CHAPTER 1: ESCAPE FROM CYBERTRON

On any other day, the distant thunder of Decepticon bombardments would echo through the war torn city. The symphony of battle was always there, a constant backdrop of destruction and chaos. But not today. Today, an eerie stillness hung over the trenches. No blaster fire crackled in the air, no heavy footsteps of marching Vehicons shook the ground to signal a coming battle. The guns, long accustomed to centuries of relentless fire, now sat dormant, their barrels cold and silent, with no target to aim for.

This calm felt unnatural, a sinister prelude to something far worse. The last attacks had been brutal, hundreds of Autobot warriors had fallen, their bodies left to rust where they fell. Yet, inexplicably, the onslaught had stopped. The Decepticons had given Kalis, a city barely clinging to life, the chance to lick its wounds and rebuild its fragile defenses. It didn't make sense. Why leave them alive when they could have crushed the Autobots stellar cycles ago? Perhaps the Decepticons were unable to finish the job, or maybe, more chillingly, they were planning something bigger, something catastrophic. Whatever it was, Jeopardy didn't like it.

Inside what could loosely be called a medical tent, Jeopardy surveyed the grim remnants of his makeshift infirmary. The tent's fabric was tattered and sagging, offering little protection from the constant drizzle that seeped through the cracks in the city's battered infrastructure. Much of his equipment had been damaged in the last artillery strike, all either malfunctioning or caked in congealed energon and spilled oil. He was running low on supplies so rationing had become necessary, a grim calculus-like triage that determined who lived and who died. So many wounded had passed through his hands recently, far too many for one medic to handle. The worst part was, few of them ever returned to him for a second treatment. Many never lasted long enough.

And yet, even in the face of this grim reality, the warriors still clung to their sense of duty, speaking of battle as if it still held some nobility. But the reality was far less honorable: this city was no longer the shining beacon it once was, but a decaying labyrinth of trenches, barbed wire, and bombed out ruins, built upon the bodies of millions of bots.

"I hate the quiet days," one warrior grumbled, his voice laced with irritation. "They're so boring. Why can't they just come at us already?"

"I bet the Runt hates this too," another added, glancing towards Jeopardy's tent.

"How so?" his comrade asked, curious.

"Because now he can't dodge his responsibilities by playing doctor all day."

"Oh yeah," the first one snickered. "You hear that, Runt? No wounded means no medic duties."

Jeopardy remained focused on his work, ignoring their taunts as he always did. The nickname "Runt" had stuck to him like misplaced adhesive. Though he wore the same warrior caste rune on his neck, marking him as one of their own, his smaller frame set him apart. Where others towered over him, their heavy armor glinting with battle scars, Jeopardy was slight and unassuming—a far cry from the hulking soldiers around him.

But he wasn't weak, in fact he was as physically capable as any other Kalisian warrior. He had a softer spark, one that pulsed with the urge to heal rather than destroy. In Kalis, though, straying from your assigned caste was an unforgivable transgression, one that led to social exile and scorn. He didn't care though, Jeopardy had long accepted his place among them, enduring their insults because he knew the brutal truth: if he didn't do this, no one would. And even with his limited training, he had saved more lives than any of them could count. At least, until recently, when even his best efforts couldn't stave off the call of death.

The two warriors had followed him to his tent anyway, not because they needed medical attention, but because they had nothing better to do. They were the type to seek trouble when there was none to be found. Oh, how he wished he could give them a reason to stay, really give them a sore spot to complain about. But no, he knew better. Indulging those dark thoughts would only make things worse.

"Runt, you hearing us?" one of them barked, stepping closer. "Get out of the med tent and do your duty."

"Yeah," the other chimed in, "make-believe time is over. Get your rifle and stand with us for the next Decepticon offensive."

Jeopardy didn't even look up from the tools he was trying to fix. "When you get shot somewhere that you can't just walk off, you'll be grateful I stayed here."

The second warrior scoffed. "Just let him stay. I mean, look at him, he'd be the first to get his head blown off if he went over the top."

The pair shared a dismissive laugh before walking off, leaving Jeopardy alone in the fading light. The sun was dipping low now, casting long, jagged shadows over the trenches. Night would come soon, and with it, who knew what else? He had to be ready, as ready as he could be, for whatever tomorrow would bring.

Hermit Crab regretted leaving Iacon.

