Author's Note:

my fucking document for this fic has 11k words of notes. that’s like . a criminal amount of notes. that’s an entire fic’s worth of Just Notes. maybe if/when i finish this fic, i’ll post my outline somewhere and you can all laugh at how often i ignored my own planning to go off the rails and do my own thing

i am not gonna lie to you guys, this chapter was actually killing me. i struggled so much to write this bitch for no reason to the point where i was like genuinely getting frustrated with it. so i apologize if it's a little middling, i was just . god, i was just so tired of having to write and rewrite this stupid ass fucking ass chapter...

anyways here's thunderwonderwall

— ⛈ —

For a long time, much of High Command had been more myths than mechs to someone like Hot Rod. Powerful, otherworldly beings, blessed with godlike strength and the divine right to rule. Hot Rod would never measure up to their grandeur, couldn’t even fathom what it would be like to be spoken to by them in a way that wasn’t broad speeches or impersonal notices.

Soundwave was actually one of the hardest to grasp as something other than a quasi-omnipotent trickster spirit that had deigned to serve the Decepticon army—and later, the Autobots by proxy. Truth be told, Hot Rod hadn’t actually put stock in a lot of the rumors. I mean, come on, a bot that knew of everything ever uploaded to the datanet, who could peer into a person’s mind and pull out their deepest darkest secrets without ever moving a mechanism? Even that was a little far-fetched by Hot Rod’s standards.

But then things happened and Hot Rod suddenly found himself bumping elbows with these mythical beings he’d only ever before seen from a distance. And he quickly discovered that, against all odds, they were… people.

People with hopes and dreams, foibles and fears, whole interiorities that Hot Rod was ashamed to realize he’d never truly conceptualized before. Figuring out how all the rumors were wrong was a learning curve, that was for sure. But so was learning which ones were actually right.

Because, omnipotent, Soundwave was not. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t play his best at trying. He did, in fact, have access to the entire datanet or near enough to, as well as the ability to listen to and record basically every communcation sent to or from anyone in either army. And while he generally couldn’t actually dive into your mind to parse all your secrets, he could hear surface level thoughts and feel the emotions of those around him regardless of what their fields were or weren’t saying.

Which was why there was no way Soundwave hadn’t heard Hot Rod and Thunderclash’s little exchange in Quintesson just now.

Hot Rod wasn’t sure if it was better or worse to know that Soundwave was one of the few mechanisms in both armies who was actually fluent in the language.

There was a sort of specific reason Hot Rod was hesitant to have anyone other than him know about Thunderclash’s ability to speak Quint. What with their being shadowplayed and subjected to a fairly unique kind of empurata, there was a very real possibility that Thunderclash had at one point been a Quintesson experiment. It was unlikely that such a thing would be taken well by… by basically anyone, really. The last time they encountered a Cybertronian that had been experimented on by the Quintessons…

Well, to be fair, the last one was much more reanimated corpse than… lobotomized mutilation victim. Hot Rod wasn’t sure that the Quintessons could do anything as delicate as shadowplay.

But all of his machinations and intended secrecy had gone down the drain the instant they were met by fragging Soundwave and Jazz of all mechs.

Still, Hot Rod couldn’t be sure what all exactly Soundwave was picking up (Would he be able to hear Thunderclash’s nonsense language? Would he be able to understand it?), nor what he’d very obviously relayed to Jazz just now.

Speaking of…

Pushing off of Soundwave and ignoring Ultra Magnus for the time being, Jazz stepped forward with a fanged smile. “Roddy! We missed ya back at base!” Hot Rod let out a laugh as he was swept up into an embrace and swung around—in such a way, he noted, that when he landed back on his feet, Jazz was pointedly placed between Hot Rod and Thunderclash. “How was the campaign? I heard you caused some trouble for our Wreckers on the way back.”

“It’s not my fault Springer decided to drop me in the middle of nowhere,” Hot Rod was quick to insist. “Besides, if he hadn’t, I’d never have gotten some sweet intel!”

“Spacebridge coordinates, I heard,” Jazz said. “I also heard that you got ‘em by gettin’ your plugs all up in some Quint databases.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Hot Rod felt his systems flush with heat at the implication. “It was just a stupid text document! You know I’ve got good firewalls!”

Jazz hummed. “Still. Bossbot wants you to check into medical before anything else.”

