[FFML] Transformers - Draft 1 - Red Sam 3

[Ragman Jack]

Previous chapters can be found at the following:

https://www.fanfiction.net/u/476480 <https://www.fanfiction.net/u/476480/>

http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragman_Jack <http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragman_Jack>

—————————


“Oh for bootin’ up cold!” The smallest of the newcomers yelled. “There’s no way that’s Optimus Prime!  Sure, the voice is the same, but come on! This guy’s got a mouth!”

Prime cocked his head. “The Optimus Prime you know does not have a mouth?”

Over the comlink, Grimlock snorted. “Me Grimlock like them Prime better already.”

The blue and orange mech had his hand over his face and looked like he was in pain. “Rattrap . . .”

“What? I’ve seen the data tracks! You mean to tell me we went through the entire slaggin’ Beast Wars, and this is what we get? No way, Fearless Leader! I dunno where we are, but that ain’t Optimus Prime!”

Prime considered this. “If I’m not Optimus Prime, then who am I?”

“How should I know? That’s Rhinox and the spider lady’s thing!” Rattrap waved a hand at the second biggest mech and a tall thin mech. “Ask them.”

The blue and orange mech stepped closer, his optics meeting Prime’s, who calmly stared back. 

“Prime?” Arcee asked. 

“Stand down, Maximals,” Blue and Orange ordered. “It’s Optimus Prime.”

“What in the name of my great aunt Arcee makes you think that’s Optimus Prime?” Rattrap demanded. 

All three of Arcee’s selves jerked back in surprise.

“He has the Matrix, Rattrap, I can feel it.”

“Oh, you feel it. How do you know what it feels like?” Rattrap asked. Blue and Orange gave him a look. “Okay yeah, so what? That still ain’t the Optimus Prime in my data tracks!”

“Because it’s not.” The second biggest of the newcomers, a mech whose chestplate looked like some animal’s mouth had stepped forward. 

“Rhinox?” Blue and Orange asked.

“Different timeline, different Optimus Prime.” Rhinox crossed his arms.

“A different timeline?” Blue and Orange looked thoughtful. “But how— the turbulence.”

“Yup. Right before we crashed.”

“Well great. Optimus and I are both right.” Rattrap flung his hands wide. “Now how do we get back to our timeline and Cybertron?”

“Can’t. Engine’s fried.” Rhinox rapped a knuckle on the ship’s hull. “Only place this is going is the slag heap.”

“Uh-uh!” Rattrap exploded. ”No way, Optimus! I did not get shot down, transmetaled, and nearly get my aft fried off Primus knows how many times just to get stranded in the cockamamie twentieth century of some other universe! None of this is what I signed up for! What any of us signed up for!”

“Rattrap,” Blue and Orange Optimus began, but Rattrap slammed his fist against the ship’s hull. 

“Air Razor! Tigertron! Dinobot! Depth Charge! The pods! We had more than a hundred forms in the hold and the only ones who survived are the dog guy and the spider lady! Is this all we get? Huh? What about us? All that and we get to fight some more only instead of the Preds it’s the Cons? Well whoop dee freakin’ do!”

“No one’s said we’re not going home, Rattrap,” Blue and Orange Optimus told him. “We’re just not doing it in the shuttle. I promise you, all of you, we will get home.”

“We’d better,” Rattrap muttered.

Blue and Orange Optimus nodded and turned back to Prime. “Let me start over. I’m Optimus Primal, Maximal Commander. This is my second in command, Rattrap, sabotage and intelligence. Rhinox, our engineer, Cheetor, reconnaissance and operations.”

A mech with distinctly feline features lifted one hand. “Hi.”

“That’s Blackarachnia, our data specialist.” The tall thin mech Rattrap had indicated earlier inclined her head. “And Silverbolt, our . . .”

“Aerial operations and security,” said the last mech, a grey and white mech with a face like a wolf’s. 

“Anyone else hear a trumpet fanfare?” Bulkhead asked over the comlink.

Prime nodded. “This is Ironhide, and Bulkhead.”

“The human is Captain William Lennox of the army,” Ironhide added.

“Lennox? Not Witwicky?” Cheater almost seemed hurt.

“Do not fear, Cheetor,” Silverbolt said. “I am sure that Lennox is as brave and worthy of a friend to the Autobots as Spike was.”

“No, really,” Bulkhead asked over the com, “am I the only one who hears trumpets when that guy talks?”

“Yeah, well, I try,” Lennox said, equal parts amused, curious, and confused.

