Megatron had just hung up his arm cannon and turned toward the berth to retire for the night when he caught movement out of the corner of his optic. Instinct kicked in, and he snatched the cannon back off its wall hooks and turned, ready to bring the weapon to bear… but he relaxed the moment he identified the intruder.
"Orion," he murmured. "You really are old enough to be recharging in your own berth."
Orion just gazed back with a pleading expression, clutching his turbofox plush to his chest. The dim light in Megatron's bedchamber gleamed off his violet and black armor, and his bright blue optics shimmered with the unspoken entreaty. He looked down at his feet, took a hesitant step into the chamber, and looked back up at his father.
Megatron sighed. If there was one force on the universe that could stir his iron spark, it was this newspark. "Just for tonight, then."
The child's entire face lit up with delight, and he darted into the room and scrambled up into the berth before Megatron could change his mind. He burrowed into the freshly-arranged thermal blankets, settling in, then peered up at his father. His wide, round optics bore another silent question - a request to be tucked in.
Megatron let a smile creep over his faceplate. Those optics had caused quite a stir among his Decepticons - not a proper red, not even yellow or violet, but a color Starscream disparagingly termed "Autobot-blue." Rumors had flown for a short time that Megatron had simply stolen an Autobot child to raise as his own, or that Orion was the product of a clandestine union or fling with an Autobot soldier. Few were bold enough to speak those rumors to the Great Slagmaker's face, of course, and he was quick to quash them whenever they were spoken within his audial range.
Shockwave, upon inspecting the child, had explained that while certain optic colors were prevalent among Autobots and Decepticons, they weren't entirely unique to either faction. And it wasn't uncommon for a newspark to start off with optics of one color, only for them to shift to another hue over time. Given time, Orion's optics might change… and if they didn't, Megatron could always have him wear a red visor to avoid drawing attention.
Megatron, for his part, didn't care. Orion's optics could be blue or red or even bright green - it didn't change his feelings for him in the least. And he refused to force his child to wear any kind of visor or mask. He would NOT let him think of himself as flawed or imperfect for something as silly as his optic color.
"Father?" Orion chirped, headfins flicking.
Megatron shook his head and climbed into the berth beside him, pulling the thermal blanket over both of them. "Don't mind me, little one. Your father simply has a lot on his processor."
Orion wriggled against him to get comfortable, his fox plush tucked under his chin. "I can help?"
Megatron chuckled and patted his back. "There'll be time for you to help me when you're older, little one. For now, your duty is to learn and grow. To be a child."
Orion opened his mouth to respond to that, only for a yawn to drown out whatever he had to say.
"Rest, little one," Megatron urged. "Tomorrow's another day."
Orion nodded, and his optic shutters slid shut as he drifted into recharge. Megatron, for his part, lay awake a long time, gazing at the protoform in his arms, committing every detail to memory. As much as he insisted it was high time Orion slept in his own berth, he knew he would miss moments like this when the child finally decided he didn't need to seek his creator out every night. And Orion might occasionally ruin his recharge cycle by kicking and squirming in his own sleep, but Megatron found it worth the price…
The slam of a cell door being shut snapped Megatron out of his funk, and he shook away the lingering vestiges of memory and raised his head. The guards were across the corridor from him, locking Optimus back in his cell. They laughed and slapped one another's backs and shoulders as if they'd just come back from a sports match, but the scuffs on their knuckles and the fluids smearing their armor gave away the true, brutal nature of their activities.
Megatron's spark curdled with rage as the guards strutted off, giving him an unobstructed view of the red mech. Optimus slumped against the back wall of his cell, head lolling to one side, optics dark. Deep dents and rents marred his plating, a spiderweb of cracks crazed across the windshields on his chest, and energon dripped from beneath his vocalizer restraint. His status as an Autobot, the Hero of Cybertron, hadn't been enough to save him from the guards' abuse.
Orion… my son… Some part of him still found this entire situation unthinkable. His son, the little mech he had long given up as dead, had survived. Survived and been raised as one of the enemy, taught to hate and fear his own father, to see him as a monster.
I nearly killed him… I nearly slew my own son. Horror warred with the anger in his spark, both emotions making his entire frame shake. To learn that his son was not only alive after all this time, but a soldier for the Autobot cause whom he had tried to kill multiple times, was almost more than his exhausted spark could bear. And to see him suffer like this for the sins of his father - a father he had never known except as a monster - only angered him further.
