Thanks everyone for waiting on this one! We're on part THREE! All things are coming together, all the different gears are getting turned, and I hope you all enjoy what's in store because it's about to get, let's say, complicated ; )

Special thanks to secretlystephaniebrown, squiggol, Isame, Reality Rejection Service, and Catgox for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

Transformers, Beast Wars, and related properties © Hasbro
story © RenaRoo

Twisted Legacy
Part II: The Fire Down Below
3.1: The Whispers Travel

In a reasonable world – which Cybertron seemed determined to prove it was not – but in a reasonable world, there would have been some sort of system in order that would have given Knock Out the immediate access he deserved for the laboratory he had spent the last several weeks of his life and work in for Starscream.

And Starscream – that was another untrusting blunder within itself.

If only Knock Out did not find himself so weak for a decent paintjob. He probably would have made certain his arrangements were more permanent.

Ever since the Lost Light survivors had come through the space bridge, it was a literal struggle each solar cycle to get back into the room and to his research. Most of which had been left completely abandoned by his fellow doctors.

Honestly, Breakdown would have been more assistance in the lab at that point than the Cybertronians.

With a long vent, Knock Out threw out his credentials again for the snarling guards and did his best to ignore the way being a colonist was giving him extra looks that most of Cybertron did not. Then he looked, with annoyance, once more to see the galactically famous Ratchet alongside the other doctors busied with the same assortment of bots.

"Well," Knock Out drawled out, running his sharpened nails across his desk of untouched research. "What is that idiom I keep hearing about if you can't beat them…"

Strolling over to the medical bay, Knock Out earned those funny looks once again, as if it was a Cybertronian thing to always wear one's faceplate like it was about to fall off, but he was then promptly ignored.

"Wheeljack, can you give me anything at all that soft-melds to protoform?" Ratchet barked out. "I know it's out there–"

"Was out there, Doc," Wheeljack informed him with an awkward rub of his neck. "Cybertron's been in short supply of hot spots since before the war. The sort of melding material used to treat sparkling injuries would be basically a lost art."

"You are the highest scientific mind on Cybertron, and you're telling me you can't work something up to suit our needs?" Ratchet asked harshly.

From behind them, one of the awake patients – a blue and yellow jet who Knock Out was unfamiliar with – made a point of waving a hand in the air at them. "Since I'm here on Cybertron now, too, I can actually contest that claim–"

Rounding on the jet without hesitation, Ratchet pointed a thick finger at him. "Brainstorm, you are a weapons expert. I'm not going to let you build him into a giant gun. We already have a captain who was a giant gun. I'm not willing to have a second!"

Brainstorm crossed his arms and tilted his helm, looking positively offended. "It's not only guns. I made an entire time machine out of brief cases, in case you forgot–"

"We didn't!" they all said at once.

The green medic from Caminus that Knock Out hadn't bothered to learn the name of yet then apathetically patted Brainstorm's head. "You've been stuck on repeat about the briefcase for days now, Brainstorm. It's time to move on to something else."

"I know," Brainstorm grunted, rubbing at his neck tenderly. "I don't know why, but it's at the forefront of my brain module."

"Well, either shut your brain module off again or move it back to thinking about guns, because we don't have time to waste on this anymore," Ratchet snapped before looking back to Wheeljack. "Can you whip me something up to help rebuild the protoform layer?"

"Undoubtedly," Wheeljack said. "I'm just worried about how the mesh will hold, Ratchet. Injuries this deep and this bad… Well, in the war weren't they mostly Cold Constructed bodies?"

"I've made it work on forged and constructed cold millions of years before the war. As far as I'm concerned, I'll just be proving to Rodimus again that his tailpipe isn't shinier than the rest of ours," Ratchet said with a wave of his hand.

"I just feel like patience would get us along much further," First Aid encouraged. "The more time we allow for self-healing–"

"The more time Starscream has to weave whatever version of the story he feels like it," Ratchet interrupted the younger doctor. "Especially since Brainstorm's questioning was no help."

