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Chapter Text

The fluttering of birds outside the cabin signaled that dawn had arrived—a warm and carefree morning, like every day had been for the past two months. She shifted in her bed, trying to avoid the sunbeams slipping through the curtains, already indicating that today would be somewhat hot. With a sigh, she decided to get up before the temperature rose and she suffocated in her room.

The truth was, she remembered nothing beyond these eight weeks. She didn’t know who she was, where she was, how old she was, or even her own name. All she knew was that one day, she had woken up in this cozy cabin on the outskirts of a town as remote as her dwelling. The walk to town took about thirty minutes through dirt paths lined with towering trees, providing much-needed shade in the summer heat. Luckily, she spoke the language and seemed to have basic social skills, which helped when she wanted to learn more about where she was. With an empty mind and no memories, the town’s library was the first place she consumed.

She had formed a routine—wake up, eat, get dressed, walk, read. These activities kept her busy and engaged, without feeling the need to explore further. Or at least, something deep in her brain told her she shouldn’t. This was her home, her safety, her comfort. There was no real need to leave.

It was during the last days of the first week after regaining consciousness that the dreams began. At first, they were just images, brief flashes between naps or in the depths of the night. In moments like those, alone and with little knowledge of the world around her, she could feel the strangeness of her own skin—as if it were a suit, a mask. She would look at herself in the mirror, searching for answers, but the same intrusive thought always returned:

"I’m not human."

It was a strange conclusion—one that led her to investigate further. The books in her cabin weren’t enough, and she didn’t have any tools to connect to what others called "the internet." Even if she had, it would have taken her days to understand it. At least reading was something her mind seemed to be naturally skilled at.

At the beginning of the second week, on a Monday, she woke up with a jolt. An invisible pressure weighed on her chest, a faint vibration at the base of her skull. As if something inside her was trying to remember—to force her mind open to something that had been sealed away. And then, like a lightning strike, the vision consumed her without warning.

A crimson sky. Silver towers crumbling. Colossal figures battling with fury in a devastated city. And a voice—a whisper inside her own head:

"Solatra..."

That same morning, she adopted the name from her vision, using it as an identity to finally step into the society around her. She walked calmly toward the town that May afternoon, surrounded by nature in the days of spring. Every color, every scent, every sensation—the soft breeze, the sun on her face, the scent of jasmine in the air—whether she was human or not, Earth was her home. It had been love at first sight from the moment her memories started sticking to her mind. She had no regrets. No matter how dark the visions, no matter how tormenting her past might be, she didn’t regret her amnesia.

Solatra was happy. And no memory was going to change what she had learned to love.

Or so she thought.

—Excuse me, I’d like to borrow these books.

She almost flinched at the sound of her own voice. She rarely used it, and interacting with the librarian was one of her first social experiences. “Margaret,” as her name tag read, looked at her kindly, offering a smile as she took the books to scan them into the system.

—Of course, dear. Give me your ID so I can add you to the database. That way, you’ll be registered and can check out books just with your card.

Solatra’s expression tensed. ID card? Database? She froze in front of Margaret, unable to respond immediately. She wiped her hands on her dress, even though they were clean—a small tic she had since she woke up. She didn’t sweat, hadn’t touched anything dirty, and yet, her skin felt heavy, unclean.

—Um… could you explain what those things are? I’m sorry, but I have amnesia. I’m new in town…

The older woman let out a soft sound of surprise, her face filled with sympathy. Solatra couldn’t decipher it, so she instinctively stepped back, fearing she had said something wrong. She had begun to apologize when Margaret interrupted, passing the books over the counter.

—Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll check the books out under my name, but promise me you’ll return them by the end of the month, okay? I’m so sorry for what you’re going through, but I hope you recover soon. I know these books will help.

And just like that, it happened. Solatra smiled—her first sincere smile toward a human, filled with gratitude. She took the books and made her promise before heading back to her cabin. Borrowing books from Margaret became a routine. The five books she had taken lasted her a week—not a month. Anatomy, economics, wellness, health, medicine, philosophy. Margaret was surprised when the next Monday, Solatra returned all five books and borrowed five more. This pattern continued for weeks.

Today was Monday, and like every other Monday, after waking up and getting ready, she gathered all the books scattered in her living room. She scolded herself for the mess. As time passed, her condition worsened. She didn’t know if she could even get sick—her body couldn’t feel hunger, couldn’t sweat, excrete, or urinate. She felt herself deteriorating more each day. At first, the changes weren’t noticeable, but as time passed, between her nightmares and the refusal of her memories to return, her limbs felt weaker, her exhaustion grew, and her ability to process what she read became foggy.

Sighing, she finished tidying up and went to the fridge for something to drink—orange juice, which she drank straight from the carton. The citrus flavor refreshed her, despite not feeling thirsty.

She debated whether to go to town. Was she in good enough condition? And what if what she had was dangerous to humans? She had to think about Margaret—her age… If she carried something unknown and contagious, she couldn’t risk exposing the only human she could call a companion.

She stepped outside barefoot, enjoying the damp grass beneath her feet. Her fingers brushed against the trunk of a tree as she gazed down the path leading from her cabin to the town, her expression twisting into a frown.

How much longer would this peace last? Was it even peace?

Her own delusions and uncertainty gnawed at her. Did I have a home before this? A family? Someone looking for me?

But no answer came.

Only Earth’s silence.

Not even the birds.

She decided to go inside; Margaret would surely understand that she couldn’t return the books today. There was trust between them—or at least, that’s what she thought—enough for the white-haired woman not to suspect her, not to question whether she was stealing.

Frustrated, she went to the bathroom in search of something comforting. A bath, something that would make her feel like her skin, her body, was real—that her flesh and bones belonged to her.

Day by day, loneliness carved its place in her mind, an ever-growing void that she couldn’t stop. She had read about this. Humans, aside from being physically fragile, were also weak in mind. Their thoughts could be shattered by trauma, genetics, or painful experiences. Anxiety, depression, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, narcissism…

Was she capable of falling ill like that too?

She already had amnesia—perhaps she was also broken in ways she couldn’t piece back together.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror, meeting her own gaze. She was thin and pale, her dull red hair dry and reaching almost to her knees. She had human reproductive organs, though she had no interest in exploring them. They simply existed, part of this body.

“Fake,” her mind whispered.

She frowned and averted her eyes from the mirror.

Letting the water run into the bathtub, she opened a small bathroom window to keep the room from steaming up too much. But something caught her attention—the sun was already setting.

—What?—she murmured, staring out the window.

How much time had really passed? Just a few hours ago, she had woken up. She tried to rewind her thoughts: she ate, cleaned up, went outside, and now she was here. Had she woken up later than she thought? Maybe her clock had malfunctioned. But no, the sun had been rising when she woke up.

Something wasn’t right.

She barely managed to react in time to turn off the faucet before the tub overflowed. Still unsettled, she sank into the warm water, trying to relax both her body and mind. And the moment she closed her eyes, she regretted it.

Mechanical hands reached for her. Red lights cut through the darkness. A searing pain shot through her body. Distorted voices—cold, calculating.

"You can't run, Solatra. You will always be mine."

She gasped for air instinctively, only to realize she had been submerged underwater without noticing. She didn’t understand what was happening to her. Her mind was a mess of sensations and intrusive thoughts. And in that brief moment of delirium, the sun had disappeared completely, giving way to the deep night. Nights that, most of the time, she welcomed. The darkness surrounding her home was perfect for stargazing, and sometimes, she wondered if there was truly someone else out there. She sighed once more, wrapping herself in a towel as anxiety clawed at her thoughts.

In that brief moment of delirium, the sun had fully set, giving way to the deep night. Most of the time, she was grateful for the darkness. Where she lived, the night sky was perfect for stargazing. And sometimes, she wondered if there was really someone out there. She sighed once more as she wrapped herself in a towel, still shaken by her thoughts.

Then, the explosion shattered the silence.

A deafening blast rocked the air, making the walls of her cabin tremble. Then, the splintering crack of wood giving way. The ceiling collapsed on her in an instant.

Pain. Searing and sharp at her side. But the worst part wasn't the wound. It was the liquid oozing from it. It wasn’t blood.

It was a glowing, blue liquid.

Naked and bleeding, she tried to push the debris off her, adrenaline taking over her senses. It was only when she attempted to lift a wooden beam that she realized—She was using only one arm. The other hung uselessly, attached by what should have been tendons and muscles but were instead wires and metal connections. Disgust churned in her stomach. A scream tore from her lips. Outside, voices grew louder. The sound of heavy metal footsteps crunching over the wreckage.

Before she could react, a cold, colossal hand grasped her, yanking her from the remains of her home. A cry of pain choked in her throat as the enormous fingers squeezed her fragile ribs.

In front of her, glowing red optics bore into her with an intensity that sent ice through her core.

—Solatra…—

That voice. It was heavy, layered with something she couldn't quite name. Was it awe? Triumph? Her mind was fogged with pain, but her instincts screamed a name. A name that filled her with terror.

“Megatron”.

The leader of the Decepticons had her in his grasp.

And this wasn’t a random capture.

—Silence her, Lord Megatron. She’s screaming too much. She’ll attract unnecessary attention.— The voice was full of disdain.

“Starscream”.

Even without memories, she instantly knew she disliked the condescending tone of that being. Megatron didn’t answer right away. He only looked at her, his calculating gaze sweeping over every inch of her wounded, human form. He could kill her with a simple motion, and yet, his grip was controlled. Of course, he wanted her alive. Still, he couldn’t help the urge to tighten his fingers around her torso, feeling the crunch of what her body had replaced as ribs.

—Starscream, I remind you who we are taking prisoner. If she weren’t in this pathetic form, you would be the first to be exterminated.— The other Decepticon scoffed but didn’t argue. Megatron’s focus returned to Solatra, his red optics gleamed with an almost feverish intensity. There was something more than power at play, something deeper and more personal.

—We’re leaving. Move, worms!—

Before she could react, she was pulled inside Megatron’s cockpit. Everything became a blur of movement. The pressure forced her against the cold metal panels, she knew that if she lost consciousness now, her body might not recover.

But it was inevitable.

Her wounds, the pain, the shock...her mind succumbed to the darkness, and in the abyss of unconsciousness, an image tormented her:

A different Megatron.

Looking at her with something akin to admiration—or was it obsession?

In her visions, he looked different. More refined. Younger. And she knew, in that moment, she had already fallen into the darkness of shock. Her body was unconscious, in the hands of beings who knew her. And, apparently, she knew them too.

"You will always be mine, Solatra."

Chapter Text

Darkness engulfed her, floating aimlessly with no control over her own body. She was awakening, but it was clear that this profound unconsciousness wasn't a simple sleep. She hadn't gone to bed last night; she wasn't lying comfortably beneath her sheets at home. No, she was in a cold, harsh, and austere place, unable to regain control of her own anatomy.

She desperately wanted to wake up, the urgency rising in her chest like an alarm, instincts burning through her nerves. What had happened last night? The last memory she had was leaving her bathroom, preparing for bed… hoping a restful sleep would confirm that the weakness she felt was merely exhaustion rather than illness. But clearly, that hadn't happened. When she finally opened her eyes, regaining the ability to move, she realized the horrifying position she was in.

Panic surged immediately as she tried to sit up or drag herself across the cold floor, noticing in horror that only one of her arms was still attached to her body. She expected to see flesh and bone protruding from her severed limb, but instead, she saw something that threw her into a spiral of emotions she had never experienced before. Was it disgust rising from deep within her stomach?

Bile rose in her throat, burning intensely as she vomited at her feet, which fortunately she still possessed, bruised and cut but at least minimally functional. That vomit was the immediate response to stress, disgust, uncertainty—the chains around her ankles now stained with remnants of what she'd consumed during the day.

Reality hit her like a hammer: she was captured, vulnerable, mutilated. Her breathing quickened, her heart pounding painfully against her chest. A knot of panic tightened in her aching throat as she struggled to move, her body hardly responsive despite the urgent need to escape.

The door opened with a mechanical hiss, making her entire body tense up. The figure entering caused her stomach to knot in fear and anger.

Megatron.

She remembered him now; when her mind had succumbed to madness and shock, she had seen and recognized him. This gigantic, metallic, cold being. His presence was terrifying enough to confirm her imminent danger, yet she wasn't dead, though she had one less arm. That meant she had a purpose. Glancing at her severed limb, she finally understood.

Instead of human flesh, there were metal connections and stitched cables, a strange blue liquid drying over her wounds. The material matched the monstrous being slowly approaching her prison. His heavy steps echoed loudly as he moved closer. His red eyes shone with calculating intensity, analyzing every inch of her.

"You look fragile, Solatra."

The comment infuriated her. Her fragility was directly caused by this monster’s treatment. Clenching her teeth, she tensed, causing the chains around her ankles to strain. She wanted to reply disdainfully, to assert that her spirit was unbroken and that her body would endure, but she bit her tongue, diverting her gaze, sinking further against the cold, metallic wall. The hum of turbines confirmed she was aboard a spacecraft. Another name rose painfully from her fragmented memories: The Nemesis.

