Rendog dreams.
"So you're trying the whole king thing again, huh boss?"
He's standing on the balcony of the Crastle and he whirls around, snatching the tiny crown off his head as if he's been caught doing something shameful. "Martyn?"
Martyn leans against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and one foot propped up on the doorframe. He's got a smirk on his face and an arrow in his throat.
"What?" he asks, raising one eyebrow the sardonic way he always does, apparently unbothered by the fatal wound. "Surprised to see me?"
"To be frank," Ren says, disbelieving, "Yeah?"
"I heard my old boss was setting up as head honcho again." Martyn shrugs. "Couldn't miss out on that."
There's crimson staining the grey edges of the Hand's smile, and his once-emerald eyes are flat and glassy. Ren swallows down a feeling that's somewhere between guilt and horror and guilt over feeling horror.
"It's... good to see you," he manages, turning the tiny crown in sweaty circles. His thumb catches on the prongs holding the emerald in place. "It's been a long time, bro."
A shadow darkens Martyn's grey face and he looks past Ren, into the cloudy sky beyond. There's a storm building on the horizon. "Yeah," he says, and some note in his voice makes Ren's fur stand on end. "I don't... get out much, these days."
A moment of awkward silence hovers over them, and Ren finds himself itchy with restless frustration. They never used to have awkward silence. Whether it was him mumbling enchantments or Martyn going over lists of assets, whether it was Ren trying to explain the oddities of Hermitcraft or Martyn telling hilarious stories that got progressively more unbelievable but he swore were true... Silence had never been the sound of Dogwarts.
"Why?"
Ren jumps when Martyn's voice breaks the silence like a hammer to glass. "What?"
Martyn pushes himself upright and takes a step closer, letting his arms fall to his sides. It's not threatening, but Ren finds his feet shuffling backwards anyway. He clutches the crown tighter.
"Why again with the king shtick?" Martyn's dead eyes drill into Ren's soul. "One fallen kingdom isn't enough for you?"
Ren swallows, reaching one hand behind him to feel for the edge of the balustrade. "I... I dunno, man. I guess—I guess I thought maybe I could... do better this time."
Martyn huffs an unamused half-laugh. "I mean, you could hardly do worse."
That stings, and Ren can't stop himself from wincing. "I'm sorry, Martyn, I didn't mean to—'
"No no—sorry." Martyn holds up one placating hand and Ren sees the dirt and blood caked under his nails. "My bad. That sounded a bit harsh, didn’t it.”
“You’re not wrong, though.” Ren’s shoulders sag and he looks down at the crown. “We never stood a chance back… back there.”
“We could have won,” Martyn says, and Ren looks up to find him tensing his jaw. “You could have tried.” The arrow in his neck trembles.
There's blood staining the front of his shirt, Ren notices distantly. It's still wet.
"To what ending, dude? The two of us go head-to-head on Black Heart Altar?" Ren gives a nervous laugh. "Nah, man: that game only had one winner. And it was never going to be us."
They stand in silence for a moment, the mountain wind blowing between them.
"I fought for you." The words are out before Ren consciously thinks them, and he flinches at the way they fall from his mouth like stones.
Martyn tilts his head. "You did," he agrees, but it sounds like an accusation. "And I fought for you."
"I would have given you that victory." The confession is heavy, weighted with truth and resentment.
Martyn doesn’t look surprised. “Yeah. I know you would have.” I wouldn’t have done the same. He doesn’t speak the words, but Ren hears them anyway. Martyn’s a pragmatist—he’d have fought for everything he was worth. Like he had a world to gain or lose—though Ren shudders to think what living alone in that blood-soaked world would have been like.
He thinks he knows why Grian jumped.
The stone railing under his hand is cold and pitted, the marble worn by wind and time, and he can feel the wind curling up from the valley below, ruffling the fur on the back of his neck.
“Do you think you can do it this time?” Martyn asks. He takes another step forward, and it takes everything in Ren not to move away. His Hand is within arm’s reach, his grey skin papery and dry, and his cracked lips forming the question with what sounds like idle curiosity but feels like a threat.
Ren deliberately relaxes his fists. Martyn is not a threat. Not his Hand.
“Do—do what?” he manages, throat dry.
“Keep your crown.” Martyn raises one hand and reaches to touch the tiny crown with the tip of one finger—delicate, as if he might break it. “Think you can do that, in a world with less to lose?”
In a world without your Red Army? Can you at least manage that much?
Ren no longer knows what words are Martyn’s and what are his own mind’s. “I—” he stammers, leaning back against the railing. Martyn’s eyes don’t blink, and this close he can see where the skin of his gums is pulling away from the teeth—teeth that look longer and sharper than they should.
“I think you’re trying to prove a point.” Now Martyn lifts that lifeless hand to rest it on Ren’s shoulder, a dark mockery of the casual and friendly way he always had. Camaraderie decays into menace, heavier than a dozen crowns.