“Ugh, I’m fine, Jazz! Let me just hand off my info and I’ll be outta your gears.”

“No can do, little mech. You’ve got a date to keep with the good doctor, and you know as well as I do what happens when ya miss a thing like that.”

Hot Rod winced. Really he was fine, he didn’t need to get fussed over by Ratchet. But it seemed it was too late to avoid such a thing. He let out a sigh. “Alright, whatever, I’ll go—I’ll go soothe Ratchet’s worries,” Hot Rod said, saying the last few words with a particularly dramatic air.

Jazz gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Attaboy. And while you do that, Soundwave and I will get your friend all settled at home!”

Hot Rod froze. Uh. Okay. That was… maybe bad.

It wasn’t that Hot Rod didn’t trust Jazz or Soundwave, but…

He glanced over Jazz’s shoulder at Thunderclash, who was looking curiously at the two of them, a slight tilt to their helm.

“Uh. You. Can’t do that,” Hot Rod blurted out.

“Oh?” Jazz didn’t look upset, but his smile had thinned slightly.

Think, Hot Rod, think! “They’re… um. They…” Ugh, what was a good excuse!? I don’t want you to kidnap Thunderclash for nefarious Spec Ops purposes because there’s decent odds that you’ll disappear them while my back is turned because they may or may not be a Quintesson experiment and/or spy? “They’re my patient!”

“Is that… so?” Jazz asked, a certain… incredulity in his voice.

“Yes! And… since I’m already going to see Ratchet, I figured I should get his expert advice on their whole… uh. Deal. Yeah.” Mmh, nailed it. Damn, Hot Rod was good.

Jazz’s smile remained slightly pinched, but after a long moment he gave his acquiescence. “Sure, Hot Rod. Why don’t I… escort the two of you, then?”

That was fair. “And Soundwave can talk about boring stuff with Mags,” Hot Rod proclaimed. That got a guffaw out of Jazz.

“You know, some day, you’re gonna hafta start dealin’ with the boring stuff too, kid,” Jazz said.

Perish the thought.

Turning to face the head of communications, Hot Rod did his best to project his thoughts out in Soundwave’s direction.

Leave them be, Hot Rod thought as loudly as he could. Let me handle it. Soundwave would undoubtedly be surveilling Thunderclash in his own time, which Hot Rod was willing to allow, but… Let them have a chance to prove themself.

Soundwave gazed at Hot Rod, visor and mask making him utterly unreadable as ever. After a moment though, he gave the slightest dip of his head. As he turned away, Hot Rod let out a long, relieved vent, feeling a bit like he’d just gotten away with murder.

Pft, yeah, just the murder of his free time and personal space.

Jazz approached Thunderclash in a manner that to the uninitiated would look as casual as could be. Hot Rod, however, could tell that it was about as cautious as Jazz allowed himself to be in public. He stuck out a hand, beaming up—up, up, up—at Thunderclash. “Hey there, big bot! The name’s Jazz.”

Thunderclash reached out to very delicately grasp Jazz’s servo in his own. Dutifully, they repeated, “Jazz,” with a nod. It was actually a pretty good imitation of the name, but lacked a lot of the harmonic depth. Hot Rod also sort of doubted that they were either receiving or transmitting identity pings that were traditional with a handshake.

“Alright, Thunders,” Hot Rod said, catching the big guy’s attention with a beckoning motion. “We’re gonna get you checked out, alright?”

Over comms, he added, ::[Eventuality: Repair] → [Thunderclash].::

Thunderclash seemed to take a moment to digest that statement before giving a small, almost imperceptible nod. Not imperceptible to someone like Jazz or Soundwave, but, y’know. Points for trying.

Their motley crew of three made their way down to the medical center of the Autobot base, Thunderclash taking slow steps to gawk at everything around them. Hot Rod couldn’t help but wonder if they’d ever even experienced civilization. They’d obviously known previous mecha, going by some of their statements, but Hot Rod just could never get a read on the guy.

There was a certain sort of innocence to them, an unabashed curiosity of the world and a very real yearning for connection. Hot Rod thought back to that moment on the bridge where they’d expressed a desire to be able to feel Hot Rod’s field, implying that the world without it was… quiet. That was probably the first time in his life anyone had ever asked Hot Rod to let out his field.