Optimus stirred, then online his optics. He raised his head and gazed blearily at Megatron, as if trying to comprehend where he'd seen the mech before. Then he seemed to recall just where he was, and his optics dimmed with mingled anger and despair. Understandable, Megatron knew, but all the same it was sparkrending to see such emotions in those optics.
Megatron focused all his strength on tapping out a message - okay?
Optimus gave him a look that plainly said what do you think? His return message was much shorter and a blatant lie - yes.
Megatron dimmed his own optics as he tapped a response. Failed. Failed… you. For it had been his duty to protect his son, and he had utterly failed. Not just in saving him from the slave-trading pirates who had snatched him from his grasp in the first place, but in protecting him from the wrath of the Autobots. Never mind that he was bound and exhausted, physically incapable of anything more than twitching his fingertips - he still held himself responsible for the harm that had come to his son.
Optimus gazed at him for a long moment, the steady tick of energon dripping onto his chestplate the only sound coming from his cell. Then, hesitantly, he tapped out a message of his own.
You… zero… action. He scowled, obviously frustrated with the limitations of the tapping code, but repeated it anyhow. You. Zero. Action.
Megatron puzzled over those words, until their meaning finally came clear - there was nothing you could do. Perhaps he was being too optimistic and misinterpreting… but somehow, he was certain that was the correct answer.
Failed, he insisted. For none of this would have happened to Optimus - to Orion - had he just kept him safe. If he had been just a little more vigilant in keeping their sector of space clear of the slavers, if he had just kept a heavier guard on his ship…
Optimus tapped again, pausing now and then as he struggled to put his reply together. Mission over… outcome final. Onward.
Megatron shuttered his optics. It's the past… there is no changing it. We can only move forward. Noble words, perhaps, but "moving forward" was going to be difficult at the moment. Neither of them had the strength or ability to break free, no rescue was forthcoming, and unlike his previous captivity he wasn't even connected to Dr. Sumdac's computer system to manipulate matters to his advantage. Perhaps, for once, escape was impossible…
Blitzwing hacked like an electrocat coughing up something nasty, and a loud clang echoed from his cell as, once again, he slipped his vocalizer gag. He smacked noisily a few times before his lunatic personality spoke up.
"Ohohoho, zis gets trickier ever time I do it," he noted, and it was a testament to just how brutal their captivity had been that the "random" personality actually sounded downbeat and tired for once. "My glossa's in knots! Zink zey'll finally catch on that it's useless and stop putting it back on?"
Megatron fought the urge to roll his optics. Could the triple-changer NOT be obnoxious for once in his functioning time? At least he didn't have to see it in action - few Decepticons could look at Blitzwing's freakishly-long striped glossa without recoiling in disgust.
Optimus' optics lit up, and he quickly tapped something out. Repeat maneuver.
"Ohohoho, I can do zis lockpicking all day," Blitzwing replied. "Vant me to lock it and unlock it again, schatzi?"
Optimus tapped out a no, then let his gaze rest pointedly on Blitzwing's wrist cuffs.
"Ah." Blitzwing's voice was far more level now, his cold personality coming to the fore. "Zat vill be trickier. We're not sure our glossa can reach zat far. But it is a clever idea."
The young Autobot's headfins drooped, but at least Blitzwing's actions seemed to have snapped him out of his funk. He tilted his head to one side, some of the angry fire fading from his optics as he contemplated. Evidently the triple-changer's antics had sparked the beginnings of an idea, and he'd decided to push his emotions to the side for the moment to plot further.
Megatron, for his part, shuttered his optics and pondered a plan of his own. Blitzwing had just proven that they weren't entirely helpless in their cells… and if he could figure out a way to throw off at least one of his restraints, perhaps they could manage the same.
If nothing else… I will ensure you escape, Orion. I've failed you twice now… I won't fail you again. Even if it costs me my life.
This was the eighth door Sentinel Prime had knocked on today, and if he had hoped it would get any easier he was terribly wrong. Each time he desperately hoped that no one was home, that the inevitable confrontation could be delayed for a time. And each time he found himself facing another mech, forced to deliver news that would, one way or another, change their lives forever.
He wasn't going to get any luckier with this apartment, it seemed. The mech who opened the door was a sleek blue mechanism with a crimson faceplate and a white chevron over his brow, a short set of wings jutting from his shoulders despite his obvious ground-vehicle mode. He'd just opened his mouth to tell off whoever had knocked at such a late hour, only to freeze at the sight of Sentinel, mouth hanging open and his tirade forgotten.
"Are you Autobot Tracks?" Sentinel demanded, forcing as much sternness into his voice as he could.
