There is a treacherous part of himself which relishes in the deception of Megatron's own plan. He must admit some guilt, buried deep down, for the discomfort Megatron must have felt during his lengthy discussion with Soundwave before. He has some idea of what Soundwave would have asked, and of all mechs Optimus knows best how tauntingly fragile matters of the spark can be. But Optimus had needed him to comply, to board this ship just as he had Optimus's hopper and the Ambassadorial ship, to come with him where it is safe.

Megatron huffs, as if he had heard the taunting curl of Optimus's glossa under the simple question. He does not answer, either, just paces behind Soundwave' chair. Optimus stares over Soundwave's shoulder and feels a sudden, short boiling anger.

Snowbank returns with Fiber then. "I know everything," she says. "And I've got it handled. I'm going to implore them for the safe passage of a Cybertronian trading cruiser coming from the other direction. As far as they are aware, we are all still on Inquila, our ship blown to bits. We are selling...dolls, or something," she says. "That's what we have in the storage room, anyway."

"Dolls!" Jazz cries, pumping his fist in the air. "God slag'em, we are are doll smugglers."

"Well, we are going to tell them we are doll merchants," corrects Fiber. "Not smugglers. At least," she pauses and looks to Optimus, perhaps sensing that barging onto the bridge with an order is poor practice. "If you believe that would be best."

Optimus has never required false modesty from those under his command. "Do I believe it is better to declare ourselves merchants than smugglers?" he asks, humorously. He enjoys the smile Fiber returns him.

"Yes," she says. "Well, we are going out yonder — someone pick a planet that likes dolls — and we had some part broke down — I chose the atmospheric generator for the cargo holds, our poor dolls are experiencing drastically alternating states of humidity and temperature — and we heard there was a brand new Cybertronian embassy out here. Snowbank tells me the rebels are concerned about making the first move in our little dalliance. Well, we are just struggling doll merchants to the Inquiek-aligned government, but the danger our presence places upon us should be proof enough of our conviction to the rebels. So once we place ourselves in the hornet nest, the Walerian freedom forces will strike, and if we are lucky we thread that needle and all come out alive."

"And you can convince the Inquiek-aligned Walerians to accept a wounded Cybertronian vessel?" Optimus asks. "And Snowbank, you can convince the Walerian freedom forces to strike immediately after our arrival?"

"I already did," says Fiber, and with that she plucks a datapad from her subspace and proffers it to Jazz — or rather, in a first aborted movement to Optimus, and then to Jazz, who had begun to make enthusiastic grabby hands. "We're landing in a few hours," she adds. "And Snowbank mutters to himself as he works."

Further review of the new plan by Jazz and a reluctant Megatron (who is developing a concerning habit of standing beside Soundwave's chair), reveals that they haven't got any better ideas, not unless they want to abandon Waleria altogether. Megatron's original suggestion had been made mostly in a spirit of sarcastic defeatism, and when Snowbank casually brings the possibility up (finding a potential death on Waleria less satisfactory that a probable escape), Megatron shuts it down.

"We have two Inquiek on board," Megatron tells him. "And we've promised to help free Waleria from a colonial state. And most importantly, your job description prioritizes establishing an energon trade network. There is energon on Waleria. We have made ourselves a ridiculous plan, I don't see why we would abandon it on only the fourth sign of trouble. They'll fire you for sure."

"And," Jazz sends Optimus over encrypted comm, "There is that green and yellow energon to worry about. We've risked our lives for stupider things." Optimus can't argue with that claim. So thread the needle they shall.

Soundwave guides them down to the planet with his usual confidant ease. Megatron stands by his side. When the ship enters the Walerian atmosphere and jolts as any ship might, Megatron steadies himself with one servo on the back of Soundwave's chair.

Swindle's flying Times Square billboard of a ship settles down into a sand pad outside the city. Their 'damaged cargo bay atmospheric generator' had concerned the Walerians, perhaps worried that an injured atmospheric generator might indicate deeper problems with the ship's hardware. In case the ship happened to blow up, catch fire, spin out of control, or otherwise make itself a nuisance, they had been routed to a thick-sanded area of the desert far outside the main city. But Swindle's ship of dastardly delights, being entirely unbroken (save for whatever Alloy had done to the environmental controls), lands safely and securely on the sand pad, perfectly in-line with the spray-painted landing signals. It promptly sinks so deep that the underside door and ramp can't extend. The entire ship settles with a loud and disturbing groan. The bridge sits in a stunned silence for exactly two seconds.

"Fiber!" Optimus shouts.

Fiber informs the Walerians that Cybertronian ships generally disembark from their bottoms, and that the reduced crew on this card-carrying merchant vessel will need to squeeze through the emergency exit at the top, and if they would please give the crew a moment to assess the functioning of the now half-buried vessel that would be very much appreciated. Also, she adds, they are willing to sell some plush dolls, it anyone might be interested.

"It would be best if we removed ourselves from the bridge," Megatron murmurs. "In case they request a digital conference, or inspect the vessel."

So they retreat to the first cargo bay, where Killjoy is standing on the tips of his pedes and peering through the highest pane of window glass. The bottom half of the high window reveals only yellow, brown, and grey sand.

"How many of them are our friends?" Killjoy asks, when Optimus joins him at the window. Optimus does not dare potentially revealing his own face, and he gestures for Killjoy to retreat as well.

"I do not know," he replies. "Many will be accepting of the Inquiek regime, some will be revolutionary sympathizers."

"Goody. I love landing on planets with revolutionary fervor. It never ends poorly," says Killjoy. Optimus is inclined to agree.

Snowbank enters with Grinder at his heels - an irate Grinder, who is expressing his irritation through field alone. "I don't know what is happening, but it's always another disaster," mutters Grinder.

"He's grumpy because entering the atmosphere woke him up," Killjoy explains.

"No!" Grinder points an accusatory finger. "No, I'm grumpy because we are cockpit deep in sand. What was the plan?"

Jazz laughs. "We told them our ship is slightly broken. They rerouted us to the desert. Wasn't hat sweet of them?"

"Our ship is broken?" cries Killjoy.

"No!"

"No," agrees Fiber. "Not yet. But they did just ask to see our atmospheric generator. They want to begin replacing it. So Killjoy, I need you and Alloy to go find the thing, extract it, and break it in a non-suspicious manner. Can you two do that?"

"Indubitably," replies Killjoy. "Where's Alloy?"

Snowbank waves out the door he'd just entered through. "Other bay. Alrighty, everyone else stay put. We are gonna lock you in until we get word the revolutionary guard has got their slag together. In you go." With that he shoves Grinder further into the room, which earns him a sneer.

"What revolutionary - Primus sakes," Grinder hisses. Snowbank shuffles out of the door, followed by a waving Fiber and a saluting Killjoy. A moment later Fiber returns with Tungsten and Highpass.

"It's supposed to be a small crew," she explains apologetically. "And Highpass is a conscientious objector to sand."

"I am not," retorts Highpass. "I am a conscientious objector to sand planets. I don't think they should exist."

Fiber leaves them all in there, and a moment later Killjoy reappears and throws a thumbs up through the door window, which he promptly covers up with caution tape. Cargo bay number one is blessedly silent for one fraction of a moment. Then Grinder sighs.

"Well, Optimus Prime sir, have any timesheets that need to be filed?"

For several hours Optimus has nothing to do, and he suspects they are the most productive hours of his life. Most of his life is decidedly unproductive, destructive, or otherwise misery inducing, so a few minutes to think are always appreciated. In this case, they give him time to consider that he has very stupidly parked his family in a big sand trap, invited the only Decepticon worth a processor ache back into Megatron's life, and now must attempt to create a steady energon mining and trading system on a backwater desert planet still under foreign colonial control.

"I wish they'd left us in the doll room," Jazz mutters. There is little to look out in their current bay.

"This is starting to feel normal again," Megatron says, a few minutes later. "A real Rodimus scenario. Isn't that odd?" Jazz snorts. Optimus frowns.

He wonders about the Lost Light, probably still parked on Cybertron. Or not. Rodimus couldn't stand Cybertron. Maybe it has departed once more. He hopes it is far, far away from here. He can't imagine how adding the Lost Light to this situation could possibly improve matters, except by getting it chased around like a mouse by the Galactic Council's cat-like war ships.

After a while Optimus hears shouting from above them. The bay, having been so quiet previously, rings with the quick shots of phaser fire. And then it is silent. The fields in the cargo bay are as tense as the jaws.

::They've started:: Snowbank comms him. ::Stay put::

Optimus shares a look with Jazz. He slides his visor back into place. A skewed visor is a sign of peace. Soundwave exhibits no visible change in demeanor, even as his piercing visor-hidden stare reveals a full understanding of the events playing out on the planet above and around them.

Megatron breaks the still reverie of the moment. He stands abruptly and walks to the corner, where he crosses his arms and glowers at the wall. Jazz watches this, then looks at Optimus and shrugs, quietly and minutely.

Optimus is not immune to the discomfort of inaction, but he does not think that is what Megatron - the new-built pacifist - is experiencing. Neither is he entirely comfortable with sparking political coups on foreign planets. But he feels no disquiet in removing the Inquiek from power here; they will not be allowed access to green energon, not when they are tied so closely to both galactic powers. And his people need energon. And Megatron needs protection. So he has no qualms with this. Good for the Walerians, he thinks, for freeing themselves. All he has done is promise the arrival of a planetary protector.

Megatron begins to pace. He is still pacing some time later, when Snowbank fetches them from their cargo bay.

"You know," he says, in lieu of a greeting, "That was surprisingly easy. I get how you guys did that so often during the war."

Megatron stops his pacing and looks at Snowbank like he's grown a second head. Optimus only sighs. He marks that step off his plan and moves on to the next.

Killjoy and Grinder assist in lifting (and dragging) the rest of the crew out of the ship, while Fiber and Snowbank introduce Optimus to a local Walerian-resistance leader. Tilak, of Inquiek decent, excitedly profuses his gratitude. Then he hands him a chip.

"Fiber expressed surprise at the use of the Walerian native languages," he explains. "There are several. Everyone here speaks one or more of the languages of Inquila, but we hope to return the languages of Waleria to power, and have been digitizing them for that use. You will have more amiable discussions with Walerian resistance members if you speak the language. "

Optimus nods and bows his own thanks, and glances about at the Walerians surrounding them. The physiological differences are astounding, or would be, had he not been so tired. He passes the chip to Jazz to run a thorough security check on.

"I will lead you until you have all downloaded the native languages," Tilak says. "We will take you to a bunker until your ship lands." And then off they march.

It does not occur to Optimus until they are well on their way to a Walerian-resistance controlled bunker, that their plan of 'crashlanding' Swindle's ship and subsequent sinking means that they are now stuck with a Decepticon add-on. When he had first begun conversing with Soundwave about mildly treasonous affairs, he will admit to feeling some camaraderie for the mech, and pity besides. To have loved and lost Megatron is an experience Optimus can relate to. And besides, Soundwave is a reasonable, efficient, powerful and reserved mech. Optimus could admire him. Optimus could admire him plenty as a far-off, pitiful, would be rescuer.

He admires him far less now, with his conjunx hovering so near. Optimus yearns to flick his audials forward to just the right frequency so that he might overhear the silent communication between the two of them. He does not think Megatron's Autobot badge could peel off so easily - he reminds himself of this often - but it he finds it disquieting nonetheless, and he worries the inside of his lower lip equally often.

"The cargo bay atmospheric generator is not a critical component of the ship," Optimus says as they are led from the ship. "We could dig you free. It would be safest for you if you left now."

But Soundwave won't leave until the generator is repaired. It is his excuse to stay close, and the good will Optimus once had for him turns sour. He glances to Jazz and sees that he, too, is looking at Soundwave with a professional gaze. In his line of work, that means a suspicious one.

"I'm gonna scout out the area ahead," Jazz says. "I'm not walking out of one trap and into another. Slow them down, won't you? I don't see why we are in such a rush to be getting someplace we don't know."

Optimus fiddles with the controls on the interspace communicator. He's confined himself to a small room in the back for a brief and necessary moment of solitude. He wants, for just one moment, to be alone. The universe is moving too quickly. Megatron and Soundwave, the look in Jazz's eye, a coup unfolding above them, Swindle's ship aft deep in sand, green energon growing beneath his feet, a starving Cybertron, two intergalactic superpowers gunning for his conjunx, and a planet-defender an hour away from landing. He needs a moment to slow it down.

So he fiddles with the controls on the interspace communicator. He has exactly two minutes and 13 seconds before the bridge opens. Two minutes and eleven seconds of peace. Eight, six.

The resistance has funneled them into a large underground bunker, which has naturally set Jazz on edge. Jazz's anxiety only fueled Optimus's own, and he has retreated here. The interspace communicator is an excellent excuse for anti-social behavior.

He reminds himself that he has led his people here - his plan has worked. They are in the process of the quickest planetary takeover in Autobot history. Hurrah.

One minute five seconds. He'll need to remove himself, and Megatron. The BBC and GC have followed them, and by Soundwave's math will be arriving shortly after the Alimenta's arrival. For Cybertronian trading ships - for any trading ships - to enter and leave Waleria's atmosphere, there must be no intergalactic blockade. So first, Optimus must get the planet defender functioning. Then, he must turn it off so that he can escape Walerian orbit. And he must do it all without being captured. Or worse, getting Megatron captured. 

The communicator chimes. Optimus sighs, brushes himself down, and adjusts the camera so that it is not obvious that he is sitting upon the dirt floor as he speaks to the leader of Cybertron. 

"Status update?" Starscream requests. He is wearing a signature frown, complimented by lowered wings. "I have just received some strongly worded messages from the Inquiek leadership. Did you abscond to that planet, Antiak?"

"We have arrived safely on Waleria," Optimus replies. "That is the native name for the planet."

"Great. Just great. I assume we are backing the…Walerians for system power? Hard to have two superpowers around the same sun. And here we are promoting the littler ones. That is certainly…Autobot, of us."

"You are a leader of Autobots now," Optimus replies.

"Sure, among all the rest." Starscream sighs. "We put you out there to get rid of you."

"I know."

"We are never joining the Galactic Council now. Well, good, frag 'em. That was never a Decepticon priority. Prowl's blown a gasket. Blown it all over me."

Optimus nods. Starscream's wings had hiked higher with every word of his speech, and his digits twitch on the table. He doesn't want to slag the Galactic Council off, and Optimus knows it. Joining the GC would have been a beneficial alliance, a key stepping stone in achieving a stability Cybertron needs. A leader knows when he needs to kneel for the good of his people. Knows that when he doesn't he has placed something else before his responsibilities - his pride, or his desires.

Starscream wanted Cybertron to prosper. Still wants it to. It is all in the scratched and dull plating.

"We'll figure it out," Starscream continues. "You'll figure it out. Waleria is the planet in the system with the energon? Then it is the planet we will deal with. Reliable energon transit from there to here through alien-infested space, that is the concern. Tell me, how is Soundwave?"

"Still with us." Optimus glances towards the door, half expecting the mech to be listening behind it. "He and Megatron are...communicating."

"Oh, splendid. That is exactly what this Universe needs. What ship does he have?" Yes, Optimus silently agrees. And he wishes he knew what they were communicating about.

"Swindle's," Optimus admits. "I have no way of determining the current Decepticon rebellion's strength."

Starscream waves a servo dismissively. "Well, they are strong enough to waylay Swindle and relieve him of his disturbing porno-mag with thrusters. Get the planet protector in place, don't die, and we will discuss energon transport if you make it that far. Put him on next, while we still have time."

"Alright." It once felt perturbing, irritating, almost demeaning, to hear Starscream issue him orders in his haughtiest tone. But now it is almost freeing - Optimus does not wish to speak with Soundwave, and Optimus does not wish to worry about securing the trade route between here and home. Limited positions have limited responsibilities, and Optimus recognizes that he has already thoroughly abused the limits of his current status. He feels as he felt when he had abandoned power, run to the Lost Light as it limped home from its greatest battle, and returned to place the Universe's greatest constant in his guest bedrooom. He has thrown off the shroud of leadership of a whole people and elevated himself to a higher freedom, leadership of himself alone.

"Starscream," he says, before he departs. "One last question."

"Yes?"

"Is the Lost Light still on Cybertron?"

Starscream grins like the Chesire Cat. "Left for less than a week and came limping back with a busted engine," he replies giddily. "Apparently they got into a fight with a clan of giant four-legged organics - and lost! Ha."

Optimus smiles, and feels a similar schadenfreude. His curiosity, however, is unsated. He wonders if he could ever successfully interrogate Megatron. He bids Starscream well.

"Starscream wishes to speak to you," he tells Soundwave, returning into the larger conference hall. Soundwave nods and disappears into the little room. Most of Optimus's crew is drinking energon cubes Dicer has passed out, whispering among themselves and staring at the walls as if they might cave in. Optimus corners Jazz.

"The Alimenta?" he asks. Jazz slips him a hand-held computer. On it are the readings from Swindle's ship, the small moving dot of their salvation inching ever closer.

