Earth was a realm of wonders to Beachcomber. It was such a statistical improbability to begin with: a planet in the perfect orbit for liquid oxidane that – astoundingly – was a mix of dry ground and water. Nor was it tidal locked, but it still rotated on its axis, keeping the whole planet at a surprisingly-even temperature. Then give it an iron core both big and hot enough to generate those natural, shimmering electro-magnetic fields, and it was like the whole planet was literally veiled in mystery.

What other planet could boast that it had imprisoned Megatron, for Primus' sake! Where else could you find an atmosphere so thick that it could nourish organic life and yet so transparent that life could also gather solar energy through it? Earth's mere existence was so far-fetched that he would have scoffed to hear it described by another mech.

And yet here he was, waiting his turn to spar on volcanic glass ground down by Earth's incessant, churning forces of erosion into this "treacherous" sand. To Beachcomber's bafflement, Chromia was acting like it was no big deal, like it was an annoyance to have to fight on the surface of such an audaciously original world. In Beachcomber's mind, the sparring and the need for it was the annoyance, not the terrain.

And then there was the lagoon. Researching it on the humans' internet made its freshwater lens sound like the most natural thing in the world, and maybe it was on this world, this place of boisterous chaos. To Beachcomber, the idea that there would conveniently be a puddle of freshwater sitting on top of the ocean left him near speechless. The physics of it made sense, but still, Beachcomber found himself wondering what it was even doing there.

And that was perhaps the most overwhelming part of the planet: the brazen improbability of it all. One or two – or ten or twenty – of these uncommon features made the planet noteworthy, but all of them at once? Auroras and atmospheric rivers and a frenetically-blue sky and the Ring of Fire? It came across as mathematically gaudy, like Earth was just trying too hard. What business did any planet have behaving this way?

And it wasn't just the geological features. Organics were notoriously fragile, and the half-billion years of continuous life on Earth was a highly-impressive run. It was probably a record by tens of millions of years at least, though that was just a guess on Beachcomber's part, since Simfur's data banks had long been destroyed. That alone was a big deal. And not just single-celled organisms but absurdities like platypuses and octopuses and physically-defenseless humans with their sentient, overgrown brains. Just the humans would have made the entire Science Council sit up and take notice, back in the day.

But a human with a spark? A human that was Prime-bound? Seriously! Beachcomber shook his helm. That was just…too much. It strained the processor just to consider it, much less witness the fleshling first-hand.

And then to hear tell about how the little squishy designated Will Lennox single-handedly took down Blackout of all mechs…

What kind of place was this?!

…

It was the kind of place where Wheeljack apparently made himself right at home. His current "lab" was a temporary one – really just a hut of metal paneling like the hangar – but it was one of the few stand-alone Autobot facilities on the planet. Beachcomber's first individual orders as an Autobot on Earth were to report to him there.

As Beachcomber rolled up to the lab, that particular unease he always felt around Wheeljack came back with full force, despite not seeing the inventor for thousands of years. Wheeljack was a cheerfully-likable spawn of Unicron who used his significant understanding of the universe to destroy bits and pieces of it. Ideally the destruction was strategic, but not always. Beachcomber would have much preferred working with Perceptor.

Still, Wheeljack was on Earth, so Wheeljack was who he was working with. "Reporting as ordered, sir," Beachcomber said.

'Jack looked up from his workbench with a smile. "It's just us scientists here; no need to worry about rank. And thanks for coming. I need to show you something."

"Okay?"

Wheeljack projected the image of a mountain of metal that was as tall as the ceiling.

"What is that?" Beachcomber asked, drawing nearer.

"That is a depiction of the solar harvester of the Primes, currently located in Egypt. It's just a scale model, of course. The Dynasty of the Primes fell on this planet, defending the humans."

"Of course they did," Beachcomber muttered, adding yet another couple of wild improbabilities to Earth's tally. When Wheeljack gave him an odd look, Beachcomber added, "Sorry. Go on."

