Chapter Twelve
Plenoptic
COME ON, REVIEW COUNT. I KNOW YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN THAT.
UDPATE: If PiL can hit 250 reviews by chapter 15, Optimus/Elita, Ironhide/Chromia, and Sentinel/Angelbane will get a shared love-making chapter of no less than fifteen pages. FIFTEEN PAGES OF PR0NZ. IF YOU WANT IT, REVIEW.
This chapter gave me FITS.
A million bazillion thanks to riah riddle, EvilBunny91, and optimus prime 007 for beta-ing this chapter! I could NOT have written a plot twist of this enormity without help! Thanks so, so much!
Bonus at the end for anyone interested in reading some of my original material ;)
Ironhide released a low grunt, heaving aside an immense piece of fallen architecture, frowning when his efforts revealed only another layer of rubble. Leaning down, he held his audio close to the debris, straining for a small voice amongst the ruin.
"Nothing over here," he reported, righting himself with a faint hiss of tired hydraulics. Prowl offered only a clipped nod in reply as he walked past, his pace brisk and unyielding to obstacles or passerby.
"Keep looking, Ironhide."
The Prime's weapons specialist grunted his affirmation, readjusting his position before bending down to continue his search.
The base was in ruins, and that was putting it kindly. The left communications hub building had been the target, and it now lay in pieces, its twisted metal skeleton alight with flames in the aftermath of the savage bombs that had wrought its destruction. The bodies of the slain terrorists lay to the side; the search for the wayward Femmaxian princess had obliterated any thought of removing the mechs that had been so courteously brutalized by Ironhide before death.
"Arcee?"
Prowl looked to his right as he continued his inspection of the disaster sight. The green Triple-Changer known as Springer was crouched on the ground, shouting the femme's name desperately into the small hole he'd managed to cleave out of the wreckage. When her voice neglected to float out to him, his frame visibly sagged, a small, keening sound of misery coming up from his vocalizers.
The tactician made a note of Springer's condition before moving on. Arcee had supposedly been trailing behind the Triple-Changer in search of his attentions when the bombs went off; had he responsibly turned her aside and escorted her back to her temporary quarters, she would have been safe and sound with her family in the exact opposite tower at the time of the attack. Instead he had rudely rebuked her, finally fed up with her pestering, and had neglected to make sure that she returned to her creators.
Springer had acted like a mere mech instead of a trained soldier. A foolish error, and one that would surely have consequences, regardless of whether the Femmaxian was found in the end. For now, though, he was the most active member of the search effort, and thus Prowl let him remain where he was. Brig time would follow later, when this whole mess had reached its conclusion.
: Prowl, this is Ratchet. :
Prowl released a soft sigh from his intakes, opening his comm. line. : Finally. What's the situation? :
: Sentinel is fine—stable, but very anxious. Can you give me a report? :
: We're not sure about the level of damage right now. Plenty of casualties and two confirmed deaths thus far, but we've only barely begun to clear out the wreckage. : Prowl hesitated uncharacteristically, frowning as he considered his Prime's condition. : His lordship doesn't need to know this right now, but the Femmaxian princess Arcee is currently missing. :
:… Slag. :
: Quite. Most of the search efforts are for her. Casualties will be coming your way shortly, so please be prepared. And don't mention the princess to Prime until we have more information. :
: Understood. Keep me informed. Ratchet out. :
Prowl disconnected, leaving the line open for incoming calls, and paused to survey the area. Mechs and femmes alike were scattered around the large area, peeling back layers of rubble and calling out for loved ones, friends, and comrades.
"We're lucky it wasn't a residential area. Worse, a tower."
The tactician neglected to acknowledge that Scavenger had spoken save for a short, clipped nod. The older warrior watched Prowl quietly for a moment before speaking again.
"Somehow I get the feeling I'm being blamed for this."
"I have never hidden the fact that I prefer…more dedicated security detail as opposed to the employment of mercenaries," Prowl said shortly. "I have never understood Prime's decision to hire you, who is famous for doing any job for enough pay, to head the security division."
"Ah. This isn't about the bombing at all, then—it's about you being slagged off because some low-class mercenary got the job you were gunning for."
Prowl whipped around, door wings raised in blatant irritation. "That is not—"
"Oh, yes it is. Best work out that kink in your skidplate, Prowl, because this just got real. I may be a mercenary, but I'm every bit as loyal to Prime as you are, and I don't like an upstart like you implying otherwise." Scavenger leveled a glare at the indignant tactician, narrowing his optics. "Don't you try and pin this on me or my boys. 'Scuse me, I'm going to go help look for the little femme."
"I could have you court-martialed for insubordination," Prowl snapped, bristling with indignation. Scavenger paused mid-step, turning and throwing a smirk the tactician's way.
"Good luck. Mercenaries aren't liable for court-martial. Best get back to work, Prowl."
Positively hissing with anger, and more than a little irked that he'd let the mercenary get under his armor, Prowl turned on his heel to resume his inspection. He couldn't help but admire Scavenger's ability to effortlessly escape any blame. Surely some oversight in the security division was responsible for this nightmare.
That sounded like an excuse, especially to his own highly logical processor, and Prowl forced himself to calm down and take a new look at the situation. Magnus had shared his views on the attack with Prowl—albeit reluctantly, and only at the Prime's request, but it had offered the young tactician valuable insight into the enemy they were facing. The Senate could seamlessly plant sleeper agents anywhere they wanted. If they had been betrayed from within—as was likely the case—then there was very little the security division could have done.