"Practically here, could be on the ground in 20 minutes whenever we want. Soundwave and I checked the Inquiek and GC response, and they are hours out. The Inquiek ships are slow as slag, the GC coming from farther off. No sign of the Black Box Consortia, but their cloaking technology has been their pride for a while. We told the Alimenta to slow down on approach, give the Walerians time to gain total control of the capitol. Prepared for emergency landing here though."

Optimus nods his understanding, and slips the hand-held back into Jazz's palm. "Snowbank is updated?"

"Of course."

"And Megatron?"

Jazz shrugs. "Not a big fan of waiting around in bunkers during a coup. Can't decide if he wants to go out and join in or if he wants nothing to happen at all. You know, all these years and I still can't tell if he's trying to be real pacifist or if he's just fine being a war-jaded pacifist."

"Like me?" Optimus asks. Jazz shrugs again.

"I don't mean anything bad by it. We do as we gotta." He pauses, then looks thoughtful.  "He ordered the execution of that chameleon easily enough, but the chameleon was an organic," he says. "I was too excited at the time to think about it. Better, I think. But I wanted that kill."

Optimus grimaces. He hadn't thought of it either, at the time. Had been so distracted that he had not considered that Megatron - his new, pacifist Megatron, had been requesting an assassination. It had seemed so sensible - and he was so used to such things. Had he done that? Brought Megatron out to a wartorn world and pushed him back into violence? Or had it happened sometime on the Lost Light, during his time in the other Universe, in a moment when Optimus hadn't been watching? Or had Megatron never really turned pacifist at all? And did it matter?

"Well, you approved that assassination," Jazz said, as if reading his thoughts. "So it was a good ol' Autobot kill. Nice and moral. Wish I could have done it to Sonum too."

Were the killings happening outside - the natural result of political upheaval - also 'good ol' Autobot killings'? Did that matter?

Not at the moment, Optimus decided. The Walerians were doing what they needed to free themselves - or what they wanted. And if what they wanted was violence, it was not Optimus's prerogative to stop them. He had instigated it only by providing protection from galactic threats. He was saving people, and he was saving Cybertron.

They stand together in silence for a while, until the object of their conversation arrives with both a worried lip and look.

"I don't intend on dying on a desert planet," Megatron tells them. "I am with Highpass on that. Where is the planet protector?" Jazz hands him the hand-held, which Megatron studiously inspects. "It is ready to enter the atmosphere now. Why is it hovering there?"

"Waiting for landing confirmation," Jazz replies. Megatron grumbles something incomprehensible, but irritated.

"We are allowing them to fight for their own freedom," Optimus soothes him. "All we are doing is protecting them while they take control of their own destiny."

Megatron looks up then, his irritation clear in his raised eyebrow and curved upper lip. "Will we do this on Inquila next? Their districts need revolution as well. Is that our goal? Is that righteous protection? Or do we gain too little for freeing Inquila's people from their control?"

"Hey!" Snowbank calls then, a blessed interruption. "Hey, we have to get that thing down on the ground and set up, ASAP. They have the capitol buildings under control now, and they want things secured immediately. Can that dammed thing just land yet?"

Chapter Text

"I've been thinking," Megatron starts. This is how he begins most of his visits now. He sits at the garden table, savors his thoughts with his oil, and then when a coherent narrative breaks through his processor he allows it to keep on breaking out from his glossa and into the sharp Cybertronian air. Like a hammer it splinters first the wall between his spark and tongue, and then the silence. "I've been thinking that the whole of Cybertron herself has changed," Megatron continues. "The air is different now. Do you remember?"

Crank leans out of his second story window and continues shaking out a dusty towel. The breeze carries the offending particulates off towards the mountains and far from Megatron's energon. "No." he replies shortly.

"I have never smelled air so clean here." Megatron swirls his oil about in its container, needing something to do but wishing to drag out the pleasure of drinking it a while longer. "The rain tastes different, as well." A few days prior a large rainstorm had settled over the city, a darkening shadow like Trypticon over the wastelands. Jazz had flung the windows open during a particularly harsh torrent and, too Megatron's dismay, had thrown his upper body into the downpour. Megatron had lunged across the kitchen and hauled him back by the scruff, only to find a laughing smile where he'd expected sizzling, gory remains.

"It's not so acidic anymore," Jazz had said. "It burns a little, but only in the optics. Come on, feel it."

And he'd tugged Megatron back to the window and Megatron had reluctantly cupped a hand and thrust it outside, only to discover the thin, cooling sensation reminiscent of an organic world. Droplets trailed down his arm and dripped to the floor. Jazz pulled himself back onto the ledge and leaned out backwards, lifting his chin to catch a bit of it in his mouth. 

"Ain't it cool?"

Megatron brought his cupped hand to his mouth and tasted the water, and it was. "Cool," he agreed. "We will still need to be careful about rust."

"Don't ruin it," said Jazz. "Just come stick your head out and let it run right over you. It's like a natural shower. Water instead of solvent. I'm liking this new Cybertron."

This new Cybertron, Megatron thought, was bizarre. 

"It is my own doing," he tells Crank now. "The rain being less acidic. The war worsened the rains, but when we all left our planet was gifted millions of years of reprieve. The carbon settled into the Rust Sea and was converted by the nanos, and after million years of no manufacturing comes clean rains. I hadn't known such a thing was possible."

"Humf," is Crank's reply. He folds the towel over the railing, but stays hunched over in the only expression of attention he will show. Megatron doesn't mind. He is used to conversations with expressionless mechs, and prefers them to the overly verbose. Opposites, he thinks, attract. He has always been prone to soliloquy.

"But my - my housemate-" the word fails to encapsulate their positions, but Megatron settles on it for expediency's sake. "Enjoys it. He believes the non-acidic rain is better. He finds joy in it. Would it be egotistical of me - or incorrect - to identify myself as having a key role in this development? Can I assign myself the credit for any good outcome?" He pauses for a moment. The wind tugs gently at the world and at his plating. "I hesitate to name the good that sprouted from what I sowed," he continues slowly, "Because I sowed almost exclusively discord. If the bad outweighs the good so heavily, is it negligent to find pride in that good? Is it foolish to think I could make good in the future?"

He looks up at Crank, who meets his optics with his usual steady frown. "What're you talking about?"

Megatron sighs. "Could I ever be a good person, Crank?" he asks.

Perhaps attempting to find philosophical blessing from a mech in a trash tower is naive, but Megatron believes wisdom can come in all forms. Usually, he thinks, from the form of poor life decisions, but a hermit might do all the same. Crank looks down from his rusting railing like a god peering from the heavens.

"You could always volunteer at a, at a, stray rescue, or something."

"I meant - will the sins of my past outweigh any good deed of mine? And does anything associated with me -" Megatron pauses, considering Crank's straight and tired look. "What I mean is," he attempts again, "is this new kind of rain made bad by its association with me?"

"It's rain," says Crank. "Why're you sitting there worrying about it? It'll do what it wants. I don't care."

"What if the rain was a mech - or two- who thought they might bind their sparks to mine?" Megatron asks.

"This about that visit from your little cop-mech?" Crank asks.

Megatron sighs. "I don't have a great track record when it comes to promises-kept and sparks-beared," he admits. "So what if the rain were two courageous and stupid mechs?"

Crank ponders this for some time. The wind tugs at the towel, freeing the remains of dust and splinters and carrying them off northbound. And Megatron sits by waiting his judgment. He waits so long his throat begins to dry, and he considers the final dregs of his energon.

"I think 'yer insane," decides Crank eventually. "Rain on your plating ain't any different than rain on mine. No spark bond with you will change what they've done, same as it won't change what you've done. Whatever that is. Don't be doing anything bad here, though. I already got trouble with that cop-bot asking around."

"Alright," Megatron laughs, gleefully. "No trouble then. We can only invest in rust-repellent."

The Walerian people are nothing like the Inquiek, save those that look exactly like the Inquiek. Megatron had not considered that one organic population in the system might be different from the other, and now he feels foolish. The Walerians are not Inquiek long since settled onto new territory - they are a unique desert dwelling species which had developed at its own pace several planets closer to the system star, and had been surprised some 100 Walerian years previous by the arrival of an enthusiastic and friendly Inquiek exploratory vessel. And the rest is history.

Megatron hadn't considered this possibility for the sheer unlikelihood of two intelligent species in the same system, sharing similar enough atmospheric requirements so as to co-exist. He also had not considered it because his processor was quite in-adept at imagining organics, and had the unfortunate tendency to assume that they were all of similar build in different sizes and colors. Like dolls - of the same construction and function, but customizable!

The Walerians are not Inquiek. They have quite a few more limbs than strictly necessary, which are positioned outwards so that their body remains closer to the ground, and their feet are webbed and wide to glide over thick, hot sand. These are the native Walerians. There are other Walerians, who are Inquiek in ancestry, and some of them are in the Walerian-resistance party, such as Tilak.

Tilak is third generation Walerian Inquiek, or Inquiek Walerian. Tilak had guided them through the resistance owned tunnels, and now he takes them from those tunnels and across the hot sand. He, unlike his Walerian comrades, wears thick-soled boots.

"It is unbearably hot," complains Talia. His shoes are not as thick as their guide's. Neither are Shobu's, which Megatron watches for signs of smoke or melting. The concrete on which they walk gleams with reflected heat, and already he can smell the burning of rubber tires from his unfortunate Autobot companions. The native Walerians have reflective plates along their tops, and if Megatron had only shined himself better, chosen a lighter color gray - ha, as if that could lessen his conductivity.

He must resist the temptation to pick up Shobu, whose stride has begun to suffer under the debilitating temperature. He would burn her completely.

"Only another few minutes," says Tilak, sympathetically. Walking beside him on the sand, Amphion snorts.

"It is only early morning," they laugh. "You have a journey ahead of you."

"The train will have air conditioning," Tilak promises. Killjoy and Grinder sigh in pleased unison.

"Get me off this fucking planet," Highpass chants under his breath, but he has been repeating this prayer since they had departed, and has not yet committed the ritual suicide he had promised when Optimus had first ordered them to march.

The Alimenta had landed only an hour previously, some 600 km away as the seeker flies. It is now hidden on the compound of the second largest power station on the planet, 40 km from the outskirts of the capitol city, and within driving distance of Waleria's first and largest energon deposit mine. The power station complex houses batteries capable of storing electricity to power the capitol city for two weeks, which it collects from extensive solar fields, its in-house carbon-fuel burning plant, scattered heat-capture facilities, and primitive energon-combustion engines. At the nexus of four power sources, the compound houses enough energy to continually fuel a power-intensive weapon such as the planetary protector.

"If I were an Inquiek commander, Balera would be my first target," says Optimus. "They could cripple the city. Are you certain the premises are protected?"

Palian, the Walerian resistance leader who pads along the sand beside Optimus, replies easily. "We have been planning this for several decades now. The compound is secure."

In binary, Jazz jokes "You know, I think I've heard Decepticons say that a hundred times. Usually when I'm right above their helms with a blaster."

Megatron snorts, then sighs as their most recent switchback brings them only proof of continued incline. Highpass curses about an accidental flicking of sand in his direction. Megatron considers the benefits of flying.

"Nope," says Jazz. "Don't do it. The Walerians won't like a stealth bomber flying over their recently reacquired train network. Suffer with Highpass and the rest of us on the ground."

"This is not suffering," Megatron reminds the world. Shobu grumbles as if to say 'yes, yes it certainly is.'

When they have finally scaled the top of the dune, they are greeted with a considerable hike down. The Walerians of their group abandon them to the concrete in favor of an easy slide across the sand. None of the Cybertronians take pleasure in watching their hosts skate easily by, and in miserable humor Megatron nearly laughs at the thick cloud of envious disdain which floods their fields.

The train does indeed have a cooling system. The dour mass of overlapping fields turns abruptly, gorgeously giddy with each step into their car. Shobu's feathers spring forward with joyous energy.

"This is too much traveling," mutters Highpass. "I signed up for a several vorn long position. In a nice house on a foreign planet where most people don't know how to wield a Primus-slagged energon blaster."

"Ha." Dicer snorts. "Those things are intuitive. A sparkling with an optic disorder could work a blaster."

"Would anyone like a calming energon blend?" interrupts Killjoy. "We can stick the cubes under the airvents, get them nice and chilly."

They are split into two cabins. The chairs are arranged in tables where four Inquiek might sit. The larger members of their group take up both seats. There are four tables per cabin. Jazz sits with Talia across from Shobu at one such table, like the third wheel on a particularly tiresome dinner date. Megatron and Optimus sit on the other side of the aisle, on a more contentious dinner date.

Megatron watches the solar and heat farms flicker between the sand dunes out the window.

"About the chameleon," Optimus says, and Megatron sighs.

"Calming tea," Killjoy suggests again. He shares a table with Grinder, who insisted on being within Optimus's shouting distance. Now, though, he travels between the cabins hawking his merchandise. "Calming, cold - did you know Soundwave carries around a freeze ray in his subspace now? Lets get that extra friction out of our bodies!"

Killjoy, as ever, has a remarkable optimism. Megatron turns around and peers over his shoulder at Soundwave, who sits across from Pickaxe. Pickaxe's optics do not leave him. They hadn't the entire walk here. Megatron wonders how the freeze ray was procured peacefully and silently from Soundwave's subspace with Pickaxe's so thoroughly, nervously attentive.

"Can it freeze some water for us?" Talia asks. "I believe we could find some in the food cabin."

"Kid, I don't think this hijacked train has a functioning food cabin," Jazz snorts. "But I bet we could raid some from somewhere. I'll go find those Walerians." He pats Talia on the shoulder, squeezes out from the booth, and disappears into the adjoining cabin. Megatron gets a cold calming tea blend. Optimus steals a sip. Megatron doesn't mind. He likes that he doesn't mind.

"Well, I suppose I am glad Soundwave smuggled a freeze ray into our midst," says Optimus ruefully. "Whatever his intention might have been."

"Our destination is a desert planet-" rings Optimus's voice from Soundwave's chest. Optimus grimaces. Now Megatron does laugh, gratified by the humor and tension alleviated by the reminder that he had not conspired with the Decepticons first.

He shares a look with his once-third-hand. Soundwave meets it, and does not glance away. There are a trail of broken things in their wake, like a motorboat breaking through the scum of life. He considers what Soundwave had asked of him in Swindle's office and shudders like the vents under which Killjoy holds his energon cubes.

As the train plods along, the solar farms become more and more frequent, until they enter into one that does not end. It flows over the rolling sand hills in blues and purples.

Shobu exhales in surprise. "Now it looks like the ocean," she says.

The train comes to a halt beside Balera's high-security entrance. It is surrounded by a thick concrete wall topped with iron spikes, and the entryway itself is limited to a narrow gate. The security stand beside it is larger than it, and well stocked with revolutionaries.

"They used to only allow Inquila-born Inquiek to work as guards," says Amphion. "But there are more of us."

It is hard to discern whether the looks the guards send them are filled with good or ill intent. Such is the problem with cross-species alliances; it becomes difficult to tell when one's allies have turned into enemies. Megatron supposes they have already encountered that particular phenomenon. He keeps his plating pulled tight.

"I don't like this place having only one entrance," Jazz whispers to him. The plating of his outer arm meets and brushes smoothly along Megatron's own.

"It's bad health and safety protocol," agrees Highpass, walking just behind them. "Bad juju."

"This entire planet has exactly one exit," Megatron whispers. "And we are about to block it." Neither looks particularly pleased at the reminder. At least, Megatron thinks, he can read someone's facial expressions.

Balera's internals look exactly like a recently-occupied energy processing and transmission plant should. Megatron has visited many such sites of war, and finds comfort in the simplicity of post-apocalyptic seeming offices and repair-crew littered transmission towers. There are no sparking wires, thankfully - such things are killer on the circuits, and many of their party are clumsy enough to fry themselves on loose electric traps. But doors are off their hinges, and peering inside them reveals repair work being done on the internal machinery. It does not take long for them to stumble upon the defining feature of battlefields - a body. 

Megatron is certain few of their party notices it, laid prone, its thick Inquiek tail and stumpy legs jutting from around a corner. He steps forward and places an arm over Shobu's shoulders. He attempts to arrange his servo so that it blocks her right-hand sight, and gently directs her attention towards the opposite side of the street. 

"Did you enjoy the train ride?" he asks her.

Shobu allows herself to be directed like a horse with a bit. "The air cooling was nice," she responds gaily. Behind them now, Jazz whistles as if to say 'yikes'. The body, Megatron assumes, has been spotted. But not commented on, though somewhere behind them Snowbank curses like a true neutral. Optimus and Grinder both turn around from their spots beside Palian and Talik at the front of their parade. Optimus cocks his helm in silent question.

::Body:: Megatron replies. Optimus nods, then turns back.

But his movement had drawn Megatron's attention to their guides, and the body had reminded him of Shobu. "How does the resistance distinguish between Inquiek loyal to the previous government and your own sympathizers?" he asks.