“Who’s the guy strapped down?” Ironhide asked. 

“Oh this?” Rattrap asked. “This here is Megatron. Predacon, general slag-hole, and beaten. He’d say hello, but he’s a little tied up right now.” Megatron growled through his gag. “Oh, sorry, Megs, did we rope you into the discussion? It’s knot like we’re gonna skip over all the slag you’ve done at your trial.” Rattrap pulled a gun off his back and jammed the barrel against the much larger mech’s head. “Assuming we don’t scatter bits of you across this desert first.”

“Rattrap, don’t,” Blackarachnia said in a very bored voice. She appeared to be doing her nails. Or were those claws?

“You sweet on him, Legs?” Rattrap demanded. 

“Hardly. If you shoot him point blank the barrel will explode and we don’t have spares.”

 “No one is shooting anyone,” Primal ordered. “Megatron is a prisoner and he has a right to trial. On Cybertron.” 

“Aw,” Rattrap moaned. 

“I suggest returning to base.” Optimus told them. “There is much to discuss.”

————————————

Lennox stared out at the desert from Ironhide’s cab. “What’s your take, ‘Hide?”

Ironhide grunted. “They’re not Decepticons. Beyond that, there’s a hell of a lot they’re not saying.”

“Noticed that too.” Lennox frowned. “Hiding what?”

“Not sure.” Ironhide increased his speed a bit. “Prime’s name means something to ‘em. So does Sam’s. Pretty clear Primal’s their leader, and the fact that he picked up on Prime’s Matrix means he’s carried it.”

“Makes sense.”

“And then there’s this ‘Beast Wars’ business,” Ironhide continued. “If I had to guess, their alt modes are animals.”

“Right. Rattrap called Blackarachnia ‘spider lady’.”

“It’s poor tactics. Where were they that animal forms would be required to get around? How did Primal get a Matrix? Why’s their prisoner named Megatron? For that matter, what the slag kind of name is ‘Optimus Primal’?”

“Yeah. That’s just weird.”

——————————

They locked Megatron in the shuttle and left Sideswipe, Sunstreaker and one of Arcee’s selves to keep an eye on him before retiring to the hanger. Holomatter projections allowed the Autobots and humans to gather at the lounge. The Maximals in their animal forms could also manage, save for Primal, who was simply too big, and sat just outside the lounge area in the form of a very large gorilla.

“What the hell kind of name is Optimus Primal?” Simmons demanded the moment they were seated. 

“Very diplomatic, sir,” Fowler commented. 

“Was that sarcasm, Fowler? Are you sassing me?”

“Probably,” Rattrap offered. 

“No one asked you, Mouse Guy.” 

“I’m a rat!”

“Fine. Rat Dude.”

“Now wait just a slag stompin’ minute . . .” Rattrap turned to Cheetor. “Actually, I kinda like that one.”

Rhinox sighed. 

“We’re getting off track here,” Lennox spoke up. “You said you were Maximals, what does that mean, exactly?”

“Maximals are . . . I suppose you could say we’re descended from the Autobots,” Primal began. “Where they and the Decepticons could transform into vehicles, we can become organic life forms.”

“Bio-Plastic and Nanites,”: Rhinox agreed.

“And Megatron?” Lennox asked.

“He’s a Predacon,” Blackarachnia spat. “And a lunatic.”

Prime and Ironhide exchanged looks. Predacons had been an experimental sub-class of chassis from before the war and as far as either mech knew, the Predacons had been wiped out. 

“Megatron and several Predacons stole . . . a cultural artifact, Our ship, the Axalon, was the only one close enough to intercept.” Primal lifted one hand. “Long story short, we crashed, got stranded, and started the Beast Wars. We spent several years fighting Megatron before we found a way to get home.”

“Except we apparently ain’t home yet because the freakin transwarp drive slagged out on us and instead of going home, we’re on Earth.” Rattrap looked to the sky. “I just want to go home, Primus, why is that so much to ask?”

“Wait a cotton pickin’ whole wheat minute,” Simmons spoke up. “Monkey Guy said descendants, and that don’t sound like any contemperous co-existence.”

“Ah yes, about that . . .” Primal sighed. “We’re . . . we’re from the future. The year Twenty Two Eighty Six.”

“Time travelers. Jeez.” Lennox sat back, slightly stunned. 

“Might as well tell ‘em the rest, Optimus,” Rhinox said. 

“There’s more?”

“We’re not soldiers, we’re part of the Exploration Corps, Security Division . . . and it’s my first command.” Primal looked away. “Sorry.”