Megatron merely smiled at her silence. He expected this reaction from her—always reserved, a silent and lethal warrior.

The cell was suffocatingly silent, broken only by the distant hum of the Nemesis and her weak, ragged breathing. Her remaining arm trembled, her legs barely supporting her weight, her mind torn between consciousness and the abyss of shock. But she couldn't allow herself to break, not now, not with him standing before her.

Megatron watched her patiently, like a predator. His red gaze burned with interest and something darker. He stepped forward, letting the dim cell lights outline his sharp silhouette. His presence dominated the space, every move designed to make her feel small, insignificant.

"Still waiting, Solatra?" His voice was deep, mocking. "I can see it in your eyes… hope. Pathetic."

She didn’t reply. She pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to back away. She couldn’t show fear, even as terror gnawed at her. Megatron tilted his head, examining her with fascinated amusement. She couldn't understand her role in his plans, yet knew he hadn't sought her out randomly. Someone from her past existed—perhaps a sister, mother, wife… or a friend. She clung desperately to that faint hope.

"You genuinely believe someone will come for you, don't you?" He laughed coldly. "You're a joke. A forgotten relic from an era no one cares to remember."

Solatra shivered, instincts screaming at her to resist. Yet his words embedded themselves deeply, poisoning her fragile mind. Why was she alone? Why had no one found her sooner?

Megatron smiled cruelly at her evident doubt.

"Exactly. No one. You were never part of something. Just a name lost among Cybertron’s ruins. A power they couldn't manage. What do you think they did when you vanished? They moved on. The war continued, ideals shattered, and nobody missed you. You were nothing to them, and you still are nothing."

His words twisted painfully in her chest. Optimus—his name sparked something distant in her heart. If he truly existed and was important, why was she alone?

Megatron sensed her wavering resistance and pressed harder.

"I, on the other hand…" He gripped her chin with cold brutality, forcing her gaze upward. "I never forgot you. I always knew exactly where you were. I found you."

The cold metallic touch filled her with disgust rather than pain. Her eyes desperately searched for deceit, finding only certainty in his malicious gaze.

"Lies…" she whispered weakly.

Megatron’s smile was dark, satisfied. "You've always been mine, Solatra. The sooner you accept this, the easier it will be. You're mine now, trapped here, forever."

He released her roughly, dropping her back onto the cold floor. Panic overtook her, chest tightening, breathing erratic.

"Soon you'll stop fighting," he said coldly, leaving her trembling. "And when you do, we'll discuss what really matters."

The door closed with a metallic clang, leaving her alone in overwhelming despair.

"What if he's right?" she thought, her mind crumbling.

Debating herself of pushing through the pain, the doubts; she just closed her eyes, laying in the cold floor.

…

The days blurred together in the cold darkness of her cell. Three days of absolute isolation. No food, no water, only the cold metal beneath her and her own thoughts—thoughts that were worse than any physical torture. In the first few days, she'd managed, with great difficulty and her single remaining arm, to pry loose a rusty shard from the Nemesis itself. This shard allowed her to break the chains around her ankles, chains she was grateful were as worn as the walls of her cell. Yet, despite the makeshift freedom she'd earned after two days of relentless effort, her mind remained a battlefield where fragmented memories violently collided, dredging up her darkest fears and burying any glimmer of hope beneath unbearable layers of pain.

Optimus...

That name echoed constantly in her mind, distant and painful. She repeated it endlessly, desperately clinging to it like a buoy in a stormy ocean, yet each repetition dragged her deeper into despair.

"You're reckless, Solatra! You don't understand the responsibility you carry, the power you possess… Your recklessness could cost us everything!"

Optimus’s voice surged from the depths of her memory, full of reproach and disappointment. She vividly remembered his expression—his normally calm and wise blue eyes were filled with frustration and sorrow.

"If you're so afraid I'll ruin everything, why don't you take it from me? Why don't you carry this burden?" she'd retorted, hurt, defiant, young, and impulsive.

"Because it's not my place, Solatra. This is your burden. You can't simply run away when things get tough."

Now, trapped in darkness, those words weighed her down like lead. Guilt crept slowly into her heart, eating away at her, convincing her bit by bit that Megatron was right. She had been weak, a mistake from the start, incapable of embracing her destiny. What hope was there that anyone would come for her? Perhaps she had never mattered. Perhaps Optimus had truly forgotten her name and memories, choosing instead to move forward without looking back.

When the door finally hissed open, breaking her endless isolation, Solatra remained motionless on the cold, metallic floor of her prison. She lay on her back, breathing slowly, feigning near-death.

Starscream entered with a disdainful grunt, clearly annoyed by the task he'd been assigned.

"Is this a joke?" he complained, his voice shrill and arrogant. "Three days wasted waiting for this worthless trash to surrender? Pathetic."

He approached her slowly, stopping a short distance away, reluctant to come any closer than necessary.

"Hey, get up!" he ordered impatiently, but received no response.

He growled in disgust and finally decided to approach, slowly crouching down beside Solatra. Using one of his metallic claws, he roughly prodded her.

"Are you even alive, or should we just toss your miserable corpse into space?"

Solatra held her breath, waiting patiently for the perfect moment. When Starscream finally lost interest and roughly flipped her toward him, she reacted with lightning speed. Her eyes snapped open in fury, and with precise brutality, she drove the makeshift spike she'd spent countless hours sharpening deeply into one of his optics.

Starscream shrieked in agony, stumbling backward, clutching his damaged face with both claws, twisting in pain and unleashing furious curses. This was the moment Solatra had waited for. Her weakened body rose painfully, driven only by adrenaline and a desperate need to survive. She stumbled through the cold corridor, her bare feet echoing against the metal.

Her mind was chaos, a maelstrom of physical and emotional pain. She briefly recalled Optimus’s disappointed gaze, the reproach she'd carried for so long. Was she running toward her salvation or further from who she had once believed herself to be?

She rounded a corner, her legs beginning to betray her as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. Yet she pressed onward, desperate, seeking an escape that might not even exist.

She stopped abruptly. Ahead stood a dark, silent, imposing figure blocking her path.

Soundwave.

Before she could react, indescribable pain invaded her mind—a piercing static that penetrated her innermost thoughts, violently dragging up memories she wished to keep buried. The sensation was excruciating, as if hundreds of needles pierced her brain.

She fell to her knees, clutching her head in desperation. Voices from her past surged violently—Optimus, Megatron, the war, her own screams of agony as the Calyx fused with her spark.

Soundwave approached with calculated steps, observing her without emotion or mercy. Solatra felt her resistance crumble entirely, defenseless against the mental assault.

"No more… please…" she pleaded, her voice breaking as tears of frustration and pain streamed down her face.

The last vision before darkness claimed her once again was Soundwave’s cold hand reaching toward her, reclaiming her for the nightmare that refused to release her.

…

Upon awakening, Solatra immediately sensed something was different. The air was colder, denser, and more oppressive, penetrating deep into her bones. The dark atmosphere felt even more hostile, and the vibration beneath her feet made it clear she was at the very heart of the Nemesis. Struggling, she looked around: the cell was smaller, equipped with intimidating, brightly glowing blue energy barriers. This time, she understood clearly—escape was impossible.

Her limbs were immobilized by thick metal chains anchored securely to reinforced walls. She tried to move, but the effort was futile. The wounds she'd sustained during her escape attempt throbbed painfully, harsh reminders of her failure and weakness.

The door slid open softly, and Solatra slowly lifted her gaze. Megatron stepped inside calmly, each step resonating with eerie precision. He observed her with unsettling tranquility, a cold smile playing across his metallic face.

“I must admit, little Solatra, despite your pathetic, fragile human disguise, you managed to inflict more damage on Starscream than most of my soldiers ever could,” he remarked venomously, arms arrogantly crossed. “Perhaps there is still a remnant of the warrior you once were... Or perhaps it was just luck, the desperate act of someone already broken.”

Solatra couldn't respond; she swallowed hard, fighting down the fear threatening to consume her. Megatron leaned forward slightly, his red eyes glowing with malice.

“But don't fool yourself. Every time you think you've hit rock bottom, I will ensure you sink even deeper. And if you think this is the worst I can do... perhaps you should recall our first encounter on Cybertron.”

Solatra's mind was immediately flooded with agonizing memories. She remembered fragments of a violent battle, the searing pain of her metallic arm being brutally torn from her body, wires dangling and sparking while the energy of the Calyx faintly glowed in her chest. Megatron's cruel laughter echoed in her mind as he mercilessly tore her apart, the ultimate humiliation of total defeat. Her breathing grew ragged, tears welling in her eyes as the memories gradually faded.

Satisfied, Megatron stepped back.

“Need proof, Solatra, of how little you're valued by those you trust?” he asked coldly. “Ask the prisoner beside you how we found you, comfortably hiding behind your pathetic human mask.”

With those final words, Megatron exited the cell, leaving behind a heavy atmosphere of despair and defeat. Solatra barely had time to process his words before the energy barrier beside her cell illuminated faintly, revealing a severely damaged Transformer in the adjacent cell, clearly showing signs of recent torture. His bowed head failed to hide severe facial damage, one optic burned and extinguished. She felt a tight knot in her throat, her emotions twisting between resentment and empathy. Despite his immense size compared to hers, he appeared broken, small, and battered; she wasn't sure what she felt.

Solatra stared at him for a long moment, feeling resentment grow within her. Finally, with a weak, uncertain voice, she asked:

“Who… who are you?”

The Transformer slowly lifted his head, visibly exhausted, and replied in a weary voice:

“My name is Hyperion…”

Solatra frowned in confusion and suspicion.

“And why does Megatron say you betrayed me?” she questioned painfully, unable to hide her frustration and disappointment.

Hyperion lowered his gaze, consumed by guilt.

“I never wanted to betray you. They found me collecting energon—it's what sustains us—and you had gone two months without consuming it since the Calyx adapted your body to your new human form. I didn't know how to keep you alive in that fragile shell. They must have tracked me down.”

He paused, coughing violently, energon leaking from his mouth and dripping onto the floor.

“They tortured me for days… weeks even. I resisted as long as I could, Solatra, but eventually, I couldn't hold out. I'm so sorry,” his voice broke, heavy with remorse.

Solatra stared at him silently, bitterly processing the revelation. She felt the betrayal sharply, despite understanding the circumstances. Her life over those two months had endangered not only herself but everyone around her. What if she'd been ambushed during one of her trips to the library? How many lives could have been lost if Hyperion had spoken earlier? Children, mothers, fathers… Margaret, the kind woman who trusted her without hesitation.

She longed to go back—to feel her bed again, the grass beneath her feet, the wind on her face. She wished desperately to be human once more.

“How do you know me?” she asked with difficulty, fighting back tears.

“I found you when your ship crashed on this planet. You were barely alive, your spark nearly extinguished. I recognized the Royal mark on your destroyed exoskeleton and understood who you were,” he explained slowly. “I kept you in induced stasis, protecting you until your body responded naturally to this environment. The Calyx adapted your configuration to human DNA to ensure your survival. I built that cabin to give you a life far from the war, a chance at peace…”

Hyperion paused, awaiting her response, but Solatra remained silent. Her mind was chaotic, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions—resentment mixed with compassion, disappointment intertwined with empathy.

Seeing her painful silence, Hyperion softly added:

“Listen, Solatra… the Autobots are looking for you. Optimus never stopped searching. There's still hope, even if you can't see it now.”

Solatra slowly lowered her head, trapped within deep internal conflict. She desperately wanted to believe him, but her spirit felt utterly shattered. Yet, deep within, something subtly stirred. Beneath her human skin, a tiny light flickered briefly, warm and comforting. It was the Calyx spark, gently activated by the storm of emotions inside her.

In the oppressive silence of her prison, that tiny spark persisted—faint but resilient, a distant whisper hinting that perhaps, after all, there was still something worth fighting for.

Chapter Text

Day and night did not exist on the Nemesis. With no windows or references, time turned into a viscous substance that seemed to coagulate on the walls. If not for the persistent drip of some misaligned pipe or the metallic footsteps echoing at irregular intervals, Solatra would have sworn she was dead—trapped in a limbo with no end, condemned to relive her last minutes inside that cage, deprived of everything.

“Purgatory.”

Yes, that’s what it felt like—that mythical place she couldn’t say for certain was real or not, but the sensation at least was. Chained to the floor by thick restraints, unable to tell the hours apart, she could only relive her last moments of freedom: the blast in her cabin, the smell of burning wood, the cold touch of Megatron’s hand squeezing her torn body, the bile burning her throat as she woke… She only wanted it to be a dream—no, a nightmare, really—whatever it was, she remained trapped within those cold walls.
Exhaustion was absolute; every fiber of her human flesh and every circuit hidden under her skin cried out for energon that never came. Her eyelids were heavy, and the spark in her chest seemed to beat more and more slowly.