Wheeljack slowly rotated the hologram as he spoke. "We surreptitiously got some readings on it, but the humans won't let us actually touch it, not after learning that it's almost been used to destroy their sun two times now."

"I can see why they would feel that way," Beachcomber said.

"But we need a solar harvester," Wheeljack insisted. "Prime says the All Spark is pretty much drained of its energy. We can generate energon from time to time, but that's about it, and Optimus has to recharge it afterward using solar energy."

Earth was a realm of wonders, and Beachcomber suddenly realized its survival was hanging by a gossamer thread. Making sure his voice would be steady, he asked, "So we Autobots hope to succeed on a third attempt?"

Wheeljack shut off the projector and stared in disbelief at Beachcomber. "You honestly think that Optimus and Samuel would do that? Harvest Earth's sun?"

Beachcomber shrugged. "Look what we did to our own home."

"Beachcomber, my lad, remember what Optimus did to protect this planet. He sacrificed the All Spark and was extinguished himself. It's only because of Samuel that he's alive today. We Autobots will do whatever it takes to protect Earth and those adorable fleshlings that live here."

Yep, Beachcomber thought. I knew he'd fit right in on Earth.

"In fact, that's why I need your help," Wheeljack continued. "We are building our own solar harvester to recharge the All Spark, and we'll be shipping it to another star – one without life orbiting it. But there isn't enough of certain metals currently available on the world market. Do you think you could help me identify some potential sources we could mine here on Earth?"

Beachcomber blinked as he considered that. "I could try, but why make it unnecessarily hard by limiting ourselves to a planet's crust? Everything under the surface is also out in space. Asteroids are far easier to mine and are typically more productive."

Wheeljack straightened as he grinned. "And we even have the Iron Will now to serve as a mining ship."

"It's just a lunar ferry," Beachcomber reminded him. "It's not much, but with some rudimentary mining equipment…it'd be a pretty primitive operation, and it'd be slow going as a result."

"But we could?"

Beachcomber nodded. "Yes, we probably could. Have the humans mapped the local asteroids yet? And what metals specifically are we looking for?"

…

When Optimus Prime stopped by a little while later, Beachcomber was again reminded why he'd remained a neutral for so long. While most of the other mechs and femmes in the Autobot ranks were in awe of their Prime, Beachcomber was always acutely aware that this was the mech who valued his own principles over the lives of every last creation on Cybertron. He couldn't look at the Prime without seeing their home utterly destroyed. It was small comfort to know that Optimus drew the line at Cybertron and wasn't willing to sacrifice Earth to win the War.

When the Prime handed over the staff of Solus Prime, though, even Beachcomber wasn't unmoved. The sheer age of the thing was awe-inspiring, and Optimus' cryptic comment about its potential power only added to that.

And because this was Earth, Optimus left that impossible human Prime in charge before walking off.

Wheeljack took it all in stride, of course, placing Samuel on the workbench and safely out of the way of their feet. "So where would you like us to start, Prime?"

"Um…" the human briefly narrowed his eyes at Optimus' retreating back before focusing on Wheeljack. "Recommendations?"

"An inspection using the full electro-magnetic spectrum is probably the first place to start."

"You're going to microwave it?!" Samuel interrupted.

"Visual inspection," Beachcomber translated, vaguely impressed that the squishy followed Wheeljack that well. "Microwaves are technically part of that spectrum, but tests using microwaves would probably cause some kind of interaction or even reaction. We might get to that eventually, but it won't be where we start."

Samuel nodded. "Sounds good. Let's start by giving it a good looking over."

Beachcomber tilted his helm. Was he hearing in the human Prime's voice some of his own unease around Wheeljack? Considering the fleshling's surface was far more prone to puncture, he honestly couldn't blame the organic. In fact, it would probably be a good idea if Beachcomber stayed close enough to protect the human if necessary. Just in case. This was Wheeljack after all.

"Well what do we have here?" Wheeljack said. He outlined a section of the staff and looked up to meet the geologist's gaze. "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

Puzzled, Beachcomber stepped closer and focused on the highlighted metal. "What resolution are you at?"

