NOTE: Sorry this chapter took so long! Hopefully the next one won't be quite as long of a wait...

By the time Ratchet and Jazz arrived at the Kalis correctional facility, the entire complex was in chaos. Alarms brayed, guards swarmed every building, and blaster fire pierced the general din on an all-too-frequent basis. Whatever distraction Strika and her team had planned had evidently been incredibly successful… Ratchet just hoped the rescue had been as well.

Jazz braked to a halt a block away from the prison. "We can't get in. Place is prob'ly on lockdown now."

"Frag it all." Ratchet transformed and kicked a scrap of debris in frustration. "I HATE playing the waiting game! Those punks had better be okay in there, or I'm going to offline them myself."

"They'll be fine, Ratch," Jazz assured him, transforming and patting the medic's arm. "You got a good team, and Strika's s'posed to be one'a the best of Megatron's generals. They've got this."

Ratchet snorted. "Strika being Megatron's best general isn't supposed to be a good thing."

"Yet here we are," Jazz noted.

Ratchet rolled his optics and opened his comm link. Bumblebee, status report.

It's going great, Doc! And by "great" I mean "to Pit in a handbasket but at least we've got Optimus." Uh… and Megatron and a bunch of other 'Cons, but hey, silver linings, right?

Ratchet's tanks lurched. He had agreed to this alliance knowing Strika's ultimate goal had been to free Megatron, but it still rankled knowing all their hard work in capturing the Great Slagmaker had been undone. Steer as far clear of them as you can and get to the space bridge, all right? We didn't come this far to have an angry warlord shoot you in the back.

Bumblebee went silent, and Ratchet felt his tanks clench again. If the situation was bad enough to shut the yellow 'bot up, then things were worse than he thought.

I don't think Megatron's gonna be shootin' anyone in the back, Doc. He looks REALLY bad off.

Bad off? You're saying they never fixed him after the Detroit battle?

Worse than that… all the 'Cons have been roughed up real bad. And… they beat the slag outta Optimus too. He's really shaken up, it looks like.

Ratchet felt the sudden urge to drive back to Ultra Magnus' office and drive a fist into his remaining optic. That he could condone this kind of abuse towards anyone, Autobot or Decepticon, was inexcusable. And just proved that he was as unworthy to hold the Magnus Hammer as Sentinel Prime had been.

Something slammed into the electrified fence surrounding the prison - an Autobot guard. He let out an oil-curdling scream as energy coursed through his frame, then he fell to the ground in a shower of sparks. The mech who had flung him, a hulking gray helicopter-former whose tiny head was nearly lost in the bulk of his shoulders, stomped forward and fired an energy disc at the fence, shattering it. He kept his weapon-arm trained on Ratchet for a long, deeply uncomfortable moment, then grunted and lowered it.

Ratchet had to suppress a shudder of horror. Knowing Blackout was on their side, if only temporarily, was only slight consolation.

"Incoming!" another hulking mech - Sky-Byte - shouted, and a cluster of mechs emerged from the smoke of the firefight and charged for the rift in the fence. Strika's team flanked the rest of the group, firing in all directions as the Autobots guided the injured. Was it Ratchet's imagination, or were there far more Autobots present than they had come here with…

"Rodimus!" he roared. "What in tarnation are you doing here?!"

"Hi Ratchet," Rodimus greeted, his cheery grin contorted with strain as a badly damaged Swindle leaned on him for support. "Figured you guys could use some backup."

"You were supposed to stay in Detroit, you little punk!" Ratchet retorted.

"Can we talk about this later?" asked Bulkhead, grunting under the weight of the Starscream clone in his arms - the yellow one they'd taken to referring to as Sunstorm. "We got a lotta hurt mechs here, and the guards won't be distracted forever."

Ratchet opened his mouth to snap something grouchy back… and shut it again as Red Alert and Prowl pushed a hoversled into view. Megatron lay on his side on the sled, his chassis deeply cracked and dented, his optics dim and his frame trembling. He recognized the signs of energon deprivation, and the rage already smoldering in his core flared anew. So much for offering compassion to their prisoners.