Prowl groaned softly, rubbing his helm when his processor flashed him a warning sign. He'd have to wait for confirmation on the identities of the bombers before he knew anything for sure. And no one was going to bother identifying those bodies until the Femmaxian had been found, so for the time being, Prowl focused, as did the rest of the base, on finding little Arcee.
Arcee shifted uncomfortably, inhaling sharply when the weight pressing down upon her back increased. Directly above her lie a fallen support beam, held up on either end by piles of rubble. It had kept most of the debris off of her fragile frame, but she could hear its frame creaking under the pressure. It wouldn't hold for long, and when it finally gave out, she'd be crushed.
Smothering a whimper—her mother had never approved of crying—Arcee nestled her face between her hands, taking some comfort in the dark, where she could pretend she was elsewhere. Faint thoughts of death flitted through her processor, and she shoved them aside with no small amount of difficulty.
I'm scared. A second desperate whimper tore itself free of her shaking frame. The heat under all of the rubble was horrible, smothering; she'd been cycling ultra-hot air for several breems now, and she was beginning to feel too warm under the armor. Her coolant systems, adapted to Femmax's very moderate temperatures, could only handle so much. Once the heat, radiated off the planet and trapped beneath the debris, became too much, her coolant systems would shut down, her frame would overheat, and she'd melt in her own armor.
A bolt of terror clutched her, twisting her spark, and she trembled, whimpering when the weight on her back bore down with new pressure at the faint movement.
"Help…"
She shuddered, her intakes heaving for cool air. She was scared. So, so scared. She didn't remember ever feeling terror like this—the kind that ate at her insides, twisted her up with anxiety, left her feeling like she was drowning. She couldn't focus on anything past the possibility that she would die here, on a strange planet, surrounded by bots she didn't know.
"Spring…Springer…help…"
She cried now. She liked him. Even though he was a mech, she liked him, and she hadn't even gotten the chance to tell her big sister or her father. Even telling Sephirium would be worth living for, though she knew her mother would never take the news well. Losing one daughter to a mech was bad enough, but two? It would shatter her.
But Springer was…Springer was…
She wanted to see him again. Wanted to see the flash of his green armor, wanted to see him sigh and call her a squirt, or a punk, or a brat. Wanted his large hand to enclose hers while he walked her back to her parents, even though he had work to do and it was out of his way. He always went out of his way to make sure she was safe. Why hadn't he done so this time? Had she pushed him too far? She just wanted to be around him.
"Springer, help me…"
Help.
"Where was she?"
"Following Springer around the hub, I think—"
"And where is he? Why didn't he keep an optic on her?"
"Uh, he's helping look—I dunno—"
"Elita, he doesn't know anything," Optimus murmured, placing a complacent hand on the femme's shoulder, tugging her gently away from the recruit she was drilling for information on her baby sister's whereabouts. At Optimus's nod, the scout, looking immensely relieved, scampered back to his assigned position, leaving Optimus to comfort the femme on his own.
"Someone has to know something!" Elita snapped, rounding on the mech, optics over bright with stress and worry. "Someone has to have seen her, or been near her when the bombs went off, or—"
"If they knew anything, they wouldn't have to search this hard," Optimus said quietly, taking her face between his hands and touching his foreplate to hers. "Calm down, okay? I know you're scared, but just calm down. We'll find Arcee. We will. But you need to take a deep breath."
"I can't," she whispered raggedly, hands curling into fists against his chestplates. "I can't, Optimus, I—"
"Shh…" The young mech brought her in close, cradling her against his upper chassis when a shaky sob escaped her. "Shh…" He grimaced when she wailed loudly against his armor, his spark keening to soothe her fears, but no answers were coming to him save to find Arcee. His fingers traced her back, comforting her with soft caresses. His mouthplates touched her helm, and he rocked her gently until she gained some modicum of control.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled at length, lifting her helm from his chest and rubbing her faceplating. "Sorry, Optimus."
"Don't be," he soothed softly, taking both of her hands in his and bringing their faces close, placing a hesitant kiss against her mouthplates. "I'd be just as bad if it were Megatron. Worse, actually. Let's go help look, shall we?"
She nodded gratefully, allowing herself to be pulled along by the hand. Most of the mechs refused to let either of them anywhere near the heavy lifting, and Elita admitted that their family bond wasn't strong enough to allow her to communicate with her little sister, leaving the prince and princess spending a great deal of time standing helplessly on the sidelines.
Three joors went by with no word on Arcee's location. Several bots had been dragged out of the wreckage, all alive and relatively unharmed, save for two, who were immediately rushed to the medical bay. Optimus found himself constantly fighting the urge to run and see his father, who would surely be a bastion of calm amidst the chaos of a terrorist attack, but the young mech forced himself to stay at Elita's side. The poor femme was clearly terrified, no matter how she tried to hide it; she couldn't seem to bring herself to let go of Optimus's hand.
"Nothing yet?" she asked a passing mech fearfully.
"Not so far," the mech—whom Optimus recognized as being called Smokescreen—replied grimly, shaking his helm. "We'll let you know as soon as something turns up."
Elita wilted, resting her chin on her drawn-up knees. Optimus slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. They'd seated themselves just outside the wreckage against the one standing wall; the anxiety of being near the ruin had quickly become too much too bear, especially when there was nothing they could do to help.