———————————

Megatron had what the humans called “crazy eyes”.  Arcee had never put much stock in the phrase . . .  until now. 

“Ah, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, is it not?” Megatron’s voice was pleasant to listen to, provided you ignored the madness that lurked underneath it. 

“Yeah, what of it?” Sunstreaker demanded. 

“You have counterparts in my timeline, you know, yes. Particularly you, Sunstreaker. Of course, you are known as the . . . shall we say, less trustworthy one.”

“You callin’ me a traitor?” Sunstreaker snarled, turning towards the shuttle.

“Oh no, no, not a traitor, no. Merely a note that your counterpart lacked his twin’s  . . . intellectual gifts, yes.”

Sunstreaker might not have been the brightest of mechs, but he knew an insult when he heard one and he let out a growl, reaching for the shuttle door and Arcee leapt forward. “Stand down, Sunstreaker!”

“But Arcee—“

“What were you going to do, Sunstreaker? Open the door and beat the slag out of him? Did it occur to you that that’s what he wants?”

“Uh . . .”

“Ah, Arcee,” Megatron purred and Arcee felt a twinge of fear. “Oh, I know your name, yes. Too soft to stay with Elita One’s freedom fighters, a damsel in distress to be saved by Springer or that damnable Prime.”

“Different mech, different universe,” Arcee replied, though it took all her willpower to keep her vocal processor steady. Because she had followed Elita One millennia ago, but they had butted heads one too many times and Arcee had left. 

“Of course, of course,” Megatron nodded. “Or are you? After all, those other two with you in the desert, same chassis, different colors. How it must grate on you to share a design, yes.”

“We get by,” Arcee replied, crossing her arms. If Megatron thought her three selves were all different mechs, she certainly wasn’t going to argue. It might come in handy later.

“But then, all three reacted when the rat mentioned your name,” Megatron continued. “Ah, a split spark. Oh dear, how tragic for you.”

“I get by,” Arcee repeated.

“Oh no doubt about that, yes. But ‘getting by’, such a euphemism.” Megatron leaned against the door, getting comfortable as though they were having a chat. “After all, three inputs to one core consciousness, even if you’re all together, is so uncomfortable, so . . . messy.”

Arcee felt herself tense because he was right. She was a mech of order. She liked things neat. Friends, enemies, superiors, subordinates, your body, everyone else’s. So being in three bodies, especially against her will, grated. “It’s only a mess if I let it,” She told him and then cursed herself for giving him even that much. “Now shut up.”

“But I am only offering sympathy,” Megatron protested. “A gesture of respect, yes.”

“She told ya to shut it, Predajerk,” Sunstreaker snapped. “So shut it.”

“Sunstreaker!” Arcee snapped. “I got this.”

“You do indeed,” Megatron said smoothly, “but I’ve always wondered; what is it like? How do you keep track of everything? Not to pry, no, but whatever happened to cause your spark to split like that in the first place?” His eyes found and held hers. “Ah, Shockwave, yes. Though only three pieces? He liked things in fours . . . oh dear, you’ve lost one. The humans talk about losing themselves, but you’ve actually done it.”

Just like that, the memories came back full force. 

The barren moon. Her and Cliffjumper being forced down. The Deception drones swarming them, and even now, she couldn’t have said how many they killed before they finally went down under the horde. 

And then Shockwave. The lab. The agony. Horror. The feeling of being hacked as she desperately tried to come to grips with being four instead of one. 

The escape. Her losing one, Cliff losing two, and the hollow aching feeling that had been part of her ever since. The loss of self, but also the one mech who had ever clicked with her. Her partner. Because what was left of Cliffjumper, wasn’t even Cliffjumper.

“A summary execution, Autobot?” Megatron asked and Arcee realized her weapons were out, safeties off, power at full. All her weapons. All three of her selves here, guns aimed, desperate to destroy if not Shockwave, the same mocking, smugness the Decepticon scientist had shown her as he’d violated her, them. Every single part of her wanted to pull the trigger, wanted it more than anything, but something else, something deeper and stronger kept her from doing so. 

“No.” It took more effort than Arcee had ever thought she was capable of, but she powered down her weapons. “No.” One by one, she reengaged the safeties and retracted the guns. Last of all, she disengaged from Battle Mode. 

“Weakness, just like your counterpart. I had hoped the more martial aspect of this timeline might make you Autobots more interesting, but alas, you disappoint me, yes.” 

Arcee did multiple system checks, the cybertronian equivalent of taking several deep breaths before she rolled closer and looked the Predacon in the eye. “No. Not now. Not ever. No.” 

