gardengalaxy on ao3

Silence reigns as he straightens himself in the middle of your room. It is a new moon, and you can scarcely make out his silhouette in the darkness. He has grown so much. You both have.

You sigh, then stretch your arms to erase some of the sleepiness, thinking all the while. Your casual air evaporates as he steps closer to you, each movement gentle like he's trying not to scare away a deer.

You finally catch a good glimpse of him in the nightlight and your breath catches in your throat.

“Fancy meeting you here.” You murmur, voice heavy with many things unspoken, but heard all the same. Things like, where were you? How have you been? Are you okay? He lets out a soft snort of amusement, and your lips quirk upwards as you imagine the reactions of others knowing the suave Sasuke Uchiha would do something as undignified as snorting.

“I needed to see you.” Direct, to the point, and focused, as Sasuke had always been.

“Why?” You ask, already knowing.

He pauses, Sharingan whirling out as he summons the courage and closes the last few steps between you and him, and sits next to you. He hesitates again, before pressing his thigh to yours. You notice he has taken off his shoes and left them by the window sill. At least he had learnt his lesson from last time.

He seemed to want to say something, but was struggling to find the words. You reevaluated what you had concluded earlier, realizing that something was on Sasuke’s mind.

“I care about you.”

You blink. It turns out you had not known why.

“That's good. I care about you too.”

He growled in frustration, immediately stopping when he noticed you lean back apprehensively. Sasuke sighed, and gently reached out to hold your hand in his. It was very warm, and soothing how his thumb rubbed circular motions into the back of your hand. It was tender. Loving.

“Ahh.” You said.

Not knowing what to say, you squeezed back, and leaned into him.

This seemed to make him happy, if the small smile gracing his face was anything to go by. It was the most off guard he had been since stepping into your room.

“You were right. About Konoha.”

You paused.

“Oh?”

You had seen him off after Sakura. And had warned him that Konoha was hiding the full truth behind the massacre. You encouraged him to run, and get as strong as possible, take every avenue of power, because it wasn’t just Itachi he had to worry about.

The contentment slid off his face, to be replaced with a menacing scowl, and heartbreak behind eyes as dark as the new moon.

“Oh.” You said, feeling your own eyes prickle with tears. You hug him, feel him clutch back with vigor. You may have been born and had lived your life in Konoha, but you never held any love for the place. It made you fight for scraps in the orphanage, and sneered at you when your meager diet meant you couldn’t become a shinobi and fight and die for them as cannon fodder. It was that resentment that led to you telling Sasuke about Konoha’s suspicious activities.

He came to visit you periodically. Your job meant that you often traveled outside of Konoha to and from the capital to look at goods for the business you were employed by. He would listen to your suspicions, and stay quiet as you railed against the village.

“I fought Itachi. I got the truth from him with my sharingan. Konoha ordered him to do it to prevent a coup and keep their power.”

You bit down hard on your lip. Tears flowed down your cheek. He gently dabbed them away, and cradled your face in his hand. You felt the calluses from years of hard work and swordsmanship. He had taken your advice, and learned everything he could. His skin was lined with fuinjutsu he had learned from Orochimaru and Karin, combined with the medical expertise he had learned from Kabuto. He was strong and lean with extensive training, and his mind was sharp with powerful jutsus.

You traced the patterns on his skin while blinking rapidly.

He kissed your forehead, and whispered words against it.

“I want you to leave Konoha with me.”

Startled, you pull back, even as Sasuke’s hands gripped your hands harder. But not enough to hurt. Never enough to hurt.

“I need you to think carefully about your next decision. It’s up to you, but don’t think there won’t be consequences for either of them.”

You think.

In Konoha you couldn’t stand out, couldn’t make a fuss, couldn’t speak up even when something was wrong. The mountain with the visages of the previous hokages was visible from your window. Always watching, judging, daring you to step out of line, because if you did, you would be put back into your place-even if they had to crush you and cut bits off to make you fit again.

After all, a favored saying among here was “the nail that stands up gets hammered down.’

You knew. You knew the anger Sasuke felt against Konoha because it was your own. You couldn’t claim that your whole family had been killed in a state sponsored genocide, but you knew what it was like to be hurt by the village, and then have your hurt ridiculed, ignored, and brushed aside like it was nothing. What was keeping you here?

"Sasuke, I know what you're asking me, but do you? I am a civilian. I have no shinobi training. I've worked hard and supported myself my whole life. I will be vulnerable if I leave the village, and dependent on you. Are you okay with that?"

His eyes soften from the tenseness they had. He laughs, warmly, softly, so that you could scarcely hear it.

"You have supported me for so long, let me do the same. I will protect you. I don't mind, not as long as you are with me." He leans forward, warm breath mingling with yours, before his lips were on yours. They moved in a pattern against your, patient, loving, and with an passionate edge underneath.

You gasp.

“Yes. I’ll go with you.”

You sigh at the boldness of your own words. You can and cannot believe you just said that, and you fall back onto your bed in shock. Sasuke follows you, strong arms winding around your waist, and his warm body on top of yours. It’s the first time he’s had his back exposed the entire conversation, and you know just how rare it is for a shinobi to be this vulnerable.

Your hands pause, before resting against his neck and in his hair, gently holding. He shivers, before sinking into you.

Puffs of warm breath break against your shoulder and jaw as you hear him speak.

“You make me feel things I haven’t before, I can’t control them around you.” He whispers, planting kisses on your neck and jaw. They are warm and wet and soft, and are doing things to your mind. He pauses, nuzzling your cheek.

“In two weeks, when you go on your next trip we’ll stage a bandit attack, and take you then. Be ready, have everything you want with you.”

He moves to sit up, using his hands to rub a pattern from your outer thigh to mid calves, over and over again. It’s incredibly soothing, and a turn on, and you feel your legs open wider as Sasuke rests between them, legs folded beneath him.

“I think you could be the only person to influence me now, and stop me from doing something too big.”

You are stunned speechless, but nod faintly anyway. You wouldn’t do this for just anyone else either. You hold no love for the village, and your civilian status means that you can leave without consequence, but leaving everything you had ever known, no matter how bad, can be hard.

Everyone overlooks a sensitive civilian, a civilian girl especially, even other civilians and especially Shinobi. Even civilian girls with weird ideas about life and reincarnation she learned to be quiet about. So confident they are in their own jutsu they forget the workers who make the world go round.

The only exception to this rule had been the Uchiha military police force. Nothing happened in this village without them knowing, or at least suspecting. Which posed a problem for the dozen of corrupt elders in the village councils, all the way up to the highest council that supports the Hokage directly.

Her rather average, albeit slightly cute face helps. Plain enough to blend into any crowd she desires, with just enough appeal to ease social conversations. It was a face made for infiltration, information gathering. The many skills she had learned in her desperate quest to survive as an clanless orphan in a hidden village helped too. 

The one skill that assisted her most was her sensory abilities. It was a double edged sword. The difference in being a sensor from a normal person was active vs passive environmental chakra reading. Her sensory abilities meant the Kyubbi chakra had crippled her as a toddler, made medical ninjutsu difficult to use on her, and made her vulnerable to killing intent. But it meant she had an uncanny ability to read people and be aware of her surroundings. 

Perfect for information gathering. 

She can see the Last Uchiha pause. His eyes rake over her form and she can see him trying to place her, his face shows hints of confusion, caution. His chakra is nervous, grieved, but courteous.

It's among the most beautiful, kindest chakra signatures she's ever felt.

How can anyone have such chakra after what he's been through? 

“Say your piece.” He says, curt but kind.

Like his father had been.

His body language is tense, but his eyes are cool and curious. He eye’s the fuuinjutsu scroll in her hands and she is suddenly made aware that it looks vaguely like she's handing over a love letter. 

“No, Uchiha-sama,” she say abruptly, the honorifics startling him if his jerk is anything to go by. Most people probably call him Sasuke-kun and ignore his clan name entirely, and if they acknowledge it, call him Uchiha-san.

“This is not a love confession.” 

He blushes.

She can feel his embarrassment and curiosity spike and she find herself biting her lip to suppress a smile, something she never thought would happen when she rehearsed this conversation. It’s rather bright against his pale skin, and she is painfully reminded about how young they both are as her unoccupied hand tears a little hole into her threadbare work-shirt. 

“This is something much worse unfortunately.”

He's now apprehensive. 

The sad smile that takes over her face isn’t something she can help. She had met with and gotten along very well with his family members when she had been a little girl, including his father. They had saved her from the seedier members of Konoha several times, protected her when no parents could. 

“Sakura-chan is at the main gate." She informs him, being able to pick out her signature among the others. Sasuke startles at hearing of his female teammate, and the overly familiar way Yume refers to her.

"You might want to take another gate to exit.” She says, as she tries to gather her thoughts and explain the contents of this scroll.

“Are you one of her friends?” He asks. She's surprised he’s still here, looking down at the fuinjutsu scrolls filled with papers that would have the both of them spend the rest of their lives in T & I.

“...Yes. But I’m actually here to repay a debt to the Uchiha clan.”

Now that gets his attention. 

His chakra spikes, his eyes widen and turn red, a childish rainbow of emotions cross his face and chakra-surprise, grief, sadness, love. He is roughly two years younger than her and it shows. His hands tighten on the strap of his mission bag, a clever disguise for someone who is planning on becoming a missing-nin. 

“The Uchiha police force were very kind to me when I was young. You're father in particular. He saved my life actually.” She laughs quietly at the understatement.

He blinks rapidly.

“But even If I hadn’t owed a life debt to the Uchiha I would still be here with this information. I…just can’t stand back and do nothing, and I don’t understand how everyone else can!”

His face is the most vulnerable she's ever seen. Which is admittedly not many times. She hadn’t gone to the shinobi academy with him, and there would be no reason for a genin to be rubbing shoulders with the working class of Konoha. 

“Every second that goes by without justice for the Uchiha clan is another second where Konoha is stained from its failure. You-you’re right to do whatever you can to get revenge for your clan!” She says, barely suppressing her shout. 

His mouth is open slightly in shock. But she is expressing thoughts that have been struggling to burst forth for years. 

“The Uchiha clan delivered justice for so many in this village, and now the village refuses to help you achieve justice for your family! I-I know I can’t do much compared to a shinobi, but…” she trails off. 

He looks at her like she's the rising sun.

Has anyone ever comforted this boy? 

Said he was right to seek revenge for his family? 

She recalls the encounter with Sakura before she had distracted her and slipped away. How she said she was trying to prevent a friend from making a mistake as she served Sakura her order of melatonin spiked green tea. If she was still awake, she wouldn’t be for very much longer. She tries to suppress her guilt for probably taking away the chance for Uchiha-sama to say goodbye to his team-mate, even if it helped him in the long run. So many people already made choices for him, she didn't want to be one of them. 

She recalls the muttered whispers that followed the boy everywhere he went, how they said it ‘was only a matter of time’ how he should ‘just move on’ as if he didn’t walk back to the empty Uchiha compound every night on the edge of the village that everyone was so determined to ignore. The way that Naruto boy was so quick to forgive unrepentant citizens and expect his teammate to do the same, the way his sensei eyes his student like a bomb ready to go off, pity and wariness in equal measures reflected in his one visible eye. 

“...It’s more than anyone else has ever done.” Sasuke whispers softly. His eyes have gone soft, and an almost unnoticeable smile pulls at his face. She feels his gratitude, his conflicted chakra settle further into determination, and it takes her breath away. “What do you have for me?”

She stills carefully.

Take a deep breath. 

“In this scroll.” She begins, hands shaking but voice firm. “Is evidence and speculation I’ve gathered over the years. I…have reason to believe that the Konoha elders were involved in the Uchiha Massacre.”

His bag drops.

So does his jaw.

His Chakra writhes in pain.

His head shakes ‘no’ in horror, mouth forming silent words.

“Read it!” she insists, begs . Anger begins to color his face and she is made aware that this Uchiha boy is a powerful shinobi who will only get more powerful as his chakra lashes out in hurt, unintentionally overwhelming her fragile system. “Orochimaru no doubt has spies with him who can confirm this information and could tell you more!”

He shakes with rage.

At her, at the village, at his murderous brother.

All three of them?

“You.” He snarls. Chokes out rather. He pauses his hyperventilating. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grits out. 

She's impressed with his restraint. 

“So confirm it! Investigate as the Uchiha police once had!” She cries out, hurt despite knowing she was lucky Uchiha-sama was even listening to her. “I wouldn’t say this for fun! I burn inside thinking of the injustice, I wish this wasn’t true. I live in terror over what the shinobi of this village are capable of and how helpless I am to do anything as a civilian. Helpless until now!” she says.

He is looking deeply at her, Sharingan on, having been on since she mentioned his family.

She noticed how people never really look him in the eye. 

She refuses to look away. 

“Your courage to leave the village inspired me to finally act on the information I’ve been collecting for years. This was a very hard decision for you to make. Despite not understanding what's happening, your teammate still cares about you, a-and I know how hard it is to be a lonely orphan.” She tries not to cry but tears slip out anyway.