Then he spotted the crimson-and-blue mech curled up against Megatron, and shock smothered his rage. Optimus Prime lay on the hoversled beside Megatron, dented and scratched and energon spattering his face and chest. He shivered against the taller mech, burrowed against him like a sparkling seeking solace from his creator. Which, some part of him thought, wasn't that far off the mark.

"We couldn't get him to leave Megatron's side," Prowl explained. "Our only choice was to bring them out together."

Ratchet nodded. "Smart thinking. Let's head for the space bridge and get him back to Detroit."

"A capital idea," Mindwipe purred. "Or it would be if this entire sector of Cybertron wasn't on high alert at the moment. And if they aren't now, they will be once word of Megatron's escape spreads further."

"Well, do YOU have any bright ideas?" Ironhide demanded, grunting under the weight of Shockwave. The double agent looked to be in the worst shape of any of the Decepticons besides Megatron, though given that he'd impersonated a Prime and nearly killed a Magus, it was only understandable that he'd bear the brunt of the guards' abuse.

"As a matter of fact, we do," rumbled Strika, shifting Lugnut's bulk in her arms. "There is sanctuary in the Dead Zone."

Ratchet scowled. "The Dead Zone? Nobody goes there!"

"Which makes it perfect for our needs, does it not?" rasped Scalpel, looking up from the crack in Megatron's side he was welding shut.

"Uh, nobody goes to the Dead Zone BECAUSE IT'S DEAD!" Bumblebee squealed. "Seriously, they cleared out that sector during the war because of a bioweapons strike, remember? And it's still toxic enough there that mechs can drop dead just by stepping over the border!"

Dr. Sumdac frowned from his perch on Bulkhead's shoulder. "Robots can be affected by bioweapons?"

"Sure can," Ratchet retorted. "Cosmic Rust, filter-clogging nanobots, deadly viruses, the list goes on. But that explanation's bunk."

Bumblebee blinked. "Come again?"

"Yes, the Dead Zone was evacuated and shut down due to bioweapons. But it wasn't a Decepticon attack - it was a bioweapon munitions factory that had an accident and flooded the sector with toxins. The Autobot Council didn't want anyone knowing our side was making bioweapons, so they blamed it on the Decepticons and ordered the area darkened and cleared for 'protection.' The factory's still there, though it's been shut down by now… but it's not like Ultra Magnus wants anyone to go sniffing around there and find it again. Easier to make it seem more dangerous than it really is than to admit the truth."

Rodimus scowled. "The more I learn about our own side, the less I like it."

"What, shocked to find you Autobots aren't as innocent as you like to pretend to be?" Sky-Byte sneered.

"You hush," Ratchet snapped. "Strika… what makes you think we'll find sanctuary in the Dead Zone? The place may not be contaminated anymore, but I seriously doubt it's hospitable."

Strika gave an enigmatic chuckle. "I have my sources, and that is all I will say. The Decepticons will be taking our own to the Dead Zone. You are welcome to join us, or to attempt to go back to your 'Detroit' if you can." She cast a wry look at the hoversled. "If you can dislodge Optimus' grip from his father, that is."

Ratchet cast another glance down at Optimus and Megatron. Optimus showed no signs of wanting to pull away from the silver mech… and judging by the protective arm he'd draped over the smaller mech, Megatron felt the same way. Neither gave any indication that they were aware of the discussion taking place over their heads, or even of anyone or anything else in general.

Optimus… what happened to you? What did you go through? This wasn't the reluctant but determined hero he had known for so long. This mech had been broken, both by the true identity of his father and the abuse the Autobot guards had inflicted on him. And that had left him shattered and vulnerable, in the perfect position for Megatron to manipulate…

No. Be fair - Megatron's probably just as broken as Optimus is at this point. He's probably just happy to be reunited with his son. Still, it was hard to look at this mech and not think of him as the Great Slagmaker, the monster that had terrorized Cybertron for generations.