"I can't help what I can't remember – no one's driven more crazy by unused brainpower than me, I assure you!" Bainstorm defended.

Having been left out of the intellectual loop for long enough, Knock Out stepped forward toward the CR tank in question, hand on his chin as he hummed slightly to himself. It was a vain attempt at getting the other scientists' attention, but at the very least it worked.

Raising a brow, Knock Out looked back at his fellow doctors. "On Velocitron, most every mech is, what do you call them again, ah yes, forged. And given the frequency of racing and the dangers that come with it, we get plenty of deep protoformic injuries. As a doctor, I keep protomatter synthesized in my labs. It's not exact, but it is nearly seamless when worked with the right hands."

The doctors stared at him for a moment, most seemingly impressed, before turning toward the one face that was far from ecstatic about Knock Out's explanation.

Ratchet crossed his arms. "Do you have access to Velocitron at the second?"

Knock Out cycled his optics. "Well, no one has access to the space bridge at the moment–"

"And do you have any of this here?" Ratchet continued harshly.

"Well, no–"

"Then you're wasting our time and Wheeljack still needs to make some of our own," Ratchet snapped, then turned to Wheeljack. "Are you going to get me what I need?"

Knock Out couldn't help but drop his shoulders at being so quickly iced out of the conversation again. He stepped toward the CR chamber to get another look at the half mangled mech inside. "Fine, be that way. I swear, it's as if you don't even really want help."

"I assure you," a deep voice said from the shadows on the other side of the CR chamber, nearly causing Knock Out to jump back in shock. The quiet swordsmech who had been in the lab since Ratchet's arrival leered at Knock Out. "We are giving Rodimus all the help he needs."

"You're still here? Tell me, do you bots ever take a recharge?" Knock Out asked.

The swordsmech's steely blue gaze merely narrowed at the notion.

"Nevermind," Knock Out sighed. "Honestly, forget trying to help any of you with these Eukarian casualties." He strolled toward First Aid. "I'm more interested in the Rust Killers and how our research is going anyway."

First Aid tilted his head at Knock Out. "Seriously? Knock Out, I haven't had any time to vent, let alone continue working on that project since the injured came in–"

Having had enough of the social customs, Knock Out dropped his half cocked smile and showed a full scowl toward the doctor. "That project? Terrorists nearly wiped out your planet and all of the colonies in the Council of Worlds, and it's just some side project?"

"To my oath as a doctor, everything is a side project," First Aid responded snippishly.

"What do they teach Cybertronian doctors? The needs of the few outweigh the many?" Knock Out growled. He turned toward the Camien doctor. "And what about on Caminus? Is a doctor's duty only to those they're loyal to first and foremost?"

Velocity quickly raised her servos. "I'm not really here to fight. I'm not even working right now. I was just leaving with Brainstorm to meet with the rest of our amicas–"

"Everyone has their own little projects," Knock Out sighed before walking back toward the door. "If no progress is being actively made on the Red Rust research, then there's no reason for my brand of genius to be around. Though if you believe the Council of Worlds will continue to sponsor this lab and its experiments without further progress, you have another thing coming."

First Aid threw up one of his hands. "But you're on the Council of Worlds."

"And I'm interested in the Red Rust research," Knock Out reminded him threateningly. "I'm going to take a nice drive, test my engines and blow off some steam before I reconsider making a report about this misplacement of funds, First Aid. I've enjoyed working with you while you're on task. Hopefully we can do that again."

No one stopped him as he left the room, but of course none of them probably knew a proper retort for the slew of accusations Knock Out had just flung at them.

After all, his interests in the Red Rust were for his own self interests – that and his conjunx.

As always with Cybertron, though, there was more than simply their own concerns going on.

He was in the halls for maybe twenty seconds before Windblade collided into him.

