Chapter Text
“Do you think we’ll get out of here alive?”
The voice seemed too loud in the uncharacteristically quiet cockpit. Like the ship it belonged to, it was small and rounded, lined with all manners of panels and screens. Usually, there would be a mech seated in each of the four chairs, piloting the ship, but now they sat empty. The room’s two current occupants had opted to hunch under the panels instead, seeking cover, or maybe just comfort. Bumblebee always looked small, but huddled in the shadows, arms around his legs, head buried between his knees, you could be forgiven for not noticing him at all. His yellow plating blended in with the walls of the Ark, well hidden, if not for the piercing blue optics, ever bright in the dim light. The taller of the two, Arcee, sat a few feet to the side of him, hugging a knee to her chest. Her pristine white and pink plating always seemed to glow, no matter how dire the circumstances, and similarly, so did her attitude.
“I’m sure we will,” she affirmed, sounding so sure that he almost rolled his eyes. Admittedly, he had known she was going to say something to that effect. She was a devout optimist, sometimes to the point of delusion. To give her credit, it probably helped to be a little delusional in order go through so many years of war, and still be able to put a smile on your face. Sometimes her words were comforting, but they did little to fill the gnawing pit in Bee’s tank now. Peering over the ledge he hid beneath, he watched lights blink, the radar spin, and the screens repeat many, many foreboding messages.
Signal lost
No signal
Error
Device disconnected
Warning
Warning
Beyond them, space. Galaxies upon galaxies, clouds of violet and azure swirling together, dusted with glittering stars. Every illustration he had seen on Cybertron had been a mere mockery of the real thing. Each one of those stars could be a host for planets teaming with life, each one could be a new, beautiful experience, he thought. Then, Bee recalled what Optimus had told him about light, and how long it takes for it to travel. Those stars were so infinitely far away from the Ark, they were most likely already dead. Once, he had been desperate to travel the galaxies, to leave the war torn wasteland of Cybertron behind forever, but now he would have given anything to see that rust ball again. In his peripheral vision, a large part of the mosaic of stars before him was simply black, devoid of colour and light.
“I wonder what they’re waiting for,” he murmured.
While it was hard to separate it from the blackness of space, he could make out the enormous hull of a ship looming over them. Segmented and serpent-like, long spikes adorned its front like great fangs, and if it had been some interstellar monster, it would have been able to comfortably swallow The Ark whole. While it wasn’t a hungry monster, the enormous cannons mounted on its fuselage promised an equally quick demise if utilised. The Nemesis had been drifting next to them for some time now, looming over them like a dark cloud, stalking.
Arcee shrugged. “I guess the cons don’t know what to do now, either.”
—
Within the nemesis's cavernous helm, a great figure clad in silver stood, his marred lips pulled taut in a grimace. Beneath a domed silver crown, red eyes glared at the readings on the screen below. On a lower deck, a sharper, leaner, winged figure watched on fretfully.
“What are we waiting for?!”
The smaller mech’s voice seemed to make the walls of the metal chamber shudder, shrill and caustic as it was.
At first, the hulking figure at the helm of the ship remained silent. His eyes, smoltering red, remained transfixed on the screen, not even sparing the voice’s owner a glance. Sturdy, worn hands gripped either side of the screen as the brute leant over it, trying to discern what he was seeing. Cybertron was gone. Not just figuratively, the whole planet had simply vanished. There was nothing but a hole in the solar system, where it had once been. The great spires of Iocan that reached the edge of the atmosphere, the dark, urban sprawls of Kaon, and the constant light show of gunfire visible from space. It was all gone.
“Shoot them down!”
During this waking nightmare, Megatron had all but forgotten that the Autobot’s meager ship was cowering beneath them, fully in range of their cannons. It had stopped trying to flee around a cycle after all contact with cybertron had been lost. Silently, the two rivals had cruised next to one another for almost another entire cycle. In any other situation, shots would have been fired with zero hesitation.
“Well? What are you-“
“Be Silent, Starscream.”
And for a merciful few seconds, he was. Nobody really knew how the air commander’s voice box had gotten into such a sorry state. Some thought it was that the constant shouting wrangling a few hundred seekers required of him had rendered him perpetually hoarse. Every time he raised his voice, (which was almost every time he spoke) the chords in his throat would audibly rattle and scrape together, causing his voice to break. It had to be painful, but it certainly didn’t stop, or even slightly discourage him, from speaking. With a razor-like chassis highlighted with vibrant red, pointed wings arced proudly above his head, and a voice probably capable of waking the primes from their eternal sleep, Starscream was a seeker who demanded to be seen and heard.