In the next cell, Hyperion watched in silence. The old medic had been reduced to little more than a heap of exposed cables and scorched plates, but his greatest wound was invisible. Seeing little Solatra—the femme who had once been a symbol of hope—in such a deplorable state gnawed at his mind. Her pale skin was stained with dried energon; the stump where an arm had once been was beginning to show signs of infection, and her breathing was so faint he swore more than once she had fallen into permanent stasis. “How long can she last without energon?” he asked himself, tortured by the possibility that he had condemned the last Royal to a slow death.

He didn’t know that beneath that stillness, Solatra had found refuge in meditation. With her eyes closed and her senses withdrawn, she sank into the faint glow of the chalice that rested deep within her chassis. She clung to that spark as if her sanity depended on it. She had learned to filter out the external noise, to synchronize her human breathing with the pulse of her Cybertronian essence. There, in that inner space where neither chains nor Megatron could reach her, she began to sketch a plan. She knew she wouldn’t escape alone. She needed to understand her only ally in that hell.

“Hyperion…?” Her voice was barely a thread of air, but the mech on the other side heard it like thunder.

The medic startled, the damaged circuits in his neck squealing as he turned. “You’re awake?” he asked, equal parts incredulous and relieved.

“I have no energy—‘energon’ was what you said our fuel is, right?” Solatra whispered, asking a question she already knew the answer to. Without her energy source and with her body dismembered, there was little she could do beyond learning from her cellmate and her surroundings. She forced a grimace that pretended to be a smile. “And no time, either. If we’re getting out of here, you’ll have to tell me everything… how you came to Earth, why you saved me. I need to know if I can trust you.”

Hyperion closed his optics for an instant, swallowing the guilt that threatened to choke him. He couldn’t refuse. He drew a deep breath and began to speak, his voice reverberating against the metal walls.

“Cycles ago, when the Matrix vanished from the hands of the last Prime and the chalice was lost when you disappeared amidst the violence, Cybertron stood at the brink of death. Energon ceased to flow, and the war no longer had resources to burn. The miners perished or fled. Both sides—Autobots and Decepticons—sent reconnaissance teams to any corner of the cosmos where there were rumors of energon veins. Some reached this system at different times; they came not for conquest but for survival. I…” he paused, remembering, “I was a combat medic. I should have been saving sparks in Iacon, but they assigned me to a mission to Earth to assess its potential. I landed with an Autobot team, but I soon understood the only thing we’d find was more war.

“I deserted,” he continued, with a glint of pride and shame. “I didn’t want to follow orders that only prolonged death. I built my refuge among these mountains and learned to go unnoticed. I knew my family was traveling in one of the escape ships, wandering through space in search of a planet rich in energon. I swore I would only intervene when I received their signal. Years passed and, instead of the transmission I awaited, your ship appeared. It was broken, burning up on re-entry. I found your chassis shattered and your spark agonizing in the wreckage. I recognized the Royals’ insignia embedded in your exoskeleton; I knew what it meant. I couldn’t let you die. I took you with me, put you in induced stasis, and let the chalice adjust your structure to human DNA. I thought you might have a life far from war. I built the cabin, worked the land… I hoped it would be enough. But they tracked me. They tortured me. And in the end…” his voice broke, “in the end I couldn’t protect you.

“They said they had my family… That they’d intercepted the refuge ship on one of the planets in this galaxy. They swore that if I revealed my years here and your whereabouts, they would let them go. I couldn’t refuse, and when they brought me to the Nemesis… there was no trace of them.”

Solatra stayed silent. For a moment, the echo of his words mingled with the insistent drip of the pipe and the distant hum of the Nemesis’ engines. She felt a knot of conflicting feelings: anger at Hyperion’s involuntary betrayal, relief at knowing he hadn’t abandoned her on purpose, and a renewed ache at remembering how the war had unfolded without her. She forced herself to breathe and made the decision that had been ripening in her mind. If she wanted to get out, if she could just find a chance to send a signal, to slip into some pipeline, to consume even a little energon—whatever it took to secure some way to survive—she had to plan something with the medic.

“We can’t change what happened,” she said, opening her eyes to fix her gaze on the mech’s shadow on the other side. “But we can still decide what we do now. If there’s energon left on this planet, if there’s still a chance the Autobots might find us, we have to hold on. I need your help to bring these barriers down. Megatron thinks I’m beaten, that my spark is weak. We’re going to prove him wrong. I just need something on our side—something to keep us afloat…”

Despite his wounds, Hyperion let out a small laugh, a sound he hadn’t made in eons. “You have my last amp of energy, Royal Solatra.”
The Nemesis kept pressing through the darkness, indifferent to the conspiracy brewing within. The dripping never stopped; metallic footsteps continued their inexorable dance. But in the small cell where Solatra and Hyperion shared whispers, a spark began to grow, fed by hope and determination. Horror still surrounded them, but it was no longer the only thing defining their existence.

Days kept passing, indistinguishable from one another, and with them came an inevitable visit. The heavy footsteps that had sounded at familiar intervals halted one day before the cells, and the silence beforehand was a more dreadful omen than any noise. Megatron made his appearance once more.

Solatra lay against the wall, conserving her energy and keeping her exchanges with Hyperion to mere whispers. Her reserves were at the limit. Even so, when the door slid open with a hiss, she forced herself upright. She didn’t want him to see her completely beaten. The Decepticon leader entered with studied calm. The bluish gloom of the energy barriers reflected off his armor, giving him an almost spectral aura. He stopped before Solatra, folding his arms with arrogance.

“I see you’re still breathing,” he remarked, his neutral tone hiding a drop of satisfaction. His red optics shifted to Hyperion on the other side, gifting him a look of disdain before returning to her. “I’m surprised your ‘companion’ didn’t let you die after what you did to him—he told you, didn’t he? That you’re the one to blame for the war that has you both in this situation. Pathetic…”

“Not for lack of trying on your part,” Solatra rasped, lifting her chin. “But you didn’t come out of courtesy. What do you want, Megatron?”

The giant tilted his head slightly, as if assessing how much resistance his prisoner still had. “Do you remember who I am? Do you remember who you were when you walked at my side?” His voice softened for an instant, almost a conspiratorial whisper. “There was a time when your ideals and mine weren’t so far apart. We both watched Cybertron’s elite crush our miner brothers, and how the Primes and their lackeys looked down on you. You shared my rage, my thirst for justice.”

Solatra felt a jab in her chest at those words. There was truth in them. She remembered—fragments, sensations—her outrage at Iacon’s opulence, the long conversations with D-16 about equality and change. She had seen in him the possibility of a different Cybertron, without hierarchies or Primes dictating everyone’s fate. But she also remembered the moment when everything twisted: the day she saw a flash of premonition in the chalice and understood that the violence Megatron embraced could only end in destruction.
“I believed in you,” she admitted, clenching her teeth. “Until I saw where your actions led. It wasn’t justice you sought, but power. Your lust for vengeance was going to drag us all under.”

Megatron let out a low, humorless laugh. “My vengeance? What do you know?” The smile vanished in an instant and his expression darkened. “You were the one who betrayed me. Your ‘visions’ conveniently favored Optimus and his pacifist ideals every time. I thought you shared my cause, but you let yourself be deceived by his facade. Your love for that Prime blinded you and you chose to stand against me. You accused me of violence when the one I regarded as a brother raised his hand to hold the Matrix denied to us. Don’t talk to me about power.”

“It wasn’t love that guided my warnings,” she corrected, suppressing a shiver at the way he spoke of Optimus. “It was truth. I saw Cybertron burn. I saw our brothers die in a war that hadn’t even begun. I tried to stop you, Megatron. But you wouldn’t listen. You preferred to believe I was betraying you because you can’t stand anyone telling you you’re wrong.”

For a moment, Megatron’s gaze seemed to flash with something other than anger: a hint of pain, perhaps, lost beneath layers of resentment. But it disappeared as quickly as it came. He stepped closer to the barrier and lowered his voice.

“I’m still offering you a way out, Solatra. You can still redeem yourself. Abandon this obstinacy and join me. The Autobots won’t come. Optimus won’t lift a finger for you. You are a forgotten tool. I, on the other hand, offer you a new beginning. You could be powerful again. You could help me forge a reborn Cybertron. This human body is nothing but a farce,” he said, gesturing with disdain at her frail form. “Break your bonds and you’ll be a Decepticon. Return to your true nature.”

Solatra looked straight at him, weighing each word before letting it out. “I will never be what you are. I won’t help destroy what’s left of our home. I’d rather rot here than become the puppet of your hatred.” The reply rang in the small cell, clear and definitive. Megatron stood motionless for an instant. The silence that followed crackled with tension. When he spoke again, his voice was a venomous growl.

“You were always stubborn,” he spat, and the energy barrier deactivated with a buzz. “You see treachery where there is none and cling to fantasies of honor. Very well. If it’s pain you desire, pain you shall have.”

Before Hyperion could react, Megatron was already inside the cell. His shadow swallowed her whole and, in a brutal motion, he seized the only arm she had left. His metal fingers closed around the limb with a pressure that made her scream. She felt human bones creak beneath the overwhelming force, tendons—or cables—stretching to the limit. Solatra clenched her teeth, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of a long wail.

“Do you see this?” he whispered, bending until his voice was for her alone. “This is what awaits you if you keep rejecting me. You have no idea what true suffering is. I could teach you. I can rip out every memory you still cling to, again and again, until nothingness is all you know.”

Hypnotized by the pain and the hatred emanating from him, Solatra forced herself to hold his gaze. “Do what you must,” she murmured through effort. “I’ve already chosen.”
Megatron restrained the impulse to crush her then and there. He released her arm abruptly, letting her slam against the wall like a broken toy. He straightened and looked at her one last time, his optics shining with a mix of fury and, buried very deep, something that might have been sorrow.

“Remember your words when you cry for me,” he said coldly. Then he turned, reactivated the barrier, and left, his footsteps resounding like thunder receding down the corridor.
Solatra was left panting, her bruised arm burning and her mind in a whirl. She knew Megatron wasn’t finished. That he would return. And that each refusal would make him crueler. But she also knew her answer had been the only possible one. She would not give up the little that remained of herself—her ideals, or the spark still beating beneath her human skin.

In the next cell, Hyperion closed his optics and exhaled, silently sharing her pain but also her resolve. The nightless night of the Nemesis continued on, mechanical and inexorable, while the two prisoners braced for the coming storm.

The pain still throbbed in her arm when Megatron left, and Solatra felt the world blur. She let herself drop, resting her forehead against the cold floor, breathing deeply so as not to succumb to despair. She closed her eyes and let her fragmented mind drift away from that cell. She plunged into her inner darkness, seeking solace in any corner of memory that still belonged to her. And then, as if a veil were torn, a glimmer of light appeared.

The gloom of the Nemesis turned into the bluish half-light of an energon mine. A soft hum of machinery and distant voices replaced the cell’s oppressive silence. She could smell the metallic tang of freshly extracted energon and the taste of dust on her lips. She saw herself much younger—in a full Cybertronian body, not the human shell she now wore—walking through a tunnel veined with translucent glow.

Beside her were Orion Pax and D-16. Orion’s worker armor left his torso bare, his blue optics shining with curiosity as he examined the crystals. D-16—still free of the title Megatron—rested a mining pick on his shoulder and laughed with the ease of someone who had not yet stared into the abyss. The scene was laden with a camaraderie that had become almost impossible to imagine.

“Have you ever seen anything this pure?” Orion asked, carefully stroking a vein of energon jutting from the rock. His voice held an almost childlike wonder. “Every time I come here, I wonder how anyone could hoard something so beautiful for themselves.”

“Because they don’t see it like we do,” D-16 answered with a bitter smile. “For them, this is power. For us, it’s life. But someday, brothers, this will belong to everyone,” he added, lifting his pick as if in a toast.

Solatra laughed, remembering how, back then, those words felt like a distant dream. “Someday you’ll have to stop giving speeches down here and start giving them on the surface,” she teased, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. “Though I doubt anyone will listen to a filthy miner.”

“And why not?” D-16 retorted, feigning indignation. “I have a voice as melodious as a Prime’s.” He burst out laughing, and the sound echoed off the walls. “Besides, I have two of Iacon’s brightest minds at my side.”

Orion rolled his optics but smiled. “I’m no orator,” he said modestly. “I only read. She’s the one who knows how to win hearts.” He glanced sidelong at Solatra, a mischievous glint in his gaze. Solatra felt a strange warmth spread through her chassis. There was something in the way he looked at her that always left her speechless.

D-16 noticed the exchange and clicked his tongue, twirling the digits of the pick with a dexterity that spoke of years of work. “Enough sentimentalism. We’ve got a shift to finish and a supervisor who won’t want to hear excuses. Besides,” he added, lowering his voice, “I’ve heard rumors that Sentinel is planning something big. Something to do with the Matrix. Maybe things will really change soon—maybe at last the energon will flow again, and social rank won’t be set by who receives more.”
“What kind of rumors?” Solatra asked, frowning. Even in the flashback, her spark tingled with warning.