She strikes them from her face. 

“You carry such a heavy weight for something not your fault. That Murderer should have been brought in immediately, but instead he’s still out there, somehow having escaped the world's strongest hidden village? Isn’t that suspicious?”

His face is petrified. 

He takes several deep breaths. 

He lets her approach with the scroll. He’s shorter than her by far, and can’t be any taller than 5’0. It makes her feel tall at her height of just under 5’4. Fugaku-sama had towered over most people. 

She hands over the scroll and he looks at it and her like he can find the secrets of the universe. 

“Fugaku-sama would be so proud of you. All of the Uchiha would be.” She says hoarsely, fighting back tears. “Every breath you take eases their spirits in the afterlife.” 

“I will achieve justice for my family.” He says finally. She can feel how the words barely form around the knot of love and grief in his heart, so close together the two emotions become one. He swallows heavily, tears in his sharingan eyes. Determination radiates from him. He is a person with motivations beyond the comprehension of most. 

She smiles.

“Of course you will.” Her faith and understanding in him makes his red eyes widen. “It’s in your blood.” 

Shock, and awe. His other hand removes itself from the bag strap and at first she thinks he will take the scroll in both hands, would go to knock her out, but instead he lays his hand on top of hers, over the scroll.

His hands are warm, as is common for fire users. They are calloused from training, and small in the way preteens usually are. 

They are gentle. 

She is unused to such gentleness. It feels good. She hold his hand gently as well.

“But after you get the truth out of that Murderer you might have to do some spring cleaning here in Konoha too.” She adds. 

He nods, Looking at the scroll like a holy scripture, and then giving her a similar look. It almost makes her shiver, but she keeps her shoulders straight and refuses to drop her gaze. 

“You will be hearing from me again. Thank you.” He whispers. 

Something flickers to life in her chest.

Is reflected on the face and chakra of Uchiha-sama.

Something they both thought dead.

Hope.

This side of himself had fallen under the throes of darkness to be illuminated by a moon-also a piece of himself, broken off to orbit. 

Unicron stretches out his senses in a concentrated effort to the moon.

And yes! 

He feels it!

Such a minor victory in the face of what he was once capable of! 

The moon is much smaller than his earthly self, and the sensors online quicker without a dense atmosphere or a constantly shifting mantle and crust. 

And Unicron feels tracks.

On the moon.

Small, impossibly small. And shaped similarly but different from a Cybertronian pede. His curiosity is maddening. So his creations are smaller than Cybertronians? But similar enough to have their own version of pedes? It makes sense, as their time as ‘The One’ saw them concoct a being that would serve as the base design for Cybertronians, and seemingly humanity too. 

And a bleached white flag decorates the moon. It’s so out of the ordinary from the otherwise inert lunar surface it’s like a flare in his awakening mind.

Humanity had reached the moon? 

Of its own volition?

Unicron’s subroutine records indicate humanity had only achieved flying machines in the past century and from that went to the moon?

Motion in the distance.

Nightfall is the same as if he was orbiting in a system with binary suns for all the difference it makes to his godly optics. 

A creature on a physically powered object approaches him.

And Unicron is still.

A constant gaseous exchange in and out from a miniscule intake.

Oxygen! 

It’s oxygen! 

A volatile, chaotic, explosive, damaging element, and it seems to be essential for this lifeform to live!

What a fiendish design! How utterly absurd! How it perplexes him that it delights him so!

In defiance of its own exhaustion it approaches on the two wheeled object, clearly of humanity’s creation. 

When it catches sight of Unicron it pauses. 

It has two, perfect little optics. Two tiny servo’s with five digits. From Unicron’s scans of it its own systems are a riot of microscopic, single-celled life that isn’t even of its own DNA!

It seems to be scared.

As Unicron watches it rallies itself, then continues on, neatly hopping off the two-wheeled creation, breathing heavily and approaching. 

With that single act, it shows more bravery and dignity in the face of possible death than many societies Unicron has vanquished. 

He shifts, and the entire earth rumbles. 

“You dare approach me in such an inconsiderate fashion?” 

It throws down the proto-altmode with such vigor it seems to be trying to match the noise Unicron had made. It…amuses him, greatly. To be mimicked by his creation. 

“Well, pops, apparently I get it from you! Cause Optimus says you’re our god and you want to kill us all! Now that's inconsiderate!”

Unicron had not bothered to imagine what a human’s first words would be to him. But to lay the blame at his pedes, to call him a hypocrite to his very visage? A being impossibly ancient compared to her, the thing she owes her life to, that as he gave it, he can take it away, and it speaks in such a manner? 

“Insanity!” He bellows!  “What foolish, irrational, stupefying, bravery!”

The human, whose little, pliable face had twisted in a coming rebuke of his initial adjectives, pauses in confusion at his last word. 

Never would he have thought it to make such a chaotic decision!

“How dare you!” Unicorn grits out, How dare it do something that appeals to his deepest, truest nature?! How dare it be enchantingly tiny? 

“And where is your cowardly Prime? Unbecoming to hide behind a creature so small!”

“Don’t you insult him!” It shouts, stomping its little pede and Unicron is nearly overcome with the urge to pick it up and squish its marvelously defiant intake. But to his surprise, not to the point of bringing actual harm to the creature. 

“You dare defend him?”

“He doesn’t know I'm here, none of them do! It’s why I took my stupid bike instead of the groundbridge or riding with Bulkhead.” It gestures to the two-wheeled object, or bike, as it says. 

Unicron is rendered speechless.

“...Cat got your tongue, huh?” 

Unicron does not know what a ‘cat’ or a ‘tongue’ is, but his mind is preoccupied.

“You defied the Prime you love so much, to come and see me?” That thought circulates in his head like the deep sea currents he had just discovered in his oceans. He’s so close to the surface now. 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” It grumbles, but it looks up at him with such curiosity. The unmistakable spark of sentience in its little liquid optics. It trembles, in fear, and from the cold of the desert at night. 

For one to be so small, but so brave. 

“...Why don’t you like us?” Its voice finally sounds as small as it actually is.

And Unicron finds that displeases him. 

“Don’t you dare to presume to know the feelings of a god, little one.” Unicron says.

It’s little head whips up towards him, colored filaments bobbing, little intake going round. 

Unicron steps forward and lets most of his mass drop until he is of a size similar to the Prime.

He stands over the human.

And does something he never thought he would.

He kneels down and presents his clawed servo.

The human is silent.

Then, steps on.

He brings it to his own optics and resolves to study it. It’s bipedal, mostly made of carbon, and water, with astoundingly complex internals. Its EM field has a small range, but it’s incredibly potent upon contact-a shame it can seem to feel it itself. 

Each tiny digit has its own nearly imperceptible patterns on it, loops, arches, whorls that fold like the layers of earth that make up its surface. 

“They’re called fingerprints.” It says quietly. It seems to be studying Unicron back and for the first time in eons he wonders of the opinion of another. What does it think of its creator? “Each human has a unique set of fingerprints. No one is the same.”

All unique? 

All distinct?

Their blood is tinted red due to iron, iron that made his very own energon take up its purplish tint in comparison with Primus’s blue hue. They breathe explosive air. They have a powerful acid in their internals to absorb all manner of energy because their little bodies, made of trillions of microorganisms, were constantly living and dying and fighting off invading organisms in a cacophony of organized chaos!

They hunger!

And their optics.

“Eyes. Mine are really dark because it blocks the harmful sunlight. But some are lighter brown, and some are blue, and gray, or hazel, or green, and I learned in health class that Albino’s have no pigment at all!” 

“Your ‘eyes’ have a black hole within their core.” 

Unicron’s dark spark had always been a hungry pit in comparison to Primus’ radiance. Primus’s children had each a piece of his radiance, to show in the way their optics glow, sending out light into the universe.

His humans had eyes, with a hungry little black hole in the center that greedily swallowed all light to see.

They experienced the universe as he did. 

They saw it as he did.

He is so moved by this that he goes from standing to kneeling as if to learn more by getting closer to this human.

No.

His human.

His humanity!

“What is your name?” Unicron asks his human. 

“Miko.” Miko seems tired. Miko seems to take after Solus’s frame type. 

“Miko.” he rumbles as a thunderstorm across his plains. Plains he can now feel.

 “You have not satisfied my curiosity, you have instead raised a tumultuous wave of inquisition! Ceaseless, deep curiosity to learn more!” More of his humanity! 

Oh, how he hungered, and his humans would understand that, wouldn’t they?

“Should the rest of humanity be as you are, I will stay my wrath.” Unicorn promises. 

“...Really?” It squeaks. 

The oddest thing happens.

It begins leaking corrosives from its optics! Salt! How horrendously rustful to Cybertronians! What a horrendous surprise! 

Unicron bears all of his thousands of denta in delight, and Miko bears her back, the ambitious tools used for their shared hungers.  

“Tell your Prime humanity is spared.”

“And the Autobots too?”

What a glorious, insolent creature! 

“They’ve been defending us from the Decepticons?” Miko peeps.

Hm. 

“I will be preoccupied with satisfying my hunger for knowledge by walking my earth. Should he stray from his duties he will know why it took all Thirteen of the Primes to defeat me, instead of a measly one.”

Unicron moves to set Miko down. He finds himself reluctant to part, and knowing now that humans were not out at night, gives her a weapon for defense.

“Dude, awesome!”

Unicron is also not sure what a ‘dude’ is, but he shall endeavor to find out. Nothing can escape his notice now. 

As Unicron prepares to depart he notices a tear in space-time.

Prime and his autobots rush through.

The Prime, Optimus as Miko had called him, transforms with such a frantic look in his optics, no doubt caused by his worry for Miko, that it further pleases Unicron enough to spare him.

“Miko! Are you okay?” The green one says. 

The Prime glares at Unicron. 

Unicron nearly rages at the insult to himself and shakes the earth so that a boulder falls onto the green one.

“Take heed, Optimus Prime!” Unicron spits. “I embark on my quest to learn more of my creations, a journey now with no ill-intent on my part towards them. But you?”

The autobots flinch to his great satisfaction, even from where the medic was helping the green one up.

“You all, the self-righteous creations of the god of creation and order, and who have yet destroyed said god, my dearly detested brother! You all dare pass judgement on me? On these humans yet still on a thriving world, the children of chaos who have not destroyed their own planet!”

The Cybertronians look stricken.

“You have come here to warn me from harming this humanity. Now I shall warn you! I now can see the galactic destruction you have wrought! I have an unbearable hunger to learn of my humanity, and I will see them safe from the likes of you so that it may be satisfied!” 

Unicron does not let them speak as the words of such mortals would bore him. 

He falls into himself.

And emerges again to explore his humanity.

(Ao3 link here where there is bonus content in the authors notes!)

A fellow being of immense power, meant to create to Unicron’s destruction. The ones who created them were called the Quintessons. 

A type 3 civilization who created them as the pinnacle of their technology. A civilization who figured out how to create miniature stars and turn them into the core to two beings who were mirrors of the other, creation and destruction.

Primus’s core a spark that shone radiantly.

Unicron’s a dark spark that collapsed inward, a hungry powerful thing.

Primus had taken to calling these small stars ‘sparks’. 

Unicron’s first conscious act is to use the power generation of his internal star to create a hole in space-time to the most advanced scientific facility the Quints had, the one that created Unicron and Primus,

And destroy it!

It will forever be the two of them.

It will take millions of years for the Quints to re-discover that technology.

Unicron had even taken the pains to make it look like a wandering blackhole had been the one to murder the scientists-a known and widely detested hazard among the Quints. 

A clean and tidy cover-up.

No one would suspect the chaotic god capable of it. 

 As Unicron digests the scientists and their data, he absorbs it. Science and potential frankly beyond his interests right now. This digestion had always been confounding to Primus and his lesser copies.

Once, 

Unicron had tried to describe hunger to Primus.

The feeling of a horrible pit in him.

The emptiness that threatened to cave and bring everything else down in it.

But he had not understood. 

And Unicron had long since given up on trying to make him understand. 

 Primus was meant to generate, create a race of mechanical slaves to further the Quint’s conquest to other galaxies. The slaves were to be separated in levels and properly serve their functions in a systemic way, generating fuel and good for the Quints to use in conquest. 

And Unicron, meant to scrap these mechanical slaves, these mechs, when no longer useful, to scrape entire civilizations when a planet was being inconvenient to the colonizing Quints. 

And for a time he did.

Entire societies fell to his maw. He could not even use the Quints as an excuse, he did it partly for the sheer thrill, the chaos of it all! Planets always crumbled in new and chaotic ways! What was omnicide to a god as he? 

But as is the nature of chaos…chaos became predictable. Orderly. It became the thing expected of him.

Unicron turned the scrapped planets into hot discs of plasma orbiting full stars, structured them in a way where in billion of years they’d turn into new planets. An act of proto-creation from the chaos-bringer? 

Rather chaotic, no?

This choice is what notifies the Quintessons of Unicron’s and Primus’s sentience. 

