Forged Birth Certificates and Other Documents

Project Defensor’s components had only barely been sparked, awaiting only some final tweaks when the Enigma of Combination had been reduced to smithereens during a 'Con raid; only glimmering shards remained. Its destruction left the Autobots with five sparked, but not-yet-onlined, components of Project Defensor; and five unsparked protoforms intended for Project Superion.

When they had first stolen the mercurial artifact, Optimus Prime’s plan had been to have two full Combiners awoken to balance out the two of the Decepticons. The latter two combiners had been made in the time between when the Enigma had been found by the ‘Cons, and it being stolen by Autobot intelligence.

Megatron’s faction had not taken its theft lightly. Soon, labs were infiltrated and information plundered. The Autobots had known that, sooner or later, their research base in the depths of the Manganese Mountains would be uncovered. Their scientists worked quickly. Protoform was cultured. Code written. They would online their new combiners one at a time and with the utmost haste and skill.

What they hadn’t expected was for Megatron to entirely eschew subterfuge in re-acquisition of his artifact. He had stormed the base with no warning, his teams of miners opening up holes in their defenses like rusted, pitted iron. He went a step further: he had decided that, should he not be able to recapture the Enigma, the Autobots would never have it. He had blown up both it and the scientist carrying it, attempting to escape through a groundbridge. He had, in his fury at being deniedthe artifact, sought out and ignited the lab’s entire cache of protoform, two-thirds of all they had left. What remained was an emergency pittance that had been squirreled away off-base.

The newly-named Protectobots had been whisked away at the first sign of danger, thankfully nowhere near the conflict. Truly, their components were lucky to have been sparked in the first place. The Well of Allsparks seemed evermore hesitant about sparking protoforms as the war continued, and many bots suspected that it would soon stop entirely.

Although blind to it at first, Optimus quickly grew frantic as the spark harvests grew smaller and smaller, worried that the Well would stop providing sparks before the researchers could replicate the Enigma's powers. While they'd started as soon as they'd realised the artifact was beyond any repair, headway had been slow.

He withdrew into his room for cycles, communing with the Matrix so deeply that even his amica, Ratchet, couldn't comprehend the feelings that slipped through their bond. After many shifts had passed, Prime exited his sanctuary with polish faded and only a vision of Sidwswipe and Sunstreaker to show for his desperation. The brothers were immediately called back from their placements near Polyhex.

Ratchet told Optimus that to replicate the combiner technology without the immensely powerful Enigma, they would need to interact with the sparks while they were still malleable and uncoded by their protoforms. They needed to still be partially in the Well.

Optimus had his scientists, engineers, and medics all drop their current projects to begin on his new obsession. He began hovering over their shoulders, waiting to see if they could salvage the situation. He drew in resources from all across the board, and in desperation, instructed the twins to spend their shifts at the lab and to submit to testing.

Ratchet told his amica that they already had the twins’ code on file — as every Autobot’s was — and that the brothers were better off being sent on patrol. Optimus disagreed.

It wasn’t a medical issue (yet, thought Ratchet, wondering when the poor twins would grow stir-crazy), so the Prime’s word overruled his. No matter their superior’s thoughts on their ability to solve the problem, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe could only put up with so much fake poking to satisfy the Prime. Even when investigations didn't reveal a thing from neither code nor spark, Optimus kept sending them back to the lab, hoping for some miracle.

"Twins come into being as a single spark, only later splitting," Ratchet kept attempting to explain. "The newest combiner has five protoforms. We need five adult sparks from the Well to be joined after being formed.” But none of the logic took the desperation out of Optimus, and so the brothers kept arriving at the start of each cycle.

Instead of standing there doing nothing and catching dust, they were quickly employed as lab assistants, which they seemed to enjoy far more than they let on. They cleaned glassware, sorted supplies, and ran standardised tests to keep them out of Prime’s anxiety-inducing gaze, as he still seemed to hope that they’d spontaneously spout an answer., possesed by Primus. After dealing with his hovering for too long, Ratchet banned him from the research area.

In the medbay-cum-lab, they were all disappointed when both conjunx and amica code turned up dead ends. They were binary, discrete connections between two mecha. There could be a web of bots all connected by those bonds, but it was just that — a web — a clean line from bot to bot. Those bonds therefore wouldn’t work, as prior research had told them that combiners existed neither as discrete mecha, nor as a uniform consciousness. This strange cohesion apparently allowed the formation of the combined form’s distinct personality, yet kept the individuality of its members largely intact. What they seemed to need was the blending characteristics of a twin bond, but with the ability to exist between multiple mecha. Triplets hadn’t ever been reported in medical literature.

As for studying Defensor, he hadn't been onlined since his sparking, and needed tweaks before booting. The researchers simply didn’t have time for that with the Well of Allsparks weakening. They needed Superion onlined as soon as possible, and they were stuck.

As per normal for Optimus, the Matrix’s hint had not ended up working in the way that he had expected.

It wasn’t the twins' code that provided the first big clue. The two mentioned the difference between their bond type and others at some point late in their shift, after days of dissecting the conjunx code of every bot in the database. They mentioned that a seeker had once said that their description of a twin bond had reminded him of his own trinebond. Sideswipe might as well have lit a fire beneath the afts of the researchers. The team began to titter. Ratchet, despite it being halfway through the nightcycle, had immediately pinged Prowl. He was fed up with his amica’s unhealthy obsession. He wanted it all done and to have the combiner bitlets all awake and healthy.

The all-nighter that had ensued only revealed tantalisingly lacking evidence. Praxians had been separated from Vosnian seekers since early history, and were likely exchanging code with flightless Cybertronians before even then, that meant that while their relationship dynamic code encouraged multiples of three, the need for it was gone. Even then, the snippets of degraded code remaining were still enough to get the team's beleaguered processors inspired. When the entire room turned to Pharma, the doctor reminded them that he was a jet from Tetrahex, and therefore not a true seeker; he was of no more use than Prowl.

Upon being told, Optimus, who had been pacing outside the lab, seemed destroyed. Grumpy, tired of labwork, and halfway through a sizeable carafe of engex, Sideswipe had said, "why don't you just fetch a real seeker, then?"

The science team agreed that they would continue with his thought tomorrow, and quickly turned in for the night after their setback and potential lead. They were too exhausted to see the steely-sure cloudcover in Optimus' optics as he left.

Then, at least, the science team knew exactly where next to look. What they needed was permission from a seeker to take a sampleof their trining and Windbond code, and to rewrite it with the Well of Allsparks in mind. Considering that Optimus had long since volunteered the Matrix as a power source, they felt good. The most hopeful they’d been during the entire project. The entire team recharged soundly that off-shift.

Upon awaking sometime later, Perceptor began work on the ethics report in earnest. They needed permission forms in triplicate, and the old bases supplied for standard coding experiments were woefully insufficient. The rest of the team piled on as they slowly awoke, having Pharma and the twins review the drafts so that they could supply their bond experience as much as possible. Ultra Magnus and Prowl soon joined them.

As for Optimus, he had not been seen the entire day. Neither had Jazz.

Ratchet was suspicious.

Snippet of comm. discussion between the amicae Ratchet and Optimus Prime:

13:05 Ratchet: Orion where the thunderin’ Primus are you? We need this ethics consultation done ASAP, and you’d be a damned big help if you were here.
13:08 Orion Pax: Don’t worry about that.
13:08 Orion Pax: Busy right now.
13:11 Orion Pax: Unrelated, but do you have room for some supplies in the medbay?
13:11 Orion Pax: Only temporary. Something the size of a large storage crate, maybe.
13:19 Ratchet: Pax, don’t you dare start thinking of this medbay as extra storage space for your datapad collection. You know we’re pressed for space most times as it is.
13:20 Ratchet: I just checked; we may have a temporary space where Wheeljack and Brainstorm fried part of the server last centivorn. If you get your ass unbuisied ASAP and get down here. We’re thinking might be able to ask some of the more reasonable Vosnian councilors to donate their code during tomorrow's meeting.
13:21 Orion Pax: I wouldn’t dare. And thank you.

Ratchet’s suspicions proved to be grounded, as the next night Perceptor and Pharma, sleeping on cots in the medbay, were awoken by muffled sounds of fury.

Optimus had wanted the team to have the highest chances of success, and when Jazz had said that those with the strongest connections to the windbond were royals, it hadn't taken long for them to scope out some possible targets.

The others would have told them that the royals would never let them at their precious code, so they shouldnt even bother asking and go find some random politician to ask. Optimus had promptly ignored them, and he and Jazz had simply gone off and got one. Specifically, the heir to the Vosnian throne, Winglord-in-waiting Starscream.

That particular royal was well known for both his mercurial temper, and for skipping his guard retinue to go drinking in seedy local oil houses with his trine. The latter tidbit had taken all of ten minutes to figure it out. Jazz had been sitting in the favourite oilhouse of the Senate's employees when two trines of grumbling seekers had shuffled in and filled up the bar. The emblem of the Vosnian Royal Guard had been embossed onto their wings, no questions about the source of their information.

After that, it hadn't been hard for Jazz to overhear their many complaints concerning the Winglord-to-be from his exhausted guard detail. They'd said all he had needed to hear, and in short order. The heir had been snatched, and the oil of the other two trinemembers had been lightly drugged so that they would be recharging for the expected length of time in their shady motel room.

The only problem had been that he might have been too highly ranked, meaning his absence might be noted, and if they were caught, the reaction would be far more severe.

Jazz thought heir apparent Starscream was worth the risk.

As the two Autobot reasearchers saw him in that absurdly early morning, he was understandably spitting mad inside his cage, wings rattling and talons swiping at anyone who got within range.

He was a tricolour tetrajet with a charcoal-dark face that was all high, high cheekbones and an angular alquiline nose. His lips were thin, rouged, and pressed in a hissing grimace, and above them his angular optiks were likewise detailed with paint. A blinking inhibitor on his back between his wings, unreachable, was plugged directly into his neural net. It was likely the only reason anyone in the near vicinity could hear anything; it had disabled his antigravs, thrusters, and voice.

The two medical bots sat there, stunned, as Optimus and several Special Operations members took stock of their prisoner's containment, seemingly uncaring that the seeker himself was so furious that his biolights pulsed like a police cruiser and he was rattling like a loose muffler on a dirt roat. Once they'd all confirmed that everything was to their standards, two of the four bots went and stood guard at the medbay's entrance. Optimus and Jazz remained by the cage. 

"I'm not happy we had to do this," Optimus said. "I beleive it was necessary, however."

He turned to Pharma and Perceptor and continued.

"I do hope you both understand that none of what has occurred with our temporary guest can spread outside this medbay. I will let Jazz take it from here."

The Spec Ops head slipped from behind the cage, neatly dodging the seeker's swipe to stand before Pharma and Perceptor. He tipped his head, visor indicating that he was working in his HUD, and then the cage let loose a controlled burst of EMP, and Starscream clattered to its padded floor. The medic and scientist were rattled, staring at the caged flier. Jazz slipped into a casual lean on the edge of the cage, and began to explain the plan.

"First of all, ye'll be using this lovely royal here to grab yer source code, I'll be aiding ye in copying it. It'll be all read and no write, so no changes to his source code, obviously, that ain't what he's here for.

"Once we've got the code in a sandbox on a computer not connected to the base's networks, we'll be doing two sanitising stages. First, checking it for any bugs or trojans or what-have-ye that's he's got hidden in there. Fellow has a science degree from Iacon U, he's no slouch. Then, we'll be doing a second stage of sanitising. We'll be cleaning the code of any specific reference of exactly who it’s from, just leave the necessities intact. Personal identifiers have got to go. Got that?"

Both bots nodded numbly.

"Now. I probably don't have to say this, but Starscream's involvement in this and the situation surrounding it do not leave this room. He'll have his memory wiped as best we can, and we didn't want any traces of sedative in his lines, which is why the prince was awake when he was brought here. Only had time to calibrate the EMP generator just then. We don’t want more civil war participants than we already have. Cybertron’s in deep enough.

“So ye don't tell the rest of the research team, and ye don't tell the new combiner bitties. Got that too?"

"Yes, sir."