“Nothing concrete,” Orion admitted. “Just whispers. But I…” He sought her hands, completely unaware of what that gesture did to her. “I think change starts with us. We can’t wait for those above to give us anything. Whatever they do with their expeditions to find the Matrix, our survival isn’t their concern. We must claim our place.”

Solatra remembered nodding, the chalice glowing faintly in her chest—though back then it was only an inactive relic. In that moment, the trust and affection she felt for Orion were undeniable. D-16 also watched her, but his gaze was different; there was a fire in him that wasn’t easy to read. Among the three of them, a fragile yet powerful alliance was forming—an equilibrium of ideas that, in that silent mine, seemed capable of changing the world.

The vision began to fade slowly, like energon vapor escaping a newly opened cavity. The faces of Orion and D-16 blurred, and with them disappeared the laughter, the warmth of camaraderie, the sense of shared purpose. Pain shot through Solatra’s arm again, and she felt once more the cold of the cell, the smell of metal and despair.

But the memory left her with more than nostalgia. It reminded her who she had been before betrayal, before banners and titles. It reminded her what it felt like to be part of something uncorrupted by war. And though reality was now much darker, that spark of memory helped her cling to her own essence.

With nothing else to process, her processor submerged again into deep meditation—an auto-induced stasis in the hope of surviving the next day…

Chapter Text

The first thing Solatra felt when she opened her eyes was the cold seeping into her spine; the rest of her body was already numb, her limbs consuming themselves to preserve her heart and her brain—or rather her spark, as Hyperion had explained during those interminable nights inside the cell. The pain was still a constant buzzing in her wounded arm, but Solatra forced herself to ignore it. She had spent days observing, listening, counting the heartbeats of the ship. The Nemesis was not just a metal shell: it breathed, contracted, and pulsed imperceptibly to any human… but not to her. With each cycle, she could feel how the energy conduits recharged and then descended into relative quiet. At first she thought it was her own distorted spark producing that pulse, but Hyperion had confirmed that it was the ship itself. Soundwave made sure to keep them in complete darkness, but he could not prevent the chalice from vibrating in unison with the heart of the Nemesis. Despite the fact that this ship that kept them prisoners was no more than a tool—a machine with the purpose of serving the Decepticons—it retained its true nature, one they could exploit for their own benefit, and still they clung to the same doubt…

When the cell descended, how would they actually escape?

What little calm Solatra had was eaten away by the idea of another failed escape, but Hyperion had become more than a cellmate: he gave her the patience and common sense necessary to keep her processor from collapsing under the pressure of an imminent escape. He was an ally she was grateful to have at that moment, an improvised mentor and, now, the central piece of a plan that verged on suicidal. His damaged frame did not conceal the dignity that remained to him. He himself had explained that medics, in extreme cases, carried an overload system in their chassis: a kind of internal defibrillator that could restart a vital system. “It’s a last resort,” he had whispered, “something that should never be used to cause harm or an explosion. But given our circumstances… perhaps it could serve.”

Solatra had felt a shiver when Hyperion detailed his idea. He would use that overload to send a discharge into the Nemesis’s central circuit at the exact moment when the ship “inhaled,” causing a short circuit strong enough to temporarily deactivate the energon cage separating the cells. She, with her instincts linked to the chalice, would have to point out the precise moment of the cycle. It was a plan that lasted only seconds; if they failed to synchronize, they would attract attention and not only continue to be tortured, but Hyperion’s life would also be put at risk.

“We can’t make a mistake,” murmured Solatra once more as they reviewed the stages. “If your discharge doesn’t coincide with the peak of flow, you’ll just be consuming yourself for nothing. I won’t let them finish you off over a failed escape. I need you at my side.”

“Solatra… don’t doubt now, we can do it, okay? I’ll activate the overload, I’ll get you out of the cell and we’ll go to the cargo sector. There should be a waste pipe there. If we manage to overload the Nemesis for a few seconds through the internal circuit, the last thing that will activate will be the waste centers. Don’t worry,” Hyperion replied, without a trace of drama. “I have an energon reserve I’ve been saving for this moment, a cube between my plates that they haven’t registered. I’ll give it to you when I free you to give us a chance. It’s now or never; I promise you, I’ll get you out of here.”

“A promise.”

Solatra pressed her lips together. It was hard for her to accept that promise. She didn’t want anyone to die for her or be hurt; she didn’t want to continue in this hell and even less for Hyperion to keep going through the same or worse. But she knew the mech beside her was right: their plan had become something tangible, a sign, a light in the middle of the abyss, something they both lacked—hope. She breathed deeply, letting the metallic smell of the cell mix with the rhythm of the ship. She felt the heartbeat. One… two… three… every sixteen counts, the pressure varied.

The Nemesis and Megatron had underestimated her; maybe she was human now, maybe she could never fully master the power of the chalice, but at least she wasn’t like the Matrix—this was her complete and immovable right, her own tool, and she could feel everything.

“Now,” she said at last when the pattern repeated for the umpteenth time. “On the sixteenth beat. That’s the moment of full inhalation.”

Hyperion nodded with a soft metallic sound. He prepared mentally, rearranging his cables and reconfiguring his overload system. He knew it would hurt. He knew he could fail. But he had nothing left to lose. While he worked, his gaze softened.

“When I arrived on Earth and saw you for the first time,” he whispered, “I thought it was a miracle. I never imagined I’d be here now, but I don’t regret it. In a way, this closes the circle. The Royals have always been Cybertron’s hope. If I can help you ignite that light again… then so be it.”

Solatra extended her hand through the bars. She couldn’t touch him because of the energon barrier, but the gesture was clear. “Thank you, Hyperion,” she said simply. “We’ll get out of here; the promise comes from both of us.”

Moments later, they began the countdown. Solatra closed her eyes to concentrate; she listened to the hum that preceded the heartbeat, felt the chalice glow slightly in her chest, synchronized. Hyperion placed his hands against the metal wall, aligning himself with the main conduit that ran behind his cell.

“There’s something I never told you, Solatra…” murmured Hyperion. “The energon reserve I had was always my own spark…”

And with that said and the expression of surprise on Solatra’s face, the event occurred: Hyperion’s discharge was like contained thunder. His chassis arched, a violent blue light ran through him and entered the metal. For a second everything was still; then a spark shot from the wall and the energon barrier flickered. The Nemesis growled like a wounded animal. Solatra felt the walls vibrate and a smell of burning ozone filled the air. She had seconds.

Even without seeing Hyperion, she heard the creak of the plates in his cell coming loose. The energon barrier separating them vanished and he lurched towards her, dragging himself with his charred parts. The effort was titanic, each movement tearing small sparks and drops of energon that evaporated instantly. He reached the bars, his trembling hands crossed the invisible line where the barrier had been, and he felt Solatra’s chains.

“Quickly, before it comes back,” he murmured, with a ragged voice.

His fingers worked with a surgeon’s precision despite the weakness. Solatra stifled a groan at the feel of the cold pieces against her skin, hearing the snap of the locks. Time was slipping away. She noticed the ship emitting a growing hum: the “exhalation” was coming, the system rebooting. When the last chain fell, the energon barrier crackled again. Hyperion was still halfway into the cell; the shock when the barrier reappeared would be lethal.

“Go to the end,” ordered Hyperion, with an urgency that admitted no argument. “Use that ventilation duct; it will take you to the lower level. The chalice… the chalice will shine with the energy of my spark. Send them a signal. Speak to them. They will hear you.”

“I can’t leave you!” protested Solatra, feeling her instincts pulling in opposite directions.

“Of course you can,” he replied, with an unexpected calm. “You must. This is what I am: a medic. And sometimes saving a life implies giving your own. Now go.”

That was the last thing the mech said before ripping his spark from his chest, his optics losing that light of hope that had kept her connected these weeks. He took it with his broken arm, agonizing from the pain of moving it, and watched as it was automatically absorbed by the channels of the chalice, giving her a boost of energy.

Solatra felt the sudden pressure in her chest that announced the return of the barrier. The lights flickered frenetically. With a determination born of both desperation and hope, she lunged for the duct Hyperion had pointed to. It was narrow and dark, but her human form allowed her to slide through. She barely heard Hyperion’s body being pierced when the barrier came back up, but she could feel it. The medic who had accompanied her for weeks was now nothing more than charred metal on the Nemesis; his memories, his desires, his goals—nothing remained. A blue flash illuminated the corridor, and for a second, the chalice burned inside her, feeling Hyperion’s spark fuse with hers—at least this way his will would continue living within her.

Solatra couldn’t look back. Tears slid down her face without her realizing it. She felt the weight of the sacrifice pushing her forward. In the dim light, she crawled, feeling every irregularity of the metal against her knees and hand. The duct led to a secondary hatch that, according to Hyperion, opened onto a maintenance system that was less monitored. It was her only chance to find a transmitter or an energy panel she could use to send the signal before throwing herself down some waste duct, hoping her human body would not burn from the speed of the fall, hoping the impact wouldn’t kill her… but she preferred to die and let the chalice be lost in the confines of the universe rather than hand it over to Megatron, the traitor she had once considered a brother.

She shook her head of all the thoughts flooding her; she would gain nothing by imagining her imminent death. She emerged into a narrow corridor with flickering lights and hanging cables. The ship was on alert; she could hear muted alarms and the sound of hallways opening and closing. The chalice continued to resonate, an intermittent light that she was sure would be visible to any nearby Autobot sensor… if she could amplify it.

She found an access panel with a transmission port. It was old, with manual connections, probably forgotten by Megatron’s crew. Solatra breathed deeply, placed her hand on it and let the chalice guide the energy. Hyperion’s spark danced with hers, creating a unique frequency. She closed her eyes, focusing on transmitting the message: “I’m alive. I’m here. Nemesis. Help. Free fall.”

A vibration ran through the ship. The signal spread through the structure, and Solatra imagined the wave expanding into space, crossing the void, searching for friendly minds. She didn’t know if it would work. She didn’t know if anyone would hear it. The only thing she knew was that she wasn’t alone. Hyperion had given her that chance.

The heat of the chalice diminished slowly, but a persistent spark continued beating in her chest. Solatra leaned against the wall, exhausted, but with renewed determination, ready to run again in search of the exit—to feel the sun again, the air, to be free. Megatron could say no one was coming, that she was alone, that her existence didn’t matter. But now, for the first time since her capture, she felt a voice rise beyond the walls of the Nemesis. And that voice carried her name.

Four weeks earlier — Jasper, Nevada

The Autobots’ base on Earth was in a tense calm. The war on Cybertron had become a distant echo, but its consequences continued arriving in the form of erratic signals and lightning‑fast attacks from the Decepticons. They had already made contact with the human race, and these were peaceful enough to begin dialogue with the government of what they called the United States.

Here they were, years after their arrival on the planet, with no signs of Decepticons, trying to find a way to restore their own planet—a goal and a desire that seemed distant in the minds of everyone present. But first they would have to survive on Earth, and that required mining energon—the same task Optimus thought he had left eons ago. Ratchet, busy in his improvised laboratory, with more human equipment than Cybertronian, took care of scanning different areas of the planet in search of energon veins, sending reconnaissance troops to mine and process it at the base, ensuring the survival of the six Autobots who were currently stranded on that planet.

“Arcee, Bumblebee, Bulkhead, Cliffjumper, Optimus and myself,” the medic was mentally listing as he watched his vital panels—all stable, all in optimal condition given the situation—and he was partly grateful for the absence of Decepticons; in a world where he couldn’t and didn’t have the means, he wouldn’t allow himself to lose anyone.

While the others refueled energon, an alarm sounded through the base—that sound that shook all those present, as it had a specific assignment. “Decepticons” was the first thing that came to his processor, trying to calm himself as he downloaded the information onto the base’s datapads. On the main computer he picked up an unusual energy signature: it was neither a human pulse nor a simple electromagnetic disturbance. It was… Cybertronian, confirming his suspicions.

“Ratchet, report,” declared Optimus, preparing to go meet whatever it was.

“That can’t be,” he murmured, frowning. “These patterns are from an attack, but the signature overlaps with something else—I can’t decipher it. There might be a Decepticon appearance on the Canadian border, but I’m picking up another transmission, an escape capsule from Cybertron, perhaps…”

Optimus Prime, who was reviewing reports with Arcee, approached. “Is it refugees?”

“The reading is incomplete,” Ratchet responded. “There are components that match Decepticon exploration armament and others that resemble… induced stasis signals and energon overloads. There might right now be a fight of life or death.”

Optimus exchanged a look with Arcee and Bumblebee, who had entered the room upon hearing the tone of his voice. “We can’t ignore this,” he said. “Arcee, Bee, Bulkhead, Cliffjumper, prepare for a reconnaissance mission. Go to those coordinates. We don’t want a confrontation if it’s not necessary; this is investigation. If it is a Decepticon attack, report and retreat. And if you find traces of… any of ours, notify immediately.”

Arcee nodded. “On our way.”

No one knew what they would find upon crossing that portal…

Northern Idaho - Somewhere

The journey to the mountains was quick but charged with tension. Arcee and Cliffjumper led the way, agile among the trees, with Bumblebee closing the formation and Bulkhead occupying the outer flank. The landscape turned rocky and icy; every step resonated with a metallic echo in the cold air.