"Ratchet?" asked Prowl, his tone indicating that he'd been trying to get the medic's attention for a while now. "Ratchet, your orders?"

The white mech shook his head with a grumble. "For now, we'll go to this Dead Zone. At the very least, we'll lay low until it's safe to return to Earth. And pray to the Allspark that nothing fraggin' happens while we're gone." He glowered at Rodimus, who did his best to put on an innocent expression.

"This is a real bad idea," Bumblebee groaned.

"You're tellin' me," Ironhide grumbled. "But we ain't got much of a choice, it sounds like."

"Don't sound so put-out," Mindwipe chuckled. "We're not so bad of company, are we? I haven't mesmerized any of you once, have I?"

"Only because you're blindfolded," Red Alert muttered.

"If you are all done babbling, let us be gone," Strika ordered. "The guards will start pursuing us at any moment. And it's a long way to the Dead Zone."

Ratchet nodded sharply, and he walked alongside the hoversled as their unlikely group moved on. He had no idea what their next move would be after the Dead Zone - given that their team had just joined forces with General Strika, broken into a high-security prison, and aided one of the worst war criminals in history in escaping confinement, it was safe to say they would never be welcome among the Autobots again. But they had Optimus back, and even if he was in rough shape both physically and mentally, he couldn't bring himself to regret that.

Hold tight, Optimus. We've got you. You'll be safe soon. Whether he would be okay after all he'd been through, he couldn't say… but he could hope.

Optimus wasn't sure if vorns or mere hours had passed since his arrest. Time had lost all meaning for him. Had his beating at the hands of the guards broken his internal chronometer? Or had despair and anger simply taken their toll? He didn't know, and in all honesty he couldn't bring himself to care.

Voices hummed and rumbled around him, snippets of conversation that reached his audials but whose meaning slipped away every time he tried to grasp them. A few words that might have been important stood out - Megatron, Ultra Magnus, Strika, Dead Zone - but he was too exhausted to care more about their significance. All he wanted to was exist, to just be left alone with his thoughts.

And with his father.

Megatron's arm remained draped over him, and vaguely he thought he should feel horrified at being caught in the grasp of the most notorious Decepticon in history. But he remained curled up against the mech's chest, his audial pressed to his armor, listening to the pulse of his spark. Ironic that, after everything he'd been through since Ultra Magnus had ordered him imprisoned, he felt safest with the Decepticon who had nearly killed him multiple times before.

"Orion." Megatron's voice was soft, shaky with energon starvation and pain, but still held a curious warmth at its core. "My son…"

Son… His headfins twitched in response to that title. He had been called many things in his life, both good and bad, but "son" was new… and set his spark blazing in his chest.

"Your colors… they're different." The larger mech traced a thumb over a line of his red plating. "You were violet and black when you were first sparked. Your optics, though… they're the same."

Optimus shuddered, and he finally raised his head to look Megatron in the optics. He still couldn't bring himself to speak, but the questions whirled through his mind despite his inability to voice them. Where were you all this time? Why didn't you come find me? Didn't you recognize your own son when you faced him? And most importantly… what happens now?

Megatron was no telepath - he had no way of answering the smaller mech's questions. But he spoke on anyhow, his voice low and soft enough that the mechs surrounding and transporting them didn't pay attention to the words.

"You were to be my heir," he whispered. "You were my pride. My greatest accomplishment. You were to have fought by my side as my protege, to help me establish a Cybertron grander and more glorious than anything the Council could have dreamed up." His optics shuttered, and a shiver of pain wracked his chassis. "When pirates tore you from my side… I spent quartrexes searching the galaxy for you. I lost count of how many slaver vessels I tore apart, hoping to find you among their captives."

To Optimus' astonishment, cleanser slid out from the thin gap between the silver mech's optic shutters, trailing down his faceplates. "In the end… I lost hope. I gave you up for dead. That is a mistake I will regret until the day I deactivate."