"It's at the edge of my visual sensors, but you probably won't even need to squint."

Samuel stepped closer, too, even though he no doubt knew he wouldn't be able to see the anomaly if Wheeljack barely could.

"Yes," Beachcomber confirmed. "It's minute, but there's some scoring here. Let's document the location and continue." Then he stepped back, allowing Wheeljack to resume his exam and allowing Beachcomber to stand protectively next to Samuel again.

After Wheeljack ran his scanners up one side of the staff and down the other, he turned to Samuel and Beachcomber. "Either of you want a turn?"

Samuel glanced up at Beachcomber. "You go ahead. I was able to handle and examine the staff during a bond-dream with Optimus. I couldn't even lift one end of it in the waking world, though."

Beachcomber stared at him for a moment, boggled that the human could talk so…so casually about an interspecies bond dream. When Samuel asked, "What?" he shook himself out of his stunned stupor and stepped over to examine the staff.

"What were your impressions, Prime?" Wheeljack respectfully asked.

On the periphery of his vision, Beachcomber saw Samuel shrug. "Mostly that it's way more durable than anyone would reasonably expect. I mean, it was crafted by one of the Ancient Primes. That makes it, like, as old as the Matrix of Leadership more or less, right?"

Wheeljack sounded impressed. "Now that you mention it, yeah, probably."

Beachcomber looked up, his optics meeting Samuel's gaze. "Patina?"

"Pardon?" Samuel asked.

"As certain metals age, they sometimes form an oxidized layer called a patina. Patinas can protect an older metal object, making it more durable."

"Testing for one isn't strictly non-invasive," Wheeljack pointed out.

"True," Beachcomber admitted. "It would be only mildly intrusive, though, to check for a patina and, if present, to determine its exact composition. Just a small surface sample would be all we'd need."

"How small?" Samuel asked.

"Approximately a cubed micron." Beachcomber hesitated, wondering if Samuel would need a less-scientific unit of measurement.

But he needn't have worried. Samuel seemed to understand, and he nodded decisively. "Do it."

"Yes sir," Beachcomber said.

Samuel snorted in what sounded like amusement. "Save the 'yessir' for Ultra Magnus or Will Lennox. I'm not even a grunt, much less someone who deserves to be called 'sir.' If you're feeling really formal, call me 'Prime,' but 'Samuel' or even just 'Sam' is good enough for me."

Beachcomber's spark warmed as he nodded in deference. "If you prefer, Samuel."

…

The summons from Ultra Magnus was terse. /Meet me on the proving grounds now./

Beachcomber inwardly sighed. It was his scheduled recharge time, but that was only because following the same routines as the humans was convenient. In practice, it ended up being free time, according to 'Bee and Jolt, as long as you made yourself scarce. So while Beachcomber wasn't losing recharge over this summons, Magnus' intrusion on that free time was pretty annoying. Still…orders.

At the checkpoint, they let Beachcomber through, and Magnus was standing there waiting in the light of Earth's moon (yet another improbability, since it was likely the remnant of the now-destroyed planet Theia instead of just an unusually-large asteroid).

"Reporting as ordered, sir," Beachcomber said.

Magnus nodded slowly in acknowledgment. "Wheeljack reported your professional opinion that mining asteroids would be more productive than trying to mine ore on Earth."

Not sure if a response was wanted or not, Beachcomber simply said, "Yes, sir."

"Do you think we could actually turn the Iron Will into a mining ship?"

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Beachcomber asked, just to be safe. He had a hard time knowing where the boundary was when it came to Ultra Magnus.

"Granted."

"It'll never be a proper Cybertronian mining ship. It's too small for refining ore on-site and we don't have the necessary hardware to harvest metals at speed. Pit, even the ship's sensors won't do us any good. But it can get us up there, it can get us and some basic mining tools to a target asteroid, and it can bring the raw ore back to Earth for refining."

From Ultra Magnus' expression, he knew this wasn't the answer his commander wanted. Still, Magnus simply said, "The humans have extensively damaged their homeworld. Optimus is keen to ensure that our presence doesn't exacerbate that damage. Could the refining be done off-world, even if it's not done on the Iron Will?"