It had seemed like such a reasonable decision at the time. Before the ground bridge to Kalis was destroyed, he had thought transferring here would be a smart move. The army needed a new communications officer, and Hermit had assumed the bridge would still be operational if Kalis proved to be as unsafe as it had started to look. After all, Iacon had become far too action-packed for his liking. Once, he'd been able to ride out the war, secure in his laboratory beneath the Great Dome of Iacon, working as a member of the Autobot Engineering Corps. Days had been spent building and repairing equipment, inventing new gadgets to keep the Autobots fighting, and occasionally helping bring to life whatever mad contraption Wheeljack dreamt up. It had been a safe, predictable existence.

But then the fighting crept closer, the sounds of battle that were once distant whispers became unmistakable. More and more, the shouts of soldiers penetrated the insulated walls of his lab, and on more than one occasion, he'd been forced to scramble for an emergency shelter as the bombs started to fall far too close for comfort. Once too many times, the Seekers had threatened his ability to be in the backlines, nearly killing him on the way to said emergency shelters. It was then that Hermit decided to speak with his commanding officer about a transfer, and Kalis didn't seem like a bad option. It was far from the front lines, or so he'd thought. Communications officers like him were supposed to be safe, tucked away in hydrophobic tents, surrounded by technology and miles from any real action. The city might have seen better days, but he figured it wouldn't be hard to go back to Iacon, or even transfer somewhere else, using the ground bridge.

Then, the day after he arrived, a Decepticon rocket destroyed the bridge.

Frag.

He had been stuck ever since, trapped in this decaying, crumbling wreck of a city for Primus knows how long. The tent that was supposed to feel like a sanctuary of tech and order now felt more like a cage, a fragile shelter in the midst of chaos. Worse, his new commanding officer, a brutish, iron-fisted warrior type, had proven to him that Kalis was nothing like the disciplined, forward-thinking Iacon. No, the warrior caste here was as savage as he'd feared, and it only made him miss Iacon more. At least back in Iacon, the caste system had been abolished long before he'd ever been spawned. There, intellect mattered. Here, it was just about brute force.

Hermit hated every cycle of it.

The relentless pounding of artillery, the ever-present hum of distant blaster fire, it all made him feel like he was slowly being ground down, worn thin by the endless noise of a war he never wanted to be near. He hadn't come to Kalis to become part of the battle. He was supposed to observe, coordinate communications, work behind the scenes, far, far away from the violence. But now, he was neck-deep in it, and there was no way out.

And then, finally, after so long, the guns fell silent.

At first, Hermit couldn't quite process the change. The constant bombardment had been a grim companion for so long that when it stopped, it felt as though the world itself had gone off-balance. No more thunder of cannons, no more sharp blasts from above. For a moment, he didn't even dare to hope that it was truly over. The silence pressed in on him, thick and almost oppressive, but it brought with it a sliver of peace.

When he could no longer hear the cries of wounded bots drifting from the shabby med tent across the camp, Hermit let out a long, slow sigh of relief. He hadn't realized how much the screams had grated on him, how they'd gnawed at his spark, making him feel helpless as he buried himself deeper in his console. Now, with the silence enveloping the camp like a heavy blanket, he allowed himself to relax, just a little.

Without the sound of suffering filling his audio receptors, Hermit let himself slip back into the comforting glow of his computers. They were the only things that made sense in this collapsing war zone. Here, at least, the machines obeyed him, circuits and data bending to his will in a way the chaos outside never could. This was his refuge, the only place left where he could pretend, even for a moment, that the war was far away, that he was still in Iacon, surrounded by logic and intellect, not trapped in this decaying husk of a city.

And then, just when Hermit Crab had finally allowed himself a flicker of hope, a message appeared on his screen, from Iacon. For the briefest moment, his spark surged with excitement. A rescue mission? Maybe they were coming for him, to pull him out of this deteriorating mess and back to safety. He could hardly process it, his optics racing over the words, reading and rereading as if to make sure they were real. But no. This wasn't a rescue. It was far more important than that. Orders. Urgent orders.

Before he could fully absorb the magnitude of the message, or rush off to report it to his commander, a deafening crash reverberated through his tent. His processors barely had time to react when something massive tore through the roof, a hulking Insecticon Drone. It smashed into the room, its brutal legs crashing down, obliterating his precious computers in an instant. His consoles sparked and shattered, fragments of his sanctuary scattered like debris in a storm.

The Insecticon turned, its glowing red optics locking onto Hermit with malevolent intent. A glob of energon-spit dripped from its mandibles as it lunged. With horrifying speed, it clamped down on his leg, its jagged pincers slicing through metal and wiring as if it were mere paper. The pain was immediate and excruciating, surging through Hermit's body in a white-hot wave. He screamed, his voice ragged with terror and agony, echoing through the hollow camp. The Insecticon remained latched onto his leg, mauling the limb with relentless ferocity.