"Why, I never!" Knock Out ground out, checking his paint job for any scratches. He then leered at the cityspeaker. "Delegate Windblade, if you wish for my attention, use your voice box."

"Apologies, Knock Out," she said, mid-vent. "I am in a rush and I need to get to the shipyard before it's too late."

"No you don't!" Chromia called out in pursuit of her delegate. "Windblade, you can't leave with the Prime–"

Surprised, Knock Out tilted his head at the jet. "I must concur with the bodyguard."

Unlike with the doctors, his suggestion seemed to at least carry some weight where the cityspeaker was concerned and Windblade stopped in her tracks, looking toward Knock Out.

"There's something bigger going on and it involves Optimus Prime directly – you've had to have seen the news! If this Error is after the Prime and the Matrix, then there is no reason to send him alone into space–"

"Unless it's to keep the rest of us safe," Knock Out said, raising his brow. "You are right, Windblade, in that there is something bigger going out here. And considering I have been approached by Lord Starscream for my scientific knowledge already, I have to say he seems to already understand that perhaps even more than you."

Her optics narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Sometimes, Delegate Windblade, it is our job as leaders, as doctors, as mechs of power, to understand when the needs of many outweigh the needs of the few," Knock Out explained. "And if the danger lies with the Prime, there was probably more than one incentive for Lord Starscream to send him alone into space and away from the citizenry."

Chromia vented with relief at someone spouting sensical words for once.

But Windblade's jaw merely squared itself. "The holy and powerful position of the Prime, for many of us – that hope only the Prime's light can provide? It can squash a whole lot of the many when in the wrong hands, Delegate Knock Out."

"Maybe," Knock Out said, crossing his arms. "But are you willing to leave your position here? Let Lord Starscream run the Council of Worlds without you? Alone?"

Windblade's wings dropped slightly.

"Energon for thought," Knock Out shrugged before continuing on his way out. "Do try to make the right decision. For all of us."

Without further interruptions to his day, Knock Out went for his drive.

Ultra Magnus was not sure what gave him more work – when Rodimus was in charge himself, or when he was forcibly co-captaining with Megatron. But there was one thing he was certainly learning under the current fear and unease: Megatron in control of a ship of Autobots, by himself, under highly suspicious circumstances, and just after most of the original crew had mutinied, was the hardest of the three options.

So hard, in fact, that the captain had hardly left his quarters in the last week of disfunction, and their ship had not yet left Eukaris' airspace as they awaited news of the survivors.

The former second-in-command should have happily taken charge of their situation. After all, he mostly ran things while Rodimus was the sole captain. But the burden was greater.

There was a burden of knowledge. Of injustice.

And as the former Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, there was quite possibly nothing that caused his fuel tank to turn more in on itself than the idea that he was assisting severe injustice.

Excusing himself from the bridge, not that anyone there was doing anything under their inactive orders, Ultra Magnus walked to the captain's office and knocked politely once.

When there was no answer, he sighed and overrode the code to let himself in.

Megatron did not even budge from his desk.

"I have been making contact with Cybertron over the last week," Ultra Magnus informed his captain. "The next inbound ship will have Velocity, Brainstorm, one of the other recovered members of the away team, and the others who had departed for Cybertron." When the former Decepticon did not look up, Ultra Magnus tilted his head. "I assumed you would want to be informed that we were about to have a medical officer again. There have been far too many unattended injuries from barfights without one."

"Which made me wonder why you had not closed down Swerve's," Megatron replied before finally glancing up to Ultra Magnus.

Ultra Magnus stood in complete attention. "Are you asking me as captain to do that, Sir?" he asked.

"No, that would elicit more distrust and anger from an already formerly mutinous crew. As well as upset Swerve who is among the few of our group that I trust after that mutiny," Megatron responded. "Given, he is vocal about his hatred of me, but of course, it's the vocation of it that makes me trustful."

"Then that, sir, would by why I have not made any such action yet," Magnus responded. "We are in a precarious situation."