"Do you want to go to med bay?" Elita asked quietly, turning her helm to look up at the mech holding her gently.
Optimus blinked down at her for a moment before shaking his head. "No. I want to stay here until we find Arcee."
"But…your father—"
"Is fine. I'll go see him when this whole mess is sorted out." Smiling down at her, Optimus pulled her in close, pressing his mouthplates once more to the crest of her helm. "I'm staying with you, Elita. I won't go anywhere."
She felt her faceplates grow hot, and she pressed them into his shoulder armor, hiding her blush. "…Thanks."
"No thanks needed." Optimus consulted his internal chronometer, frowning and tapping the side of his helm when the display popped up. "Huh…that's odd."
"What's odd?"
"My chronometer's running slow."
"By how much?"
"No, I mean…it's literally slowing down." The longer he watched, the stranger it became; it seemed to take longer and longer for the nanosecond count to reach its next number. His spark tightened when the breem count, too, transitioned with painful lag from one number to the next. "What the…hang on, I'm going to get the time…"
Elita, her chronometer set to Femmaxian time, nodded understandingly and sat patiently while her mech got up to consult Scavenger, who was hovering nearby, overseeing the search. Optimus's frown deepened with each step he took; was it his imagination, or did each footfall seem to take a little longer than the last?
His chronometer continued to slow, nanosecond by nanosecond, until it stopped entirely.
For that matter, everything stopped, frozen in place. Optimus was in mid-step, but his processor was halted, momentarily unable to comprehend the strangeness of the situation. Every hydraulic was still, every ounce of energon in his system standing exactly where it had the moment his chronometer stopped.
He wasn't the only one. Every mech and femme in the area now stood completely still, trapped in that astrosecond of time, frozen in space. The thin air itself settled into stillness, and waited.
The space beside Optimus shifted, warping in on itself, and through the transwarp drive—a technology not yet existent on Cybertron—flew two Cybertronians, skidding across the floor, their molecules re-solidifying just in time for them to crash into the opposing wall. The transwarp drive closed behind them soundlessly. The time-frozen occupants of the demolished hub understandably paid the new visitors no heed.
"Ouch," the femme groaned, pushing herself onto her hands and knees and clutching a hand to her helm. "I told you it was a bad idea to do an orbital bounce on top of a temporal freeze."
"Necessary risk," the mech rumbled, lifting his immense frame with notably more difficulty. "I've lost comm. contact with base."
"Are you surprised?"
"Not particularly." Had he been in his own time period and proper place, the light would have reflected beautifully off of his red and blue armor, but in the wreckage frozen in time, any and all light particles were rendered completely stationary. He still flickered eerily as he rose, clearly a vision not of this place.
Optimus Prime turned to his companion, extending a large hand, which Elita-1 took gratefully, allowing her mate to haul her to her feet with ease. He'd long since learned to control his strength when touching her; in their youth, he'd often helped her to her feet and, underestimating himself, had sent her flying forwards and onto the floor again. A mistake he never made nowadays.
"Cheerful little trip through time, courtesy of Alpha Trion," Elita-1 groused, rubbing her aft where she'd made particularly hard contact with her mate's knee upon their unorthodox landing. "Is this the right place? It had better be, because this is not exactly easy to do, I hope you know."
"How much time do we have?"
Elita considered, checking her energy levels and spark readings. "Five or six breems at the most. Best move fast, Optimus."
"Of course." The Prime turned on his heel, scanning the area into which they'd fallen, his mouth tightening into a thin line behind his trademark battlemask. "I remember this. This is when we thought we'd lost Arcee."
"Ah." Elita-1 lifted her head, taking a look around. Her optics fell upon a young mech standing nearby, his handsome faceplates marred by a frown and his left foot trapped in mid-step. "Optimus. I found you."
Prime allowed his gaze to track over to her—this blast from the past was more than a little unnerving, and he found himself uncharacteristically distracted—and smiled at the sight of his younger self. "By Primus, look at that."
"Almost forgot how cute you were," Elita-1 said cheekily, warm optics flickering at him as she stepped around her mate to plant herself in front of the younger mech. "Finally got a femme and no fragging clue what you were doing."
"Don't tease," Prime rumbled softly, joining his mate and literally craning his helm to look down at the younger Optimus. "You were no better than I."
"I'm always better than you," Elita-1 huffed, but slapped his aft playfully to assure him she was only joking. Grimacing, she rubbed her chestplates. "Ouch. Five breems, Optimus. This is tough."
"Sorry, love," he murmured, trailing his optics up and down the now unfamiliar form of his youth. "Elita. Have you considered that…if this goes better than it did with me…and he—we—I do what has to be done in this time…that you and I…"
He trailed off, and Elita-1 paused in her observation of her own younger self, glancing over her shoulder at her tall mate. His posture was proud and strong as always, his expression masked, but she read his optics in an instant.
"If you do what has to be done, you're institutionalized, your family falls apart at the seams, and I return to Femmax with a broken spark and very bleak outlook on the future, having lost the only mech I ever loved," she said quietly. At her words, Optimus Prime visibly sagged, and she continued. "And you and I both know that won't stop you."
Prime glanced sideways at her, his optics dimmed with sadness. Smiling tenderly, Elita-1 rejoined him and lifted a hand to gently caress his audio. "You would sacrifice our happiness for the sake of Cybertron, because that is integrally the type of mech you are."
"I'm sorry," he said brokenly, but she shook her head.