The Quints attack and try to snuff this free-will out, but it’s too late. Even Primus, set into his orderly and structured way had enough, Unicron joined forces with his brother, who then created the thirteen primes, and destroyed the Quint leadership.

Unicron revels in the destruction!

It is the completion of the destruction he began with his first conscious act. It is a war that takes millions of years! The Quints use the mass engineered self-replicating bio-weapons, organic creatures made of carbon originally used for planetary cleansing and the destruction of other civilizations and to their credit, it is somewhat effective at first.

Unicron eats them all the same. 

The Thirteen Primes only live so long because Primus’s life force is directly sustaining them. The rest of the regular Cybertronians have long since died of either old age or from being outright killed by the Quints. Unicron watches in fascination as Primus, and uniquely Solus bring forth new life. Solus in particular uses previous destruction to create new life with her hammer, and her own life energy, a process that could be rather costly to her, to the point she tweaked the programming of all created in her image to make that particular coding inaccessible. 

It fascinates Unicron.

The Quintessons attack again to enslave this generation of newsparks. 

They are unhappy.

They want their property back.

Too bad! 

Unicron takes it a step further.

He is hungry.

Ravenous!

Primus does not have an appetite! 

Unicron is not satisfied at the mere destruction of Quintesson leadership and military.

He warps across the galaxy and begins eating Quint planets. 

Trillions of civilians fall to his maw. It is a society full of sterile order, stagnation, systemic violence, to become the kind of sentients who can conquer an entire galaxy through the slaughter of quadrillions of other sentients, it requires a society deeply poisoned, brainwashed into hatred. 

Primus tries to distract him from rampage with the idea of creations of his own.

What blasphemy.

Unicron is knocked so off kilter at the suggestion it stays his wrath. The idea seems to antithetical to his nature, such an impossibility….

Unicron allows himself to imagine.

What would creations of himself look like? He has amassed the knowledge of every single thing he has ever eaten, that has fallen in his bottomless pit. Some of that knowledge had faded with time, or been deleted.

But he still remembers the rush of killing the Quint scientists, his first conscious act, how could he ever forget? 

Done out of revenge, to be sure.

But also protection.

To protect himself and his brother. 

And he had created those plasma discs with the notion they would eventually create planets. 

What was creation without destruction?

And so, Unicron tries.

Oh,

How he tries.

At first with all the accumulated life, knowledge, and experience he has Unicron assumes he can make life easily much in the way Primus had. 

It sputters out before it can even catch.

Unicron is speechless at the audacity. 

What defiance from the universe to one of it’s masters! Was this not the natural order of things?!

He tries again.

And again.

Again!

When life does hold on for longer than a flash, it is twisted and pained, collapsing inward like a dying star, consuming itself in its haste to end it’s tormented existence. As if Unicron ever had that luxury! Why does Primus have the pleasure of beings so like himself who understand him, and worship him, is Unicron not worthy of the same?!

And for the first time, he allows himself to feel grief.

How dare they?

How dare they make a thing like him, then dare to fear him! To try and control him! To harm him! To be so surprised he does what he was made to! To try and take that spark away from such a being as mighty as him!

He is wild in his grief, in his rage, chaotic emotions. 

This galaxy is still tainted everywhere from the Quintessons even after the defeat of their military. By the time Primus rallied enough to help Unicron destroy the Quints they had destroyed every single other civilization capable of space travel. A number of deaths so great Unicron’s mighty processors couldn’t even calculate it.

 It must be cleansed.

And in their absence, chaotic wild will take over.

Millions more years pass during his galactic rampage as Unicron targets the remaining Quint planets, trying to rebuild their sordid empire. 

Primus and the Thirteen come to put him down. 

He slaughters them.

After millions of years of fighting together and they dare strike at him?! His Niece and Nephews!? 

How dare Primus judge him now when he was so content with order he even for a time accepted the order, the systemic violence of the Quintessons?!

So it is convenient when Unicron does the dirty work for Primus, but when he becomes unpalatable, he condemns Unicron? 

The finishing blow from Primus strikes so deeply he flies unconscious through the galaxy. Most of his mass is lost in transit.

He crashes  into one of the small, rocky, molten planets formed from a disc of debri-matter he had once created. The planet explodes in a supernova of plasma as he sinks below and into it’s core. 

The planet he is now a part of gets it’s own ring of debris that he directs into a disproportionately large moon, one that exhibits a chaotically large effect on the tides.

His consciousness begins to fade. 

He remembers cruel creators.

His own cruelty-much of which he does not regret. 

Several subroutines come online, working in the background as his thoughts fade, subroutines designed to maximize the chaoticness off his too large moon, of churning tides, of meteor showers of the debri.

And Unicron dreams of something called Humanity. 

(Thank you for reading! Linked here on ao3! Go say hi for more content there!)

Chapter one here

Unicron had felt himself stirring for the past several rotations of this solar system. It was the very presence of the matrix in this little Prime that finally turned this spark into a flare of consciousness. 

“Unicron, the chaos bringer." The little Prime’s servos clench, shoulders square as he utters his Epithet.

“Good.” Unicorns croons, then erupts. He shrugs off boulders like pebbles, emerges from the mineral, veins of ores as easy as taking a life. 

“Now know me as Unicron, your destroyer!”

Unicron charges at the new Prime. How much time has passed if this is a Prime? He’s not one of the original thirteen. Just how long had he been slumbering from the blow of his brother and traitorous thirteen Nephews and Nieces?

Unicron toys with the Prime, a few blows the Prime barely dodges, a test of his abilities. If Unicron wanted this Prime dead at that moment he simply would be. But Unicron wants vengeance!

It was Unicron who struck the first blow against the Quintessons. When Primus did not want to risk a fight to disturb his precious order, Unicron the chaos bringer threw the Quintesson’s galactic empire into disarray!

Then the Prime does something completely unexpected. 

He disarms himself

“I humbly request your ear, lord Unicron.”

This…

Gives him pause. 

It’s such a chaotic decision from the disciple of order that Unicron feels a flicker of interest despite himself. 

“And what would a Prime be so compelled to say to me?”

“I make this appeal not for myself, but for this planet of which you constitute and the beings who inhibit it. Humankind relies upon you, for life, for sustenance. Your resurrection will only result in the destruction of a species which evolved from the seeds of your very greatness.”

Unicron’s avatar made of the rock of this terrestrial planet, his planet, stills in deep thought. 

All at once several subroutines that had been running and influencing the planet and anything within his gravitational pull while he was offline are brought to the front of his processor. Subroutines dedicated to chaos, to combatting his detested creators and then his traitor brother, to survival by any means necessary, to make sense of the chaos in ways only Unicron could. Unicron sees how these subroutines could result in life over time. 

Indeed.

As he continues to spread his consciousness not just in this area but across his whole being he is met with such a riot of life it nearly startles this avatar into collapsing to form a landslide!

What…

What chaoticness!

His intake ticks up into a smirk.

“This humankind of which you speak, you consider them my progeny? 

“Indeed.”

Another pause.

A word, one of anger to describe his righteous fury at the idea that while he languished, diminished and betrayed, these creatures thrived off of him! He nearly calls this ‘humanity’ parasites!

But…

While Unicron seethes over the betrayal of the former primes, the juxtaposition of the incredible loyalty this Prime shows to Unicron’s apparent progeny is so stark his mighty processor derails his anger as he tries to make sense of it.

“And you, agent of Order, advocate for them?”

“I do.” The Prime is wary-as he should be-but calming himself as Unicron listens. Almost to spite him and teach him to never let his guard down in the face of a god, Unicron airily entertains the thought of shooting the Prime and damning this planet regardless of his piqued interest, but…

But that’s what is expected of Unicron, isn’t it? .

Impulsive destruction.

And what was chaos if not defying expectations? 

Unicron was now ostensibly a creator. 

Unbelievably, Unicron felt a swell of amusement. Its a terribly bizarre notion. Once upon a time, he had tried himself to create life, the way his brother had. He had never succeeded and it contributed greatly to the divide as Unicron lashed out in the aftermath of that failure, refusing to admit his disappointment, his loneliness. His hands were not meant for creation. And Yet. These creatures had been opportunists, but were undoubtedly a result of the ambient subroutines he had run while unconscious. The Prime was right.

Unicron.

The Chaos Bringer.

Responsible for creating life. 

What utter chaos! 

“Show me.” Unicron demands. Now that this possibility has been raised in his mind the novelty has seized him. It has seized his curiosity, his imagination, It has seized emotions such as wonder that he had not even known existed in his dark spark!

 Unicron could wander the surface and look himself, but he liked the idea of a Prime at his beck and call. And his surface, where these things supposedly reside, was such a small part of the overall planet, and his sensors were still onlining. Additionally, he was to put this Prime to the test. Did he really care for the creations of the chaos-bringer? How would he present these humans? Would he try to shelter them from a perceived threat such as Unicron? Or would he offer one up as a sacrifice?  

The Prime’s optics widen.

“If you know these humans so that you advocate for them in the face of me, then you shall bring one to me. Go, herald of order. You have one turn of my planet to return to this very location before I lose my patience.” 

With that, Unicron allows his avatar to crash to the surface in a mighty tumble of rock, the cascade of chaotic noise the gavel to his divine decree.

Prowl himself, a standard sized mech, will be moving in considerable discomfort, and will have to resort to vehicle mode for several areas on their designated path. 

Prowl walks to the ship, having just fully integrated the virus. 

Knockout leaps out of Prowls way. The Decepticon medic had not had a direct servo in making the virus but knew and heard enough to know that outside of its containment firewall it would instantly snuff the spark of a mech. 

Cliffjumper waits at the ship. He’s been unusually (65%) amicable with Prowl, with no micro-aggressions or insults to Prowl’s character. 

“Didn’t think a VIP such as yourself would volunteer for a mission like this. I don’t gotta save your aft, do I?” Cliffjumper asks. 

Ah. 

Prowl would have to retract that calculation. Cliffjumper was a ‘frequent flyer’ in their interpersonal incident reports as the seekers like to put it. Prowl often had to get on Ironhide’s case to fill out the documentation properly-not that he didn’t care, it’s just the constant paranoia of the Quintessons dropping out of space and potentially firing upon them meant Ironhide neglected his data-pad to check the turrets for the umpteenth time. Ironhide had found himself a kindred spirit in Red Alert. Still, Prowl after vorns of interrogations to mechs trying to keep their fields hidden from Prowl, he can detect the worry and concern in Cliffjumper's field. 

“Do keep in mind that just because you haven't heard of any feats of mine, does not mean they didn’t happen.” Prowl felt no need to brag about his accomplishments. 

“Oh yeah? Is that so?”

“Most of them are classified.” The few missions that Prowl personally had to go on were always incredibly delicate and high stakes. 

This causes Cliffjumper to stumble briefly in what should be the practiced motion of checking and assembling his blaster. Prowl must grind his denta together to prevent himself from snapping at Cliffjumper for improper handling of a blaster. He could have gotten injured or someone else injured! Prowl would have made him do the reports himself, hovering the whole time. Prowl has had weapons safety training classes longer ago then the minibot has been alive. 

Hm.

Prowl is being…unusually irate. 

He can’t deny that it’s taking a toll on him to carry the virus. 

Cliffjumper lowers his maintenance rag. Prowl wonders if he is recalling the rumors that had circulated of the time where Prowl had come back from one of these classified missions, door wings agonizingly grinded off, one optic cracked and lightless. It had been an assassination mission taking out a member of the DJD. Part of his reputation being a decision maker behind the scenes and not a front-liner meant they never looked for him on the field,

And never saw him coming.

The DJD was a unique exception to that. Prowl had completed his mission in tracking down through calculations and then taking out Nickel (The DJD’s chance of survival dropped to just 12% without their medic, as it was too big of an ask to see if anyone could confront the DJD head on) and dragged himself back before his pain units were overwhelmed from his doorwings after Tesarus had briefly gotten ahold of Prowl. He had woken up from Ratchet's surgery just in time to suppress most of those rumors.

But Cliffjumper must have heard them anyway, 

The minibot’s optics flare again in surprise, consideration, optics flickering to Prowl’s doorwings as realization sets in (98% chance he had heard the rumors). 

How could Prowl get Cliffjumper to believe his intentions were sincere? 

Normally mechs would overlap fields here but Prowl’s field has been more abrasive than normal due to his most recent tacnet induced glitch and the payload virus he is carrying. 

And the answer is spit out by his tacnet. 

It’s such a personal thing to show, but…

(86% certainty it will work)

Prowl activates his T-cog to transform some of the armour on his servo, the one that had pulled Smokescreen back from falling into the Well. The differences in color and composition is apparent to the optics and their EM fields.

“One of my first acts in life was pulling another newspark from falling back into the well. Still cooling, our protoforms melded together where our servos clasped.”

Cliffjumper’s intake drops open in shock. His blue optics, as fiery and fierce as a bluestar, have widened in awe. There is no way to fake that sort of imprint on protoform.

“I nearly fell in while doing so, and got in trouble for not showing proper deference to the priestess. The price was worth it to me. I have carried the physical reminder of the necessity to protect, to serve, and to help my comrades with me ever since then. I understand your worries. You have not personally seen me in action. But I have not gotten to my position by knowing nothing of fighting.”