Tilak and Palian share a look. "What do you mean?" Tilak replies.

"How does one tell an Inquiek sympathizer from a Walerian resistance fighter from a civilian?"

"Ah. Bands." Tilak works one claw under a thin piece of fabric that stretches across his midsection. He plucks it, and it snaps back against his uniform. "The color and placement are changed regularly."

Jazz jogs back up to Megatron's elbow. "We'll take two of those," he says. "Like, lickety split."

By the time they have located the planet protector in the large complex, a Walerian officer has fetched two such bands. Megatron falls back as the Autobots greet the crew of the Alimenta. He assists Talia first in working the band over his snout and down to his midsection. When it is adjusted accordingly, Talia's feathers bounce back tall and, Megatron thinks, just a little bit proud.

"I guess this is what I asked for," Talia says. "This could be a real chance. A real revolution."

Megatron pats him on the shoulder. "You should tell them of their Inquiek-born sympathizers," he says, glancing pointedly towards their guards. "You have their band now. Go ask Jazz first."

He sends Talia off on his quest, then turns and assists Shobu in donning her own revolutionary band. He chuckles quietly to himself as he does it. His third great revolution, he thinks, as the band snaps into place.

"Why do you laugh?" Shobu asks him. He pauses, and searches her scaly face for an interpretable emotion. He still finds the Inquiek face difficult to read, but he had seen curiosity on her enough to recognize its absence.

"I have branded young revolutionaries before," he explains, "but never ones as organic as you."

"I am pretty organic. But I'm not a revolutionary."

"Not like Talia?"

She swishes her tail, as if in agitation. "I don't understand why I'm here. What did I do wrong? I don't understand why the Chief has banished me. I have never hurt anyone, and now I am here, and it is not fair."

Megatron stops. He has never had to explain terrible happenstance before. The youth of Cybertron with which he has interacted were all intimately familiar with the concept before he ever had the chance to hook them. His words, he'd found, were best used to explain the possibility of hope when paired with immediate action. 

"Miseries are almost always the result of unfortunate circumstance, and rarely of any inherent flaw of the sufferer," he tells her. "The Chief of Planetary Affairs wanted you gone, and he found a convenient way to be rid of you. You survived, and you are here, and you have assisted me in thwarting his plans. You have won."

"I have?" She asks. "What have I done?"

"From your stories I gleaned insight into our enemy's plans to target nurseries. I passed that information along. You may have saved lives, Shobu. And you have assisted in a strategic victory which may one day lead to your return to Inquila."

Shobu mulls this over for a moment, her eyes roving over the towering Cybertronian spaceship and the damaged concrete structures and the revolutionaries and the Autobots and the sand. "I wish the Chief had never visited me at all," she decides. "I don't think I even love him anymore."

"Good," declares Megatron. "I cannot judge hopeless choices in lovers, but I can certainly identify poor ones." Shobu nods forlornly. Megatron can recognize that emotion well enough.

Megatron does not know much about the inner mechanics of the planet protector. It is a large device, even by Cybertronian standards, and when hooked up into one of the four Balera power storage centers it sucks up its entirety with room to spare. The lot of them - the embassy staff and the three crewmembers of the Alimenta - stand about with their hands upon their hips looking like your average construction worker assessing a job he is underpaid for. Megatron is not immune to such posturing, though he is at least capable of recognizing it in himself.

"Hmm," says Talik, voicing the general disillusioned mood.

Bulkhead, a large green mech who may be the closest to a real construction worker they have, shrugs. "We could hook it up to your other batteries too. It's really meant for brief usage on energon mining centers. Lots of power, short time frame."

"We have energon processors," a Walerian fighter chimes in. They gesture with their heads in a general westerly direction.

"Not of Cybertronian quality," says Optimus. "The original trade deal between Cybertron and Inquila would have transferred energon processing technology into Inquiek hands, for a percentage of Cyberonian ownership of the product. Snowbank, what is the status of our deal with the Walerian government?"

"They're a bit busy at the moment," Snowbank huffs. "They sent us these guys." He gestures towards the revolutionaries.

Optimus shakes his helm. "Get me on the phone with them. I want someone who can make promises. Unless any of you are authorized to do so?" He glances around and is met with a crowd of non-committal faces. "Then in the meantime, all processing with Cybertronian technology will be conducted by Cybertronians. No Inqiuek or Walerian engineers will be granted access. Grinder, set up shifts."

"On it," says Grinder. "Everyone gets a turn?"

"All but Soundwave," is the reply. Megatron supposes it is a compliment that he is still trusted with the machinery, even if he was not trusted with so much before. First Jazz, then Optimus - what would their union be without secrets? But he is trusted enough to stay up all night watching an energon processor process energon. What joy.

"Ah, I don't know how to watch a big aft energon processor," Killjoy complains. "I'll blow us all up."

"All you have to do is make sure no one pokes their snout in," Dicer scolds him. "And maybe scream if you smell smoke. Primus, you wuss."

Holler, the Alimenta's captain, raises a timid hand. When Optimus calls on him, he asks: "We are gonna keep the hot tub running, though, right?"

This causes quite a stir. 

After the pleading of Jazz and his politically savvy team-up with Highpass, Killjoy, LightEye (the third member of the Alimenta crew), Holler, Bulkhead, Fiber, and Dicer, Optimus is forced to allow the hot tub to remain functioning. Alloy and Bulkhead set the energon processor up to replenish the energy stores of the main battery, and Jazz - from his place parked in front of a high-end entertainment video player - announces he has set up reliable communications within system satellite range. Megatron leaves Grinder to continue cajoling Alloy into taking the first guard shift with Pickaxe and immediately appropriates their communication center.

"I want to talk to my brother," announces LightEye. "Can I please have access to my own communicator."

"No," says Jazz.

Megatron pulls the screen through a door into one of the Alimenta's few rooms and locks himself in. Then he calls the office of the Secretary of Alien Affairs. Fifteen minutes later, he has been transferred to a secure line.

"What is the status of your activity?" Megatron asks brusquely.

"Well past the beginning stages. I have the space command - nationalistic lot they are. We remain in place in the largest nurseries, libraries, training institutions, and town spaces. There was an attack in District 7. It has been handled. We are investigating for the culpable party."

"What of the President?"

The Secretary sighs. "I have considered it in our best interests to avoid bringing the President up to speed in these endeavors."

Megatron pauses and considers his words carefully. "Your president is interested in Inquila's accession to the Galactic Council."

The Secretary's feathers flick forward in understanding. "As far as I am aware, the interest is not untoward. She is relatively new to the position. And I cannot say I disagree with the intent. There is no evidence that she is aware of the recent actions of the Senate and Military chiefs."

Megatron hums. "What are your next steps?"

"Careful monitoring, and a strategic strike." The Secretary thumbs at a file on her desk, paying it only half a mind. "I've heard that fighting a war on multiple fronts is a, what do they say 'pain in the aft'. You gave me some advice recently, on trade actions. The Stentarians have been helpful. We will handle the Black Box Consortium first."

"Careful," Megatron warns, "They are a distraction to your other enemies."

"They are killing my people."

"True." Megatron lets their conversation sit for a moment, then redirects towards the main reason for this call. "When will the Chief of Planetary Affairs be dealt with?" he asks.

"I need evidence." The Secretary taps her claws on the top of her file. "There is a thin line between ambition and treason. I need enough to bring before a military tribunal. We are working on it."

"Proof of conspiracy?" A witness, perhaps, or a victim?

"A few conspirators to flip, a better narrative." She flicks her feathers in annoyance. "I do not have the power to single-handedly take over the domestic Chiefs. In perfect honesty, neither qualify for a military court. But we will take them there, regardless. Civilian trials leave much out of our control."

Megatron wonders just what a new Inquila might look like. Nothing good, probably. Coups rarely leave something better behind. Revolutions, neither. Still, he thinks, there are those rare incidents - when one can try again.

He wants nothing more than for this initial stage to be over - on both planets. The executions, the fights, the ground rolling and pitching underneath. When one can strike fast and hard, then retreat immediately back into safety. Prolonged wars, he has found, crush the populace into something incapable of quick rejuvenation. And they leave the youth floundering.

But he is cautious to proffer Shobu as a witness, not when it might entail returning to a planet where the Chief of Planetary Affairs has not been contained.

"I do not like the attempt of a cover up," Megatron says. "Trying to pin an assassination on the housekeeper. It offends me."

The Secretary's head feathers fold back and perk upright in a relaxing waving pattern which Megatron does not quite understand. "My team has successfully transferred the agent Sonum into my care," she replies slowly. "We are filming his interrogation."

Megatron hears a quick scraping from behind the door. He pays it no mind, but does, for the cybermouse's sake, ask a further question. "And has Sonum admitted who ordered the operation?" It would be to Megatron's gain if it were the Chief, he thinks. His personal relationships are a series of ever shifting alliances, and he admits it had felt good when Jazz had signaled his agreement the other night. Odd, but comforting.

"Not yet." She shakes her head as if to throw water from her ear. "But he will. He is loyal to Inquila. I can tell. Removed from his orders, he will be forced to rely on his own morality, and he will turn. How is Antiak?"

"Waleria," Megatron corrects. "I am sure you have seen the news?"

"A tragic loss for Inquila," says the Secretary. "We rely quite heavily on resources from that planet."

"Oh dear, I suppose you will have to trade for them."

The Secretary, as complicit in Waleria's subjugation as any other, takes this in good humor regardless. "I hope you have handled your own trade dilemmas?"

"Soon enough." Megatron sighs. "Your fleet is joining the Council's? Well on their way, I suppose."

"Well out of my hands," she replies. "My military counterpart takes orders from the President. I handle the diplomacy."

"This conversation?"

If Inquiek were the sort to do it, Megatron suspects she would be grinning. "Exactly this," she agrees. "So I will ask you what I have asked the new conqueror of Antiak - release the Inquiek hostages and return the duly elected officials of Antiak to their rightful places."

"Are the duly elected officials of Antiak alive?" Megatron asks.

"I couldn't say. I've been somewhat distracted."

"Then I would leave the diplomacy to your counterpart," replies Megatron, "and let them run endlessly into our diplomatic walls as fruitlessly as they shall run into the walls of our force-field."

"I will return Inquila into Inquiek control," says the Secretary, "and then I shall focus on whatever remains of Antiak when you and the powers above have dealt with it."

"Deal."

When the screen flickers to black, Megatron leans back into his seat and sighs. He can hear the steady ticking of the countdown clock above. He will be trapped here soon enough. Not for the first time he wonders if he should have stayed on Inquila. He cannot stand the feeling of being trapped. It itches at his plating, drives him steadily mad, like he might tear everything apart with his bare hands.

He won't be trapped for long. He reminds himself of that. The Embassy crew will be alright. Cybertron will be fed. And he will do right by the peoples of this world and Inquila, organic or not. He is an expert at turning traps into victories.

He pushes himself to his pedes. His footsteps are loud enough to scare away whatever intrepid cybermouse had hung eavesdropping outside his door. By the time he  has exited the ships, he finds the little listener in deep conversation with Soundwave. When Megatron catches his optic, he smiles jovially, pats Soundwave comfortably on the shoulder, and then - with a quick tilt of the helm - he winks.

The alarms sound a few minutes later. The planet protector hums in activation.

Chapter Text

For the center of the next great war of Universal powers, Waleria is utterly dull. For two entire weeks Jazz sits at negotiation tables, daydreaming about is habsuite back home. When marked on the grand timeline of his life, the years they spent in that veterans' apartment exist only as a minuscule dot. He pictures some future scholar pinching and widening his fingers to zoom into that short eighth-vorn, and stopping in frustration when his digits cramp. Jazz is a practiced humorist.

He misses when Megatron's little adventures had been safe, and he was the only mech keeping secrets, and none of the secrets he kept were particularly interesting anyway. It was just work. Waleria isn't work, it's war. And it is so dull!

After two weeks of consideration, Jazz has an epiphany. It is his conjunxes, that is why it can't be a regular work trip. They are the problem. They are why he feels so unsettled, and why he has the strongest and most unusual urge to disobey orders.

He shouldn't. It's not like him. He is not a guard dog, or an attack dog, or anything of the sort. He is not blindly loyal, he is just loyal, and a team player, and a hard worker. He has his own moral compass. He just never sweats the details, unless those details happen to be his asset summary reports and data security tests.

During the war, it never particularly mattered to him how the information he provided was being used, as long as it was being strategically implemented to slag off the Decepticons. And it was, whatever Optimus chose to do with it. So he didn't sweat it. He had no need for revenge, nor any desire for one proposed action plan over another. But now he has this unnatural urge.

He bites the end of his stylus. Hunched over this low Inquiek table, poking with one finger at his tablet like a mech with motor control issues and chewing on his stylus, he looks a bit like a mech who might be fretting. Jazz is not a fretting sort of mech. He ought to straighten up, but though his processor demands it his frame is unwilling. He sighs. He has no idea what the datapad says.

He is missing home. He misses when the absurd mech Megatron was colluding with lived in a trash apartment and was entirely incapable of armed nuclear attack. Primus knows what all of Megatron's collusion buddies are capable of now. He misses take-out. Now they have Walerian energon, which is…fine. He misses his shag rug.

He feels a moment of intense pity for poor Megatron, who had lost his table during their most recent flight. Jazz had anticipated a hasty retreat from Inquila (considering the identity of his lovers, whatever planet they might find themselves on was sure to devolve into some sort of war zone), and had therefore left his shag rug on the floor of their empty apartment. The apartment is being carefully monitored by the thirteen different security cameras Jazz had installed, so he is certain it will still be there when he returns. When that door opens, and he can throw himself down upon it, and roll in it, and be enveloped by his conjunxes, who will have been waiting there for him because his ride had been slower. He had needed to backtrack, you see, and they had understood.

Surely Optimus, who had called Soundwave first, could forgive him for that?

"My ride has been waylaid," Megatron had told them before the end of their first week. Jazz, who had already become rather bored of the sand and the…sand, had sighted dramatically and had been ignored. "I assume even if they arrived today they would have been forced to remain on Waleria for some time, considering the state of our agreement."

The new Walerian government had been timid about negotiations. Wary, one might say, or basking in the elated pride of victory. Drowning in the turbulent waters of government administration. Generally uncooperative about signing deals with Cybertronians.

Most of the energon production was being fed into the planet protector. Above, the Inquiek had caught up with the Galactic Council and were waiting, ordering, and threatening.

Optimus had been threatening with equal force, albeit in politer tone. The Walerians, at least, were not so foolish as to think their victory would remain intact should Inquiek vessels be allowed down upon the sand.

So they were stuck, and so the misadventure of whatever ship Megatron had commandeered could be forgiven.

"Must be the Lost Light," said Jazz. "No other ship would get distracted from a rescue mission."

"It's not," replied Optimus, with a sigh that signaled a full resignation to Jazz's endless unfulfilled curiosity. "The Lost Light is sitting on Cybertron. It is still being repaired. I asked."

So now they are two weeks into this hassle of a blockade. The planet protector hums along steadily, which Jazz is both grateful for and irritated by. He is offended by how easily it plods along, doing as it has been designed to do.

"It isn't sentient," Megatron tells him. "Don't get poetic on me. Single-mindedness is hardly a thing to be envious of. Take it from me, it rarely leads you anywhere good."

"I'm not gettin' poetic," Jazz grunts in reply. But he is grateful for Megatron's audial and advice; he was getting poetic, and one has to have a poet put one'sdramaticsms into place every once and a while. Bulkhead is generous with the highgrade, but rarely highbrow in his psychoanalysis, and he has no intention of asking Optimus to interpret his sudden irritation at machinery. 

"And this is Parian," announces Amphion. He and Talik had led Optimus, Jazz, Bulkhead, and Snowbank on an early morning expedition across the sand. They had ridden in two separate truck-like vehicles westbound for some hours, until they arrived at another large machine humming steadily away. Jazz was beginning to think that all of Waleria might just be sand dotted with massive, ugly machines. Like Optimus! Ha.

Optimus just sighs.

The energon extractor is a massive, unyielding, cranking, screaming, sun-scorched brute of a thing. It stands as a large platform atop 12 thick poles, which disappear deep into the sand like ballast pontoons beneath a semi-submersible oil rig. Beneath the platform, half-hidden by the poles, is a circular wall which keeps the sand from entering the drill's deep hole. The air smells of lubrication oil and burning metal and polluted energon.

Amphion and Bulkhead take the lead. "Are all your mines liquid extraction?" Bulkhead asks, practically shouting to be heard over the machinery. "I ask because that's kinda unusual. Energon and high heat can get pretty dangerous. We usually find it in solid crystaline form."

"We have no solid energon on Waleria," replies Amphion. "At least, no entirely solid deposits. The Inquiek scientists theorize that our planet experienced a quick series of collisions with the remnants of a demolished planet that had energon deposits. Several pieces were the size of our largest moon. The impact liquefied many of what are now considered our most valuable resources, which settled into the sand and remained covered for some time."