But all that was wrapped up in a mechanism so big and strong they could probably crush Hot Rod’s head in their giant fist. He could still remember the way they moved like lightning to dispatch Quintessons in the shutter of an optic. And whatever their life was like before stepping through that portal…

Thunderclash saying so casually something to the effect of, my people are small. All the big ones are dead. And they used a different word to describe those people. Possibly it was a kind of demonym, that Thunderclash was a mecha in the same way Hot Rod was a Nyonian, but Hot Rod had the distinct impression that whatever mecha meant, it was being used in place of Cybertronian.

Another oddity: Thunderclash didn’t seem to consider themself a Cybertronian. Held themself apart, denied their blatant connection to Springer and Arcee and Blurr and Hot Rod. Hot Rod had doubted, sure. Had maybe been willing to entertain the idea of Thunderclash being an alien mechanical instead of an overhauled Cybertronian, but then…

“Here we are!” Jazz said after a long walk through shining copper hallways, pinging the door to the medbay and bowing with a flourish to let Hot Rod and Thunderclash enter first. Inside, evidently waiting for them, was a familiar red and white medic with a thunderous frown on his face… and someone else that Hot Rod was very much not expecting.

Big and broad and blue, a bot easily twice Hot Rod’s size, though not perhaps quite as big as Thunderclash. Optimus Prime perked up at the sight of Hot Rod trotting in and somehow brightened further at Thunderclash ducking in behind him.

“What is that,” Ratchet said, staring wide-opticked up at the newcomer.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said in a chiding tone.

“Never in all my vorns…” Ratchet muttered, glaring up at Thunderclash. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a shoddier build in my entire function. Is that… Primus, is that plain paint?”

Hot Rod cast a glance back at Thunderclash, taking a moment to actually look at his gaudy awful paintjob. The biggest things that caught Hot Rod’s optic, really—besides the horrific palette that would make Sunstreaker weep—were… well, were all the scratches. Silvery lines cutting through myriad colors that… hm. That were still there. Some of them made sense, gouges through paint that would probably stay until Thunderclash was repainted, but all the tiny nicks should’ve been taken care of by nanites.

… Unless, of course, Thunderclash’s paint was just… paint. And nothing else. Which was…

Well, this was why Hot Rod wanted a second opinion. Truly, and not just as an excuse to prevent Thunderclash from getting botnapped.

“Where are the transformation seams? The kibble?” Ratchet continued, the pitch of his voice rising with each question.

“Monoformers exist, doc-bot,” Jazz piped up.

“Monoformers have transformation seams. Even if they don’t have an alt mode, they can still transform parts of their bodies.”

“No two mechanisms are built the same,” Optimus cut in. “And I believe you have someone else to attend to first, old friend.”

Ratchet huffed and turned his glower to Hot Rod who couldn’t help but shrink a little under the weight of it.

Ratchet seemed to be about to say something to him, but whatever it was never came out, as Hot Rod’s field of view was abruptly swallowed up by Thunderclash’s bulk. The mech had stepped around Hot Rod, placing themself deliberately between him and Ratchet, an arm held out to shield him further. The entire room went silent and still.

There was no rumbling growl of an engine, no bared fangs or flexed claws, but the display was a plainly aggressive one. Hot Rod was bewildered by this turn, especially since Thunderclash had never displayed anything like this to any of the other mechs they’d met so far.

Well… There had been that moment some groons ago now, where Thunderclash had been in the dead of recharge when they suddenly started teeking fear and pain and despair and had come online confused and afraid, unable to recognize Hot Rod until he’d wrapped them in his field as his mentor used to do.

That had been… not very fun. Hot Rod couldn’t help but wonder what could scare a mech like Thunderclash.

He’d been perhaps a little reckless in approaching a massive bot that didn’t immediately recognize him. Hot Rod had seen what Thunderclash could do to Quints. Had seen what they could do to walls. Thunderclash could’ve killed him in that moment without even trying, but instead they’d just been… frozen.

This wasn’t frozen, though. Ratchet and Optimus both held themselves carefully still while Jazz subtly reached for his subspace and Hot Rod had to defuse this now before things got dicey. He did not want to find out how Thunderclash would actually respond to someone attacking him.

But he was beaten to the punch by Ratchet holding up a hand and saying in a much softer tone of voice, “I’m not gonna hurt Hot Rod. You can calm down.”