Beachcomber considered the question, while a part of his processors was grudgingly impressed that Optimus cared that much. "My biggest concern would be location. I assume we want to avoid the humans detecting the refinery or getting their hands on it anytime soon?"

"You assume correctly."

"Then we'd want to build it someplace further away from Earth than Mars. That would take a considerable investment of our own time and resources."

Magnus' frown deepened. "Understood."

For a long moment, Beachcomber stood there while Magnus looked up at the stars, apparently lost in thought.

"Was there anything else, sir?"

"Yes." Magnus focused on Beachcomber again. "I will retain command of the Iron Will, but whether we mine asteroids or Earth's crust, you will be the linchpin of this mission. Your skills, your knowledge will be the determining factor in our success or failure. And we must not fail."

"Understood, sir."

"Are you certain you're up to the task?"

A flash of rare anger swept through Beachcomber. "Are my professional abilities in question, sir?"

"No," Magnus bluntly answered, "just your degree of motivation. I know you didn't join the Autobots until Hound was sent off-world on a mission and wasn't around to share his energon rations with you anymore."

Shame, irritation at that shame, and a swell of concern for his missing friend all swept through Beachcomber.

"You're no Decepticon," Ultra Magnus continued, "but your attachment to the Autobot cause is a…pragmatic one."

Beachcomber straightened to his full height, remembering the whispers that echoed behind him down the halls of the few Autobot bases he'd served on.

"Coward."

"In it for the energon."

"Parasite."

"Not really one of us."

Magnus was one who would never understand a pacifist like him. He'd never understand how thoroughly it crushed Beachcomber's spark to see Autobots and Decepticons destroy every beautiful, elegant, or well-designed thing on their planet. Every life. Every city. Every forest. Everything they or their Creator had ever built. Every fragging thing.

Magnus would never understand, and now was not the time to try to explain anyway. Beachcomber decided to speak the only words that would make sense to his commander, though he couldn't quite stifle his anger. "Then you can be sure my pragmatism will be a great motivating factor in this mission, sir. I have full energon tanks for the first time in millenia. I intend to keep them that way."

Ultra Magnus nodded in apparent satisfaction. "Good. All of Cybertron is depending on us."

All of Cybertron is in ruins, Beachcomber thought, and you're one of the mechs to blame. Aloud, he said, "Understood, sir."

"Dismissed."

…

Beachcomber wasn't in any better mood when his optics onlined the next morning. He reported to Wheeljack's lab as Prowl's schedule dictated, though, and he was surprised how much he was cheered up by the short drive under that blue sky with that dangerously-salinated ocean on one side and the impossible lagoon on the other.

As soon as Beachcomber darkened the door, Wheeljack said, "Oh good, you're here!" and projected an image again. This time, it was of a building rather oddly shaped as a pentagon.

"What's this?"

"Hold music," 'Jack inexplicably answered. "The humans' General Morshower wanted to talk to you first thing. It'll take just a few seconds to…"

The building disappeared to make way for a human face.

"General Morshower," Wheeljack said, "allow me to introduce my fellow Autobot and scientist, Beachcomber."

Beachcomber gave 'Jack a grateful, little smile and then focused on the projection again. "Sir."

"Lennox tells me you're a geologist."

"That's correct, sir."

"He also says you think we should mine asteroids instead of look for the metals we need here on Earth."

"Yes, sir."

"You do realize just how much more dangerous it is for us in space?"

Beachcomber blinked in surprise. "Involving humans was outside the scope of my analysis, sir. It doesn't make any sense to ask you to run those kinds of risks when it's entirely for our benefit."

"In case Ratchet's repair crew and Sarah Lennox's 'alien robot rescue home' didn't clue you in, we are a team here at NEST."

Considering the anomaly that was Samuel Prime, Beachcomber decided the idea of humans and Cybertronians teaming up wasn't entirely far-fetched. "Understood, sir. I will reconsider my analysis and present an updated recommendation, if that is acceptable, sir?"