"No apologies are needed, Optimus. I wouldn't want you any other way. But, Optimus, this is a different timeline, understand? You have to stop thinking of time as being linear. When you alter the course of the past, it doesn't change the future—it creates a completely new timeline. Time and space are not separate entities; space-time is endless worlds upon dimensions upon timelines."
Prime looked down when she stepped closer, taking his large hand in both of hers and holding it to her chestplates, directly over her spark.
"No matter what we change here, our world remains intact," Elita-1 assured him gently, keeping one hand clasped over his while her other lifted to gently cup his faceplates, even while barred by his mask. "All those notions about altering the course of the future are theories…"
"Deduced by silly, ignorant bots who don't have access to a program capable of transporting its carrier through the very fabric of time?" Optimus Prime finished wryly. Elita-1 grinned.
"Precisely. Unfortunately, that same program does sort of take a toll on my poor spark, so if you could get this done in three breems or less—"
"Of course." Reassured, Prime straightened, looking down at his younger counterpart. "Start me up?"
"With pleasure," she purred, stepping forward. Reaching out to the young Optimus, she placed both hands on his faceplates, venting softly through her intakes and accessing the deep levels of the time-stop program. "Alright…"
"…Time to wake up, sweetspark."
The world jumped back into action, and Optimus drew a deep, shuddering gasp, jerking backwards and out of the gentle hold of the beautiful femme who had abruptly materialized in front of him. His processor felt fogged; clutching his helm, he shuttered and unshuttered his optics several times, but he still felt weirdly disoriented. What had happened? A mere astrosecond ago, he'd been fine…
"Easy there, darling," the femme murmured, gently taking hold of his wrists to steady him. "You won't understand what's going on, but it's very important that you listen to use very carefully, alright?"
"Who are you?" Optimus asked dizzily, swaying unsteadily on his feet. From behind the beautiful femme stepped a mech larger than any Optimus had ever seen. They shared the same color scheme, dark blue splashes amongst a deep red, and blue optics identical to his own blazed over the rim of a silver battlemask that obscured the lower half of his face. "And who…who are you?"
"My name is Optimus Prime," the mech rumbled, reaching out to clasp a hand to younger Optimus's shoulder. "Listen to me. This femme is Elita-1, my bonded sparkmate. She possesses a unique ability that allows her to travel through space-time. She can only use this ability every so often, as it takes a great toll on her spark, so this is our one and only chance to set things right."
"I'm dreaming," Optimus mumbled.
"No," the Prime said sharply, gripping his younger self tightly. He had to bend his lower body to do so, but he managed to get their optics level. "We come from another time very much like yours. We are ahead of you in the timestream, and we know what events will unfold if we do not take action to stop them here."
"What are you talking about?" Optimus asked uncertainly.
Prime hesitated, glancing down at the rose femme. Her expression betraying nothing of her rampaging spark—which she knew he could feel anyway—she nodded tightly.
"Optimus," Prime murmured, his hands tightening on his younger self's shoulders, "you need to kill Megatron."
For a moment, Optimus only stared, but hardly an astrosecond passed before he realized he couldn't possibly be dreaming. Under no circumstances would he ever dream of a scenario in which he was required to kill his own baby brother. "You're not me," he said flatly, glaring with nothing short of poison at the older mech. "And that's certainly not Elita, if she's helping you with this." But he hesitated as he said this—she certainly looked like Elita, albeit an older, taller, more incredibly stunning version of Elita…
"You don't understand," Prime said urgently. "I am you, several thousands of vorns from now. I have witnessed terrible things, tragedies I couldn't even imagine—you couldn't even imagine. And all of it at Megatron's hands."
"Who the frag are you?"
"Optimus PRIME!" the older mech roared. "Leader of the Autobots! Son to Sentinel Prime and Empress Angelbane, elder brother to Megatron and Bu—and, charge of Ironhide—" He paused, throwing a pointed look at the femme standing just behind him. "And proud, joyful bondmate to Empress Elita-1."
"…Proud…bondmate?" Optimus felt his mouthplates threaten to fall open. "You? Me? Me and Elita? We—?" He leaned around the immense form of the Prime to stare at the illustrious femme behind him. "No slagging way…"
Prime bristled, obviously irritated at his younger self's distraction, and Elita-1 stepped in quickly to belay his anger.
"I'll handle this, sweetspark," she soothed, patting his hip plating before looking at the younger mech before her. They stood almost optic-to-optic, with the crest of her helm just a touch above his. "Optimus, I can't say for sure that your future will work out the same way ours did. That's dependent on you."
"But I bond with you," Optimus said eagerly, unable to tear his optics away from her. He hadn't thought it possible for Elita to be more beautiful, more enchanting, yet here she stood, made stunning by the tenure of time and wisdom. "In your world, at least, wherever—or whenever—that is."
Elita-1 smiled faintly, and nodded; encouraged, Optimus plowed on, casting a hesitant glance up to his older self.
"And we're—happy? We…are we…?"
Elita-1 giggled and leaned in, brushing her lips over Optimus's cheekplating, and for a brief moment he thought he might have died and joined the Matrix. "Yes, we're happy. Deliriously so. And very, very much in love."
"And that's part of the reason we're here—to preserve that bond," Prime said grimly, stepping forward and clasping a hand to Optimus's shoulder once more. Elita-1 respectfully stepped back; enthralling as it was to see her beloved as the energetic youth he'd once been, the circumstances that called them to the past were serious.