“Do you remember the last time we were here?” whispered Cliffjumper to Arcee through the internal communicator, trying to lighten the tension he was carrying. He glanced sideways at her, seeing how she seemed unwilling to fall for his games, immersed in her thoughts.

“I don’t think it’s necessary to mention it, Cliff,” she replied, focused. “We’re on a mission, eyes on the road.”

Once at the hidden slope that gave access to the mine, Arcee raised her hand. “Complete scans,” she ordered. “There are residual energon readings… and something else.” She crouched down, touching the rock. She felt a slight warmth. “This was recent.”

They went into the mine. The darkness was pierced by the blue light of their optics and the built‑in flashlights they carried. As they advanced, they noted the remains: heavy, rusted mining tools, marks on the walls, fractured crystals. But also… things they did not expect.

“What the heck is that?” exclaimed Bulkhead, pointing at some half‑melted metal pieces on a table. Ratchet would have known instantly that they were remains of medical instruments.

Arcee approached. “There’s recent oxidation here. Someone worked with direct energy.”

“Spilled energon, unmined, wasted… Whoever was here had no intention of taking this; they were looking for something else,” commented the red bot, scanning the walls for more clues to give them some information.

Further in, they found what looked like a natural cavity turned into an improvised laboratory: a miniature generator, empty energon containers, cylinders of sedatives and, at the back, a metallic capsule half buried in the rock. Arcee crouched. A layer of dust covered an emblem on the exterior. She wiped it with her finger and was left breathless. The symbol was unmistakable: the seal of the Royals, engraved in relief.

“Optimus, are you seeing this?” asked Cliffjumper, activating the video channel.

At the base, Optimus Prime watched the transmission with a mixture of incredulity and hope. “It can’t be…” he whispered. The chalice and the insignia of the Royals had disappeared with Solatra. No one expected to see that mark again, much less on Earth.

For a moment everyone froze, Arcee’s servos trembling slightly at the idea of seeing what might be the last hope they had to return home… and if this was her tomb, everything they dreamed of would turn to ashes; she couldn’t stand the idea of knowing Solatra had died. She never believed it—she admired her… she admired her so much that her own processor refused to accept such a cruel fate. Bumblebee from behind saw Arcee not reacting, and approached to place one of his servos on the femme’s shoulder, trying to ground her.

“What should we do?” insisted Arcee, anxious, returning to her senses and to the moment.

“Open it,” said Optimus after a brief silence. “Open that capsule. Whoever’s inside could be related to our past. But be careful. If there is a Royal spark… it must be protected. Whether it’s her or not, their safety must be guaranteed.”

Bulkhead used his tools to force the pod open. A shower of sparks filled the cavity and the lid opened slowly with a hiss, releasing a cold, stale air. Inside, the interior was empty. Only a bundle of disconnected cables remained and a plate that had been carefully removed. The world came crashing down on them all.

“This was in use,” observed Bumblebee through the internal communicator, since Ratchet still couldn’t fix his voice module. “But now it’s empty. Do you think she was really here?”

“I don’t know,” replied Arcee, touching the rim. The indentation fit the shape of a medium‑sized Cybertronian body. “Optimus, it looks like an escape pod that was reused as a stasis capsule. It has the Royals’ seal, but someone used it and abandoned it.”

Optimus remained silent for a few moments. “Continue the search. Look for more signs. Don’t leave the area until you’re sure there is no other device. And take samples for Ratchet. I want to know if there’s anything more than energon in that pod.”

Arcee nodded, and along with Cliff she began to remove the components of the pod, to see if they could salvage something. While Bumblebee collected small pieces of metal and energon residue, Bulkhead placed signal markers around. The atmosphere was dense. Everyone felt the presence of a past they thought dead.

“Someone was healing here,” murmured Bumblebee. “These sedatives are to mitigate pain… and these instruments are for surgery. A surgeon in a Decepticon mine?”

Arcee frowned. “Or someone trying to save someone else.”

“If there are signs of combat then some bot is in danger, we can’t stay here, we have to act,” said Cliffjumper. His words sounded as serious as his expression at that moment, his servos clenching into fists and his frustration becoming palpable among those present.

Optimus was about to respond via communicator while he and Ratchet prepared to investigate the area. If Solatra had indeed always been alive, he wanted to be there. He wanted to be able to see her again, to hear her voice, to feel her presence… He just wanted to be able to protect her as he hadn’t been able to before. He shared the red bot’s frustration and need, even more so, but as leader he couldn’t lose his composure. As he was about to send the message, he was interrupted.

“I have a trail, eroding toward a sparsely inhabited rural area, about four kilometers from the nearest town. It could tell us something; there are energon signals too,” Bumblebee reported, pointing to a reading on his scanner.

“Let’s go,” ordered Arcee immediately. “We can’t waste time.”

Cliffjumper advanced first, brandishing his guns in case they encountered resistance. The terrain was rough and the cold wind cut like blades against his bodywork, but none of them slowed their pace. Soon they left behind the bare stones of the mountain and entered a thick forest. The smell of pine and damp earth mixed with something else metallic and familiar: burned energon.

“This isn’t good,” grunted Bulkhead, frowning. “That smell is fresh.”

The path widened and led them to a clearing where the cabin Hyperion had built years ago stood. Or what was left of it. The roof had caved in and the walls were blackened by a recent explosion. One side was completely torn open, as if giant claws had ripped it off. Ash still floated in the air.

“Damn…” whispered Cliffjumper, stopping his steps cautiously.

Arcee approached the threshold, her servos trembling again. The floor creaked under her feet. She crouched and placed her palm on the earth. It was warm. A few minutes more and it would be cold. “This happened very recently,” she reported. “Maybe hours.”

Bumblebee came closer, doing a sweep with his scanner. His interface beeped several times. “Energon residue right here, and…” he frowned. “There’s also… biological material. Human blood and energon mixed.”

“Human?” repeated Bulkhead, surprised.

“There are human footprints on the ground,” added Cliffjumper, pointing at the floor marked by bare feet and drag marks. “But the footprints mix with metallic drag marks and…” He fell silent when he saw something protruding under a charred plank.

Arcee saw the same shape: something pale that contrasted with the darkness of the embers. She approached carefully and lifted the charred wood. Underneath, partially buried among ashes and pieces of beams, was a human arm. The skin, although covered with soot and dirt, had an abnormally pale tone. It was cut above the elbow, as if it had been violently amputated. And most disturbing: the wound didn’t bleed like a human cut. Thin cables and remnants of connections protruded from the stump. A drop of crystallized blue energon hung from one of them.

“What… is this?” whispered Arcee, stunned.

Bumblebee bent down to examine it without touching. “It’s not completely human,” he murmured through the communicator. “It has organic tissue around… cybernetic components. This is a hybrid.”

Cliffjumper swallowed. “Some kind of experiment? Or…?”

Arcee didn’t respond immediately. The image of Solatra in her memories— that noble and powerful femme— superimposed itself on the sight of the inert human arm with exposed cables. A shiver ran through her chassis.

“Optimus,” she finally said over the communicator, regaining her voice. “We’ve found… human remains and energon in the cabin. It looks like there was a battle here very recently. The destruction is recent and there are signs that someone was injured… or worse. The arm we found has Cybertronian technology inside.”

Optimus’s response came loaded with tension. “Are you sure it’s technology? Isn’t it just an accessory?”

“It’s an implant,” intervened Ratchet, listening to the transmission from the base. “From the resonance of the crystallized energon and the tissue, I’d say it’s Cybertronian modified to adapt to human DNA. As if someone had… reshaped their body to survive here.”

A heavy silence followed Ratchet’s words. Arcee looked at her companions. Cliffjumper gripped his pistols so hard that his metallic knuckles creaked. Bulkhead turned his gaze away, uncomfortable. Bumblebee emitted a sad beep.

“Collect the arm carefully,” ordered Optimus, controlling his voice. “Bring it to the base. And keep searching the area for any clue that tells us where they took the owner of that limb. We cannot let the sacrifice of any being—whether human or Cybertronian—be in vain.”

Arcee nodded, still feeling the floor tremble beneath her feet. While Bulkhead took a cargo blanket to wrap the arm delicately, she scanned the remnants of the cabin. There were chain marks on a wall, pieces of improvised syringes, a small library scattered on the floor and, in a corner, a burned blanket with stains of a dark blue tone.

“If some bot was here and was captured in the mine,” she thought aloud, “whoever was under their care in this cabin was left alone. Without energon. Without protection. They probably tracked them here and…” she didn’t finish. She couldn’t.

Cliffjumper growled. “It doesn’t matter who it is. We’ll find the Decepticons who did this and make them pay,” he assured.

“Yes,” murmured Arcee. “But first we must find whoever is missing. If they’re alive, there’s no time to lose.”

The group finished securing the area, marking the coordinates and taking additional samples of energon and ash. As they moved away along the trail, Arcee couldn’t help looking back once more. The charred walls of the cabin crumbled slowly, embers sent spirals of smoke up into the grey sky. It was as if the planet itself were exhaling a sigh of exhaustion and pain.

Arcee felt that somewhere in space, someone must be waiting for a signal. And though she didn’t yet know who—whether a lost Royal, a sacrificed medic or both—she swore she would not fail them again.

Back at the base, the silence was so thick it felt like a veil. The journey back had been quick, but to Optimus it had seemed endless. The arm wrapped in the blanket rested on a metal table in Ratchet’s improvised laboratory, and although the other Autobots moved around preparing instruments and calibrating scanners, for him everything was background noise. His blue optics were fixed on the end of the stump, on the torn skin that revealed cables and a small clot of blue energon. The image superimposed itself again and again over his memories of Solatra: the strength in her eyes, the glow of the chalice beating in her chest, the way she pursed her lips when they argued. Had she been subjected to violence like this?

Ratchet said nothing. His visor was lit with data, his tools buzzed softly as they analyzed the texture, composition and residual signals. But Optimus didn’t hear the numbers; he heard his own thoughts hammering at him, questioning every decision that had brought him there. He, who had always seen himself as a protector, leader, guardian of peace, now found himself facing a piece of flesh and metal that could belong to the only person who had ever challenged his iron conviction with a smile and a whisper.

His mind went back to the Royals’ bunker, to the shine of the crystals, to the echo of Solatra’s voice insisting that justice was not the same as revenge. He remembered how he had avoided her warnings, how he had let duty weigh more than instinct. What if his obstinacy had pushed Solatra into a desperate escape? What if, by not listening to her, he had condemned her?

Ratchet looked up, but Optimus avoided his eyes. He didn’t need to hear “we don’t know whose it is” or “it’s impossible to identify the owner without a genetic reference.” Inside him, each fragment of information was a dagger. He thought about what lay beneath the blanket: it wasn’t just a severed limb; it was the broken promise that he could protect those he loved. Although he had never said it aloud, Solatra had been a beacon for him. Her absence had left a hole that not even victory in the war could fill.

He breathed deeply, even though he didn’t need air to live. He did it because it helped him center himself. The room smelled of metal, disinfectant and dried energon. The atmosphere was almost sacred, as if they were in a temple where every lost spark deserved reverence. The arm was still there, inert, waiting for Ratchet’s instruments to decipher its story. Optimus extended a hand but stopped before touching it. It wasn’t the time. He couldn’t allow himself to break down in front of the others.

Cliffjumper leaned against the wall in silence, with his fists clenched, and Bumblebee watched with a mix of curiosity and sadness. Arcee, a little apart, stared at the ground, biting back the sorrow to keep it from spilling out. They all knew what that arm meant if the worst supposition was confirmed. But none of them could comprehend what was happening in their leader’s mind.

Optimus clenched his jaw. He couldn’t stop the whirlwind of thoughts: images of Solatra laughing in the mines, arguing in the war room, disappearing into the bunker’s tunnel. Now, the idea of her body being torn apart, her circuits exposed, flooded him with a silent rage. He would have wanted to cross the universe to wrench her from Megatron’s claws with his own hands. He would have wanted to tell her that he had listened to her, that her vision mattered, that he… needed her.

A hum from the scanner interrupted his internal spiral. Ratchet began to recite parameters in a low voice, but Optimus barely registered them. Instead, he clung to an idea: if that arm belonged to Solatra, it meant she was alive when it was torn off. Someone had tried to preserve her life with human implants; someone had cared for her. Maybe, just maybe, there was still time. That hope, tenuous but real, settled in his chest alongside the sting of guilt.

Without words, Optimus bowed his head. He forced himself to remember that he was the leader of the Autobots, that everyone depended on his clarity and strength. But this time, that strength would have to come from a place deeper than honor or responsibility: it would have to come from the unspoken love he had been carrying for too long. And while Ratchet worked, while the machines whistled and the data accumulated, he promised himself that if he ever found Solatra again, he wouldn’t leave anything unsaid.