She turned away and saw Prime standing there, hands clasped behind his back. “Walk with me,” was all he said. 

—————————

They walked away to the edge of the base, stopping in the shadow of what the humans called “Backrock”; a blocky mesa that sat to the rear of the base’s buildings. For minutes, they stood there, staring out at the sunset. 

“Why?” Prime asked at last, not taking his eyes from the horizon.

“I . . . don’t know,”  Arcee admitted. “I wanted to slag him with everything I had, but it was . . . it wasn’t right.”

“Why?” Prime asked again. The one word questions might have seemed strange, but the ways of the Primes were strange.

“I almost joined the Decepticons,” Arcee replied. If the seeming non sequitur took Prime by surprise, he gave no indication. “Cybertron had become stagnant, the Senate was indifferent or corrupt, and there was so much that was so wrong that rising up and I thought - I still think - that rebelling against the injustice of it all was the only way.  So when Megatron began to form the Decepticons, I went to the rallies, I listened to him talk, he said everything I’d been saying to myself, to my friends, but it wasn’t right.”

“Why?”

“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings and I will fight and if necessary, die to protect that right. To fight for any other reason is conquest. To kill for any other reason is murder and I believe that with all my spark and with all that I am.” 

At last Prime looked at her, looked at her fully. “Why?”

Arcee didn’t think about it. Didn’t need to think about it. “Because I can’t believe anything else.”

Prime looked back at the sunset and did not speak until the sun had sunk beneath the horizon. Only when it was gone, did he turn back towards the base. “Walk with me.”

————————————

“Uh, what was that?” Simmons asked. 

Not moments earlier, Arcee had suddenly recalled her avatar, popped all her weapons, and raced out of the hanger. Lennox and the Autobots had followed, leaving Simmons and Fowler alone with the Maximals. 

“Bathroom break?” Rattrap suggested. Primal flicked him in the ear.

Bumblebee entered the hanger, herding both the Witwickys, the friend and Barnes before him. 

“Is there an attack? I am ready to fight.” Silverbolt stood up straight. 

“Settle down, Bowser,” Blackarachnia said, draping one leg over Silverbolt’s back and pushing him back down. “We’d be hearing gunshots if it was.”

“Can you tell us what’s going on?” Primal asked. 

“Whoa! Giant alien robot monkey!” Miles yanked out his phone only to find himself face to stomach with Fowler. The big man could move very fast when he wanted to. “No photos?” Fowler shook his head. “Not even one?” Another shake of the head. “Aw come on, it’s for my blog.”

Simmons leaned forward. “Somewhere in Ohio is a prison. Barry Manilow plays over the speakers 16 hours a day, there’s regular showings of the Brady Bunch movie, and the only thing to read is Billy Ray Cyrus’ autobiography. So if you take even one photo, a second of video, anything, you will wake up to the sweet sounds of ‘Copa Cabana’. Capiche?”

“Capiche,” Miles said, putting his phone away.

“Now,” Simmons continued. “Will someone tell me what in the cotton picking hell is going on out there?”

“Dunno,” Sam admitted. “We were watching Miles trying to teach Skids and Mudflap how to play soccer when all of a sudden, Arcee’s selves go racing by followed by the soldiers and the Autobots. I wanted to go see, but Bee made us come here.” 

“Whoa!” Cheetor darted around the table and got very close to Sam. Despite his name, his transmetal form was more akin to a very large tiger. “Check it out, guys, it’s Spike! Okay, he’s younger, but still! Spike!” 

“Uh . . . what?” Sam asked. 

“And there’s two of them!” Cheetor exclaimed, and bounded over to Samuel, who looked equally confused. “And you’re Chip!” Cheetor continued, turning to Miles. “No wheelchair this time, huh? That’s cool!” He turned to Mikaela and stopped short. “Uh . . . Carly?”

Mikaela shook her head. “My name is Mikaela.” 

“Oh . . . I mean, hi. I’m Cheetor.” 

“Stand down, Cheetor,” Primal ordered. 

“But it’s Spike!” Cheetor exclaimed. “Two Spikes! And Bumblebee! They’re here after all!”
 
“What?” Sam asked, utterly confused. 

“What kind of name is ‘Chip’?” Miles demanded. 

“Yeah, I’m kind of wondering about that,” Simmons drawled. “You guys are awfully excited about Witwicky here.”