The blue mech stammered a bit before collecting himself. "I-I-I am. To whom do we owe the pleasure of an Elite Guard visit?" He reached up to fiddle with his spectacles - a useless accessory in Sentinel's opinion, as most mechs with optic damage just got them repaired rather than relying on external aids. "Mirage! Mirage, we have an important guest!"
"At this hour?" a second mech - blue and white, with blue markings resembling a half-mask framing his golden optics and with the sleekly elegant build of a Towers-district noble - demanded with a frown, joining Tracks in the doorway. "I just got the little ones in bed… oh my."
At the mention of "little ones" Sentinel barely suppressed a wince. Bad enough that he was ordered to detain one of these mechs for his Decepticon heritage - according to Ultra Magnus' orders he was required to arrest any sparklings he found as well. The Council was apparently taking no chances on any mech with Decepticon programming escaping their clutches.
"This matter doesn't concern you, Mirage," Sentinel barked, struggling to quell the squirming sensation in his spark. "You may go. My business is with Tracks alone."
"With all due respect, Prime, anything that concerns my conjux concerns me as well," Mirage replied coolly, narrowing his golden optics. "What business do you have with him? We've been complying with the curfews, I assure you."
"This isn't about the curfews," Sentinel replied. "This is about the fact that you, Tracks, have Decepticon programming."
Both mechs' optics blazed in horror. That seemed to be the standard reaction for everyone he confronted - utter, undiluted terror, whether at finally learning the horrible truth about their origins or at learning that a dreadful family secret had been discovered. Sentinel wondered how anyone could feel the slightest shred of satisfaction in uncovering these so-called traitors upon seeing their reactions.
"You must be mistaken," Tracks insisted, and tried to shut the door in Sentinel's face.
Sentinel put a hand out to keep the door opened. "There's no mistake. Your creation records show that you were a sparked mech, not forged. And by cross-examining your spark scans with the scans of known Decepticon criminals, we've determined that you were sparked by Fearswoop, one of Megatron's generals, now deceased."
The two mechs could only gape, their optics paling the longer Sentinel spoke until they were nearly white. Why didn't either of these Bots attack him and attempt to escape, or at the very least turn and flee further into the apartment? Why did these mechs always just stand there and listen to his condemning words, as if they had no choice but to submit to arrest?
"As a direct descendent of a known Decepticon criminal, you are hereby declared a threat to the safety of Cybertron, and are to be placed under arrest immediately," he continued. "You will comply quietly and without resistance, or I am authorized to use whatever force is necessary to ensure your compliance."
Tracks shook hard enough for the stubby wings on his shoulders - wings that were no doubt part of his Decepticon heritage - to tremble uncontrollably. "P-P-Prime sir… I'm a model citizen. I've never had so much as a speeding ticket. I'm a fashionable mod designer, for Allspark's sake! S-surely the Autobot Command doesn't think I'm a threat…"
"The Magnus' orders are clear," Sentinel said sternly. "Your Decepticon heritage makes you a threat, and you have to be contained for the safety of Cybertron and its citizens."
"But… but I have a family!" Tracks protested. "My sparklings! Who will provide for-" He froze, his optics paling to pure white as he realized what he'd just done. "No… no, please, you can't lock them up too! They're so young, they don't even know who their grandfather is, you can't-"
Sentinel raised his hand, silencing Tracks' terrified blathering. "I have my orders. I'm to cuff you and your offspring and transport you immediately to Kalis."
"This is outrageous!" Mirage cried, the fury in his voice barely concealing his own horror. "You'll arrest a mech simply based on who happened to spark him-"
"I am allowed to give you an hour to put your affairs in order," Sentinel went on, ignoring the two mechs. "I am certainly not permitted to advise you to gather your children and anything you can't live without and flee out the back entrance of your home, nor am I to inform you that the Elite Guard will be distracted while you make your escape."
Mirage stared, bafflement overtaking his terror. "What…"
"I certainly am not permitted to tell you that there is an area in the Dead Sector where other Autobots of Decepticon heritage are taking refuge. You are not advised to go there as quickly as possible - without powering on your headlights if at all possible. You certainly shouldn't stick to back roads and underground passages, and I certainly don't suggest that you settle in there as best you can and await further updates."
Tracks' optics flared a bright blue as he realized just what Sentinel was doing. "W-why-"
"I'm not at liberty to say anything else," Sentinel replied. "You have an hour. I'll be back then to take you into custody. Chop-chop, Autobot!"