“I… I am?” Words stick in Ren’s throat, dry and choking. Martyn would never hurt me. Not willingly. Not Martyn.
“Yup.” Martyn pops the ‘p’, and a wafting breath of rot reaches Ren’s nostrils. “You’re trying to prove that no matter what world you’re in, you can never win.”
Bristling, Ren straightens. “That’s utterly ridiculous—”
“You want to prove that it’s not your fault,” Martyn continues, talking over Ren like he can’t even hear him. “That if you can’t hold onto a crown here—” he almost spits the word, a spasm of distaste contorting his features. “—in a world with nothing to lose, then of course you couldn’t have done it there.”
His fingers—bony and cold—dig into Ren’s shoulder, sharp and clawlike. Ren winces, but he can’t pull free. Martyn leans close, his dead face inches from Ren’s own. The arrow in his throat presses into Ren’s chest, and his voice is hard:
“You want to prove you didn’t get us all killed.”
“Not true!” Ren’s knees buckle under the weight of Martyn’s hand, and he sags back against the balustrade. “I did everything I could to—”
“No.” Martyn shakes his head, and the hand on Ren’s shoulder moves to grip his throat. He forces Ren’s head up and back, to look up at the towers of the Crastle rising over their heads. “You didn’t then, and you’re not now. You could be a king, Ren—but you give up too soon. And who pays the price?”
Skizz. Etho. BigB.
Ren swallows, gulping for precious air.
Bdubs.
Cleo—Iskall—Joe—Scar—
He drops the crown, the heavy gold clattering to the stone floor with an ear-piercing ring. He reaches up to grip Martyn’s wrist with both hands, trying not to flinch at the cold, unyielding, dead flesh.
“Martyn—please. I’ll try—I’ll really try, I swear—”
“No.”
Martyn’s voice is as hard as his hand, but there’s something like pity mixed with the disgust and disappointment in his face.
“No, mate, you’re going to fall this time too. You already set your own trap.” He shakes his head and lifts Ren off the ground, holding him by the neck as if he weighs nothing. Ren chokes, feet scrabbling for purchase, the stone railing knocking into the backs of his knees.
“Martyn—”
“Long live the king, Ren. Better luck next time.”
And Martyn drops him over the edge.
Ren falls, reaching for his Hand, a scream stillborn in his throat.
He wakes before he hits the ground.
Rendog snaps upright in bed with a choked cry, hand flying to his chest to clutch at his heart through the thin fabric of his sleeping shirt. His pulse pounds in his ears and he can feel the telltale chill of tears in the damp fur on his cheeks and neck. In the dim moonlight, his eyes find a golden gleam across the room.
The tiny crown sits on his dresser, its emerald eye winking at him. Mocking him.
Long live the king.
He shivers. There was no mistaking the threat, spoken through Martyn’s voice.
Better luck next time.
...Next time.
401 notes
·
View notes
hey there. hi. how's it going. boy it's great to be back at the old stomping grounds, time for me to whip out my ask! i am humbly requesting that wheeljack's tfa family gets murdered. i have a checklist to complete. first it was his tfp family, then himself, and tfa are the last ones on it
Hey! :)
I’m gonna be real, I don’t have any snappy comments for this opener. What the fuck?
Well, uh… I guess it’s time for the wheels.
For those of you who don’t know, many months ago, I created three wheels to help me with these tragedy asks—one to select a victim character, one to choose the site of an injury (if applicable), and one to choose what kind of horrid fate would befall this character by the end of the drabble.
These wheels helped me drown TFP Magnus.
Now, for simplicity’s sake, I’m going to be sticking with the core TFA Cast—that’s Optimus, Ratchet, Bulkhead, Bumblebee, Sari, Prowl, and Jazz.
The others get to be spared from the carnage.
For now.
Now, I’m going to use two of my wheels to select the means of death—and from there, I am going to try and craft the optimal tragedy scenario.
Angst Roulette. Are we all feeling lucky?
No? Good!
…
…
…
They had been warned, before they came to help.
They had been warned that they would probably lose more lives than they would be able to save, even with reinforcements from the Decepticons and the other reality—that the settlement and its inhabitants were lost, and that they should stay back to defend the rest of the unified Autobot and Decepticon space from this dire threat.
Simply hearing their name, “Quintessons”, had made the elder Cybertronians of Wheeljack’s reality take on looks of terror like the inhabitants of the other universe had never seen. Worse still, many of them could not recall exactly why the name was able to make them react as it did.
But in spite of their fear, in spite of their desire to live their lives in peace, they refused to let their younger alternates face this threat alone.
The armies of two Cybertrons set out to face the Quintesson threat, with the greater and more-experienced force engaging the enemy head-on while the smaller fleet worked on evacuation.