… What?

Oh, Primus, was that what was happening right now? Thunderclash saw Ratchet being a little mean and Hot Rod wincing and they decided that meant Ratchet was… what, a threat to Hot Rod? Ugh.

Hot Rod reached up to try and yank down Thunderclash’s extended arm, hissing up at them, “Thunders, you’re an idiot. You’re a dumb, stupid, idiot!”

Over comms, on the other hand, he was semi-frantically saying, ::[Safe], [Safe], [Safe]! [Combat] ← [Negative]!::

That seemed to give Thunderclash pause. They kept their gaze pinned to Ratchet for a moment more before glancing back at Hot Rod. This close—touching plating, as they were—Hot Rod could feel the soft question in their field. He pressed forward with his own frustrated confirmation, a vehement and exasperated, yes, I’m fine.

Only then did Thunderclash step back out of the way, clearing the space between Hot Rod and Ratchet. They stuck close by, though. Hovering, ugh. Hot Rod did his best to ignore his overprotective tag-along as he hopped up onto a medical berth and let Ratchet plug him into a diagnostic machine. Thunderclash’s curious gaze lingered on the machine, coming to stand close enough to Hot Rod to—

To keep track of Hot Rod’s field, probably.

Ratchet shot Thunderclash a somewhat dubious look, but made no move to usher them away. To be honest, Hot Rod wasn’t sure if any of them would be able to shove Thunderclash around if they didn’t want to be moved. The mech had been largely agreeable to commands—up until now, at least—but they were heavy and solid in a way even other Cybertronians of a similar size class… weren’t.

::… [Query]?:: Thunderclash asked over comms after a few kliks of staring at the machine Hot Rod was plugged into.

They seemed to have recognized or otherwise understood the word ‘repair’ before, so… ::[Observation: Repair] → [Hot Rod].:: To say Hot Rod was getting repaired was perhaps slightly misleading, but he wasn’t sure how to explain he was just getting looked at to make sure nothing was wrong.

Thunderclash didn’t visibly startle, but their field teeked surprise-alarm-concern, and they were quick to comm back, ::[Query] | [Hot Rod] ← [Damage]?:: There was no small amount of urgency in their tone as they began to subtly check over Hot Rod’s frame themself. Hot Rod pawed them away, though, unwilling to be fussed over more than absolutely necessary.

Jazz let out a noise of amusement off to the side and Hot Rod glared daggers at him.

“So,” Jazz started, shifting his gaze onto Thunderclash, “Are we just lettin’ Hot Rod bring home a stray?”

“We have taken in strangers before.” It was Optimus who spoke, who’d been watching Thunderclash with no small amount of interest this whole time. “If Hot Rod believes they are not a danger, then I am willing to trust his judgment. If they are in need of aid, then we have a duty to help our fellow Cybertronian.”

“Are we sure this guy’s a Cybertronian?” Jazz asked. His voice was light and joking, but Hot Rod could tell that it was a genuine question.

“They are!” Hot Rod blurted out. “When I was poking around in Thunders’s coding for their comm codes, I—”

“When you were what!?” Ratchet barked out, his helm swinging in Hot Rod’s direction.

Hot Rod let out a squeak of surprise and ducked behind Thunderclash. The big guy curled around him slightly, but whatever they were picking up through his field seemed to be giving them enough mixed signals such that Thunders couldn’t actually tell if there was any real danger.

“Hot Rod, I feel like ya skipped a few steps between introductions and gettin’ all up in a mech’s code,” Jazz said, a slag-eating grin on his face.

“It wasn’t like that!” Hot Rod insisted. “It was for—for medical purposes! Not—! It was a medic thing! I’m a medic!”

“You’re an idiot is what you are,” Ratchet hissed. “I should check and see if your outlier ability has melted your fragging processor!”

“When I was looking at Thunderclash’s coding for their comm codes,” Hot Rod loudly reiterates, “I saw—okay, mostly what I saw was some of the most piecemeal, fractured coding I’ve ever seen in any mech. It was all in this weird language that was so flat and plain—ah, but anyways. A lot of their coding was real slagged up, but their deep coding was still fully intact. Giving back some real weird readings, but all there in Cybertronix, plain as day to see.”