“Lord Megatron,” he drawled. The title was one of reverence, but Starscream had mastered making it sound like an insult. “We mustn’t let this opportunity go to waste.”
“Opportunity, Starscream?” As he spoke, his voice was like a scourge against bare skin, the way it demanded silence and obedience. Only now did the towering mech turn his head towards his subordinate, one red eye glaring down at the smaller mech. “Do you think this utter cataclysm is an opportunity?” Starscream's wings sank ever so slightly, yet he dared to step closer, metal heels scraping the steel floor imprudently. Megatron’s fists clenched.
“I understand the circumstances are less than ideal, Sire,” he placated, his throat squeaking, “but the Autobot’s commander is finally within our reach. We could end the war right now.”
Megatron went quiet, turning back to the screen in front of him. On it, The Ark was nothing more than a delicate, round speck, cowering beneath them. Just a few buttons pressed and a cannon would atomise it, and with it, possibly every adversary that still remained. Heavy hands hovered over the control panels.
—
Within the belly of the ark, a featureless room housed five figures, sat around a table in the center of the suite. Usually, four of them would have been piloting the ship, but it had been set to cruise in order to save fuel. With cybertron gone, there would be nowhere to land and refuel. With Cybertron gone, there would be no reason for the Decepticons to blow the ship to pieces. After all, what was the point in winning a war for a place that no longer existed? At least, that's what the pilots were banking on when they aborted their attempt to flee. No longer focusing on that, the headmech’s were now free to discuss their next move.
That was the idea, at least.
Jazz, the spryest mech at the table, was the first to talk after another long spell of silence.
“Our navigation system's gotta be faulty! Planet's don't just disappear.” Jazz was usually laid back, perpetually care free, and the sheer magnitude of the situation seemed to fry his circuits. Even after seeing the readings himself, he still seemed to be in denial. Nobody really blamed him.
“I already checked em’ six times over,” a coarse voice asserted, “everything's working just fine.” The voice’s owner, Wheeljack, was a veteran mechanic for the Autobots, and he had many solders over his body to show for it. He prided himself on his handiwork, especially when it came to the inner workings of The Ark. Before they had left Cybertron, he had taken the time to service almost every single hardware component to perfection. When every signal from Cybertron had suddenly been lost, he'd been perplexed, more so when he disassembled the entire communication system and found not a screw out of place.
“We've been over this already,” an austere voice cut in. “Cybertron is gone. We need to decide what our next course of action is going to be.” Once a law enforcer, Prowl had joined the Autobots ranks when Cybertron’s government had collapsed. Despite the enforcers being almost entirely decimated after that, he still held himself with the authority of one. The enforcers badge was still worn proudly on his shoulder, despite being quite meaningless now.
“I agree, Prowl,” came a low voice, rough with badly concealed irritation. “What do you suggest?” Prowl glared across the table at the Autobot’s medic, Ratchet. Hard as nails, and much older than most others sat at the table, he did not care to cater to Prowl's self-proclaimed authority. On the other end of the table, Prowl found himself sputtering, unable to produce a response. In an attempt to maintain his facade of professionalism, he turned to face the largest mech sat at the table.
“It's hardly my responsibility to decide,” he insisted. “My wisdom pales in comparison to yours, Prime.”
The broad figure at the end of the table, who Prowl was now looking to for help, remained silent. Optimus Prime, the autobot leader; infamous amongst the Decepticon ranks, and legendary within the Autobot’s. A great warrior clad in royal red and blue, he had witnessed the collapse of Iacon, led the Autobot’s through the entire war, fought the diabolical Megatron with his own hands, and still stood stalwart at the end of it. Most never saw the face hidden behind the battle mask, but this was one of the very few occasions he had removed it. Beneath it, a face of stone, one that might have been considered handsome, had it not looked so tired.
“What should we do now, Prime?” Jazz's usually smooth voice wavered as he spoke. All eyes were on the stone face at the end of the table now.
“We wait.”
As he spoke, the baritone voice resonated throughout the room, sounding sure. Four pairs of eyes blinked back at him in confusion.
“We wait?” Prowl tried to conceal his impudence when he spoke to the Prime. “What for?
