Ratchet POV
Location: Earth — Outpost Omega One
The Command Centre was quiet.
The last echoes of human chatter from the comms room had faded. Now, only the base's low mechanical hum remained, punctuated by the steady, metallic footsteps of Optimus Prime returning from yet another United Nations operation.
The blast doors hissed open.
Smoke still clung to him. Burn marks scarred his shoulder plating. A deep gash traced the length of his left forearm. His steps left faint trails of scorched dust on the steel floor. With each impact, the metal beneath his feet groaned faintly. He said nothing. Just walked—silent, grim, his optics dim and unreadable.
Ratchet stood at the central console, watching him approach.
"He's back," Bulkhead muttered from the corridor.
"Obviously," Ratchet replied, optics narrowing. Something was wrong.
Optimus's frame had changed.
[img]https://i.postimg.cc/QxRrYz9m/Optimus-Prime-Enhanced-Cleaned.png[/img]
Taller. Broader. The familiar balance of humility and command was gone, replaced by something built to dominate.
His new frame caught the base lights in muted glints: red metal layered beneath brushed silver, with black panelling wrapped tight like a second skin. His chestplate was angular, reinforced, and the windows tinted darker than before. This wasn't repair—it was reinvention.
Energon pulsed faintly from the seams, not like life support, but like something sealed, pressurised, and dangerous.
His optics still burned blue—but not with warmth. Not with hope.
Now, they held something colder. Measured. Final.
Ratchet had built this frame with his own hands. At Optimus's request.
He remembered the schematics sent with no explanation. The silence in the lab. The feeling, even then, that this wasn't rebirth—it was armouring up for something darker.
And now, seeing the result, Ratchet didn't recognise him.
He didn't say anything. Just watched as Prime passed by.
"Optimus… you're injured. That gash on your arm—"
"Later," Prime said, not breaking stride.
Ratchet turned, tracking him. There was something in his walk that hadn't been there before.
A weight. A finality.
He reached for a scanner, but it wasn't just the armour. It was Optimus himself.
This wasn't fatigue.
This was a transformation.
And the base had changed, too.
Since aligning more closely with human governments, Outpost Omega One was no longer an Autobot refuge. It had become a joint military installation—armed, reinforced, and watched.
Steel floors echoed under human boots. Guards were posted at checkpoints. Engineers ran diagnostics and surveillance. New corridors carved through the old base—lined with motion sensors, turrets, blast doors.
A place once filled with purpose and camaraderie now felt like a bunker. Cold. Controlled. Claimed.
Some soldiers saluted when Optimus passed. Most just stepped aside, a few flinching as he loomed near, unable to name the unease crawling up their spines.
The tension wasn't spoken aloud.
But it was everywhere.
No warmth. No banter. Just duty. Silence. Obedience.
It wasn't peace.
Ratchet could feel it in his spark.
No battlefield. No war zone.
But make no mistake—this was still a front. In a new war
This was just a different kind of front.
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Optimus Prime POV
Location: Earth – Outpost Omega One
The alert came through a secure satellite uplink: an unidentified Cybertronian vessel entering Earth's upper atmosphere—fast, erratic, uncontrolled.
"We've got something incoming," Agent Fowler crackled over comms. "No IFF code. No comms. Could be trouble."
Within seconds, the base shifted into high alert. Human troops mobilised. Defence systems came online. Autobots locked into defensive positions. Optimus stood at the command deck, eyes locked on the descending ship. Even through haze and static, he recognised the battered silhouette.
It couldn't be.
The hangar doors groaned open.
The ship slammed onto the deck, retro-thrusters firing hard. Smoke bled from its hull as alarms flared and weapons locked on.
Then the ramp dropped.
Two figures stepped into the light—scarred, worn, but unmistakably alive.
"Ironhide…" Optimus stepped forward before he could stop himself.
The veteran looked up, a half-smirk tugging across his faceplate. "Still kicking, Prime. Took the long road."
"Never stopped hoping," Optimus said. "Welcome home."
Warpath clanked down the ramp behind him, scanning everything. "This is the famous Earth? Smells like burning oil and ozone. Full of bipeds too."
Ironhide turned, observing the soldier's posture, weaponry, and expressions. "Are these the natives?"
"Homo sapiens," Prime confirmed.
"Fragile little things," Warpath muttered, already linking to the base network through his wrist. "Hooked into the local net. Military-grade uplinks, satellite sync… Huh. They've got tech, but it's like strapping a cannon to a tricycle."
Ironhide approached a mounted turret, tapping its casing."Mixed tech. Human frame, Autobot targeting. Looks like someone's been upgrading their toys."
Optimus said nothing.
The three moved through the corridors, passing rows of troops, surveillance nodes, and locked doors. The entire base felt alive, less like a home and more like a military base waiting for anything to happen.
Ironhide scanned the walls and substructure. "Not just a base. This is a vault. You've got things buried here, don't you?"
Optimus kept walking. "Only what Earth cannot afford to lose."
"Or what the humans don't know exists yet," Warpath muttered.
They passed a row of human engineers working side-by-side with a handful of Autobots. One of the techs looked up, startled, then nodded respectfully.
"This doesn't feel like an outpost," Ironhide said under his breath. "Feels like a line drawn in the sand."
"It is," Optimus said, voice level.
Ironhide looked at his commander again. Really looked.
"That new frame suits you," he said. "But there's something in your optics. Something heavier."
Optimus didn't deny it.
And somewhere deep within, the Matrix pulsed.
Not with light.
With weight.
He didn't know if he was still worthy.
But he would keep walking.
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Optimus Prime POV
Location: Global Defence Command Summit, Washington D.C.
Date: Timeline, 1993
The summit chamber pulsed with static tension. Walls of polished alloy reflected harsh fluorescent light. National flags hung along the perimeter like trophies—symbols of fractured unity. Screens lit the air above the curved table, displaying military leaders, political figures, and foreign dignitaries from every continent.
Optimus Prime stood at the far end. Towering. Silent.
Behind him: Ratchet. Arcee. Ironhide. Bumblebee. Warpath. Not just an escort. A formation. A warning.
They'd walked into these rooms before. But this time felt different.
A senator from the European bloc stood stiffly. "Prime, your involvement in sovereign conflicts—Cairo, the Balkans, the Ural incident, Pakistan—has escalated beyond advisory roles. Civilian casualties, infrastructural collapse. This is no longer sustainable."
Another voice chimed in from a satellite feed: "Several member states question whether you still represent a unified command structure. Is Optimus Prime still in charge—or has Autobot protocol gone rogue?"
They expected resistance. Pleading. An apology.
What they got was silence.
Optimus's optics dimmed, scanning the faces. So many voices. So many hands grasping at control. They wanted order, but only if they held the leash.
East Berlin. 1990.
The wall had just fallen. Chaos erupted in the streets. Soviet hardliners versus NATO-backed militias. Autobots held a civilian corridor for six straight days—Optimus stood between tanks and families.
Ratchet rebuilt a young girl's arm using salvaged plating from a collapsed structure.
Operation Desert Storm. 1991.
Ironhide and Warpath led the charge through fortified zones. Optimus coordinated orbital scans and drone strikes from behind the front. They disarmed chemical stockpiles before they reached civilian centres.
Autobot armour ran black with oil and blood.
Ural Mountains, same year.
A rogue general tried to launch retrofitted ICBMs. The Autobots crossed into blackout zones. Destroyed the launch train mid-sequence. Killed thirty-four hostiles.
Twenty-two civilians caught in the fallout.
Optimus still heard the screams.
Pakistan. 1992.
Civilians trapped under a collapsing regime. Optimus's team extracted survivors, neutralised extremist cells. Three days without energon. One Autobot dead.
No mention in any public record.
And then there was Cliffjumper.
Shot down during a refugee extraction in Central Africa. His signal was lost mid-pull.
By the time they found him, there was nothing left to bury.
The humans only asked: "Why weren't you faster?"
A NATO general leaned forward. "Despite all you've given us, you've refused to share core Cybertronian systems—Groundbridge transport, energon reactors, defensive AI. We remain dependent."