Optimus waived Perceptor, who looked ill, over to the side with him. He placed his massive hand down on the microscope's shoulder, rocking the comparatively tiny frame and nearly engulfing the bot’s neck. The Prime leaned in close and began murmuring to Perceptor, who nodded occasionally in response. Pharma and Jazz stood off to the side, watching.

“Now, I know you don't have any reservations about doing shady slag, Pharma. I've seen your resumé. This is the chance of a lifetime. Bots with this code aren't available every day for your perusal. We knew we needed a royal, it just so happened that the one with a disregard for his own security is one of the one's with the best code, yeah? You know that I know my way around a bot’s code, so I’ll be checking him after for any changes. You hurt him in any way, I’ll have the Pit sent in on your helm. We clear?”

Pharma didn’t look at the bot, staring straight ahead.

“Crystal, sir.”

“Good, let’s keep it that way. If either of you has any questions, toss ‘em my way. We all want this done clean, clear, and ASAP, especially him, I’d assume. Seemed like a self absorbed pompous sack of connectors, but he has the processor and skills to back it up.”

When Optimus and Perceptor rejoined them, Jazz clapped his hands together, brightening up with his trademark false cheer.

"Okay! So! All the other bots on the combiner research team will get a notification to work on awakening the Superion components when they themselves wake up in the morning. Supposedly so that they can talk to them and get an idea of what the bond feels like for reference, ye thought it might lead to better code yadda yadda, we'll deal with the cover story after. What that means is that between me, ye, and the two agents watching the door, we've got to get this done tomorrow morning -- that is not the upcoming morning, the one after that, just t'specify.

“So, sound good? Pax'll make the fuel for us while we set up."

Without waiting for anyone to actually agree, both commanding bots turned around and went about their work. Optimus trod over to the secondary medbay’s break room to work on charged fuel for the lot of them, stopping by the door to get the preferences of the two Spec Ops bots still stationed there. Jazz returned to the cage, reaching in and plugging the seeker into a separate box, which hummed to life, and then lined the box into his own arm. The box was compact, unlabeled, and a uniform matte black, only adding an indistinct whirr to the general hum of the smaller medbay. Obviously some in-house Spec Ops gear. The kind that Ratchet would rather see in pieces than in a medical space.

Pharma squirmed and Perceptor twitched, both looking ill for vastly different reasons.

The medic went and grabbed a small parts crate, and gently set it down behind Jazz so the bot wouldn’t have to stay quat down next to their “patient”. Perceptor knew frightened pandering when he saw it, and this was it just as much as scared undergrads serving their overseeing professor before the universities had shut down was.

The microscope shifted uneasily, then slipped over to the ancillary medbay computer. He was met there by an indistinct Spec Ops bot who gently barred him access, putting his servo out in front and shaking his helm. He indicated for the science bot to step back. He first began splicing each connection line that went into the computer into another Delphic bit of tech gear, then unplugged each line from the main computer, coiling it neatly on the floor. The bot plucked more cables from his subspace, and plugged in the exact number of original connection cables first to the ambiguous box, then to the main computer. The box added another gentle hum to the normal sursurration of a medbay empty of patients.

None of this comforted Perceptor, who knew nothing about the politics of kidnapping an heir, but who knew enough about inter- and intra-nets to know that, as the bot spliced a generator into the computer’s power supply, he was watching a very serious cover-up take place. He figured Optimus — who was once Orion Pax, rising star of archivism — had probably given them free access to the medical archives sans tracking, and that the unassuming box between the computer and its connections had something to do with it. The muted matte black generator would hide any extra power demands the computer had over its baseline while they were editing mass amounts of archaic, convoluted code.

Perceptor had seen his fair share of government officials asking him to do shady things, and not once had he acquiesced. Had it not been for Optimus, a bot whose treatise on the organisation of large archival systems he had immediately forwarded to every database he knew of, who he now looked up to, giving him reassurances just then, the microscope would never have touched this project. Would’ve reported it to... who exactly?

He worried at the paint on his digits in silence as the other bot finished up his work, and he was granted access to the computer. Perceptor booted her up, and watched in confusion as he accessed databases while his uploaded data remained almost nil. Even those few bytes, he was sure, were nullified by that box and Optimus’ fiddling.

Perceptor set up the CNA coding program alongside some plugins that integrated compatible personality matrix hardware simulation as Optimus trotted out with some fuel.

His hands felt gritty even though he knew they were clean. Paint flakes fluttered from his digit-tips and he wrung his hands in silence. Optimus served Jazz and the two other Spec Ops agents before walking over to the computer with Perceptor. He again placed his hand on the microscope's shoulder, rocking him so much that Perceptor had to shift his stance so as to not topple over. The Prime began rubbing along his spinal column with his thumb in what the scientist assumed was supposed to be a comforting gesture. The scientist was not much comforted.

"Thank you, Perceptor. You know that I want to meet these bitlets and have them as healthy as they can be, probably almost as much as you do. It could not be done without you."

With a last press of his hand, the convoy returned to the kitchen.

Perceptor began to work.

Perceptor didn't often feel guilt for something Optimus told him to do, but looking at this code, he felt the coils of it curl around his spinal column. He had already edited out the hallmarks of the future Winglord of Vos as much as he could, the smoking gun of guilt. However, there was only so much one could do when the power of that code was what you needed.

The Spec Ops team had just left after his confirmation that both parts of the code were ready -- the trine bond for its ability to connect multiple bots closely, and the royal Windbond code to allow for that plurality that they absolutely needed.

The scientist's main source of anxiety, the royal himself, had been carried down to the Ops' belowground den of operations to have his memory wiped of the incident and deposited back into a seedy motel where his trinemates were staying. Perceptor wasn't sorry to see him go, he should never have been here, they should've just tried their luck with asking for volunteers--

"Hey, Perceptor?" said Pharma.

"Yes?"

"Do you think they'll online properly? We cleaned that seeker's code but it was the mess of a paranoid bot. We got it all?"

"Righty paranoid, perhaps. And, yes, I beleive so."

Perceptor turned aroung, looking where Pharma was facing. There lay the five bodies that would form the combiner, protoforms with basic grounder frames and internal layouts, but still just some solids submerged in the multi-state sentico metallico nestled in their stasis pods.

This late in the war, with the Well producing fewer sparks, hotspots fading, and the energon lines of the very planet itself drying up, they'd been lucky to get what little living metal they had. Project Defensor had needed more than anticipated, the combined form needing kibble and therefore drawing extra from their limited reserves meant that Superion's component bots would not be formed in their adult frames. They'd be without alt-mode, without the reasoning of a fully formed processor. They'd form as bitlets, and Perceptor felt terrified for them.

He watched over their little frames as he finished off a cube of now-stale energon, hoping they'd be okay.

After the Spec Ops crowd had left to return Starscream, it was late-bordering-on-early and the streaky transparisteel windows glowed with murmurs of the coming sunrise. It was in this dismal scene that came the order Perceptor had been dreading most, the one from Optimus ordering the code’s installation.

He hated every klik of watching the percentage go higher, his gaze switching between the growing number and the tiny protoforms curled in their pods. His servos were shaking from confusion, disgust, energon stimulants, and lack of defrag, while the cheery beep signaling completion made him jump.

The Prime came rushing, proceeding to order checks in triplicate before he nodded sagely, a weight off the leader’s shoulders that his part in the awful situation had been completed. He seemed, if not content, then satisfied in some minute way.

Oil should’ve been flowing, but for Perceptor, the task had been made foul by code-theft. Perceptor wanted his processor scrubbed, and he itched to tell someone. After the upload was confirmed successful, Optimus helped them tidy and made to leave, but not before reaching into each pod and fussing with every blank protoform, rearranging them to be more comfortable despite their lack of life or even consistent form.

Bitter at the guilt and weight his leader had put on him without his complete consent, he wanted to make a snarky comment in his head, but it wasn't as if he hadn't been doing the same. Dusting the pods, playing music while he was gone so the lifeless forms wouldn’t somehow get lonely. They had been very good sounding boards as he had read them his hypotheses alone in the medbay's ominous dark.

Optimus had thanked the team, hugging them both with his EM field bubbling with relief and gratitude. Perceptor kept his own underneath his plating, unable to hide the feelings of weary disconnect and underlying horror, and Pharma’s was as blank as a new datapad.

After the double door of the medbay had finally swung shut and Pharma had gone to the washracks, he stumbled over to a crate containing his gifts for the protoforms. He knew that tomorrow there would be a rush to see them onlined, and he didn’t wish to forget in the daze.

During his research he had come upon some of Cybertron’s old lifeforms, and had not been able to help himself in moulding a small one for each protoform. They were bright, cheerful, and cast in soft foam.

He slipped open the lid of each pod, and nestled each toy next to its protoform.

As he turned back to his cot, he could not be made to care about the mussed state of the covers and recharging cables. He shunted the connector into his port and fell atop the mess, gladly running his defrag program.

Apparently Optimus had already explained the sanitised version of events to the rest of the research team, as when Perceptor was woken by Wheeljack’s gentle shaking, the air in the room wasn't furious disgust. As Perceptor was handed a suspicious cube by the nearby Jazz, shimmering like energy booster had been mixed into it, Ratchet’s livid face made itself apparent.

The doctor was staring down Optimus, whose words fizzled in Perceptor’s audials. He sipped the energon which tingled on his glossa, deciphering that Optimus wanted the protoforms loaded onto an awaiting transport ASAP, so that they could be brought to the Well for ensparkment.

Ratchet, meanwhile, was obviously suspicious. A quick review of the code hadn’t set off any major alarms -- it wouldn’t, Perceptor knew -- but with the cover-up done so fast, and the goal being the health of the bitlets, and not burying the code’s source, he didn’t know what a deep check could uncover.

Ratchet flung a gesture at a nearby contrary Pharma, and then looked over to Perceptor in worry, and more than a little bit of suspicion. Perceptor didn’t have the energy to react, and he knew that his expression stayed dull. The microscope felt like a tazed turborat.

The team shuffled aboard the transport, lashing down the sturdy pods and taking their seats along the perimeter of the vessel. No one made any sound as they taxied, then finally took off, only to recheck the straps or to fidget and adjust their seatbelt.

Their escort that morning, visible through the windows around the ship, were several other unsparked military planes crewed by pilots, two unfamiliar helicopters, and one or two jets. This mismatched group was joined by an exuberant Brainstorm, who hadn’t caught any of this morning’s concern and was jubilant at moving to the next stage in the project.

The flight felt as if it had taken no time at all, and had encountered no turbulence. Still, Perceptor staggered down the loading ramp after the pods whilst downing a packet of something-or-another that had been handed to him by a sympathetic Jazz.

The Well was obviously an honoured place, left barren of alterations that almost every other micrometer of the planet had been subjected to. The pricking skyward knives of crystals and metal formations glinting to the horizon. The scampering of escaping native fauna. Perceptor would have been excited to be there even lacking the protoforms. Simply being there was a gift.

They landed at the edge of the area where the Well of Allspark’s orientation center had once lain. In respect, the rest of the distance to the feeble light had to be crossed by pede, just as the newly sparked did when they left, as they would not yet have access to their alt-modes.

A meandering, roughly trodden path left by fauna was all they had, so the pods had to be hefted by hand. Optimus took one by himself, and the rest were shared, one pod per four bots.

Perceptor had eventually stumbled over so many outgrowths of bismuth that Ratchet ceased his fretting and came over to prop up the faltering microscope.

Ratchet's voice buzzed in Perceptor's audio circuits.《What went on last night? How are they even ready?》 The tingle of the medic's scan flitted over the other bot's dull finish and unevenly lit optics.

《I am going to flay Optimus. What did he have you and Pharma do? If he thinks he can pull something like this past his amica, he is surely mistaken.》

Perceptor didn't have a response, he didn't really have the energy for one as he was helped over a stream of energon cutting through the path.