Primal sighed. “In our timeline, Samuel ‘Spike’ Witwicky and his father Sparkplug were the first humans the Autobots met. The friendship between Bumblebee and Spike laid the foundation for the alliance between Earth and Cybertron and remains its bedrock.”

“But hey, no pressure,” Rattrap added.

“So wait a minute,” Miles held up both hands. “You’re not just a giant alien robot monkey, but a time traveling giant alien robot monkey from another universe?” He turned to Simmons. “I can’t believe you’re blog-blocking me, dude.”

“Gee, sorry to disappoint,” Simmons sneered, clearly not sorry at all. 

“So uh,  not to break up the lovefest here,” Rattrap spoke up, “but I still ain’t keen on goin’ from fightin’ the Preds straight into fightin’ the ‘Cons.”

I understand that, Rattrap,” Primal said, “and I can talk to Prime about a civilian or noncombat —“

“What? No!” Rattrap waved his paws. “To the slag pit with that! Pfft! I’d get bored within a week.” He looked down at the table. “Just . . . I wanted a break, y’know?” He sighed and then slapped both paws on the table. “Right. It’s what, nineteen eighty-five? What’s Megatron up to?”

“I ain’t telling him,” Miles said, “You do it, Spike.” He slapped Sam on the shoulder.

“Me? Why me?” Sam yelped.

“You are The Witwicky,” Miles intoned, “The Chosen One who will bridge the gap between Autobots and Humans, shining a light into the future.”

“Yeah,” Samuel said with same deadpan tone that he’d used back at Sam’s house, “but your name is Chip.”

“It is not!” Miles hollered.

“Whatever you say, Chip.”

————————————

Abandoned Soviet Airbase, 
Somewhere in Russia

Air Major Thundercracker grimaced as he watched the warship land. The Stalker was Bloodshine’s command and his paranoia was legendary. 

“‘That was quick,” Skywarp muttered. 

“Yeah, it only took ‘Shine what, a year to cross the twelve parsecs between here and Keros Four?” Ramjet snickered. 

“Guess he didn’t stop to interrogate every asteroid he came across.” Thrust rolled his optics. “You have to the vet space rocks, right?”

“Right,” Dirge confirmed. “Inanimate objects could be hiding Autobots.”

“Or are Autobots,” Ramjet continued. 

Thrust nodded solemnly. “The Astro-Bots.”

The four mechs burst into laughter.

Thundercracker could not resist a small chuckle of his own. Thrust, Ramjet and Dirge might have been exaggerating, but not by much.

The doors of the ship opened and mechs began filing out. They had black chassis, and a uniform design. 

“Vehicons!” Thrust exclaimed. “All right! The Autobots are as good as slagged!”

“Yeah, but who’s that behind them?” Ramjet asked. A larger Mech, head and shoulders above the Vehicons was coming down the ramp. “Some merc?”

“Worse,” Thundercracker groaned. “It’s Lugnut.”

“Slag,” Skywarp muttered and then fell silent as Lugnut’s cyclopean eye swung towards them and the oversized mech headed towards them, shoving others out of his way.

“Where is Lord Megatron?” Lugnut demanded as he got close.

“Where’s Bloodshine?” Thundercracker countered. 

“Oh, he’s on Tachyon Delta, and Epsilon, and a comet,” At Lugnut’s side, Blitzwing jerked a thumb back towards the Stalker. “Not to mention the bridge, the port airlock, the port scramjet, and twice in the galley.” 

Thundercracker repressed a shudder. If there was one thing Blitzwing liked more than seeing mechs get slagged, it was violently disassembling them. 

“Silence!” Lugnut roared. “Where is our master?”

Your master, maybe, Thundercracker thought to himself. “Megatron is dead.” And good riddance.

“Lies!” Lugnut’s hand shot out, grasping Thundercracker by the neck and lifting him off his feet. “Megatron is invincible!” 

“Put him down,” Skywarp snarled. He and the other Seekers had their guns pointed at Lugnut’s head. 

Blitzwing, living up to his name, deployed all of his weapons, half at him, half at Skywarp and the others. 

Past Lugnut, Thundercracker could see the other Decepticons (including a few familiar faces that he hand’t seen in stellar cycles) watching them, waiting and he realized what he was going to have to do. 

Decepticon hierarchy was defined by strength, or, as the humans put it; asskicking equals authority. 