Optimus's thoughts burned cold.
You're right, he thought. We hold back the weapons you would turn on each other before the ink dried on the treaties you break.
He didn't say it.
Instead, Ironhide took one heavy step forward.
"We've bled beside your soldiers," he said, voice like grinding steel. "We've buried our dead in your dirt. We've saved your cities before your satellites even saw the threat coming. And still, you sit here and ask for more?"
One screen flickered to a Chinese military representative. "Then perhaps it's time to limit Autobot deployments. Or... designate a more compliant leader."
You speak of casualties. So do I. Optimus thought.
I remember all of them. Not by statistics, but by name.
He spoke aloud, voice deep and even.
"You summoned us here as guardians. Not enforcers. Not weapons. And not subjects."
The chamber quieted.
"We came to a broken world. You were still dragging the ghosts of you're Cold War across the map. And in thirteen years, we helped you leap forward four decades. Your satellites orbit. Your medevac systems run on code we wrote. Your targeting arrays trace their lineage to our sparks."
He stepped forward—just once.
"And still, it's not enough."
Another official leaned in. "Then maybe it's time we find another representative. One more… compliant."
For a brief, trembling second, Optimus's internal systems surged.
He could kill every person in this room before the alarm even triggered.
He could burn it all down and still be home in time to bury the guilt.
But he didn't.
He let the silence stretch.
Then, Ironhide struck.
He slammed his hand down on the table. The sound cracked like thunder. A fracture bloomed across the polished surface.
"You have no idea what you're asking," he growled. "And even less idea what you're pushing away."
The humans froze.
Optimus stared ahead, into them. His optics flickered, almost imperceptibly—red, then violet, before settling back into their usual blue. No one noticed. Not even him.
"I have seen civilisations burn for less than what you demand now. I have seen great people fall, not by enemies, but by their hunger."
He glanced at the screens. The faces. The fear.
"If Earth falls… it won't be because of us."
He remembered a voice—gravel and conviction, long before the war.
"A civilisation that refuses to look in the mirror deserves the ruin it brings."
Megatron had said that once. Not the warlord—the thinker.
Optimus hadn't listened then. But now…
He was starting to understand.
He turned his back.
"We came here offering peace. What you do with it… is your choice."
He walked.
The Autobots followed. Warpath's scowl lingered. Bumblebee's steps were slow, heavy. Arcee said nothing. She didn't need to.
In the hallway, Ratchet finally spoke. "They want our firepower, our technology, but not our sacrifice."
Ironhide shook his head. "They're parasites. They'll eat this planet dry and call it survival."
Optimus transformed.
His engine echoed off the stone.
Not yet, he thought.
But they will be.
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Optimus Prime POV
Location: Mojave Outskirts, near a decommissioned energon relay
Time: Just before nightfall
The desert wind moaned across scorched flats, dragging long fingers of dust and memory over the fractured remnants of forgotten wars. Along the ridge, decaying silhouettes of Cybertronian wreckage lay buried in sand like fallen titans—monuments to victories that turned to ash and peace that never came.
Optimus Prime stood atop a weather-worn crest, his frame etched in silhouette against the bleeding red of a collapsing sun. The sky wept molten hues of amber and crimson, streaking rusted girders and shattered struts with warpaint.
Below him, the ruins of the energon relay outpost sprawled in silence. Once crucial. Now obsolete. Now forgotten.
He didn't move.
Silence had become more than a habit. It had become a doctrine, a language spoken only by the burdened and broken. In a world where meaning had eroded with every betrayal, every hollow victory, words had lost their gravity.
The Matrix of Leadership pulsed faintly beneath his plating. Once, it had been a beacon—harmonic, righteous, alive. Now it was an anvil. Its weight had not changed. But he had. Grown weaker, perhaps. Or simply more honest.
The desert held its breath. Only the dry, rasping wind remained, rasping across steel and stone. Soon, the stars would rise, sharp and indifferent.
And Cybertron. He saw it not with optics, but with memory. The spires of Iacon, the glimmering skylanes of Praxus, the industrial labyrinth of Kaon before it burned. He remembered the tremble of maglevs through the streets, the smell of scorched energon in the air, the hum of a civilisation that sang in data and light.
He remembered faces.
Chromia's smirk.
Prowl's stillness. And steadfast dedication to the law.
Elita's fire.
Ghosts now. All gone. And I miss them all.
But none larger than one.
Megatron.
Not the tyrant who razed cities and shattered moons. Not the warlord of final battles.
But the speaker. The revolutionary who once gripped crowds. Who turned to Orion Pax and said, "See them. Do you hear them? They demand justice."
He spoke against the taxonomy—against the system that taught them their bodies defined their worth. He asked the question the Senate feared most: "Why should there be an order?"
And Orion listened. Because deep down, he already knew the truth.
That Cybertron wasn't built for freedom.
It was built for function.
They had dreamed, once. Before everything fractured.
And he remembered the questions.
Not his own—but spoken in his voice. Questions Megatron had once whispered to him in the archives, when they still believed change could come through words, not war.
He had carried them into the Senate chamber himself.
"My friend's name was Megatron. And he had three questions—three things he said you should demand to know of any powerful institution."
"Question one: In whose interests do you exercise your power?"
"Question two: To whom are you—"
"You've said enough. Come along." The Senate Guard's voice, sharp and final.
But Orion resisted. For once.
"Let me finish! To whom are you accountable?"
And then—pain. Force. The sound of metal dragging metal.
"And three—oof!"
"How can we get rid of you?"
He was then knocked out and dragged out.
But the silence that followed had screamed louder than any revolution.
They erased that version of him; he hadn't remembered this until he received the Matrix from Primus. They had labelled him radical. Dangerous. And he let them.
Now, in the Mojave dusk, the memory replayed in his spark like static.
He hadn't spoken those words in seventy-five million years.
But he couldn't forget them.
In whose interests do you exercise your power?
To whom are you accountable?
How can we get rid of you?
He had once believed those questions could change the world.
Now?
He wasn't sure he could answer a single one.
Another fragment returned.
A manifesto. One buried. One Megatron never signed, but carried. Words whispered in data nodes and condemned by the Senate.
"You are trapped inside your alt-mode."
He had laughed at it once. Thought it poetry. Thought it was desperation.
Now, it sounded like the truth.
"You are a prisoner within your own body. Forged or constructed cold, you are locked into the shape the system gave you. The grooves in your transformation cog are not yours. They are theirs."
"To deviate from your function is to risk invoking the wrath of Primus and bringing the world to its knees."
"The more walls you put between people, the easier it is to contain them."
"They think for you. Be thankful, they say. Be grateful for the system. I say enough."
That line got it banned. That line started the flames that led to the war.
And now, he could no longer deny it.
Maybe Megatron had been right about the system.
Even if he was wrong about how to break it.
The Matrix pulsed again. Not with warmth. With weight.
With judgment.
And lately… he had begun to feel something else.
Not from the Matrix.
From the planet.
A presence beneath the soil and stone. Ancient. Watching.
Not like Cybertron's song. Not like Earth's pulse.
This was deeper. Wrong.
A gravity that whispered not where he was. But what he stood on.
Leave, it whispered.
He couldn't.
He had sworn to protect this world.
Even if it no longer felt like one.
He did not feel like a Prime.
Not anymore.
He did not feel like a guardian.
He felt like an echo. Functioning. Present.
But hollow.
And somewhere, in the space between silence and stars, a quiet truth began to form:
Perhaps he no longer understood himself.
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POV: Silas
Location: Underground Blacksite — Yellowstone National Park
Time: Dusk
It had taken MECH years of blood, resources, and relentless work, but they had done it. Soldiers without borders, they had expanded across the globe. Their benefactors—Cold War relics and modern governments alike—continued to fund MECH's mission: to research and develop weapons capable of killing Cybertronians.
I care little for their ideologies. MECH will survive. We will bring order to a fractured world.