“So… just the weirdest empurata of all time.” Jazz paused, considering things. “Not Quintesson coding?”

“Not unless they invented a whole new language and way of coding,” Hot Rod said with a shake of his helm. “But it was…” He grimaced.

It’d been very… raw. That was a word.

When Hot Rod had initially plugged into the strangely-shaped and nearly hidden port tucked in with all the mechanical mess beneath Thunderclash’s visor, he’d mostly been trying to swallow back the well of disgust at being forced to put his hand and plug into that mess. And initially, Hot Rod had no idea what he was even looking at.

Strange glyphs with no depth to them, flat and simple and plain and painfully easy to hack beyond the flimsiest firewalls Hot Rod had ever seen. But the shape had eventually consolidated into something he knew, and beyond the foreign coding had been a familiar sight. It was how he’d been able to so quickly trace his way back to Thunderclash’s communications system and patch himself in.

And it had snuffed out any further thoughts on Thunderclash being anything but a Cybertronian.

“I don’t even really wanna call it shadowplay,” Hot Rod said after a long vent. “It’s more like… like someone performed empurata on their coding as well as their frame.”

Shadowplay was clean and careful and left no marks if done properly. Thunderclash’s processor had been so thoroughly mangled that it was a miracle they could even think.

“Great,” Ratchet grumbled. “Looking forward to working on them, then.”

Optimus gave Thunderclash a long and thoughtful look. “… For the time being, we will give this mechanism sanctuary. Until such a time as they seek to leave, we will shelter them.”

“You sure about this OP?” Jazz asked.

“I have a good feeling about this… Thunderclash.” A pause, and then Optimus tapped at his chest. “Call it a hunch.”

“Of course it is,” Ratchet murmured, reaching over to unplug Hot Rod from the machine. “You’re clean, kid. Just the usual scuffs n’ scrapes.”

“Sweet,” Hot Rod grinned and immediately sent the list of coordinates Jazz’s way.

The mech let out an appreciative whistle. “Damn, Hot Rod. This is actually some choice stuff.”

Hot Rod perked up. “Really?”

“Seems whatever secret little waypoint you stumbled onto was a pretty well-trafficked one. There’re a lot of coordinates on here that I don’t think we have logged anywhere else. Whether they’re targets or bases is anyone’s guess, but I suppose we’ll figure that out at some point.”

… One of those coordinates was probably where Thunderclash had come from, wasn’t it? That mysterious planet ‘ɜːθ’. Hot Rod wondered if they had any interest in going home. Or if they had a home. Or if—regardless of what they wanted—‘home’ was even a safe place for them to return to.

“Jazz and I will consolidate information with the rest of High Command. I wish your new companion good health.” Optimus paused for a moment before leaving, even as Jazz headed out of the medical wing with a skip in his step. “… Hot Rod. I know we are all about to be very busy, but if you could make some time to meet with me—?”

Hot Rod felt his systems flush with nervous heat. “Yeah, yeah, um. Sure, definitely,” he said, already drafting up plans to be as busy as possible in the coming cycles.

Optimus gave him… a knowing sort of look, but simply nodded as he made his exit.

“Right. cool.” Hot Rod sighed, swiping a servo over his faceplate. Thunderclash made a soft sound and leaned over him. “It’s cool, big guy. All good. Just…”

Just that Hot Rod dreaded every stupid one-on-one conversation he had to have with Optimus Prime.

“Get out of your head and help me with your friend,” Ratchet commanded, eyeing Thunderclash. “I expect they won’t be too keen on taking orders from me.”

“Not my friend,” Hot Rod blurted without thought. “They were a model patient with me. I mean. Allowing for the whole… can’t talk thing.”

“Not vocalizer problems… You were in their coding, could you not just give them a patch?”

Hot Rod shook his head. “If they had a place to put one, I couldn’t find it. The language-processing part of their code was all in that foreign coding.”

Ratchet hummed. “Did you manage to scan them?”

“Yeah, but the results were weird. Like the scanner didn’t know what it was looking at. I wondered if Thunders’s plating was maybe double-thick or something? I dunno, it’s the only thing I can think of to explain it.”

“Well, let’s see if some slightly better tech can get through that plating then.”

Hot Rod had to guide Thunderclash over to the medical bay’s scanner and watch them jolt again at the wash of bright light, but the big guy had no qualms with standing still for another scan. Hot Rod turned to Ratchet expectantly after it had finished.