Bulkhead nods along enthusiastically. "How deep is the sand?"

"That depends. I am not sure at this location. More than two kilometers."

"Do you have an internal cooling system for the drill head?"

"You will have to ask the engineers, but I believe it has a circulating coolant system."

"Water?"

Amphion snorts like a horse. "There is little water on Waleria. We use octanol."

Jazz ambles along behind them, eyeing the shuddering metal and scanning for anything more dangerous looking than the giant screaming drill.  He glances at Optimus and finds him equally wide-opticked. The sheer industrial magnitude of the mining operation is overwhelming, and the constant vibration of the world around it puts him on edge.

"The slurry pump pulls the energon-sediment mixture to a series of settling ponds," explains Amphion. "That is our destination."

Bulkhead spends the rest of the walk pestering more information from their Walerian comrades, and though none are technical experts they all seem well-versed in the practicalities of mining operations. Then again, the center of Walerian life is the extraction and processing of metals, and now of energon.

Optimus turns to him and shouts: "Snowbank tells me the terms are better negotiating with the Walerians than they were with the Inquiek. We have cheaper energon with a free Waleria. We have backed a coup for our economic gain."

"We backed a coup for our own personal survival," Jazz replies. His exhaustion parrots Megatron's, these days. "And economic gain got thrown in with the lot."

"We've started a war for pennies on the barrel," says Optimus. Jazz cannot stand this moral self-deprecation. They did the right thing. He tells Optimus as much.

"Of course," Optimus agrees. "Our presence on Inquila pushed us down a series of ever constricting corridors. We did what we had to, and the consequences will come. For now, that means cheaper energon. For the future, I am only afraid that our strained relationship with the Universe's two greatest colonial powers has forced us to participate in a game with too many collateral planets."

His conjunxes, Jazz thinks, sound far too much like each other. It irritates him, this second-guessing. Optimus had done what he had needed to, and so the consequences be damned. He has very little sympathy for the Inquiek; they are up there threatening with just as much enthusiasm as the Galactic Council.

Jazz quickens his pace just enough to pass Optimus, letting Snowbank take his place. He lets his annoyance fall away. He feels, for a brief moment, extraordinarily at peace. The drill fades into the background, the conversation ahead just murmuring over the quiet rumbling. His sight-lines are clear, Optimus's helm is on a cautious swivel, and everything is just, perfectly, entirely fine.

Reality readily laughs in his face.

"Here is where we store the alternative energon," announces Talik. They have stopped in front of a large concrete structure, clearly of Inquiek build. The door is of Inquiek size, the handle shaped for the Inquiek claw. Talik pulls it open, and they file in. When the door shuts, there is a moment of actual, genuine quiet. Snowbank turns his audials back on.

"This...is where you keep your alternative energon?" Optimus repeats, hesitantly. Jazz is not an expert on energon mining, but he is certified in health and safety on military bases, and he admires the restraint in the politeness of Optimus's tone. They are in a warehouse which, for all intents and purposes, might have been the shelving backroom of a tire shop. A tire shop that had never heard of seismic activity, and had therefore never bothered to invest in ratchet straps. There are boxes upon boxes of easily identifiable energons, split into three separate long rows. Green and red and yellow energon, in an unlocked warehouse. The liquid glowing through the clear glass of their containers paints each aisle in its own unique color, like deadly stained glass.

The Walerians love reinforced glass. They have a lot of sand. Jazz clamps his plating shut.

"Sure," huffs Snowbank. "This seems safe."

"The entire facility is held to our highest fire safety standards," says Amphion. The Walerians are intimately aware of energon's explosive tendencies. Nuclear bombs are also stored in facilities with the highest fire safety standards, but that would not be Jazz's primary concern, if one were stored on one of these shelves.

"Well, at least there's that," Bulkhead whispers.

Thankfully, the containers at least appear to be sealed. Jazz imagines there would be significantly more injury reports if they were not. Surely the Inquiek scientists must have known the toxic effects of such energon - of any energon - on organics. But then again, it is not as though there are any guards in the warehouse to be exposed to it. And the facility is fire proof.

"This will be a boon for our scientists on Cybertron," Optimus says. His battlemask keeps clicking and unclicking as he forces it to remain docked despite the danger, and Jazz suppresses a slightly hysterical giggle.

"Our scientists-" Talik pauses. "Scientists, both Walerian and Inquiek, are interested in these energons for medical research. None have found much benefit in it yet. If your people desire it, I am sure a deal can be made."

"Yes," Optimus agrees, optics never drifting from box upon box of green energon. "Let us...let us return to base. I will speak to the negotiation team today."

One night, a particularly cold night, though the presence of the burning fuel plant does much to fight the freezing wind, Megatron wakes them up. He is a night owl, as the humans might say, more so than Jazz, and it would not be the first time his climbing into berth had awoken his berthmates. Jazz rolls over and grunts a 'good night, sleep tight' sort of grunt, only to be prodded at like the sheep with plastic blue wool in his dream. He grunts again.

"Would you wake up," comes Megatron's voice. "My ship is here. I know you are dying of curiosity."

"I'm dying of radiation poisoning," mutters Jazz.

"Wake up," repeats Megatron.

"I am awake. I am always listening. Ready to strike."

"There is a Decepticon in the foyer," says Megatron. Jazz wakes up. Then Jazz's processor wakes up.

"Is the Decepticon Soundwave?" he asks.

"Yes. And my ship is here."

"His ship is here," Optimus corroborates, having been woken by their conversation. He is looking blearily at a datapad which appears to have been possessed by the power of the sun. "And Soundwave agrees."

"Is Soundwave texting you?"

"Yes?" Optimus replies, with a questioning sort of squint-opticked tiredness. "Why is the Lost Light here? How is the Lost Light here? It has a fragged engine. Did someone tow it?"

"Who the fuck has a ship large enough to tow the Lost Light all the way out here?"

"Never mind that," says Megatron, whose priorities are never quite where they should be. Jazz thinks he will mind the Lost Light's possibly physics-breaking towing speed, just to spite him. "We need to momentarily de-power the planet protector so they can land. We can't leave them up there with the Galactic Council fleet."

"That is what Soundwave is telling me too," adds Optimus noncommittally. He is still staring into the fragging sun. Jazz reaches over, tugs the datapad from his servos, and throws it screen down onto the berth. Their room returns to a decent dim light.

Optimus makes a face. "Why did you do that? I need to contact Starscream - then we will have orders to allow the Lost Light's landing from Lord Megatron, Soundwave, and Starscream. A whole Decepticon command's worth of orders, Jazz, how could we ignore that?"

Megatron harrumphs. "Get out of bed and speak with Rodimus," he says. "Soundwave's craft is still covered in sand."

"We gotta dig that up before Swindle sues us," Jazz points out. "Hey, how'd they get the Lost Light all the way out here? Her entire left side is beat to slag."

"I said never mind that. Get out of bed."

Jazz groans and, with incredible strength, rolls lengthwise off the berth and falls to the floor.

So the entire day is about the Lost Light now. Jazz doesn't mind so much, since the whole stalemate / stuck on Waleria thing was getting pretty repetitive. They open communications from the bridge of the Alimenta. Grinder comes in from his 'don't let the energon processor blow up' duty and crams in beside the rest of them - Megatron, Optimus, Snowbank, Soundwave, and Jazz - so that the conversation is as uncomfortable as possible. Ultra Magnus appears on screen with the settings adjusted so as to zoom in precisely on a scratch on his cheek. A few minutes are spent in fiddling with the settings until they have a more appropriate view.

"My apologies," he says as greeting, which is a particularly Ultra Magnus-ian way to say hello. "It has been some time since I have utilized this equipment."

"Hello, old friend," greets Optimus. "What is the Lost Light's status?"

"We are-"

A blurr of red and orange blocks out Ultra Magnus's frame. By the time the camera adjusts, Rodimus has already spoken half his plan. "Hey folks," comes his excited voice, "We've got a plan for you! We got these afthelms on our aft, and we got the Rodpod out making invisible circles. As soon as you say so, we're gonna act like the Rodpod is breaking up through the atmosphere to come dock with us."

"-Rodimus, I have not even asked them-"

"They're gonna think the Rodpod is you, and we have you, and then we start making waves out towards Cybertron. They split to block us off and bam, we double back and dart through through the planet protector while it's de-powered. You guys just gotta give us a time."

"That sounds like a fine plan, Rodimus," says Megatron. "I am glad you all could make it."

The camera has at this point steadied and adjusted, and now it is Rodimus's face that covers the screen. He peers down into the room with a grand smile. "Megatron!" He exclaims, delighted. "You won't believe how excited we were to hear from you! The original you! Not dead at all."

"Not dead," agrees Megatron. "And intending on keeping it that way."

"Why would you be dead?" asks Optimus. He is ignored. Jazz tilts his helm to the side and analyzes Rodimus's whole...thing. He looks different. Just slightly off. This whole thing feels slightly off.

"Alright listen, I have to get back on this dumb call with this blue general. Just send us the time, 'kay?" Rodimus flashes them two thumbs up and disappears around the camera.

"I apologize," repeats Ultra Magnus.

"Hey," says Grinder, "If you've got a plan, Optimus, can you hop on a call real quick? The communication space bridge is about to be running and you are supposed to speak with Starscream about the negotiations and Snowbank's new position."

"Right." Optimus sighs. "Right. The rest of you, get the Lost Light down safely. If you could figure out what Rodimus was talking about, that's probably fine. Jazz, you are in charge."

"No," Jazz whines. He points at Megatron. "This is his stupid plan."

"Fine!" says Optimus, halfway out the door. "Megatron, you are in charge."

"Cooool," says Snowbank.

"You know, this whole mission has sort of been a roaring success," Jazz decides. Optimus raises a disbelieving eyebrow. "It's true."

Optimus nods thoughtfully, a glint of good humor in his optic. "If you thoroughly stretch the definition of success, we have surely done it."

"No, I mean it."

They are standing about, a bit like they have for the last two weeks, only now they are standing pede deep in sand. Everyone wanted to see the Lost Light land, and there were too few rovers to carry them out, so they had followed the road out from the complex for a few miles then turned into the dunes. Highpass had volunteered to be on energon processing duty, and Bulkhead is managing the planet protector, and Dicer claimed she was too old to be traipsing about, but everyone else had come.

Jazz is standing by Optimus's side, waiting and listening to the creaking of Optimus's armor as he shifts and sighs. They are both pretending they are not watching Megatron and Soundwave converse, and Jazz can feel the anxiety roll off him like waves.

"I mean it," he repeats. "You have successfully secured a source of energon. Slag, we could probably haul a fuckton of the stuff home with us, now that we have the Lost Light. We have a planet protector in place keeping the green energon away from two Galactic superpowers, and we'll take a whole warehouse with us (if we risk putting it on the Lost Light). And obviously my job is close to finished, way ahead of schedule."

Optimus's heat-stressed frame shows no signs of relief at Jazz's perceptive analysis. "Were you not supposed to be scoping out BBC influence in the region?"

Jazz grins the grin of a point thoroughly proven. "And are we not well on our way to rooting the BBC out of Inquila?! And is Waleria not free of Inquiek - and Black Box - control? Am I not the greatest spy to ever live?"

"I must say that you are," agrees Optimus, "Because you are my conjunx. But I must also point out that the political change on Inquila is mostly Megatron's doing."

Jazz sticks out his glossa and blows. "I infiltrated the Stentarian building. Megatron just did the talking." Megatron raises his helm and glances over, hearing his name, or perhaps just knowing.

"Politics is mostly talking."

"Like you know," replies Jazz, petulantly. Then he snickers. "We did alright. Don't be so glum. There are only a few little stray threads to snip. We'll dig up Soundwave's ship and send him on his way, get everybody on board the Lost Light, hope they fixed it good, and let the crew of the Alimenta actually do their job. The GC will chase after us, and this will all be Snowbank's problem. Hooray."

"After this mess, they'll never let us off Cybertron again," says Optimus.

Jazz snorts, and bites his glossa. No twinge of guilt flickers through his field when he lies. Megatron is less successful. Jazz catches his optic and tilts his helm, a silent 'why?' to which Megatron does not reply. But Optimus doesn't notice, and when their conversation falls to silence Megatron returns to scheming with Soundwave.

Jazz has had this nightmare once or twice. He thinks most Autobots have, if they've spent any time on the front lines. Any time watching Megatron. First, when one's processor has only freshly been introduced to the horror that is watching a mech like that plow through their friends, the dreams are of being torn in two, tossed and stabbed, the target of relentless rage. Then the war continues on, and one's processor becomes dulled to such imaginings. It realizes, eventually, that Megatron is not a personal threat, but an existential one. To be torn in half would be a gentle thing, compared to the steady march towards total domination. Then come the dreams of the Decepticon empire. Then that dulls, beaten against the walls of reality. The dreams get bizarre. Megatron in your habsuite, your friends morphing into him, his attention dead set on something far worse than your annihilation… and eventually, the processor discovers the greatest threat of all - two Megatrons.

Jazz has definitely had this nightmare before. So he is actually, momentarily, terrified, when the Lost Light lowers its boarding ramp and out strolls Megatron.

Optimus, hilariously, looks over his shoulder to their Megatron, who is of course standing precisely where he was moments prior, looking guilty. Megatron has a proclivity for guilty looks, which Jazz is now certain is because he is always guilty of something. Two whole Megatrons. It's enough to send an Autobot into an anxious tizzy.

Of course, the average Autobot doesn't have a Megatron in their berth on a regular basis. Jazz recovers quickly. Then the guilty little look on his Megatron's face transforms into something as cheerfully humorous as Optimus's double take. Jazz loves this mech, schemes and all. No! For his schemes! His schemes on Inquila have given Jazz a strategic victory against the Black Box Consortia, a chance to kill that chameleon, and now, a moment of pure hilarity. Jazz loves him dearly, just as he loves the Universe's twists and turns. Thank Primus, this stay on Waleria has finally turned interesting.

"Hello fellas!" greets Rodimus with a cheerful wave. "We are the Lost Light crew of Universe 2! And today we are pleased to play your chariot. Optimus Prime of this poor Universe numero uno, we have come to rescue you."

Optimus looks at Rodimus. Then he glances at Jazz. Jazz flashes him a big thumbs up, and Optimus looks back. "Thank you," he replies.

Both Megatrons, on cue, snort.

"I understand how you ended up in a second Universe," says Optimus slowly.

"-you understand?" Snowbank hisses. Jazz snickers along, helping himself to some of the chips from the broken vending machine in the Lost Light's conference room. The vending machine is meticulously refilled with homemade snacks (the packaging reads "Swerve's!" in large orange letters that start large and become smaller as they curve diagonally across the top, which screams 'this product has never interacted with a marketing team'). Jazz procures the snacks for free by reaching into the fist-sized hole that has been punched through the clear plastic shielding.

"-but how did you come back?" Optimus concludes.

"We've become adept universe-jumpers," Ultra Magnus explains. "It becomes easier with practice."

"Universe-jumping becomes easier with practice?" whispers Fiber. Grinder, sitting beside him, dutifully notates this sage piece of wisdom on his meeting-notes datapad. They had left the rest of their crew to the Lost Light folks, who had promised to show them their bar. Killjoy had promptly phoned the Alimenta to let her crew know that a fully stocked bar had just landed some few kilometers away in the desert, and by now they must be having a grand old time. Jazz munches on the oil-flavored mystery snack and tries not to be jealous.

"We understand you must have a lot of questions," says the new Megatron. "But it really is quite simple. We found the other Universe to be a bit dull, and Brainstorm wanted to experiment with Universe-jumping, and then we received a message from your Universe's Brainstorm which informed us that I - that your Megatron - could use our assistance. So we decided to return to this Universe for a brief time."

"Jazz," says Ultra Magnus. "Please do not steal the snacks."

"They are just sitting there."

"I want some snacks," says Killjoy, so Jazz throws him a bag, and then one to Fiber for good measure. Rodimus makes grabby hands, so Jazz supplies him with stolen merchandise as well.

Rodimus catches it easily, pulls the packaging open, and then announces: "So sick that you guys didn't give Megatron over. We totally thought he was gonners. What happened?"

"I removed him from the Lost Light without the Galactic Council's knowledge," Optimus says, as Jazz replies:

"We stole him."

"It worked out real great," mutters Snowbank. Fiber shakes her helm at him.

Megatron - his Megatron - sighs. "Unfortunately, Optimus's intervention altered Cybertron's stance on extraditing prisoners to foreign powers. While I could sacrifice myself in this instance, no agent of Cybertron can force me to do so. And I do not wish to. There are new complicating factors. We need another exit strategy."

"And that's us!" chimes Rodimus. "Fantabulous. We've totally got space for you - lost a ton of folks to this random moon back home, long story-"

"They are alive," Ultra Magnus injects, seeing the look of concern Optimus and Grinder had been sharing.

"We can totally ferry you back to Cybertron, no problem."