"Yes."

"Are you ready for my revised analysis?"

"What, already?"

Beachcomber smirked slightly. "I'm not as quick as Lancer or Prowl, but this was not a difficult analysis. Is now a good time?" He belatedly added, "Sir?"

"Yes."

"If we didn't have the Iron Will, limiting our mining operations to Earth would be my recommendation. But since we do have it at our disposal, asteroid mining will be quicker, more productive, and will allow us to focus on specialty metals in the targeted amounts." And more importantly, in Beachcomber's mind, "It would also allow us to harvest the needed metals without disturbing Earth's topography or ecology."

"That's right, you're an environmentalist, too."

"I am many things, sir."

He snorted but didn't otherwise comment on that. "What about refining? It'll be less intrusive than a mine, but no matter where we find the metals, we'll need to refine them here on Earth, right?"

Though it pained him to admit it, Beachcomber said, "Yes, sir, that would be my recommendation. Better to hide a refinery in plain sight here on Earth than to expend the time and effort of hiding one in an out-of-the-way part of your solar system."

"You Autobots have a gold refinery that just came online in northern Nevada. We could build more, but that will take time."

"In that case, I recommend we begin the process, sir. Wheeljack and I can probably help develop methodologies and technologies that can improve the speed and quality of ore processing while minimizing impacts on your environment."

"That would be appreciated. Get us the refinery plans and a list of all of the other metals you'll be targeting, too, so we can adapt the plans. That's something we humans can do, since we'll be shut out of the actual mining operation."

Not sure what else to say, Beachcomber offered, "That seems reasonable, sir."

"Glad you approve," Morshower said, the derision and sarcasm plain even in his alien, squishy face. "So while we humans focus on the refining end, you can begin mapping potential asteroid resources, and then the crew of the Iron Will can begin mining."

"If I may, sir, it could be better to take a two-prong approach," Beachcomber said. "Optimus Prime is a scientist, despite his leader-class build. He has the Seeker mods to maneuver in space as readily as the Iron Will and he has the intelligence to perform the necessary analysis of any given asteroid's composition. If he's willing to perform that task, then the crew of the Iron Will can begin mining operations as soon as useful minerals are discovered. Mining and mapping can go forward simultaneously, sir."

Morshower nodded. "Even better. Anything else?"

Beachcomber looked to Wheeljack, but he shook his head. The geologist answered, "Not at this time, sir."

"Good. JCS out."

As Wheeljack turned off his projector, he said, "That went well."

"Did it? He seemed angry the whole time."

Wheeljack just shrugged. "That's just General Morshower. You won't see him angry until I accidentally blow something up again. Let's get our list of needed metals, the target amounts, and start working on those refinery designs. I helped a little with the one for gold, so I have an idea of what the human-built limitations are."

…

After nearly 48 consecutive hours of work, Wheeljack and Beachcomber had the metal targets and refinery plans drafted and ready for review by Roadbuster, Ratchet, and NEST's contact with the Army Corps of Engineers.

The next day was his scheduled day off. It was still a little processor-blowing to think that life was so predictable and calm on Earth that he could relax with time off.

Recreation options were limited, and he wasn't looking forward to spending that precious time off with mechs he didn't particularly like. Instead, he'd much rather explore this planet and its people, so he put in a request to visit Spitfire's home.

Agent Graham was the one who responded to that one, writing, "She has open time on her schedule, but you don't have an Earth-based alt. You'll need one to travel through the civilian parts of the island."

Impatiently, Beachcomber wrote back, "What is available here to scan?"

Agent Graham clearly had received a similar request at some point or another, because he quickly responded with a list of vehicles, their dimensions, and weights. Fortunately, there was one potential alt-form that would work. "The civilian dune buggy should be suitable."

…

Sarah Lennox greeted Beachcomber in her front yard, and he activated his holoform.

"Hi, Bret! Good to see you," she said, extending her hand.

"Thank you for scheduling time for me," he answered.