Instinct took over. He kicked with his free leg, desperate, wild. His foot connected with the Insecticon's optic, sending a spray of oily fluid across the room. It screeched in irritation but didn't release. Hermit kicked again, harder, again and again, striking the creature's optic with everything he had. The Insecticon, finally aggravated beyond endurance, let out a sharp hiss and released him, flying back through the gaping hole in the roof from which it had come, leaving Hermit sprawled on the floor, gasping for air.

Pain radiated from his mangled leg, the twisted remains of it twitching uncontrollably. Hermit forced himself to sit up, his body trembling from the shock, but he immediately regretted the effort. His optics fell to the mess that was once his lower leg, now barely hanging by a few strands of severed servos and energon-soaked cables. The sight was grotesque: his leg, a ruined mess, hanging at a sickening angle, the lower portion looking as if a gentle tug could rip it off entirely.

The reality of it made his spark lurch. He recoiled, the horror of what he was seeing too much to bear. His vision began to blur, darkening around the edges as the loss of energon took its toll. Panic was giving way to weakness, his strength fading rapidly. But in his fading awareness, he heard someone entering the tent.

"OVER HERE!" he shouted, though his voice was little more than a hoarse croak. His arms trembled as he tried to pull himself into a chair, but his body betrayed him. He couldn't move, couldn't muster the strength to lift himself. His vision wavered as a figure rushed into the room, it was Jeopardy.

Without hesitation, Jeopardy dropped to his knees beside Hermit, his eyes scanning the catastrophic damage to the leg. His hands moved with practiced precision, unflinching. Quickly, he opened the damaged leg at the lower thigh, exposing the torn servos and main artery of energon flow. Pulling a specialized valve from his kit, Jeopardy deftly inserted it into the artery and twisted, locking the semicircular device in place. The flow of energon to the damaged area was immediately cut off, staunching the loss before it could take Hermit's life.

"Stay with me," Jeopardy muttered, his voice calm but urgent as he secured Hermit's leg and hoisted him up in his arms. The medic, though smaller than most warriors, carried Hermit with surprising strength and purpose. He moved swiftly through the trench camp, rushing into his med tent where he laid Hermit down onto an operating table.

Time seemed to blur as Jeopardy began working, his tools and supplies a whirl of motion as he worked to stabilize Hermit's condition. Every action was methodical, every movement exact. The medical tent, chaotic and under-equipped as it was, became a battlefield of its own as Jeopardy fought to keep Hermit alive.

When the immediate crisis had passed, Jeopardy exhaled sharply. Hermit was stable, for now. But the damage was severe. If Hermit was ever going to walk again, if he was going to survive this, there was still much more work to be done.

Once Hermit Crab was hooked up to the energon line, Jeopardy monitored it closely, watching as the vital liquid began to flow into Hermit's systems. Slowly but surely, it stabilized his condition, bringing him back from the precipice of unconsciousness. Once Jeopardy was confident that no immediate further intervention was required, he leaned back slightly, relieved.

"You're going to be here for a while, so we might as well get to know each other," Jeopardy said, trying to inject a little levity into the grim situation. "I'm Jeopardy."

"Hermit Crab, thank you," Hermit responded, his voice still weak but grateful.

"Don't mention it," Jeopardy replied with a shrug, turning his attention back to his tools. "Just doing my job."

Hermit looked down at what remained of his leg, the reality of his injury finally sinking in. His optics flickered with confusion as he stared at the empty space below his knee. "Uh, where's my leg?" he asked, as if it might magically reappear if he asked the right question.

Jeopardy glanced down, realizing with a start that Hermit's lower leg was indeed missing. "Oh, scrap, I'll go find it," he said, a little sheepishly, before hurrying out of the tent. Retracing his steps through the wreckage, he followed the small trail of leaked energon Hermit had left behind. Eventually, he found the severed limb at the edge of the communications tent, or at least what was left of it after the Insecticon attack.

With the leg in hand, Jeopardy rushed back to the med tent and immediately began searching for the proper tools. "Don't worry, I can fix this," he reassured Hermit, though his calm tone belied the chaos of the situation. "I learned how to reattach limbs before my training got cut short." He set to work on Hermit's stump, carefully preparing it for the reattachment.

As Jeopardy worked, he glanced at Hermit, trying to make conversation to keep the bot calm. "You know, I think I've seen you around camp before. You're a lot less social than the last communications officer we had."

Hermit winced slightly at the mention of his predecessor. "Do you know what happened to the last one?"

"Cosmic Rust," Jeopardy replied casually, not looking up from his work. "Last time the 'Cons dropped a rust shell, he got infected. Fell apart before sundown."