It didn’t seem fair, but the alternate Autobots had insisted. The sleeping giant watching from across the multiverse had awakened and risen up.
Only two ships from the home universe engaged the Quintessons alongside the alternate visitors: the Decepticon’s Nemesis II, and the Autobot’s Orion—better known as Omega Supreme.
They, however, did not engage unprotected; the Iron Will escorted the Nemesis II, while the Jackhammer II guarded Omega Supreme.
It was storming on the day the battle was fought.
The mountainous planet was covered in ice and snow, with frigid temperatures that would likely kill an alternate Cybertronian within minutes of exposure while one from this universe may last an hour or two at most. The settlers had lived in connected outposts, mining the ground below for precious materials and drilling deeply for oil.
The civilians’ cries for help screamed of strange beings from another world who sought to take control of their outposts and even their bodies.
This could not go unanswered.
But the battle was fierce—so fierce, very few left alive in this universe could remember anything that it could be compared to. Those from the other universe were far more accustomed to such things, and it showed in how they repelled enemy attacks and gave back stronger, fiercer blows.
Optimus Prime, the acting Magnus of this reality, believed that they could end this conflict before it truly began. His family by his side, he had hope.
That hope vanished when the Jackhammer took a blow to the side while defending the Orion from a missile that would have decimated the bridge.
The Iron Will had to disengage from its protection detail and dive down to follow the smaller ship, with Ultra Magnus’s voice telling everyone to stay calm and that he would retrieve Wheeljack.
There was fear in his voice.
That same fear hung heavy in the air, and made Optimus’s mind go blank.
They had just gotten Prowl back, their family was finally together again.
They couldn’t be ripped apart, now.
They couldn’t.
“Optimus!” Someone was shouting. “OPTIMUS!”The Prime gasped, looking around frantically, and he saw Sari standing beside his servo, gripping his finger frantically as her helmet disengaged. “Please, big guy—we need you! It’s only getting-!”
The ship rocked.
Sirens blared and lights flashed as the bridge went vertical. They were going down, fast.
It all seemed to happen in snapshots.
Ratchet was screaming for Omega Supreme to respond.
Bulkhead picked Bumblebee up and held him to his chest.
Jazz and Prowl held shaking servos out and tried to focus.
And Sari looked up at Optimus, her optics wide, just as the shields failed and the windows blew.
And after that, it all went dark.
…
“Prime! OPTIMUS!”
The Prime bolted up into a seated position, his whole body shaking, and someone immediately grabbed his arm and wrapped it around their shoulders. What was happening?
“Come on, kid—we gotta move!”
He was practically being dragged, one foot in front of the other. It was all a blur.
“Bulkhead!” Optimus looked back, and he saw Bumblebee trying to make the much-larger ‘bot move—but there was no response from him, and the battered but unharmed yellow mech was panicking. “Bulkhead, come on: we gotta go!”
“He’s gone!” Another voice snapped, and the Prime turned his head to see his helper—Ratchet, who looked a mix between furious and distraught. “We’ve got to get out of here, now! Move it!”
“Sari,” Optimus managed. “Where’s-? Whoa!”
The Prime was suddenly thrown out of a window and into a snowbank, and his audial sensors still rang as he looked around—trying to regain his bearings. They were on some sort of cliff-face at the base of a mountain, the ship was perched precariously as well as engulfed in flames, and-
Wait, what?
“Bulkhead.” Optimus was on his feet before he knew it. “Sari… Ratchet!”
The field-tech was there, throwing a screaming and fighting Bumblebee out of the same window and into the snow—then, he looked back. “Now, you two!” His fists shook at his sides. “The fire is spreading! Omega won’t last, much longer!”
Optimus could see into the ship.
Bulkhead’s frame was gray.
Prowl was limping badly, and Jazz was trying to get him to the window. They were both hurt, and moving far too slowly.
Ratchet was reaching out with his magnets to try and help them escape.
The ship jerked.
Jazz looked up, then his optics narrowed as he suddenly threw Prowl towards Ratchet.
Ratchet’s magnets caught Prowl and pulled him out of the ship, then the field-tech reached out.
And Jazz gave one last smile before the ship fell backwards and off of the edge of the cliff.
“No!” Optimus ran to the edge of the cliff just as Ratchet did, the two of them watching in dismay as waves of transwarp energy went out and a brilliant beam of light went up into the sky.
Once it was over, there was just fire and smoke.
No Bulkhead. No Jazz.
No Sari.
Optimus sank down into a seated position, his whole frame shaking as he watched the distant blaze. Was it from the grief, fear, or cold?
“S-Sari?” A voice asked, and Optimus looked somehow back. Bumblebee was kneeling over something in the snow, his optics wide as he picked it up and cradled it to his chest. The Prime saw a little arm fall down, frost-covered and stained with pink and red. “Sari? No! N-No…”
This couldn’t be happening.