《I don't blame you for allowing him to coerce you into whatever scheme he had cooked up,》Ratchet said, looking straight ahead,《 He can be as manipulative as a thumbscrew to a seeker's wingjoint. I can't say I'm not happy I get to hold our bitlets, but...》

The medic huffed exhaust from his vents, 《Sometimes you just can't trust Pax, he gets on this supposedly morally-superiour idea streak and he loses track of what's important. Some greater good versus the indivdual nonsense. Trouble is he gets so up his own tailpipe he doesn't consider 'bots as people. I'm usually there to smack him out of it. Didn't catch this one, sorry Perceptor.》

《Don't apologise Ratchet, you're not his caregiver, he's a fully sentient bot and can take the weight of his own choices... as can I.》

《No. Percy, Pax had a manipulative streak before he got the Matrix. That thing considers morals, yes, but it only considers the good of the Cybertronian race. It's supposed to be the job the wielder to find the balance. He gets lost in it sometimes. Not only that but it compels those around him to agree, calms them down. Whatever Pit-spawned plan he had you play a part in is not completely your fault.》

Both bots continued in silence as the Well's light continued to get closer. The larger the brightness got in their viewscreens, the larger and more unruly the wilds became. The eyes of fauna slipped through gaps in twisting bismuth. Skittering underneath a crystal obelisk felled in last storm. Brazen. They were in the last land on Cybertron that was not the domain of bots.

Their arrival at the glimmering platform was far more subdued than precedent said it should be, Perceptor thought. However, he amended, there is no precedent for this.

The microscope was hefted up over the steps by Ratchet, who had given up on watching his sleepless friend trip over every minor incline. Perceptor was tolerant of his medic friend's sometimes strange code-habits (even though it was a good choice in this case), he still harrumphed a small harrumph.

They watched the other Autobots heft the pods up over the pede-worn side of the Well's plateau, evenly spacing them about it. From the sheer void going straight to the core of the planet were emitted scintillating flankers of light, though far fewer than their should have otherwise been.

Another thing that lacked was the celebration, whereupon native seed crystals and metal shavings were flung as confetti as the body had been paraded to the Well for its ensparking. This occasion was far too solemn. As such a high ranking science and medical bots, both Ratchet and Perceptor had been present at their fair share of ensparkings. Never had they returned to berth that night without their joints full of confetti and a new designation engraved underneath a plate of armour. Now, it was looking as if it acid rain was beginning to fall.

The multiplied pneumatic hisses of foul weather systems sealing accompanied the first tinny plinks of rain as the bots present formed concentric circles around the Well, tallest at the back to the shortest at the front. All ordered themselves aside from Optimus, who waited until all present had moved back as far as they could.

The reveal of the Matrix was as unceremonious as every other part of the ceremony was that orn. The Prime, balanced at the precipice over the void, held the Creation Matrix in the column of heat rising from a trillion gears turning that rose from the core. The wind flung the flankers further and further, and they became larger, singeing Optimus' chest and bracers.

The smell of burning paint spread, and Ratchet's field started to fill with anxiety — Perceptor knew from his experiences here that this was taking far too long. No bot was meant to be exposed to the core for so long, especially not their spark. Optimus' spark was likely not used to existing apart from the Matrix's energy, either.

As both bots made to step towards the Prime, he staggered back, tugging at the Matrix as if hauling up a net replete with tin-tuna from the Rust Sea. Ratchet grabbed a hold of his armour, and began to tug him away from the Well.

One moment, then two, were spent with the Prime and his amica struggling against some unseen force, when, like a plug being pulled or a line cut, they both collapsed with a clash to the singed and pitted metal of the Well.

A flood of flanker-sparks blinded all present. The smell of oxidation and rust and the EM field of Primus himself was, for a sheer moment, suffocating, until the untenable light ceased to register and they unshielded their optics. There hovering light as organic feathers on a spring breeze, were five shining sparks playing together in the column of shimmering-hot air. They blended at the edges, and it was nigh impossible to keep track of any one spark visually, but it was immediately evident that each had their own vastly different personality.

Five sparks within one — a Combiner.

Perceptor knew where his place was in these ceremonies, even as much as he desired to rush in amongst them, he let the medics and blacksmiths rush forward to urge the newsparks into their protoforms. He could see flashes of their evolution in the gaps between the medical professionals in frantic motion. The protoforms themselves rose up to envelope their sparks, translucent and metallic, a shimmering suspension of nanite and nutrient in energon now lit from within.

The first notable things to arise from the formless blobbiness were five new pairs of scarlet optics blinking wide into the Cybertronian dusk. Then limb nubbins were brought out quickly after that, popping out of the round forms with an audible blorp. More confusion and concern began to erupt, mostly from Ratchet's EM field, as there were more limbs than expected for a grounder. Perceptor knew that Ratchet didn't care if they were seekers, but for all five protoforms called by grounders to have air-mobile alt kibble? It was beyond suspicious. Perceptor himself gave no visible reaction; he was too tired to react.

The atmosphere seemed to still as the EM fields of the surrounding bots began to spike with worry as they always did, the microscope knew. There were few times in a frame's life when they would be completely grey: when they were offlined, when they were undergoing a complete repaint (rare unless for medical reasons), and when they were very newly sparked. As the shimmering living metal took on a form that was visibly bot-like, their lack of life-bright colours was instinctually alarming — especially when the frames were yet newsparks, the most fragile age of a Cybertronian.

Bubbles of transparisteel, like their teeny optics still booting, came out in colours. Limbs differentiated. Digits began to grasp and knead at the pods' padding. A tiny cheep caused the EM fields around him to tingle with relief, another and another. Soon, all were tiny newsparks clambering about their transparisteel pods.

There was no field around that well that was not overflowing with exuberance. Pricks and waves of joy and glee as each bot spotted their tiny new fellows through the screen of medics and blacksmiths, all tiny waving limbs and pouty faces and overlarge, wondrous optics. No bot with heat emitting from their spark could say that they did not want at least their digit grabbed or a snuggle from the tiny bots that were now figuring out their magnets, and attaching to unfortunate medics over their faces or other uncomfortable spots. The one delightful heli had discovered that they could move with these magnets in their palms and pedes, and was spinning his teensy rotors atop Ratchet's head, who looked not but absolutely delighted.

Many, including Perceptor, often forgot that Ratchet specialised in and was famous for his pediatric practice before the conflict had begun.

Optimus, meanwhile, was laughing, which was a phenomenon that Perceptor had not seen in quite some. Ratchet turned to his amica and leaned up into Optimus' reciprocal kneel, bumping their forheads together. The heli, beyond excited at this other new bot after undergoing all the medical checks, proceeded to clamber atop Optimus and whipped his little rotors about like a propeller hat.

Soon, their colours would come in, but for now the Autobot party was content with the bitties clambering about on the highest points of the bots they were on, leaping to and fro between them. As Optimus bellowed "Autobots, return to the transport! Mission successful!" the group began to shift to allow the Prime, medics, and blacksmiths with their honoured bitlets off the plateau first. They ordered themselves to follow in standard military formation, if not military hoopla, as they all hooted and hollered their joy.

Perceptor, as damningly tired as he was at the back of the pack, was the only one to notice the faint light of the Well fall silent and grey behind them.

Vos was outraged — on his behalf, no less. On most occasions they were outraged at him. He still felt hollow inside when he thought about what had happened to him, and he didn't even know what racing thoughts to even begin to apply to this new revelation. He concluded it was best to leave that to someone else.

His trine were snuggled around him as he shivered and was poked and prodded by the palace's best medics, circuit-ghosts of the spec. ops. bot's code crawling through his processor.

He didn't think the shit-treading grounders would have ever had the audacity to touch him, and yet here were his territory's reporters struggling against the media blackout Iacon had put up some months before just to get them to listen.

Vos was shamed, but furious.The Trine Dauphin had slipped their guards and gone slum-clubbing in the Iacon grit with groundpounders. The left and right wings of the trine had "allowed themselves" to succumb to sleeping draught, then the Dauphin himself had, and was then kidnapped by the Prime's lackeys. He'd been dragged through the night in a cage to a lab in some basement, where he'd had his code rifled through and copied as he'd fought.

He didn't know why, he almost didn't care to know why. But he did, really, as his CPU had been overclocking since he'd regained enough awareness to be asked questions like "who are the current Winglords of Vos?" and "who are your trinemates?". He'd come online with enough processing power to answer those questions in the background.

So, traumatised he might be, but he was still Starscream.

The trine huddled closer to one another and began to pool their remaining processing power to figuring out exactly why Starscream if all bots had been targeted.

Given the heinous level of functionism in Iacon, a normal flight frame could've been snatched from a jail or off a street corner and no bot there would've had a stray thought process about it. 

They went through the trouble, absolutely out of their way, to get the heir to the title of Winglord. And so whatever scheme they were planning, it was worth enough to them to cause an international incident. 

Given who he'd seen in the lab, they thought as a medic's aide drew another energon sample from Starscream's digit, they could rightfully assume this was done on the part of the fledgling Autobot movement, and not Iacon's stodgy old Senate. The Autobots were largely anti-functionism, and more than a few flight frames were among their ranks of their own free will.

That left strange feelings in the trinemates' tanks as they sat there being studied, connected by their bonds and by every cable they could shunt into one anothers' sockets.

The Autobots had needed not just any flightframe code, but in whole or in part they needed very strong royal code, and on short notice. They hadn't done any lasting physical harm: they'd buffed out any scratches that he'd sustained in fighting, they'd not changed a single line of his code, and afterwards they'd filled up his tanks with the antidote for the sleeping draught suspended in jet grade so fine it'd even tasted not-awful when he'd purged it up after awakening.

Whether it was out of guilt, or as a cover-up, giving him fuel better than the Vosnian royals had been able to afford in many vorns wasn't necessary. They didn't hate him, or at least didn't hate flight frames.

Had they wanted him personally? No, they surmised as one of them swallowed another mouthful of almost-purged energon, probably not. He probably just happened to have what they needed, it was not likely personal to him as a bot.

The three sat there, plugged into each other, banks of medical computers, and many medics as they pooled their processor power into Starscream and thought harder.

《Something's weird》, said Skywarp into the bond. They all agreed on that. The Autobots, unlike the Senate, didn't seem like the types to use this code against flight frames; they seemed the types to want to go overboard on welcoming them.

Bared to the struts, Starscream sat on the medberth feeling more raw and violated than he had when he'd awoken. 

A tingle in their sparks made both the trine and medics jump as the three reacted. Slowly, as if in in a struggle, the fluctuations became more powerful.They'd been hooked up to spark monitors as soon as they'd been wheeled in, but they didn't need it to confirm what had happened over an unthinkable distance due to the powers of the Well and the Matrix.

The machine's alarm blared.

They very well knew what Starscream had been used for.

The shuttle's vibrant atmosphere was about enough to burst the lines in Perceptor's CPU from stress before they had even taken off. The bitlets, naturally, seemed delighted for the most part. One small seeker-frame seemed reluctant to be close to any viewports, but just as much so to be apart from his sibs. As Ratchet was checking his coding over, and pronouncing it to be fine, the microscope found a dark corner behind some crates forgotten in that morning's rush, and then hunkered down in the wall netting to wait out the rest of the flight in some form of peace.

After the bitlet had been taken back in by some of the other medics to enjoy their celebration again (the bitlets were beyond delighted with the upsies), Ratchet had picked his way through the crowd to find Perceptor. They sat together, knocking pauldrons as the shuttle began takeoff with a shout of joy over the intercom from the pilots.

Ratchet didn’t need to say anything to be comfort, his field said more than enough for him. He had been just as manipulated by Optimus, and likely Orion, in the past. He would know the guilt in the aftermath. Perceptor felt guilt for feeling guilt. How could he feel bad when something good, something so pure as the tiny bitlets cheeping their delight on the other side of the crates? But he knew it was more complicated than that. One could love the result of an event they wish hadn’t happened in the way that it had.

Ratchet’s field stroked his in comfort while shouts sounded out: “The bit is red!”, “Their sib over here’s got some gold!”, and “This little fella is a sparkbreaker already, look at that pearl white!”.

The medic patted his friend’s shoulder before leaving to check them over again, taking no chances on missing a sign that something could be wrong. Perceptor, despite his state, could not be anything but prideful that the bitlets had come out in mostly his colours. They were his charges, even if he was too under the weather at that moment to take proper care of them.

When Ratchet returned to his seat next to Perceptor, it was as the pilots announced that the ship was beginning its descent, and for everyone (especially whoever was holding the bitlets at that moment) to sit down and strap in. He looked angry, and he looked solemn.

“No one else recognised it, but you know I did my internship and doctorate in Vos”, he said, tapping the medical chevron he’d been given as a certified pediatrician. “They’ve got the insignia of the Winglords’ family on their wings.”