“… I have no idea what I’m looking at,” Ratchet admitted.

That’s what I said! Hot Rod thought to himself with a muffled snort. “I will admit, it’s a little freaky to hear that from you, Ratch.”

“It’s like someone shook a normal bot around until their insides were in all the wrong places,” Ratchet mused, waving Hot Rod over to look at the results. A lot of nonsense errors, like before, but slightly less than what Hot Rod got. “Look here: their spark is in the spot their fuel tank should be and they’ve got four fragging fuel tanks. I’m not getting any kind of reading on a t-cog, but I couldn’t even guess if it was just taken out or if your mech was a monoformer to begin with.”

It was… yeah, it was a lot. It made Hot Rod think of Thunderclash’s mangled coding, how much stuff was just… missing. He’d thought some of it was just in that foreign code, but it was possible that a not insignificant amount of processes had just been carved out entirely alongside the internals they presided over.

“If I’m being honest with you, kid,” Ratchet said with a powerful frown that Hot Rod suspected was hiding a deep concern, “I have no idea how your mech is even still online. Some of these readings… Primus, it’s a wonder they aren’t in constant pain.”

“I… yeah,” Hot Rod said. What else was there to say? He knew Thunderclash was messed up, he’d seen it—in the scan and then in their coding. But this went a little beyond what Hot Rod had initially guessed. Wherever they came from, whatever had done this to them… Hot Rod shuddered to think of what such a place was like. At what such people were like.

“I can tell you this: your scanner wasn’t picking up on anything because the big guy has triple-thick armor. It’s thick enough to frag with my scanner.”

“Huh. That explains how they can just… crash through walls no problem, then,” Hot Rod mused.

“Also, why the hell are their energon reserves almost empty?” Ratchet asked incredulously. “Did you not feed them at all?”

“I gave them two cubes of med grade!” Hot Rod defended himself. “They turned down the third! How was I supposed to know it wouldn’t be enough?”

Ratchet grumbled something vaguely disparaging—at… Hot Rod? Thunderclash? It wasn’t clear. A moment later he was marching over to what supplies hadn’t been boxed up yet and digging out two more cubes of medical grade.

With a sigh, Hot Rod reached up to tap a digit against Thunderclash’s visor. “Open up, big guy.”

Thunderclash startled slightly, giving him a curious glance. ::[Query]?:: They asked over comms. Did Hot Rod know how to say ‘open’ in Quintesson? Uh…

::[Command: Motion] → [This],:: Hot Rod said, pointing at the visor.

Thunderclash took a moment to consider before giving a tentative nod. ::[Affirmative].::

And then their visor swung down again, revealing the mess of cables and circuits underneath.

“Oh, what the hell…” Ratchet hissed out. He’d cracked open a cube and stuck a straw in it—one of the ones that didn’t require things like lips or the ability to make a vacuum in your intake. “Where am I putting this?”

Hot Rod found the tiny opening of Thunderclash’s intake and pointed it out. He got to watch Thunders flinch as Ratchet promptly plugged it with the straw. ::[Query]?:: They comm’d, a sort of strangled tone to their voice.

::It’s just more energon, dude,:: Hot Rod told them. ::[Fuel].:: Though… Hot Rod wondered how well they could see with their visor tilted out of the way as it was.

Thunderclash shuffled slightly as the straw began to funnel fuel into their system, but allowed it to happen with no fuss. In no time at all, they’d consumed their two cubes of energon and were closing up their face and leaning back.

“So, what’s the plan besides fuel?” Hot Rod asked.

Ratchet let out a tired vent. “They’re still on their pedes, aren’t they? There’s nothing actually catastrophically wrong with them, they’re just… Well, they’re certainly not the standard build. I’d like to get a proper look at their coding, at least, check in on their firewalls—”

Whatever the plan was, Hot Rod would have to wait to hear more. Because right around then, an alarm cut through the silence with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. A very familiar, very daunting alarm.

“Quintessons are here?” Hot Rod blurted out. “Here?”

“Well, this is why we’re moving bases,” Ratchet grumbled.

Hot Rod cast him a quick glance, but Ratchet was already shooing him away, a finger to one audial to show he was on comms. Hot Rod gave him a nod and dashed to the door, ducking through it the instant it opened.