It couldn’t be happening.
Optimus was going to wake up in his room, having never heard of any Quintesson threat.
He would get to see Bulkhead, Jazz, and Sari in the mess hall for their first refueling.
While Sari made her daily call to her dad, Optimus might stop to visit Omega Supreme.
Everything was fine.
Everything had to be fine.
Everything had to be fine—because if it wasn’t, it would be because Optimus froze up. He couldn’t keep it together, and then the ship crashed and-
“Bumblebee.” That was Prowl. “Bumblebee, the ice. This isn’t a cliff, it’s a glacier! It’s unstable!”
What?
Optimus heard the ice under Bumblebee crack.
The yellow mech looked up, his optics wide as he still clutched Sari’s little body to his chest.
The snapshots returned.
Optimus was on his feet.
Bumblebee threw Sari’s body to safety.
The ice cracked and came apart.
Bumblebee fell.
And Optimus jumped after him.
The smaller mech cried out as Optimus wrapped an arm around him and pointed his other arm up, firing a grappling hook. It caught the ice and held the two of them up, and Optimus let out a gasp of relief as he held Bumblebee close.
He’d saved him.
He’d saved someone.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he tried to reassure the smaller mech, who clung to him like a lifeline. “I’ve got you, and you’ll be okay.”
The ice gave.
Optimus looked up, his optics wide, as the two of them started to drop again. He could hear both Ratchet and Prowl just screaming.
Bumblebee was screaming, too.
But as his grappling hook slid back into place, all Optimus could do was hold Bumblebee to try and shield him—much like Bulkhead must have tried to do—and wait for their fall to end.
He hoped they’d wake up someplace better.
…
Ratchet and Prowl were at opposite sides of the hole in the ice, staring at it in disbelief.
Minutes.
Mere minutes, and they’d lost six members of their family to this horrible, frozen world.
“Don’t move,” was all Prowl could say, his whole frame trembling. “Just- Just don’t move.”
Ratchet couldn’t have moved if he tried. He could barely even form the barest wisp of thought.
He was supposed to protect these kids, all of ‘em.
And one by one, he was watching them all die.
He didn’t even know if Wheeljack survived his crash, if Ultra Magnus survived his attempt to rescue him, or if anyone he knew was alive.
It was just him and Prowl, perched on an Allspark-forsaken ice shelf, waiting… for what, exactly?
Waiting to see who would be the next to die?
Waiting to be rescued, and then live with this?
“… I-I’m cold,” Prowl admitted after a while. His optics were dim and his frame was coated in ice, and he looked at Ratchet like a scared sparkling. “Ratchet, I-… I really don’t want to die, again.”
Ratchet swallowed thickly. “I know, kid.”
Pit be damned, he wasn’t going to let the cyber-ninja face this alone—whatever the cost.
Slowly, Ratchet made his way around the hole in the ice, and he carefully gathered Prowl in his arms and moved the both of them against the mountain-side to try and find sanctuary from that bitter, biting wind. He continued to hold Prowl close as he sat down, cradling the smaller mech and waiting for whatever fate awaited them.
The cyber-ninja held the field-tech’s servo, and the grip was gradually growing weaker.
“… I’m tired,” Prowl whispered, no longer moving.
Ratchet couldn’t bear to explain that the young mech’s fuel lines were freezing in that bitter chill—that his small, slight frame just couldn’t take it.
“Yeah?” Ratchet asked. “Are you still cold?”
“No.”
“Do you wanna rest?” Ratchet tried his best to keep it together. “You can stay up, if you want. Try to be awake, when help gets here. I’m sure that ol’ Wheeljack and Magnus would appreciate it.”
“… I don’t think I can,” Prowl mumbled, his optics slowly drifting shut. “I’m sorry, Ratchet.”
Ratchet shook his head. “Nah, don’t- Don’t be, okay?” There was no sign that help was coming, and he didn’t want this kid to be scared. “You have nothing to be sorry for… So, you can just go on and get some rest now. You’ve earned it.” He nodded. “A-And we’ll all see you soon, okay? Me, the rest of the idiots—we’ll be there soon.”
Prowl hummed softly, nestling close.
And Ratchet watched his frame turn gray.
The old field-tech let out a shuddering sob, closing his optics, then he opened them again and looked up to see distant flashes in the stormy sky. The battle was still raging on, and he knew he would not live to see how it was going to end.
It was too cold, and… he was very tired.
That cold gradually started to fade away.
He couldn’t feel Prowl’s servo anymore.
“… You better still be alive, kid,” the field-tech said weakly. “You be alive, and you give ‘em Hell… and you go home with your conjunx, and you see your kid.” He gave a frail smile. “She’s- She’s gonna be amazing, just like they were… And you better not miss a thing. You hear me? Don’t you-” One of his sensors starting blaring, and he silenced it. “… Don’t you dare miss a thing, Wheeljack.”