Perceptor inhaled through all his vents, preparing an explaination when he was cut him off before he could load a single word into his vocal processor.

"I don’t want to hear it right now, Perceptor. You’re in no state for an debrief to a superior officer, and you definitely aren’t in any state for an explanation to a friend. You need rest, and frankly, I’m more worried about you right now than I am about those bitlets. You needn’t worry about them. For whatever slag happened to make them, they’re strong and healthy beyond what I could hope for.

”Defrag, Percy. I’ll wake you up when we disembark.”

Ratchet’d woken him up with a cube of midgrade couldy with medical additives being shoved into his hand, and they’d trekked back to the lab with the bitlets’ medical tenders each hold (or being held by) a tiny flier.

Percy could tell by the way Ratchet’s optics flickered that he was editing code as they walked, and when they arrived, the medic had snapped open his first bit of chest armour to reveal six swollen energon pouches.

"I know Jazz gave you some shady scrap before we got here, so you can't feed the protoforms while you’re still filtering it out of your systems. He might’ve said that it’d only take a third if an orn to clear out, but newsparks are notorious for reacting poorly to overclocking compounds. You’ll have to wait for two orns before you can feed them.”

Perceptor was sparkbroken. He had replaced Wheeljack as the science director when the other had needed to split his time between weapons development and the other fledgling combiner, the Protectobots.

Perceptor had spent orns by the side of the protoforms, stroking the pods, mumbling, speaking, even singing to them. He obviously understood, but that did not mean that he was happy about it.

None of the events precluded having been fully online for over a full orn with very little functional defrag or recharge, and so Ratchet, supporting a magnetised and feeding protoform blotted with colour, had to lead the microscope through a quick decontamination shower and then his recharge slab.

“Perceptor,” the medic whispered as he plugged him into his slab, “I know you feel like you have to tell me what exactly went down with Optimus, but it’s already done, the bitlets’ health is spotless, what's done is done, you need to rest first. I’ll have everything prepared for you to give your statement next orn.”

With everything settled and agreement from the microscope, the Ratchet uploaded a medic’s deep defrag program to Perceptor’s main drive, and sent the bot deep into a medically-induced rest.

Perceptor woke up and immediately gave his statement to get it over with. He was sipping his morning energon as Ratchet led him into the main interrogation chamber, while the bitlet that was attached to Ratchet clambered onto him and acted as a comfort the whole way through. In fact, the as-of-yet unnamed sparkling had curled up in his lap and slept peacefully.

The result of his actions: Remedial ethics lessons and oversight on his raising of the bitlets since deemed 'the Aerialbots' Perceptor felt that this sentence was almost too light, but Ratchet had said that he and Ultra Magnus both found it to be fair.

The revelation that the Matrix not only influenced its bearer if they were not careful, but could also influence those around them if not properly controlled was a wild one. Perceptor had always noticed that bots asked to do something by Optimus had always been more accepting, but he had put it all down to the Prime’s personable charisma. That was obviously a part of the reason why, but if the Matrix wasn’t properly leashed when he asked something of them, then it wouldn’t be fully their answer.

He was the first to have his hearing done, Jazz, they revealed would likely be in the same remedial lessons as him if they both agreed, plus some extras with Ultra Magnus. His problems were obviously his own to share with Perceptor if he wished, but the microscope could only imagine what code-havoc had be wrecked on his processor while being an unwilling puppet of the old Senate.

Stepping out of the room post-hearing and sans bitlet (who was now napping atop Prowl’s shoulder), Perceptor made a dash for the showers to beat the morning rush, not in any state emotionally to deal with a crowd of clumsy-half awake soldiers.

He wasn’t worried for Jazz, he knew that bot was stronger emotionally than most could process. But Optimus he didn’t know so much about, only things from Ratchet who was confined by patient confidentiality (that the medic to the Primes had befriended his assigned archivist had surprised many, but that archivist becoming Prime surprised far more.). Somewhere along the line, he had been invited to study data Ratchet had captured from Zeta Prime after the latter’s death. They had learned that the Matrix had affected value equations and personality component temporarily when given access. But that the longer it was restrained from doing so, the more stress the Matrix put on the bearer. They hadn’t known how it affected those parts of the Primes, but Perceptor would put his credit chips on it being exactly what they’d been experiencing with Optimus recently.

A worried Ultra Magnus had forced a steely-looking Ratchet to drink two full mid-grade cubes before the medic marched off. He would be reaching Optimus’ room about now, steaming in his own outrage. Both that at Optimus for not tellling anyone, and at the Matrix and Primus Himself.

Given that they had allotted Percpetor a full orn off after the hearing, Perceptor sent a low-priority ping to Ratchet (who had just set his status to ‘busy’) and set about arranging his quarters for an afternoon in, set far both of them to vent their frustrations back and forth.

“I know you aren’t a warlord prime, Optimus” said Ratchet, “but that doesn’t mean you can simply pretend ethics owed to an individual don’t exist. I know that this is war, I know that sometimes individuals can’t expect the greatest outcome — I’m a trauma surgeon, remember? I taught both triage and ethics at Iacon’s medical college. There is nothing I can say to this other than that I am beyond disappointed in you.”

Optimus sat still as an uncharged drone on his berth, staring at a far wall.

“There’s were still options you hadn’t checked, we won’t be able to even ask any of the Vosnian councilors now because they’ve fled back to Vos and declared war on us after we “defiled their prince”. And rightfully so! We have no idea how that code will be changed, how those frames could be changed by it, how it could change the seeker prince and his trine. And you knew you were doing something wrong because you uploaded the reciprocal code to the frames’ hard drives without consulting me! The research and medical head!

"You know I see those bitlets — as they are bitlets despite their frames — as being mine, Optimus. I thought they were ours, but I don’t think I trust you with them any longer.”

The Prime jerked his head up. “Ratchet-“

“No, Prime. Prowl is seeing to Pharma and Jazz, as he knows Jazz’s processor glitch best, and there’s no way either will be able to weasel their way out justice with him seeing to it. We just finished up talking to Perceptor, as he isn’t a doctor, and didn’t have the ethical training to know that you should have no say on a medical issue. He will be placed into remedial training with Magnus, however. Pharma, Prowl tells me, will likely end up being shipped off to some offworld medical base and have lengthy ethics courses to complete, because he shouldn’t be trusted around the combiners.

“You followed along with Jazz, who should have told you about his issue, and you both chose the two most easily manipulated bots available. One with no qualms about ethics in medicine, and one so trusting in you and so naïve in medical matters that he took your slag and scrap reassurances at face value!

“So we’ve got all of them to deal with, even those under Jazz who assisted.

“You, on the other servo, are left to me.”

Optimus winced.

“You’ll not see tail light nor wing tip of those bitties until I deem you fit to do so. And if you aren’t ever fit to be near them, then you’ll never see them. They’re bitlets made for war, Orion, they deserve far, far better treatment. We still haven’t decided how they’ll be told that their beloved bond came from a war crime.

“Your remediation will be solely through me, and when you come through it, I’ll see if I still want to be amicae endurae with you.

“Prowl will decide your fate at the start of tomorrow’s first shift in the tribunal chambers along with the other three. It’ll be my decision you’ll be hearing from him. I won’t be there.”

Ratchet turned sharply and loped out of the room with determined sparks glinting from his optics. He shut the door and left Optimus in darkness to ruminate.

In his rightly righetous fury, Ratchet had snatched all five bitlets, Wheeljack, and the strongest highgrade he had in his medbay stash. He plowed his way into Perceptor's room after pinging for entry, and planted himself firmly onto the foot of the microscope's berth.

"So. Did you, uh, wish to talk about it?"

"No." The medic took a deep drag of the fluorescent magenta fuel.

"Then I guess we'll have to weasel it out of you then, doc."

"Try, and I'll weld your digits to your aft." Another gulp. One of the bitlets' vents rattled in their sleep. Another rolled onto their back and began to knead at the air.

Wheeljack and Perceptor looked back at eachother, knowing that they'd have to dig it out of him whether he wanted it out or not. Ratchet could be absurdly rude to even his friends when he was in such a bad way. They couldn't leave him like this or the bot would purposefully alienate anyone who would give him the time of the orn before they knew it.

Slowly, surely, after three films and the reccomended maximum ornly intake of highgrade, the dam burst with a "Pit-slagged Pax had to get possesed by that Primus-damned trinket-" and only went downhill from there.

Both friends were well aware of where they stood in relation to Ratchet's amica status with Optimus. They knew that there was nothing the two amicae wouldn't do for eachother, but since becoming Prime, Optimus had become far more than any one bot could handle.

The act of pulling Ratchet's problems from him and laying them objectively out in the open was a lot like debriding a wound, and involved about as much pain and perhaps more expletives.

They were all very glad that none of the bitlets were awake. Ratchet kept any vocalisations low and his EM field calm to make sure that they could get proper sleep.

The two other bots knew generally what had occured, that of Optimus' personal ethics succumbing to the Matrix's, and a little gleaned about Jazz's Senate-caused problems. There were other specifics in play, however. Perceptor readjusted the cluster of bitlets with their toy animals he'd given them, and listened to Ratchet explain.

With the recent command staff shuffling and kerfuffles caused by the Autobot's departure from the Senate's control, Optimus had been left largely alone with the Matrix while each division had sorted itself out. The Prime needed a support structure available who were well versed in the Matrix's effects. For now however, the nebulous cloud of Prowl, Ultra Magnus, and Ratchet were doing what they could. Prowl and Ultra Magnus were not knowledgeable in the Matrix's effects, and moreso were busy up to their optics with the army's restructuring, and rooting out and pruning of old Senate plants and spies.

After separating from the Senate, Optimus was no longer a subordinate in their plans, and he felt no need to follow anyone else. He was free to listen only to his own concious -- and that of the Matrix.

Given that both Perceptor and Wheeljack had been decieved by the Prime, and that Ratchet hadn't been Optimus' only physician for a long while, the doctor explained that he felt it was okay to explain this to them both. When they came to the final hearing about the plot, they would have it explained to them then, anyhow, he said.

Another episide of General Medical Centre ended on the vidscreen, and a break in the heavy conversation followed. Bitlets and full-grown bots alike rearranged themselves while the credits rolled, and another box of treats was opened. Ratchet sighed, turned on his medic filtration systems to produce healthy sparklings energon, and let the bitlets feed from the tiny nozzles along his abdomen.

"Looks like you got extra flashy biolights, docbot," Wheeljack joked. "Not as if you needed any more, with that emergency lightbar and all."

With the six nozzles in rows of two all bulked out with sparkling jetgrade, they were almost too bright to look at, though that didn't seem to bother the bitlets as they lapped up their meal, and the dim coziness of Perceptor's room seemed to absorb the excess light.

Ratchet snorted into his jellied treat. "No one from medical school would be suprised that the party ambulance was a lone originator."

"I think they have far more than one originator." Wheeljack said, the dermaplates around his optics buckling with mirth.

"As many as they could ever want." Added Perceptor.

Ratchet's small and solid smile met the microscooe's eloquent one and Wheeljack's bold grin. The sounds of bitlets suckling were gentle, and the largest one took noticeably longer than the others.

"I have a theory," said Ratchet, still smiling and petting the largest bitlet.

"Oh, this I must hear."

"What he said. Spill the deets!"

Ratchet grinned, his smile still plastered across his face. "So I think that this largest one," he said, scratching said bitlet beneath their chin. "Will be the combiner's head and torso."

"A little leader, then?"

"Not yet, thankfully." Ratchet's smile faltered. "That's not a responsibility I would want put anywhere near a bitlet."

"That's true."

"A lot of the introduced code is dormant as of yet. It'll probably stay like that until they get into a later instar frame."

"How many instars do bits get before they're largely independant, anyhow?"

"One instar for self-recognition, two for basic language, three for walking, five for complex processing, seven for complex language, eleven for transformation, and thirteen in total until their adult frame. All the instars inbetween are just for armour growth and frame checks. Important milestones are at the prime numbers.

"Adult frame doesn't mean fully developped though, not by a long shot," Ratched took a sip of his umpteenth cube for the afternoon, this time mid-grade to replenish after fueling the bitties. "Last instar just indicates that's their spark's dictated final physical form. Their processors, sparks, and t-cogs still have a lot of development left to go."