"It is not just us." Optimus pulls a datapad from his subspace and slides it over to where Ultra Magnus and Megatron are sitting. "That is the inventory list for the first shipment of energon from Waleria to Cybertron, which we paid for with our official acknowledgment of Waleria's independence and a cycle's use of our planet protector. We need to ensure the safe and quick movement of these materials from here to Cybertron."

Rodimus pops a chip into his mouth and talks as he chews. "We've got space for energon, no problem."

Both Ultra Magnus and Megatron, who is reading over his shoulder, make hesitant sounds. They pale slightly, then glance at each other, then back at the datapad.

"We can move it safely," Ultra Magnus says.

"Theoretically," Adds Megatron, and they trade back and forth like that for the rest of their response.

"The ship is physically capable of transporting these materials."

"But our crew is a curious bunch. We're curious. We have curiosity-" Rodimus chimes in, just before Megatron adds:

"I have learned that technical capability and a professional determination on my own and Ultra Magnus's parts do not necessarily ensure success."

"Locking the cargo bay doors increases the odds of a break-in by 82%. Placing a guard in front of the cargo bay increases them by 142%"

"My crew loves cool rooms filled with weird shit-" Rodimus peers over Ultra Magnus's shoulder too, though he has to rise to the tops of his pedes to do so and he must brace himself on the back of Megatron's chair to avoid toppling over. "What weird shit are we gett-" he interrupts himself with a long whistle. "Oh, slag. Hmm. Well, I'm not one to turn down a challenge, of course, but-"

"That is a lot of toxic energon," says other Megatron. "And we have some very curious mechs under our command."

Jazz interrupts the following brief moment of silence by loudly crunching on a chip. The noise does as intended, signaling Optimus to stop flicking his optics between Megatron and Ultra Magnus like he was having some sort of jealous epiphany. His recovery is swift.

"These materials are currently being held in an unguarded warehouse on a planet surrounded by the Galactic Council and, likely, the Black Box Consortia," he says.

"And we will get them safely to Cybertron," Ultra Magnus declares. Megatron snorts.

"Just, probably not when we anticipated, and probably not in the correct amounts, and perhaps we will all be slightly singed when we land."

"Yeah!" agrees Rodimus proudly. "Lost Light Crew, on the job!"

Jazz listens to them babble on for another few minutes about security protocols and take-off procedures and not accidentally gassing 300 square kilometers of desert with aereosolized green energon. He finishes his chips, determines that his expertise is not required at the moment, then identifies his next source of entertainment. It is positioned by the exit door, back straight, seeming for all the world like it'd prefer not to be noticed at all. Jazz slips right on over.

"You've been awfully silent," Jazz whispers. Soundwave, who resembles a tortoise in his countenance, remains as resolute as ever. "This is why you could never join our polycule," Jazz comments. "You'd march straight through a desert and not swing by the oasis for a breather. If you never change you never get adventure. Did Megatron tell you about his new best friend on Cybertron? Absolute glitch-case, Primus bless him. Lives in an apartment made out of empty oil barrels."

"Autobot Jazz-" Soundwave begins. Jazz nearly crows in victory. How easy that had been!

"Just Jazz, Autobot Jazz was my father." He grins at the disapproving glint in Soundwave's optic. "Listen, we've involved ourselves in a little back-room colluding, I'm sure we can be on a first name basis."

"Jazz and Soundwave, have only one name."

"What did Megatron get you to agree to?" Jazz asks. Soundwave does not reply. Jazz follows his visor to the new Megatron, and scoffs. "Yeah, two Megatrons that left you. Have you spoken to the new one yet?" Again, no reply.

"You know..." Jazz bites his inner cheek for a moment, and briefly considers the idiocy of what he is about to say. Somewhere along the line, perhaps when Optimus had brought home a stray ex-Decepticon, perhaps when Jazz had walked home with Megatron carrying old trash furniture, perhaps a few weeks ago when he had watched Megatron and Soundwave duck their helms together and had felt no great anxiety for the Universe, but at some point he had stopped viewing Soundwave with anything other than respectful, pitying sympathy. "You know," he decides, "That other Megatron there is nothing like the Megatron that first came home to us. Whatever the Lost Light has been through over there, its changed him just like he's been changed with us. I bet there would be great adventure in the other Universe, if you'd be willing to change."

Soundwave turns sharply to him, then just shakes his helm. You can't save them all, Jazz supposes. He won't push.

"After you drop me off, obviously," he says. "And do whatever you promised Megatron, or Megatron does whatever he promised you. I hope you intend on shoving him on this ship, but he never was one to let things slide. That's fine. Optimus had his solo trip with Megatron, I want mine."

"Alright," says Optimus, with a finality in his tone that draws both Jazz and Soundwave from their conversation. "We have a plan then. Let's begin filling this ship with energon. Snowbank, please coordinate with Megatron - co-captain of the Lost Light - for materials needed on Waleria. Grinder, round up and supervise movement of the energon - recruit Bulkhead for safety checks. You should locate Ratchet and speak with Lighteye about the medical supplies that will be needed here. Megatron, walk with me please."

The meeting disperses; Soundwave fades back through the door like some sort of ghost. Jazz steps to the side and hangs around until Optimus leaves, Megatron in tow. He slips out after them. This will be dramatic, he predicts, so he tags along.

Chapter Text

In the early morning light Optimus watches Jazz roll from their berth and shake recharge off like a wet dog. Instinctively, he raises the blanket over his helm to shield himself from the light and the droplets of sleepiness. Then he turns over, mutters a good morning, and falls back into a heavy recharge.

It is a perfect morning, unspoiled by scheduling. An open day of ease. He might coerce Megatron into a game of Tan, and this time he might finally win. Perhaps they might watch the news and laugh at Starscream's crown. Maybe he would interrogate Megatron about the trash mech and why the metal legs of their new kitchen table retain the barely discernible logos of various large-scale oil machinery production companies. Or maybe he will sleep for another 7 hours.

The day is so full of possibilities, and there is no pressure to begin.

In the kitchen, Megatron is clattering about. It is the most beautiful sound in the world. Optimus could fall asleep to it and be content forever, and he nearly does.

The blanket is ripped from him like a magician tugging a tablecloth from under a perfect picnic. 

"Jazz?" Optimus asks, even before he has opened his optics. Jazz flicks his nose.

"Megatron has ordered me to collect you," Jazz says. "Because-"

"It is mid-day!" Megatron calls from the kitchen. "We both agreed-"

Jazz shakes his helm and pantomimes Megatron killing him.

"-that we shouldn't let you sleep all day."

"I am all for sleeping all day," Jazz whispers.

"Traitorous sparks are lost to the Well!" Megatron calls.

"There is no way he heard that," mutters Jazz. Optimus laughs. Megatron's voice is replaced by the click of the kitchen window opening, and the quick snaps of cabinets being open and shut.

"I thought you were at work?" Optimus asks. He sits up with a long, deep groan. The sunlight streaming in has turned from warm to hot, and suddenly the blankets are no longer a comfort. He kicks them off. Jazz huffs.

"Took the day off months ago, doltbrain."

"Date night?"

"Well, its not like we can make it to brunch." Jazz places his servos on his hips, and then he slips off his usual insouciance and replaces it with the seriousness of a control-room commander. "It's your day off, my day off...Megatron is in the kitchen..."

"You-" Optimus is entirely awake now. "I thought-"

"I like the mech," Jazz says. "He's grown on me. We've been talking about it. I said yes, didn't I?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"And you went ahead and tried to ask him anyway. Like a bull through a china shop, no style, no pizazz-" Jazz had taken great offense - on Megatron's behalf- to Optimus's fully-stumbled, half-apologetic excuse of a conjunxing proposal. He had intervened with the swiftness of the Autobot military when an organic planet gets a notion about free-trade with the Decepticons. He'd dragged Optimus off by the finial and told the high-eye-browed Megatron that his nemesis was glitching like a mouse.

"Well, he's grown on me," Jazz continues. "And I don't like the idea of you getting all second-conjunxed to the guy first. That's not fair-"

"He hasn't said yes," Optimus reminds him.

"Not to you," Jazz says. "But I, not being a fool, spoke with the crazy trash-mech he's befriended, and I waited for him at his favorite trash table, and I proposed a little something."

Optimus's spark attempts to implode. He sits up and grasps frantically at the covers. "You did what?"

"I proposed to him a few trash sparkmates to complete the collection," Jazz says, with a self-satisfactory grin. "Believe it or not, not once did the words 'for your own protection' exit my cute little mouth."

Optimus's entire frame feels like ice. He recalls a time - or rather, his frame viscerally recalls a time - when, captured on the Western Vosian front, he had spent a half vorn in Decepticon detention. He'd been captured in a state of extreme distress; physical, not emotional. Emotionally the aftermath of that particular battle had been relaxing. His frame, being torn to such shreds, had gone unrecognized by the Decepticon sweepers. They had dragged him to a prison complex and subjected him to the standard routine of mid-level tortures. One had been an unimaginative combination of freezing temperatures and electric pulses, which had served to lock his mangled frame into immobility. It might have ben horrendous, had he not been practically comatose at the time.

"And how did he respond?" Optimus asks, feeling like the victim of an unimaginative Decepticon torturer.

Jazz is utterly unaware of Optimus's terror. He'd always admired Jazz's ability to be thoroughly vulnerable in the least vulnerable of complexions. Russian Roulette, Jazz had taught him, is the spy's life. He imagines a denial would only be one bullet in the cylinder to him, and so he had probably maintained a calm and poised demeanor the entire proposal. No stuttering for him. No apologizing either. Optimus is grateful he has handled it.

"Well, he didn't run away," Jazz replies, jerking his helm towards the door. "He's making breakfast. Something 'healthy', he says, because he threw our Titan Master Crunch out the window-"

"He did?"

"Yes!" Jazz sings. "That crazy old mech did. I'd love to conjunx him."

"You would?"

Optimus thinks the whirring of his processor must be audible. He can hear it, certainly. It is so loud that Megatron can probably hear it too, over the clattering and thumping of breakfast being made.

"You don't think it was crazy of me to suggest it?"

Jazz waves him away; waves him away, as if such concerns are like the second-guessing of energon toppings already ordered. "You are crazier than a bat outta hell, babe," he says. "But I'm not too big a fool to see where this was always headed. Do you know what my goal in our relationship has always been?"

"…to make us both happy?" Optimus guesses.

"To make sure your goals are achievable and not stupid," Jazz replies. "Which is a really difficult combination for you, mech."

"And to be happy?"

"I'm always happy," Jazz says. "I don't need you for that. But you help."

"I love you," Optimus says. Jazz smiles, leans down, and plants one right on his lips.

"I love you too. Please try not to frag this up. We are going to sit down at our breakfast table, eat whatever disgusting thing he tells us to, and then we are going to discuss the logistics of a young spark-bond."

"Alright," Optimus agrees, because he certainly could not disagree. Still, he must admit that Jazz's plan for the day flows over and past him like a stream after a spring rain, and he is a sleepy rock that does not quite understand where he might be carried off to. "What do you mean by the logistics?"

Jazz removes his visor so that he can pointedly roll his optics, a master's magnum opus of an eye-roll, a coronas to the heavens sort of eye-roll. Then he slips his visor back on and flicks Optimus on the nose.

"I am a spy," he explains. "And you will be an ambassador, and an idiot on top. This spark bond is gonna be one long exercise in matrimonial secret-keeping. We need ourselves a funky, secret-friendly spark bond."

"Oh," Optimus says. His processor catches up a moment later. "We will have to keep the bond integration at a low level, and-" he becomes excited. Even in discussing the limitations of their bond, he is overwhelmed by the appearance of it, like a rising sun over the horizon casting a promising orange glow. He knows, as a wartime general, that spark bonds can be broken. But as a mech once of a peaceful Cybertron, he cannot imagine it as anything other than the perfect weapon against separation.

But Jazz interrupts him. "Megatron cleaned the table," he says. "Enthusiastically. Come on, get up, let's go sign our lives away over a healthy breakfast, Primus forbid." He grins fondly as he speaks, and then he grabs Optimus's shoulder and yanks with all the force in his relatively tiny body, until Optimus is standing on his own two pedes and grinning all over.

"You forgot to mention that your ride was from another Universe," Optimus accuses, in his best non-accusatory voice. It is not particularly successful, even he can tell. He feels petulant, and ashamed of that petulance, and still he cannot stop himself from being childishly annoyed about the second Lost Light which has parked itself on the sand.

Perhaps it is because he had so thoroughly investigated their own slagged Lost Light. He had certified its irrelevance, only to have a fragging clone land before him. His deepest, cruelest self wishes the damned thing would sink bridge-window deep into the sand like Swindle's doll-smuggling ship.

"It may have slipped my mind," replies Megatron. Jazz is entertained, and makes that abundantly clear.

"We have done nothing for two weeks! And really, don't be so hypocritical, your ride was a Decepticon."

Hypocrisy be damned. If this is hypocrisy, Optimus wants to be a hypocrite. He had not hidden Soundwave's existence for their entire marriage, had he?

"I don't think it did," Optimus says over his shoulder. He is disembarking them, for his own sanity. "Slip your mind, I mean. I think you did not want to tell us."

Megatron sighs and then, with an outrageous audacity that is normally endearing, rolls his optics. "I did not know if they existed until recently. Before Brainstorm managed a connection, we had no idea whether our other selves actually came into being. It seemed foolish to bring up the possibility of it, especially when the intention was for them to stay there."

"Aww, come on," Jazz interjects. "I know you, strategic thinker. You wanted something in your back pocket."

"In my subspace," Megatron says in way of admission. "You can hardly blame me for that."

"No, we can't," Jazz agrees. His enunciation is pointed, and pointed directly at Optimus. 

Optimus huffs. They've reached the end of the boarding bridge, and he places his pede directly into the burning sand. He had forgotten its heat during his brief stay inside the cool conference room. He hisses and then, in exhausted apathy, sighs.

"That was a lot of emotion there, buddy," says Jazz. "Got something to say?"

"I think that a bond means that -" he pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts, which are wild and unruly in their unprimeliness, then continues. "That at the very least, we should not be keeping secrets of an existential nature."

"Ha!"

Megatron enters the sand next, and Optimus turns around to watch his face. But he was warned by Optimus's discomposure, and sinks down with nary a grimace. "I think I handled Soundwave fairly well. Let us take this in stride, as Jazz has."

"It's kinda cool," says Jazz. Optimus doesn't know when Jazz and Megatron had become the two peas in a pod, when Jazz had been so against his arrival in the first place. Speaking of hypocrisy! Had it not been only a week ago that Jazz had cautioned against including Megatron in their political discussions. He had feared that Megatron would set his pedes in the midst of an Inquiek civil war and refuse to budge. But now he is perfectly fine with Megatron's other-self touching down here with more firepower than anything else on the planet.

Optimus invents, holds himself tight, then releases everything. He takes a moment to appraise himself, the hot sand, his command, and the bitter feeling of seeing the Lost Light, with its free and thriving Megatron. "I believe that this entire trip - our travels and our travails, could be filmed and shown as a public service announcement about the evils of secret-keeping," he says.

"He's got jokes now," Jazz tells Megatron. Megatron snorts, but Optimus can tell it is not in bad faith. Jazz remains on the end of the ramp, and he leans out to grab at Megatron's plating. He maneuvers him - as Optimus watches and Megatron complies. With his hands he gently turns him about, so that Megatron presents his back to Jazz. Jazz jumps and, midair, wraps his arms around Megatron's neck. Megatron dutifully catches his legs with his arms.

Optimus's entire frame rejects the notion of anger when confronted with the sight of Megatron walking over to him, pulling his pedes through the sand, Jazz wrapped around his back. Still, he clings to his annoyance, which is always an easy emotion to maintain around his mates. 

"Megatron, all I ask is that next time you clone yourself to another dimension, you inform me of that sometime before I am confronted with your alternate ship's command."

"Hush," says Jazz. "Don't listen to him, Megatron, he's only jealous."

"I am not jealous!" retorts Optimus, with a revealing intensity of tone. He flushes. "I am not jealous. Jealous of what?"

He can tell Jazz is rolling his optics, even beneath the visor. "Other you is doing very well, oh ride of mine. I am very proud of you."

"Of me?" Asks Megatron.

"Yes, and the other one. Ultra Magnus is taking very good care of you."

Now it is Megatron's turn to flush. "I don't quite understand your implication," he starts. Optimus cuts him off.

"I am sure there is nothing improper going on between the Lost Light command," he says, like an order.

"Nothin' improper. Maybe some sex-"

"Alright!" Optimus says. "I am not jealous, I am annoyed. I am annoyed that Megatron cloned himself and did not think it important enough to share-"

"It is not quite a clone-"

"And that-" Optimus huffs to the sand and the sky, which is so hot it might as well be more sand. "And I think I deserved to know that information before I re-ordered Cybertron's galactic alliances to pull him off that ship."

"He doesn't owe us everything," Jazz replies. "We have the most basic of spark bonds because I wont tell anyone everything. What makes this secret any worse than anything else?"

