The war had seemed so distant at first, existing only on the news vids. Headlines of small uprisings and insurgencies became old news fast. No one worried, not really. The gleaming Autobots utopias shook the threat off as the government hit back, keeping the rebellion at bay. Then different reports started appearing and the unease grew, prickling up the necks of even the most sheltered Autobot population.
Stories of hidden explosives snuck into the cultural and populous centers of the northern cities started arising. A monument toppled, a spanning bridge blown, a suicide that had taken hundreds in the explosion. Soon, even the Council took notice, as they lost a couple of their own, finding the grayed corpses of a fellow leader eviscerated on city sidewalks early in the morning.
It was a problem of politicians and militaries. The rebels, the proclaimed Decepticons, would have their fight and they would lose. The Autobots of Iacon; the Council, the military, they would meet their challenge and they would win while the middle territories, the neutrals who were called Autobots by default of the banners they hung on their Capitol buildings, would sit back and let them. To the middle territories, the war felt like some far away threat that, eventually, would need to be acknowledged. But not now. Not when things were going so well.
The expansive city of Praxus felt like a fortress, the high buildings and roads safely hemming in her citizens from the ever growing chaos that lay just to the south. At the center of the city lay her pride and joy, the Praxus University of Medicine and Technology—the highest acclaimed specialty school on the planet. Almost all technological advances in medicine and upgrades for the past 500 vorns could be attributed to the University and its students. And in a week, a select group of those students would graduate to be immediately hired on by various hospitals and businesses, looking for the prestige and skills that came along with the employment of a Praxus University graduate.
Blind to the world outside of their home, this select group of students found this particular occasion to be cause for celebration, which, of course, they did. Excessively.
"Jack—JACK!" Ratchet yelled over the din of voices and pounding music. How could someone whose head was, literally, a flashing beacon get so easily lost in a club? He finally caught sight of his friend as he waded off of the dance floor. He was grinning widely, showing all his denta in that stupid way that screamed "overcharged" and Ratchet weaseled his way through the throng of mechs and femmes towards him. He plopped another cube of violently pink highgrade into his friend's hand and found that that grin was rather infectious.
"Where'd you go?" Wheeljack asked, his voice slurring audibly. Ratchet could tell he'd been missed.
He smirked. "Fetching you another drink, lightweight," he teased before downing his cube in a couple of gulps as he leaned up against the counter beside his friend.
Wheeljack actually started to giggle and Ratchet could tell right there the mech had probably had one too many. He laughed along with him even as he silently vowed to get his friend home safe that night. He knew they probably shouldn't be out with the looming threat of finals, but nearly their entire graduating class was here, and he wasn't going to miss out on the party of the year. It was their last night of break before final tests and under the pulsing lights and pounding music they were going to make it a night to remember.
"Ratchet!"
His head shot up to see a little silver femme struggling her way through the crowd, two other mechs trailing close behind.
"Lunar! Up here!" he called and waved her over. Lunar was the same practice as him and they had shared almost every class together since their first year. The two mechs following her were friends as well—Perceptor and Roadflare, though the former didn't look at all excited to be there.
"I have my experimental sciences thesis due in two days!" Perceptor fretted, blue optics squinting against the flashing strobes. "You do too Wheeljack! We shouldn't be getting overenergized off our processors with finals so close!" The small mech had to shout to even be heard.
Wheeljack and Ratchet shared a look before the white and green mech pushed himself away from the counter. "Perce, I want to introduce you to a friend of mine called the trailblazer. It will wipe away all the troubles from that overworked little processor of yours," Wheeljack said as he grabbed the red telescope by the arm and lead him down towards the bar, stumbling ever so slightly.
"Little?" Perceptor huffed, affronted, before the two disappeared through the throng.
Lunar slipped into Wheeljack's vacated spot and grinned brightly. "You excited?" she asked, her blue optics overly bright.
Ratchet grinned. "You already know the answer to that. And what did you two drink before you got here? Your optics are glowing like you've got a fever," he said.
"I lost 80 credits on drinks last week, I brought my own this time," Roadflare said, stumbling over a couple of hiccups in his engine.
Lunar grinned and reached into subspace to pull out a half full bottle of dull pink liquid. "Want some?" she asked.