"Sure. You have good timing – Annabelle's at school right now. What aspect of your holoform did you want to work on?"

"I…" He hadn't expected her to be so direct. "I'm not sure."

She tilted her head curiously, studied him for a moment, and then seemed to come to a decision. "Why don't you come inside and we can discuss it over a cup of tea."

Taking a deep breath, he nodded and she led him inside. There, she gestured for him to take a seat at the kitchen table. As she started a kettle boiling and pulled spoons from the drawer, she said, "I don't know much about you, Beachcomber. The file they gave me was heavily redacted, but I did notice your enlistment date."

"I'm impressed you're familiar with Cybertronian timekeeping."

"Oh, I'm not," she said with a chuckle. "Prowl being Prowl, he translates all the dates for us into something reasonably approximate on our human calendar." Setting the spoons and a sugar jar on the table, she met his gaze and kindly smiled. "You didn't join the Autobots until after the Cube left Cybertron."

Looking down, he admitted, "You're right; I didn't."

She went back to the cupboard, returning with mugs and a couple of boxes of herbal tea. "That's a bit later than the others, isn't it?"

He huffed in bitter amusement. "You could say that."

"Why wait until then?"

No one had ever asked him. Back when Beachcomber had first requested to join up, Kup had just looked at him for a few astroseconds and then nodded with the less-than-encouraging comment, "You'll prove useful eventually." Beachcomber's Bret Coomb persona sighed. "I guess…With the Cube gone, it didn't matter anymore."

Sarah frowned at him thoughtfully. "That seems like an odd motivation to join a faction at war."

"No, I mean nothing mattered anymore. I'm…I'm a pacifist. I hate this war, not because I want to go back to what we were before, because that's impossible now. I hate it because it's war. It does nothing but destroy. I wanted nothing to do with it. I refused to help either side because, if enough 'bots refused, the War would end. But once the Cube was gone…"

"...nothing mattered anymore," Sarah softly finished for him, laying a gentle hand over his.

"Yeah." Bret hunched his shoulders, waiting for the speeches about standing up to the oppressors and defending the innocent against the aggressors, but the kettle started whistling and Sarah stood to turn it off. Wordlessly, she filled both their mugs with steaming water and then sat at the table beside him.

"Do you have a preference on the flavor?" she asked, pointing at the tea boxes again.

"I have no idea."

"Peppermint is energizing, while chamomile is soothing," she explained.

Still braced for a chewing out, or at the very least a stern lecture, he reached for the box of chamomile tea and opened it. He wasn't sure what he was expecting – instructions under the box lid, maybe? – but inside was a bunch of paper with organic matter between the layers.

"They're tea bags," Sarah explained. "Pick one up and drop it into the mug. It'll need a few minutes to steep before it'll be ready to drink."

Once Bret's tea was steeping, he dared to glance at his human instructor. She was wearing a thoughtful expression that, according to his holoform library, bordered on puzzled. Looking back at his mug (and watching with some fascination as ribbons of flavored tea writhed their way down through the water), he said, "Go ahead and ask."

"If nothing mattered, why did you pick the Autobots?"

A smile twitched on his lips – a distinctly odd reflex from his holoform library – and he wistfully said, "An absent friend named Hound. He was deployed off-world with his brother on a top-secret mission and I haven't seen him since. He's an Autobot and had kept me supplied with energon while the Cube was still on Cybertron. But then they jettisoned the Cube and my friend left and…and the cannibalism began. My entire clan was extinguished by that point, and it was no longer safe to be a solitary neutral. If I didn't want to be someone's lunch, I needed protection in numbers. For the sake of my absent friend, I chose the Autobots. At the time, I thought it would improve my chances of ever seeing him again. Seems pretty ridiculous now."

"I don't know about that."

When he didn't respond, Sarah reached out and measured a spoonful of sugar that she poured into her mug. Bret wasn't sure which flavor she'd chosen, but he figured he'd do best to follow her lead.

"What about now?" she asked, stirring her tea. "After all, it's not the Cube, but we do have the All Spark again."