He gestured to the other Seekers to stand down, the movement of his hand and the Seekers obeying him drawing Lugnut’s attention even as his other hand sprouted a spike that he rammed into Lugnut’s arm, disrupting the servos and weapons within and forcing the other mech to release him. Thundercracker then turned his attention to Blitzwing, throwing the psychopath off his feet with a sonic blast and then turned back to Lugnut, kicking him in the hip, hard, and then blowing out his optic with a laser blast before grabbing his arm and throwing him to the ground, slamming a heel onto Lugnut’s neck and pre-igniting the thruster therein. His arm came up, gun pointed at Blitzwing, his other gun aimed at Lugnut’s head. 

“Anyone else?” He called out, optics sweeping the assembled Decepticons. No one stepped forward. “My name is Air Major Thundercracker, I’m the senior officer-“

“And if ya don’t like it, shut up, get off planet or get slagged.” Skywarp called from behind him. 

“Ah, not to dispute your authority, Air Major,” Blitzwing said, withdrawing his own weapons, “but you said Megatron is dead?”

“Lies!” Lugnut cried out from beneath Thundercracker’s foot. “The Master could never be—“ he was cut off as Thundercracker blew out his vocal processor. 

“Optimus Prime colluded with the locals and destroyed Megatron,” Thundercracker said. “They have what’s left of his body.” Lugnut went wild at that point, struggling to throw off Thundercracker’s foot, but failing. 

“I see,” Blitzwing mused, “and what do you intend to do about it?” 

Ideally, nothing, Thundercracker thought to himself, Megatron’s corpse can rot on this planet until the end of time for all I care. “Dirge, Ramjet. Take Lugnut to the Stalker’s brig and lock him in. Thrust, sort out the Vehicons. Separate the drones from those with sparks. Blitzwing, you help.“

“And what about us?” 

Thundercracker turned to the speaker. She was one of three mechs, two of which were the familiar faces he’d seen moments ago. “Slipstream,” he said by way of greeting.

“Air Major,” she replied, granting the title without any sarcasm. Slipstream was a master tactician as well as ambitious, ruthless, and dangerous, but the two of them had always shared a certain wary mutual respect. Also, the use of his rank implied she was willing to follow him, at least for now. 

“I want you to help Thrust with the Vehicons. Compile a list of every name or designation, ground or air, then do a complete evaluation of the Stalker. Battle status, equipment, everything. Then go through the buildings here and do inventory. I want to know exactly what we have, what works, and what can be slagged or repurposed. Get as many Vehicons as you need to help you.” He turned to the other mech he knew. “Sunstorm.”

“Primus willed we’d see each other again, did He not?” Sunstorm had a very melodic voice that was a joy to listen to, none of which changed the fact that she had what humans called “crazy eyes” and was firmly convinced that she embodied the Will of Primus. Thundercracker wasn’t particularly bothered by her insanity, and it made interfacing with her a lot more fun. 

“Once Thrust and Slipstream are done with the Vehicons, draw up an order of battle. Every mech gets two Vehicons, one sparked, one drone. If there’s any left over, they’re part of the Stalker’s crew or base security. Reserve one sparked Vehicon as a commander.” Thundercracker thought for a moment. “I have a workstation in the big hanger. When you have a battle order, come see me there.”

Sunstorm inclined her head and walked off, leaving Thundercracker alone with the third mech. She wasn’t a Seeker, but there was a certain organic look to her that suggested Insecticon. 

“Who the slag are you?” Skywarp asked. He hadn’t moved from Thundercracker’s side.

“Arachne,” she replied. 

It took Thundercracker a moment to place the name. “You’re a medic, work with Shockwave.” It was also a subtle probe; the last thing Thundercracker needed was to have Shockwave around, especially since the scientist outranked him.

“We . . .  disagreed,” Arachne replied. “As for medic, well, I tend to disassemble, rather than repair.” Her mouth curved upwards in a smile that suggested she was thinking about how to disassemble him. 

“Well unarchive those skills and go find a mini-con named Gripwrench. He’s around here somewhere.” Thundercracker waved a hand at the various structures. “We need a med bay up and running as soon as possible.”

“You’re planning something,” Arachne said, moving closer and then moved back slightly as Skywarp stuck his gun in her face.

“Get the med bay up,” Thundercracker told her. 

As they moved off, no one paid attention to the blue and gold mech on the sidelines. But then, they weren’t supposed to. 

—————————————

Samuel sat back on the couch and stared as the credits rolled. “Seriously?” He asked, eyebrows in his hairline. “That’s . . . wow.”

“Aw come on!” Miles exclaimed. “This is like, the best show ever!” 

“Brony,” Sam commented from the recliner where he and Mikaela were a tangle of limbs and bodies and utterly unashamed about it.