Ratchet grinned brightly. "Don't mind if I do," he said and plucked the bottle from her hand. He took a deep swig, optics scanning the floor. He caught sight of Wheeljack and Perceptor at the bar, though the tense telescope seemed infinitely more relaxed, and the empty cube in his hand told why.
Lunar snatched the bottle back from him after his second or third generous gulp. "Primus, no wonder you drop 100 credits every weekend," she said and took a sip from the bottle before passing it off to Roadflare.
Ratchet chuckled and put an arm around her shoulder before kissing the top of her helm. "I still think that those were stolen," he said solemnly though he was visibly smirking.
Lunar chuckled and moved so her chassis was pressed against his as she looked up at him. "Liar," she smirked and leaned up to peck him on the lips.
Ratchet wrapped his arms around her waist, feeling her lithe hips move against his as she danced to the beat. "Come on, dance with me!" she said and tugged at his shoulders. His processor was buzzing comfortably and she felt too good pressed up against him for him to really want to let go.
"I think I'll pass," he said even as he tightened his embrace, grinning wolfishly at her. Lunar snorted and ground against him a little harder, as though in retaliation for being a buzz-kill.
Roadflare glared balefully at them over his bottle. "You two disgust me," he said, deadpan. "C'mon let's hit up McAdams before their white energon deal ends."
"Sounds good," Ratchet said, already tasting the sweet energon that made the bar famous. His optics scanned the expansive room for Wheeljack and Perceptor once again, wondering what was taking them so long. He didn't see them at the bar anymore and his optics roved over the floor where the dancing mechs looked oddly disjoined under the flashing lights.
His slightly blurred optics focused on a single mech, wading through the crowd. Ratchet recognized him as a lowerclassman but couldn't for the life of him remember his name. He looked scuffed up, and the dancing mechs on all sides of him bumped and jostled him as he wandered like a lost sparkling through the crowd. Something about his chassis looked off, like it had been dented outward, but that wasn't what had caught Ratchet's attention. The mech appeared to be crying.
"Ratchet?" Lunar asked, her hand splayed across his windshield.
The mech's armor fell open and Ratchet's processor stalled. Something had been jammed into the mech's chassis, curled around his spark chamber and had given his front that odd bulge. He realized a second too late what the flashing red light meant and reality hit him like a bullet.
"GET DOWN!" he screamed before everything he had ever know or hoped for, the peaceful world he'd grown accustomed to was consumed in a ball of white.
His audios rang. He'd drank too much last night and someone was slapping his cheek, probably Wheeljack telling him to get up. His optics flickered on and he dazedly wiped soot from the glass, feeling for the first time, a trickle of energon slide down his helm.
"We got a live one over here," a voice called, though Ratchet had a hard time hearing him through the static buzz of his audios. There was a muffled response but Ratchet couldn't have heard it even if he wanted to as he teetered on the edge of consciousness.
He made the mistake of looking down, and shock slammed through his groggy frame, bringing him to an alertness he didn't want. Lunar's dark optics looked up at him, a puzzled look still plastered on her face. Her usually flawless silver armor was scorched black, the paint nanites peeling off from the combination of heat and pressure. Shrapnel had pierced straight through her, wedging deadly fragments deep in her internals so far that some poked out the other side, scratching Ratchet's windshield.
With a shaking hand he reached up and picked a shard of metal from his cheek. The only reason he was alive was because she had been pressed comfortably against his chassis, shielding his spark with her body when the bomb went off.
His optics slowly moved from her face to the devastation around him. The walls of the club were just barely standing, broken and cracked, as though they could crumple if someone breathed too hard. The broken bodies of his friends and classmates littered the scorched ground and just in front of him, Roadflare lay sprawled, one optic knocked loose and lying on the ground in front of his body. The dark blue glass stared up at him accusingly as though asking him why he was still alive.
The round optic popped as a heavy silver and black foot descended upon it, snapping Ratchet out of his trance. His shocked gaze slowly traveled upwards until he looked into the silver face of a mech whose name had echoed through the news broadcasts on the war torn planet that had seemed so far away. "Megatron," he breathed, voice obscured by static.
Red optics looked at him impassively. "Put him with the others." As two bulky bodies obstructed his view of the mech, Ratchet heard the gravelly voice order, "Burn it all to the ground."