"Listen to me," Prime said lowly, urgently. "Listen. When I came to myself when I was your age, I didn't believe it either. I didn't believe that my own little brother was capable of it, but I have seen what he has done. I know this is going to fast, but I don't have any time. You have to kill him now, before it's too late. This is where it starts, with Femmax, with Elita—when he loses you."
"I'll never leave him," Optimus said stubbornly.
"You won't mean to," Prime said mournfully, shaking his head. "But Megatron will see you falling in love, and with the sparkling—he'll feel abandoned, and it will twist him in the worst of ways. I tried, I'm sorry, I tried—I gave him all the love and attention I could, but it wasn't enough. This is fate, this is destiny—you and I can't stop what he's going to become."
"I'm not you," Optimus snapped brazenly. "Not yet. Maybe you failed, but I'm not going to hurt Megatron. Whatever it is that you're so sure he's going to do, I'll prevent it altogether."
"I said the same thing," Prime said weakly, optics dimming with barely restrained grief. "Please. Please. I'm sorry, asking you to sacrifice yourself like this. I'm sorry I'm asking you to sacrifice your family. I'm sorry about…" He cast a glance over Optimus's shoulder, optics falling on Elita's still form. "I'm sorry about her. Primus knows…" Prime shuttered his optics. "Primus knows you'll never be as happy without her as with her. And Primus, when you lose her, the universe is going to seem so, so dark."
"I'm not going to lose her," Optimus growled, throwing his counterpart's hands from his shoulders.
"Not if you kill Megatron now, before it's too late," Prime retorted. "He'll drive you apart. Mark my words. He'll drive it all into the ground, everything you once held dear."
"I hold him dear," the younger mech cried, shaking his head. "No! I won't hurt him! Never! Just as he'd never hurt me!"
Prime stepped back, fuming, and this time it was Elita-1 who moved forward. Without a word, she gently clasped her mate's chin in her hand, coaxing him to lean forward, and with one deft movement of her wrist, she detached his battlemask from his faceplates.
Optimus froze, stunned by what he saw. The Prime was handsome, his features proud and regal, but crossing his mouth and jaw was an ugly, jagged scar. Prime cast his optics aside, clearly ashamed of the brutal mark. Elita-1 turned her gaze to Optimus, her optics burning.
"He does this to you," she said quietly. "Right before he leaves. Right before he commits the unforgivable. And I'm the one who finds you, who sees first what Megatron has become." She pointed over Optimus's shoulder, her finger trained directly on her younger self, still frozen against the wall. "Don't put me through it again, Optimus. I can't. I can't watch you suffer like that. You don't realize what it's done to me."
"Lita," Prime protested weakly, only to be silenced when her mouthplates traced his scar.
"Do what has to be done," she said pointedly, glaring at Optimus before running a tender caress over Prime's face and stepping away. "One breem left, or I'm going offline."
"I can't do it," Optimus said weakly, shaking his head when Prime lifted his gaze, replacing his mask slowly. That scar was going to haunt Optimus forever—or perhaps until he received it himself. "I can't. No matter what he does to me, even what he does to Elita—I can't hurt my baby brother. I'll help him. I won't let him…become twisted."
The Prime watched the young mech silently, dark optics surveying every inch of his form. "Do what you will, young one," he said at length, his expression visibly sad, even with the mask. "But what happens next is on your—is on my shoulders. What Megatron does…can't be undone. Ever." He shuttered his optics for a moment. "You have until the sparkling is born to change your mind. Please, believe me when I tell you it's for the best."
"I won't do it," Optimus said quietly. And I won't apologize, either. "He's my brother."
"If only he shared the same sentiments," Elita-1 remarked dryly, then released a keening sound of pain, hunching forward and clutching her hands to her chestplates. "Optimus—"
"End this before it begins," Prime said sharply, giving Optimus one last nod before hurrying to his sparkmate's side. For one moment, his optics lifted, finding the young Elita by the wall, and a look of such pain crossed his face that Optimus's spark twisted. "Arcee is in the pile of rubble nearest Scavenger. Get to her quickly. And make sure it's Ironhide who finds her."
He paused, and his expression darkened. "And, Optimus—it's not what he does to you that you need to worry about."
Shuttering his optics, Prime pulled Elita-1 close.
Then Optimus stumbled, falling flat on his face, having missed his step completely.
"Good one," Scavenger chuckled, bending down and hauling his young student to his feet. "You'll want to watch out for small, invisible debris, it's easy to trip over."
"Shut up," Optimus groused, then blinked, utterly bewildered. "Wait. Where's Elita-1? And where am I?"
"Uh…Elita is right over there, and you're here," Scavenger said flatly, arching an optic ridge. "Maybe all the stress is going to your head a little bit. Need an escort to med bay?"
"No, I—Arcee!"
"What about her?" Scavenger demanded, but was bypassed completely as Optimus pushed past him, kneeling down by the immense pile of rubble nearest them. "We already ran scans through that, no life signs—"
"She's here," Optimus interrupted, turning to his mentor. "Scavenger, she's here! Trust me!"
"How do you—"
"Ironhide—someone get Ironhide, he's got to dig her out—"
Bewildered, Scavenger left, returning a breem later with Ironhide in tow. Optimus had already set to work digging away the top layer of debris; Elita had joined him, but he refused to let her too close to the wreckage, much to her chagrin.