Cleanser welled up in Tracks' optics. "Th-thank you… thank you so much…"
Mirage wrapped one arm around Tracks' shoulders and pulled him in for a quick hug. "We are in your debt, Sentinel Prime. Come, love... I'll go wake up the kids while you-" And he shut the door in Sentinel's face, cutting off the rest of his sentence.
Sentinel drew in a shaky intake, then turned and strode away. He'd make a follow-up visit in an hour to ensure they'd taken his "not-advice," then report that Tracks had somehow been tipped off that his arrest was imminent and had vanished without a trace. With any luck, Tracks, Mirage, and their sparklings would be able to evade the patrols and reach the tentative sanctuary of the Dead Sector without difficulty.
He knew that this was a fool's errand - sooner or later someone was going to notice that he had yet to actually make any arrests, and that an alarming number of suspicious Autobots were abandoning their homes and businesses and seemingly evaporating into thin air. And once Ultra Magnus was informed of what was truly going on, then Sentinel could fully expect to be stripped of his Elite Guard crest… or even thrown in a cell alongside Optimus, considered a traitor to the Autobot cause.
But despite the nervous churning in his tanks, he couldn't bring himself to regret what he was doing. Ultra Magnus had pushed him over a line he refused to cross… and while it might be too late to correct the damage he'd already inflicted on Optimus, he could at least save others from a similar fate. Perhaps he was simply delaying the inevitable, but frag it, he had to try.
He checked the datapad in his hand for the next name on his list, then collapsed into his alt mode and drove off. He had many more stops to make, and he dreaded every one of them.
The fiery rays of the setting sun blazed off of Starscream's armor as he stretched luxuriously, wings flared wide and arms thrown skyward. For a moment he reveled in sensations that had been absent for far too long - of every limb and component working smoothly, of the play of light across the angles of his stunning chassis, of air currents caressing his wings and just begging him to take flight. He was whole again, gloriously complete… and ready to take on the world.
"Excellent," he purred, lowering his arms and tilting one wing to check it for any possible flaws. "Most excellent. I'm impressed, Wreck-Gar."
"All in a day's work!" Wreck-Gar assured him as he snapped the lid of his "toolbox" - in reality a chest freezer filled with any odds and ends he deemed remotely useful - shut and dropped it into his backpack with a resounding clang. "Be sure to schedule a follow-up appointment-"
"Yes, yes," he muttered with a dismissive wave. "You've been helpful." Perhaps that was damning the junky mech with faint praise - he was pretty much the only reason Starscream was even walking right now. He'd been online and watching the entire time Wreck-Gar repaired him, and in all honesty he was still baffled as to just how he'd managed to fix his chassis and reattach his head. A lot of duct tape seemed to be involved, and he could have sworn that the mech had used an old lawnmower engine and a video-game console as spare parts somewhere along the way. He had thought to complain, but then, Cybertronian components were probably hard to come by on this planet, and one had to make do with what they had.
But now Wreck-Gar's usefulness had passed… and it was time to move on. Time to round up his clones and take stock of the situation here on Earth and on Cybertron… and time to plan his takeover of both.
"You are looking much better, Starscream sir!" Jetstorm exclaimed, clapping his hands. "We are glad you got your body back!"
"Does this mean we should be going home, though?" Jetfire asked. "We have answered the SOS… Sentinel Prime will not be liking it if we are gone too long. He is being cranky like that."
Starscream turned to regard the young jetformers, cupping his chin in thought. Like Wreck-Gar, these two had proven useful… but unlike the Junk-ion, perhaps they hadn't outlived their usefulness yet. They had helped him unquestioningly, dragging his chassis off the makeshift funeral byre and handing Wreck-Gar tools and equipment as he'd patched him back together. And neither of them had even flinched upon seeing the Decepticon symbols on his wings - well, they'd poked at them curiously for a bit, but didn't seem all that bothered by them.
"Just because you are being a Decepticon doesn't mean we should be leaving you in pieces," Jetfire had told him. "Besides, you are a fellow flier! We are not seeing those very often! Fliers stick together!"
Yes.. fliers stick together. A slow smile spread across his features as he studied the twins, a plan brewing in his CPU. The poor dears, really - fliers being raised by Autobots, who had no idea how to properly train or care for a jetformer. They deserved to be properly brought up by a true flier, to learn from a master of the sky instead of groundbounds who considered anything with wings to be evil.
Not to mention that these two bore his programming - were, in effect, technically his sons. And who better to teach these two than their own father, so to speak? Yes, it really was for the best that he take these two under his wing and properly teach and raise them, care for them…
He shook his head, dismissing that last part. This was purely to recruit two more loyal soldiers for his personal forces. That was right, it was a tactical decision, certainly not out of any actual fondness for these two scamps… right?