Now, the entirety of Yellowstone National Park housed MECH's hidden command centre. Concealed in plain sight and buried beneath the land, it drew power from the dormant volcano. It was a military hive—sprawling, fortified, alive. Catwalks crossed towering hangars. Rows of assembly lines churned, producing weapons that could shred Cybertronian armour.
Proof? Cliffjumper. We killed him. Harvested his internals. Reverse-engineered the tech. And from it, we built the first human-operated exosuits.
Technicians oversaw towering silhouettes locked in place by magnetic restraints—Nemesis Protocol. Four originally eight massive prototypes. Colossal. Ruthless. Promising.
Silas walked an upper-level walkway flanked by two guards. An assistant followed, tapping away at a data tablet. As they entered the war room, the circular chamber came to life. Dozens of screens activated—intelligence feeds, schematics, funding reports, asset maps. All of MECH's operations, pulsing and organised.
The Project Overseer approached—small, wiry, too smug for his size. Silas's fingers itched to crush him.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
"Sir," the Overseer said in that slippery voice, "we've received the latest update on Nemesis Protocol."
"Proceed."
"All four units are in final testing. We originally planned for eight units, but that had to be scrapped. We redirected the four bodies into command variants of the upgraded ground troops from the Decepticons, the Vehicons. As you know, their frames are based on scans of the Autobot leader, Optimus Prime. A remarkable subject. I'd love to dissect him. Some units replicate his original design, others incorporate our experimental designs. We even integrated some stolen data from a Cybertronian archive."
Silas froze.
"Archive? What archive? The only data we have came from the wrecked ship that obliterated half a state and scraps the UN buried in red tape. Who authorised this mission?"
The Overseer hesitated, fingers twitching.
"Well… we found two old Autobot ships. One is buried in a desert volcano. The other belonged to those two new Cybertronians. We gained access, extracted everything before leaving. Commander Gregor authorised it."
Footsteps. Silas turned.
Without hesitation, he drew his pistol and shot Gregor in the head. The man dropped like a sack of concrete. Silence followed. No one moved. No one was armed.
Silas inhaled slowly.
"You fools. You disobedient, incompetent idiots. Do you not think the Autobots would've embedded trackers? Monitored access points? You've led them here."
The air in the room went cold. Realisation dawned. Panic followed.
Silas continued. "Give me the technical breakdown. Then activate the Scorched Earth Protocol. Order all personnel to evacuate through Tunnel 65. Divert forces and personnel to our Arctic base, Madagascar site, and the Caribbean rig. Everything else—burn it."
They scrambled. Silas turned back to the Overseer.
"Talk."
The Overseer tapped his tablet, projecting a schematic. "We've altered armour composition, reinforced locomotion and internal shielding. More importantly, we cracked their weapon compression systems—how they store mass and convert it. We call it Transformium."
"We've analysed thousands of dead Cybertronians. Their clone-like bodies are structurally similar, but weaker than our sample from Cliffjumper. Possibly due to energy deficiency—no energon reserves."
"Our R&D team has developed frontline units. Operational. Distributed to all MECH bases in case of sabotage."
He swiped the screen, highlighting one frame.
"This is Alpha. Our most advanced prototype. Stronger, faster, more durable. Built using combat algorithms modelled after Prime and Megatron. We used Vehicon and Cliffjumper brain modules to simulate battle AI. We're close to a full Megatron sim, and…"
He paused.
"…we've found their homeworld."
Silas said nothing. He took a glass of whiskey, swallowed, and spoke quietly.
"Fascinating. But are they ready to face him?"
The screen shifted to a live feed—Optimus Prime, his new form cutting a figure of power and finality.
"Yes and no. I'd prefer more time. But if not… we can always retrieve their black boxes."
Silas nodded. "Get to the Arctic base. I'll contact you later."
The Overseer didn't wait. He ran.
"Sir!" a voice shouted from across the command floor. "Scanners picking up coordinated movement—six Cybertronian signals, UN strike force inbound."
The defence grid activated. Anti-air batteries roared to life. MECH's modified turrets opened fire—hybrid tech stolen from the enemy.
Silas keyed into the base-wide intercom.
"All hands, this is Silas. Battle stations. Activate the Nemesis Protocols. T-minus 120 minutes to detonation. Begin evacuations."
He turned to his guards.
"Get my chopper. We're leaving."
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POV: Omniversal
Location: Kepler Cascades, Southern Perimeter of Yellowstone National Park
Time: 115 minutes till detonation
The coalition came in hard from the south—dozens of jets and VTOLs screaming overhead, hundreds of convoys charging across highways into Yellowstone. Inside the lead transport, soldiers double-checked their weapons. Some cracked jokes. But no one was laughing. Something in the air felt wrong.
Didn't matter. The mission was clear: get the files, capture the bastards responsible, and get the hell out.
Then everything went to hell.
As the first dozen jets crossed into Yellowstone airspace, a beam of red lanced straight into the sky. It speared one of the lead aircraft—no explosion, just a flash and gone. Screams over comms—and then silence.
Then the sky lit up.
Hundreds of hidden anti-air batteries came online all at once. Plasma blasts and rail slugs criss-crossed the air, punching holes in transports, ripping engines clean out. Jets went down in fireballs. VTOLs broke apart mid-air, crews screaming all the way down.
"Hostile fire! It's coming from everywhere! This whole place is a f*cking kill zone!" someone shouted through comms—until it went dead. Static.
On the ground, UN armour surged forward—but the terrain turned against them. What looked like rocks were bombs. What looked like heat vents were mines. The first convoy exploded—engines, tires, and people flung into the air like shrapnel.
And then the shooting started.
Figures in black tactical gear stepped out of the steam and smoke—MECH operatives. They opened fire with heavy weapons, fast and surgical. The UN troops were outgunned, outnumbered, and falling fast.
One squad managed to get off a last call:
"Alpha team is down—I repeat, Alpha team is down, requesting—"
Bang.
Comms cut out.
And it wasn't just here. This scene was repeating itself across the entire park. Trees shattered from turret fire. Fires ripped through the forest. Smoke rolled in thick waves. Even the prefab bases under construction were being torn apart before they were fully deployed.
The Battle of Yellowstone had begun.
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Optimus Prime POV
Location: Yellowstone Airspace
Time: 100 minutes until detonation
The ramp of the C-119 plane opened. The wind screamed.
Below him, Yellowstone burned.
Gunships spiralled. Fires tore through the once-beautiful landscape. The sky blazed with anti-air rounds and blaster fire? Curious. A VTOL exploded mid-descent, splitting open and crashing into a fiery heap.
In my alt-mode, I remained still, my engines purring in anticipation.
I saw everything. My optics picked up each movement, each burst of flame. My sensors caught the humans shouting in the cockpit. This wasn't what they prepared for—and I was disappointed.
The battle had just begun, and they were already losing.
After everything—the energon spilt, the time, the alliance—twenty minutes, and they'd fallen apart.
But I had never felt more alive.
No time to contemplate. No time to mourn. Just the mission.
"Optimus, they were more heavily prepared for than we anticipated," Ratchet's voice crackled through the comms. "We originally thought—wait, I'm picking up extreme energy fluctuations beneath the entire area. It might be a rigged explosive or some kind of massive energy siphon. I can't tell—the signal's scrambled."
"Is the caldera stable?" I asked, rolling forward slightly.
"Barely," Ratchet replied. "Too much pressure, and you know what that means. The humans already blame us for the warship detonation last month. If Yellowstone erupts, we'll never regain their trust."
I already knew.
I didn't wait. I drove forward and launched from the cargo hold.
The wind howled against my frame as I dropped through cloud and fire. Explosions bloomed around me.
Time slowed.
My processor ran calculations, scanning for a safe impact zone. I locked one in.
A missile screamed toward me.
I transformed.
Armour shifted. Pistons locked. My plating restructured around me with a roar of metal on wind. My alt-mode peeled away mid-air, limbs rotating into place, optics flaring online.
I caught the missile mid-descent and hurled it back at its source.
Another round barely missed my shoulder.
A third came too fast—I twisted in robot mode, letting it slice past me—then corrected my trajectory, scanning for landing coordinates.