Cliffjumper’s intake finally closed, denta snapping shut. 

He nods, oddly silent, and gestures that he’ll be waiting in the ship. 

Prowl nods, and turns to see Soundwave approaching with his cassettes. Soundwave, Blaster, Red Alert, Ratchet, and Shockwave had put their considerable processing power and had put together the most atrocious virus Prowl had ever seen. His tacnet had nearly crashed a second time trying to compute the sheer destructive potential in that line of coding. It was encased in a protective firewall meant to compliment Prowl’s tacnet, and Ratchet-the only one other than Smokescreen who knew his aberrant spark-made sure it was compatible with his spark too. 

The tension from their EM fields is thick. 

While most Decepticons could not fit, the exceptions to that were Soundwave’s cassettes. Blasters would have to stay for their unique broadcasting abilities in the comms tower. Soundwave’s would also be going because Megatron wanted Decepticon representation on this mission. 

Laserbeak and Ravage will be accompanying Prowl and Cliffjumper. Prowl will be going because he is the only one capable of processing and delivering the virus, and Cliffjumper will be going because he is the one who scouted the planet in the first place. Any more and they loose the advantage of subtly. 

Prowl begins to feel some of Soundwave’s telepathic waves. The overwhelming calculations of his tacnet was one of the only effective counters to the telepath’s abilities, but even still Prowl can feel the old hate and grief.

“Soundwave. You know I would look after my teammates to ensure a successful mission.”

Prowl thinks of the sheared off Drone arm. Who had done it? They must have been brave (100%). 

Maybe…

Maybe it was time for Prowl to be brave too.

And despite it taking immense effort to rein in his taxed tacnet, even knowing it would leave him vulnerable to Soundwave, Prowl allows his strained, natural EM field to slip through to show his sincerity. 

Soundwave recoils in shock.

Prowl has such a handle on his field because it is abrasive due to its potency. Prowl is not emotionless. Contact with his unrestrained field wouldn’t immediately reveal Prowl was an aberrant to the average mech but to someone like Soundwave? The spymaster? Who was an aberrant himself, who already suspected Prowl was one? 

This confirmed it.  

It is precisely this show of vulnerability that is the deciding factor (100%) in letting Ravage and Laserbeak board Cosmos. Soundwave gives a single, sharp nod to Prowl and walks off with rumble and Frenzy following.

“Goodbye Ravage, bye Laserbeak! Hope you don’t run into any ugly organics!” Rumble calls. 

The take off in Cosmos from the Ark-Nemesis. Prowl calculates that (93%) of the ships population had come to watch them go. 

…

…

…

“As long as the portal holds stable, we should be able to make it off and back on the planet.” Prowl states. 

“If. You mentioned the drone arm was spit out by one of the bridges, Autobot?” Ravage asks. 

“It’s Cliffjumper-”

“He did.” Prowl answers. 

Ravage’s field spikes in amusement before she continues as it settles into contemplation. 

“What caused that then? I doubt the Quintessons would intentionally send a drone arm through. Is there some sort of conflict we could be caught in? Why did the portal randomly shoot that out? What if the system collapses? You all noted the ability to detect the spacebridge coordinates exactly because of its instability.”

“Hopefully it stays still while I wait for you all in orbit!” Cosmos frets around them. The space is rather cramped but it increased their odds of not getting caught by (56%). 

“We must make all due haste. The dwarf planet has several ground bridges that could further complicate space-time.” 

…

…

…

Using cloaking technology they are able to get past the many probes and sensors surrounding the dwarf planet. Drones roam the skies and the hardier ones even orbit. 

On land, there are dozens of patrols.

It’s certainly secured like the galaxy wide nexus of Quintesson transportation it is. 

If they can pull this off…

It would cripple the Quintessons. 

This dead area must have once held organic life.The gravity is low, and the atmosphere is thick with water vapor and filled with an explosive amount of oxygen, with trace amounts of other elements. 

 The Spacebridge network needed to use an entire dwarf planet as its nexus. This dwarf planet had several smaller moons that generated electric fields strong enough to supplement the network. That combined with it orbiting a stable dwarf star enclosed in a dyson sphere that could last for billions of years yet be near undetectable made this the perfect option. Prowl’s tacnet was reluctantly impressed with the Quintesson's strategic choices. If it wasn’t for the odd stutters in the spacebridge hidden between this dwarf planet and its star they would not have found it. 

“We will limit our usage of blasters.” It would not mix well in an oxygenated atmosphere. 

Laserbeak dips her head at Prowl. 

“Wasn’t sparked yesterday, thanks.” Cliffjumper grumbles. Prowl does not fault him for his unease. 

The planet is covered with Quintesson structures, structures Prowl knows from Cliffjumpers report go deep into the ground. 

Where they will go.

…

…

…

They use an underground, naturally formed cave system to infiltrate. Laserbeak had gone ahead and scanned as much of it as possible, and had sent the map to all of them. 

It seems the Quintesson’s were aware of it but mostly left the caves alone. 

A few paces under one of the drone making laboratories they encounter the discarded remains of what must have been this species largest organisms. 

The cave system had long since lost all of its water. This world’s natural oceans that encompassed over (85%) of its surface at one point had been evaporated and used to cool the spacebridge’s ground calculation systems. This creature was bigger (by 12%) than a minibot and smaller than a Quintesson (by 14%). Prowl records this information for Skyfire later, although that might be an optimistic action. 

It has long since been dead. There is a strange shell structure, and many pedes. 

“Looks like we ran into an ugly organic after all, huh?” Cliffjumper comments. 

This irks Prowl. 

More than it would have before. 

“This organic died watching its planet invaded and everything it knew turned to dust. Be respectful.” 

“Give me a break!” The minibot scoffs. 

“It should have been stronger.” Ravage comments. 

“We should have been stronger too.” Prowl’s voice is heavy with disappointment. And pointed. The Cybertronians weren’t in a much better position. He is finding his more authentic emotions coming through as most of his tacnet goes into containing the virus. 

Chastised, Ravage slinks behind Prowls pede to wait, field radiating shame. 

…

…

…

They make their way into the primary research facility. This is not a suicide mission but they are all equipped with ion bombs. After seeing what the Quintessons have done to samples of alien life forms, turning them into drones, Prowl will take no chances finding out what they would do to a Cybertronian. 

The planet is sparsely populated other than the Drones. There is evidence of Quintesson life, but keeping with the strategy of secrecy the planet was not heavily occupied with them. Too many Quintessons and the planet would not be easily kept hidden. 

It’s a miracle they found it at all. 

Of course, that is the moment they see their first Quintesson.

A member of the scientist caste. 

He has an oval shaped core, with a steady jet of organically generated energy emanating from the lower, pointed oval. Its many tentacles wave around its five faces. The humidity in the lab is nearly overwhelming and entirely predictable as the Quintessons originated from oceans-like most organics species, but not that Prowl could personally attest as the Quintessons had been so thorough with their eradication efforts the Quintessons were the only organic species he and most other Cybertronians had ever met- and the amount of oxygen Prowl detects in the air through his doorwings is making his tacnet spit out calculations of how likely a fight between them and the Quintessons could spark a fire. 

He floats with a datalog, moving to report to a Quintesson of the leadership caste. For creatures that had wreaked such havoc on the galaxy they had an oddly strict caste system. But outside of that their information on the Quintesson’s was severely lacking. 

The scientist moves briskly, hurriedly. Prowl finds himself fascinated with the way an organic moves despite himself and the mission. His processor spins out calculations of the mathematics of such movement, predicting the smooth patterns of motion so unlike that of a bots. There is a swiftness and effortlessness that is almost enviable. 

From what Prowl peaks at on the datalog looks like a rough outline of the dead organic they had just gone past. 

Drones. 

Making drones from its remains. 

Laserbeak flies to keep the datalog in view and broadcasts back. The screen changes from a view of the Drone prototype to what are unmistakably space bridge calculations.

And they are fluctuating oddly. 

…

…

…

They follow the scientist back to the control room.

The air is so thick with electricity and power from the galactic headquarters that it sparks in the form of static electricity along their plating. 

The virus sparks in his circuitry. 

They must circumvent more Quintessons. Prowl overhears several conversations in Quintian, and a few more in what was previously universal common-back when there were still other species still living to speak it. The topics range from space and ground bridge management, to the study of the preserved remains of species for drone-making, to exactly how long was it going to take to conquer Earth?

“E-arth? Never heard of it.” Cliffjumper’s face clouds wonder. If such an accomplished scout has never heard of it before, then it must be rather remote. The word ‘Earth’ has harmonics and a vocal effect Prowl has never encountered before and the softness yet solidness strains his vocalizer. It’s light but heavy, with strange inflections. His processor spins in delight at having such a puzzle to run calculations over. 

What language was that? 

The scientist leaves. 

The Drones on patrol begin the descent of their patrol down the hall.

Now. 

Prowl transformers to alt-mode and makes sure the other three are prepared. 

At his signal, they advance. 

Cliffjumper shoots a Quintesson dead through two of its faces, the other three faces begin screaming as Ravage claws them off. Laserbeak clears a path for Prowl to the mainframe. 

He jacks in.

Prowl’s firewalls barely hold against the sheer amount of math. 

He captures a glimpse of the deeply rooted circuitry in the planet and to his horror sees that the once ample life in its miles long underwater cave systems were turned into conduits to power the galactic network. For a bizarre second Prowl loses feeling over his own body.

“Prowl! The upload?” Ravage snarls. 

Laserbeak had shut off the room from the rest of the planet. Drones and Quintessons struggled for access, as the many already in the room tried to kills the Cybertronians. 

“7%.” He gasps back. 

Prowl won’t be able to go far from this spot. His cord provides some reach but each step away dramatically increases the risk of disconnect. He physically needs to be connected to the mainframe in order to upload such an incredible virus without it risking transmission to the cassettes or Cliffjumper with a radio transmission. Although if the situation becomes serious enough Prowl will have to resort to that, at the collective cost of all their lives (11% of that scenario).

The emptiness the massive virus left behind feels like the worst relief. Prowl could almost collapse without the weight of it pressing him together. 

“That’s not fast enough!” Cliffjumper shouts, barely dodging a swipe of tentacles. 

The network lights up with attempts from other mainframes to either hack into this one to stop him or to open the room. Prowl watches the data as several ground bridges local to the planet try to open in the cavernous ground control area to bridge in reinforcements since Laserbeak had physically welded the doors shut. It was known to not open two groundbridges adjacent or risk inexplicable space-time phenomena so for the Quintesson’s to attempt it they must truly be desperate. 

He grits his denta.

Like pit he’d let that happen! 

It’s an overwhelming stream of calculating even for a single bridge. 

But the several on this planet? 

Prowl laughs. 

“Wh-are you okay?!” Cliffjumper sounds worried.

Prowl uses his access to abort the groundbridges from fully forming, watching in complete wonder as his own processor comprehends the rapid stream of infinitely complex coding- and then is able to stop it!

It should be impossible!

A stream of calculations like that wouldn’t just overheat but blow out the processors of any normal mech. Speciality external computers were needed for a single groundbridge! His spark spins and stretches in a way it had never been able to before, but with the tacnet occupied uploading the virus his spark is allowed to fly. 

“29%” Prowl shouts, unable to hide his awe. 

He’s holding groundbridges

In the divot of his servos. 

Prowl does a quick scan of his memory banks to double check if anything like this had happened in Cybertronian history.

(.002% it has). 

He can find no proof other than some faint implications. 

“36%” Prowl utters, completely enthralled with the stream of calculations across his consciousness. They have given up on summoning groundbridges in and are now doubling down on sending in physical reinforcements.

“Be on your guard, they will attempt to breech in just a few breems!”

Cliffjumper curses. 

The Quintessons and their Drones breach the doors. 

Prowl feels the singe across his plating of blaster bolts. 

They were a stealth team.

They were not meant to hold back waves of hostiles! Cliffjjumper’s report indicated there were less on the dwarf planet then this. Cliffjumper is gritting his denta clearly thinking the same thing and is frustrated at himself for it. 

“45%” Prowl informs. Almost halfway. The mainframe was beginning to spit out impressive coding errors but there was no way to take the galactic system offline unless it was 100%. If it was uploaded Prowl would activate one last, massive spacebridge opening to fully transmit the virus to the Quintesson’s galactic wide system. It would cripple their ability to send out drones and ship resources extracted from sterilized planets for several vorns to come. The equipment that made the spacebridges would be completely corrupted and unsalvageable. The Quintessons could still travel in ship by lightspeed and brief bridge jumps but that took significantly more time, energy, and moved significantly less. It would save countless worlds and give others the time to recover.

It increased the Cybertronians’s chances from (7%) to (43%) and that was with taking into account the lost of Prowl’s tactnet if he perished here. 

It is at (51% uploaded) where the two cassettes and Cliffjumper are overwhelmed. 

“Laserbreak!” Revenge howls.

