alright yall it's been a while since I've written for tfp but I'm back. Also this is my first story containing an OC (so please bear with me cuz I'm new to that category). This is just the prologue but the other chapters will be longer. It follows the plot line/episodes of tfp with some other stff thrown in. So here we go

It wasn't noticeable at all for the first week. Even Knock Out—in all his skilled medical expertise—failed to see it. It wasn't until he woke up one morning to find Breakdown puking in washroom and the ever-so-slight bulge in his abdomen that the medic finally got a clue.

"Breakdown...you are? Really? You're really carrying?"

"I was saving it, ya' know? It was gonna be a surprise."

Knock Out threw his arm around his partner in a spring of happiness and found himself dragging the blue mech over to the medbay for examination—jamming him into the scanner for every test he could run. It took a couple of hours, but finally, the medic let him up. They were going to have a daughter.

...

"C'mon, Breakdown. Just need one more push. Okay? C'mon," he was halfway up his forearm in his bondmate's port, a place he never thought he'd be.

Breakdown groaned, but obeyed—feeling Knock Out's hands gently guiding their newborn daughter out as he put every ounce of strength into the last delivery. The tension eased off. Then he heard the most beautiful thing: a sparkling begin to cry. The blue mech let out a long awaited sigh of happiness while the medic began to clean her off.

"Hey, can I see her?" Breakdown asked, relaxing back into the berth.

Knock Out's expression dropped a little, "uh...yeah. Yeah."

"What? What is it? What's wrong?" worry rose behind the bruiser's voice. He propped himself on his elbows, "Knock Out?"

"She's a seeker," he said, overwhelmingly surprised and settled their sparkling into his bondmate's arms, "our daughter is a...a seeker."

"So? She's beautiful."

The newborn had stopped crying and reached up, grasping at the air vaguely. She was covered in dark plating, aside from her pale grey faceplate. Her black pedes were flat (which was odd for a femme to not have struts)—a couple of silver stripes across each—and had a hollow heel. Her grey legs tapering into a black bikini-like shape. A slender silver waist led into her small, black breast plates that complemented her slender figure; fading evenly into her simple shoulder struts. The simple black helm splayed back into an even point. Black and silver wings stretched out from between her shoulder—the larger, main wings raising and lowering excitedly while the smaller, secondary wings twitching as much as they could. She had bright red optics that switched between both of her fathers.

"Primus, she looks just like you," Breakdown cooed softly, "what should we name her?"

Knock Out sat on the edge of the berth and put an arm around his partner "since she's your daughter she'll need something tough. But, since she's my daughter she'll need something elegant," he held a digit out a few inches above the sparkling's hands; her tiny hands grabbing it as she giggled quietly.

"I like 'Switchblade'."

"Hmm..." the sports car thought for a moment whether or not he agreed with the name, "odd name for a young femme. But I kinda like it. Switchblade."

...

"Okay, keep those optics closed. Just a little further," Breakdown urged excitedly—tugging gently on their daughters left hand.

"Ugh, guys," Switchblade groaned; her free hand over her optics as she walked—thumping her pedes as she went to exaggerate her thoughts, "I've seen this forest a thousand times. Nothing in it is going to surprise me."

Switchblade—in human years—was about thirteen. She still had another good growth spurt in her, but her wings had matured almost fully: reaching a span about four or five feet each (the secondary tail fins were about two or three feet each). Now the wings were able to support flight. Knock Out was a few feet ahead of them, weaving in between the trees along the edge of the forest.

He held a hand up for the other two to stop walking, "oh-oh, this is it! Okay...Switchblade, you're thirteen cycles old, and as such we have decided that you should stop relying on your boosters for flight and receive a proper altmode."

He side stepped out of the way of a small clearing where a small fighter jet was centered. Switchblade's mouth dropped open and her wings fluttered behind her. She squealed with happiness before throwing her arms around both her fathers.

"But, you might want to hurry," Breakdown pointed out beneath his daughter's questioningly strong grip, "it's supposed to be at back some human's military base three miles away."

"Oh...right. Well then," she let go and stepped into the open area.

A grid pattern glazed over her optics and projected across the fighter jet; picking up the place of every little strut, wing, and flap. The schematics flashed once through her processor before the holographic grid pulled back and her optics returned to normal. She turned back around and nodded at the two mechs, who nodded back in unison. The femme turned around and closed her eyes. She felt her plates shifting and folding in on themselves; then she shot up into the air as a black fighter jet—yelling and whooping as much as her vocals would allow.

So this is flying. I could get used to this whole 'seeker' business, she thought ecstatically, almost in awe of herself as she watched her internal altimeter soar past ten-thousand feet.

...

Switchblade walked into the main section of the medbay, her wings sticking up as high as they could go—adding a note of fervor to her otherwise nervous air, "hey, Dad? Can I ask you something? It's kind of important."

Knock Out stood next to the somewhat comatose body of Megatron, tapping away on a datapad, "hm?"

By now, Switchblade was the Cybertronian equivalent of a seventeen-year-old. She was tall for a femme, and would probably stay that way, though still being a couple inches smaller than Knock Out. Her wings had fully matured: each one reaching about six or seven feet from her back, with the tail fins at about four feet each (the other day she caught Starscream eyeing her wings as if he was making sure they were "seeker-worthy". She was unaware anyone knew until later that day, when the aerial commander showed up in the medbay with some familiar hammer-shaped dents he needed removed).

"It's just...well...it occurred to me...the other day I was thinking...uh, I want to get an insignia," she said it fast, like it needed to be over with quickly.

The CMO almost dropped the tablet when his helm shot up and he gave his daughter one of those What-Gave-You-That-Idea-type look that every father does, "wha—what? Where is this coming from?"

"I'm old enough. And I'm the only one on this whole ship that doesn't! Commander Starscream said that—"

"Alright, alright!" he pinched the bridge of his nose (at least the part of his helm that served as one), "go...get on the table."

Switchblade laid down on the other spare table while Knock Out fished around for the detailing welder and the metal base, while muttering "I'm having a talk with a specific Commander later" under his breath. When he found them—conveniently in the last place he looked—he went over to the table and input a quick code. Some loose restraints formed around the base and tip of her wings—gently holding them in place so they wouldn't move too much. Knock Out put the small metal square over an empty spot on the young femme's left wing. He clicked the detailer on and began cutting the small square. He noticed Switchblade trying to hide multiple winces while the sensitive wing tried to flinch away from under his hand.

"It will sting a little," his voice was soft and a tiny part apologetic, "try not to move to much, though."

Switchblade nodded, but continued to watch as he finished the top two points and moved to cut out the narrow eyes—discarding the scraps of metal into a small bin. The detailed cut out a thin point and bowed out to the side, up, down to the corner, stop; clear out the scraps, next side, up, down to the corner, stop, clear out the scraps, and straighten out any curved edges. Knock Out took another small sheet and walked around to the other side to repeat the process on the other wing. It was quicker this time.

"Alright, just lie there for a little bit and let those cool. Your wings'll be sore for a few days, but you can still fly."

Now my daughter is officially a Decepticon. Yay. One more thing I don't want her to be a part of.

The cover image for this story is what Switchblade is supposed to look like.

{I'm not that good of an artist tbh, sorry}