"We are," Megatron agreed, folding his servos together before his face. "We're having two conversations at the moment, aren't we, Ultra Magnus?"

"About the crew and about the situation with the recording?" Ultra Magnus asked. "Yes, we are." He stepped closer to the desk so that more hushed tones could be used by them both. "Have you determined yet who we may trust with the information?"

"I'm not entirely convinced there is anyone to be trusted with it," Megatron replied briskly, optics flickering in Magnus' direction. Their steady redness was deep, calculating. As sharp as ever. "We may need to discuss with Ratchet, either directly or indirectly, and bring him in. If he understands the enormity, he would understand the need to move Rodimus onto the Lost Light for the rest of his recovery. He needs to explain what happened to us directly. Having him on Cybertron, having only half the information, it makes everyone at risk."

"Agreed," Ultra Magnus said. "Velocity's arrival may give us that direct link to Ratchet we need. It would require more time without a medic in the long term, unfortunately, but you are not allowed on Cybertron and I am not comfortable abandoning my post by you under the current climate."

Megatron nodded slowly in agreement. "We have to move quickly."

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Ultra Magnus vented loudly.

Tilting his helm suspiciously, Megatron glared at Magnus. "What? What is it?"

"We may need to move quicker than originally planned, Sir," Magnus explained reluctantly. "I came in here because the same ship which is carrying crew members back from Cybertron has… another passenger."

"What?" Megatron demanded. He gritted his denta and shook his head. "Damn Starscream." He looked back to Magnus. "Who did he send?"

"This is where we may find a silver lining," Ultra Magnus attempted to break the news easily. "It is someone who is going to be on Rodimus' side, and our side if we can appeal to him."

Undeterred, Megatron narrowed his optics. "Who did he send, Magnus?"

Venting again, Ultra Magnus answered, "Optimus Prime is inbound for the Lost Light."

At first, Megatron sat in his seat patiently. Only his tapping finger on the desk gave any testament to the rage building up inside.

"I may need my office to myself for a moment, Ultra Magnus. Please be the one to greet the Prime upon his arrival," Megatron said formally.

Already on his way out, Ultra Magnus did not bother to look back even at the sound of a fist going through a metal table. "It will be my pleasure, Captain."

"Rattrap, I need to know where these cultists are in my city."

Lord Starscream had not needed to speak twice for Rattrap to know what his role was – what his usual role was. He was, after all, the rat in every wall throughout Metroplex. He had his optics and audial receptors set everywhere.

There were the usuals that Starscream wanted close watch on, knowing the comings and goings. Any of the delegates from the Council of Worlds, and especially Windblade and her ever present bodyguard.

Citizens of Cybertron in high concern were also Blurr and Ironhide, any of the most outspoken against Starscream's rule. He especially wanted attention paid to the disgruntled former Decepticons in the slums. Of those he watched, though, Rattrap found the most interest in Blurr's bar.

When Rattrap could manage to be one step ahead of Blurr and not be bounced from the establishment, of course. A most difficult thing considering the speedster's famous quick feet.

But lately there had been higher priorities that Rattrap found himself concerned with.

There was Optimus Prime and his crew, the followers of the Primal religion who flocked to him. The former Lost Light crew trying to integrate to the Cybertron they formerly had rejected, and more.

As a spymaster of sorts, Rattrap was finding his work cut out for him.

And the cult – this Error and his followers – were such a nonentity for the most part that each day passed without so much as a sign breathed about them other than the general fear.

They were getting dangerously close to Starscream's plan of rounding up any and all bots with a red and black paintjob becoming a reality. Whispers of it were to the point that every paint shop and body work house in the city were booked for weeks.

Rattrap needed to find information. Whether he got the credit for it or not, he was one of the pillars keeping their crumbling society from utterly collapsing.

Then, slowly, it came to Rattrap's attention that of all his rounds searching the city, he had yet to check the depths – Metroplex's underground and the very energon rivers that Starscream himself had tapped into before.