“And proud!” Miles raised one fist in the air. “Viva la Rainbow Dash!” 

“Rainbow Dash is not revolutionary,” Sam said drily.

“Shows what you know!” Miles pointed at Sam. “State thy favorite Pony or be known as a filthy casual.”

“Then I’m filthy,” Sam replied. 

“So very, very filthy,” Mikaela added with a grin. She rubbed her cheek against Sam’s. “Mmm, filth.”

“You two are disgusting.” Miles crossed his arms. “No, really. You just violated twelve sections of the Innuendo Act of seventy-three and that had only three sections.”

“Innuendo?” Sam looked at Mikaela. “Have we done that yet?”

“I was saving it for your birthday,” she replied with a perfectly straight face. 

“No! NO!” Miles scooted as far away on the couch as he could, finger leveled accusingly. “Keep your cutesy couple shenanigans away from me!”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Weren’t you caught snuggling in the hotel jacuzzi with Amanda Bravo on our senior trip?”

“Her boyfriend too,” Miles shrugged. “Anyways, point is, we just mainlined sixteen episodes of the best show ever made and there has to be a character you liked more than others. Name them.”

“Applejack,” Mikaela said after a moment. 

“Rarity,” Sam said. Mikaela looked at him. “Gorgeous, glamorous, a gem. Like you.”

“And five boyfriend points to Sam!” Miles proclaimed. “What about you?” He asked, looking at Samuel.

“Um . . . Spike, I guess?” Samuel fiddled with his hands. “Maybe Pinkie Pie.”

“Acceptable.”

“Well I accept that I have to open the shop in the morning,” Mikaela announced, beginning the process of untangling herself from Sam. “So I’m going to bed.”

“Who sleeps anymore?” Miles responded, nonetheless rising to help clean up. 

“Mechanics who have to do the bookkeeping and then rebuild a thirteen fifty Ducati.”

“That’s fair.” 

Mikaela kissed Sam and then retrieved her jacket, gloves and helmet. “See you on Wednesday,” she said, and left. 

When the pizza boxes, soda cans, chip bags, and empty bowls of popcorn had been disposed of or placed in the dishwasher, Miles turned to them, hands on his hips. So, video games?”

“Sure,” Sam shrugged. “Samuel?”

Samuel shook his head, “Thanks, but I’m going to bed.”

“Suit yourself,” Miles said, and gestured Sam up the stairs. “Star Lords, I get the wizard, your ass is mine.” Silence. “Oh come on! That was a perfect set-up-“ Miles was cut off by the sound of a closing bedroom door. 

Growing up, Father had been insistent that doors and windows were to be closed and locked before bed. Since coming here, to this world, Samuel had continued with the habit and Ron had let it continue. Perhaps it was laziness, perhaps on some level, he understood that Samuel needed to keep some things from his old life, or perhaps he simply never noticed. Whatever the reason, he’d yet object to Samuel prowling around, checking the doors and windows, and so Samuel kept doing it. 

With that done, Samuel trudged up the stairs and into the room he’d been given. In his universe, this had been Samuel’s -the real Samuel - room. Here, it had been a guest room, but now it was Samuel’s again. 

“But you’re not Samuel,” he said out loud, “you’re just afraid.” He looked down. “Yeah, I am.”

Strangely, saying it out loud helped a little. 

——————————

Samuel stood in a void. 

That was the only word for it. A void. 

While there was something solid under his feet, or at least felt like there was, Samuel couldn’t actually see anything, but he could see. 

What the hell?

It was then that he heard the clip clopping of hooves and a pink horse trotted into view, her mane spilling down over one side of her neck and three balloons printed on each flank. 

“P . . . Pinkie Pie?”

“What?” She looked at her hooves. “Oh wow! I am Pinkie Pie! And yes, you are dreaming.”

Samuel stared. “Huh?”

Pinkie Pie raised a hoof. “Identity follows form,” she said as though making a point. “You’re seeing me as Pinkie Pie, so Pinkie Pie I am.”

“That makes . . . no sense.”

“Does it . . . Samuel?” She leaned in, one blue eye boring into his.

Samuel looked away and Pinkie Pie grinned, sitting back on her haunches. “So,” she rubbed her hooves together. “You’re here, that’s good, which brings us to step three. Or four?” She pulled out a roll of paper, letting it unroll and trail off into the void somewhere. “Yup! Four!”

“You’re not Pinkie Pie,” Samuel objected, “you’re just a dream.”