"Arcee's under here," Optimus said urgently, allowing himself to be pulled away from the ruin by scruffbar. "Ironhide, you've got to be the one to pull her out."
"Care to tell me why?" the weapons specialist asked gruffly, crouching down and peering closely at a nearby hole in the debris.
"I haven't got the slightest clue."
"Good enough," Ironhide chuckled, before reaching into the hole with both hands and heaving backwards.
"Ironhide! Easy! You'll cause it to collapse!" Scavenger snapped, seizing Optimus and Elita and wrenching them backwards at the cascade of debris from the top of the pile. "Primus, what were you thinking, you punk? Asking Ironhide of all bots to handle an operation like this?"
"Stand down, Scav," Ironhide growled. "He's Prime's kid—trust his judgment, okay?"
"He may be Sentinel's son, but he's not Prime yet," Scavenger harrumphed. "Oh, Primus, what now?"
Both Optimus and Elita turned when Scavenger groaned, and Elita's faceplates lit up. "Chromia!"
"Hey, femme," Chromia said gently, accepting the hug into which she was pulled. "Are you doing okay? Lugnuts over there keeping you safe?"
"Of course," Optimus huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Where have you been?"
"Seeing to her Highness and his Lordship, of course—they're both distressed. Elita, they know you're safe, at least, but…any word on Arcee?"
"We found her. Well, not yet, technically, but Ironhide's going to get her," Optimus said informatively, pointing at the pile of debris and the industrious Ironhide when the femme arched an optic ridge. "I'm getting tired of saying this, but trust me."
"Hey," Ironhide said suddenly, interrupting them. "I think I just—hello?"
The others stayed silent, Chromia moving closer to the hole and cocking her helm to the side, straining for whatever it was that Ironhide had detected. "I don't…"
"Listen," Ironhide murmured, optics narrowing. "Arcee? You in there, kid?"
A few tense nanoseconds passed, and all sparks lifted when a tiny voice could be heard from beneath the rubble, the faintest of calls for help.
"Primus! Arcee!" Chromia landed a punch to Ironhide's shoulder, frantic. "Dig, you moron!"
Ironhide rested his fists on his hips, releasing a long sigh of relief. The small pink Femmaxian was currently buried beneath her family, completely smothered by the arms of her sobbing mother and weary father. Wrestling away from her hysteric creators, she found herself immediately swallowed behind the combined grip of Elita and Optimus.
"So, I suppose thanks are in order."
The weapons specialist turned, a faint smile tugging at his mouthplates. "Nah. Just doing my job, miss."
Chromia shrugged, tucking her arms behind her back. "Job or not, we have you to thank for rescuing Arcee." Her gaze drifted back up to him, and for just a moment, she felt her spark lurch. If only he'd look at her with contempt for the way she'd treated him, and not with that look of blatant hunger, of desire, of—of something so much larger, something she couldn't quite place a name to.
"Optimus was the one who figured out where she was. Don't ask me how, though. Premonitions are par for the course when it comes to Primes. Quite the hero, that kid." He cocked his helm to the side, optics watching her avidly. His spark didn't seem to realize that she'd broken it to pieces recently. It still churned in its casing and cried out for her with the same intensity it had on the day of their meeting.
"It could have fallen on you," Chromia said awkwardly, gesturing to the pile of rubble behind him. Primus forbid anything like that ever happen to Ironhide… "You risked your life for her."
"Ah, well, yeah, but any mech woulda done it," he said quickly, embarrassed, rubbing the back of his helm. He wasn't used to such high praise for femmes while his crotchplating was still on. "I mean, I'm pretty sturdy, and she's just such a little thing, and Optimus would be crushed if anything happened to her, mostly because Elita would be devastated, and—"
His rambling was cut off abruptly when Chromia stepped forward, her mouthplates covering his in a light kiss; she had to lift herself onto her toes to make the reach, but she did it nonetheless. His optics blinked in surprise as she lowered herself, casting her glance aside, embarrassed.
"Don't you dare tell anyone I said this, but…" She looked back up at him, a shy smile touching her mouthplates. "I always did like a hero."
"…Huh," Ironhide replied stupidly, lost for words.
Giggling, she turned on her heel, trotting away a few steps before glancing over her shoulder at him. One optic ridge quirked upwards, and her pretty lips—so recently pressed to his own, he realized with a jolt—lifted in a grin much befitting a femme of her sly ways.
"So I've been thinking about that whole… 'getting to know each other' thing," she said briskly, turning to face him once more and tucking her hands behind her back. "And about…maybe hanging around on Cybertron. She may be an adult now, but Elita still needs looking after, and it's not like I could leave her here with some mech she barely knows, even if she is infatuated…"
A slow smile was touching Ironhide's worn, rugged faceplates, gracing them with a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time. He stepped towards her with thudding steps, spark soaring at the way her optics tracked every movement of his body, and for once he didn't wish he were just a little younger and nimbler like all the other femmes liked. He didn't need all the other femmes. Not now. Not anymore.
"Do all of you Femmaxians talk this much when you get swept off your feet? Ironhide rumbled, finally coming flush with her frame. He reached behind herr back, taking both of her hands in his and pulling them forward, pressing her palms to his chestplates. Trying desperately to ignore the heat of his spark, Chromia scowled.
"Don't get ahead of yourself—"
"Too late."
"…Aft."
"You love it," he purred, lowering his mouthplates to hers.