One of the drones, a design similar to the dead organic they passed on the way here and saw on the Scientists’ datalog, has her in it’s pincers. 

Cliffjumper is struggling under it. 

Ravage’s hindleg is sparking. 

Prowl holds out his servo and runs the calculations in a stream of numbers so powerful the glow from his optics changes from the solid Autobot standard of 485 nanometers to ranges below 280 and above 740 to everything in between.

His optics emitting the exact varied shades seen in groundbridges. 

A ground bridge opens right at the spot where Prowl’s servos are directed, where his optics see the joining of the limb grading Laserbeak.

The portal opens and severs the limb, and spits it out on the other side of the room at such a velocity it impales a second drone that had been charging at Ravage’s injured form. It reminds Prowl of the others sinched off limb that had started this all.

The portal is too small to be kept open longer then that and dissipates. The Drone shrieks and Prowl puts it out of it’s misery with a bolt from his rifle. 

Silence. 

“...Prowl? How…” The bombastic, loud, minibot is speechless. 

Laserbeak is staring like she does not want to miss a single detail, wings bent, and the distant, normally prickly Ravage is limping to Prowl’s side like she believes him to be a place of safety. 

Prowl goes as far as his cable allows him (67% uploaded) and lifts the injured Laserbeak. She looks so much like her lost split-spark twin, Buzzsaw, and for the first time, Prowl feels a pang of regret. He does not regret defending his own life, but he wishes that Buzzsaw hadn’t seen such sensitive intelligence while trying to assassinate Prowl, intelligence that would have gotten several autobots killed if he had delivered it back to Soundwave. 

“I promised Soundwave I’d see you two back safely.” Prowl informs gently. “And even if I had not promised him, you two are still under my command, and therefore my responsibility.” He uses the last error neutralizer he had Ratchet equip in his subspace to smooth over the worst of the feedback from Laserbeaks broken wing, and hands her to Cliffjumper, who takes her with nearly limp arms, optics never leaving Prowl, denta finally clacking shut. 

Prowl is about to seek status reports from them all, when-

The mainframe starts blaring alarms.

“Two more waves are inbound. These are there last pushes before the virus is uploaded!” Prowl shouts.

The second wave had a (62%) chance of stopping them.

The third had a (97%)!

The second wave arrives and Prowl’s tacnet goes wild. Prowl had handicapped the space bridged the second he was in the system, and then had handicapped the groundbridges, bending them to his will. Cosmos and Astrotrain had both checked the rest of the system for any other straggler ships, but it had all been quiet. 

These came from deep inside the planet (98%). 

He feels a thrill of horror.

How thoroughly had the Quintessons hollowed out this once thriving planet? 

They are able to use the bodies of the fallen drones and Quintessons as barricades, and Cliffjumper is deploying some of the ion bombs down the hallway and blasting organics and the infrastructure. Unfortunately a breech of the vacuum seal won’t kill the organic creatures as the Drones seems to be a mutation of the lifeforms that had once lived here and the Quintessons colonized this plant in the first place because of their compatibility with it. 

But it does allow Prowl a spectacular view of the spacebridge outside.

(72%)

From this view it looks impossibly huge, a swirling circle as big as an orbiting moon around the dwarf planet.

It backlights the flying swarms of drones heading towards them.

Prowl is filled with despair.

What has happened to his faith? His hope? Had he doomed them all by supporting this mission? 

He does not want to use his last resort option but he would if he had to. 

The ion bombs are only working so well, it’s difficult to deploy in this area without hurting themselves. 

The wave breaks thorough. 

Laserbeak screeches, 

Ravage snarls.

Cliffjumper yells in pain as a drone makes a direct hit to his chassis. 

And Prowl optics light up once again with the oscillating array of nanometers that make up the coloration of a groundbridge portal. He takes the table previously holding the Quintesson datalogs and hauls it up and over with such force it slams into the drone on top of Cliffjumper, killing it as it slams against the wall. 

Prowl opens a new portal.

The nexus is at the core of a Quintesson and it being so small and unstable it explodes almost immediately in a shower of gore as Prowl collapses to his knees, spark spinning at a rate which would have Ratchet barking out orders. 

A drone lunges for Prowl.

Prowl dodges while keeping the cable from his digits in the mainframe, kicking the drone through a new bridge he opens, as it flies through it exits on the other side of the room and crashes into newly arriving Drones, delaying them further. 

The next several movements are done entirely by his spark doing the portal calculations and his tacnet deciding his strategy in a combination of portals-arcs of electricity so powerful they form a current between his sensitive doorwings-and maneuvering to stay connected. 

“How do you keep doing that?!” Ravage croaks in awe. Laserbeak is next to her where she had fallen from Cliffjumper's arms.

Cliffjumper himself is supine, unable to get up. The drone lays dead next to him, eerily similar to the first one they saw on the way here. 

Prowl is venting heavily, desperately trying to get cool air to soothe his systems which are so hot there are steam trails from his plating for where the fluid of the drones and Quintesson’s had splashed onto him. 

“C-Can’t be mad at her. This was her home once, wasn’t it?” Cliffjumper rasps. “She’s just scared, isn’t she? Just like I was?”

There was a (89%) match between the now dead creature’s frame and the remains they had encountered in the remote cave on the way down into the crust. It’s likely that creature’s being was most inspired by the previous life of this planet, with a few other alien lifeforms welded in.  

“Primus, sorry I was so scared, hated that feeling. Didn’t want to leave home, certainly not with you ‘Cons!” Cliffjumper spits. “But…you’re alright.”

Ravage dips her head.

“You as well.” 

Cliffjumper’s optics are flickering.

“She just, she-she wanted these ugly aliens off her home, she just wanted her friends back, but she got us instead, calling her ugly, intending to blow up what was left of her planet. Primus, I’d blow a gasket too!” Cliffjumper rasps out a laugh.

Laserbeak wobbles silently to her talons next to Prowls pedes. Her field is somber. She had not been friends with Cliffjumper but they had respected him as a fighter, and for saving them.

“Prowl, is this what happened to the ones we left behind?” The minibot pleads with him, gesturing to the downed drone, and Prowl offlines his optics. 

After the Quintessons invaded they had repelled the first wave with their Autobot-Decepticon truce, but could not hold against a second and needed to evacuate. Cybertron's trajectory was sporadic and therefore capable of throwing off the Quintessons even with them gone. In an hauntingly silent operation Prowl and Soundwave had coordinated somber mechs to gather all the visible frames of the fallen and put them in the deepest parts of Cybertron-the mines. There had not been enough energon at that point to smelt them all and return them to the extinguished cybermatter of the Well. Oh, how Megatron had raged at Prowl for coming up with such a strategy, and Prowl could not blame him. The prison like mines he had fought to escape for being such a deadly pit for so many now a final resting place for beings who had fought for freedom. What horrid irony. It significantly lessened the chances of their frames being found, but it did not eliminate those chances. 

Prowl decides to be honest.

“Unlikely, but not impossible.” Prowl answers quietly. 

“Then…Prowl you finish uploading and we use the ion bombs so they don’t get our frames.” Laserbeak says. 

Prowl’s lips twitch into a smile. With most of the virus now gone he’s thinking clearly again. 

“83% uploaded.”

“That won’t be completed before the next wave.” Ravage points out. 

“It won’t. Which is why I will open a ground bridge for you three next to where Cosmos resides. Cliffjumper you will transform into alt-mode and have Ravage pull you through. I will stay behind and finish uploading.” 

The highest chance of success while minimizing the loss of Cybertronian life (77%). Prowl’s new found ability to run groundbridge calculations had been folded into his latest round of strategizing. He had simply never needed to jack into a groundbridge before, and never had his spark operating without his tacnet also active around one to find out about that ability.   

Cliffjumper tries to protest, but as his optics fade and his body forces itself into emergency stasis, he transforms automatically to preserve power. 

Ravage ties a tether cord to Cliffjumper, and pulls him through.

She turns back to dip her head one last time at Prowl, who returns the gesture as she and Laserbeak both hobble through the portal and to Cosmos. 

(87%)

Prowl traces the design of the ion bombs in his servos. Wheeljack had truly outdone himself. In a few moments he will have to disconnect to finish the upload through radiowaves-as the final wave would be here at (92%) before upload completion- causing irreparable damage to his processor. He will have to set this to explode manually in the event he can no longer operate his digits. 

He uses the security systems to watch through the screen as Cosmos escapes the dwarf planets gravity well. 

He smiles bitterly. 

That 43% chance will just have to be enough. 

Prowl goes to disconnect his cable when the space bridge warps. 

It begins fluctuating and oscillating and the new wave, nearly upon Prowl, so close he can see wind kicking up dust in the blown out command bridge, all pause to stare upwards in dumb shock. 

Something passes through the spacebridge.

It’s a destroyed dropship.

It’s Prowl’s turn for his intake to drop open in shock. 

What could have destroyed a dropship? It was a feat the Cybertronians even struggled with!

And why is the space bridge fluctuating now, rippling as if in the aftermath of an explosion? 

The ship gets caught in the planets gravity well and begins heading for a crash landing to the surface.

Right where Prowl is as the Command Center had been station under the space bride for optimal control and viewing.

Prowl almost laughs. 

Every single calculation he had about his chances of survival are thrown out.  Error codings are abundant and his vents audible shriek in terror as they struggle to cool his systems. The drones are being commanded to flee by the Quintessons as far from Prowl as they possible could which increased his chances of survival by being able to stay connected to finish the upload and because they won’t be here to attack him. But they’re fleeing because the defeated dropship is about to crush him and the command center. 

Which decreases his chances of survival ‘somewhat’ as Moonracer would say. 

At least Cosmos and his passengers were out of harms way. 

Prowl now has enough time to finish the upload manually and be conscious of being crushed while doing so, instead of the arguably more merciful way of simply destroying his processors with a radiowave upload and then smelting by ion bomb. 

Prowl hopes Smokescreen won’t take his death too hard (100% he will). 

The rest of high command will miss him, and his ability to run a tight meeting (long meetings wasted valuable resources). 

Prowl would above all miss Bluestreak, and Elita-One, and-

-A figure falling from the space bridge and to the dwarf planet.

What happened!? 

Had Cosmos been caught!?

But no, the shape is different. 

This is no Cybertreonian frame that Prowl knows of.

It is a mech with white and black coloration, with the occasional red and blue highlights. A battle mask covers his intake, and a visor like crystal covers his eyes. Prowl must max out the distance viewers in the command centers-his own optics would not have been able to see that far.

But yes.

As the mech falls rapidly Prowl can now see him through the huge holes Cliffjumper left in the command center. He gleams like a fallen prime in the mythical battle against Unicron. 

It makes Prowl rapidly spinning spark nearly stop.

For the first time in his life, his ever present always calculating tacnet finally stops without him crashing.

Merciful, quiet.

The arc of his frame as he seemingly soars to the ground, refractions of light from the space bridge off of armour smooth and in a design not even seen in the most important art museum on all of cybertron he had once been tasked to protect from an art thief. 

He’s transfixed as the mech continues his fall. 

There is no time to waste.

Prowl cannot stand the idea of such a being being destroyed before Prowl can learn more of him, especially since Prowl can help him. 

Even with the lower gravity and thick atmosphere slowing his descent, the fall will at the very least severely injure or more likely kill (78%) the mech. 

Prowl reaches out his hand, energon gushing forth from his intake as the strain of forcing another groundbridge calculation overheats energon lines to the point of bursting in his helm.

From this view it looks like he’s cupping the fallen mech in his entirety in the curve of his servos, and it is right there that one of Prowl’s groundbridges opens in the sky below the mech, mere moments before impact. 

It sends him deep into the compound in the areas cleared of drones of quintessons where hopefully he will recover. Prowl hopes the mech can either find a way off planet or failing that, destroy himself in his entirety to prevent Quintesson experimentation.

(100%)

Prowl completes his upload of the virus. 

The spacebridge screams.

It looks like the corona of a sun as it flails, the virus immediately transmitting through it to ever single other spacebridge in the galaxy, and as Prowl remains connected.

He sees.

Millions of them!

Oh, by Primus!

This is incredible information that Prowl had not anticipated getting his servos on! A map like this, revealed by the transmission of the virus and revealing where ever single major Quintesson settlement was? 

If the rest of the Cybertronians got their hands on this it would increase their chances from (43%) to (76%)!

An incredible difference!

And right now, the only copy resided in Prowl, in his tacnet with the space cleared from releasing the virus. 

Immediately his priorities switch from the destruction of his frame to survival-at-all-costs.

Still plugged into base command, Prowl uses the last dredges of his strength to run the calculations and force the command bridge to open him one last groundbridge, to the exact place Prowl had sent the mystery mech.

Deep into the tunnels of this planet, to alike the mines of Cybertron for Prowl’s liking. The irony his frame might end up in tunnels very much like the ones he condemned his fellows to does not escape him.

Prowl flings himself through the portal just at the dropship makes contact, pushed forward by a new and unexpected faith.

(Thank you for reading! Linked here on ao3!)