"It is another version of himself, enjoying command in a Universe without any version of us-"

"Hello!" cries Megatron. "I am here - I am not just Jazz's camel-"

"Camel," says Jazz. "15 credits."

"You make up the cost of a human reference each time," Megatron retorts. "It is the most unpredictably fluctuating currency in the Universe. And I must say that of all the secrets I've kept, this is the most beneficial to you. Practically banal in terms of my other attempts at politicking. Can we please remove ourselves from the middle of this Primus-forsaken desert? Pick a destination - the Alimenta or the Lost Light, but if you two are going to fight, I would like you to do it in a more comfortable location."

Like a scolding over a vase broken by a runaway baseball, that spoils all the fun in fighting. Optimus deflates, and feels Jazz do the same.

"Fine," he says, turning towards Balera. "I am going to see to getting the volatile energons on board."

"Fine," says Jazz. "We are going back on the Lost Light. I want to watch our crew get dragged out of a bar."

"Fine," repeats Optimus.

"Fine."

"Oh, for Pit's sake!" Megatron shouts. He turns about and marches back to the boarding ramp. "I don't even want to go to the other Universe. It was just a escape plan. I have a dozen. You want me to tell you every little gadget I have shoved in my subspace-" now he is muttering, but with enough volume to allow Optimus to hear, and he graciously raises his voice as he marches, so that Optimus is never left out.

"Yes, I do-" says Jazz, but Megatron won't tell him.

Grinder does a fine job sobering up the crew and then marching them off to their respective duties. The Walerians provide them with 6 large material-transport vehicles and several guards headed by Talik to assist in lugging the 'alternative' energons to the Lost Light. By the time Optimus has finished procuring this assistance, Grinder has rounded up Dicer, Killjoy,  Highpass, Alloy, and Bulkhead to handle the mission. Optimus, still deeply uncomfortable with the idea of an unprotected warehouse filled with highly toxic, unstable materials, takes charge from there. He is even more uncomfortable with the realities of moving such materials over the sand dunes at high speed. One clumsy move...

"On second thought," he says, "Alloy...perhaps your skills would be best employed in helping Grinder to identify resource needs for the future Cybertronian Embassy to Waleria."

"Right on," Alloy replies. "The Alimenta only has medical supplies for three. I better go into the air conditioned hub and sort through all that."

"Oh come on," Highpass complains, as Alloy flashes two thumbs up and makes a hasty retreat. "I can be a clumsy fool too. I can't walk in sand."

Killjoy claps their mulish visa secretary on the shoulder. "Highpass, my mech, this is a good vibes only kinda team."

"The transport vehicles might have air cooling systems," Optimus suggests. With any luck, they will.

They do not.

"Hazardous working conditions," are the first words out of Highpass's mouth when they emerge from their various vehicles. Optimus's vehicle had taken the tail end of their line, so that all the Cybertronians had ample time to stare into the warehouse's concerning abyss before he could attempt any sort of comforting speech.

"Look at the job you fucking picked," Dicer replies.

"Yeah, it's not great," agrees Bulkhead. Optimus, being somewhat out of his depth in those areas concerning hazardous materials transport, approaches their resident engineer. 

"Do you have any safety advice for the Walerian drivers?" He asks. "They are not aware of how these energons interact with Cybertronian systems, and I would like to keep it that way."

Bulkhead nods in  understanding. "Yeah, just remind them its all generally explosive. We've got six trailers, they can take their time on the drive because we'll be moving slow while loading."

Optimus eyes their Cybertronian group. "You should tell our loading crew that as well," he says. Bulkhead snorts.

"I'll get right on that." He stands there for a moment longer, hesitating, and then adds in a rush: "Hey, listen, Jazz and I go way back, and I'm just a bit - he and err, Megatron, they've been giving each other these odd looks, and-"

Optimus frowns like Ultra Magnus - disapproving, and concerned about misalignment in procedure. "They appear to be on perfectly good terms," he says. More than perfectly good. Teaming up against him levels of in-sync.

"No, I mean - they seem fine," Bulkhead corrects. He looks askance, then back, then shuffles about awkwardly. "Seem perfectly dandy, buddy buddy. Whatever is going on with all of you-"

"We are conjunxed," Optimus informs him, and despite everything he swells with pride at the words.

"Yeah," agrees Bulkhead. "And Jazz is normal, ya know. But they've been giving each other these looks, like there's a plan that I don't know about. I won't tell anyone, but I gotta know, 'cuz I'm scheduled to be out here for vorn and if you guys are gonna pull a fast one on the GC and send the Lost Light off with only half of ya, that changes the math on the supplies, you know?"

"Bulkhead..." Optimus trails off, caught between an easy denial and a growing suspicion. "Have you overheard Jazz and Megatron discussing plans to remain on Waleria."

Bulkhead shakes his helm. "No, but I've heard them making these teasing comments, and - the other day Megatron asked Jazz if he was 'that particularly troublesome turbomouse after a piece of Inquiek cheese', and Jazz said that was worth six credits for a half-reference. And they've been talking about those two Inquiek you've got hidden away at base. One of them wants to join the revolution, but the girl Megatron insists has got to go back to Inquila. So what's the plan?"

"The plan," Optimus replies professionally, "is to safely move this energon to the Lost Light, install Snowbank as the acting ambassador to Waleria, and remove ourselves from this planet. Do not worry about supplies, Bulkhead, and do not worry about Jazz. All is well."

Bulkhead does not look particularly convinced, but neither does Optimus. His sparkmates, he knows all too well, are insane people. Insane people on whom he has not quite secured his leash. Primus almighty, but Megatron has a death wish. And had it not been Megatron who had mentioned Jazz's eagerness to finish the job on Inquila?

Still, he will not jump to conclusions. He will fill the transport trucks.

And he does for several hours, truck after truck. And with each truck he fills the more certain he is that his sparkmates have another secret. After all, were secrets not built into the foundation of their bond?

Snowbank finds him overseeing the delivery around mid-day. "They've got a lift-off plan," he says. "Rodimus wants to - Primus help you all - tell that blue Galactic Council representative that the Lost Light wants to hand over their Megatron in exchange for peaceful admission to the Council. Then, with the five split seconds of confusion that causes, he wants to deactivate the planet protector, leave the atmosphere, and enter a jump to the other Universe. Apparently they doubt the Lost Light can outpace the little speed-racers, and you don't want a Cybertronian ship shooting down even the tiniest GC vessel."

"No," agrees Optimus. "We do not. I suppose they intend to return us to this Universe closer to home?"

Snowbank snorts. "It sounds entirely insane. I don't envy you lot."

Optimus smiles wryly. "You are left with sand."

"I don't mind sand," says Snowbank. They watch Dicer and Killjoy carefully pass moss green cubes into the transport trailer. "Say, don't we get to keep a cook?" he asks.

"You have a cook," says Optimus. "On the Alimenta."

"Bah," says Snowbank, which just about sums everything up.

The brief interlude with Snowbank only highlights his frustrations. He thinks that a day prior, if he had heard of a plan that even referenced submitting Megatron to the Galactic Council's attentions, he would have marched to the Lost Light and made his objections firmly known. There would be no good to come from offering Megatron like a carrot to a donkey, only to snatch him away again. It would only enrage their most powerful enemy.

But if Megatron was truly not to be on that ship, if Megatron were to be here, shrugging off all the responsibilities of their command, then convincing the Galactic Council that he is instead on a universe-hopping renegade ship...

And if the GC ships are rushing after a phantom, they are left with the witless, slow ships of the Inquiek, and in the corner, watching, their more elusive enemy. An elusive enemy whose foothold in the region had been routed by Megatron and Jazz, while Optimus had been consorting with Soundwave. Their spies ousted or dead, their civil war crumbling to dust as the weapons shipments cease.

Ah, Optimus thinks. Megatron would have to stay. How could he be so blind? In killing the chameleon they had flicked over the black bishop, leaving little else but pawns to protect the king. The Secretary was undoubtedly handling the situation and - and - ah, they had dragged half of Inquila's fleet here. Megatron's plans were in motion, and Optimus was a fool; of course Megatron must stay, because the war had been ended and neither the Black Box nor the Galactic Council had won. It was Megatron, all the way down. He has puppeteered the ascendancy of a politician who claims she will end the subjugation of half of Inquila. And Megatron will never trust her to do so. Not with Waleria on the line.

For Waleria to be free, Inquila must either be divided or decisive in its desire for peace. And a free Waleria is a requirement for stable energon trade. Yes, this is Optimus's duty too.

He will have to confront them about their plot, then. They will need a plan. Rodimus must be informed, and-

He is getting ahead of himself. But he cannot stop mulling it over in his helm. The sun beats down on him, the transport vehicles return and are filled, the warehouse empties itself slowly. No one has tripped, no one has exploded, and perhaps for once they have been gifted a modicum of luck. Snowbank has left. Optimus hands the supervisory position over to Dicer.

"It is energon," he tells her. "This is your wheelhouse."

"You think you're funny," she says. "Well, you aren't. If someone dies, I'm not taking responsibility. I will tell the lawyers that you abandoned post to go smoke a cygar. Your career will never recover."

"Alright, you do that," Optimus tells her. He catches a ride to the Lost Light on the next transport out.

It is an Autobot nightmare and a Prime's dream. Two Megatrons. Optimus has chosen not to dwell too deeply on the way they shift their plating in uncanny symmetry, the way their noses are crooked in just the same manner, the easy way they glance over at each other, like the sight of themselves is nothing unusual. He simply doesn't have the time.

Still, he is brought to a pause now, before the empty doorway. He had been directed back to the same meeting room, where Megatron sits, mirrored by himself at the opposite end of the table. And for a worrying moment, Optimus cannot tell his Megatron from the other. It has not been so many years since they were apart, or since they became two. He could not say what it is that finally allows him to differentiate them; a nick of the armor, or a pull from the spark too subtle to recognize consciously but still there, still calling to him. It is as odd as ever to think that one Megatron is his, and another is not.

 They are an uncanny pair, both tense as if they had been arguing and were only now beginning to cool their engines, and that is what had made him pause. Their servos are placed upon the table like those of caught criminals, visibly empty, digits spread on the cool metal.

"Have they tried again?" Megatron - his Megatron - asks. "With the Matrices?"

"Why bother?" replies the other. "No one wants to know. Rodimus has not told. Primus himself has granted our reform, claims a Prime."

Megatron snorts. "Sure." There is a long moment of silence. Optimus wonders what, precisely, they are referring to. Another Lost Light secret. He will have to ask, one day, when the more egregious secrets have diminished into history. "I only wonder if another decade could have done it."

The other Megatron laughs. "You won't find solace in the bauble," he says. "If the Matrix called us unworthy, that is what we are. Fine then. We can do what we can. The only judgment that matters comes from inside you."

"I heard similar advice recently from a mech who has glitched his processor to the Pits."

"From another mech who has glitched his processor to the Pits."

Now it is his Megatron's turn to laugh. But then he says: "I was determined to die." Optimus understands this, has always known this, and still hates to hear it all the same. "Then Optimus showed up. I thought - if anyone could stop me-"

"Ha! And now you find yourself running off, and wonder if the mech you hoped could keep you in check is hopeless against your stubbornness?"

"Our stubbornness."

Another laugh. "There is no one in the Universe that can change you or stop you, except yourself. I don't envy you. There are few temptations in the other Universe."

"It is the right thing to do," his Megatron declares. Staying, Optimus thinks he must be referring to. "I started something on Inquila. The Secretary is in a dangerous position; with the Black Box Consortia's trade outfit unearthed, there is only a brief moment of confusion before the GC-aligned elite consolidate power. Unless I can get the spy to flip on his masters, convince the housekeeper to testify-"

The other Megatron interrupts, smiling with a glibness equal to his tone. "If there is one thing I have learned on this slagged ship, it is that meddling in others' affairs is a perfectly Autobot thing to do, but only if you do it as a team." He leans forward and adopts a more serious look. "As much as we want to believe that there is a secret path to redemption, steady and straight, and that all we must do to walk it is to avoid all harm, we misunderstand the nature of goodness. It is not enough to avoid harm, we must continue always to pursue that which is good."

"I know," agrees Megatron, simply. There is a brief moment, then, when Optimus feels overwhelmingly dizzy. His processor has kept the words of the conversation separate from the rest of himself, but now it begins the process of integration. Filing, connection, implication, reaction. But he is caught someplace in implication, and has no reaction except to keep himself by the door. Occasionally he had risked a glance inside, he cannot again. It makes him dizzy.

"We read the same philosophies, in the Functionist Universe."

"Yes. You know, being the one that left, I often feel as though I am running away."

"We did not know Optimus would come for me."

"I think it is better to stay and fight for the people you wish to free. Like he did. Where are the mechs you have shared our spark with? Did not one of them say 'freedom is the right of all sentient beings'? Does he not agree that the rural Inquilan districts should be free?"

"I have hurt him. He wants to run from this fight now, to protect me. He does not want to stay where I can be taken by the Council."

"If these organics are sentient, then he must believe their freedom worth it."

"Perhaps not worth me."

There is a disapproving hum. "For what it is worth, which is little to none, my opinion is this: do not run, but do not throw away the life you have made. Let Optimus go where he will go. He is a big bot, he can make his own decisions. What about Jazz?"

"Jazz... I think if Optimus tells Jazz to leave, he will. I believe he is trying to avoid a direct order. He wants to avenge his informant. He wants to return to Inquila. I do not know if that is morality, or vengeful desire."

"So it will be the two of you then, good. We will swing back in a Cybertronian year - that will be enough time to restock on your Cybertron before returning. We won't stay long - and we will not let any of the crew off the ship. Will you keep Soundwave with you?"

"I will try. And if I can, will you take him?"

"I will certainly try," says Megatron.

Optimus will have to stay too. That is his first thought. There is betrayal, there, and anger. He is angry with his sparkmates, so angry, so unbelievably angry. He wants to spit, and turn away, and abandon them on this stupid organic planet forever. He brought them here, he brought them together, and now they abandon him for their own ridiculous ambitions! He ought to ignore their ploys until the very minute they stop at the bottom of the boarding ramp, force them to look him in the optic and espouse another of their ridiculous excuses. They can wallow in their guilt, and Optimus will not forgive them. Leave them to run their own slagged revolution. Optimus has a duty to see his crew returned home and an energon trade route established. If Megatron wants to betray him, risk his life after everything Optimus did to keep him safe - if Jazz wants to, to - and he cannot understand what would inspire Jazz to this sort of, of coup!

But his first real thought, beyond childish anger, is that he will have to stay too. It settles down in him like a stone sinks in the sea, to the core of him, utterly certain. If they return to Inquila, he will follow, just as they followed him there before. He will be so slagging angry, and righteously justified in it; all his scheming forgiven by their greater sins; but he will follow.

He finds Soundwave. It is a difficult task, as Soundwave is in the last place Optimus thinks to look. He is at Swerve's, nursing a drink with Jazz.

"Yo," Jazz greets him, when Soundwave does not. They are occupying one of Swerve's booths, paying little attention to the regular clientele, who are doing a similarly excellent job of paying little attention to them. 

"Jazz," Optimus replies, extending his field in that regular 'my apologies for the politically polite hello, I'd rather not use my usual endearments in front of our enemy' sort of way. "You've had your turn plotting away with the Decepticon. I believe Soundwave has completed the circle and it is my turn once more. Would you go interrupt the meeting of Megatron minds happening in the conference room? I'd like your seat."

Jazz snorts appropriately, and slides from the booth and slaps Optimus on the back as he leaves. "I'll go see about a Megatron sandwich," he says, not lewdly but with lewd intent. Soundwave twitches. When Jazz has left the establishment, Optimus slides into the booth.

"I-" he begins, and is immediately cut off by the raising of Soundwave's hand. It holds level, palm towards him, in what might have been an amicable greeting or a call for a kiss in any other circumstance but which is, in this one, a command to stop.

"Soundwave: has already made a deal with Optimus Prime. Despite recent events, Soundwave is not an Autobot ferryman."

"Well," Optimus fumbles for a moment, but recovers swiftly. "It is not so much a deal then, as a statement of fact."

Soundwave crooks his helm, pauses, then sighs. He lifts his servo so that the palm faces the ceiling, and he makes an arc about him as if to point at the entirety of the Lost Light, enveloping them. "Optimus Prime has a responsibility to Cybertron. He fails it, over and over. He is a rogue."

"And you are betraying the Decepticon cause to be here," Optimus says. "What do you get out of that?"

Soundwave says nothing, just waves his servo in that same arc.

Chapter Text

Swindle's capitalist porno-mag of a ship sails as smoothly as a cargo ship built with ill-gotten accessories can. When it occasionally jerks oddly, Megatron lets his frame sway with the motion, into Soundwave's space.