It felt like too much to ask, given everything that had happened and that what was still to come.
He knew that, when he drifted off on that lonely cliff-side, he was going to be leaving a broken universe and what remained of a broken family behind him. They’d have to figure the rest out…
Alone.
Ratchet saw blaring warning signs in his vision as his aged systems finally lost the battle with the elements, and it got darker before it got brighter.
He wished that he could apologize.
He wished that he could show his gratitude.
And… he wished that he’d been less hesitant to tell his family that he loved them, and he hoped that his actions had spoken for him.
As it got brighter, he felt a smaller servo reach to hold his own again. “They did, Ratchet.”
And he knew that it was done, then.
They could all rest together, now.
And wait.
…
…
It was the Decepticons who called in the crash.
Ultra Magnus had barely managed to get himself and his unconscious conjunx back into the Iron Will, shaking and covered in frost, when the Megatron of this reality screamed the news.
The battle still raged, the storm was only growing more intense, and the evacuation was ongoing.
Ultra Magnus knew that one more venture into the cold could very well end his life, but he also knew no one else could detach themselves from the crisis at hand. He was already out of the fight.
So, while the engines protested against that frozen waste, he managed to get the Iron Will off of the ground and begin his search for the crash site—one which was rapidly being covered in ice and snow. There had been reports of a shortly-lived beacon, likely the result of the Allspark fragments within Omega Supreme destabilizing.
He had to hurry, or all would be lost.
But time had been lost, precious time.
By the time Ultra Magnus found the smoking wreck of Omega Supreme, he knew time was short if not already up—and yet, he still landed the Iron Will and clambered out to approach the frosty ruins. Most of the fires had long gone out—leaving only charred, twisted wreckage behind.
“Optimus!” The commander shouted, staggering through the snow and the wind. “Bumblebee!” He made his way into the remains of the ship, its walls helping to shield him. “Omega Supreme?!”
The gray walls had no answer for him.
And Ultra Magnus was doing his best not to panic. “Ratchet?! Prowl?!” He noticed a figure, and his optics widened. “Bulkhead!” He ran over and kneeled beside the form, reaching out only to swiftly draw back. Gray. “B-… Bulkhead?”
He knew it was a strong possibility.
He knew.
That didn’t make it any easier to accept.
Ultra Magnus clapped a servo over his mouth as he stood and stumbled back, his whole body heaving as he looked around for something—anything, really—to… what, exactly?
Convince himself that this wasn’t real?
Assure himself that there was a way to fix this?
Beg whoever was listening in this universe, either universe, any universe that fate could change?
Instead, his optics just found another little body—charred by the fires, and long turned gray.
Ultra Magnus’s servo fell as he stared at the body, and he-… He couldn’t just leave them there…
But the time he wasted getting their bodies onto his ship could be time that cost the others’ lives. As much as it hurt, he had to keep searching.
He checked his scanner again, but the storm was interfering. He couldn’t find their signatures.
He was on the bridge.
He knew that Optimus was commanding and that Ratchet would likely be on the bridge as well to support Omega Supreme. They should have been there, but they weren’t—and Bumblebee, Sari…
Ultra Magnus made his way over to that charred little body, and he gagged before he closed his optics and nodded shakily. Yes, that was Jazz.
Prowl was also not accounted for.
Five missing Autobots.
Three dead.
Ultra Magnus was trying to be a soldier about this for the sake of the missing, but… maybe he was getting old, or maybe the changes to life as of late had finally made him soft and there was no way to rebuild the shell that had somewhat protected his spark and mind during the war… he couldn’t.
He wasn’t a soldier, not now.
Just a terrified, grieving father.
…
Wheeljack woke up just as Ultra Magnus sat down beside him, covered in frost. They were in the Iron Will, and it was fraggin’ cold.
“Hey, Mags,” the white Wrecker mumbled, already waiting to be chewed out for his recklessness or even gently teased for the crash of another ship. “Thanks for the save.”
Ultra Magnus didn’t even look at him as he took off and started flying the ship, his narrowed optics focused on examining something outside.
“Impact damage to the front and the back. They landed on the glacier, then the ship fell. That means there could be survivors on the ledge.”
“Survivors?” Wheeljack sat up a bit, frowning. “Was there another crash?” He noticed that his conjunx’s servos were shaking. “Magnus?”
“… Omega Supreme was shot down,” Ultra Magnus revealed. “He, Bulkhead, and Jazz-…” His optics teared up. “I didn’t find any other bodies on the ship. They might be on the ledge.”
Wheeljack just stared at the other mech.
He heard the words, but they weren’t clicking.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think.