::What’s the situation, Mags?:: Hot Rod comm’d as he ran through the halls of the base.

::Ultra Magnus, Hot Rod,:: Mags rumbled. ::It is not a full invasion force. But it is most certainly the prelude to one. Two freighter-size ships and six additional scout ships. Scanners indicate a much larger force approximately three point five joors out.::

::Contact?:: Hot Rod asked. Belatedly, he realized that his quick steps were echoed by much louder, heavier ones. A glance over his shoulder revealed Thunderclash dutifully following in his footsteps—needing only a slow jog to keep up with Hot Rod’s dead sprint.. Huh. Well, Hot Rod certainly wouldn’t say no to a bit of backup.

Magnus pinged a location. ::Aerial contact has been made, but reports are coming in that at least one ship succeeded in landing. Blurr and Chromia are already en route to the location.::

::On my way, Mags!:: Hot Rod said with a grin. He heard Magnus’s irritated sigh before the line cut. Then, he switched over to the line he had with Thunderclash to tell them, ::[Quintesson (People)] ← [Here].::

Thunderclash made several strange popping noises into the comm—words in their language or just… sounds? Then they asked, somewhat incredulously, ::[Command: Confirmation] → {[Location] ← [Here]}?:: There are Quintessons here-here? Like, right here?

Hot Rod let out a vent of exasperation. Of course not here. In the base, dumbaft. ::{[Location] ← [Here]} ← [Negative]. {[Base] ← [Autobot]} ← [Positive].:: Then, Hot Rod grinned and flipped into his alt, his wheels already spinning fast enough to carry him forward. ::[Command: Follow]!:: And see if you can keep up!

::[Query]? [Query]? [Query]?:: Thunderclash asked over and over even as they broke into their own sprint to keep up with Hot Rod’s sudden speed. If Blurr was en route, then he’d almost certainly already be there by the time Hot Rod (and Thunders) caught up, but with any luck there’d still be a few stragglers to deal with.

They hadn’t actually arrived at the location Magnus sent him when the duo encountered a trio of Quintessons. Of fragging assassins, armed to the dentae and ready to dismantle any bot that crossed their path. Hot Rod skidded to a stop, wheels spinning out to the side. Thunderclash, behind him… sped up, and then proceeded to leap over Hot Rod’s frame to clash with the first assassin—which made a sound of shock as a mech nearly double its size landed against it—their blade-arm flicking out and sinking into the assassin’s gut with little fanfare.

Hot Rod himself pulled a pistol from his subspace and fired a shot around Thunderclash’s bulk. The assassin he’d been aiming for was able to duck out of the way and Hot Rod let out a hiss of frustration. If only his stupid bow hadn’t broken in that last battle on Antestoria. Thunderclash was already lunging forward to grab the second assassin by the throat. Hot Rod wondered if Thunderclash could simply pop the thing’s head off—

Belay that thought, actually—

Hot Rod aimed his pistol up at the third assassin that had rounded Thunderclash to jump up onto their back. Before it could plunge a blade into Thunderclash’s neck, Hot Rod was pulling the trigger and shooting the meaty tentacles bursting from its back. The Quintesson let out a shriek, fumbling the blade in its hand, and Thunderclash’s head rotated around to catch sight of the Quint clinging to their back.

Their blade-arm—the one not holding the probably-dead-by-now assassin—did an odd movement, rotating at a strange angle that gave it just enough room to pierce the Quint on their back straight through its middle. The Quintesson made a gurgling sound before dropping off Thunderclash’s frame to land with a disturbingly wet sound on the floor below.

Thunderclash rotated their blade-arm back to a more natural position, flicking it slightly to rid themselves of some blood clinging to the metal. Hot Rod let out a soft noise of amazement. Thunderclash was kind of a monster when it came to this, almost as if—

… Almost as if…

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait, that was it.

Thunderclash had been subjected to empurata and shadowplay, mutilated beyond recognition and had their processor practically wiped clean… But they’d been overhauled in such a way that had turned them into the perfect Quintesson killing machine.

Plating thick and dense enough to shrug off any attack, loose joints that allowed a range of motion Hot Rod had only ever seen in dancers, and the mind of a hunter. Thunderclash had been rebuilt with a single purpose in mind: to destroy any Quintessons they might encounter.