"Well, if there's not anything up here, it's gotta be down there, right?" Rattrap asked himself, heading toward the nearest underground entrance.

At first, his hunch yielded little.

The reservoirs of energon, both used and unused, were weak and diluted, which at least made travel somewhat easier. Especially in Rattrap's beastmode.

He was nearly ready to give up on the idea entirely when he began to hear hushed tones from one of the less populated, and thus less energon flowing, districts' pipelines.

Suspicious, he followed the noise along the pipes, the vibrations riding up his limbs as he walked across the pipes and toward the constant rumble. Until those rumbles became words, low and distant. Then louder.

The closer he came, the more Rattrap was put in mind of an old sermon in the days before the War. Words about the Primes and Primus and things that Rattrap had hardly given consideration then and certainly had grown some skepticism toward these days.

And he worked for a genuine Chosen One.

After what felt like hours of travel, Rattrap finally came to where the rumbles became words he could make out, and a soft glow of fire light gave him warning for what was around the corner.

"Bingo," he whispered to himself.

"Primus' Hand has guided us to this point," a deep voice, unmistakably the same a the mech who had multiple times at that point taken over on the airways. "His fire has lit the way, and it has showed us his chosen vessel. Fire cleanses this world and all others which owe Primus its domain. And it shall soon judge those who have come forth as false Primes. As nonbelievers. As unworthy. And it will be with your assistance, with your sacrifices, that Primus' will shall be done."

There were cries and screams of desperate jubilation in response.

"Well, scrap," Rattrap muttered quietly to himself. "Just my luck. I missed the descriptive part of the meeting and made it in time for preaching to the choir."

"And we shall start now," the voice continued – deeper, louder. "By lighting a fire to destroy those who would put our work in danger."

Rattrap tilted his helm at that just before the light grew brighter from around the corner and then, suddenly, he saw the trickles of energon that were in that corridor begin to spark with an unsettling light.

"Oh, damn!" Rattrap cried out, realizing what was happening and turning to race away just as the sounds of roaring flames began coming his way.

"Well isn't this just a rotten way to go!" Rattrap cried out somewhat hysterically as he could feel the flames licking at his tail and back paws. Then there was the tell-tale crackle of the energon reservoirs catching fire.

Despite imminent death, Rattrap leaped uselessly in an attempt to race ahead of the upcoming explosion. His cries echoed nearly as loud as the boom to follow.

But before his body burned and his spark extinguished, he turned off his optics.

It kept him from seeing whoever it was that grabbed him, hard, almost like a collision. It nearly knocked the steam out of him before darting through the air, its coolness rushing over Rattrap's beastform in comparison to the growing heat they were leaving behind.

His spark was still skipping pulses as it all came to a stop and he realized that the explosions were a great distance away from wherever he was currently.

"I'm alive," he said, cycling on his optics as he was gently laid on the ground and allowed to transform back into botmode. "I'm alive! Oh sweet Primus!"

"I told you, this was an interference that was supposed to happen. It was a good thing, calm down, Prime."

Recognizing the voice immediately, Rattrap turned around to face his savior. "Windblade? But you were at the capital and–" he paused, looking over the jet curiously. Her paintjob was different, and there was something different about the decorations of her faceplate. And there was no other color but black and red. "What the…"

"I still think this is a mistake," a second mech said, drawing Rattrap's attention to him. "Even if Rattrap is supposed to be around later… does he have to be? He never made my life any easier after all this. Or yours."

Rattrap looked at the mech in shock. Like Windblade, the paint was different, even the build was different in little details that amounted more and more the longer Rattrap stared.

But beyond the black and red and the increased size, there was no mistaking it.

"Rodimus?" Rattrap asked, optics wide. "But you're in the CR chamber."

A displeased look grew on the mech's face and Windblade gave a little vent.

"And this is where our job is about to get very complicated," she said toward Rodimus.