At the end of that long night, Ratchet’s reports would not give him a definitive answer about whose arm it was. But for Optimus, that analysis would become the trigger that opened the door to the most painful and significant memory of his life: the last dialogue with Solatra before her disappearance and the void she left behind. That memory would trap him inexorably, guiding him back to the last cycles of Cybertron, to the words he never uttered and to the paths he never walked… until now.

Year XXXX – Iacon, Cybertron

Optimus had always been a leader of few words and many convictions, but in those last cycles of Cybertron his mind was a whirlpool of thoughts that gave him no respite. The war was nearing its climax; the citadels burned, the towers of Iacon collapsed in flames. The Matrix was lost, the chalice incapacitated under a Solatra wrapped in the same chaos as the planet they inhabited. And yet, there was something else that kept him awake: an unfinished conversation with her.

He remembered perfectly the bluish penumbra of the Royals’ bunker, hidden under the hills, where the two of them had faced each other for the last time. The walls were adorned with ancient frescoes depicting Primes and Royal femmes united, guarding the life of the planet. But that night, the air was laden with reproaches.

“You don’t understand,” said Solatra, her voice tense. “It’s not just about fighting Megatron. It’s about what Cybertron will be afterwards. What good is it to win if the planet is already dead? The Royals have seen its fate; I have seen it, Optimus. The chalice showed me at the very moment of the ceremony: the war consumes everything.”

Optimus clenched his fists. He had been arguing with her for hours, trying to convince her that they had to fight to the end. “And what do you propose?” he replied, with more harshness than he intended. “Surrender? Let Megatron take control and use the chalice as a weapon? Wait for him to self‑destruct? I can’t.”

Solatra looked at him, and fury and sadness shone in her eyes at the same time. “I’m not talking about surrender,” she whispered. “I’m talking about stopping before crossing a point of no return. About remembering that we can’t protect something by burning it to ashes.”

Optimus felt a lump in his throat. He admired her. He had always respected her wisdom and her connection to the chalice. He also felt something else: a deep affection he had never dared to name. Maybe because there was no room for it in the middle of the war. Maybe because admitting it would be acknowledging his vulnerability.

“Solatra…” he tried, softening his tone. “I know what you feel. I’m tired too. I’ve seen too many fall…” he fell silent, looking at his own metal hands, stained with energon. “But I can’t abandon the fight now. I can’t.”

She took a step toward him. They seemed alone in that silent bunker, even though it was the nerve center of the resistance. “I don’t want you to abandon anything,” she whispered. “I just want you to listen. I’ve had visions… They’re not just dreams. I saw a Cybertron covered in ashes, I saw Megatron engulfed in darkness, I saw the chalice and the Matrix… over our hands.”

Optimus tensed. “The Matrix?” he repeated, confused. “Are you saying…?”

“I’m saying that the power you so seek, that which was given in sacrifice and honor and then taken away in uncertainty, is also the power that can save us, but maybe it isn’t the time, Optimus. Perhaps we need to let something be born from the ashes,” Solatra approached a little more. Her face, in its Cybertronian form, glowed with the light of the crystals hanging from the ceiling. She extended a hand and left it suspended a few centimeters from Optimus’s chest. “Listen to the chalice, don’t fear it. Don’t let pride or vengeance blind anyone, not even Megatron… not even you.”

There was a moment when Optimus felt the world stop. He could smell ozone in the air, hear the distant echoes of explosions on the surface. And there, a few centimeters away, she was: the femme who challenged and inspired him in equal measure. He wanted to say something more personal, something like “stay,” or “be careful,” or even “I don’t want to lose you.” But the only thing that came out of his mouth were words steeped in duty.

“I can’t stop Megatron with words,” he murmured. “I must stop him with deeds. And if the chalice has something to tell me, I’ll have to listen to it afterwards. For now, I have an army to lead and a war to finish.”

Solatra lowered her hand, a shadow of disappointment crossing her face. “Then perhaps this will be the last time we see each other,” she murmured. “Because if you choose not to listen, we will lose everything.”

Optimus felt a prick of fear. The distance between them suddenly became unbridgeable. “Solatra, don’t go,” he said, taking a step toward her. “Don’t do anything reckless. Don’t—”

She cut him off with a sad smile. “We’ve always been cowards with our words,” she responded. “You with your duty, I with my legacy. Maybe it’s time to act.” Then, without waiting for an answer, she turned around and left the bunker, her cape billowing slightly. Optimus stood there, watching her disappear down the tunnel.

There were so many things he hadn’t said. He remembered precisely the moment when he realized he couldn’t let her leave like that. He forced himself to finish his tasks that night, dispatched orders to Ratchet and the soldiers on the surface, and finally ran to the Royals’ bunker… only to find it in ruins. The roof had given way. The mural of the Primes was shattered. The place reeked of ozone and burnt energon. There were marks of gunfire everywhere. He understood immediately: the Decepticons had attacked with surgical precision. He found no bodies, only signs of struggle. The chalice was gone. Solatra too. The access keys were destroyed. Nothing remained.

“Solatra,” he whispered, feeling a tremendous weight fall upon his chest. “Where are you?”

For cycles afterwards, he punished himself for not stopping her, for not trusting her visions, for not saying what he felt. The war continued. Megatron fell and rose only to flee from a Cybertron without return. The Autobots fled to Earth. The chalice disappeared from history. But every time Optimus closed his optics during those first months on the blue planet, he saw Solatra’s face illuminated by the crystals of the bunker, heard her voice whispering about justice and destiny, and remembered the words he never said.

Years later, on Earth, when signals from the Nemesis began to appear on the radar, a spark of hope lit again. And with it, the silent promise he had made to himself: if he ever found Solatra again, this time he wouldn’t stay quiet. Because justice and destiny were not only grand ideas in an endless war. They were also the small decisions—keeping silent or speaking up, walking away or staying—that shaped the life of every spark.

Chapter Text

Nemesis, Stratosphere — Present Day

Solatra's mind was flooded with anxiety and despair. After sending the message, she could only hope that someone or something would intercept the signal, that someone would realize… If she was going to die, if Hyperion's sacrifice had been in vain, she at least wanted to die accompanied, knowing that someone had looked for her. She wanted her body to receive comfort, a grave; at least that way someone could honor her.

She wanted to know that at least Optimus had tried to save her…

Optimus…

A name that still struggled to regain its meaning among the failed connections of her processor, or brain. She no longer knew which part of her was truly human and which was Cybertronian; perhaps only her feelings, her sensations, and her traumas were the human part she retained—her sensations, her need to survive, to keep pushing. She had read about it once: the indomitable human spirit, that which kept pushing her even after losing one arm, with the other already shattered, and being deprived of light and food for who knows how long.

All she knew was that in that instant, she had to press that button, and with the pain of her only remaining upper limb, she pressed it.

The hum of the conduit transformed into a deafening roar as Solatra's body was ejected into the void. Her eyes flickered open and shut, barely distinguishing flashes of metal and vapor before darkness swallowed everything. The air cut her human skin like blades; the pressure tore at her ears. For the first time since her arrival on Earth, she felt a fear so primal it overrode all thought: falling uncontrollably from kilometers high meant only one thing—death. And a part of her knew it, she knew this was her end, that no one would have enough time to rescue her, intercept her fall, or even if they did, she would still crash at hundreds of kilometers per hour against whatever surface stood in her path, her direct path to the afterlife.

There was no time to scream. Her throat closed from the cold searing her lungs. The weight of gravity pulled at her viscera, at her reconfigured bones. The Nemesis shrank to a distant shadow as she tumbled in the void; below, she could only see black and, beyond, the glimmer of a river snaking through rocks. Her human body wasn't made to withstand such speed. She felt her joints threatening to dislocate, her ribs vibrating on the verge of breaking. She thought of Hyperion, of his spark merging with hers just minutes ago; she thought of Iacon, of Orion and D-16 laughing in the mines; she thought of the Chalice, the last vestige of her lineage.

«I don't want to die»

She told herself, and didn't know if she thought it or screamed it. Through the panic, she sought the sensation of the Chalice in her chest. The relic, dormant for years, vibrated again in unison with the human adrenaline. In the center of that whirlwind of air, an electric tingling broke through, expanding from her metallic core to the rest of her body. The Chalice reacted to the imminent danger. Small filaments of blue light began to sprout from between Solatra's simulated skin, drawing a web of energy that spread from her chest to her limbs. The vibration intensified and, suddenly, an invisible force surrounded her.

The wind stopped roaring. The fall continued, but the pressure on her organs decreased. It was like falling through thick water. Solatra opened her eyes within that sphere of light enveloping her. She saw the river approaching at a lethal speed, but now her body seemed to float inside an energy cocoon. The concave structure of the Chalice had deployed an instinctive damping field, fueled by Hyperion's spark and her last reserves of energon. It was a miracle and a curse: it would save her from the immediate impact, but it was draining the last available drop of energy.

Even so, the impact was brutal. The sphere hit the water's surface like a meteorite, raising a column of foam and rocks. The protection mitigated the force, but couldn't stop the shockwave from shattering her already mutilated arm, from fracturing her legs in several places, and from her head striking the riverbed. The human skin tore in multiple places, exposing metal fragments and cables. The Chalice absorbed the remaining shock, diverting the energy into the current, but Solatra's body was submerged face down, dragged a few meters by the force of the water before getting stuck among stones.

The pain came like a dagger; then, it simply shut off. The Chalice, aware its bearer wouldn't survive a second impact, activated a stasis mode. The energy pulses ceased abruptly, and an intense cold flooded her circuits and her hybrid blood. Her eyes closed, and her breathing became almost imperceptible. Time dilated. The water ran over her back, carrying leaves and branches, murmuring chants that no one heard. Solatra was trapped in a dreamlike darkness where not even fear could reach her. Deep within her mind, Hyperion's spark whispered words she barely understood. "It is not the end," a voice said. "Hold on."

On the surface, a faint blue light pulsed under the water, signaling from a distance the location of a body still wrestling between life and death. Kilometers away, the sensors at the Jasper base would pick up that echo, and distant sparks would accelerate in unison.

Jasper, Nevada — Present Day

The provisional base the Autobots had built in the middle of the desert resonated with the constant hum of generators and sensors. Ratchet moved from console to console, checking patterns, deciphering codes, making sure the human systems didn't collapse from the Cybertronian energy. Silence had become a habitual companion; the only sound was the intermittent beeping of the machines… until something out of the ordinary erupted in the room.

A discreet alarm, just a flash on a side panel, lit up red. Ratchet blinked, puzzled. He checked the frequency. It wasn't human. It wasn't entirely Decepticon. It was something he recognized, a pattern he had seen on Cybertron many lives ago. He activated the log and played the encoded message. A murmur filtered through the speakers, distorted by interference: «…A… live… here… Nemes… help… free…fall…».

Ratchet felt his internal fan stall.

"It can't be," he thought. It was a one-in-a-million chance, maybe more. What were the odds that the only Femme capable of saving their race had escaped to Earth, and that she was alive? His spark vibrated with hope and anguish at once… If this was real, they couldn't waste a second. Solatra had to return alive; she was everyone's priority. He called the commander without hesitation. "Optimus, you need to see this."

Optimus entered the room with a serious expression. Arcee and Bumblebee followed him; Bulkhead emerged from the training zone; Cliffjumper was still cleaning his cannons as if expecting any excuse to use them. Ratchet played the signal again. This time, he isolated the interference, amplified the words. “I am alive. I am here. Nemesis. Help. Free fall.”

The hallway seemed to shrink around Optimus. The memory of the hybrid arm on the table superimposed itself with the voice he now heard. There was no doubt. It was her. It was Solatra. Her spark spoke to him from somewhere only the Chalice could point to. For an instant, everyone saw how their leader's shoulders, eternally upright, relaxed just a millimeter. The remorse from the last cycle of the war and the destroyed bunker on Cybertron reappeared in his mind like a hammer blow.

"Ratchet, can you locate the source?" he asked, without taking his eyes off the screen.

"It's a short signal, fading fast," the medic replied. "It's coming from the northwest. There's Decepticon interference, but…" his fingers moved frantically, "It's near a river in the Idaho mountains. It could be a rebound, but the Chalice's frequency is…" he looked at Optimus, "It's real. I'm having trouble deciphering it; it's not common Cybertronian, and with this primitive technology… Primus! It's torture."

Arcee exchanged a look with Bumblebee. Their optics widened a little; the hope they had contained for three long years seemed to sprout. Bulkhead clenched his fists, as if preparing to charge through a wall. Cliffjumper, instead, smiled with a mix of relief and anxiety.

"I knew she couldn't have died up there," murmured Cliffjumper, stepping forward. "Let me go. That signal won't last more than a few minutes, and I know those mountains better than anyone."

"You're not going alone," Arcee interjected, sharply. "If it's her, we don't know who else is there. There could be Decepticons. And I'm not losing anyone else."

Optimus took a deep breath. He forced himself to think clearly, despite the internal storm shaking his spark. "Arcee is right. We will all mobilize. Ratchet, prepare a beacon to follow the signal and open the Ground Bridge. Cliffjumper, Bumblebee, and Bulkhead, to the hangar. We leave immediately. There's no time to waste."