He tried to make a coherent thought, but all he saw were smiles. His kids, his family—so alive…
Ultra Magnus set the ship down, and he stood up and looked down at Wheeljack. “Stay here, and stay warm. I’m going to try and find them.”
Wheeljack still couldn’t make himself move as the ramp lowered and his conjunx went back into the storm. Then, before he knew it, he was up on his feet and running down the ramp with him.
Magnus didn’t seem surprised, didn’t even try to argue. Instead, he noticed a hole in the ice—and a tiny lump in the snow, barely visible anymore.
“Someone fell,” he decided, choking on his own words, and he watched as Wheeljack moved to dig whatever was in the snow out.
He closed his optics as his conjunx screamed and held the little body to his spark.
They’d never put into words after that day, but it was then—after finding Sari—that they just… knew… that there would be no survivors left to find, just eight bodies to bury.
…
They found Ratchet and Prowl, still clinging to each other, frozen against a cliff face.
The Decepticons had to retrieve Optimus and Bumblebee. Megatron quietly told the Autobots how it appeared that the Prime had died bravely, trying to protect a loved one.
Omega Supreme and Bulkhead died in the crash, and Jazz in the fall and fire.
The first three were gone before Ultra Magnus had even begun his search, and the final five before anyone had realized that the ship had fallen from its first crash site.
In a single bad day, eight lives were lost from their family—and from this universe, which desperately needed them. Sentinel, the Jettwins, Arcee, Blurr, Autobots, Decepticons—they didn’t know what to do without those eight, the ones who had finally brought peace to Cybertron.
Everyone felt… lost.
Then, the Quintesson fleet was ablaze.
All around, ships were blasted apart—crashing, burning, everything coming to a swift and deadly end in the skies above that frozen world.
And Wheeljack was eerily silent, his expression blank and frame weary, as he put a handful of Allspark fragments into Sentinel’s servos.
One had gone into the fueling Iron Will’s weapon systems, one was linked up to his ever-reliable electro-whip, and he wired the last shard into one of his own arms to charge a cannon.
All three fueled a rampage.
It didn’t make him feel any better.
It didn’t stop him from blaming himself.
It just burned his arm black.
It just meant that they could gather the dead and leave that frozen hell-world behind forever.
So, no one put up much of a fuss.
…
…
Two Cybertrons and and two Earths grieved the loss. Agent Fowler, the Darby family, Miko, Raf, and even the Fanzones came to the funeral to show support—especially to Wheeljack, Ultra Magnus, and Professor Sumdac.
The funeral was a surprisingly quiet affair despite the massive crowds that gathered. Many had a lot to say about the dead—Arcee spoke of Ratchet’s courage and kindness as well as his partnership with Omega Supreme, Kup told stories about Optimus as a student, young Drift came to say what he could for his fellow cyber-ninjas, and Fanzone even managed to deliver a kind speech about all the team did for Earth.
There were some surprising speeches.
Megatron commended Optimus’s skills as a leader, regarded Prowl as one of the finest warriors he had ever faced, and complimented Bulkhead’s intellect and mourned the loss of such a brilliant space-bridge technician.
Blitzwing commented about Bumblebee as a force on the battlefield even before his battle-mods had been unlocked, and said that the young ‘bot had managed to rattle Shockwave during their time boot camp by being close to catching the real spy—which he respected.
Blackarachnia and Sentinel came to apologize, one last time. When she cried, he said nothing and didn’t even look at her as he reached over and took her clawed servo in his.
The Optimus Prime from the other universe, holder of the Matrix and Master Archivist, gave a speech about the courage as well as the kindness held by the lost team. He asked that his fellow Cybertronians in both realities not scatter and fight because of their grief, but instead unite in honor of the lost to make a better future.
Ultra Magnus, Wheeljack, and Professor Sumdac could not speak. What words could they say that would make sparks and hearts less heavy?
After the Prime’s speech, however, the little servo the Prime was holding slipped away from his grip—and a very young sparkling toddled across the stage to approach the seven caskets.
Omega Supreme’s massive body was unable to be moved from that frozen world.
She fell and let out a soft grunt, then stood again and made her way to the smallest casket.
She frowned when she saw that gray little body, then looked up and raised her servos as someone gently picked her up—and she saw them all.
“Come on, kiddo,” Blackarachnia said softly as she turned away—Sentinel lingering by her side. “Let’s get you back to your parents, okay?”
“Oppy, Bee,” Strongarm protested, as those were the little nicknames for her siblings that she had learned how to say before then. “Bedtime?”
“Yeah.” Blackarachnia nodded shakily. “We need to let everyone rest, now. They’re very tired.”
Strongarm was still frowning as she was handed back to Ultra Magnus, who held her close.
When the funeral was over and the bodies had been laid to rest, Wheeljack left without a word.
He said nothing until Ultra Magnus found him in their quarters and carefully handed Strongarm to her other caregiver.