Hermit stared at him, aghast. "You said that way too casually."

Jeopardy shrugged, tapping his instruments against Hermit's exposed servos. "After being here as long as I have, in this line of work, you tend to compartmentalize the shock and awe. Otherwise, you'd never make it through a day."

"I clearly haven't learned how to do that."

Jeopardy chuckled dryly. "Oh yeah, I can tell," he noted, "So, how badly did you screw up to get sent here?"

Hermit sighed, his optics dimming slightly with embarrassment. "I came here willingly, if you can believe that."

Jeopardy paused, raising an optic ridge in disbelief. "Willingly? Nope, can't believe that. Why'd you do something like that?"

"Iacon was getting too dangerous," Hermit explained, though even he seemed to regret the words as they left his mouth.

Jeopardy barked out a laugh. "And the title 'The Doormat of Hell' didn't bother you?" He shook his head again as he adjusted a valve on Hermit's leg.

"I assumed it was… exaggerative."

Jeopardy gave Hermit a look of disbelief. "For a science type, that wasn't very smart."

"I realize that," Hermit admitted, exasperated.

"So, you wanna tell me what happened?" Jeopardy asked as he continued working on Hermit's mangled leg.

Hermit, still groggy and in pain, tried to gather his thoughts. "An Insecticon came down from the roof and attacked me."

Jeopardy nodded grimly. "Yeah, they've recently shown up here from off-world. Seems our war is spreading to the colonies. Nasty things, seen one of the drones rip a warrior in half, midsagittally. Do you know why it would have targeted you?"

Hermit paused, piecing together the sequence of events. "I received something from Iacon, right before it crashed into my tent. It must've been trying to prevent it from being seen by our commander."

Jeopardy's optics flickered with interest. "Well, what did the message say?"

"It's from Optimus Prime," Hermit said, his voice carrying the weight of the revelation. "He wants us to evacuate."

Jeopardy paused in his work, looking up in disbelief. "Evacuate? But the city's encircled. We're boxed in by Decepticons."

"The Kalis Space Port still has a few ships," Hermit recalled. "If we hurry, we might be able to reach one and get out of here."

Jeopardy frowned, his optics narrowing. "You really think we can get past the Seekers? They've been patrolling the skies day and night."

"I don't think Prime would give such an order unless he believed we had a chance," Hermit replied, his tone steady despite his injury.

Jeopardy considered it, then nodded slowly. "Alright. Tomorrow morning, we'll tell the commander."

Hermit shook his head, wincing as he tried to move. "No, we should go now. Every minute we wait, we lose time. The longer we stay, the harder it'll be to make it out."

Jeopardy pressed a firm hand to Hermit's shoulder, keeping him from trying to get up. "You're in no condition to evacuate right now. It's going to take me the rest of the night to reattach your leg properly. Then we can start preparing to evacuate."

Hermit's frustration was clear, but he knew Jeopardy was right. Exodus would be nearly impossible with only half a functioning leg. He sighed, the urgency of the situation warring with his helplessness. "Fine," he said reluctantly. "But we need to move the moment I'm stable."

Jeopardy gave a reassuring nod, continuing his work. "We'll get you fixed up. Then we'll figure out how to survive this mess."

When morning broke, Jeopardy escorted the commander into the med tent, where Hermit relayed the message from Iacon with as much urgency as his weakened voice could muster.

"If this is true, then this may be exactly what the Decepticons have been waiting for," the commander said darkly. His optics narrowed as he considered the situation. "Clever bastards, lying in wait for Prime to jump ship and leave us high and dry. Well, we won't give them the chance."

He turned sharply to Jeopardy. "Warrior, arm yourself and deal with the wounded. If they want a last stand, they'll get one ahead of schedule."

Hermit's optics flared in alarm. "Are you insane?! That'll kill us all! We need to leave now!"

The commander's expression twisted into disdain as he turned back toward Hermit. "The warrior caste of Kalis did not earn its reputation as one of Cybertron's most resilient and formidable forces by running away," he spat. "We will stand until there is no ground left to stand on." He shot a dismissive glance at Jeopardy. "Don't bother with this one, warrior. He's dead weight."

And with that, the commander strode out of the tent, leaving a tense silence in his wake.

"This is insane," Hermit muttered, staring after him in disbelief.

"Oh, I'm well aware of that," Jeopardy replied dryly as he continued packing up medical supplies, his movements quick but measured.

Hermit's frustration boiled over as he asked, "Why are they even on our side? They don't sound like Autobots."

