Chapter Text
The rusted skies above New Iacon flickered with distant electrical storms, but inside the Autobot hangar, the atmosphere was far more dangerous:
Ultra Magnus was thinking.
“I’ve come to a decision,” Magnus said, arms crossed behind his back. His tone was, as always, grave—like he was announcing a funeral. Or a war. Or worse: a vacation.
Wheeljack, leaning back on a crate labeled “Definitely Not Explosives”, gave him a slow blink. “Oh, no.”
Bulkhead sighed. Loudly. “Please don’t say what I think you’re gonna say.”
“I’m taking a leave of command,” Magnus said.
Wheeljack sat up, suddenly interested. “Wait, really? Magnus, that’s the best idea you’ve ever had.”
Magnus didn’t smile. He probably didn’t know how. “Temporarily. A field reassignment. Autonomous morale-based reconnaissance.”
Bulkhead stared. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now,” Magnus said, with the grim authority of someone who just invented an entire department of nonsense.
Wheeljack, now grinning ear to fin, kicked his feet off the crate. “So what, you’re going on a little tour of the colonies? Giving speeches about proper marching formation?”
“No,” Magnus said. “I’m going with you.”
Silence.
Wheeljack blinked. “I—what?”
“You. And Bulkhead. I’ve submitted a field order to requisition the Jackhammer.”
Bulkhead’s optics widened. “You want to come with us? On our ship?”
“Yes. I require firsthand exposure to… less regulated environments. Chain of command erosion. Improvisation.” He paused, visibly uncomfortable. “Fun.”
Wheeljack’s jaw dropped. “You’re serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
Bulkhead groaned and leaned against a bulkhead, rubbing his temples. “This is gonna end in fire.”
Wheeljack slapped his shoulder. “Buddy, it’s already on fire.”
Ultra Magnus turned sharply on his heel and stepped toward the main console.
“I will now notify the others of our temporary departure,” he said, tapping the comm panel like he was initiating a military airstrike.
Bulkhead muttered, “More like a full-blown disaster.”
The console lit up with multiple channels. Magnus didn’t wait. He opened a broad-frequency bridge straight to base command. A chorus of pings answered, followed by a mix of static, background noise, and the unmistakable voice of Smokescreen, talking way too fast.
“—and I told Knock Out if he touched my paint job again, I’d—wait, why are we all on the same comm line?”
Ratchet, already irritated: “Because someone is overriding my medical logs with field command alerts! Who is—”
Knock Out, huffing: “Unless this is about giving me full access to the high-speed energon buffer, I am—”
“Autobots,” Ultra Magnus barked, cutting them off. “This is a situational briefing.”
Smokescreen: “Oh no.”
Ratchet: “What did you do?”
Knock Out: “More importantly, what are you doing, and can I profit from it?”
“I am leaving. Effective immediately.”
Dead silence.
Ratchet: “…Leaving?”
Smokescreen: “Like… defecting?”
Knock Out: “Is this a midlife crisis? Because I can help with that. I have a chrome package that’s to die for.”
Ultra Magnus inhaled through his vents slowly, like he was counting to ten in Cybertronian. “I am engaging in a strategic morale-building initiative with Wheeljack and Bulkhead aboard the Jackhammer. All communications will be monitored and relayed through my secondary uplink.”
Ratchet: “You’re going with them?!”
Knock Out: “Wheeljack’s ship? The one that was banned from three spaceports?”
Smokescreen: “I give it two days before someone explodes.”
Knock Out: “One and a half. And it’ll be Wheeljack.”
Wheeljack grinned. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Doc.”
Ratchet: “This is insane. Magnus, you are a decorated war general. You can’t just—”
“Ratchet,” Magnus said, voice firm but not unkind. “I’ve followed every protocol, led through four campaigns, and nearly lost an arm to Predaking. I deserve a break.”
A pause. Then…
Ratchet, flatly: “You deserve therapy.”
Knock Out: “Can confirm.”
Smokescreen: “Still think he’s defecting.”
Ratchet: “Smokescreen.”
Ultra Magnus ended the comm line with the same finality he used to call artillery strikes.
Wheeljack whistled. “That went better than expected.”
Bulkhead shook his head. “So we’re really doing this.”
“I have already logged our first destination,” Magnus said, turning toward the bridge. “A neutral salvage moon just past the Praxian Drift. Limited regulations. High supply turnover. Ideal for… loosening up.”
Wheeljack punched the air. “Scrap yeah! Let’s wreck and rule!”
Ultra Magnus hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Yes. Wreck and rule.”
Bulkhead mumbled, “We’re all gonna die.”
The Jackhammer’s engines lit up like fireworks.
They lifted off into the stars.
Location: Cybertron – New Iacon Medical Bay
A few hours after the Jackhammer launched into deep space.
⸻
The medical bay of New Iacon had, against all odds, achieved a fragile peace. For once, no one was actively dying, leaking energon, or trying to argue over recharge schedules.
Ratchet stood at the central console, scanning through Ultra Magnus’s last field report with a deepening scowl.
Smokescreen lounged sideways on a biobed like it was a beach chair. He was halfway through polishing his shin armor and talking at top speed.
“I mean, I get it. Kind of. Magnus wants to go find himself. Cool, cool. Self-discovery’s a thing. But with Wheeljack? That’s like… spiritual enlightenment by firecracker.”
Knock Out, seated nearby, idly rotated a surgical laser between his fingers like it was a martini. “Darling, that’s not a firecracker. That’s a neutron bomb duct-taped to a case of wild energon. With Bulkhead as the designated adult.”
Arcee, leaning in the doorway, snorted. “Bulkhead’s the adult now? Primus help us all.”
Ratchet muttered under his breath, “He was the adult. Now he’s just collateral damage.”
Smokescreen rolled onto his back dramatically. “It’s gonna be like that time Wheeljack blew up the communications tower trying to cook energon noodles.”
“That was a grill!” Knock Out snapped. “He repurposed a fusion grill! I’m still picking shrapnel out of my paint job.”
Ratchet finally slammed the datapad down. “Three frontline combat veterans—gone. Off on some cockamamie morale-building crusade across the galaxy.”
“Don’t forget,” Arcee added, “in a ship banned from three spaceports.”
“Four,” Knock Out corrected. “Don’t sell Wheeljack short.”
Smokescreen sat up, optics wide. “Wait, who’s in charge now? If Magnus bailed—does that make Ratchet the field commander?”
A beat of silence.
Ratchet visibly paled.
Knock Out slowly turned toward him, mock horror in his voice. “Oh no. You’re the new Magnus.”
Smokescreen gasped. “He’s already doing the voice!”
“I am not doing the vo—!” Ratchet paused, caught himself mid-order, and made a sound like a sputtering engine. “Primus. We’re doomed.”
Arcee actually smirked. “It’s okay. You’ll do fine. Just frown more and learn to shout ‘recalibrate your weapons’ at everyone.”
“Don’t forget to stand with your arms behind your back like a malfunctioning statue,” Knock Out chimed in.
Ratchet groaned and covered his optics with one hand. “They’re going to break something. Or someone. Probably both.”
Arcee crossed her arms, watching the hangar doors beyond the glass windows. “Yeah, but they might actually come back better for it.”
Smokescreen leaned over and whispered to Knock Out, “Or we get a Magnus with an eyepatch and a flamethrower.”
Knock Out gasped, grinning. “Hot.”