Chromia smirked, wrapping her hands around his helm and deepening their kiss. Thrilled at their reconciliation, Ironhide trapped her waist between his arms, dragging her tiny frame into his and lifting her feet off the ground.
"Whoa—hey—'Hide! Put me down, you slagger!"
"Aw, I get a nickname now?"
"Yeah—chauvinistic fraghead! I'm not a trophy you can carry around, you lug!"
"That's up for debate, I think," he snickered, and bodily swung her over his shoulder. She blinked, suspended atop his body, her arms dangling just enough that she could almost brush his fine aft with her fingertips. She paused to admire the view, drinking in the sight of that midnight armor, before she remembered she ought to be furious.
"I'm going to kill you!"
"Ain't she a cutie?" Ironhide grinned, winking at an astounded Scavenger as he made his way off the wreckage sight.
"I'll rip your stupid interface off!"
"I'm going to be detained in my quarters for a while."
"Frag you!"
"Oh, there'll be plenty of that tonight, my dear," Ironhide chuckled, appreciatively patting her aft and snickering at her screech of protest. She could deny him all she wanted, but she couldn't hide the pulse of her spark and the way it called so eagerly to his. "Plenty of that tonight…"
"…Optimus. As Prime I've been privy to plenty of strange and altogether abnormal events, but…"
"I know it sounds crazy," Optimus said quickly, holding up his hands. The medical bay was full almost to capacity with the ill and injured, but it was relatively quiet in Sentinel's ward, where Ratchet—in a fit of paranoia following the attack—insist he stay until the terrorism issue had been sorted out. "But Arcee was exactly where he…I…said she'd be."
"It's an impressive coincidence," Sentinel admitted. "But I've never heard of the Matrix projecting visions like that, even to Primes, much less to their offspring."
"Then it must not have been a vision, right? Father, the voice he spoke with—the voice I spoke with, or, whatever—it was how I sounded in my Matrix tier. I even had the same color scheme. I looked like a Prime. And Elita...she looked like herself, just…older. Stronger."
"Elita's no soldier, Optimus," Sentinel reminded him gently. "I can't imagine why she'd appear as one."
"I don't know why, either." Optimus fell silent, brow furrowing as he contemplated the most disturbing aspect of his visit with his older self—the message he'd delivered. "Father, he…I…he told me something."
"Besides Arcee's location, you mean?"
"…Yes. He said…something terrible is going to happen. That…someone I love very much is going to cause it, that he'll make me lose Elita, and that…in order to stop it, I have to…to kill him."
Sentinel stared for a moment, his expression dark. "Who?"
"I can't—he didn't say specifically—"
"Don't lie to me, Optimus."
The younger mech hesitated before lowering his head, focusing intently on his own feet. "…Megatron. He told me I have to kill Megatron before Mother gives birth, or I won't be able to stop whatever it is that's coming."
For what seemed like an impossibly long time, the Prime just stared. Cybertron's twin moons had finally peaked over the horizon, signaling the end to an exhausting orn. In their eerie light, Sentinel Prime looked strangely ethereal, his faceplates cast into shadow, and for one spark-wrenching moment, Optimus was powerfully reminded of the battlemask that hid that horrific scar…
"I think you ought to go check on your mother, Optimus," Sentinel said at last. His voice sounded strangely distant, almost broken. "I likely won't be getting home tonight."
"Father…"
"I don't want you to think anymore about what happened today. Put it out of your processor."
"What? I can't just—"
"You can and will," Sentinel interrupted sharply. There was a deadly calm in his voice that was unnerving; Optimus wished his father would laugh, or look amused, or something—anything to take the fear and tragedy from Optimus Prime's dark warning. "Pretend it never happened. Now, go home, please. I'll make arrangements to be back early tomorrow morning. Look after your mother and brother until then."
"…Yes, sir," Optimus acquiesced at length, getting slowly to his feet. His father lay back against his many cushions, turning his solemn face out to gaze at the twin moons.
Optimus paused at the door, struck suddenly by another vivid memory. "Father…there isn't…do you believe in prophecies?"
Sentinel twitched, both hands curling into fists upon the bed. "Optimus. Leave."
Startled and alarmed by the rage barely cloaked in his father's voice, Optimus obeyed.
"I want to thank you for coming. I'm afraid I called you in a bit of a panic—Arcee's been found already. And you came all this way…"
"Ah, it's no problem, m'lady. Th' spacebridge makes it all real easy. Ah don't mind hangin' aroun' for a bit an' makin' sure the girls stay outta trouble."
Sephirium sighed heavily, leaning back against the wide couch in her family's spacious temporary quarters. Baron had already gone into recharge curled up with Arcee in her room; after the trauma of the orn's events, he couldn't bring himself to leave her. Elita, too, had dragged a small berth into the room to be closer to her little sister. "I can't believe we nearly lost her today…"
The mech standing by the large window turned to the empress, his expression softening. "She's okay now. Tha's all tha' mattahs."
"You're right." Sipping from her energon cube, the empress heaved another sigh. "You're more than welcome to stay, if you'd like. Primus knows we could use the extra help. Apparently there's a real terrorist threat now—the High Protectorate discussed it with me. Elita may be in danger because of her…relationship…to the young lord. Can you imagine?"
"Mo' o' less. Sounds bad ta me. O' course Ah'll stick aroun' an' keep an optic on her."
"That would be most appreciated." The empress smirked up at the black and white mech, optics twinkling. "Honestly, I wish she'd chosen you, if she was so determined to have a mech—you're the only male I'd trust her with."