Beachcomber noted her use of the word "we" in that statement. She really did consider herself an Autobot. Mimicking her, he idly stirred the sugar into his tea. "I don't know. I'm not sure what to think anymore, other than that I still hate the War."

She nodded slowly and raised her mug. Taking a tentative sip, she recoiled and then, inexplicably, blew at the surface of the liquid. Returning the mug to the table, she looked up at him. "Tea is a thoughtful drink. It takes time to make and time to cool. In some human cultures, there are whole rituals surrounding it. I'm not quite that formal," she added with a half-smile, "but anytime you want to just sit and think and maybe talk a bit, you're welcome to join me for a cup of tea."

He snorted in amusement, and then worried he'd offended her, he quickly added, "Thank you, Spitfire. Earth is…Since you're not a spacefaring race, I don't know if you can appreciate just how unique and full of wonders your planet is. And this morning you've shown me one more: an Autobot without all the answers."

Her smile broadened at being called an Autobot and she nodded. "You just seemed like you needed a cup of tea."

"What is your function, Sarah, besides being our human integration specialist?"

"Oh, I'm pretty boring," she dismissively said. "You're the one from a spacefaring race."

"You are a human, which makes you one of the most intriguing beings I've ever met," he corrected. "Tell me about your kin, your courtship, comic-cons, anything. Tell me about Earth."

Understanding lit in her eyes, and Sarah Lennox nodded slowly. "Okay. I guess I'll start at the beginning. I grew up on a ranch in California…"

She talked for a while, answering his occasional questions until there was a lull as he considered what else he'd like to know.

In that gap, she asked, "What about your kin?"

Bret Coomb shook his head. "It…hurts to even think about them. You have to understand, Sarah, Cyberton is completely dead. Even now, with us regaining the All Spark, I'm not sure…I hope you never really comprehend what it's like back there right now. And then you have Earth. You're all so fragile – so improbable – in so many ways, and yet here you are beating the odds and thriving. Do you know what would happen to your world if you humans, as the dominant species here, were to magically all disappear this instant?"

"It would probably go on its merry way, gradually recovering from all the damage we've inflicted," she said.

"That won't happen on Cybertron. We're all but gone now – there's just a few thousand of us left. But Cybertron is dead and it will stay that way even once we're all rust. I'm…I'm sick of death and destruction. Earth is alive. I can feel it on every square inch of my armor. Every inhale through my vents is full of organisms. It's bursting at the seams with life. I want to feel that life for myself. Just hearing you describe a normal day is extraordinary and…"

He paused as he realized that the next words he'd been about to speak were absolutely true.

"...and?" she prompted.

"...and healing." He looked up to meet her gaze. "Your planet, your species, are that alive."

A warm smile spread across her face. "I'm glad.

…

When Beachcomber reported to Wheeljack's lab the next day, the inventor was gone but Samuel Prime was there to greet him instead.

"Prime," Beachcomber said with a nod. "What's our project today?"

"Wheeljack is with Lennox and Morshower right now going over requisitions for those plans you two drew up, but I requested some one-on-one time with you."

Puzzled, Beachcomber tilted his helm. "Okay?"

Samuel deeply sighed. "I have to confess that Sarah Lennox called me after you two spoke yesterday. She didn't tell me any specifics, but she did suggest that we have a conversation. Something about your enlistment date with the Autobots?"

Beachcomber frowned slightly, feeling betrayed.

"She's worried about you," Samuel pressed. "If you don't want to talk, that's fine. But Sarah has good instincts and I trust her. I wanted to at least give you the opportunity."

Still stung, Beachcomber didn't answer, so Samuel climbed down off the workbench and started walking toward the door.

"I'm a pacifist," Beachcomber admitted to the human Prime's back. "I don't want to fight – for Optimus, for Megatron, for anyone. This isn't the answer. It never was and never will be."

Samuel stopped and turned to look up at him in surprise. Smiling slightly, he said, "Well, that's a new one."

Beachcomber bitterly snorted. "That's because most of us are extinguished."