The captain's office is of a standard size for a minicon captain, and might as well be a torture cell to two large warframes in the middle of a silent standoff. There is a desk that faces a grand window, like the one on the bridge. Soundwave sits behind it on a chair stolen from someplace else, wallowing in discontent, and Megatron stands beside him - for where else is there to stand? - and feels his weight shift towards Soundwave and away again with every little jolt.

It is like placing two cautious, flea-bitten, street-starved dogs in a kennel. Too tired to fight, but in too close quarters to avoid it, they have long since fallen into the inertia of avoidance. Megatron finally breaches it with an uncharacteristic gentleness, and lets his servo fall onto the back of Soundwave's chair.

Outside, Optimus and Jazz and the guards are all waiting. Megatron knows they are; nosiness is a survival trait and Cybertronians are survivors. He recalls what he had planned to say, back when he had been stubbornly refusing to budge from the bar counter. He will apologize; he is practiced at the art of apology now, even without Optimus to write his speeches for him. Soundwave has come a long way for a single conversation, even if Megatron had not asked him to do so.

Optimus. What a slagger. Traitors, the lot of them; Soundwave to the Decepticons and Optimus to him.

He had planned a sincere apology, and a thank you, and a stubborn resistance to further conversation, thus ensuring they would both leave the room superbly unsatisfied and, most importantly, safe. Still, Soundwave does not flinch from the sliding of his servo along the back of the captain's chair. Eventually, two dogs in the kennel, flea-bitten and tired as they are, must bark.

"I am terribly mad at Optimus," Megatron says. He is incapable of letting sleeping dogs lie, it seems. The comment festers. Emptiness passes by them, outside the window.

"You are so greatly opposed to conversing with me?" Soundwave replies, eventually. His voice is, as it always is, static and reedy from disuse. Megatron recalls how he had once considered it something of a virginal voice; coy and inexperienced. But Soundwave is not a virginal mech, at least not in the moral sense.

"Neither of us is prone to sentiment," Megatron responds gruffly. On the topic of virgins, his approach to the conversation is one of quick climax. Let it be over and done with, and with the least harm to them both.

"Clearly that is no longer true. Megatron has bonded."

"That is true."

In a rare show of non-confrontation, their gazes are locked on the stars. The ship is moving too quickly for an intra-system cargo hauler, and too slowly for an inter-system cargo hauler, and all Megatron can think to say is:

"It must have been a miserably dull flight here, old friend."

"I am familiar with misery. And more recently, with dullness as well." It is rare to hear Soundwave speak so much. It is a gift, because if he had ill intent, Megatron would never be granted a word. Still, it is not a gift to be taken lightly.

"For what it is worth," Megatron says, "I wish you had come with me." Though hidden by his visor, the look Soundwave gives him is scathing. He does not follow it up with words, so Megatron knows he has misstepped.

"I do," he repeats. "But I thought I was going to die." Again, Soundwave looks at him as though no truth had ever rolled off his glossa. Megatron keeps his gaze locked on the stars, and on Soundwave's reflection in the hexagon-paneled glass. Eventually, his lack of a reply forces Soundwave to speak.

"Slag," is all he says.

"I don't - obviously I had a plan," Megatron rejoins, feeling suddenly frustrated. "Many plans. And I procrastinated, and I weaseled my way out of a quick execution. But I was going to die for my crimes, Soundwave. Would you have joined me?" And he had intended it to come out as an argument, but instead it is a question.

Soundwave says nothing. Megatron wonders if he has considered this before, imagined what fate they could have had if only Megatron had been honest. If just for once in his terrible, decaying life he had thought about those who would follow him backwards into a black hole. Hung there for an eternity, Soundwave would have spent it with him.

Soundwave stands and turns to him then, and for once they are not looking into the star-studded Universe, ready to be owned, but at each other. Megatron is briefly astounded by the hope of the moment here. That Soundwave could forgive him, could show up to ferry them on this fool's mission of theirs, and that Megatron could ask him-

Soundwave's knee collides with the flat panes of Megatron's middle. The clang echoes through the room, followed by the grunt that escapes Megatron's clenched lips.

He expects a second blow, but it never comes. Soundwave disentangles himself from the mess that is Megatron's frame and field. He steps back, and his entire being becomes radiant with satisfaction. It does not last long - only the moment it takes Megatron to right himself, unclench his jaw, and ex-vent the pain away.

"I deserved that," Megatron readily admits.

"You want my help," Soundwave accuses.

"Optimus did."

"No." Soundwave steps forward once more, points a finger at Megatron's thick helm. "You have a request."

"So I do.”

"You are no longer a Decepticon. You are a foreign thing." Soundwave does not imbue emotion into his words; it is not in his nature. But such sentences can not be heard gently, and despite its revelatory nature Megatron must admit that to be foreign to Soundwave is a blow much harder than the one to his stomach.

"Foreign things receive no favors," Soundwave continues. "They barter."

"As Optimus bartered me," Megatron says.

"He bartered a question. He thought that I would ask you if you ever cared for me, but that is unimportant to me now. I will ask you something else, later." Soundwave had begun a short pace, back and forth behind the captain's desk. It is an unnerving sight, this uncharacteristic outburst of physical emotion. The steady tone of his voice thuds against the inside of Megatron's processor. "If I assist you in your task, you will assist me in mine?"

"To the best of my ability," Megatron agrees. Transactional, then, is how they shall be. He is grateful for it. He waits for Soundwave to elaborate, but he does not.

"We could have won," he says instead.

He shrugs. "I was done."

"Not so done. You should have let the DJD kill you."

"I would have deserved it," Megatron agrees. "But my crew did not. You do not either. Do you see?"

"No," is the simple reply. The angry reply.

It would be like waving the belt in front of the beaten creature, but he would like to sigh. "You said it was unimportant to you now," Megatron reminds him. "Haven't you given up on me?"

"I have loftier goals." Soundwave pulls out the small chair again, and with an angry thunk, sits. The move forces Megatron to circle the table - having made optic contact, they cannot go back to the ease of the window. "None of them could lead the Decepticons," Soundwave continues as Megatron makes his undignified migration.

"Likely not," Megatron agrees.

"And neither can I."

"Soundwave-"

Soundwave raises his servo. "My request to you," he says, "Is that you will finally do as you always should have done. You will place your Decepticons ahead of yourself. You struggle here to free organics-" he spits this "- from the same fate you have sentenced us to. You will bring us home. You and these Autobots you have given yourself to will survive this pathetic stunt and you will return home, and you will bring the Decepticons home."

"Yes," Megatron promises, though he is not certain how such a feat could be accomplished. He had not known how he might survive thousands of times, and yet had made it so. Now, he even has help. If he is going to to survive this, his victims will need reparations. He would see it done. "They will not be kept away-"

"They will not be converted," Soundwave interrupts. "Corrupted, or degraded. You have fomented coups on two planets in two days, and next you will lay down your life and the lives of your conjunxes to give the Decepticons the home you promised."

"I will not reignite the war," Megatron cautions.

"I do not want you to." Soundwave looks him up and down appraisingly, and obviously. "You are no longer a leader of Decepticons. But neither am I. We will not be subjugated or imprisoned, punished because of your failures and your weakness. You have clearly found your back-strut again somewhere, and you waste it on organics and Prime's foolhardy ambassadorial projects. If you want me to ferry you to Inquila so that you may play the subversive hero once more, you will extend your strategic virtuosity towards those who deserve it."

"Alright," Megatron agrees. "If I survive, it will be my life's mission."

Soundwave is unimpressed. "Have a short life then; we will not wait long."

One day, someday, Megatron will be faced with an extreme challenge in fulfilling this request. But now he finds only relief. He is grateful, overwhelmingly so, that this is what Soundwave has asked of him. When he had chosen not to live, the Decepticons were easy to abandon. When he had chosen to live, it could be so no longer.

"Fine. Good. Soundwave?"

"Yes?"

"I did care," he says. "That is what I wanted to tell you, and you did not ask."

"I did not ask," Soundwave agrees.

"I am selfish and terrible, but I cared."

Soundwave quiets. Sitting behind a comically small desk, straight like Ultra Magnus, strong like Optimus Prime, smart as Jazz, and steady as only Soundwave could be, he is a tired, old mech. It is like looking into a mirror, and for once Megatron does not cringe from it.

"No mech will ever be quite like you," Megatron tells him. "You kept believing when I stopped. I do have a responsibility to my Decepticons. I can never apologize enough for abandoning you."

Soundwave nods shortly, which is Megatron's cue to bow out. There, he thinks with relief, it is done. He stands, comports himself for the optics behind the door, and leaves Soundwave sitting there.

"And my question," Soundwave interrupts, just as his servo touches the door. Megatron turns.

"Yes?"

"Bartered from Optimus-" Soundwave stands once more, his steadfast frame outlined by the window-lights. He pauses, holds himself steady and straight in front of Megatron, his servos by his thighs. "My question," he continues. "When we have finished this, and you have returned to your new place on Cybertron, and the Decepticons are no more. Will you kill me?"

Megatron knocks three times on the concrete beside the cracked compound door. "Shobu?" he asks into the dark interior. The swishing sounds of a moving organic padding across the floor emanate from within, along with the thump-thump-dragging of the Inquiek gait. Shobu's snout appears at the door, and she blinks wide-eyed in the dim evening sunlight. As he watches, her eyes alter themselves like optics focusing into the distance. She looks up at him.

"Mr. Megatron," she greets. "Sorry, I'm in sleeping clothes."

Megatron had noticed no such thing. A quick inspection reveals that her clothing is a fuzzier material than her usual attire. "Is that a problem?" he asks. She tilts her helm.

"No, it's just a bit rude."

"I wear no clothes," he reminds her. "Will you speak with me for a moment?" She nods and steps forward. He takes an accommodating step backward and gently closes the door behind her. The concrete wall has turned golden in the evening sun, and light reflects similarly across her grey-green, scaly skin.

"Have the Walerians been treating you well?" he asks her.

"They have been nice. I have a bed to sleep in, and clothes, and they feed us. They do not eat what we eat. Talia says this will be a problem. Will this fight end before the food runs out?"

Megatron had not thought of this before. In fact, Megatron might go so far as to say he had never once considered that different organics might consume different foods. They all needed organic materials - they might photosynthesize, or chemosynthesize, but organic things, in his mind, simply ate organic things.

This realisation might force some internal self-analysis and bias adjustment, if only he were not otherwise preoccupied.

"Does Waleria import food from Inquila to feed the Inquiek population?" he asks her. "The population here is not small, there must be local sources of sustenance."

"It is a desert," she says. "They must have some, but Talia says it is not enough. He went to college, he knows these things. And he was speaking with this Inquiek local girl, and she says the local farms rely on Inquiek stock anyway."

Megatron files this information away, another disaster for another time. It is something that should be brought up to the Secretary, but cleverly. It will not do to expose such a weakness, and yet, if there is to be any trade between the planets, she would be the most reasonable executor.

"You will be back on Inquila soon," Megatron reassures her. "That is what I must speak with you about."

Shobu crosses her tiny arms around her body, like a hug from a minicon. "We are going home?"

"Yes, but Shobu-" he wonders briefly if he should ask her to sit. He will not rely on intimidation to achieve his goal, and she has no Autobot-like sense of duty to appeal to, but perhaps if she sat it might assist him in appealing to her emotions. Sadly, there is no place to sit in the dirt-packed, rubble-lined street of the power processing station.

"I require your help," he continues. Your Secretary of Alien Affairs requires your aid. She needs your testimony to corroborate her charge against the Chief of Planetary Affairs, to clear you of the attempted assassination of my conjunxes and I."

Shobu's feathers fall flat against her head. "We left Inquila because he was going to harm me. And you would like me to testify against him?"

It is the obvious question. He has already considered his reply. "Shobu," he begins imploringly, "Do you recall when I told you that you had provided me with information that would be used to foil his plans?"

"To foil?"

"To prevent him from hurting others."

"Ye-es," Shobu says, but draws the two syllables out uncertainly.

"Shobu, That information was priceless. Now, the Secretary needs help putting him away for good. It is the only way you can safely return home."

"It doesn't seem very safe," she replies, showing at least a modicum of common sense. Her eyes, if Megatron can be trusted to read them correctly, reveal an additional suspicion of danger. He is forced to admit that, perhaps, the hapless girl is getting cleverer. Hopefully not too clever, as clever organics have the nasty habit of hating him.

"It is not," he replies truthfully, having decided before not to stray too far from honesty for this dishonest task. "Which is precisely why I will be going with you."

She blinks once, then twice, which is only remarkable in that the action usually only occurs thrice an hour. "You are leaving for Cybertron! On the large ship. Everybody knows that."

"No," he promises, utilizing that particularly effective Optimus-ian technique of somber eye contact. "I will be leaving with you secretly, back to Inquila. We brought you here for the worst of it, you understand - what has happened here-" he gestures toward the various blast marks on the walls and the newly replaced doors and the previously-sparking electric lines, "has been happening on Inquila as well, in the other districts. We were afraid for you. But now we need you to return and help us put the Chiefs away for what they have done."

"But I still don't understand it!" she cries. "I did nothing! Why would they accuse me of trying to kill you?"

"Because they-" Megatron pauses for a moment, trying to distill the complexities of proxy wars down to something fit for a conversation outside an open door, in the midst of a broken power plant. "They were trying to do a lot of things, Shobu. They wanted to protect the identity of their real spy. They wanted to obfuscate the truth about the Black Box Consortia - you understand who that is?'

"Yes," she says. "Talia has told me about them. The antithesis of the Galactic Council, he said. And they are on Cybertron, funding the rebels."

"Yes," Megatron confirms. "And they did not want us meddling with the situation. The Chief and his allies prefer war to peace. The position they have been in - receiving power from the Galactic Council and honor from the Inquiek people for fighting the rebels - it was good for them. When the Black Box sent an assassin to kill me, it threatened Cybertronian military involvement. Or at least, my involvement. And when Sonum prevented it, it revealed that they had knowledge of the BBC's activities. Do you understand?"

"If I had been a spy, then Sonum was only doing his job," Shobu says slowly. "But it wasn't me."

"No, it was a chameleon wearing your skin. I suspect they noticed the chameleon had preferred your form for infiltration, and they would have captured you and forced a fake confession from you. But your friend overheard them, and you came to us. Blaming you had an added benefit though, didn't it?"

"Yes," she agrees. "Because he should never have let me anywhere near those parties of his. I am a housekeeper."

"You were a vulnerability," Megatron agrees. "So you understand then, why you need to come?"

Shobu looks askance, and then is quiet for so long that Megatron considers interrupting. But then she says: "Yes. Yes. But only if you are with me. As long as you won't let me be hurt."

"No," Megatron promises. "I won't."

That is the silliest of promises. As he does every time he makes it, Megatron instantly regrets it. Planets in the midst of coups are not ideal locations for young housekeepers, and worse yet are interrogation rooms. And when has he ever been any good at protecting anyone? He will enlist Jazz, he concludes. Or perhaps, just perhaps, the Secretary might take Shobu's testimony over video, and they could leave her here with the boy and the revolutionaries. Though this is not a particularly safe spot either, is it? On a planet running out of food?

He has concerns. He always has concerns, but now he has more of them. He needs to speak with the Secretary.

He finds Jazz first. He is in the room they had been assigned as a berthspace, easily sliiding through his yoga routine and listening to some internal audio with a bass beat so high it shakes his frame. He is a very enthusiastic yogi, from what Megatron had learned about that practice while searching online. Jazz had rattled off many things like 'cow pose' and 'rooting your pedes' when Megatron had first caught him flexing on the shag rug.

"Drift does yoga too," Megatron had informed Jazz, the next day, after an evening of searching the nascent Cybertronian internet.

"Rad," said Jazz.

Now Megatron approaches Jazz and, when he is allowed to do so unacknowledged, sweeps Jazz's legs lovingly out from under him. Having easily anticipated the attack, Jazz ducks neatly into a roll and pops back up with a smile.

"How's it hanging?" he asks.

"I am searching for the interspace communicator. Do you know where it is?"

Jazz shrugs. "The Lost Light somewhere. They've got another couple hours 'til takeoff. Optimus is up there talking with Starscream, I think, but I don't know where. Check the conference room."

"Alright." Megatron turns to the door, then pauses.

"Jazz?"

"Yeah?"

"What is your plan for your informant?"

Jazz breaks his new tree pose to sigh. "He wants to stay. I don't know, seems smart to me. Inquila is a mess. But this place is going to starve - or the Inquiek here are - unless we can get Inquila to start trading again. I'm sure a smart crew of diplomats can get it done. Snowbank can do it."

"Of course he can," Megatron agrees. "So you will leave him here?"

"Maybe," Jazz smiles slyly. "Unless he wants to go with the girl."

"Are there plans for Shobu's departure?"

Jazz laughs. "No, no, but she always wanted to go home, didn't she?"

"Yes," agrees Megatron. "She did. She does."

"That would be a pretty foolish thing to do without someone protecting her."

"It would be," Megatron agrees. "So you are leaving Talia here then?"

"Unless he wants to follow the girl," Jazz repeats.

"And since Shobu is going nowhere..."