Optimus didn't respond, only pressed closer to his father's chest. Despite everything Megatron had done, both to him and to his friends and allies, he couldn't bring himself to pull away from him. This mech was his father… his spark had finally fully accepted that revelation. And now, after everything else he had held dear had been ripped away from him, the creator he had lost so long ago felt like the surest thing he could cling to.

"Had I known who you were when I first faced you… I would never have hurt you." Megatron's optics opened again, gazing down at him with an agonized expression. "I would have done my utmost to bring you to my side, where you belonged. Perhaps it would have been futile… you were raised an Autobot… but by the Allspark, I would have tried…"

Optimus rested a hand against the silver mech's chest, letting that touch convey what he couldn't bring his vocalizer to say. He couldn't be angry anymore. Circumstances beyond either of their control had ripped them apart, and there was no changing the past. They could only move forward from here.

"Did you remember me at all?" Megatron asked. "Or do you have any memories of your life with me? If those Autobots tampered with your databanks…"

Optimus finally dredged up a response - a single word that cracked with emotion and pain. "S-some."

"Easy… if talking hurts, you needn't answer."

"I… remember… some," Optimus pushed on anyhow. It was the truth - he had fragments of memory from his childhood. So much of the time before the foundling home was either blank or fogged over, only fragments standing out. Had someone wiped his memory banks? He wanted to think that it was the slavers, that Autobots wouldn't stoop that low, but his trust in the Autobots had been deeply shaken by his arrest and mistreatment.

How could I have forgotten my own father's face? Or the faces of the mechs who helped take care of me? What happened to me?

Megatron's optics darkened, and for a moment he feared his father had dropped offline. But his optics flared back to life moments later, and he shook his head and tightened his grip on Optimus.

"I… I will guard you with my life, Orion," he murmured. "I failed you before. I will not fail you again. I swear on my spark."

Optimus - Orion - shuttered his optics and rested his forehead against his father's chestplate. There was so much more he wanted to ask, so much more they had to talk about. But for now, he just wanted to rest… and this seemed the safest place on Cybertron to do so at the moment.

Ratchet had expected to look upon a hellscape when they reached the Dead Zone - no one had lived in this sector for vorns, and it had supposedly suffered heavy damages during the war. He expected to find bomb craters in the streets, buildings collapsing from damage and neglect, roving scavengers prowling through the ruins and ready to gut any mech foolish enough to cross the boundary.

So when their ragtag group entered a former shopping complex and found a large, lively colony of Autobots, he felt his jaw drop.

"Okay, what's the deal?" asked Bumblebee, cocking his head to one side. "Thought you said this place was abandoned."

"It WAS abandoned!" Ratchet retorted. "Every mech was cleared out during the war!"

"Evidently it's no longer abandoned," Prowl noted. "Either mechs wish to reclaim their homes, or they decided that this sector had gone unoccupied for so long that they had a right to stake their own claims."

"Or it's a buncha 'Cons hiding out," Ironhide grumbled. "Figures Strika would lead us to a pack of Decepticons."

"Nah, man, they're all Autobots," Jazz replied. "Or almost all - I see a 'Con or two, but not many. Think it's safe to approach?"

Ratchet forced his mouth shut and turned to Strika. "General? It was your idea to come here. You make that decision."

Strika chuckled and nodded. "It should be safe. And it would seem there is much about Cybertron that your team either does not know or has elected to ignore. Perhaps it is time we educated you."

As they approached the shopping mall, Ratchet took in the makeshift settlement and the mechs who inhabited it. Just as Jazz had pointed out, it was populated almost entirely by Autobots - mechs of every conceivable size and alt mode, ranging from young sparklings to battle-scarred warriors. They cleared debris out of storefronts to create makeshift living areas, or distributed energy rations, or worked to corral the sparklings that scurried about underfoot. And many of them had the dazed, haunted look of mechs who had been forced from their homes on short notice, who had fled with only what they could carry and were wondering where to go from here.

Refugees, he realized. Something is driving Autobots from their homes. But what? Did Strika and her goons launch an attack they're not telling us about? Or is something worse at work here?