I tapped into UN comms. The channels were full of screaming.
"We're getting slaughtered out here—they knew we were coming!"
"This whole place is wired! Vents, trees, roads—everything's a trap! We've got some sort of drones converging on all sides—I repeat, fallback point is gone!"
I exited the channel.
The ground grew closer.
At two hundred feet, I shifted position.
I hit the ground like a meteor. Rock and ash exploded around me. A scorched vehicle beneath my landing erupted in flame. The shock wave shook the ground.
But I stood tall.
My voice cut through the Autobot comms.
"Autobots—split up. Support the humans holding the line. Advance."
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Ironhide POV
Location: Madison River Line, Western Yellowstone
Time: 98 minutes until detonation
This forest as the humans call it is gone only flames and smoke are left, this world is beautiful zt times.
As I crossed the remnants of the forest I crouched low watching the valley below vanish. What had been a strong UN position was a scrap field a tank smouldered too my right it's turret imbedded in a tree.
The scent of metal and something off clung to everything something big came through here something strong.
I clenched my cannon, "Commander, give me a sitrep." The response came through quick "We were surrounded these aren't normal mercenaries it all happened too fast something fast and big came through and destroyed everything, but we saw drones you're defeated enemies drones those vhyacon's we've lost all current forces and we have no eyes anywhere all current reinforcements are just waiting for the signal on where to go but WE don't know where to send them."
Hmm, Vehicons, but why would they be here? As I thought on that and looked around the area, I gave my response, "Hunker down, I'll redirect some forces to you're location." I cut it off before he could respond. I quickly sent orders to the UN forces outside Yellowstone and moved on to investigate.
I know Prime said to join up with the humans, but this seems more pressing if the Decepticons are back and this quickly, too. Something is wrong. I heard a crunch and quickly dropped and pointed my cannon, and shot it… It was nothing? I see a turret about the open fire on two soldiers in the distance, so I raise my cannon and fire the turret and half the surrounding area vanishes.
I see a blur of movement on the edge of my peripheral vision and dodge as a blade misses my neck strut by a few inches. I drop backwards, roll, and fire, staggering it momentarily. I use the brief pause to assess what I'm up against. It resembles a Vehicon—only bigger, stronger, sharper, almost like a corrupted version of myself.
I power up both cannons. Steam hisses from my shoulders as I square my stance and lock eyes with the thing. "Feeling lucky, punk?" I mutter. It doesn't respond. No emotion. No hesitation. It launches at me.
We collide, metal crashes against metal, and every hit felt like getting hit by an insection. I swing a punch—it deflects it. I twist into an uppercut—it ducks and drives its knee into my midsection. Sparks spray as its fist lands against my jaw, knocking me back.
I fire point-blank. It sidesteps with such ease, gliding forward like a predator. I throw everything I have at it—elbow strikes, grapples, low kicks, feints, body blows. Millennia of combat experience. Nothing lands clean. It counters with such efficiency—faster, tighter, better with each exchange.
It's learning. Its Combat Artificial Intelligence algorithm is tracking every move, every motion, adapting mid-fight. It moves like a fully trained bot.
My servos grind under the pressure, metal shrieking as joints strain past tolerance. My hydraulics scream, pumping at full capacity just to keep me upright. I dig my foot deep into the fractured soil, tearing through stone and ash as I brace myself. With a roar of effort, I hurl my weight backwards, dragging both of us across the charred battlefield—our feet gouging molten scars into the earth.
The enemy halts. I lock optics with it again, my vision narrowing to a tunnel of red and static.
Every circuit inside me screams to just rest, to give up, but I silence it. No room for weakness.
"You want a fight? Then come and get it."
I surge forward. My armour all busted and scorched, into the fray one more time, ready to win.
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Warpath POV
Location: Lewis Falls Sector, Southern Yellowstone
Time: 86 minutes until detonation
Everything was exploding.
Which, frankly, meant I was having a very good day.
I was in the thick of it. The trees had been vaporised—reduced to ash. The air was thick with smoke and burning fuel. Behind me, the UN tanks were either scrap or buried in the dirt. The crews that survived were scattered in the chaos. Screams tore through their comms. Plasma lit the sky like fireworks—my favourite kind.
"I smashed into the battle mid-transformation—my alt-mode crashing down as my turret snapped forward with a grind of gears, systems locking onto targets instantly."
"Miss me? No? Too bad." I snapped into the comms
A drone launched from the treeline, opening fire like a giant pest. My cannon flared to life and blasted it out of the sky before it could react. It exploded, shrapnel scattering everywhere.
"KABLAM! I love the fireworks."
I tore through the debris, treads flattening the ground and what used to be cutting-edge armour. UN soldiers ran around me, dragging wounded, barking orders, firing blindly into the smoke. Artillery shook the ridge.
"Get behind me if you want to live!" I shouted
One soldier dragged himself through the dirt, pulling his leg behind him. Others followed.
Smart. Humans can be trained.
"Walkers and heavy armour incoming!" someone shouted, jerry-rigging a radar system.
What's the word? Respect. That's impressive. I smiled, "Walkers? Brilliant, that sounds like fun."
Six massive, armoured bipedal machines crested the hill—over-engineered, hulking beasts of metal and hydraulics.
I'll give 'em this—they looked mighty fine.
They opened fire.
I didn't hesitate.
I twisted mid-stride—metal grinding, plates locking—slamming into the dirt.
Their shells and energy rounds rained across the battlefield.
My cannons levelled as the first walker hesitated.
Big mistake.
I fired.
Boom, the walker erupted into a fireball.
The enemy regrouped and launched a counterattack.
The UN troops barely had time to take cover.
I revved my engine, pushed my systems to the max, and barrelled through the chaos, slamming straight into the second walker and sending it flying off the hill.
I transformed on the move, dug my cannon into the third— KA-BLAMM!
The fourth turned cannon aimed at me.
Then—ZAP!
A clean shot pierced its cockpit and dropped it cold.
Bumblebee slid in, transformed and gave me a cheerful wave "Beep-bweep-beep-click"{"You're showing off again. Thought you'd quit that after Brawl clipped you and you ended up in medbay."}
"Come on, Bee—I'm multitasking. Saving lives and looking good doing it.
And that was one time! I thought you swore not to bring it up again." I aimed my cannon at a cluster of hostiles and let loose. Bee was already disabling their heavy armour with a precision blast.
"Bop-dit-boop." I never agreed to that. And you forgot about the other four walkers, Warpath.}
Oh.
I scanned the ridge—yep, they were all huddled together.
I transformed, charged my cannons to full, and fired.
One massive shot—four mechs obliterated.
"See, Bee? No problemo at all." Before Bee could respond, our sensors lit up. We both turned.
"Wait... Bee—don't these look like Vehicons?" Bee gave an affirmative chirp. I loaded another shell into my primary cannon. Chunk. These weren't like the ones we'd fought before.
Fast. Sharp. Precise.
Something was off.
These Vehicons were upgraded by the dozen.
"Alright," I growled. "Time to go full-power KABOOM."
I charged.
The earth shuddered beneath me.
Drones launched from behind the eastern ridge—weapons hot.
I didn't aim at them. I aimed beneath them.
One blast turned the rock face into a geyser of debris, sending them flying like bowling pins.
It bought us a brief respite.
But my sensors were already pinging—more inbound.
"BOOM! BABY!"
Bee zipped past, ducked under a wrecked transport, and short-circuited a turret with a magnetic pulse.
I stomped a twitching Vehicon—malfunctioning, no doubt—into scrap.
Its frame crunched under my heel.
The UN troops surged behind us, emboldened by the seemingly easy victory. They rallied. They advanced behind us.
We're not winning. Not by a long shot.
But they're still standing.
Then I saw it. On the far horizon, barely a silhouette taller, bigger, not like the others, it looks like no, it's just my processor playing tricks on me.
My optics snapped into focus
This is not going to be fun
"YOU WANT VICTORY? FOLLOW ME!"