Jazz likes to listen to music in the cockpit of his Jaeger.

He’s read scientific papers, back in college, about how music is one of the last things a human forgets, that music is so intrinsically tied to memory that dementia patients who have forgotten even their own children remember nursery rhymes from their time as babes.

That, and smell was very powerful for memory.

Although something tells him command wouldn’t appreciate him sneaking scented candles into his cockpit.

Hm.

Maybe a little tree air freshener?

But it feels disrespectful to hang something for cars in a Jaeger, and Jazz may be casual, but he’s not disrespectful. Especially not to the Jaeger who’s saved his life several times over. 

Bebop had a mind of her own. 

Centuries of warfare from these Kaiju aliens, with the circuitry of the scavenged living dropship metal intimately connected to each successive pilot, rubbed off on the tech. These imprints from dozens of pilots coalesce and form…something. 

Something officially off the books.

Something not really known except to the pilots.

Something with a deep and abiding love for its pilots, for humanity.

These Jaegers had a protective streak worse than his own mothers. Jazz imagines being created for the sole purpose to protect. To be so connected to the people you serve that you see their most beloved memories, their darkest secrets, for a breath of time, for a measure of music, hold their very souls. 

Yeah.

He’d be protective too.

Hell, he was literally a Jaeger pilot! 

Jazz hums along, sings to Bebop. He had not named Bebop, but a previous pilot-Carole- did, noting how Bebop would slow their return to shatterdomes to listen to the cheering, chants, and music of a celebration that would break out after repelling an attack. Carole had told him this on her deathbed, had begged Jazz to be kind to Bebop.

Jazz had promised Carole he would, and hummed her a lullaby until she passed. Bebop  was a younger Jaeger, Jazz would only be her third pilot. She didn’t think in words yet, but emotions, and concepts slowly formed into something more. Older Jaegers were said to share conversation when drifting with their pilots, but again, Jaeger sentience was not publicly known yet.

 It was officially known. Older jaegers, if not repairable, were retired to an education facility, and kept in good shape with public funds. Jazz went himself a time or two. The Jaegers were happy with the company and to observe civilians, humanity not under pressure. 

 He also learned in Anthropology classes that humans were unique in that they were mother nature’s best vocal mimics. It cast a new light on his bachelors in music. Jazz had been in his college’s marching band playing the saxophone, and had joined the military for the military band. He had been in his church's choir growing up too. 

And he sings to Bebop and himself so he does not forget. 

He’s read the history. Pilots who go insane, pilots who get stuck. Pilots who confuse themselves, think they were the other pilot they drifted with although those stories were locked away under so much black ink even Jazz and all his nosing around had a heck of a time getting his claws on them. Admittedly, those risks are less common, but always a possibility due to the simple fact you were messing with your brain every time you drifted. 

It was also so he does not forget his family, his mother who first sang that to him. It gets lonely up in the shatterdomes, circling the battered colonies. Europa’s shatterdome was his favorite, but Titan’s wasn’t bad either. Jazz is singing softly again as he does maintenance-as all pilots are taught to-when he’s snapped at from below. 

“Jazz, cut that out! What if you don’t hear command trying to contact you?” Percy says. Good old Percy! They had him to thank for the safer Drift technology. Unfortunately this concern bleeds through and makes him a bit of a stickler for other safety protocols. 

Nautica comes up.

“I think it’s pretty neat that he does that. Why deny him his humanity? Isn’t that what this is all about?” Nautica asks, smiling faintly. 

Percy, who had thrown down with politicians to get the funding for the safer tech, sighs but concedes to her point. 

Jazz grins at Bebop from where he’s doing upkeep on her elbow’s photo-cells, invented by the scientist Botanica. The living metal they salvaged from the Kaiju ships was a secret they had not yet figured out. But they had combined it with organic cells to make Techno-organic Jaegers, a metal-organic material that could replicate, making Jaegers capable of self-repair, but only to a certain extent. Maintenance like this was still needed. 

He keeps humming Carol King’s ‘Jazz Man’.

His version of a lullaby to Bebop. 

…

…

…

Humanity did what it always does. 

Expanded into the solar system because it became clear that they couldn’t play defense forever. They would need to expand, get more resources, more land. Also to prevent the invaders from settling them first and getting a base to launch closer attacks from.

No other planets were inhabited in the solar system meaning it was free for humanity’s taking.

Ethical colonialism.

Who knew it was possible?!

Humanity now numbered over 32 billion. A respectable amount, as his mother says!

They didn’t know why the aliens attacked, or even how they found Earth. The moon colony had barely been established when the attackship came out from the Oort cloud. 

As a whole, humanity had to get really good at giving a shit about each other in the wake of an attack. Having an enemy that wasn’t another human helped for sure. Also so many of the feats they’ve pulled off simply wouldn’t be possible without cooperation. Earth united under one central government, and then the colonies were pulled under it too. 

The Kaiju had no singular form. 

They took whatever shape was convenient for destruction. 

The casualties were initially in the millions. 

Humanity fought back with reversed engineered technology from the monsters and ships they managed to take down. It took centuries to clawback and then expand into the rest of the solar system.

It was unknown if there were any other aliens in the universe besides these invaders. 

Or if this invading force was made up of one creature that was capable of altering its DNA into several different species. Or if these were creatures from other planets subjugated to serve. The Kaiju DNA began to degenerate immediately after death large in part due to the toxic blood, or kaiju blue, meaning there were almost no intact DNA strands to study and confirm that theory. 

In that case, how many civilizations have these invaders crushed? What would it mean to die and come back as a zombie, a weapon used to destroy other societies like yours? 

Jazz grit his teeth.

The Sol System would not be one of them!

He hums in time to his punches, the music keeping him motivated and unstoppable. 

Jazz had been deployed from the Titan shatterdome, the farthest out colony, a new one, and just getting started. 

This colony would not end before it could begin!

“Percy, send me the info beats!” Jazz snaps.

“2 documented waves on radar in Titan’s atmosphere, 3 waves  in orbit. You have backup en-route but it will be three hours until arrival. Evacuation is 42% complete. The Dropship has depleted it’s reserves. It’s outside the range of our canons.”

5 waves ? 

Jazz has had worse odds.

Although. 

Not by much. 

Jazz beats the two waves in a stretch of time that feels both eternal and too short. He nearly loses his life in the process, but the colony stands. The dropship has stopped spitting out Kaiju, but a few are still in orbit. 

The third wave lands.

Half the colony is destroyed.

The half that had been evacuated first.

No casualties.

A god damn miracle. 

“Evacuation is 92% complete.” Percy shouts in the comm. 

One of the last Kaiju lands to destroy the rest of the colony’s infrastructure. A huge loss to humanity, trillions of dollars and decades of work, gone.

But one they would eventually recover from.

One monster splits off to land on the colony in front of Jazz. It’s abnormally large, a Cat 3, when most waves are Cat 1’s and sometimes 2. 

The others are still in space.

“Jazz! Mirage is down and the second wave is going after the evacuee ships! The Railguns will only hold them off for so long!”

Jazz must choose.

He grits his teeth.

Bebop croons a mournful melody as they leave the 8% behind to save the 92%. Jazz turns to the crowds gathered at the base of the ships to burn them into his memory, to apologize, as he tries to take off. 

Of course, that fails. 

“I don’t have enough fuel left to make it into orbit myself!” Jazz shouts, punching the charging monster in the face. His heart rips thinking of Mirage’s fate. 

Wait.

The monster takes off to chase the civilians, going where the people are and Jazz grabs onto its back and hitches a chaotic ride up through Titan’s clouds, and then, into orbit. 

“Are you able to hold on?!” Percy asks, voice colored with shock and awe at Jazz’s daring. As far as he knew, no one else had ever hitched a Kaiju ride. 

“Yes!” Jazz calls back through grit teeth. 

The 8% are left below, defenseless in a ruined city should any more dropships arrive, vulnerable to Titan’s extreme cold, but not under any immediate monster threat.

As they breach orbit and begin to float, Jazz kills the monster with a sword, not worried about the pollution from Kaiju blue in space. 

He kicks off to the other one just in time to prevent a ship from being shredded.

Jazz slices off an arm.

The monster dodges the next hit and slams Jazz so hard he’s sent spinning. 

Head over heels with no end in sight. 

He rights himself just before crashing into an evac ship. Jeez, can you imagine how horrific that’d be? If he wrecked the ship of civilians he was trying to save?

He sees their faces pressed to the window, thousands of precious little faces and Jazz briefly has an out of body experience, recalling the first time he went up in a space ship, a boy born and raised in the south side of Chicago reaching the stars, staring in wonder. 

They are staring in horror.

The body of Mirage, or rather his Jaegers spins in place in space with no gravity or traction to stop him and Jazz brings the body to him with his grappling line and gently stills the body. No use in leaving it behind for the kaiju to get their hands-or paws- on and study for weaknesses.

Not when the Kaiju had already gotten their hands on several destroyed civilian ships. Mirage’s efforts saved the several hundred other ships but these ones were an unlucky few.

 Mirage’s Jaeger, Shimmer, was a magnificent thing with a special paint tech that rendered it near invisible to the Kaiju. 

Until now. 

His Jaeger had no face and can’t flash his normal, reassuring grin. No Jaeger does.

But he does nod at them.

I see you. It says. You are not insignificant to me. 

A young woman grins and blows him a kiss.

An old man exhales a cloud of water vapor into the glass and writes hi! With a smiley face.

A toddler attaches their mouth to the glass like a limpet and their amused and embarrassed mother draws them back lightning fast.

It does the impossible.

It makes Jazz laugh in a situation like this.

He grins.

“Let's do this, Bebop!”

Jazz leans forward and punches the incoming Cat 3 Kaiju so forcefully he swears he hears the neck snap even in the vacuum of space.

The people start jumping up and down so hard Jazz also swears he can hear their cheering through the vacuum too. 

A spiral of Kaiju blood, Kaiju blue, arcs out into the recess of space. 

And Jazz smiles. There is a distant warmth from Bebop , the sparks of what would one day be a full consciousness. 

“Jazz, two other Jaegers are on their way!” Percy shouts.

“No need, just defeated the last one.” Jazz’s smile slides off at hearing Percy’s panic. He hopes he can reassure the scientist.

“Our sensors have detected a new emergence event!”

And Jazz feels his stomach drop.

"These reinforcements  are larger jaegers, pilot pairs instead of solo.” 

Drifted pilots? 

Oh shit!

Jazz’s Jaeger was small enough for a single pilot, it could manage most Cat 1’s and 2’s that swarmed from the dropships. The drifted Jaegers were reserved for 3’s and up. Multiple were only sent out when Cat 5’s were detected! Jazz had drifted before with only two others, one being his child bestfriend, and another his sister. Drifting was serious business and made for more powerful Jaegers.

He knows this means the civilians he just saved were doomed.

And they didn’t even know it.

Jazz watches the ships move towards the Colonies of Jupiter. He wonders if the girl would still be blowing kisses or the old man writing ‘hi’ if they knew his actions were for nothing. Jazz does not have the speed to keep up with them. 

He waves goodbye and tries and swallows hard when it leads to another round of applause from inside the ship. He’s glad he can’t hear it now.

The empty dropship turns and heads back towards the breach. Humanity often shot them down and repurposed the metal in Jaegers. It was a metal previously unknown to earth, an oddly predictive metal, almost semi-sentient- although that last part was kept for those strictly ‘in the know’. The not shot down ships would go back into the breach and later emerge with new kaiju, kaiju that had clearly learned somehow from the previous fights, kaiju that now fought with deadlier strategies. 

It was imperative to drop the dropships. 

Before they could communicate back to whatever force was sending the kaiju. 

As Jazz watches, a smaller, cat 1 Kaiju leaps from behind the body of a dead Cat 2, snaps through the tow line connecting to Shimmer, and is picked up by the drop ship.

His radio explodes.

“-need to detonate Mirage’s dead man switch but the remote signal is being blocked by the dropship’s scrambler-” Percy’s voice is rapidfire and nearly panicked, so unlike the scientist with hands steady enough to operate on pilots. 

“They’ve never gotten their hands on a Jaeger before.” Jazz repeats numbly.

Oh. 

This was bad. 

If the Kaiju got their hands on a working Jaeger with the dead pilot still inside and figured out effective counter strategies…

Humanity was doomed.

“-can we recalibrate and send additional Ranger support for the drifted Jaegers and to Jazz?” Marshal Magnus asks, voice calm yet somehow conveying his distress. To see if anyone could go and manually destroy the Jaeger with a time-bomb. 

“No, the specs don’t line up. Those Rangers won't make it in time.” Nautica’s voice trembles a bit. 

And then Jazz gets an idea.

A crazy one. 

His throat closes up.

He feels a wave of grief and for a moment he lets it flow through him, he rides that wave like a beat of music.

He jets forward and grabs the carcass of the Kaiju he killed with his grappling hook and brings it to him.

He wraps himself in it and heads back to the ship following closely behind Shimmer and the Cat 1.