Wheeljack looked down at her, his expression blank, and she reached up and rested a servo on his face will a frown.
Then, Wheeljack hung his head and cried—and Ultra Magnus carefully wrapped his arms around his conjunx so that he could hold him and their little daughter close.
What were they supposed to do, now?
…
…
…
A young cadet spun an axe in her servo before placing it on her back, her optic-brow raised as she strolled into a meeting chamber.
“Okay, what’s the damage?”
Blackarachnia gestured, irked. “Dumbaft here is behind on his paperwork, again—and instead of doing something smart like asking you, Magnus, Blurr, or Megatron for help, he procrastinated even harder. Now, it’s a total clusterfuck.”
“Understatement.” Megatron was sitting at one end of the table, and he lowered a pair of reading spectacles to regard Strongarm. “I’ve already started work on repairing our finances, and Blurr forwarded the defense planning to Ultra Magnus before getting started on public relations and media. Arcee has taken education and the arts.” He produced a small smirk. “Congratulations, young one: you get energy and public works.”
“Fantastic.” Strongarm plopped down into her seat and grabbed a data-pad. “I’ll have to call the lieutenant and let him know I’ll be back late.” She glanced at her side, where Sentinel was hunched over and face-down on the table. “Sent, we’ve talked about this. You’re not running Cybertron alone, you’ve gotta let people help you.” She saw the Jettwins coming into the room with more stacks of data-pads. “… What the fuck, Sentinel?”
“Ugh…”
“That’s exactly what I asked,” Blackarachnia remarked as she sat down beside Strongarm.
The cadet chuckled, then she sighed and started to read. “Who can blame anyone for being in a funk, right now? It’s almost that day, again.”
Blackarachnia nodded. “Yeah. That’s the only reason why he’s not stuck to the ceiling.” Her face fell. “I can’t believe it’s been a million years.”
“Me, neither,” Strongarm admitted.
Blackarachnia glanced at her. “Do you still… remember them at all, even just a little bit?”
Strongarm paused, blinking, then she sighed. “It’s hard. I was so young, and it’s difficult to know if I’m remembering them or just the stories. Most of my life has been the after, the missing them.” She then looked at Blackarachnia, and she managed a smile. “But when I focus real hard, I think that I see their smiles—and hear their laughter.”
“Optimus had a memorable laugh,” Blackarachnia remarked, and they both laughed softly.
Sentinel raised his head and looked at them, and he smiled. “One of the last times I got to hear that laugh was after the Headmaster got me. He never told anyone what really happened.” He rolled his optics. “Wheeljack is another story.”
“It was Christmas, and I seem to remember one of us daring him to try some high-grade and ‘loosen up’,” Strongarm reminded him.
Sentinel huffed. “How was I supposed to know Wheeljack had a low tolerance for the stuff?”
“Because he told you he had a low tolerance,” Blackarchnia and Strongarm said together, both deadpanning, then all three burst out laughing.
“Some of us are trying to work here,” Blurr said.
Megatron reached back to stop Jetstorm from tipping over under the weight of a massive stack of data-pads. “Many of us even multitasking.”
“Easy,” Arcee chided them gently. “Strongarm is right. None of us have to do this alone.” She looked over at the trio, smiling. “And I think that allows a little bit of childishness, on occasion.”
Megatron just shook his head as he took the data-pads from Jetstorm and set them down.
“… It’s a marvel, how far we’ve come,” the former warlord said at last. “But I still wonder what might have been, had that day ended differently.”
Arcee nodded. “I think all of us do.” She looked at her data-pad, her expression softening. “But all we can do is hope we’ve done right by them.”
Megatron glanced over at Strongarm, Sentinel, and Blackarachnia as the Jettwins each threw themselves over one of Sentinel’s shoulders to join the conversation, earning more laughter.
“… Indeed,” he agreed, then got back to work.
…
…
Wheeljack sat hunched-over on a bench, his chin resting on folded servos as he gazed at a set of seven tombs flanked by massive oak trees.
A massive inscription engraved on the ground told a watered-down history of those honored there and their fates, including Omega Supreme—not there in body, but always there in spirit.
Once a year—every year, no matter how he was feeling—Wheeljack always made sure to visit.
Some years, there would be many visits. Other years, this would be the only one—and Primus, how the guilt would always eat him up.
He knew they wouldn’t hold it against him.
But there was a lot he held against himself.
A million years, and he’d been told time and time again it wasn’t his fault. He crashed because he had protected them, that was the only reason why he wasn’t there to help again. He couldn’t have known what was going to happen.
Wheeljack knew it made sense.
That didn’t make his spark understand.