“Dream, yes. Real, also yes. Cupcakes, very yes!” Pinkie Pie popped one into her mouth, offering one to Samuel, who took it, but didn’t eat it. It was chocolate, with white frosting and a single P drawn on it in pink icing.

“I don’t understand.”

“Philosophical nonsense, but this is your brain trying to comprehend a eighth dimensional physics conversation, so . . .” she shrugged. “I’m here because there are things Prime needs to know, things you need to know, and it’s time for some cryptic foreshadowing.” 

“Huh?”

“Eighth Dimensional Physics, remember? Now pay attention; the universes are merging. Kind of a consolidation; take elements from all of them, put them together, that becomes a new core universe. Except for Kiss Players, that stays where it is.” 

“Kiss Players?”

Pinkie Pie leaned in, close enough that Samuel’s nose almost touched her cheek. “It stays where where it is.”

“Uh . . . okay?”

“Yay!” Pinkie Pie did a little dance and then dropped to all fours again. “So, real quick. One, do not let the Army take that piece Sam found in his shirt, you’re going to need it. Two, It’s time for the kids to stop fighting and start getting along again. Three, Simmons knows where Jetfire is, Jetfire knows what the poem means. Four, Ratchet should remember Flora on Vega Six, since he’s not going to believe you otherwise. Five, He is coming. You have like, a year. Six, Sir Edmund Burton. He knows things. And finally, Primal has mail, but he’s going to have to wait for delivery. Got all that?”

“Uh, I think so? But . .. shouldn’t Prime be hearing all this?”

“Maybe . . . but I like Simmons’ confused angry face.” She leapt to her hooves and walked past him. “Oh, and that’s Miles at the door.” 

“What?” Samuel turned around, but all he saw was void. “What?” he blinked and found himself staring at the bedside clock. “What?”

Someone banged on the door. “Yo, Spike squared! Wake up!” 

Samuel sat up, blinking as he tried to focus on the clock and then froze. Next to the clock was a chocolate cupcake with white frosting and a pink P on it. “Oh God,” he muttered, unconsciously scooting towards the foot of the bed and away from the nightstand. “What?”

Miles banged on the door again. “Hey! Get out here or I’ll start calling you ‘Electric Boogaloo’ and then I’ll kick your ass for making me reference that movie!”

Samuel tore his eyes from the cupcake and staggered over to the door, all but throwing it open. “Wh-“ was all he manage to get out before Miles grabbed his arm and yanked him across the hall to Sam’s room, throwing open the door. 

“Well?” Miles demanded. 

Sam stood on the bed, muttering to himself as he drew cybertronian glyphs on the wall, the same ones the Allspark fragment had downloaded into Samuel’s head. There was also mathematical equations that Samuel didn’t even recognize. 

“Ionic plasma is key for sublight drive codified by x to the twelfth power equals e times reactor mass!” Sam insisted, pointing at one of the equations “Molecular photonic emissions provide point six c optimum cruising velocity.” 

“So there we are, playing Star Lords, and all of a sudden, Sam leaps up and starts writing on the walls like he’s channeling Jack Nicolson in the Shining meets Alfred Einstein having a Eureka moment. I’m all for wall art, but I’m pretty sure this has something to do with our wacky space friends.”

“Bhains ki aulad,” Samuel groaned, because English just did not seem like enough right now and then ran over and pulled Sam away from the wall. The Bionetic Bond came with a small strength boost and the bio-plastic shell added a little more, enough to overpower Sam, anyway, and drag him from the room.

“Warp jumps connect two points in lateral space by subspace point to point wormholes!” Sam reached out to write on the wall, but Samuel knocked his hand away. “Define as e to the twenty-sixth power times distance over speed equals zero.”

Samuel didn’t respond as they made it down the stairs and out the front door. 

“I don’t know,” Samuel said in response to Bumblebee’s questioning chirp. “We need Ratchet.”

Bumblebee’s engine rumbled to life as the driver’s side door opened and the seat moved forward. Samuel pushed Sam into the backseat.

“Warp jump coordinates are determined by establishing a six point destination plus a seventh for the origin!” Sam protested, reaching up to begin writing on Bumblebee’s ceiling. 

“That’s the Starportals on Wormhole Extreme,” Miles shot back, diving into the passenger seat. “Here, Paper and crayons!” 

As they backed out of the driveway, Miles looked at Samuel. “It’s over three hundred miles to Jasper, there’s a nutcase in the backseat, it’s dark, and we should be wearing sunglasses.”

From the radio came John Belushi’s voice. “Hit it.”
_____________
Notes:
Bhains ki aulad - Son of a buffalo
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