Somewhere out there in the wide universe, some planet had come into ownership of a Cybertronian—potentially multiple Cybertronians—and remade them in such a way as to turn them into little more than a weapon against the Quintessons probably invading their own planet.

It was just a theory—and kind of an insane one, Hot Rod would readily admit—but there was a disturbing amount of evidence to support it. All their brands marking, what, ownership? Thunderclash’s vehement denial of being a Cybertronian, of being a person. A bunch of other tiny things that, in isolation, could’ve meant anything. But together?

Together, they painted a disturbing picture.

Hot Rod shook himself, lowering his pistol and watching as Thunderclash stayed tense for a moment longer before turning their attention to the Quintesson corpses at their feet.

::Hey, Mags?:: Hot Rod comm’d in the moment of silence. ::We’ve got Quintesson assassins in the halls.::

::Acknowledged,:: Magnus responded, his voice tight. ::The Ark will be launching early. Stay tuned into the tactical channel for updates and keep the enemy at bay until we’re out of the atmosphere. Then, the Ark will do a flush that will debilitate any stowaways enough for them to be found and picked off.::

Quints didn’t handle being in a vacuum too well, did they?

::How long until we take off?::

::One freighter has already taken heavy damage. Once both are unable to give chase, the Ark will transform and begin her ascent. Soundwave’s estimation gives us two and a half groons until then.::

::Right. We’re on—oh Primus—::

::Hot Rod?::

::Um. I’ll call you back, Mags, I gotta—I gotta deal with something real quick—:: Hot Rod swiftly terminated the comm and instead called out to Thunderclash, saying, “Thunders, what are you doing?”

In the short time Hot Rod was on call with Ultra Magnus, Thunderclash had picked up one of the Quintesson corpses and proceeded to stick their blunt fingers into the mess of tentacles along its spine and tear. Hot Rod had watched with wide optics as Thunderclash peeled off a fleshy limb, dropping the rest of the carcass to the floor with another wet smack.

At Hot Rod’s incredulous cry, Thunderclash had glanced back at him, perking at Hot Rod’s nickname for them. They glanced between Hot Rod and the severed tentacle a few times before pointing a digit towards it with their free hand. ::[Query],:: they called over comms. ::{[Thunderclash] ← [Owner]} ← [This]?::

“… What?” Hot Rod asked helplessly, not even bothering with comms. “What—why would you—?” Because that’s what Thunderclash was asking, weren’t they? Can I keep this?

“[Fuel],” Thunderclash said aloud, gesturing with the Quintesson limb.

“Why do you fuel with Quintessons?” Hot Rod asked helplessly. “[Query]? [Query]? [Query]?”

Thunderclash peered down at the tentacle they had in hand. Then, looking back up, they just reiterated, “[Fuel] ← [Thunderclash].”

Thunderclash’s fuel. Sure. Whatever. Why not? Why wouldn’t Thunderclash be a freak made to literally feast on the—eugh—flesh of their enemies. Four fragging fuel tanks in their frame and at least one was made for processing organic matter. Sure! Oh, Primus, Hot Rod was going to purge about this.

Cringing away and holding out a hand in a ‘stop’ gesture, Hot Rod said, “Look, Thunders—we don’t have time for this. [Time] ← [Negative]! We gotta get going before—”

Of course, it was right then that Hot Rod just had to be interrupted by another Quintesson ambush. Except, instead of a trio a ways down the hall, it was four that broke through the fragging ceiling.

While Hot Rod reeled from the surprise, Thunderclash dropped their ‘fuel’ to turn their full attention upwards—

Which left their neck perfectly exposed for a falling Quint to twist midair and slice their long blade right through cable and construct.

Thunderclash let out a bark of static, their body taking a stumbling step back…

While their helm toppled forward, crashing to the floor.

Hot Rod… stared. Stared down at Thunderclash’s dull, dark, cracked visor, at the splatter of mixed fluids—bright blue energon, mixed clear liquids, a thick black ooze—pooling beneath Thunderclash’s helm.

Then, with a roar of rage-pain-shock-fear, he exploded.

— ⛈ —

Closing Note:

the planet "antestoria" is named for latin "ante" + "(hi)storia" to make "before story" lol

welp. sure hope thunderclash will be okay. how bad can a little decapitation really be?

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