"Rossum's Trinity." said Perceptor and Wheeljack.

"That's right," said Ratchet "But I thought they would've taught you this stuff before giving you both purview over newbuilds?"

"Doc, I know we haven't had much time around with eachother recently because of the command shenanigans, but with how fast this combiner stuff came and went, do you actually think we had enough time to go through the massive datapack ol' Magnus gave us?"

"Even I was only able to get through the section on differences between forged, cold-constructed, and Well-sparked protoforms in all their variations."

"Someone should've had cram sessions planned. Just like uni," said Wheeljack.

"Just like university," agreed Perceptor.

Ratchet nodded and had another sip of energon. "Send me the packet and I'll create some jot notes for the sections you'll need sooner. That'll give you enough time to read the rest."

A ping came in on his inbox, both the same lesson plan. Both also came with identical orders from Ultra Magnus to read the entire packet before the project reached the sparking phase. Prowl, always pragmatic, had different sections highlighted by how useful they were to either the Protectobot project or the now-nicknamed Aerialbots project. Both files nearly reached into the terabytes.

Ratchet ran his fans in agreement. "Just like medschool."

At the same time he was thumbing through the pages after uploading it to a datapad, the largest bitlet began to stir from his slow suckling, and soon after the rest followed. Perceptor's toys had been a hit with them for the three days they'd been toddling around, and the bitlets dragged them with them as they each picked a different bot to perch on.

"I was thinkin," said Wheeljack. "That we could introduce 'em to the Protectobots. Or at least the lil' medic that follows you around, 'eh Ratch?"

Ratchet huffed through his vents in embarassment. "The medic, sure. Some of the other ones might be a bit too rambunctious, I'm afraid they could frighten the bitties. I don't think the last lesson packets we gave em had anything on newbuilds this underdevelopped."

"True." Wheeljack agreed.

"What about some of the younger bots? Bumblebee, the one Optimus found?"

"He's so gentle, even with that turborat he found."

"I'll jot that down for later, actually. Bumblebee was forged, so he'll be a bit older in his third instar, but still comparable in age to these little fellows. They started off a bit larger due to extra protoform compared to a forged bitlet, so they'll be closer to their first instar than a forged newbuild would be at their age, too."

Wheeljack, meanwhile, was barely listening to Ratchet's rambling. He was concentrating on changing the colours of his headfins as they were papped by the teensy servoes of one of the smaller jets. The heli was purring in his lap. Ratchet held two other seekers, and Perceptor held the presumptive leader, who was curled contentedly into his collar faring and watching the other bitlets attentively.

"I think he'll make a wonderful leader," said Perceptor. "but we won't force him into it, of course. We need to let them make their own choices as much as we can."

They all agreed on that as another episode of General Medical Centre came on the vidscreen.

Excerpts from the file on newsparks given to the combiner teams' members by Ultra Magnus:

Constructed Cold

Cybertronians that are constructed cold have an adult frame prepared ahead of time, the only method where this is so. The frame is them imbued with a splinter of the Matrix of Creation, identical in all other ways to any adult spark except that their wavelengths are based on that of the Matrix. An OS and any other basic programming is often uploaded to the frame ahead of ensparkment. Alt-mode is decided by the frame. All of these attributes make this a common method of increasing population for specific jobs in low-population city states. It also makes this form very prone to frame dysmorphia, which can result in later trauma. The only part of the frame decided by the spark is its colour palette and design, which may look strange as the spark and code may design a theme based of the spark's frame-type, not the physical frame it inhabits. If this happens, it is a sign that there will be severe frame dysmorphia. Other signs of frame dysmorphia include frequent changed to frame design without satisfaction of the result, and uneven protoform distribution (as the protoform is distributed by the spark, which believes it is inhabiting a different frame). The name comes from how this is the only method that has the frame physically cold during ensparkment.

Forged

Forged Cybertronians are forged inside their carrier's forge from contributions of three types: transfluid injected via the valve during physical interface, code from hardline interface, and spark during spark interface taken from various contributor(s). No matter how many contributors add to the sparklet, the initial sparker(s) will always have the most influence over the spark core, and this cannot be overwritten. However, subsequent contributions from transfluid, spark, or code can subtly change a the forging sparklet's attributes. Only the cassette-carrier frametype can split their spark on their own, and the only limit to the number of initial sparkers is how many bots can arrange themselves into a sparkmerge at once. The larger the number of contributors, the healthier the newspark, as this means less work has to be done by the carrier. Forged bots cannot have any code uploaded beforehand, cannot have frame dysmorphia (unless there is an issue with the carrying process, which is very rare), and do not have adult frames or mental capacity. This form of ensparkment creates a special bond between the sparkling and their carrier and contributors, and creates a sparkling dependent on their caretakers for as many as 80 or more vorns, depending on the frame type. They go through 13 instars before they are in their adult frame. Forging is a very strenuous process, as is contributing (though not to the same extent) and so it has historically been very rare and limited to the upper classes, as severe strain on the carrier's frame leads them to issues with the sparkling or miscarriage, and severe strain on any other Cybertronian leaves them unable to contribute.

Hotspot

Cybertronians sparked this way are historically by far the most common. Traditionally, a hotspot will release a deluge of sparks which fall to rest in the surrounding 'fertile' loam of sentico metallico, where they burrow themselves for approximately three to five vorns. The sparks integrate the sentico metallico around themselves, forming basic wires and growing the loam into protoform. After the aforementioned time period, all sparks present at that hotspot will erupt from the ground as formless blobs over the course of one or three orns, where the oxidation by the atmosphere hardens their plating. Over the coming orn, their shape stablises and solidifies so that they have a concrete form, and emerge as adult frames. If any sparkling struggles to find their final form (~7-37% of any given batch), a blacksmith will intervene to help the sparkling reach their intended shape. If help is not given to a struggling sparkling, they will extinguish. The unique case where protoforms are brought to the Well of Allsparks, and a spark is summoned for a given frame will be covered later.

* Unless there is not enough sentico metallico present
† If some mistake has occurred in the forging process, or a mistake is made by the blacksmith, then it is possible, if very rare.
‡ Only very basic coding is allowed to be uploaded, and only if the sentico metallico is imported via a medical pod.

Now, onto more in depth analyses of each type...

The bitlets were slowly but surely differentiating in colour, the team realised. They had known that one would be a small heli, and the rest winged flyers, but they had assumed that they'd all be largely identical seekers.

That theory had been disproven on the morning of their second day, when one bitlet had become noticably larger and sturdier than the others. They'd assumed that meant he was either the head and torso of the combiner, or perhaps its leader. This was then added upon when, on the morning of the third day his wing nubbins had less range of movement than his bretheren, and had taken on a very distinct form.

After a long list of non-invasive tests and five curious bitlets later, they had discovered that this particular bitlet would be a shuttle!

The Autobots didn't have any sparked shuttleformers, so this was a delight to Prowl. He was also simply delighted in general about the winged bitlets, and in turn they were very much delighted by him. He attempted to teach them the wingspeak of his late native city, so similar to that of the seekers, even though he knew that it was several weeks too early for language.

The youngins loved to watch his wings, so neither party was dissapointed by the arrangement.

The little bitties were also incredibly comfortable to simply have around, their tiny still-developping forms were incredibly warm, and they had a tendency to knead with the magnets in their servoes like cougaraider kits.

That however had lead to several reports having an addendum of gibberish from a bitlet napping on the datapad's keyboard, but not even Magnus had had the spark to note these as an error, especially after it had happened to him.

After reading a relevant lesson packet and a severe talk from Ratchet, Ultra Magnus, and Prowl, any bot could take time to supervise the bitlets with at least one commanding officer present. This was seen as a great honour and delight, and was taken very seriously.

Many bots attempted to sneak in treats to ply the bitlets into choosing them as a favourite, but they were always caught during a subspace scan. They were given approved bitlet treats with which to feed them. They often gave the one they saw as the leader (the small shuttle most often, but one of the boisterious jets also seemed to be seen as a contender) the treats to hand out. The jet divided them evenly among their combiner-mates. The small shuttle always handed them over to the commanding officer to divy out with a small whistling fweeeee?

This was how First Aid came into the room, vibrating with nervous excitement and a subspace pocket full of rust treats with nickel-cadmium cores.

Ratchet had given him both instructions and a pep talk that morning, applying many much-needed supportive pats to First Aid's pauldrons. The mech had questions upon questions, especially since his idol and mentor was a specialist in pædiatrics. He knew that he should choose a different, and perhaps one more useful during wartime, but he just couldn't help himself. Between his respect for Ratchet, and now the adorable teensiness of the bitties there was no way he would specialise in anything else until he had completed his studies as a pædiatrician.

His steps were light as a seeker's when he entered the room, now colliquially called 'the Daycare'. The five little newbuilds, blotchy with their first splotches of paint, froze in their playing.

In the beginning, nothing seemed to happen, and First Aid began to worry that they were still out of fear. Then, the largest of the bitlets toddled over to him, face set in stony grimness and called out to the trainee medic with a beweeeee?

Aid reached into a part of his processor he hadn't used in some orns, and answered back with a bweeeeep?

The bitlets all changed into a deluge of squirmy delight as they scrambled for the red and white bot, and Ratchet and Prowl watched on the sidelines.

"He's not going to want to do anything but pædiatrics, now."

"Some part of me wants to be dissapointed, but seeing this, how could I be?"

"He's one of them in a different state of mind. He couldn't want to do anything less." Said Ratchet.

"Not at all to do with his hero worship for you."

"No, not at all." Ratched puffed through his vents in embarassement.

"He accidentally sent me the wrong file a few orns ago when I had him complete some requisition forms for his team."

"You don't say."

"And you know what the file was? His annotated copy of your thesis on the codevelopment and codependency of spark and processor from first to thirteenth instar of sparkling growth. Religiously annotated."

"Did he find the error on page 42?"

"He did. He wasn't sure what to make of it, however."

"Poor kid's in over his head, he wouldn't know what to make if it anyhow. That section of my thesis happened after three bottles of rocket fuel at four in the morning."

"How many people have caught it?"

"Only one of my profs ever did, Perceptor did, and Wheeljack came close. And you, from running the tables I had there and then getting different values I'd guess."

"Yes, you combined two different types of calculations for statistical error that weren't meant to be mixed."

"Yup." Agreed Ratchet as he watched First Aid coax each bitlet into his arms with treats so he could have a good look at them. They were then offered another treat, and then the medic's fuel nozzle which resided in the tip of his smallest digit. He smiled and raised his unoccupied arm to wave at the two of them, sitting twenty meters away across the room, face all unadulterated glee.

From there, the medic began speaking to the bitlets in their shared binary language for newbuilds, and taking his own baseline. Ratchet would use his as one of his comparisons for this project, just to make sure he wasn't inserting any error. There was no bot here who disn't want the project to succeed, but there were other kinds of error that could be caught with multiple data sources.

A comm came into Ratchet's notifications from one of his junior medics. 《 Ratchet, could I get some help diagnosing a problem with Hound's tracking system? I can't seem to help him calibrate the aerosol sensors properly. 》

Ratchet huffed his vents in a long sigh. "Duty calls."

"Before you go, I should tell you that I got a comm from Ultra Magnus this morning to disseminate this information among command after dinner today. I'm telling you now to give you an extra few joors of headsup. The Ark should be ready in a fortnight or so. Earlier if we need it."

"That's going to be a great help, honestly. There are some troublemakers I'd like to get checked out before we take off."

"True, if they have largely conflicting schedules just send it to me and I'll make it happen." said Prowl.

Ratchet smiled at him with a thankful spin of his fans, watching First Aid gently put each bitlet within their playpen. It was becoming harder and harder to contain them each day as they learned that they could scale many walls.

《Come on, Aid. I'll teach you how to callibrate some sparkbound gifts. Hound's in the medbay and a junior medic needs some help.》

《Ooh! What system is it-》

This time when they booted the engine, there were no worrying noises, no scrambling the fire supression system, and no smell of leaking (and burning) NaK coolant. After running their beloved creation through whatever processes they could while still grounded, and then some more unapproved exercises on top of that, the team was finally in agreement. The Ark was ready to launch.