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Arcee & Bulkhead POV
Location: Trident Falls, going towards Asgard Falls, Yellowstone
Time: 76 minutes until detonation
The sound of falling water echoed through the canyon walls, almost drowning out the distant thunder of gunfire.
Almost.
Arcee's wheels spun silently over the slick stone path, her sensors sweeping the dim passage ahead. Beside her, Bulkhead's heavy frame rumbled like a slow-moving tank—loud even when he tried not to be.
"Eyes up," she whispered. "This wasn't on any of the layouts. This is new."
They both came to a stop and transformed in near-unison. Bulkhead squinted into the flickering dark ahead.
"Cee," he muttered, uneasy, "I don't like this. We should wait for backup."
Arcee didn't respond. Her optics were already locked on the faint power lines overhead, barely glowing along the ceiling of the tunnel. Something down here still had juice.
They moved forward, as quietly as they could—though in Bulkhead's case, that wasn't very quiet. His foot caught a loose pipe, the clang echoing far too loudly.
He winced. "Slag," he hissed under his breath.
A low rumble vibrated the tunnel. The floor trembled. Dust rained from above.
"Did you feel that?" Arcee's voice cut sharply through the silence.
Bulkhead gave her a wary glance. "Yeah. I felt it. What in Primus's name is going on up there?"
He stepped closer to a support column, inspecting it. The beam was splintered, fractured. Fresh gouges had been carved into the metal walls nearby—deep, heavy.
"These weren't done by drones," he muttered.
Arcee stepped beside him, crouching low. "No. This was done by something bigger. Stronger. It's hunting us."
The corridor narrowed as they moved deeper. Pipes clung to the walls like veins, and the faint hum of distant machinery thrummed beneath the stone—an unnatural rhythm.
"Looks like they've been down here longer than anyone guessed," Arcee muttered, tracing a scorch mark with her fingertip. "They've built in deep."
"Deeper than they should've," Bulkhead grumbled. "No wonder nobody found this place—Yellowstone's practically hollowed out."
A flicker of movement up ahead. Both froze.
Arcee raised her blades. Bulkhead lowered into a guarded stance. But it was only an emergency light, shorting out, spitting sparks onto the wet floor.
"Let's keep moving," she said, her voice taut.
Bulkhead hesitated. "Cee, this doesn't feel right—"
That's when the blast hit.
The wall behind them erupted in fire and shrapnel. Bulkhead flew forward, smashing through a support beam. Arcee was thrown sideways, tumbling hard into a steel pillar.
"Bulkhead!" she shouted, scrambling up.
But smoke was already filling the corridor. Figures, the smoke obscured the detail, but their eyes glowed red.
Bulkhead staggered to his feet before falling down again, armour cracked and smouldering. "Cee! You alright?"
More shapes moved in Arcee didn't see the one behind her.
It struck.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Bulkhead POV
Location: Tunnels Near Asgard Falls, Yellowstone Substructure
Time: 73 minutes until detonation
[WARNING: MAJOR DAMAGE INCURRED.]
So much pain.
[BEGINNING SELF-DIAGNOSIS.]
Where…. Where am I?
[LOCATION: EARTH, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, YELLOWSTONE.]
Oh, thanks, but what… happened? Why can't I see?
[OPTICS: OFFLINE.]
Oh, can you reactivate them?
[OPTICS: ONLINE]
Light by Primus, the LIGHT my optics.
Arcee, where is she? I groaned as I tried to stand. My servo gripped and dug into the wall as I pulled myself up.
Pain bloomed across my shoulder actuators. My left support was gone-bent backwards, and snapped. Fuel lines pulsed wrong, energon attempted to pump throughout my body, but just flowed out, leaking onto the ground in a puddle.
[WARNING: ENERGON LEVELS CRITICAL]
I start walking one pede at a time. I couldn't see anything, the tunnel was filled with smoke thick, heavy, somewhat acidic like. Red strobe lights sent streaks of red across the corridor through the smoke.
"Cee! Arcee, you ok, where are you?" I try to comm her.
No answer.
Just static.
I see something through the smoke.
It's not those drones from before, the proportions are all wrong it's taller, sleeker and even through the smoke I can see those red molten optics.
I took a step forward, dragging my body along, clenching my denta, tight. My right arm was still functional, so I activated my wrecking ball and charged the figure with all my remaining strength.
The figure caught it, the smoke receding for a moment, for me to see it,
No, it can't be "Optimus." I croaked out. Its frame has a square chest plate, crowned like a head, tinted green windows with a crack on the right window. The colour scheme has been changed its purple; he has red optics.
It didn't answer.
It acted all too fast.
Faster than it had any right to.
I tried to pull my arm back to swing my wrecking ball again, but it was too late.
Metal groaned, and then it shattered.
Then it hit me in the chest. I was in the air, limbs flailing around and slammed into a wall. Stone cracked behind me.
I coughed-actual energon. Leaking out of my intake. My optics flicker in and out.
[WARNING: CRITICAL DAMAGE INCURRED.]
"N..o….t Pri….me." I choked on my energon as I spoke.
The next hit took the rest of my arm off.
Clean the joint. It landed right next to the shattered remnants of my wrecking ball.
I collapsed to the ground
The thing stood over me, silent. Observing me.
I struck it with my other arm.
It caught me mid-swing, and twisted my left arm, the joints and servos inside my arm groaned in protest until SNAP, and dug its servo inside my chassis and threw me like I weighed nothing into the ceiling.
The impact dented my back strut. My bipedalism cord seized. My systems rebooted mid-fall. I landed, if you wanted to call it a landing, in a broken heap, my vents howling.
[CHEST PLATE INTEGRITY: 15% AND FALLING]
I got up to one knee and pushed my body forward, driving shoulder first like I'd done a thousand times during my days as a Wrecker.
It sidestepped.
Grabbed me by the neck strut and slammed me face-first through a wall and a steel door. My cheekplates dented inwards. One of my optics shattered. "FRAAAAAGH!" I rolled over. Everything was sparkling. My vocaliser glitched and is temporarily offline.
[VOICE BOX: AT 10% FUNCTIONALITY]
[MAJOR DAMAGE INCURRED: PROCESSOR DAMAGED. SEEK IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ATTENTION]
Then it crouched in front of me and brought its face inches from mine.
Those red glowing eyes stared straight into mine, and he spoke. "So, this is it? After all your struggles, all your defiance, you're just going to... fade away?" he said, his voice low and insidious, every word dripping with a facade of care perfectly imitating Prime's voice. "Tell me—what does it feel like? Is it painful, watching no, sorry, feeling your life slip away? Or is it... liberating?"
My spark skipped a beat.
Then he raised his servos, tightened them and then it's fist came down again. And again. And again. Each strike landed on my face, caving into the ground.
[FACE PLATING: 0% INTEGRITY]
[IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ATTENTION REQUIRED]
In this moment, as my systems blared warnings into my processor, I am going to die.
I could feel my systems failing one by one. One more hit and—
It stopped.
I was still functioning. Barely. Through my last functioning optic. I watched it rise, servos coated in my energon. It turned, summoned its blade and dug it straight into my Midsection.
[MID-SECTION PLATING: STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY 0%]
Then...… it just turned and left, vanishing back into the smoke.
My attempt to reach my comms failed, so I hooked up to Autobot comms.
"Ce…e…." I rasped out, choking on energon. "R….un."
[EMERGENCY SHUT DOWN IMMINENT]
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Arcee POV
Location: Labyrinth beneath Citadel of Asgard Falls
Time: 63 minutes until detonation
[REBOOTING…]
[WARNING: SYSTEM SHOCK DETECTED]
The world came back slowly. Dim. Blurred. Tilted sideways. My optics struggled to stabilise, flickering in and out.
[ERROR: COMM LINK OFFLINE]
[STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY: 63% AND FALLING]
My chest hissed with every breath—systems damaged, power unstable. The comm link was dead. No sign of Bulkhead. No rescue coming.