"Sorry," Samuel said, sobering and stepping closer to the Autobot. "I just…how does that work for you?"

"Most of the time it doesn't, but…my alternative is to be the victim of energon cannibalism."

The human's mouth dropped open for a moment and then, apparently recovering, he climbed back up onto the workbench. Once they were more on an eye-to-optic level, Samuel said, "That sounds…really, truly horrible."

Beachcomber was touched by the unexpected empathy. "It is. I've seen the way it hardens mechs. Decepticons laugh and make a sport out of it. Neutrals tend to see it as an ugly necessity. I think the human phrase 'no hard feelings' sums up their attitude, but it still bothers most of them who have to resort to it. With Autobots, it's usually a pact with severed kin or a close friend; whoever is extinguished first bequeaths their energon to the other." Shaking his helm, he added, "There's even a form for officially recording the pact, to prevent court martial."

Samuel was agape again, finally stuttering, "Primus!"

Beachcomber snorted. "Oh, he's extinguished, too."

"But he's not!" Samuel blurted out. "I mean, it's not like I've talked with him, or at least, I'm pretty sure I haven't, but…" He looked down for a second, hesitating. Head snapping up, he said, "Between you, me, and Optimus, he's not."

"Are you saying…?"

"Optimus has met him. Communicated with him. However you want to put it. Yeah."

"Optimus told you this?"

"I'm his brother – he showed me."

"He showed you!"

"As much as he was allowed to. Alpha Prime kind of intervened."

Now it was Beachcomber's turn to be speechless. He was a scientist who relied on evidence, things that could be empirically demonstrated. But an eye-witness account was a form of evidence, even if it wasn't 100% reliable in every respect. This was the human Prime – an organic with a spark – and he appeared completely serious. He, at least, believed what he was saying to be true. "Alpha Prime?"

"Yeah, long story. My point is, I couldn't personally follow Optimus into his vision or communion or whatever with Primus, but I've gotten as close as the threshold. And let's face it, me even having a spark is too out-there to have happened by accident."

"This is Earth," Beachcomber muttered. "You defy any semblance of mathematical probability."

That seemed to confuse Samuel. "What do you mean?"

"You don't know?" He realized how disrespectful that sounded, but he'd already come to think of Samuel as an Autobot. "Sorry, I figured Optimus at least would have pointed it out. The existence of your world as it currently stands is astronomically improbable. You make utter chaos of the math even before I take a human with a spark into account."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Well, anyway, this is the important part, the part I want you to remember: we have hope now."

Beachcomber again noted the human's use of the word "we." "What hope do you have, Samuel Prime?"

He let out his breath in a whoosh. "Well, for starters, you all won't rust to death, thanks to the All Spark being recovered. And we've been able to reignite sparks – or at least, some of them."

"And new life?"

"We haven't dared to try. Not yet. Not while we're still at war."

"Wise."

"But now that the All Spark isn't corrupted anymore…"

"The Cube was corrupted?"

"Oh wow, I just assumed you knew all this already. I guess I'd better start at the beginning. Way back before the War started, Megatron learned from the original Decepticon how to corrupt the Cube and bend its function to his will. He used a Temple guardian named Kick-off to help him…"

…

By the time Bumblebee arrived to pick up Samuel Prime, Beachcomber was grateful for the interruption. That wasn't because he had anything against Samuel. It was more the opposite. As the human Prime, he was the improbable wrecking ball who had just info-dumped some life-altering knowledge on him. Beachcomber was more than a little overwhelmed and desperately needed time to process this new information.

The War had been inescapable; the only choice was whether Cybertronians would fight under Megatron as his slaves or against him as beings with free will. Peace had never been a possibility, so Optimus had chosen freedom as the next-best option. The destruction of Cybertron and their race wasn't proof of Primus' oblivion or obliviousness; it was proof of Megatron's depravity. And perhaps most importantly, not only was survival to see peace possible now, healing was even on the table.

Beachcomber appreciated a little space to think, but without question, Samuel was now his favorite Autobot, with Spitfire as a close second.