"See the mercy of your Autobot Council," Strika growled. "These mechs are not here of their own accord. They have fled here to avoid being incarcerated for their heritage."

"Heritage?" Rodimus repeated. "What do you mean?"

Strika's optics flashed. "You rescued your precious Optimus Prime from being incarcerated for his own heritage, and you have to ask that?"

"Wait, wait, wait," Bumblebee demanded. "You're sayin' all these Autobots have Decepticon parents?"

"Parents, grandparents, or in some cases bondmates," Strika replied. "After Optimus' arrest, the Council decided it was their duty to root out other traitors among their ranks. They sent the Magnus' most loyal lapdog to hunt down any Autobots with Decepticon lineage, and ordered them imprisoned for the good of Cybertron." She said that last in a sour growl.

Ratchet's fists clenched. In just a matter of decacycles Ultra Magnus' rule had become even worse than Sentinel Prime's brief tenure in the Magnus seat. Though it sounded as if Sentinel had his greasy digits in this mess as well. Typical.

"It's a stroke of fortune that someone involved with the Council tipped off so many mechs before their arrest," Strika went on. "They've managed to evade capture,and have made a sanctuary here. A sanctuary that we, hopefully, can take advantage of."

Ratchet's tanks still churned in disgust at what Ultra Magnus had done, but he forced himself to simply nod and motion for the Autobots to continue onward. They could decide what, if anything, they were to do about Ultra Magnus' new taste for tyranny later. For now they needed to get settled in and see to repairing Optimus.

The refugees paused what they were doing to watch the newcomers, optics fixed on their unlikely party as they hauled their injured into camp. Surprisingly, few of them seemed frightened by the fact that they had Decepticons in their midst. There were curious looks, and a few apprehensive expressions, but no real fear. Either they were exceptionally welcoming, or they were simply so traumatized at their sudden flight for safety that they just didn't care anymore.

Ratchet reached out and snagged a short green mech by the shoulder. "There some kinda medical center or equivalent here?"

The minibot blinked up at Ratchet, his yellow mask doing little to hide his surprise at being questioned. Then he pointed towards what had probably been the mall's anchor store. "In there," he answered in a thick Praxian accent. "We don't have a proper doctor, but there are a few mechs with medical training. They will do what they can for your injured - it won't be much, but perhaps it will at least stabilize them."

"I'm a doctor," Ratchet retorted, "and we have two other medics in our group." He decided not to mention that one of those medics was a Decepticon with a reputation for putting his patients back together with modifications they never asked for. "Let us get our damaged mechs settled, then I can pitch in there."

The minibot's optics lit up. "Do you mean it?"

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it," Ratchet grumbled. "Least I can do for us taking up space here. What's your name?"

"Cosmos."

"Thanks, Cosmos. You know who's in charge here?"

"A mech named Dominus took charge not long after my conjux and I got here," Cosmos explained. "We worried about him at first, but he has been a good leader so far. He has organized efforts to get energy for everyone and to keep watch at our borders."

"Know where we can find him?"

"I'm sorry, I don't. He mingles quite a bit. He could be anywhere now." He shrugged, a comical sight with his squat body. "Sorry I couldn't be more help."

"You were a great help," Rodimus assured him. "Thank you."

Cosmos brightened at the praise… then his gaze fell on the human perched on Bulkhead's shoulder, and he openly gawked. "Is that… an organic?"

"Yes, he's an organic, but he's harmless!" Bulkhead assured him. "I dunno what kind of slag you guys have heard, but-"

"Given that all that slag about organics being harmful came from our current leadership, we're not so inclined to believe what we've heard about them," Cosmos retorted, scowling behind his mask. Then he ducked his head sheepishly. "Ah… sorry. I didn't mean to get upset. But… after what happened to us, we've lost a lot of faith in Ultra Magnus and his cronies."

"I believe that," Ratchet snorted, and he urged his group towards the medical center. No sense getting distracted when they had injured mechs to look after. They could question their fellow refugees in more detail once Optimus - and the wounded Decepticons - were repaired.