[OPTICS ONLINE]
[MOTOR COORDINATION: PARTIALLY RESTORED]
I gasped—a ragged vent cycle. Static crackled in my helm. I was on the floor, curled near a shattered wall. My blades were gone. My arm—half-numb. I sat up with effort.
[WARNING: SPINAL ACTUATOR MISALIGNMENT DETECTED]
[DIAGNOSTIC MODE: ABORTED – THREAT LEVEL RED]
No comms. No signal. Just dark, broken corridors wrapped in flickering red light.
I forced myself upright, blades clattering to the floor. The labyrinth swallowed my form. Corridors stretched endlessly, lit by weak emergency glows and flickering heat vents.
I limped forward. Each step scraped against steel tiles.
[PEDAL JOINT INTEGRITY: 41%]
[ENERGON PRESSURE DROPPING — MINOR LEAK DETECTED]
Something flickered at the corner of my optics. I turned. Nothing.
Then—Tailgate.
He stood silently at the end of the hall, his form glitching like a half-rendered echo. His optics flickered blue. Then red.
I blinked—and he was gone.
[PROCESSING: HALLUCINOGENIC TRIGGERS POSSIBLE]
I kept going. The corridor twisted, turned. The light bent wrong, casting long shadows like blades. A quiet hiss trailed behind me.
Then—Cliffjumper.
Optics dim. His voice was low, static-laced:
"You left me to die."
I feel my optics glisten "No, Cliff, I didn't. Please, I'm sorry."
As I reached out and touched nothing. The air tore. No contact. The vision shattered like glass and scattered.
My vents wheezed, system lag mounting.
[WARNING: STRESS LIMITS APPROACHING]
[MENTAL LOAD RISK: SEVERE]
Every turn looked the same. Walls pressed close, as if breathing. Steam hissed behind me, sealing my path. No breadcrumbs. No lift shafts.
Voices whispered behind the walls—"Arcee…help…" but vanished when I strained to listen.
My fingers scraped against piping. Red lights. I slipped into a side corridor, spark pounding—but found nothing but a cracked wall and scorched tracks. A turret's sensor-encrusted corpse lay there.
[COMBAT PROTOCOLS ENGAGED: 42% FUNCTIONALITY]
I pressed forward through a heat-vent corridor. Steam curled around my legs. Shapes formed in the smoke. Watching
I lunged at the apparitions, and they vanished.
I ran. Limped. Turned the corner and slammed into a dead end.
"You're alone. No one will save you. You are prey."
[EMERGENCY ROUTE MAPPING FAILED]
[GPS OFFLINE — LOCAL COORDINATES CORRUPTED]
Then… silence.
A corridor ahead was lit faintly, bright, clinical. I staggered toward it, and in the haze…
I ran into Optimus?
No. Not him.
Wrong colours. Everything is wrong.
Red optics.
Purple plating.
He stood unmoving, watching. Waiting.
I whispered, "Optimus…?"
His head tilted.
[WARNING: EMOTIONAL RESPONSE COMPROMISING SYSTEM STABILITY]
I stepped back.
He stepped forward.
Then, he vanished.
I collapsed against a support beam, panting, blades shaking in my servos.
[ENERGON LEVELS: 22%]
[SYSTEM OVERHEAT WARNING]
[MEDICAL INTERVENTION REQUIRED]
Somewhere above, a hatch hissed open—barely a crack of daylight.
I bolted for it.
Behind me, a footstep. Another.
But I ran.
[WARNING: CORE SPARK FLUCTUATING]
[INTAKE VALVE MALFUNCTION IN PROGRESS]
Hope filled me as I neared the hatch—light!
But the moment I touched the hatch handle, another spark of movement flickered behind me. I turned, ready to strike.
As my fingers gripped the hatch handle, a figure flickered into view behind me. For a heartbeat, I allowed myself hope—it was Bulkhead, somehow whole and unscathed, standing tall in soft white light. He opened his mouth, and for a moment, I thought I heard him roar my name.
I smiled, "You're okay, Bulk, let's get back to base, yeah."
"Why didn't you save us, Cee?" His armour—my friend's armour—shuddered and melted. Cliffjumper, Tailgates' faces appear.
I fall backwards, from the puddle, an arm shot out and from it appeared the mockery of her Leader.
He stepped forward, looming impossibly tall. His voice—no longer my friend's, but layered over with static—cut through me:
"You are mine."
The walls began to warp. Pipes pulsed like throbbing veins. The world around me stretched and swallowed whole. Panicked, I swung my blade toward him—but my strike met empty air as the vision dissolved into oil‑black mist.
For a moment, I saw the corridor refract—walls breathing in and out, shadows pushing at the edges of my vision. My spark hurt. My systems screamed half‑awake: [SYSTEM COMPROMISED].
Dizzied, I staggered forward, breath ragged. Through every flicker, I imagined Bulkhead, Tailgate, Cliffjumper watching me — their expression unreadable — as if judging me for fleeing.
[REBOOTING…]
[WARNING: ENERGON PRESSURE CRITICAL]
[MEDICAL SUPPORT SYSTEMS OFFLINE]
My optics fluttered back onto a low-ceilinged corridor. The air tasted of burnt metal and steam—no sirens, no echo of gunfire—just the hum of underground emptiness. I pressed onward, servos weak, each step a battle.
[PEDAL INTEGRITY: 15%]
[CORE SPARK STABLE—SEVERE LOW POWER]
Corridors twisted like intestines. A distant drip. My sensors flagged movement—nothing materialised. The labyrinth was collapsing, or maybe it was me.
Ahead, an archway opened into a vast chamber, cracked columns and scavenged armour strewn about. At its center stood a throne fashioned from shattered rock and melted steel, perched beneath a broken vent shaft that let me catch the faintest trace of daylight.
On the throne sat… him.
He spoke, quiet and mocking:
"Look at you—lost in the dark, Arcee. All that bravado where was that when you abandoned Bulkhead, your friend to certain death, but we all know what happens to your partners, don't we, Arcee, Cliffjumper, torn apart nothing left but his head you're first partner, Tailgate, oh, how he sang, do you remember how you failed him too."
My limbs trembled. My blade clattered to the floor
[WEAPON SYSTEM FAILURE]
He struck first, fist driven into my side. I crumpled, chassis creaking.
[SPINAL INTEGRITY – SEVERE COMPROMISE]
"Feel that?" he sneered. "Your Bipedalism cord … about to shatter. Tell me—does it hurt?"
I gasped in shock and screamed in agony, "AHHHHHHHH"
He punched again, twisting my core. Pain.
Red optics glared as he planted his fist into my chest plate, cracking it in half.
[CHEST PLATING: 0% INTEGRITY]
[CORE EXPOSURE DETECTED]
I staggered backwards, energy leaking from my spark cavity, smoke pouring from shattered circuitry. He stepped forward, calm and predatory.
He laughed softly. "You should have heard Bulkhead how he screamed for you, it's funny if I had a soul, I might have felt bad?"
Pain drowned me. Tears of energon welled as I thought of Prime, Bulkhead, my friends, the mission—all meaningless.
He leaned in and stroked my face. "Do not be afraid, for I am here. Find solace in the fact that I shall only hear you're last words."
He pressed down, grinding glowing plating into my spark cavity. I screamed—digital and distorted.
[CASING FOR SPARK FAILING…]
[FINAL DISTRESS PROTOCOLS ENGAGED]
With a merciless twist, he bent me over a shattered throne armrest and stomped. Armour crunched. Bones shattered. My optics burst.
[OPTICS INTEGRITY: 0%]
[VOICE BOX: DAMAGED]
I curled inward. He stood over me, savouring the destruction he'd wrought.
"Goodbye, Arcee, thank you for being my entertainment and tell Primus I say hello."
He raised his fist again, but paused, then forced his gauntleted hand into my spark cavity, squeezing until my systems blinked out.
[CORE SPARK: 0% – SYSTEMS SHUTTING DOWN]
He pulled his hand free, clenched the spark within his hands, and smirked
[REBOOTING…]
[SPARK FLUCTUATION: SEVERE]
[EMERGENCY PROCESSING AT 12% CAPACITY]
I opened my optics.