“… Hey, kids. Hey, Doc-‘Bot,” he greeted quietly. “Magnus and Armi’ll be around in a minute. Very conveniently, they both got calls at the same time and had to take ‘em.” He snorted. “They never were subtle, were they? They mean well… I just wish they wouldn’t do that. They miss you, too—and them always treatin’ me like I’m the fragile one around this day, it doesn’t make things any easier.” He chuckled. “Guess this means we need a ‘jam session’, don’t we? Probably overdue.”
It was quiet.
The leaves on the trees rustled.
And Wheeljack sighed, sitting back and rubbing his arm. It was never the same, after that day.
“… I, uh… I still don’t know if I’ve done any of it right,” he confessed. “I thought I’d gotten it all together, then… it happened… and I can’t help but think Armi, Magnus, and everyone else have paid the price, because there was a good while… and it still happens now, from time to time… where it’s hard to remember everythin’ you taught me. I’ve lost kids before, and you saw what I became. I worry that our family still sees that guy, the one who was too scared to try again and be different.” He shook his head. “You wouldn’t want that. And you wouldn’t like the fact that, even now, if I could go back and do it over again—find a way to trade my life for yours—I would, without question.”
The images of the fallen, etched into the tombs, gazed on with optics of blue crystalline Energon.
“… I miss you every day,” he said. “I’ll never stop missin’ you, wondering about the ‘what if’s… and just wishin’ that I could see you again, so that I could tell you that I love ya, and I’m sorry, and… thank you.” He took a sharp vent. “But you know.”
“Wheeljack?” There was Magnus, sitting down beside him with a large servo already resting on his shoulder—and there was Strongarm, sitting down at his other side. “Hey. Are you alright?”
Wheeljack sighed. “Okay… Maybe you were right about me needin’ to talk to ‘em. Again.” He looked between the two of them. “The fake comms were a bit much, though. Bee would be proud.” The two blinked, then they smiled sadly. “… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Strongarm insisted. “‘Jackie, you lost-… You lost more than anyone ever should.” She leaned against him. “It’s alright if you still struggle, if you always struggle. You just have to know we’re here, and that you’re not alone.”
“I’m not the only one who lost ‘em,” Wheeljack reminded her. “You, Magnus, entire worlds-”
“Your family is your world, Wheeljack—it always has been,” Ultra Magnus said quietly. “And… we learned that from you.” The commander looked up at the tombs. “… But they’re not gone. It’s just gotten harder to see them. They’re still here.” He looked at his conjunx, smiling. “Watching over us, the family and friends that they made… and more often than not, they’re rolling their optics.”
Strongarm snorted, and Wheeljack chuckled. “Oh, yeah. I can only imagine the commentary.”
“… I think that they’d be proud of us,” Strongarm decided, sitting back on the bench and nodding to herself. “But poor Optimus probably cringed every time I fumbled with the axe during training. I’ve seen the archival footage, how’d he always make the spins look so flawless?”
“Y’know, I never asked about that,” Wheeljack realized. “Here, everyone was always makin’ comments about me spinnin’ swords—and the little fragger got away with that!”
Ultra Magnus shook his head. “Wheeljack, unless it was directly dangerous to their health, you have always let your children get away with everything. Strongarm could actually murder someone, and you would not even blink—just grab a shovel.”
“Your unwavering support is something I’ll always treasure, ‘Jackie,” the young cadet teased.
Wheeljack snorted. “Like you haven’t done your research on optimal disposal methods, Mags.”
“Off-topic,” the commander said bluntly, earning a wide-opticed look from his daughter.
Strongarm shook her head and looked back at the tombs, and she sighed. “… I worry sometimes that I’m forgetting them. I’m scared to forget, because they’re gone forever if I do. We won’t-…”
“Yeah.” Wheeljack nodded. “We talked about it, but never came to any resolution—just made our jokes about breakin’ into each other’s Wells or draggin’ each other into the afterlife.”
“So morbid,” Strongarm remarked.
Wheeljack shrugged. “Stubborn.” His arm burned again, and he rubbed it. “The Allspark here ain’t a fan of us, though. I’m afraid it is what it is.”
“… Do you think they remember me?” Strongarm asked quietly.
Wheeljack looked at her and smiled. “Who could forget you?”
“Hm.” Strongarm smiled back, then she looked up at the tombs again. “… I miss them. Even if I can’t remember them too well, I’m sure that I remember their love. And I miss them.”
“They miss you, too,” Ultra Magnus assured her.
Strongarm sighed. “I wish that we knew that the end would be happy, that we’d get to be together again. It doesn’t seem fair to split us up.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Wheeljack agreed. “And it’s not. But it’s not like we can build a bridge.”
“… Why not?” Strongarm asked. “You did once.”
“Twice,” Ultra Magnus corrected her. “But that was here, Strongarm—not the Allspark.”
“So? I thought Wreckers were stubborn.”
Wheeljack just kept gazing at the tombs as his conjunx and daughter continued to speak.
And as his arm burned, his optic-brow raised.
43 notes
·
View notes