“For the Decepticons to proceed, whatever their intentions may be.”
Across the table, Prowl and Jazz met each other's timorous gazes. The other two turned their attention to the Prime. “Are you saying’ we just wait for em’ to kill us?” Wheeljack leant across his arms as he spoke. At the reaction of his men, the Prime's face grew pained, eyes creasing upwards.
“We have no other option,” he managed, “if we set course to any Autobot colony, we will lead the Decepticon flag ship straight to them.” With a weak creak, the mighty warrior sunk back in his chair. “I will not risk the lives of more of our troops. We will remain here.”
A heavy silence hung between them. Ratchet bowed his head in silent agreement as the mech seated next to him stared down at his battered knuckles. All these years of conflict, for absolutely nothing. Lifetimes wasted fighting a war for the future of a planet that now no longer existed. Now they were going to die in a sedentary ship, never having had the chance to say goodbye to their loved ones, and without even putting up a fight. Prowl's lip trembled like he was thinking to interject, but Jazz quickly beat him to it.
“We have to do something. I can’t die like this,” he pleaded. Optimus sank further into his seat. It was clear that reality had caught up with Jazz now. Only once before had he heard him sound so distraught, and he’d known the spry racer since he was young. The last time he’d heard that tremble in his usually aloof voice was when they first met, on the day Iacon fell.
“If I may,” Ratchet spoke up again, “the Decepticons have had all cycle to blow us up now, but they haven’t. We aren’t doomed, not just yet.”
“You are right, my friend,” the prime agreed. “I know Megatron well. A maniacal, and often illogical mech. This would not be how he envisioned ending the war in his grandiose delusions. I believe he may have other plans for us.”
—
“Can you hear anything?” Bee’s voice was less of a whisper, more of a hiss.
“I won’t if you keep talking,” Arcee hissed back.
They had sat together in the cockpit, until the uncertainty and looming dread had become too much to bear. Then they had decided to seek comfort in the form of answers, making their way to the suite where the headmech’s were supposed to be discussing their next course of action. Now they were taking it in turns pressing their audials to the iron-clad door, trying to hear the conversation on the other side. Bee had tried first, after all, it was his idea, but the horns on the side of his helm prevented him from pressing his head flat against the door. All he had heard was the unmistakable rumble of Ratchet’s voice, going on about “energon rationing” and “fuel shortages.” Those two things were nothing new.
After a minute of hearing nothing but rumbling, Arcee had insisted on giving it a go. Initially, she’d been against the idea of eavesdropping on her superiors, superficially at least. However, she hadn’t taken much convincing to go through with it, and Bee could tell she was as anxious to know what their superiors would be planning now.
Twisting his stubby fingers together, Bee watched her press her suitably shaped helm to the door, then watched as she furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, concentrating on what she was hearing.
“Ugh,” she groaned, frowning.
“What? What is it?”
“Jazz won’t stop bringing up the navigation system,” she muttered back at him.
The longer they spent pressed against the door, the clearer it became that they weren’t going to get the answers they wanted. Between long spells of silence, the headmech’s would only speak of the Ark’s short term survival. Like that would be an issue when the decepticon ship was probably minutes from reuniting everyone on board with the all spark. There was no plan.
“I’m sick of this,” Arcee decided, leaning away from the door and standing up straight.
“C’mon Cee, they’re still talking,” Bee begged, urging her back towards the door. In response, she shook her head pointedly.
“Not just of listening to them, Bee,” she corrected, “I’m sick of this.” As she spoke, she spread her hands, gesturing to the air around her. Tilting his head, Bee raised a brow.
“Of the Ark?”
“Of sitting here doing nothing. Of relying on them-“ she jabbed a finger at the closed door- “to save us.”
In order to not be overheard by the headmecha, she began marching down the dim hallway, away from the door. Reluctant to be left alone, or caught outside the suite by the headmechs, Bee followed her hurriedly.
“They’re supposed to be the ones keeping us safe,” she continued, “and they just want to serve us to the decepticons on a silver platter!”
Once she decided that they were a safe distance from the leader’s suite, she turned to face Bee. Beneath the smooth curves of her helm, her eyes were wild and bright.
“I’m sick of having no control over my fate. We’re not going to die like this. I’m going to get us out of here.”
Bee knew it was absurd how confident she seemed in the face of such dire circumstances, but it was the only reassurance he had, so he had to believe her.