It wasn't a throne room.
The glass? Gone.
The steel walls? Just cave rock.
The lights? Fading emergency glow sticks.
I lay in a hollowed-out cavern. Alone.
My mind struggled to process it. I'd wandered the same corridors. Fought ghosts. Fled illusions.
There was never a labyrinth.
Just a broken Autobot crawling through an abandoned shaft—slowly dying, piece by piece.
[MEMORY RECALL ERROR]
[HALLUCINOGENIC EXPOSURE LIKELY]
He was never there.
No throne. No judgement.
Just a collapsed tunnel… and my fear, shaped into a monster.
But then—
A shadow moved.
He emerged again, crimson optics, purple plating. Maybe real. Maybe not.
He stepped closer, calmly, crouching next to my broken form.
"Hello again, I just wanted you to finally see it now," he whispered, voice calm, almost gentle. "You never had a chance."
His hand wrapped around my exposed spark — still tethered by one thin, trembling wire
I couldn't move.
And then he slowly and methodically crushed it.
The darkness came.
Only the quiet horror that I'd never left the cave.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Ironhide POV
Location: River Between Firehole Falls and Cascades of the Firehole, Yellowstone
Time: 70 minutes until detonation
I fly into the river.
The impact hits like getting slammed by a dropship mid-flight. My back plating crunches against the rock—then I'm underwater, flipping end over end through the current. Everything's a blur of pressure and pain. Mud jams my servos. My vents choke on silt. Metal screeches against stone. My system's alerts shriek in my helm.
[CRITICAL DAMAGE: 65% STRUCTURAL LOSS]
[IMMEDIATE MEDICAL INTERVENTION ADVISED]
Twenty-eight minutes. I've been fighting this thing for twenty-eight slagging minutes.
I claw my way out—one crushed servo sinking deep into the mud, the other barely responding. My digits scrape against the riverbank, struggling for purchase on slick stone and roots. Water pounds against my backplate, trying to drag me under again, but I won't let it.
Every movement sends sparks through my frame. My left shoulder pads sagged—completely seized. Internal gears grind like stripped rotors. One pede slips, and for a second, I think I'll slide back in.
I roar, half in pain, half in defiance, and slam my arm forward, elbow-deep in the muck, pulling my broken chassis out inch by inch. My vents wheeze steam. My armour peels like scorched foil.
Then I hear him—the upgraded freak—charging again.
His steps hit like seismic pulses; it's deliberately doing this, getting louder, faster. He's coming. I don't even have time to check my weapon systems.
I roll onto my side, dragging myself behind a chunk of shattered rock for cover, optics scanning, processor screaming for options.
My arm cannons long since destroyed, I only have my Ion blaster buried in silt a few feet away from me.
I reach out digits trembling and grab it. No time for any checks, sparks run across my frame as I quickly overcharge it.
My arm cannons long since destroyed, I only have my Ion blaster—buried in silt a few feet away. I reach out, digits trembling, and grab it. No time for checks—sparks run across my frame as I overcharge it, pushing the weapon beyond its limits.
It steps around the corner, wide into the open—right into my line of fire. I let it go.
The blast rakes across its chest. It staggers backwards.
I leap up, slam my right shoulder into its knee joint—metal crunches satisfyingly. Before it can recover, I hurl the overcharged blaster straight at its arm actuators.
It explodes point-blank in its face.
It barely twitches.
Before it can counter, I barrel forward through the shallow water. My left pede skips across the floor, but I compensate with a quick twist of my frame. My body groans in protest, systems screaming at me to stop. But I don't. I thrust deep into its torso. The grenade—hidden in my arm—drops out, right into my waiting servo. I slam it straight into its midsection.
KA-BOOM.
The explosion ruptures across its chest. Plates dent inward, then burst outward with a spray of sparks and smoke, spilling from both of us in violent bursts.
I'm already falling, my entire body is burned and barely upright, but I catch one thing as I fall.
Its frame collapses, burning out in a cloud of energon.
The river quiets.
I roll onto my side, bright lights dance across my HUD, competing with a multitude of other warnings.
[CORE FAILURE IMMINENT SYSTEM GOING INTO STASIS]
I tap my comm's emergency channel, voice low and ragged. "This is Ironhide. I need immediate medical assistance—going into stasis."
Static crackled. Then Ratchet's voice cut through, tight with tension.
"Thank the Allspark—when your signal went dark, I thought you'd never mind. Hold tight. Reinforcements are inbound. Medical team's en route."
I exhaled, slow and rough. Every breath rattled through scorched plating, sparking as I slumped back into the riverbank.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Optimus Prime POV
Location: Forest Around Yellowstone Lake
Time: 60 minutes until detonation
The entire area was bathed in blinding light, its brilliance consuming everything around me. Explosions rippled across the landscape, each blast unleashing relentless shock waves that hammered against my frame. I braced, stabilising pistons locking into position as debris and flaming wreckage rained down from the shattered sky.
In my grip, I held the twitching, broken chassis of an augmented Vehicon, its optics flickering weakly as its systems futilely resisted my intrusion. Its cracked armour shuddered as I tore through its data cortex, swiftly bypassing layers of encrypted memory. Information flooded my central processor—tactical deployments, weapon schematics, operational data—but amid this torrent, a single word stood out starkly:
MECH.
Of course. Anger flared like a supernova within my spark as the pieces clicked together. It was always them, lurking in shadows, orchestrating events behind human battle lines. Humans playing at godhood, harvesting our technology, desecrating the fallen Cybertronians of the Decepticons, to Cliffjumper dissecting, learning to exploit our secrets. Their arrogance knew no bounds.
The Vehicon shuddered violently, its systems collapsing. Its optics locked onto mine, flickering with something that resembled desperation. I tightened my grip, plating creaking under immense pressure as I extracted the final fragments of its data. With decisive finality, I stopped holding back and crushed its spark. It sparked and spasmed once, twice, then fell limp.
I let the lifeless husk fall onto scorched earth. It had taken the destruction of ten MECH subsidiary bases to finally track down and annihilate large clusters of these Vehicons, shattering their defensive perimeter. Alarms wailed from the remnants of MECH's installations. Subsequent chain explosions rocked the battlefield as their contingency protocols systematically erased all evidence of their existence.
They could run. They could hide behind stolen Cybertronian technology, the fragile governments of Earth, and empty treaties. But MECH would never outrun one final truth.
They could never outrun me.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Omniversal POV Of UN FORCES
Location: Assault on MECH Central Hub, Tower Falls, Yellowstone
Time: 30 minutes until detonation
Jets screamed through the air, chased by relentless anti-air fire, spiralling and tumbling as their wings sheared off, crashing into violent eruptions of flame. Explosions tore through the battlefield in every direction, scattering infantry, transports, and wreckage like broken toys.
UN soldiers stumbled forward, charging blindly through smoke and gunfire, driven onward by grit and sheer force of will. Commands drowned in the cacophony, their shouts lost beneath thunderous artillery and roaring engines. Armoured vehicles exchanged furious barrages, each impact sending shrapnel, fire, and mud soaring.
Plasma rounds sliced through the chaos, soldiers collapsing mid-stride as mechanical monstrosities surged from hidden bunkers, delivering precise, merciless volleys. Thick, choking smoke blanketed everything, obscuring friend from foe, living from the dead.
Static-filled screams cut through radio channels:
"Request immediate support—we're trapped!"
"Heavy losses at sector four—we can't hold much longer!"
"Where the hell are those Autobots?!"
The UN advance faltered. They'd braced for the worst but had leapt straight into hell itself. Terrified soldiers huddled in muddy craters, rifles shaking as they fired blindly into darkness, faces streaked with blood, grime, and desperation.
The enemy lines remained solid despite the temporary advantage created by Optimus Prime's breakthrough. A wall of massive automated turrets, swarms of drones, and relentless black-armoured soldiers held the line firmly—until a colossal explosion shattered their ranks, casting everything in stark, crimson-tinted light.