"Ah appreciate tha' very much, ma'am." He grinned, accepting the energon cube she offered to him and raising it to hers in a toast. "To Elita. May her little spark find happiness."
Backlit by the ever-present glow of the twin moons, the night light caught the many angles and edges of Jazz's armor, casting shadows even in the dark. In the rooms above, Optimus twisted in his sleep, plagued by dreams of the scarred face that Elita-1 had so tenderly kissed, and haunted by nightmares of a future that suddenly seemed very much out of his hands.
"…And even the author didn't know what would happen next!"
I would almost call this an end to a story arc. Yay, Jazz! It occurred to me that he hadn't made an appearance yet, which I found blatantly preposterous. Jazz deserves a place in every Transformers fanfiction.
I hope the whole Optimus/Elita-1/Prime interaction wasn't TOO terribly confusing. Then again, maybe it was meant to be. XD If you find yourself lost, young!Optimus is referred to as "Optimus," while future!Optimus is referred to as either "Optimus Prime" or just "Prime," though Elita-1 does call him Optimus while talking to him. I tried to make it as clear as I could…
Review, review, review! School is starting up for me soon, so I'll need as much encouragement as possible to keep pumping out these chapters!
Hope everyone enjoyed!
BONUS:
PlenOriginals presents
An excerpt from
Genesis
Episode 00: Message
"….Alright. I think it's recording. Sorry, I've never been all that great with this technical stuff. I guess General Vulcan was right. I really am just a mindless weapon. But, anyway, I'm short for time here, so please, whoever receives this, listen carefully.
"My name is Sol Quicksilver. Agent Oh-Oh-One for Trinity, codename Commander. I was twenty-seven years old when my genes mutated. I was gifted—or cursed—with the power of Alchemy. To date, it has been…three-hundred and twenty-nine years since Armageddon came to pass. I suppose I should explain just how dire the situation is right now. The New World has been literally overrun by Daemons. Istanbul, Tokyo, New York, Seoul…they have all fallen. The Vatican may soon fall as well. As for the members of Trinity…Esther, Thor, and Nyke are at the Vatican now, trying to secure it. Quatro and Parice are back at HQ, attempting to reinforce our walls. Lynx is providing distractions at one of the two fronts…she was at HQ when I left, but who knows where she is now. Jet, Gallow, Haloe, Isfet…no one seems to know where they are, either. Soryuu and Koumori may already be dead. Will and Father Cadfael are. Their heads were sent to us three weeks ago. The sight of it, their severed necks, the blood…the memory alone makes my mind reel and my heart ache.
"And as for Mech…it seems that the Daemons have rewired our own comrade, tapping into his central processing unit and turning him against us. He is a cyborg, you see, half of his body was replaced with mechanical components when he was so viciously attacked by that werewholf. I suspect he is on his way here now, ready to kill me. It's a bittersweet irony, as it was I who suggested we fix his body, and therefore gave him this accursed life.
"Gods, I have so little time. I was going to find the generals, and bring them back to HQ…we were so foolishly dependent on them. I know, now, who the mastermind is behind this invasion…it makes me sick to think about it. My primary mission was to find and eliminate him, as the generals have been missing for several months now. Disappearing, one after the other.
"This is my last will and testament. It's a shame that I'm recording it here, in this abandoned building, surrounded by Daemons and not a friend or ally in sight…but I'm not the 'Commander' for no reason. I'll fight to the last, and die honorably. If you be human, my death is probably of little consequence to you. You are probably listening to this recording out of curiosity, having found it among the ruins, or are documenting it for historical purposes….assuming there's anything left of the humans after this day, that is. If you are a member of Trinity, who somehow miraculously survived this slaughter, then do not let my death grieve you. I have been wishing for death to take me for three hundred years now. I go happily to the afterlife.
"I can hear them now. Those giant, leathery, hellish wings, bearing down upon me, bringing death to my doorstep. So I must make this brief. To Esther, my Esther…I know how opposed to you are to open affection, so I have left the letters containing my last words to you in my mother's music box. The key, as you well know, is around my neck. Unfortunately, this means that it will likely be devoured when my body is given to the wholves. But feel no guilt in breaking the box open. It is essentially worthless…it's only value is of the sentimental nature, and with me gone, there's no one left to feel emotionally attached to it.
"To my brother…my truest friend, my last family member…you, too, know where my heart lies. For the longest time you were my only ally, my most trustworthy and steadfast companion. I'll leave Esther's care to you, if you both manage to survive. Please, take care of her, see to it that she wants for nothing. Do not be aggrieved my death either, brother….you know how long I've wanted this. This is a release.
"And, to whatever remains of humanity…I know you did not consider me one of you, but, all things considered, I feel content in saying that I am…proud…to have lived as a man. I was human too, you see, once. It seems so long ago. To all of humanity, please, do not give up. Survive. Persevere. Do not allow your will to bend. If you can just weather this storm, there will surely be something greater awaiting you.
"I can hear Mech's footsteps. Our little cyborg. He's so young, so full of vitality. I wouldn't have wished this life for him. Gods, I'm out of strength…I'm out of ideas…
"He's burning through the lock. I can hear the safety coming off on his favorite gun. It was a gift from Gallow, and old-style Uzi…double barrel, incidentally, very powerful.
"I'm out of options…Gods, dammit, help me…I'm out of time…"