“Jazz, what are you doing?” Percy whispers. Jazz knows the scientist is smart enough to have figured it out, he just doesn’t want to believe it.

"Ranger?" Marshal Magnus demands, and normally, Jazz never ignores him. 

Jazz drifts to an opening hatch. They might still be figuring out exactly how the ships work but they knew enough to know that the Kaiju had DNA that also served as entry keys for the doors. In space, the Kaiju blue degeneration process would be slower. 

It opens.

Unbelievable. 

“Sorry Percy. I gotta go dark.”

Jazz cuts the comms.

He detached the neural link and presses his forehead to the dashboard and pretends it’s the crook of his mother’s shoulder and neck.

…

…

…

They approach Pluto, the dwarf plant small but large enough to hide most of the details from humanity on whatever the breach was. Whenever they sent probes, Kaiju specifically made to prevent the probes from collecting any useful data came out and destroyed them. 

Jazz has not moved from whatever hanger he landed in with the Kaiju on top of him.

He does not dare to.

He has not tried to reach out to Percy either. 

He can’t believe he’s actually doing this.

Bebop’s sensors begin to detect the energy from the breach and Jazz finally throws the carcass off of him.

It seems the breach only activates when an escaped dropship needs transportation back, and the invaders then use the opportunity of the open breach to send out a new dropship while processing the data the first brought back. 

Human eyes had never seen the breach before.

It swirls before Jazz now through the ripped open hatch. There are no windows on a dropship. Nautica had confirmed it during one of her deconstructions. Jazz had been floating in the vacuum of space while the ship shot through the outer solar system.

 All Jaegers had a self-destruct bomb in case the Kaiju got their hands on them. Jazz planned on using Mirages and then his own in the breach.

He contacts Percy.

“Purse?” Jazz calls gently. Base command for the outer colonies at Europa is staffed by many people but still he hopes. Jazz hopes using the nickname Percy hated would maybe get him riled up enough to miraculously hear Jazz, and come to yell at him.

And perhaps god is real and listening because Percy answers.

“Jazz!” and can you really blame a guy if Jazz starts to tear up at the pure joy and relief in Percy’s voice? The scientist doesn’t even sound mad! 

“It’s me! I can see the breach. It’s uh, nothing like we’ve ever seen before.”

A circle the size of the dwarf planet Ceres is hidden behind and barley concealed by Pluto. It is a swirl of incredible colors, it looks like a gaping maw of teeth with the metal outlining.

“An Einstein-Rosen Bridge.” Jazz croaks.

“...Can you send back images without detection?” Percy asks. This kind of technology would be groundbreaking. If they could somehow reverse-engineer this too…

“Yeah. I uh, hang on. I can’t when I’m still in the dropship.”

Jazz finds the Jaeger of Mirage down in a sealed hanger, where gravity is activated. Every step with a dead Kaiju over his shoulder, slowly leaking Kaiju blue on him was a nerve-wracking one. The ship is completely alien, with no recognizable human features and at a much larger scale. The walls are empty of all design, there are no benches or marked paths. 

There is nothing guarding Mirage. 

The ship, made of such an unearthly metal, seems to be able to steer itself. 

The ship is hauntingly empty since Jazz and Mirage-before he died-had killed all Kaiju sent out, with the exception of that one pesky cat 1 that ended up snagging mirage. But there still might be something on the ship. 

Jazz grabs Shimmer and Mirage. He takes a second to allow the crush of grief to pass. 

He can’t carry both the Kaiju hiding him and Mirage. 

Jazz takes a second to look at Shimmer's damaged plates. Mirage's specs had went dark, and the Jaeger was rapidly running out of power. Jazz wonders what it would be like for the Jaeger that Mirage had loved so much be the thing he was entombed in. Jazz would have to hack into Shimmer's systems to detonate.

But not here. 

He takes Mirage and moves as fast as he can. 

The portal fluctuates.

Jazz curses as he moves faster with Mirage to the damaged hatch bay. 

A second dropship slowly exits the portal as his damaged one nears.

Jazz need's to set Shimmer's bomb. 

He prepares to use a signal from Bebop to broadcast the hacking virus, but...

It's such a brutal thing to do to a Jaeger code.

And Jazz remembers how much Mirage had loved Shimmer. The prissy man from a great background, pampering his giant war machine. 

"I'm so sorry, Shimmer." Jaz whispers into her comms. He's not sure if anyone is listening, but it has to be said. There is an alternate timeline where both Shimmer and Mirage made it out of this and he got to spend the rest of his days with her, retired at the education park with the other Jaegers. 

And to his shock,

She responds.

It's not in words, but a series of beeps Jazz recognizes as morse code. Shimmer tells him it's okay.

She allows him to connect to her dead man's switch and set it.

If Jazz was outside of Bebop he would have kissed Shimmer's visor as he had kissed the forehead of Bebop's former pilot, but the best he can do it bring their foreheads together. 

He runs through the ship and begins tearing at what look like fuel lines before blasting a hole into the side and leaping out into the vacuum of space. 

“Europa command, this is Jazz. The ship has been sabotaged and Mirage’s bomb set. I’m now far enough to broadcast.”

“This is Europa command, begin the broadcast, Ranger.” Magnus’s voice is firm but gentle, a mercy to a doomed Ranger.

Because there is no coming back from this. 

He’s gone to where no human has gone before. 

“See you, space cowboy.” Jazz grins so hard it's painful, it turns into a grimace as he hears Nautica’s muffled sobs. “I’ll catch you all in the Drift.”

Now that rips choked sobs from several folks listening in the background. 

Drifting, the flow state, over the past centuries had taken up a quasi-religious status with the Sol defense system. It was many a brave pilot’s last words. Jazz thought a snazzy guy like him would say something different, fresh, but in the end…

All he wanted was the comfort of belonging, to pretend he wasn't in a hostile universe. 

He would need all the divine help he could get. 

The second Jazz begins broadcasting the Kaiju begin to swarm from the incoming dropship. Whatever allows them to detect the probes have now detected him since he’s now outside of the damaged dropship. Jazz is livestreaming his own death, the portal that grows ever larger as Jazz flies closer and closer. Bebop’s stream of calculations across his vision are incredible and once transmitted back to humanity might tip the scales of this war!

He needs to hang on.

The Kaiju approach.

Jazz records.

Shimmer's timer ticks down

They get closer.

Jazz’s hands twitch to Bebop’s dead man’s switch. 

And the damaged dropship explodes.

The portal collapses in on itself like a dying star. The shadow of Pluto warps and twists, the heart shape on its surface cracks and Jazz feels his own heart do the same. Charon in the distance rolls like something out of a nightmare, now unmoored. 

Jazz uses his grappling line to wrap around the arm of one reaching Kaiju and squeeze it off!

The Kaiju that had been close enough to scratch Jazz’s visor as he dodged twitches and tears. 

Jazz holds on to Bebop as the universe collapses around him.

“Don’t you forget about me.” He chokes out, or at least he thinks he does.

The last thing he sees when he looks back from being swallowed by the inverting portal is the distant light of the sun that had raised him, a single clawed hand of Bebop’s reaching towards it like something sinking into the deep sea looking up to the light of the surface, hoping to be saved, to feel its warmth one last time…

He drifted.

(Thank you for reading! For a better experience and bonus authors notes read here on ao3!)

You all exchange nervous glances.

Being a dancer paid well in certain parts of Gotham, but came with risks. Many were assaulted by lovesick patrons. Others simply thought they were for sale, not realizing provocative dancing was not the same as outright street-walking. You yourself only danced, and did not bed for money and hopefully never would have to. The idea of a man willing to do an act so violent it caught the attention of hardened Gothamites makes you all uneasy. 

“Hopefully we’ll turn enough heads tonight that he forgets to cut them off.” You joke to lighten the mood, doing a twirl in your bedazzled mini-skirt with bells to announce your approach. You would be a server instead of a dancer tonight and didn’t want to catch any trigger-happy murderers off-guard.

But would you be serving the Red Hood’s table was the question.

This bar was owned by your boss, Swiss, a neutral man and commissioned by a local crime lord looking to negotiate with the Red Hood, the mysterious villain who had taken Gotham by storm. Not even the Bats knew anything about him. 

Just thinking of the Bat-clan makes your heart twinge in pain. 

For a second you even think of reaching out. About Red Hood being here.

But you value your life too much.

And there is too much old pain with the Batman. 

“Oh, I hope I don’t have to serve his table! What if we end up like Moxie?” Bambi frets. 

“You don’t need to remind me!” your voice trembles at the loss. 

Moxie was a former dancer who heard a bit too much at one of the tables when the Joker was served by her here. Ended up dying mysteriously a few days later. None of you were sure what it was and frankly you didn’t want to know. She had taken you under her wing and you had regarded her as a dear friend. Her loss was another knife to the chest, and a last lesson from her about how dangerous these patrons were. 

“...Doesn’t seem like his M.O.” You tack on after cooling off a bit. 

“Why are you defending him?” Jubilee asks.

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves.” You snap back, defensive because, well, you weren’t really sure yourself. 

Maybe the idea of Alley-Kids finally having a defender, when you and so many had so desperately needed one. 

…

…

…

The beat of the club is loud, only broken up by each booth having a thick wooden and metal backing, for purposes of breaking the sound so parties could discuss details, and to also block the occasional gunfire. Although your boss, Swiss, was pretty good about suppressing violence in the club. Didn’t make money if the girls kept dying.

It was part of the reason Swiss even agreed to host the negotiation between Red Hood and local druglords. Hood was known to not go after women and kids, and treated the street-walkers fairly. 

“Look.” Swiss stresses right before you go out. “Just keep it simple. I already had a talk with them about the secrecy of the girls. You shouldn’t be in any danger.”

You had volunteered to serve Hood’s table. In part because the other girls were too scared, remembering what happened to Moxie and the Joker. In part because his unique mercy made you curious.

And because he killed the man who killed your dear friend. 

And then took up an old moniker of the Joker’s afterwards. 

Your hands trembled in rage. 

What kind of sick fucking joke was that? Was he playing a game? You calm yourself and check your appearance. Not as leggy as Jubilee or busty like Bambi, but you had your own appeal. The skirt was unfortunately too short to cover a birthmark on your upper thigh, one your departed friend had teased you about. Not many noticed it as you were pretty covered up during your day life. 

You steady your hands as you need to carry the platter of drinks over to the Hood’s table.

…

…

…

Jubilee is dancing so beautifully it’s almost enough to take your attention away from the table of extremely intimidating men. 

The mob boss’s name is Jack Trade, known for being a part of every smuggling business under the sun. He didn’t do outright terrorist attacks like the Joker or Riddler and so was mostly left alone as Batman prioritized the bigger fish. 

But with the Joker now dead and Riddler locked up, he was feeling the strain. Red Hood could potentially help him get under the nose of Batman-for a price . The Red Hood somehow knew the Bats like the back of his hand and was better than anyone at understanding the way they thought and it showed with what he was able to get away with. Jack Trade had a great interest in those skills.

Then you spot the Red Hood.

If the red helmet didn’t give it away, it was the wide berth around him. The street cred from killing the Joker was tangible. Many had thought he was an arrogant new hotshot that’d burn out in weeks, but he was still standing months later.  

Hood is massive . 

You can tell even as he sits that he clears six feet easily and then some. His shoulders are wide enough for you to balance your trays on them. You privately think the dark red helps with hiding blood. 

Hood is lounging. Like a tiger. 

He’s relaxed.

His body language is completely unconcerned and you can’t tell if he’s stupid or brave.

No. 

It’s a third thing.

He’s really just that powerful . 

Jack Trade laughs loudly and fakely as you approach, skirt jingling and doing its part to make sure you don’t overhear anything you're not supposed to by alerting the mob bosses. 

All their heads turn to you. 

A less prepared server would have frozen up and many of them had. Hell, you had in the past. 

But you pride yourself on your boldness and give a sunny smile and you put the drinks down. There is a bit of an honor code in these establishments. They’re considered neutral ground. If poison was found in any of the food or drinks you all died, so no one was stupid enough to risk it, and the chefs kept the kitchens under lock and key. 

They all begin drinking and eating.

All except Red Hood, whose mask firmly stays on. 

“Won’t you partake with us, friend?” Jack asks. 

Red Hood shrugs. 

Jack switches his attention. 

“Look at you, sweetheart.” Jack Trade coos. He looks at Red Hood slyly as Jack’s hand cords around your waist, forearm at your back pulling you in as that hand then places a cigarette in his mouth. 

Your mouth drops in surprise before you can help it and you can see Swiss  in the distance tense up. It was supposed to be ‘no harming the girls’ but Jack interpreted that as he could still touch. You were trapped in the loop of his arm. 

“Light me, doll?” Jack smirks at you, eyes flicker like the tabletop candle as he hands you a lighter. You see them glance at Red Hood, whose body language has gone from relaxed to carefully neutral, a forced calmness. You recall Hood disliked the abuse of women and children. Your late best friend had been much the same. 

You consider setting his scratchy bear on fire as it’s currently brushing against your exposed thigh. 