This didn't mean that the ship as a whole was ready, some parts took longer than others, and many engineering things had been stolen from the Senate's stash when they'd separated. So they had a ship that was spaceworthy, yet partially empty. As a whole, however, almost everything was on schedule, if not as fast as they'd like considering the recent press of the Decepticon army.

Finally, after the last wobbles of rumbling had died down, both Wheeljack and Nautica sat behind the engine shielding grinning like loons with all the techs nearby. Wheeljack's digits scrambled over the console's keyboard, checking outputs, and techs before hooting out a message: 《Test was a green, lads, we did it! 》

The comm went out on the workers' general frequency, and a second, more official one onto the general command forum. They could practically hear the vibrating from bots hollering and shouting in happiness.

Wheeljack laughed, and turned to Nautica. Both of them knew they had far more work to do. "Want to help me set up some of the machines in medbay α so Ratchet won't have to? Poor bot's got ten bajillion checkups to go, I'd bet."

It didn’t take much to get her to agree, and they went trotting off to do just that.

Back in the main sprawls of Iacon's military base, perched on a cliff overlooking the city the Autobots had just started the meeting to discus punishments with their recipients. As the news from Vos had finally gotten through the Senate’s information lockdown, they had decided to make the final verdict public. No one but Autobots, Decepticons, Senators, and scavengers remained on Cybertron, so their attempt to make the situation look better was a tree falling in a forest with no one who cared to hear. They had alienated the last group of neutrals on Cybertron, who had fled in whatever ships they could find soon after the news had broken.

The base had been where the Autobots resided since their division from the old Senate, and it had been about twenty klicks since Wheeljack’s message had first disturbed their briefing. For the first time in several days, the meeting room was filled with some happy noises and agreeable faces.

It was then the news of the Senate's slaughter had dropped.

The unexpected priority comm. came to the Prime from an old archivist friend of his. As soon as she had begun to explain, he had her put on speaker and her image filled the room’s large teleconference screen. Her wild and terrified face took up an entire wall. Scuffed and burned hands gesturing wildly as she tried to accurately recount the slaughter.

A senator’s temporary aide, she had been out grabbing some copies of documents for the Senator in the archives as he was arguing, and had returned to find the Senate building in shambles. The femme described hauling another aide out from under the form of Senator Decimus, whose large form had fallen grey atop the aide and trapped them as it leaked and sparked.

The breaking news quickly slammed the meeting to a halt. What had originally been a briefing for the guilty parties in what was now termed the "Aerialbot Incident" became a discussion of how and why.

The discussion ballooned as more and more information came in, at first in trickles, then in a wave. Soon, even the 'Cons were adding their own propaganda to the situation. It was blatant, and cleaned up the confusion for them in an instant.

This was to say that the Decepticons felt that the Senate might've bargained their way onto the Autobots' ship, leaving the 'Cons with no chance of timely revenge. They'd struck to keep them from leaving the planet, not that the Autobots had planned to let them leave with them. There were some crimes they could not forgive so soon for these bots in perpetual power.

The news that had made even Optimus peer up from his depressed slump was that the Decepticons had felt the need to kill even those few Senators who had been staunchly aligned with them in their goals for reform, but who hadn't taken the brand. Those killings especially, the Autobots felt they could not abide. The two main things listed on the datapad Prowl held: That they did not give the chance for any corrupt Senator to repent from their utter failure as a leader, nor had they even given a pardon to those who had been assisting them, but were not Decepticons in name.

After these conversations had reached a point where the bots present could stomach no more media footage of the slaughter, they sent Optimus from the room. From there, they discussed the incident.

A few joors later, they announced that the postponed meeting would occur in the early hours of the next orn. Optimus was not present as the remainder of the presumptive command bots discussed potential courses of action to counter the Decepticons. Jazz was also not present.

Gaps in the conversations concerning the Cons were filled with actions they could take for justice in the case of the the Aerialbots.

Optimus was partly at fault, as were Jazz, his crew, and to a lesser extent, Perceptor. Pharma had not incited the incident, but knew to full well what that what he had done was morally wrong, and had done it anyway.

Pharma would be sent off to Delphi, on a potentially permanent basis, and recieve ethics lessons via teleconferencing. He would likely not see the Aerialbots for a very, very long time. Jazz would go to Staniz and have sessions with Rung, a coder, and a processor surgeon to see what was best to do with the Senate's past meddling in his operating system. He would recieve remedial lessons, then be shipped back to Iacon to continue his lessons.

Perceptor had been instructed to not be near the Aerialbots, or be involved in anything medical concerning them unless he had oversight from an approved bot. Lessons were also in place for him.

Ratchet had told the group present what he wished to have done with his amica, and after some tinkering, it was agreed upon.

In the end, a temporary command structure was also decided upon. Optimus was figurehead, but his decisions would go through command staff before being enacted. Ironhide was in charge of infantry. Kup with training. Perceptor (with oversight) for science officer. Red Alert for security and aquisitions, with Inferno as his SiC. Mirage was acting spec. ops. commander until Jazz returned from Staniz. Ratchet remained CMO. Ultra Magnus remained SiC. Prowl was TiC and commanded the tactics division. Wheeljack headed Research and Development, as well as the Protectobots project (the latter with Ratchet). Perceptor, with heavy oversight, would stay on as head of the Aerialbots project.

There was a significant number of bots slouched in their seats when the meeting was done, and the meeting notes spanned far too many pages.

The Decepticons hadn't been heard from since the destruction of the Senate building an orn after the slaughter of Senators. They'd lined the empty and cordoned-off building with illicitly-acquired explosives in the dead of night, and lit the massive historic structure into shreds of metal and ruined slabs of imported offworld stone.

With the Iacon guard and Primal Vanguard having long since disbanded or defected to the Autobots, and the Senators' personal guards having fled or been mowed down, there was no one to stop them — not as if anyone would have. There was no love for the monument to their oppression in the sparks of any Cybertronian. Many Decepticons were seen in the dawnlight scavenging souvenirs of translucent rock as souvenirs. They were left to their devices to avoid a conflict, as they soon scattered as the sun broke over the buildings.

An orn later, nothing but new symbols sharp as the shattered stained glass in the windowframes of the ruined Senate House, painted lurid purple like half-digested energon. The Autobots felt that the Decepticons had gotten their fill of revenge on the the upperclass for that moment, and began scavenging what they could from the estates and buildings of the Senators. They now had the totality of the Senate's remains, rather than just that which they were given in the earlier split.

Much of the wealth had been in offplanet accounts that their hackers began attempting to access from the codes found in their estates, but much of the wealth was in a now useless form, and they had neither the space nor time for large Cybertronian antiques that could not be sold. No one on Cybertron at that moment had the wealth or the want for chalices and antique thrones, and a military had little use for it. So that which was only of scientific or historical value was locked in a vault deep beneath Iacon, safeguarded by thousands of vorns of code in archaic languages. That which had monetary value they took with them for trade one they reached the hubs of the surrounding nebulae.

The stockpiles of the Senator's guards and hitsquads was appropriated quickly into their existing stockpile, some weapons antique, some long outlawed since the last wars. Vast and luxurious spaceships the Senators had used for offplanet travel would be either retrofitted with armoury and crew space, or towed to the Ark to be stored and sold off-planet.

The plans, and many of the parts for the Ark had been taken from the Senate's stores during the split. The Senators had started the project with public funds (one of the largest scandals the Senate had seen at the time), but were unable to agree on the ship's construction, and they had decided to deal with the "issue" using personal spacecraft, leaving the largest military ship in their race's history partially unbuilt in a field outside Iacon.

So, once all that could be scavenged had been, there were no broken sparks when the manors were destroyed by their own explosives.

The largest loss came from the Senate's warships in Decepticon-held territory being lost to the 'Cons as the guardsmen fled. Megatron had no doubt been trading with his acquired funds for offworld weaponry, as aliens had largely shunned the xenophobic Senators, but this had allowed the group to cross from militia to army.

The Autobots were still refused trade by the aliens, especially organics, seen as having ties to the old Senate which were only partially false. They did, however, acquire all the resources stored in bases within their own territory.

They felt that both newly-minted armies would remain at a standstill, taking the time to integrate their newfound materials. Both armies appeared to draw into their main areas of influence, those being Tarn and Iacon. The Iaconian base was full of new personnel, and all the equipment they had brought with them from the now largely abandoned bases in other cities. Several orns later, the clifftop headquarters was chaos as organised and safe as Prowl and Red Alert could make it.

That was when the rocket hit the easternmost side of the Iacon's base, reducing parts of the cliff it rested on into crumbling shards of metal. The building closed to the cliff face made a massive and piteous whine, and slowly began to shift. Prowl immediately jolted up to slam the base-wide alarm, but Red Alert had it done before he could reach. Satisfied in some small part of his RAM at the competence of his suggestion of security director (to whom he would later send a curt thank-you comm.), the tactician grabbed a few trinkets on his desk, and slipped into his adjacent room to slip a box into his subspace before exiting into the hallway to face a directed chaos.

The alarm's dopplering howl accented the pounding of fleeing pedesteps. The chorus of bots asking one another 'what in the Pit is happening' as Red Alert directed them via emergency comms to escape the compound as soon as possible via the West entrance. No one needed encouragement as the floor began to take on an increasingly steep angle and the rivets began to split.

Prowl kept a window of the command's group comm. up in his HUD as he ran. Two recently-joined ex-gladiators had been assigned to his guard alongside some others, and their red and citrine forms met up with him while he turned the next corner. It was telling just how scared they were that they didn't ask any questions. Just one in the lead and one taking up the rear.

Prowl heard more groans from the metal around them, and urged his companions to run faster.

Red Alert, as soon as he had sent out the general updates, had began contacting Ratchet and the science teams about the stability of the general area. They were very lucky that the buildings housing security, research and development, and medical were further in from the base of the cliffside. Only some of the base had been built far enough in, as it had been originally constructed in peace time, the resistance the base might have to a surprise attack had not been on the long-offlined planners' minds. All spare hands were to flee to designated areas after helping any injured escape, or were directed to the medbays and labs to help move patients and equipment.

Inferno, one of his many assistants, but the only one coolheaded enough to remain, messaged him regular updates on the structural integrity as he scanned the security feeds. Red Alert wasn't able to think it at that moment, too caught up in the dangers around him, but he was later very thankful that many divisions had already mostly completed their moves to the Ark.

He would later send a short, but optimistic, thank-you message to Prowl, hopeful that their working relationship would mesh as well as it did on the day the Iacon base collaspsed.

A teensy bitlet was rudely awoken from his nap by a vast creak and rattle echoing out through his and his brothers' tiny room. Before he could even fully awaken, an awful splitting noise filled the air, lights began to pulsate, and he was plucked up by one of his caretakers. He instinctually magnetised himself to them, and hunkered down to watch as his brothers were loaded upon the same bot by other assistants. This grumbly bot ensured they were well adhered and away from joints as the group rushed from the building to the crystal plains where many others were milling. The slowly growing group of bots was tense and anxious, and the distant alarm made the tiny shuttle whimper and want to hide beneath Ratchet’s pauldron.

First, he checked upon each of his brothers, and herded them each to shelter beneath a safe plate of the adult frame’s armour, even his stubborn brother (who was occasionally a nuisance). Ratchet, meanwhile, used his sensors to pay attention to their movements, for which he caught a brief smile inbetween checking that the triage staff were prepared to treat any more serious injuries than the minor wounds that had exited the building so far.

Soon, bots with mobile alts were hauling the last hundred or so crates of material marked for transfer to the Ark down to the western emergency zone. The commanders were all present and accounted for, as were 91% of the total occupancy of the building, and many who were moving crates and other objects simply hadn't yet stopped to get their name taken down.

Other bots were beginning to line up, as the new plan to action was drafted in the command's secure comm channel.