There were no berths set up in the temporary medical center, but marks had been etched into the floor to indicate where to set injured mechs. A single orange-armored bulldozer-former staffed the facility, and his optics widened in dismay at the sight of so many wounded… but his gaze fell on the familiar medical symbols on Ratchet and Red Alert's armor, and he relaxed and motioned for them to lay out the injured.

"I won't ask you why you've got Decepticons with you," he said as Strika lowered Lugnut to the floor. "Especially Megatron. But I sense a story here."

"Well, it ain't storytime," Ratchet grumbled as he helped lower Optimus - and by extension Megatron, as Optimus still refused to let go of the mech - to their designated spot. "Your name, kid?"

"Wedge, sir."

"What kind of training do you have?"

"Basic first aid certification," he admitted. "You and your friend there are the first real doctors we've seen here. Either there aren't doctors with Decepticon programming out there, or Ultra Magnus deemed them too valuable to arrest."

Ratchet thought both of those options were likely, but didn't voice that opinion. "See what you can do to clean up the injuries, and stop any leaking you see. Red Alert and I'll handle the rest."

"What am I, melted circuits?" Scalpel grumbled.

"Yes sir," Wedge replied, ignoring Scalpel's complaint, and he hurried to Swindle's side and got to work.

"Red Alert, get started on Optimus," Ratchet ordered. "I'm going to go find this Dominus and figure out what the slag is going on. I'll come join you as soon as I've had a chat with him."

"Do what you need to do," she replied. "I've got things under control here."

As Ratchet left the medical center, he caught sight of a slender, weirdly legless mech with silver-and-green armor hovering beside Strika, a clawed hand resting on her shoulder. As he watched the two touched their helms together in an intimate gesture, then the hovering mech took one of Lugnut's hands in his claws while Strika knelt by his side.

Huh… didn't take Strika to be one who'd have a consort, let alone two of them. But then, seeing three of Megatron's top warriors in a multiple-conjux relationship would hardly be the most surprising thing he'd witnessed recently. And if it made the three of them happy, then so be it.

Something slammed into his leg, almost bowling him over. He staggered, arms flailing, fighting to regain his balance, then steadied himself and watched his assailants charge past - two sparklings, one red-plated and one blue, chasing a large turbofox and giggling like mad.

"Hey!" he barked. "You kids watch where you're going!"

"Sorry!" the red femme shouted back. "We're just playing!"

"Daddy Tracks said to get all our wiggles out before we came back to camp," the blue mech added.

"I pity your parents," he muttered, then raised his voice. "You kids know a Dominus by chance?" Unlikely, but maybe he'd get lucky instead of having to spend all day searching the camp.

"Yeah!" the femme chirped. "Dominus is in charge! He's nice!"

Well, that had been ridiculously easy. "You seen him lately? Can you tell me where he is?"

The two sparklings immediately pointed at the turbofox, who by now had sat on its haunches and was regarding the medic, ears pricked up inquisitively.

"Har har, very funny," Ratchet snapped. "Where is he really?"

"Right there!" the femme insisted.

"Okay, kids, I don't have time for games," he grumbled. "Go play with your pet turbofox."

The fox gave a chuckle and rose to its feet. "And here I thought the rumors about your temper were exaggerated, Ratchet. Hopefully your prowess as a medic isn't exaggerated either."

Ratchet's optics flared. "You've GOT to be kidding me."

The fox rose to its hind legs, shifting and transforming until a short, slender, silver-blue mech with armor styled into elaborate points and frills stood before him. He offered Ratchet an amused smile and bowed from the waist.

"Excuse us, Sideburn and Firebolt," he told the sparklings. "I need to have a grown-up talk with the medic. We'll play more later."

"Okay!" Sideburn replied, and they scurried off.

"Delightful little ones," the fox-former noted. "But forgive me for not introducing myself. I'm Dominus Ambus, leader of the Dead Zone refugee camp. I'm sure you have questions, and I'd be happy to answer them… in return for a few questions of my own."