As the others moved, Ratchet approached Optimus and lowered his voice. "I don't know what we'll find there," he warned. "The signal is very weak. It could be a trap. It could be a residual echo… I don't want this to be the reason our hopes are crushed, Optimus. Be prepared for anything."

"Or it could be our last chance," Optimus finished, glancing at the monitor. Inside, a thought repeated like a prayer: "I will not fail her again." He ordered all patrols to fall back. He said Solatra's name aloud, in a whisper no one else heard, and committed all his strength to finding her.

The Ground Bridge activated in the middle of the hangar, illuminating the shadows with a bluish glow. As the Autobots crossed one after another, Cliffjumper looked at Optimus as if waiting for a personal signal. He nodded. If fate had decided to give him a second chance, he had no intention of wasting it.

This meant the definitive change, a spark of hope for all.

Nemesis, Stratosphere — Present Day

High atop the Nemesis, the corridors echoed with the metallic sound of soldiers' pedes and the buzz of consoles. Soundwave, ever silent, remained bent over the monitors. His sensors had picked up Hyperion's energy discharge, the short circuit in the generators, and the barrier drop in the cell. Data flowed like tides of information, but Soundwave's espionage was infallible. It didn't take long for him to replay the transmission that followed the overload.

“I am alive. I am here. Nemesis. Help…”

Megatron had his back turned when he heard the recording. The servo gripping the railing tightened until it creaked. His red optics glowed like coals in the dim light. "What… did you say?" he growled, the fury of the situation flooding him like a tide after an earthquake. He was at the mercy of his rage, thinking about how all of this could have happened.

Soundwave repeated the signal without comment. Solatra's voice resonated in the control room, accompanied by the hissing whisper of wind passing through a conduit. Megatron turned slowly, his expression dark. For a second, he almost seemed confused. "She's alive," he murmured to himself. "She used the Chalice. She defies me…"

Starscream, observing from the shadows with his arms crossed, was quick to intervene with his typical mix of audacity and sarcasm. "It seems your little prisoner was more ingenious than you thought, Lord Megatron. Perhaps you should have used your precious Dark Energon on her, instead of wasting it on simple minions."

Megatron turned towards him with a look capable of disintegrating. "Dark Energon is not a toy, Starscream," he snapped. "And I will not stain the spark of a Royal with that aberration." For a second, a flash of something akin to compassion crossed his gaze. He knew what Dark Energon did: it corrupted, turned one into a puppet of hatred. By not using it on Solatra, he had convinced himself he was acting with honor. Now that decision bit him like white-hot iron.

He set aside his hesitations and clenched his teeth. "Soundwave, triangulate the descent path." The screen showed a map of Earth, a red line descending towards a mountainous area. Megatron watched the point blink. "Send a squadron. I want the fastest aerial drone and the elite Vehicons. I don't care if they are underground, at the bottom of a river, or in the arms of Optimus Prime. Bring me Solatra alive. And bring me the Chalice." Every word was a whip crack.

Soundwave nodded with his usual silence. The data was transmitted to the flight controls. Starscream frowned, feeling a twinge of jealousy: if Megatron recovered Solatra, what place would remain for his own ambitions? But his survival instinct dictated that this was not the time to question aloud.

Megatron remained alone, watching the stars through the bridge's viewport. Images flashed through his mind: Solatra standing beside him in the early days, listening to his speeches about equality; Solatra spilling blue energon after her mutilation, screaming that his hatred blinded him; Solatra locked in a cell, refusing to bow to him. He had felt something for her, something he never admitted, not even to himself: admiration, desire, envy, possession. Now all of that turned into fury. He couldn't stand that she had preferred to call Optimus instead of accepting his "offer of salvation."

"I underestimated you," he whispered, with no one to hear. "Never again." He clenched his fists. If he recovered her, he would show no mercy again. And if not… the hunt for the Chalice would be total. This time, there would be no compassion to stop him, nor Dark Energon to give him scruples.

In the Nemesis hangars, the Vehicons prepared. Wings deployed, engines ignited. A black shadow separated from the ship and disappeared among the clouds of Earth's atmosphere. The game of cat and mouse had just begun, and every participant carried with them ghosts and unfulfilled promises.

Chapter Text

Mountain Sector, Idaho — Present Day

For a moment, silence flooded everything in their path, the five bots inside the portal absorbed in those micro-clicks of travel. But in their processors, it was different. Each one was filled with fear, with hope, with rage and doubt, others with rejection and dread. They could only stand firm, it was something the war had taught them, had forged in them.

The Ground Bridge stabilized with a dull roar, spitting the Autobot advance team into the cold Idaho night. The air, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, was a slap in the face after the sterile environment of the base. But no natural smell could mask the trail that had brought them there: a faint but unmistakable energy signature burning their sensors like a beacon in the gloom. They had all felt it; it was the purpose of the Chalice, to unite their race under a single call, an objective, survival. And if the Chalice itself was in danger, every mech present could perceive it, even those not destined to do so.

Optimus Prime was the first to exit, his imposing pedes sinking into the soft soil of the riverbank. His blue optics, usually serene, scanned the terrain with a feverish intensity. There was no need for orders. Arcee, Bumblebee, Bulkhead, and Cliffjumper instantly deployed, forming a defensive perimeter, their weapon systems charged and ready. The hum of their thrusters and the soft creak of their armor were the only sounds daring to challenge the murmur of the nearby river.

“The signal is coming from there” Ratchet's voice, transmitted through their internal comms, was a grounding wire in the tension of the moment. “About a hundred meters downstream. The Chalice's signature is… erratic. It's fading.”

His tone of urgency was clear at that moment. No one could blame Ratchet, unable to act beyond the base for security reasons; they understood how difficult it was to remain stoic in that life-or-death game.

Optimus did not respond. The energy pump around his spark beat with a force that almost hurt his chassis. Every step he took resonated with the echo of a tormenting memory: the hybrid arm on Ratchet's table, the pale skin and exposed cables. Solatra's voice, distorted but alive, calling for help amidst the static. "I will not fail her again" he repeated to himself, the promise burning in his core processor with the force of an oath.

Arcee moved with the agility of a predator, her optics sweeping the darkness. Every shadow was a potential threat, every crack of a twig a possible enemy. But her battle computer was singularly focused on one thing: finding the femme she had once admired, whose disappearance had left a void in her own spark.

“Optimus” Cliffjumper's voice was a harsh whisper over the comlink. “Scanning multiple vehicon signatures approaching. Five minutes, max. This is about to get ugly.”

The mechs activated their respective armaments, the Prime's own mask rising in response to the impending battle.

“We will not move until we find her” Optimus's response was flat, final, laden with a determination that brooked no argument.

It was Bumblebee who saw her first.

A soft beep, laden with urgency, drew everyone's attention. The scout, crouched by the river's edge, pointed with a trembling servo towards a darker pool of water where a blue light pulsed irregularly beneath the surface, like a dying heart.

Optimus surged forward, ignoring the icy water that reached his ankles. The light came from a pale, shattered figure, trapped face down among the rocks. The current gently tugged at her long red hair, now dull and tangled with mud and branches. Her skin, pale as porcelain, was torn in multiple places, and through the shreds of her human guise, the metallic glint of her true nature was visible: twisted cables, fractured armor plates, and the faint glow of energon still seeping from her wounds.

“Primus!” Arcee's exclamation was a choked gasp.

No one could believe what they were seeing. The last image they had of their leader, of that hope, had been different. It had been warm, whole, secure. And now…

It was Solatra. But she was barely an echo of the powerful femme they remembered. Her human body, fragile and broken, was a silent testament to unimaginable violence. The stump of her missing arm was a grotesque vision of torn flesh and fused cybernetic components. Her one remaining arm lay twisted at an unnatural angle, and her legs showed clear deformities from multiple fractures.

Optimus fell to his knees beside her, icy water streaming down his armor. The reality of the moment hit him with the force of a pneumatic hammer. His logic processor struggled to comprehend the scene, but his spark, his very heart, screamed in anguish. He extended a servo, enormous and metallic, but stopped centimeters from touching her. He feared that one wrong move would snap the tenuous thread keeping her alive.

How could he, a titan of metal, now protect the very definition of fragility? That body on the brink of limbo.

“Ratchet” Optimus's voice was rough, charged with an emotion he rarely allowed to filter through. “We have found Solatra. Her condition is… critical. Her spark is very weak.”

“Don't move her!” the medic's voice boomed in their audials, filled with an alarm that chilled the energon in their lines. “With those injuries, any sudden movement could be fatal. Bee, use your medical scanner. I need vital readings, energon levels, structural damage. Now!”

Bumblebee hurried to obey, a blue beam emanating from his servo to sweep over Solatra's inert body. A series of anxious, negative beeps emerged from his vocalizer. "I have no life signs, Doc." At the base, Ratchet cursed under his breath as the data reached his console.

“Her energon levels are at absolute zero. She's running on the reserves of a foreign spark, who knows where she got it, or how, but they're depleting. The automatic repair system is collapsed. Multiple fractures in the endoskeleton, severe damage to the core processor from the fall… Optimus, she won't survive a trip through the Ground Bridge. The dimensional instability would disintegrate her.”

They all looked at each other. It meant only one thing: buying time… a struggle against something slipping through their fingers, as it does for every being in the universe.

“So what do we do, Ratchet? Leave her here?” Cliffjumper growled, looking up at the sky with his cannons ready. The sound of Decepticon jet engines was now clearly audible, a sinister buzz approaching rapidly.

“No” Optimus's voice regained its usual firmness, but with an underlying tone of desperation. “We will not leave her. Ratchet, prepare for an emergency transfer. I will give her my energon. I will stabilize her enough for transport.”

“Optimus, that's a huge risk!” Arcee protested. “If the Decepticons attack while you're doing it…”

“There is no other option” he cut her off, without taking his optics off Solatra. His servo clenched with determination. “Bulkhead, Cliffjumper, cover our position. Arcee, Bee, flank. Do not let any Decepticon get close.”

As the other Autobots moved to obey, forming a living barrier between their leader and the imminent threat, Optimus focused on Solatra. With a soft hum, a plate on his chest retracted, revealing the brilliant energy of his own spark. With infinite care, as if handling the finest crystal, he brought his servo close to Solatra's shattered chassis. A thin filament of bright, pure, life-charged blue energy sprang from his servo and arced towards the femme's chest.

The effect was immediate and painful to witness. Solatra's body arched slightly, a choked moan escaping her human vocalizer. The filaments of blue light from the Chalice, which had been flickering agonizingly, glowed with a new intensity, fed by Optimus's energy. For a brief moment, her breathing became a little less shallow.

“It's working…” murmured Ratchet from the base, his voice full of worried astonishment. “Her vital signs are stabilizing… marginally. But you can't sustain it for long, Optimus. The drain is massive.”

“She doesn't need much” Optimus replied, his voice strained with effort. “Just enough to reach you.”

The sky exploded in fire and shrapnel.

The chaos they had all once known on Cybertron was repeating itself on a small scale here on Earth, once again.

“Incoming!” Bulkhead shouted, raising his energy maces just in time to deflect a missile that impacted mere meters away, sending up a curtain of water and mud.

Three Decepticon aerial drones swooped down on them, followed by a squad of elite Vehicons deploying from a shuttle. The silence of the night was shattered by the roar of plasma cannons, battle cries, and the shriek of metal against metal.

“Keep them away!” Arcee roared, firing with lethal precision from behind a rocky outcrop, each shot calculated to incapacitate, not to kill—a desperate containment.

Bumblebee, agile and fast, moved among the Vehicons, using his stingers to overload their systems. Cliffjumper, for his part, showed no such restraint. His cannons roared with fury, each explosion a clear message that he would not let them get near his leader or the femme he protected.

Optimus did not flinch. Clinging to Solatra, his world had narrowed to the fragile connection between his spark and hers. He felt every vibration of the battle through the ground, every explosion that shook the air, but his focus remained unshakable. Solatra's life, his second chance, hung by a thread that he held with all his strength.

“Optimus, that's enough!” Ratchet's voice was a shout in his processor. “The bridge is stabilized behind you! You have to cross, now!”

With a superhuman effort, Optimus cut the energon flow. Solatra's body slumped, still unconscious, but with a more stable pulse. With swift yet incredibly gentle movements, he cradled her small body with his servos, forming a protective cradle with his metallic digits. The contrast was heartbreaking: his enormous, powerful figure shielding the fragile, broken form of the femme.

“Retreat!” he ordered, standing up and turning towards the blue vortex of the Ground Bridge glowing behind them.

It was at that precise instant, as he prepared to cross the threshold to safety, that Solatra's optics opened.

It was not a full awakening. There was no recognition, no relief, not even fear. Just a flash of consciousness, a glimpse of Cybertronian blue clouded by pain and shock, that fixed directly on Optimus's optics. It was an empty, ghostly gaze, the look of someone who had stared into the abyss and the abyss had stared back.

And then, as if the effort had been too much, her optics closed again, and her body went completely still in his arms.