[MED] Ratchet: I've got the bitlets all under my largest armour panels.
[SEC] Red Alert: Are they alright, though?
[SEC] Inferno: Are they okay?
[CMD] Optimus Prime: No harm has come to them?
[TAC] Prowl: How are they?
[SPC] Jazz: theyre good though, right?
[SPC] Mirage: What is their status?
[SCI] Perceptor: Tell me they're fine?
[R&D] Wheeljack: Primus, what is going on over there, someone send me a file or something
[INF] Ironhide: Those bitties better be okay or imma give the 'Cons a taste of the Arks new weapons systems, I swear to Primus-
[MED] Ratchet: Ironhide. Everyone, they're fine, not even teeking as worried. They're napping soundly. Don't have time to respond anymore, I've got to direct triage. If anyone isn't busy and is in a less dangerous situation, @ me and come over and pick them up ASAP.
- [MED] Ratchet has status to his status to emergency only, bitties napping
[R&D] Wheeljack: @Ratchet Nautica and I'll were already on our way over from the Ark. Their nursery's finished so if I'm not needed to coordinate over there we'll pick em up and bring them and the Protectobots back to the ship.
[MED] Ratchet: 'Aid's not going to want to leave. I doubt the others will either. You're best off coordinating the loading efforts at the Ark and figuring out which wounded can help and which need to go to the medbay. I'll send a few medics back with you.
[R&D] Wheeljack: Got it. Be there in 30 klicks. Tell 'Aid and the other that I love 'em.
[MED] Ratchet: Will do.

Immediately recognisable in the distance as the one strange blob moving towards the site of the impending collapse rather than away, Wheeljack arrived in all his typical hooplah, with Nautica clinging to the top of his alt-mode. The tricolour car and accompanying roof ornament sped towards the base of the cliff where ambulances and transports departed to the Ark. Nautica leapt off, stumbling and worried, while Wheeljack began asking around for Ratchet, leaving the submarine technician to trip after him.

Ratchet was wrist-deep in a bot, doing some final soldering on the patient's lines as his friend approached. The doctor stepped back from his work, handing the red-hot iron to a nearby medic, and when he was closer to the worried Wheeljack, he flared the plates around his chest to reveal the bitlets napping soundly and enjoying the heat from his systems like photovolaticats.

"I would've handed them off to somebody else, but Percy needs oversight to have 'em, and he's in a dangerous spot trying to see if there's any way we can negate the structural damage to the East end long enough to salvage stuff in some of the lesser-damaged rooms over there. So he couldn't have them, and I'm the only main caretaker aside from him, and they were comfortable, so I didn't want to stress them out and —"

Wheeljack pressed his servo onto Ratchet's pauldron, which the doctor leaned into as Nautica appeared behind them.

"It's okay. Promise. We'll take 'em over to the nursery, They'll get cuddled up with Nautica under the heatlamp, and I'll go out to direct the transfer of the last bit of lab stuff. She's dealt with forged bitties before, so she'll be perfect with 'em, already got her filtration systems turned on and everything."

Nautica smiled reassuringly and wiggled a few of her digits, showing Ratchet the integrated nozzles therein.

"Ratch', just hand 'em over for now. A half an orn more and you'll be back with 'em again."

Ratchet didn't say anything, but sighed and flared his plates even more so that Nautica could quickly reach in and pluck out the bitties. They neither stirred nor made a peep, just reached out their fields to teek Wheeljack's. The racecar transformed in front of the pair, and they began to load them into Wheeljack's seats, strapping them in with the seatbelts the scientist had added. Gently shutting the door, Ratchet knelt down and patted the roof of his friend.

"Take good care of them," he said, looking at both bots.

"We will! It's my honour."

" 'Acourse, Doc. We're drivin' back slow and on the old offroad with an escort, so that they won't have to hear the ruckus of the transports moving the last bits of stuff."

"Good, good," the doctor replied, stepping back away from his friend and the friend's apprentice. "They're in good servos."

The doctor watched, frowning and unmoving, as Ironhide directed a group of the Primal Vanguard, including the spitfire Hot Rod, to escort the group. Ironhide himself took the rear, and several helis took off with them. Wheeljack flicked his headlights at his friend, a goodbye in binary as they made their way to the main offramp and onto an old sideroad, bitties sleeping to Wheeljack's horrible low-volume choice in music all the while. The experimental scientist's taste in experimental noise-jazz fusion was a naptime favourite of the bitlets.

Scouts had left the moment they arrived, more drove a distance behind to check for tails. Nautica, meanwhile, had climbed in the bed of a Primal Vanguard truckformer, armed to the dentae.

They were taking no chances.

"My leige," greeted the newly-minted Winglord, echoed by his trine as they appeared on the war room's vidscreen. Megatron quirked an optic ridge at them, and slouched further into his erstaz throne. He was framed on one side by the shadow of Soundwave, just offscreen, and on the other by a projection of the planet Cybertron, colourcoded red, purple, and striped gold for the single neutral state of Praxus.

"We have taken control. Vos' children are under my wings. I am under your command."

"You are under the Decepticon aegis. The city state of Vos is hereby claimed for the Decepticons." Megatron leaned forward towards the camera, elbows on the desk, hands folded with his helm resting expectantly on them. "I am glad to hear of your success, and I look forward to seeing you in the plating to further discuss our alliance, among other things."

The warlord of Kaon's optics were a simmering dark cadmium red as he nodded to Soundwave, and the vast mountains and towers of Vos were given an overlay of violet.

The black and purple shook minutely in the background, hoping that the warlord wouldn't notice as he finished his report to Starscream. During attack on Iacon's base they had been pushed away by return fire before they could launch another rocket, and it was unknown at that time how much damage it had caused, though it looked severe.

Slowly, the report wore down and Megatron nodded to Starscream, who looked to Soundwave. The blue carrier shook his helm.

"Vos' children," said Skywarp, as soon as the call ended, "What about our children?"

"I'm sure Soundwave would've told us if there was anything new," Thundercracker said as he wrapped his trinemate in his embrace, the two quickly joined by a fussing Starscream.

"I want to meet them," whimpered the black seeker, claws curling in his family's plating.

The other two didn't need to vocalise a thing, they all knew there was nothing but mutual longing in them for that orn.

The Ark was a vast and occasionally labrinthine ship, housing bots ranging in size from Omega Sentinels to cassettes and their carriers. Wheeljack was beyond glad for this as he watched with pride as Defensor helped stock one of the storage bays.

As large as the aforementioned Sentinels, the combiner was careful enough to have Wheeljack comfortable on their shoulder as they moved crates three times the length of their mentor.

The mentor in question had a live feed up in the corner of his HUD, showing Nautica's view as she gently fed each tiny Aerialbot. He gave the play-by-play to Defensor, who murmurred happily.

The combiner personality didn't yet have comms, and so couldn't recieve the stream directly, something Wheeljack had only just realised and planned to ameliorate at as soon as possible. For now, though, both mentor and mentee(s) enjoyed the antics of five hungry bitlets and one delighted caretaker as she attempted to assure all the bits that, despite the fact that she only had three nozels, there was enough energon for everyone if they'd just take turns.

It was a learning experience for them all.

Rung was worried, and not for a small reason. He had been given control over a patient that had participated in the recent Aerialbot Incident, something that had shaken him greatly. and While Rung was old, he had never dealt with a case where the human rights abuses were so severe before the bot had even been sparked. And this, somehow, had been allowed to trickle down unchecked to the next generation.

He let off a deep exvent and checked his messages. Another of his patients, Red Alert, had promised to send him a file. He had assented to giving this file for a long time, but was obviously hesitant in supplying it.

The doctor was desperately hoping that the document would give him an edge in the coming appointments with Jazz. As his inbox dinged with the newly-minted Security Director’s tone, Rung set the file to open immediately upon download completion and began to scan its contents.

Ranking Personnel Files Collection

Prepared by Autobot Security SiC Inferno on A:IX 12307/103/006 for Autobot Security Director Red Alert.
Updated A:IX 12307/103/028

◆LEVEL XII CLEARANCE NEEDED. IF YOU HAVE ACCESSED THESE FILES WITHOUT THIS LEVEL OF CLEARANCE, READING BEYOND THIS POINT WILL RESULT IN A COURT MARTIAL, REPORT THE INCIDENT IMMEDIATELY TO THIS COMM LINE: 2F.4A.b6.e8.C3-%XII.◆

Notes: The ◈ symbol indicates depreciated information or certification that is mentioned for historical accuracy only.

---

Ratchet of Vaporex

Rank: Chief Medical Officer

Sparking Date, Method: A:II 7003/093/032; Hotspot

Comm. Code: 25.4d.e6.e5.c2-%II

Certification and Employment:
Doctorate in Pædiatric Medicine summa cum laude from the Iaconian Academy of Science and Technology A:II 8091/043/122
Medicator Primorum from the reign of Nominus Prime
Certificate in Trauma Medicine from the Rodion University of the Guiding Hand A:III 8122/111/007

Quickly realising that the document and its many many footnotes and sources referenced near the end would take an eternity to comb through, even at his univeristy-tempered reading speed, Rung skimmed to Jazz’s page, unsuprised to find it riddled with both redactions and revolting information.

Jazz of Staniz

Aliases: Ricochet, Folgore, Meister, Maestro, [REDACTED], [REDACTED]

Rank: Chief Intelligence Officer

Sparking date: A:III 6303/073/022 ¹

Comm. Code: 65.4E.q5.55.v1-%III ²

Certification and Employment:
◈ Certificate of Proper and Intentioned Breeding, First Class, Information division, from the Primal Institute of Medical Sciences. Sires: Twotime of Iacon, Doublespy of Harmonex, [REDACTED]; Dam: Punch of Harmonex. Presiding Specialist: Codeline of Crystal City
Issued: A:III 6302/062/001
◈ Certificate of Processor Adjustment and Rehabilitation, Presiding Mnemosurgon: Trepan of Iacon; Presiding Coder: Variability of Crystal City
Issued: A:III 6310/230/052 Employment under the Will of the Senate ³

Notes:
1: Sources partially destroyed by the Senate, Jazz insists that it is A:III 6301/069/420, but I know this to be impossible from independently obtained Senate source documents.
2: Likely one of many, this is the code at which to reach him for command and personal complaints, issues messages.
3: Data is severely corrupted in the source document for this, but I know from personal findings that this is the case, and multiple deepcover operations were undertaken by Jazz under many aliases between...

Rung stopped reading, and set his glasses upon his desk.

Given the experience Rung had from how securely paranoid bots could bury their past, he knew that what sat on the document was like the top layer of Cybertron: thin and shining compared to its rusted core. The rest of the documents, likely destroyed by the Senate to cover up what was described as some sort of breeding operation (one that he had heard rumours of in his day as the Primal Institute’s test toy), the rest must’ve been horrific.

Also knowing the control those employed (or bred into) security and special operations often had over their processor, Jazz himself might no longer remember the vast sum of horrors he had been sparked into and produced himself. Perhaps the bot would be better off if that were true, and it was Rung’s duty to help.

Prowl sat hissing at his monitor. It still showed little movement from Decepticon forces, and his special operations team was also part of his reconaissance team, which was scrambled both still from the separation from the Senate, and the temporary loss of their commander-slash-best general operative.

He felt that he could neither trust his instruments, nor could he trust his information to be current. His only recourse was to act as if the Decepticons were in a constant state of attacking, but much of the forces were still employed in moving integral equipment from the now-abandonned Iaconi base to the Ark, and the medbay was still housing those injured in the attack. If he kept up a state of alert, the forces would be too tired to conduct an emergency liftoff if needed, among a million other complications.

Prowl flung the files he had been working on for the past several agonising joors through a secure, shielded cord and onto a heavily encrypted datapad. This, he handed to Ultra Magnus at the next shift change, and stomped his way to the showers, cadets and colonels throwing themselves to the sides of the hallways to be out of the way of his wings.

Prowl only had the time to make himself comfortably saturated with solvent before the alarm sounded.

The noise screeeooownned through the empty washracks, sending pangs through his doorwings. Shunting the general-use products back onto the stall's shelf, he careened into the corridor, lightbar ablaze, and added his own noise to the cacophony and rippling emergency lights.

The previous stagnant chaos and pregnant anxiety of the control room had morphed to a directioned action. They had run drills these past weeks, as there had been many Decepticon spottings, but no incidents.

"Second-in-Command Prowl on the bridge."

"Prowl," said Ultra Magnus as he stood at attention. "You have the conn."

"I have the conn.," Prowl agreed. "Please report."

"Agressive tendencies are now being displayed along the southernmost boundaries of the plateau. As you likely know, this is directly behind the last load of supplies and soldiers from Iacon base. It was likely that the Decepticons had attempted a guerilla attack to overwhelm the baggage train, however their pincer attack failed and the lighter Autobots were able to outpace the slower Decepticons, as they were not fully loaded down.