"Then nowhere Talia shall be," Jazz completes, with that same Cheshire Cat grin. The silence hangs in the air between them. Then: "The interspace communicator is with Optimus someplace."

He finds Optimus sitting behind a desk in an unassigned office room on the third deck of the Lost Light. The interspace communication box is whirring in cool-down, once again an inconspicuous cube on a near empty desk. Beside it is a far less inconspicuous box, lid askew. In Optimus's servo are two pieces of a long Inquiek quill. He is holding them together broken edge to broken edge. The stillness of his servos would have been an indubitable sign of sniper training, if anyone who so happened to have spent the last 6 million years under a rock had walked in, or if Megatron had needed a reminder.

Optimus glances up, and there is a small quiver along the quill. It does not slip apart.

"Are you...gluing the Inquiek feather together?" Megatron asks, Optimus flashes his 'caught red-handed sneaking Titan Master Crunch from the cabinet' look.

"Would it not be poetic if I signed the paperwork officiating Snowbank as the new Walerian ambassador with it," Optimus replies cheekily. "Or ironic, to sign Cybertron's official acknowledgment of Walerian statehood with it?" It is an answer, and if Optimus were a head shorter and answered to the name 'Jazz' Megatron might have believed it. But he doesn't, so Megatron only raises and eyebrow and waits. The silence breaks Optimus soon enough. He sighs, places the quill gently on the desk, watches it for a moment to ensure it doesn't snap, then leans back in his chair and favours Megatron with an exhausted smile.

"It's broken," he says simply. "I am just trying to glue it back together. It can stay on Waleria in one piece. Wouldn't that be nice?" That is the truth. It is likely an attack of the nerves, or of Optimus's particular brand of sentimentality. Megatron smiles reassuringly.

"It does seem to be holding together," he replies. Optimus smiles too, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Sometimes, during the war, they would go centuries without seeing each other. Sometimes, Megatron would go centuries without leaving his rooms and the war table. Sometimes vorns crept by like shadows in the night, unseen by all except those facing directly away from the glimmering of warship lights on low power mode. And sometimes a planet would die in a week.

If Megatron were prone to poetic imagery - and, what luck, he is! - he might say that life is a never-ending series of longitudinal waves. The most unlucky of mechs and organics find themselves created in the midst of a high compression and live only long enough to get a glimpse of relief. Those unluckier are born in those long sedate stretches of rarefaction and then find themselves unprepared for the rush. The long-lived bastards endure it all.

Cybertronians endure it all. They might even come to cherish those periods of high action, if only for the occasional novelty they bring.

They are in the midst of one such compression now. Primus knows Optimus can get a bit off his rocker at the best of times, especially with regards to organic planets. Megatron delicately extracts the interspace communicator and leaves him to channel his stress into arts and crafts.

"Megatron!" the Secretary greets cheerfully. "You have a very large ship! The Galactic Council is not a fan."

Megatron huffs a laugh. "No, they have a history with this particular vessel."

"They are becoming perturbed about our military leaders," she informs him. "And I am hearing that the President has been getting an earful about your escape. 'Escape from where?' I tell her. 'Escape from whom? Were we holding Ambassadorial staff hostage? That is not good custom.' She agrees, being unaware of the intent of the Senate Chief and his cronies. I hope he is getting quite the earful as well."

"Have you considered ensuring an escape route for your President?" He asks bluntly.

She crosses the feathers atop her head - in a move Megatron had not considered possible - and mutters a few nonsensical words. If Megatron were to guess, it was some sort of apotropaic ritual, because several of the words he catches refer to their somewhat culturally-trivial religious figures.

"How many worlds have a functional democracy?" she asks. Megatron couldn't say. She doesn't wait for him to admit that it is probably a small number. "We have a mostly-functional system. If the president leaves the planet, we are done. You understand?"

"If one president can fall, they all can," he agrees. "Fine then. How goes your mining expedition?"

"We are digging with all our might," she replies. "But it is taking too long. The BBC influence has been eradicated, and now the more clever minds have taken notice, and turned their eyes from the skies to me. I must make my move against the Senate Chief soon, before they strike preemptively."

"Has Sonum turned?"

"Yes and no, yes and no." The Secretary looks askance for a moment, then back at the camera intently. "I was correct; he is loyal to the Inquiek people. But he believes the same of the Chief of Planetary Affairs. He is commanded by the Senate Chief, who has announced his faith in the office of Planetary Affairs. He tells me that he now doubts Shobu's involvement, that we may be correct about the chameleon, but he does not confirm his role as a spy."

"Unfortunate, but not unexpected." Megatron sighs, taps his digits against the table for a moment, and balances the risks of a premature revelation. Eventually, he decides that such information must be shared. "We have a talented interrogator who is extremely interested in Sonum's recent activities," he says. "Especially in the removal of a local University student of yours. Removal from the plane of existence, I mean. Would you grant him access to your interrogation rooms?"

The Secretary produces a sound similar to a hum. "Dependent on his following of our rules?"

"Certainly."

"Then fine," she says. "But bring the girl."

"Yes," Megatron agrees. It must be done.

"I don't like it," Megatron says. 

"Do you like anything?" Jazz thinks he is funny. He isn't. Megatron has seen into the very depths of this idiotic mech, and he isn't funny. He tells him so. 

"Do you think anything is funny? " Jazz counters. Megatron must admit that this is a decent parry. He doesn't think anything is funny, except for maybe this clown-show of an ambassadorial position. 

"I don't think anything is funny, except for this clown-show of an ambassadorial position," he says. 

Jazz grins devilishly. "Clown-show," he says. "7 credits." Megatron expresses his displeasure with an Ultra Magnus-worthy frown. 

Light streams through the window, reflects off Optimus Prime's statuesque frame, and alights on their kitchen table. It is a large, sturdy thing, and Megatron knows Optimus has half a mind to suggest leaving it here. Ever the boy scout, Megatron has an answer prepared. ‘Why don’t you leave me here instead,’ is what he would say. But, as if sensing the prepared rebuttal, Optimus suggests nothing. He is leaning against the doorway into the kitchen, blocking off the exit as if Megatron were a stray cat eager to flee the moment his new owners try to clean his cat tree.

“This is how we die, you understand that?” Megatron declares. They have had this argument once a day for seventeen days. “Leaving the relative safety of Cybertron to go to the aft end of the galaxy? This is how we end up assassinated.”

Jazz snorts. “Don’t be a spoilsport, babe,” he says, “and anyway, I happen to believe that there are more people interested in assassinating you here than at the aft end of the galaxy.”

Megatron pauses his packing long enough to consider this argument. Unfortunately, it is a valid point. He despises losing arguments, especially against his conjunxes. He needs some time to come up with a rebuttal, so he closes the now empty cabinet and opens the one to his right. He reaches up and pulls the Titan Master Crunch from the middle shelf. He tosses it haphazardly behind himself.

“I told you to finish that,” he says. “I’m not packing it.” He allows his displeasure at their destination to slide for the moment, to be brought forth once more after his conjunxes have forgotten Jazz’s effective argument. “It has no nutritional value, and we will be too far from a real doctor to save you when your lines start to clog.”

He can see Optimus grin from the corner of his optic, the bastard. As if Megatron doesn’t know his secret snacking habits. He scans the rest of the cabinet for something worth packing, but there is only a selection of half-empty spice containers.

“Don’t be mad at Optimus,” Jazz says. “It isn’t his fault.”

“He never specified which one of us he blames, Jazz,” Optimus mutters. Thus begins a few minutes of bickering over blame Megatron had never placed. He sighs, and turns to look forlornly out the window.

His dramatic melancholy inspires a brief moment of silence behind him, wherein he feels Optimus and Jazz share glances of some offensive nature or another. The window looks out over the city, unfortunately. He would have preferred a view of the wastelands. He will have to tell Crank about his departure.

Jazz breaks the silence, as is his usual role. He places his servo gently on the back of Megatron’s elbow. “How do you suppose we are going to get our new kitchen table to the aft end of the galaxy?” he asks, sounding utterly genuine in his concern. Megatron sighs again.

There is, when they are together, a vibrating, wave-like energy which connects them. Be it related or unrelated to their bond, Megatron does not know or care. It reminds him of Soundwave. Jazz reminds him a lot of Soundwave, for the obvious reasons. It's a constant transaction of understanding, this vibrating thing, which informs Megatron that their supplies have been arranged for and their train ride squared away. 

And with Soundwave, it tells him Swindle's ship has been dug up. 

It is a necessary connection, the intangible wave-like thing between a commander and a spymaster, because plans spoken are plans betrayed. Loose lips sink ships. 15 credits. 

Now, he is standing at the bottom of the Lost Light boarding bridge with them. They are watching as the last of the crew trickles inside. It is the time, Megatron thinks, when things ought to be spoken out loud. "Soundwave," he says, eyes still on the door. "Do you remember what I said?"

Soundwave shifts almost imperceptibly. Of course he remembers. 

"No," Megatron had said, simply. "No." He would not let Soundwave escape with death. 

And when Soundwave had said "You will not even grant me this relief?" Megatron had replied:

"There is another version of me who wants to see you very much."

It was one of those simple conversations that could not happen on the vibrational plane, for the simple fact that neither had believed the other; that Soundwave had not believed what Megatron had said, and Megatron had not believed Soundwave would listen. But now they are watching the boarding ramp clear, their servos behind their backs, Jazz watching them with the apathetic gaze of a curious mind. 

"They will be back in one year," Megatron says. "That is not a long time to remain alive."

"No," Soundwave agrees. "It is not."

"You might free a planet with me in that time. Exact revenge upon the Council."

“Indeed,” replies Soundwave. It is bitter, but it is not a denial.

Megatron argues further. “You have a chance to free yourself. The only chance in the Universe, because it is not of this Universe.” Soundwave only shrugs.

The ramp is clear. The departing crew has boarded, and now it waits on Megatron like Swindle’s ship had back on Inquila. Like then, it will have to wait a while. The opacity of Jazz’s visor does not prevent Megatron from easily reading the anxiety in his frame. The index finger on his right servo is scratching the knuckle of his thumb in quick, harsh movements. Soundwave, in contrast, is utterly still.

“Where is Optimus?” Megatron asks. The moment the words leave his glossa, the heroic form of his lover appears at the top of the ramp.

“Found him,” says Jazz, unhelpfully. Optimus marches toward them with a set jaw and furious expression. Megatron carefully does not feel anything about it. When Optimus reaches the bottom, they are, briefly, the war reincarnated. They are legends, facing one another in a fragile ceasefire.

“This is foolish,” Optimus declares. He is angry; Megatron would be surprised if Soundwave couldn’t feel it as easily as he does, sparkbond or not. Jazz performs a guilty dance, his helm swinging to and fro to seek out anything besides Optimus’s intense look of betrayal.

“You must know why?” Megatron tries. If only his foolish Prime would think of it as duty. For once, yes, Megatron wants him dutiful. That was always the plan, the dutiful commander forced to make the sacrifice. The Lost Light needs to unload its cargo with stealth and depart from this Universe with none the wiser about its status as a clone. Primus knows it needs supervision.

Optimus glares at them all, but mostly at Megatron. “Certainly,” he agrees, and Megatron nearly sighs with relief. But then he follows it up with: “Jazz was correct. I should never have told you what we knew about the BBC. You have an addiction to political upheaval. Primus, remember what you used to say? It was your punishment to be relegated to being the ambassador’s conjunx, managing your two kitchens? How many parties did you manage to throw before we needed to flee the planet?"

Megatron, knowing that an honest reply would irk Optimus the most, considers the question and replies with "If you count my one-on-ones with the Secretary in the back garden, I suppose I managed four." It is not so much that he wants to inflame Optimus's temper, but rather that his natural response to an aggressive offense must be a coy flirtation with retaliation. It is his own take on Jazz's signature deflection, and it successfully tees Optimus up for a reply more glancing than painful. 

"You spent those garden parties colluding with a foreign government, Megatron!" He cries. "Primus, and now off we go, back to Inquila on this completely rogue plan, putting my career in jeopardy-"

"Oh no," Jazz interrupts. "If you came, you would be fired for sure." Optimus pauses mid-rant, his servo frozen in midair where it had been gesticulating wildly. Soundwave has taken several steps back; Megatron had heard the tell-tale shifting of sand. 

"The Lost Light will bring us home in one year," Megatron says softly. All the optics are on him again. "Optimus, you have to go home."

Optimus's face falls, and Megatron already knows he has won. He had always known he would, because Optimus Prime is who he has always been. No, perhaps that isn't the entire truth of it. Rescuing Megatron, calling upon Soundwave; he has become erratic in this post-war Universe. But despite that, Megatron knows his spark, knew it when Optimus sat on the berth and confessed to Megatron that there was something wrong on Inquila because he could not continue to lie, knew it when he watched Optimus glue together that Inquiek quill because he could not stand the guilt of breaking a gift apart. Optimus will do his duty, even when it breaks his poor spark. 

But first there must be the perfunctory fight. 

"I can't." Optimus declares. "I cannot leave my conjunxes on a planet in the midst of a proxy war between two governments that very much want one of them dead. How can you ask me to do that?" Even as his words bite he is grieving. That is how Megatron knows he has won. If Optimus Prime truly believed he could stay, he would not already be grieving them. 

Jazz steps forward and places a steadying servo on Optimus's forearm. "You have a responsibility to bring a ship full of energon - and weapons - home. You cannot come with us. We can't let you run off after him again, you cannot put Cybertron in that position. We are going to be okay, Optimus. You know that." 

Optimus shakes his helm and doesn't reply, so Megatron adds: "You have done a lot of silly things to keep me safe, love. You had to do them because I was not interested in keeping myself safe. But I want to survive this. I want to win and to come home to you. And you know it will happen."

"If you say it, so it shall be," Optimus mutters. He looks as if he might revert to spitting anger at any moment, like the will is there but first it must pass through a thick wall of resignation. 

"Anyway," Jazz continues, because now it is time for his brand of deflection. "We left the kitchen table back at the embassy. We gotta pick that up."

It is the stupidest of strategies, but it manages to draw the hint of a smile to Optimus's miserable face. "Jazz, you do not need to follow him into this. I do not know what orders you have been receiving-"

"None," Jazz answers. "I am out of network."

Optimus twists his arm around so that Jazz's servo slides down and into his own. He intertwines their digits. "I could use you on the Lost Light," he tries, not quite an order but an Optimus Prime request. 

Jazz smiles fondly. "Fuck outta here," he replies. "What could I possibly be spying on in Swerve's? Getting the Lost Light home in one piece is a job for a statesman, not a spy. They really need a proper diplomat." Megatron has to laugh at that. He is unconcerned about the Galactic Council following the ship. No, the greatest threat to the energon within will be the curious digits of the crew. They need a proper Optimus Prime plus Ultra Magnus inspiration and rule of law combo. 

Jazz unwinds his servo from Optimus's to press one digit against the cable on the inner wrist. "No one made this decision for me. I have unfinished business. I'm paving my own road here."

Optimus's face continues to contain that rebellious spark, his anger cooling to something more adamant. "It is your turn to learn the Lost Light way," Megatron jokes. "I think it will be good for you." He means it. Optimus has behaved erratically, even selfishly. Perhaps the Lost Light crew might work its wonders on him, help him to reorder himself to proper condition. 

"You need to come home," Optimus orders. Their convincing is done. They have won. Still, it is a hard-earned victory, and Megatron suspects what they lose will make itself apparent long after this next year. There is anger and desperation in Optimus's voice as he threatens them. "I swear to Primus, if you are not home in a year I will never forgive you."

Jazz leans up, pulls Optimus down by the wrist, and places a chaste kiss on his cheek. That minute action argues more effectively than any of their words had managed. Optimus finally deflates in field and frame, his wilful tension replaced by an understanding bordering on affection. Megatron drags his pedes through the hot, thick sand to enter the embrace. He feels, just briefly, fear. A foolish notion crosses his mind, that Optimus might consider him the architect of Jazz's decision, that his order to assassinate the chameleon has transferred authority to himself, that he has taken Optimus's spy and lover from him. But Optimus wraps one arm around Jazz and with the other beckons Megatron closer, and these thoughts fade away as the anxieties of a mech still unused to the stumbling, cross-country hike of a conjunx bond. 

Optimus pulls them both in, his grip strong and unyielding. "I know why you have to stay," he whispers. "Ignore my earlier accusations, they were no more than unruly sentiment." He pauses then, and shifts so that his helm brushes Megatron's, mouth by his audial. "I am trusting you not to die," he says. He is terrified. 

Megatron mirrors Jazz's kiss, on the other cheek. "I know."

Optimus nods, and in a millisecond the moment has broken and they are three fools burning their pedes on a desert planet. Optimus shakes it all from his helm and says "What a planet to leave my spark on." And then, with the requisite 'I love yous' traded, he turns and walks back up the ramp.

Megatron looks to Jazz, and together they watch as their union splits, the Lost Light taking one spark in exchange for the spark which had left it all those years ago.