"What are you staring at, Starscream sir?" Jetstorm asked.
"Why… two very capable fliers, of course," he replied, voice as warm as he could make it. "Ones who take after their parent."
Jetstorm and Jetfire exchanged puzzled looks, then turned back to Starscream. "But we are not remembering our parents, Starscream sir," Jetstorm remarked.
Starscream rebooted his optics at that. "Oh? Nothing about them at all?"
"Our memories are being… fragged up, as Sentinel Prime likes to say," Jetstorm replied. "We are not remembering our parents… or what we were before we got upgraded to be fliers. But Perceptor and Sentinel Prime were teaching us after our upgrade, so… I suppose they are kind of being our parents?"
Starscream chuckled and shook his head. ""Oh no, my dears, this won't do. You deserve to be raised by a TRUE parent." He rested a hand on his cockpit. "Me."
Jetfire's optics flared in shock. "You… you are being our father?"
Starscream nodded. Perhaps that explanation was a bit simplistic - he certainly had no hand in creating these two, only in providing the programming for their reformat - but if these two accepted it as fact, he was that much closer to recruiting them.
Evidently they accepted it with great enthusiasm - they charged forward as one, wrapping their arms around his waist. "DADDY!"
"What the- I am not- oh, bother." Starscream scowled, wings drooping as the twins clung to him like overeager sparklings, beaming up at him with admiring smiles. "Fine… I'm your daddy. Just don't call me that in front of anyone else!"
"What about him?" Jetstorm asked, pointing at Wreck-Gar.
Starscream watched as the garbage-truck-former squatted to poke at a raccoon. "He's fine. Wreck, if you speak a word of this to anyone, I'll sink you to the bottom of the lake."
"Mum's the word!" Wreck-Gar vowed. "Well, I guess Pop's the word, or Dad, or Father, or Old Man, or That Bastard Who Ran Off With His Secretary…"
Starscream decided he'd rather not know what he was blathering on about and turned back to the twins. "Transform and rise up, my sons! I will teach you to be proper fliers… and you will help me build an empire!"
The two jetformers whooped with glee and released him. "Yes, Dad!"
Starscream gritted his dental plates and prepared to shift… only for a plaintive shout to stop him in his tracks.
"Hey! What about me?"
He turned to glower at Wreck-Gar. "What about you?"
"You're not just gonna leave me behind, are you?" the Junk-ion pleaded, his optics wide and shining in a pathetic display of emotion.
"Well, far be it from us to take you from your home," Starscream replied, gesturing at the expansive landfill that was his kingdom. "We're thankful for your help, and you will be compensated-"
Wreck-Gar's reaction was both unexpected and spectacular - he flung himself forward and wrapped his arms around Starscream's legs, crying with enough force to send twin streams of cleanser flowing down his face.
"PLEASE!" he sobbed. "PLEASE don't leave me behind! I'm all alone! The Autobots won't visit me here - not even the other temporary Autobots! The humans call me a worthless wreck and a freak and chase me with helicopters! The junkyard cats and the hobos and the garbage collectors just scream and run when they see me!"
The twins made sympathetic cooing sounds at Wreck-Gar's tragic story. Starscream's first impulse was to roll his optics. Though come to think of it, he knew something of what it was to be an outcast from his own kind…
"All right, Wreck-Gar-" he began, but the mech wasn't done.
"My mother was a garbage truck and my father was a shiny alien widget who never even paid child support!" He pulled the ratty beach towel from his pack and blew his olfactory sensor with it. "My brothers and sisters all hated me because I was an only child! PLEASE let me come with you!"
"All right!" Starscream snapped. "All right, you can come with us, just stop talking!"
"Okay." And as abruptly as that Wreck-Gar calmed down and got to his feet. "Uh, I don't have wings."
Starscream turned to the twins. "You two carry him. Surely you can manage that between you-"
"Yes, Dad!" they chirped in unison… and they promptly began to transform, their bodies splitting and fusing together before Starscream's stunned optics until a totally new mech stood before him. Half-orange and half-blue, split weirdly down the middle, he crouched down and slid his hands under Wreck-Gar's arms before taking to the air, letting the Junk-ion's legs dangle beneath him.
"Huh… that's new," he noted, though not without a sly smile. These two mechs continued to surprise him… and exhibit powers beyond anything he could imagine. They would be formidable soldiers to add to his army.
He took to the air, transforming to his own jet mode and gunning his engines to catch up to his new troops. He had a lot of work ahead of him… but he was confident it would be worth it.