"That last shipment of soldiers is providing cover fire for those towning the load, but they are vastly outnumbered by what I estimate to be two-thirds of the total Decepticon forces.
Starscream and Megatron are not accounted for, and are likely still in lower Tarn, but sightings of Soundwave and his cassettes have been reported, and communications are deeply unreliable."

Ultra Magnus nodded to Blaster, who was furiously typing at his station. It was likely only due to his hard work that they had any hope of communications at all.

”Any reccomendations, commander?” Prowl asked.

Everyone and everything are onboard besides those few making their way under Decepticon bombardment. I suggest stationing as many infantry as space allows in the tortuga formation...”

He continued to elaborate on his plans, arranging soldiers in a wall close to the Ark, but far enough away that standard armaments couldn’t reach her, while allowing the escaping team time enough to board the vessel. They would leave a long, thick barrier of Gideon’s glue on the ground, as the majority of the seekers seemed to be in a cloud above Tarn, preventing the Ark from getting within attacking range of the southern city state.

With the deterrent for the ground forces set up, they would initiate the final evacuation of the planet.

Optimus Prime came onto the bridge and waited. Prowl, seated tense in the command chair, acknowledged him with a nod as Magnus finished his explaination. Prowl had been sending the plan to the battle sim table, and the three, along with consultation from some tacticians through Prowl did last-klik adjustments before sending it off with all due haste.

Finally, Wheeljack was contacted.

The experimental scientist looked beyond nervous, as the projection showed him to be in the medbay with Nautica, the bitlets, and Ratchet, who was doing final preparations in the sterile area.

”Prowl, this is some nasty stuff. Real nasty. If the Galactic Council hasn’t banned it already, it’s just ‘cause they haven’t gotten around to it yet. You all sure we don’t have any better options?” He asked, looking at the medberth behind him where the bitlets sat, contentedly feeding from Nautica.

“If we have any better options, none of us can see them.” He, too, looked at the bitlets. “It’s our best bet. If it’s anything the organics understand, it’s protecting the young. They will see our side.”

“If you’re sure, Prowl.”

”I am.”

”Just... think about them, okay?”

”We already are. Please prepare them for launch and warp as soon as possible, out of the medbay. The infantry will be finding their line of defense soon enough, and the first casualties will come fast after that. They shouldn’t be there for that.

”Yeah, of course. We’re taking them to Nautica’s room. Doesn’t smell of medbay so they’re more likely to relax. They’ll help us apply the glow-in-the-dark stars. They won’t even notice we’re in warp, promise.”

“Good, good.”

Ultra Magnus nodded. Optimus Prime looked at the bitlets with sadness and no small measure of determination.

The call lasted far too long for one in the fleeting seconds before a battle, but it was all they could do but wait, and they did it with the good company of the bitlets’ cheeping antics.

Starscream’s engines hissed a high whine, stressed and impatient. This too read in the movement of Thundercracker and Skywarp in their own ways.

They soared over the dull city of Tarn, ugly and stunted from the air. Steep spines and wires had been made long ago to ward off landings from airframes, frame discrimination borne into an architectural style, not a place they would want to bring their children back to if they had had a choice.

They had little in the way of choice, nowadays.

Megatron had kept them stationed here, over Tarn, to ward off an attack from the Autobot’s flagship, the Ark. Starscream knew that his master was wary of losing one of his vectors of control over the Command Trine, their hope for their bitlets.

He was afraid they would sneak off to become Autobots with their children, though none of them had any intention of doing any such thing; they had planned on blasting through the ship’s ablative armour in any way possible, grabbing the bitlets, and having Skywarp transport them out. If they returned to the Decepticon aegis after that was a question they hadn’t bothered to answer in advance.

However, the ship was an unknown quantity, they knew of what it had been before the Autobot faction had taken on the Senate’s old screw-up as a project, but as for what the specs were was anyone’s guess. The other faction had gotten access to the Senate’s secret stores of deeply illegal armoury which was as unknown as everything else in the equation.

Most importantly, the bitlets had to be considered.

How had the Autobots even created them? Thundercracker and Starscream, assumed the worst. They figured that the newlings were cold-constructed, and whatever sparks they had gotten from Starscream had been uploaded in adult frames full of uploaded propaganda. Skywarp didn’t know what to think; he didn’t want to think about it at all. He simply wanted them save, loved, and to meet them.

But for then, the three seeker’s and their armada buzzed, impatient, about the airspace of Tarn, warding off imaginary airstrikes and biding time until they could reclaim the unknown heirs of Vos.

The little newly-named Skydive almost teetered off the shelf. Wheeljack walked a perimeters around it, waiting for the small bot to decide to come down. There was no risk to the newling, as he moved so slow that someone would always be prepared to catch him.

After evaluating a few different spots, the tiny Cybertronian crawled up to the edge of the shelving unit that he had climbed while his siblings had been fed, and put his little arms out, waiting. Their caretaker plucked him up, and settled him on his pauldrons while the others watched.

Although this was merely a snippet of the (sometimes troublesome) adventurous nature second instar sparklings were notorious for having, the entire team was excited. This new independence meant that their processors had developed enough to soon begin pupating. Constructing an airtight nest to change in was the standard state of affairs, but when they did show signs of nesting, they’d be slipped into the medbay’s stasis pods to keep them safer. They’d likely also come out stronger; a fact that they had to weigh heavily during wartime.

They were, however, glad that the bitlets had not yet undergone the transformation, as this adventurousness would be hard to deal with during a battle like the one that had just begun outside the well-armoured walls of the ship.

Once all of them had trundled back into their playpen, Wheeljack waved and blinked his lights at them, and left. This left Nautica alone with the five queerly peeping bitlets.

Once all of them had trundled back into their playpen, Wheeljack waved and blinked his lights at them, and left. Them, Nautica was alone with the five queerly peeping bitlets.

The vacuum-proof hull didn’t allow the noise of the battle to pass through, this left Nautica was solely present in her thoughts as the bitlets realised that Wheeljack wasn’t coming back soon. They slowly quieted.

Nautica was an offworld bot, and the colony she had come from was not nearly as warlike as Cybertron itself. That was the reason she was the single caretaker left behind for the bitlets, as she, unlike other mechs, was useless in combat. Wheeljack had been called out to problemsolve with the new weaponry.

They sat in the dim silence, while power slowly rerouted to ship’s weapons systems, leaving the room dark.

Nautica paced. The bitlets merely watched, nervous of something they could sense, but not understand. Sometimes, the room gently rocked, and Nautica was full of fear. She wasn’t highly ranked enough to know what was going on, that was Wheeljack’s job — and he was gone to oversee the use of some weapon, one which he hadn’t ever wanted to need. He had left her an emergency commline to use, but communications had been down since the start of the battle.

Everything was left dark but for the emergency lights around the door.

As the offworlder began to consider welding the door shut with her wrench, all she heard was the silence of the bitlets silencing their vents, the faintest tiny of metal-on-metal from a nearby vent when four points of momentum slammed her frame into the floor.

Sharp points dug in, and a smoky voice reached her audials. She forced reboot after reboot to clear the static in her optiks. She couldn’t see her attacker.

She couldn’t see the bitlets.

One circle of pressure lapsed, and a fierce hit to her helm had her reeling, visual static clearing with one last command to her concussed systems.

A blur of dark, dull violet filled her vision, centered on two bright scarlet optiks angled sharply upwards towards their outside corners. The muzzle of what was now clearly a beastformer glinted with sharp edges and vertices, and the curve of one talon filled the right side of her vision as the paw pressed harder into the forms of her face. The sharp point of it popped between the gasket seal of her optik as she struggled, trying to move the claw out of the way so she could just see the bitlets-

“Cease,” hissed the cougaraider through a dentae-filled mouth, “your fellow Autobots are far too occupied to help you. You’ll give me the information I want, or both you and the sparklings will have your offlined frames gutted for your friends to return to.”

She managed to access commlines, only to find them blocked and full of screeching static. It left her audials ringing before another slap to the face left Nautica frozen entirely.

“Tell me everything you know about those bitlets now, offworlder.”

Her struts felt leaden and her plating brittle. Even if she was planning on giving the massive beastformer anything, she herself knew very little. They were bitlets. Air Raid liked to climb shelving units, they all did. They liked rust sticks, and cuddles with First Aid. They disliked the hiss of medical devices, and being left alone. They’d only very recently been given their names. What else was there to know about them? Surely that wasn’t what the beast wanted, the knowledge that Skydive found nickle-flavoured sweets appalling, but she had nothing else to give.

The great form of the bot didn’t shift but to press harder as she told them. The small, snarky one was Air Raid, and she rattled off each name in a panic. Slowly the snarl grew darker, deeper, out of patience and full of anger as she listed off their favourite foods and place to nap, attempting to placate with the deluge of formless information running from her mouth.

Another slap ran out, and a bitlet whined. Was that Fireflight? The attempt at even turning to see them earned her a slash to her lips.

“Project Superion, you colony fool. I don’t care what their favourite treats are, what do you know about Superion?”

“Who?

“Don’t play the fool with me, no caretaker wouldn’t know about the Project. Who else is on it-”

Nautica felt hollow. She wasn’t completely unaware. She knew something had been going on, there had to be some reason for the Autobots to so dearly care for the bitlets.

“Wheeljack, Wheeljack helps me care for them-”

“And?”

“Perceptor, but he can’t be alone.”

The cougaraider seemed somewhat mollified by that snippet, gesturing with its muzzle for her to continue.

“Ratchet, he does their checkups. Loves them dearly, like we all do. He’s a - a certified pædiatrician.”

What else could she say? The training she’d received told her only to placate, lie, and buy herself time to be rescued. But she didn’t know how long it would be until someone came to check on her. She needed to do something else besides spew words. Her wrench weighed heavily in her wrist’s subspace.

She slipped it out into the palm of her servo, just as she would when a sensitive quantum engine was nearby.

As the beastformer clearly didn’t think of her as a threat, she was left pinned, but unrestrained at the extremities.

She could feel the hissing of the bitlets’ fearful venting, the gentle whine Air Raid made when frightened. She magnetised the desperate weapon to her servo.

In a moment, like defusing a quantum engine ready to burst, she exploded into motion, and jammed the wrench downwards over Ravage’s spinal column, torquing it with all the strength the quantum mechanic used for rusty bolts the galaxy over.

The wrench was magnetised into place and to Nautica’s servo, so when a yowl filled the room and the beastformer began to buck wildly, the spy only managed to disconnect her own back legs with a crunch of metal and a gush of neural fluid. Braving the deep gouges left by the predator’s talons, she grabbed the beastformer and tossed her prone upon the floor.

The beast was hissing wildly, and the lurch towards the bitlets made Nautica’s spark twist in its casing. Uncaring of the risks, she ran her submarine propulsors to distract the agonised creature, and made a grab for its form. The beast only managed to dodge once, a sad twist to the side spraying energon and neural fluid over the floor before Nautica grabbed it, and, reaching high, she managed to shove the beast back into the vents.

Grasping for the plate on the floor, she felt the beast’s talons drag through the struts of her hand, it attempting to slash her face with its claws. She knew she’d never find the screws, and didn’t think they would hold, anyways. She slammed the plate back into place, and with her wrench’s alternate function, began to weld.

The slats of the vent were perfectly wide enough for the beast to slice through them. Her hands felt sliced to ribbons, the lacerations deep  and weeping as the plate rattled from the cougaraider shoving all its weight against it.

The welding cracked and her torch sparked as she attempted to go around again with a wire and tig rod, getting the flux into her wounds seared like it was coals and embers being packed into them.

Soon, the cracking around the welds stopped, and another round of welding kept them firm. Nautica turned, pressing her back against it as if barring a door, attempting to keep the red-hot welds still as they cooled.

Slowly, the slashes to her back stopped. The noise of dripping and wrenching metal was heard as the cougaraider dragged itself to anywhere else.

Nautica's fuel gauge was on a steady decline and her chronometer was full of errors, but she didnt care. She ran towards the bitlets. She checked each and every tiny face for hurt in her bloody palms. Turning them this way and that, as they all gathered themselves in her lap when she knelt.

A cycle and a bit later, that was how the rest of the Superion team found them: Nautica unconcious, and the bitlets peeping wildly in her lap.