Without wasting another second, Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, carrying the most precious and devastated treasure he had ever held, crossed the Ground Bridge. Arcee's last sight, before she and the others retreated covering his escape, was of her leader disappearing into the light, with Solatra's inert body pressed against his chest, while Decepticon bullets impacted uselessly against the portal closing behind them.

The race was over. The next battle, the most important one, was about to begin on Ratchet's operating table.

Autobot Base, Jasper, Nevada — Present Day

The Ground Bridge closed with a sonic boom that shook the hangar, leaving in its wake a silence laden with horror. Optimus Prime emerged from the vortex, his movements, usually so fluid and sure, were clumsy and urgent. In his arms, Solatra's fragile form seemed smaller and more broken than ever under the base's harsh lights, a bird of crystal bones bathed in energon and dried mud.

“Here! Put her here, now!” Ratchet's voice was not a shout, but an order carved in steel, completely devoid of his usual irritability. He had converted a reinforced workbench into an improvised field operating table, where converted human tools lay alongside Cybertronian scanners blinking with terrifying diagnostics.

Optimus did so with a delicacy that belied his size, placing the inert body on the cold surface. The contrast was devastating: the grey, impersonal metal of the base against the cadaverous pallor of her skin, the cables and metal plates protruding like the entrails of a broken doll.

Ratchet pounced on her, his servos, designed for welding armor plates, now moving with surgical precision. A handheld scanner buzzed over her torso.

“Energon levels are in the red! The Chalice… Primus, it's trying to keep her spark stable, but it's like trying to contain a supernova with a net. Her pump is on the verge of failure; if I can't contain it, it will collapse onto her spark.” he reported, his vocalizer stuttering. “The human shell… is a curse. I can't connect a standard Cybertronian life support system. Her systems are a chaotic fusion. It's like operating on two dying patients in one.”

“Do whatever is necessary, Ratchet” Optimus's voice was low, a vibration more than a sound. He kept his distance, his fists clenched, feeling the helplessness like an acid corroding his chassis. Every alarm sounding on the consoles was a hammer blow to his processor.

Arcee, Bulkhead, Bumblebee, and Cliffjumper burst into the hangar moments later, smoke and the smell of ozone still emanating from their armor. They stopped dead, forming a silent semicircle around the table. The sight struck them with physical force. Seeing Solatra, their Solatra, the living legend of the Royals, reduced to that state of organic and mechanical devastation, was a profanation.

“Well?” Arcee asked, her voice a thread of tension.

“I don't know” Ratchet admitted, without looking up from his work. His servo held a modified human suturing tool, trying to seal one of the most critical energon leaks in what remained of her arm. “I've induced a deep stasis coma. It's the only thing that can reduce the load on her core processor and give the Chalice a chance to fight. But her Cybertronian exo-form is… latent. Trapped inside this prison of flesh and bone. Until she regains enough power, or until we can reverse the camouflage process, we can't access her primary systems.”

Cliffjumper punched the nearest wall, leaving a dent in the metal. “So what? We just… wait?”

“Yes” Ratchet's word fell like a slab. “And pray to Primus that her spark is as indomitable as her spirit always was. The Chalice and the energy Optimus transferred to her are the only scaffolding holding her up. If she wakes up now, the pain and trauma could damage her processor permanently. Or the shock could extinguish her spark forever.”

"Can't we donate energon for her? I speak for everyone when I say we'd do anything to help…" Bumblebee commented through the intercom, and although his vocalizer was damaged, the mechs present could sense the anguish in the message.

“That's what we'll do. We'll take turns giving constant transfusions. We don't want anyone weakened from donating more than their share.” The medic didn't look up, still trying to work on that unknown and frustrating body.

So many years of study in Iacon, for his greatest test not to be on a Transformer per se… but on a Royal fused with human DNA. It was the pinnacle of medicine.

Optimus took a step forward, finally. His optics settled on Solatra's face, now cleaned of mud but terribly pale and still. He stared at her, as if his will alone could anchor her essence to this world. He remembered the last time he saw her on Cybertron, her cape flowing and determination burning in her optics. Now, only the faint, slow blue blink of the Chalice in her chest, synchronized with the weak beat of her spark, proved she was still there.

“We will not lose her” he declared, and this time it was not an order for his team, but a promise made to the universe, to Primus, and to the femme lying between life and death. “We have fought too hard to find her. We will rebuild this base, this technology, whatever is necessary. But we will not lose her.”

Ratchet nodded, exhausted. “I'll maintain the stasis. I'll monitor every fluctuation of her spark. But, Optimus…” the medic looked directly at him, his expression grave. “Prepare for all possibilities. Even if she survives, we don't know what state she'll wake up in. The physical damage is one thing. The damage to her memory, her processor… that's a different battlefield.”

The base fell into a deep silence, broken only by the constant hum of the generators and the hypnotic beep of the monitor tracking Solatra's heartbeat.

Beep… beep… beep…

A fragile and obstinate sound, the only reminder that the war for a single life had just begun.

Bumblebee emitted a series of soft, sad beeps, tilting his helm. Arcee crossed her arms, looking at the floor, her own spark shrunken by a mix of rage and sorrow. Bulkhead shifted uncomfortably, feeling the helplessness of not being able to fix this with his fists, and Cliff could do nothing but leave the med-bay, frustration eating away at his processors.

Optimus remained standing like a statue beside the table, a silent, watchful shadow. The weight of leadership, of the war, of all Cybertron, paled in comparison to the weight of the responsibility he felt at that moment. He would not move from there. Not until he was sure the faint pulse in Solatra's chest would not fade.

Time lost all meaning outside those walls. The Earthly night turned to day, and then to night again, but inside the Autobot base, the only cycle that mattered was the slow, agonizing, and stubborn beep… beep… beep… of a heart that refused to stop beating.

The wait, the cruelest of battles, had begun.

The hours dragged on, heavy and silent, inside the Autobot base. The hum of the generators had become the background heartbeat of a new, agonizing reality. Ratchet had not moved an inch from his post. His servos, tireless, calibrated, adjusted, and monitored the flow of stabilizing energon that kept Solatra submerged in deep stasis. The improvised operating room was now a sanctuary of dim light and constant beeps, a bubble of cold clinical hope amid the tension saturating the rest of the compound.

At the main console, Cliffjumper had taken command of surveillance. His digits tapped the panels with contained energy, very different from his usual combative enthusiasm.

“Nothing on the east-west spectrum” he muttered, without taking his optics off the screens. “The 'cons have vanished. They know we'd detect them instantly if they got close. They're licking their wounds, planning their next move.”

His voice lacked its habitual bravado. It was the tone of a soldier who knew the battle had changed, that the enemy now had a face and a name, and that the objective was no longer just to win, but to protect something infinitely fragile.

Arcee and Bumblebee remained nearby, unable to leave. Arcee leaned against a wall, her arms crossed so tightly she seemed to want to merge with the metal. Every beep from Solatra's monitor made her armor plates tense another millimeter. Bumblebee, for his part, had curled up in his vehicle mode, an unusual stillness for him. An occasional soft beep, sad as a sigh, was the only sign his processor was not at rest.

And at the center of it all, immobile as a mountain, stood Optimus Prime.

He stood at a respectful distance from Ratchet and his patient, an imposing silhouette bathed in the blue light of the monitors. His composure was, as always, impeccable. Back straight, shoulders squared, head held high. Anyone who didn't know him would see the serene, unshakable leader, the unyielding rock in the storm. But to his comrades, those who had lived lives of war by his side, the signs were as clear as a crack in steel: the slight tremor in his servos when he clenched them, the almost painful intensity with which his optics fixed on the faint glow of the Chalice in Solatra's chest, and the silence. A silence so deep and charged it was more eloquent than any speech.

They knew what Solatra meant to him. He didn't need to say it. They had seen it on Cybertron, in the way their paths always crossed, in the discussions charged with a mutual respect that bordered on something more. They saw it in the void her disappearance left, a void Optimus never filled with anyone else. And they saw it now, in the way all his strength, all his power, was concentrated on the fragile hope that one single beat would follow another.

It was in this climate of palpable tension that a different, strident, and bureaucratic alert cut through the air.

“It's Fowler” announced Cliffjumper, frowning. “He's approaching in his jet. He'll be here in five.”

No one moved. The arrival of the human agent was an intrusion from a world that, at that moment, seemed irrelevant to them.

The Ground Bridge activated briefly to allow Fowler's plane to pass, which landed with a screech in the hangar. The ramp opened and the agent descended with his usual energetic stride, adjusting his tie.

“Prime! What the hell happened?” he exclaimed, his voice echoing in the silent hangar. “Satellites picked up an energy explosion in Idaho that lit up half the state, followed by high-level Decepticon activity. My phone hasn't stopped ringing. What was it? An attack on a facility? An ambush? I don't know what you were thinking, deciding that sending five Autobots out at once was a good idea, you have no idea the trouble you've gotten me into!”

Fowler stopped, finally perceiving the atmosphere. His gaze went from Optimus to the other Autobots, noting their rigid postures, the battle wear on their armor, and finally, settled on the scene in the back: Ratchet absorbed in his work next to a table where a small, pale figure he didn't recognize lay.

“What…?” he began to ask, instinctively lowering his voice.

Optimus turned slowly to face him. His optics, though serene, held a depth Fowler didn't remember seeing before.

“Agent Fowler” Optimus's voice was deep, calm, but with a new weight. “The operation in Idaho was a recovery mission. We have located one of our comrades, lost a long time ago.”

Fowler looked towards the table. He saw the pale skin, the disheveled red hair, the cables protruding from the wounds. It wasn't a full Cybertronian, but it wasn't human either. It was something in between, something his reports had never anticipated.

“Comrade?” he repeated, confused. “That… thing?”

The air grew ten degrees colder. Arcee pushed off the wall abruptly and Cliffjumper emitted a low growl. It was Bulkhead who, with more tact than he was usually credited for, intervened.

“She is not a "thing," Agent. She is one of ours. And she is badly injured.”

Fowler raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, realizing his mistake. “I'm sorry, that wasn't my intention. It's just… she doesn't look like you. Who is she? Why is she so important? I need information, Prime, I have answers to give to the government. You know how they get about authorizations.”

Optimus took a vent, a mechanical sound that resonated in the silence.

“Her name is Solatra” he said, choosing his words with the care of one walking on glass. “She is an invaluable ally, a scientist and a warrior from our world. Her knowledge is… unique. Her capture and the state we found her in are a catastrophic loss for our cause. Stabilizing her systems is our absolute priority.”

It was a truth, but not the whole truth. He omitted the Royals, the Chalice, the personal connection, the weight of millennia of history. It was what Fowler needed to know: a critical asset, not the very heart of an almost mythological hope.

Fowler nodded slowly, processing the information. He could feel the intensity emanating from every Autobot in the room. This went beyond the recovery of a soldier. This was personal.

“I understand” he said, his tone much more serious. “Or, at least, I understand that she is important to you. I'll do what I can to contain the situation on my end. I'll say it was a failed weapons test, a geological anomaly… whatever. But I need you to keep me informed, Prime. If the Decepticons wanted her, they're not going to give up.”

“We know…” Optimus replied. “And we appreciate your discretion, Agent Fowler.”

Once Fowler had departed, taking the intrusion of the outside world with him, the base sank back into its tense vigil. Night fell over the Jasper desert, but inside, the artificial light held the darkness at bay.

Hours later, with Ratchet finally resting in a nearby chair, exhausted but satisfied with having achieved a precarious stability, and with the others retired to recharge, Optimus was left alone once more beside Solatra.

Finally, in the privacy of the night and the silence, he allowed the leader's mask to crack, just a little. He leaned forward, resting his large servos on either side of the table, his shadow enveloping the sleeping figure.

"You see her as a 'thing', Fowler" he thought, his core processor releasing the torrent of emotions he had contained by pure willpower. "But to me… to me you are the echo of the Iacon mines, the voice of reason amidst the fanaticism, the smile that defied the darkness looming over us."

His gaze traced every feature of her human face, searching beneath the pale skin for the femme of steel and fire he once knew.

"I failed you once. I let you go, trusting your strength would be enough. I will not make that mistake again. This war has taken too much. It has taken our planet, our peace, our brothers. But it will not take you. As long as my spark beats, as long as I can raise a weapon, I will fight to give you the refuge you once found in that cabin. Not as a leader to his soldier, nor as a Prime to his Royal… but as Orion Pax to the femme who showed him there was more to life than duty and dogma."

He extended a digit, and with infinite delicacy, almost not daring to touch her, he brushed the edge of the bandage covering the stump of her arm. It was a brief gesture, a secret between the night and him.

"Solatra, regain your strength. Because when you wake up, I promise you, you will not be alone. And this time, my words will not go unspoken."

He straightened up again, recomposing the imposing figure of Optimus Prime. The moment of vulnerability had passed, absorbed by his steel determination. Outside, the sun began to tinge the horizon orange. A new day was dawning, the first of a long and uncertain vigil. But in the heart of the base, a single, constant beep… beep… beep…continued to beat, a fragile drum marking the rhythm of a hope reborn.