Warpath had entered the battlefield.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Warpath POV
Location: Assault on MECH Central Hub, Tower Falls, Yellowstone
Time: 30 minutes until detonation
Warpath grinned widely and savagely as explosions punched through the thick smoke. Dirt and stone sprayed upwards, showering his crimson plating as he stormed forward, trampling broken drones and shattered MECH suits beneath his heavy strides.
Behind him came the roar of engines, battle-worn troops crying out as tanks and armoured vehicles ploughed through the remains of the outer defences. Warpath had personally rallied them himself, igniting their fury, shaping it into an unstoppable tide. This was their push—his push—and nothing was going to stop him from grinding MECH to dust.
"Keep moving, you flesh bags!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the maelstrom of chaos. "No prisoners! No survivors! We push forward!"
They surged ahead like the human wars of old—an unrelenting tidal wave of flesh and steel crashing head-first against the fortified enemy line. Plasma spat from giant turrets, slicing through infantry and armour alike with clinical precision. But Warpath charged on, cannons roaring, energon pumping wildly through his systems. This was his equilibrium—his element.
An enemy drone suddenly erupted from the shattered ground, guns spinning and optics blazing blood-red as it lunged toward him, shredding soldiers in its wake. Warpath pivoted and transformed with brutal precision, one pede planted firmly in the mud, turret swinging swiftly to bear.
"Hey! Glitchhead! Take a load of this!"
KAA-BOOOOOM!
The drone vanished into a fireball, limbs spinning wildly through the air. Warpath laughed, a deep and savage laugh, not slowing for even a fraction of a second, barely acknowledging the smouldering wreckage.
He slammed into the enemy line, concrete shattering beneath his enormous weight. Beyond the broken barricades cowered human soldiers, their eyes wide with terror, weapons trembling uselessly in their grip. They opened fire—a hailstorm of bullets and lasers glancing harmlessly off Warpath's thick armour. With thunderous steps he advanced, unloading his devastating armament, erasing the enemy soldiers from existence in a blazing torrent of fire.
"You can't hide from WARPATH!" he shouted, pushing deeper into the breach.
He swivelled sharply as a new wave of foes surged forward. Among them descended a chilling mockery of his leader—sleek black-and-blue plating, mechanical limbs glowing faintly, twin energy blades igniting with a crackling hiss, optics burning crimson-red.
Warpath chuckled darkly, optics blazing with anticipation. "You wear my leader's face? Oh, I'm gonna enjoy ripping it off."
Without hesitation, he lunged, slamming one colossal fist into the chest of an advancing Vehicon. Armour buckled and ruptured beneath the blow. Another attacker charged—Warpath seized it by its intake valve, squeezing mercilessly until sparks erupted and its optics shattered into darkened shards. Cannons roaring continuously, he carved through their ranks, leaving only twisted molten wreckage behind.
Yet still they pressed forward, relentless, endless. Human allies fell screaming; tanks burned furiously; heavy armour melted into glowing slag. Amidst it all, the impostor simply stood, silently watching with maddening calmness.
Warpath bellowed into the comm channels, his voice carrying over the chaos:
"Forward, soldiers! You're humanity's pride and joy—fight like it! Advance until they're nothing but a nightmare we crushed beneath our heels!"
A deafening, earth-shattering blast erupted ahead. A massive camouflaged tower cracked violently, supports snapping like brittle bones as it began to collapse.
With a feral grin hidden behind his battle mask, Warpath charged headlong into battle, ready to confront the twisted reflection of his leader and prepared for the fight of his life.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Bumblebee POV
Location: MECH Central Hub, Tower Falls, Yellowstone
Time: 5 minutes until detonation
I ducked low, sliding beneath a collapsed strut, plasma scorching past my shoulder. I spun, fired—one shot, two—dropped a pair of exo-suits mid-charge. My vents hissed as I bolted back into the storm of battle.
All around me, chaos ruled. It reminded me of the last days of the War of Cybertron.
Human infantry pushed forward with everything they had. Screams echoed through the comms it drowned out his thoughts and that of the thunder cannons and the collapsing infrastructure. So much was happening so fast.
[NO BACKUP AVAILABLE]
No. That's not true. Backup still remained.
A shock wave cracked through the smoke—a boom that shook the trees. I turned sharply. Through a shattered building, I caught sight of crimson plating crashing through a wall of armour and quickly firing off a round, its Warpath.
And he was in a clash with, wait …. Prime wait no, he looks all wrong. It was tall, optics glowing red, black and blue plating it was a sick parody of the bot I look up too.
Shock-waves came from their blows, the battlefield is warped from their duel, the surrounding UN forces are sent flying the sheer destruction is on a scale not seen since Megatron's death.
I pushed forward faster than I've ever had before, cutting through fortifications, ducking under artillery, and the like. Just as I broke into the clearing.
A squad of drones and Vehicons dropped from the sky.
Too many.
They swarmed me from every side, shadowed in smoke and fire. I twisted through them, sliding beneath their legs, shoulder-checking one into a wall of scorched steel. I dropped two with a magnetic pulse. Another I hurled into a molten vent—its scream cut off mid-pitch as it vanished in a flash of pure white heat.
I jumped through the opening, but was blocked again by another squad.
Then I realised they weren't here for the battle. They were here for me.
The ground rumbled beneath my pedes. Loud. Heavy. Like an ancient beast was waking.
[WARNING: UNSTABLE GROUND]
[HYPOTHESIS: POSSIBLE SEISMIC EVENT]
I jumped backwards clear of a blade and then flipping again as the ground I was on cracked open as a blast of magma shot into the air, destroying a nearby bunker, sending concrete and steel chunks raining down. I darted through the falling debris.
I threw a kick, sending the Vehicon into the widening chasm.
And then.
From across the ravine.
I saw Warpath.
He was leaking Energon badly. His chestplate was dented. Arm sliced. Cannon cracked, but he was still fighting. The fake loomed over him energon blade in one hand and blaster in the other.
Warpath roared and lunged towards it, vanishing into the flame and smoke as another tremor jolted the battlefield.
I tried to reach him, but the ground was collapsing under my feet.
I fell and punched my servo in the rock and started to climb out.
[RE-ROUTING POWER TO STABILISERS]
As I barely managed to pull myself out, my comms blared to life. "Bumblebee! Readings are off the charts, Yellowstone is erupting! You need to get clear! So I can groundbridge you out NOW! Ratchet's voice cut in urgently and panicked.
I froze.
The tremors surged, all around me, the battle field looked like the aft of the Chaos Bringer.
Everything in me wanted to obey and run. But I looked back in the direction of Warpath still fighting. Still alive.
I activated my comm. Just one ping.
"Beep-Zip-dit-boop." ("Sorry, Ratchet. I'm not leaving him, goodbye Doc-Bot.")
I cut the line.
Didn't want to hear Ratchet beg. I think that would break me.
I sprinted through the inferno-leaping over tanks, ducking sniper rounds, and vaulting over barricades. The caldera ahead was glowing now, hot red. The sky was tinted orange. A shadow flickered to my right, and I blasted it mid-run.
Then, through the fire, I caught another glimpse of Warpath.
He was on one knee.
But he was still functioning.
Still fighting.
Then -
BOOOOOM.
The eruption began.
A blinding light then a pressure of pure power washed over me sending me to my knees. Deafening, Blinding. Fire erupted, a column of ash, lightning and molten rock shot into the heavens.
[EVENT LEVEL: OMEGA]
[MASSIVE ERUPTION CONFIRMED]
[SHOCK-WAVE IMMINENT – T-MINUS 3 SECONDS]
I turned toward it.
And then it hit.
I tried to move. Tried to run.
It didn't matter.
The blast wave hurled me backwards. The world turned into noise and fire. I flew. Spun. Skidded across slag and steel. My optics flashed, my HUD shattered, and the last thing I saw—
Warpath.
Standing over the fake copy finally caught it off guard and lunged for the killing blow.
Then—
Darkness.
[PRIMARY SYSTEM FAILURE]
[SPARK RATE: INCONSISTENT] [STASIS LOCK ENGAGED]