Jeopardy shrugged, his tone laced with bitter humor. "Because when the aristocrats were still around, they told them to be. Why? I couldn't tell you. Maybe they thought the Autobots would be nicer to them after the War."

"So, what?" Hermit asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. "They're just gonna charge head-on at the Decepticons?"

"Seems like it." Jeopardy's voice was steady, resigned. He pulled a strap tight on his pack.

Hermit's optics narrowed in fear. "You're not going to just leave me behind, right?"

Jeopardy shot him a sidelong glance, his tone softening. "Why would I do that? Don't know if you've noticed, but I'm nothing like them."

Hermit, despite everything, managed a weak smile. "For one, you're a lot more... intellectual."

Jeopardy snorted. "Oh yeah, most of them can barely count past 1,000."

"That is sad."

"It is," Jeopardy agreed with a sigh. Then he secured Hermit's damaged leg by buckling it in place so it wouldn't drag on the ground. "Now, let's get the hell out of here."

He quickly packed as many medical supplies as he could into his storage compartments, grabbing a few personal effects as well. With practiced ease, he helped Hermit onto his good leg, propping him up with a firm but steady grip.

Together, they slipped out of the med tent, the camp buzzing with warriors gearing up for their ill-fated charge. Keeping low, they moved toward the ruined city, the jagged skyline looming ahead of them like a shattered monument to a once-glorious past.

Their destination: the Kalis Space Port, their last hope of escaping this doomed battleground.

They made it to the space port late in the afternoon, the fading light casting long shadows over the ruins of Kalis. Other Kalisian forces had long since evacuated, leaving the once-busy port eerily silent. Far behind them, the faint silhouettes of Decepticons loomed on the horizon, the distant sounds of battle growing louder with each passing moment. They didn't have much time.

There was only one ship left.

Jeopardy hurriedly helped Hermit Crab limp toward it, the two of them pushing their weakened bodies to the limit. Just as the last warnings blared, signaling the imminent lockdown of the space bridge, they managed to scramble aboard. Jeopardy quickly set Hermit down in one of the seats, his optics scanning the ship's interior, clearly unfamiliar with its layout.

"Wait a minute," Hermit called out from the seat, his voice filled with sudden concern. "Do you even know how to fly?"

Jeopardy hesitated mid-step, glancing toward the cockpit. "Uh... I was hoping there'd be an autopilot. But I don't know which button that is."

Hermit groaned, but before he could respond, Jeopardy moved to close the hatch. Just as his finger hovered over the button, a voice rang out from behind. "WAIT, DON'T!"

Jeopardy stopped, looking up to see a figure running toward them from the edge of the port. A femme, pink and teal, her frame battered with dents and cuts, sprinted toward the ship. Her lack of insignia was immediately noticeable—neither Autobot nor Decepticon. She reached the entrance and stopped short, keeping a cautious distance from Jeopardy, her optics pleading.

"Please don't take off. I don't have anywhere else to go."

Jeopardy didn't hesitate. "Of course, get in," he said, glancing back at the encroaching Decepticon forces. The walls of the port rattled under the impact of distant explosions.

The femme rushed aboard, giving Jeopardy a brief, wary glance before moving toward the cockpit. As she passed by, she noticed Hermit sitting, his leg damaged beyond immediate repair. "What happened to him?"

"Long story," Jeopardy replied, moving to follow her. "I can fix him. But do you know how to fly this thing?"

The femme took a quick look at the controls. "I think so." She hesitated for only a moment before grabbing the throttle and the flight yoke, guiding the ship into a slow ascent. The vessel shuddered as its engines roared to life, rising steadily from the space port.

"This is a lot harder than flying in my alt-mode," she muttered under her breath, her hands tightening on the controls.

From his seat, Hermit's nerves were fraying. "Could you please ascend faster?" he asked, casting a worried glance out of a side viewport. "The Seekers could be on us any cycle now."

"I'm doing the best I can," the femme replied, her voice strained as she pushed the accelerator forward. The ship jolted, then lurched as its engines kicked into full thrust, pushing them up and away from Cybertron's surface.

Jeopardy watched from a viewport as the war-torn landscape of Cybertron began to shrink, the sprawling cities and metallic plains becoming less and less distinct. The planet's surface grew smaller, the devastation reduced to mere patches of gray and silver. They were leaving it all behind. Kalis, the Decepticons, the relentless War.

But as Cybertron vanished from view, Jeopardy felt no relief. Instead, a sinking feeling gnawed at his spark. "This is… not good," he muttered to himself, his optics narrowing as he surveyed the interior of the ship. They were low on medical supplies, had an injured bot on board, and no idea where to go or where any other Autobots were.