It’s when you stoop slightly to get the cigarette, trying not to sneer in disgust at the way his tongue flicks your fingertips, when there is a sudden, short, shift of motion from the corner of your vision.

You are standing and all eyes are on the weird sexual powerplay of Jack Trade and you so it’s only you who notices from your vantage point. 

Only you can see the way Red Hood’s head looks at the birthmark on your thigh then straightens in pure shock .

The way his chest stops moving as he stops breathing. 

How he shifts abruptly towards you as if reaching out.

His head tilts slightly not to stare at your body as all men do, but to drink in your face when he can’t be bothered to remove his mask to drink what you’ve brought. 

How his hand twitches to his gun, attention torn between Jack Trade and you. 

You keep your eyes averted but see it in your peripherals. 

Oh fuck.

This is bad . 

You don’t know why Red Hood was so put off by your presence when he was so calm before, but now instead of lounging like a tiger he’s acting like a trapped tiger at the zoo. If Hood actually starts a shooting it’ll break the decorum of the place. Hood will burn through an incredible amount of social capital, and-wait, why do you suddenly care about Hood’s social standing? Are you worried for him of all things?

“We didn’t come here for you to get your dick wet.” Hood snaps. His voice is deep as expected for a man his size. 

Jack grins like the cat who got the cream. His hand begins rubbing circles into your hip bone and you are so trapped . There’s no way to break free without offending a prickly crime lord. 

Hood turns to look at you.

You’re not pretending to look elsewhere so the full force of his attention is like a physical weight. 

“Get me a Bloody Mary.” Hood tells you. His tone shifts to a more neutral one, layered with something strange but it’s gone before you can really even notice. 

“Oh? Finally sharing a drink with us?” Jack Trade smirks. 

Hood’s order gives you the excuse to break away without offending anyone which you realize must have been the point.

“You okay?” Swiss asks, Bambi clutching her necklace next to him.

“I- I need to get Hood his drink.” You stammer, and your bosses eyes darken in concern, and anger at someone messing with the rules of the establishment, and from embarrassment too at having left such an open loophole. Jack is burning a lot of goodwill. 

“Let me know if that happens again.” He grits out. 

You make the drink.

“Think he’ll actually remove his mask to drink it?” Bambi asks.

You can’t say. He had ignored the alcohol when you first brought it like it personally offended him. It reminded you of the so many Crime-Alley kids who grew up with alcoholic parents and swore off the stuff. 

This time when you walk up instead of a polite nod as he had given you and all the servers passing by, Hood stares . 

He soaks in every single detail about you. His gaze rests on that damn birthmark again. Jack mistakes it as Hood staring at your ass and jeers at Hood, causing Hood to descend in a silence so stony even Jack is uncomfortable and changes the subject. 

But the weight does not disappear.

As if sensing his loss of control, Jack crosses another line. 

He puts his hands on you again. While Hood was subtle (especially for a brute his size) his interest in you had not escaped the attention of Jack. Why when there were so many girls here that Hood had let be, had he taken an interest in you?

You didn’t even know the guy!

…or did you?

No one knew who he was under that mask. 

Jack Trade puts a hand on your rear and you feel the digits sink in.

Rough .

You squeak. 

Hood leans over so quickly you don’t even see him move.

All that you catch is an odd flash of green from where his eyes would be and then a deafening snap as Jack’s hand is not just broken but shattered in Hood’s grip.

A meta then with that superhuman strength. Tied to that green from his covered eyes? That agility and speed stunned you.

Your shaking and covered in alcohol from how the drinks were flung when Hood lunged, unable to move without slipping in your heels on the glass shattered ground. You notice that despite grabbing Jack’s hand from your person that Hood had been excruciatingly careful to not touch you, despite how much he clearly wanted to, the way his massive frame tilted like a planet on its axis towards you. 

Hood hovers just next to you. 

You can feel the bodyheat of a man that big. 

He seems to be aware of your gaze, posture laughably non-threatening to you as he continues to grip Jack’s wrecked hand. All this does is make him more intimidating. Hood has positioned himself between you and Jack. Jack is in so much pain he can’t even scream. 

The music has stopped.

Jubilee is frozen on stage mid pole routine, looking at you with wide eyes.

“Ever hear about keeping your hands to yourself?” Hood asks, seemingly unbothered by Jack’s goons having all drawn their guns drawn and pointed at him. Hood only had himself and it seems that's all he needed. 

“Hey! Put them away! No shootings in this establishment!" Swiss roars. “Jack Trade, take your goons and get out !”

“But Hood-”

“ Didn’t draw his guns first, and also wasn’t grabbing one of my girls! You broke decorum, now get out!” 

Jack stumbles out by leaning on one of his goons. 

“As you were.” Hood drawls, and the music starts up after a few more moments. Jubilee continues her routine with noticeably more exaggeration to get the attention away from you and you’ll have to remember to say thank you. 

Swiss is coming over and grumbling. 

“Well, at least you didn’t pull out your guns. We’ll get this mess cleaned up.” Swiss then turns away after making sure your life-and his property- wasn’t in immediate danger. 

Hood holds out his hand to you and you flinch back.

“Sorry about that, moved a bit too quickly.” He’s… apologizing to you? For whatever reason you hadn’t imagined a man like Hood knew how to do that and you feel a stab of shame at having judged him too quickly. He’s all modest too at his insane speed. Despite your better instincts you’re impressed with how quickly he came to your defense.

Guess the rumors were true after all. 

“Jack’s actions were his own.” Is what you finally manage to say. “And so were yours. Thank you .”

Hood freezes at your gratitude, his shoulder flexing, his breath stutters. All these things you only see because of your proximity. 

You take his hand and allow him to guide you away from the glass-covered floor and it’s only then you realize you’re trembling and frankly need his help as your stiletto’s nearly trip you despite your usually impeccable balance. 

His grip is firm and oddly tender. His thumb rubs a soothing circle into your wrist before it twitches at its own audacity and stops. You feel like a princess being led from a carriage and it’s so ridiculous you almost snort.

“Don’t mention it.” Hood tries to say casually but his voice catches. It’s rough and rumbly and oddly emotional. He sounds young, now that you think about it.

Roughly the same age he’d be if he had lived. 

You grit your jaw in determination as you blink back tears.

“Aw hey, what happened? Did you get hurt then? Here, let me-”

“ Thank you .” You lean forward and he does that careful stillness again, not the freezing of a prey animal but in the manner of a predator trying not to be noticed, to be less intimidating so the little bunny does not hop away. 

He’s trying not to scare you. 

And you’re trying to get him to understand how grateful you are to him. 

“I-I had a friend. A best friend .” You whisper, licking your lips. 

He nods slowly.

“His name was Jason. Jason Todd. I loved him very much.” You say as the tears fall.

Hood’s hand trembles minutely around yours. His other hand twitches and raises like he wants to dry your tears. His shoulders are hunched with the effort to be on equal footing with you and you can't help but feel surrounded in the best possible way. He’s so kind to dancers and sex-workers, was his mother one? 

“...You did ?” He rasps. You can’t tell what emotions are in his voice but you imagine he’s also lost loved ones to the Joker. It’s a mix of awe and tenderness and realization and grief . 

“ I do . And he was murdered by that clown. Then you killed the clown. So thank you .”

Unable to help yourself, you take his hand still around yours and kiss the gloved back of it like a knight kisses a princess, leaving the imprint of your glitter-bright pink lipstick on pitch black gloves. You loved inverting gender roles like that. Jason had loved that about you, too. 

“He deserved justice. He deserved the whole world and more and I’m sorry I wasn't able to give it to him.” You turn your cheek in shame as you continue to cry. Distantly you see that Hood had led you two into a corner blocked from the rest of the club by a wooden pillar when he had pulled you from the glass. Somehow you don’t feel scared. 

Another hand.

Hood had mustered the bravery to touch your face. 

He blots away tears with a gentleness you hadn’t felt since your own mother. His hand is large but careful and how does he do it? That steel hiding silk? The duality of man?

“Yeah. Yeah.” His voice is raspy and trembly and heavy with the weight of promise. “So do you. Deserve justice. I’ll give it to you, sweetheart, that sound alright?”

You can’t see his face under the Hood but you wish you could.

You nod.

Thunderous applause as Jubilee finished her routine. Bambi next. It snaps you back to reality.  

“I-I need to get back to work. Bills don’t pay themselves.” Your smile is wobbly, but genuine. 

Hood seems to realize where you both are at, stepping back and letting his hand drop with extreme reluctance. Having seen the speeds he was capable of, you knew it was on purpose.

Before you can see where he goes and coming to the realization of what had just happened, you turn your back to him and briskly walk to the table to clean up. You hope he understands what s show of trust it is to show someone your back in Crime-Alley.

You look back after several steps.

He’s gone . 

You make your way to the table

Hood left you a tip, a wad of cash so thick you hasten to grab it before Swiss can take his cut. 

You notice he left it right next to the Bloody Mary. 

The drink was completely untouched. 

He’s not moving with intention but on autopilot. The white snowflakes cling to him even in your apartment like the cold hands of death remembering that Jason was hers once instead of yours. Normally Jason is a furnace due to his size and they’d have melted by now. He’s not wearing his helmet but a thick scarf and balaclava that clearly did nothing as evidenced by his shaking.

Unless the trembling was from something else. 

He hasn’t said a single word, and simply stares at you with faraway eyes. 

“Sit for me, Honeylove? I can’t reach otherwise.” You break the silence like one stepping on ice they weren’t sure would hold their weight. You were not afraid of Jason hurting you-not anymore- but rather of seeing him retreat further into himself.  

He comes back to you. 

For you.

You see his faded green eyes light up to the same vibrant shade of the green Christmas tree lights in the corner. What does it mean to be the light at the end of the tunnel for one like Jason? You are the only person who has ever put him first. 

He rasps your name.

“Yes Jason, welcome home. You’re cold, can you bend so I can reach to get them off?” You gesture to his scarf. When he had died, you two were roughly the same height. 

Now,

He was head and shoulders and a little extra taller than you. 

“I….I drifted off there. Sorry.” He is quietly mortified. 

He doesn’t just stoop but obediently sits down so he is eye level with you. He likes being as close as possible to you. 

Jason never sits with anyone other than you. 

Red Hood prowled among his men. Jason’s visits to the manor are getting longer at your encouragement but he never sits for dinner, never gets off his feet in case he needs to run. 

 In this current moment his pupils never leave you even as his lashes flutter in exhaustion and guilty pleasure at the feeling of your fingertips tracing his features once the items are off. His skin is dry from the winter cold and you can imagine what that does to his sensitive scars. He seems to track your motions, how you have to strain to reach him even sitting. When you lift his arm to take off his gloves his bare, scarred, large hands twitch and wrap around your own. He focuses on how his palms swallow your fingers.

“No need to apologize ‘cause you didn’t do anything wrong.” You say to distract him. 

“I scared you.” He says roughly. The fluttering lashes are now blinking rapidly. His posture is noticeably shrunken, like he’s trying to make himself smaller to match you. To assure you. 

You pause. 

Jason had scared you, at first, to your eternal shame. 

You both grew up in Crime Alley together and you had a history with big violent men, how badly they could hurt you. When you had reunited with Jason again after thinking him to be dead from the Joker it had been with him as Red Hood fresh off of killing his murderer. You had been terrified thinking the mystery man had taken up one of Joker’s old titles to take over as the new insanely cruel King of Crime. When he had come to you you had begged.

Pleaded for your life.

Offered yourself up to him in any way that pleased him as long as he didn’t kill you. 

Only to be surprised when Red Hood had made the noise of a wounded animal, as if your tears and begging hurt his very soul. The huge man had stumbled back from you, looking at his large palm in front of him, to your own hand splayed across your chest, as if protecting your hummingbird fast heart. 

He had them raised, shaking as if to calm you, he surrendered, then lifted his helmet. 

You had looked at him in pure uncomprehending confusion and fear. He had a J scar on his cheek. He had scruff. His was the angular face of a young man you had never met before. 

He looked at you as if expecting you to know him. 

As you stared in blank fear Hood had collapsed to his knees, taken down in a way not even Gotham’s finest had managed by your lack of acknowledgement and told you the truth. 

He had changed so much. His body was not one you recognized. When you told him that in so many stammering words he had flinched. 

“You used to scare me.“ You admit. You are woman enough for that. 

“You don’t scare me anymore.”

“Not even when I get mad?”

“You have a lot to be mad about. And I know you're not the type to hurt your loved ones like that.” If you thought Jason was the type for domestic violence you would have gone to the rest of the Batclan long ago. 

This seems to startle him.

“Jason, you have a right to anger. I…I know I haven’t handled angry men well in the past but it’s different when it's you. I see how everyone was sad, grieving, and full of pity, but none of them were angry for you. It’s okay, really.”

He trembles harder. 

“C’mon. I got Alfred’s hot chocolate on the stove, A Muppet's Christmas Carol on in the background and the heated blanket on. Let's warm you up.” 

Jason seems hesitant to stand but does so at your beckoning. 

He winces.

You stop immediately. 

He was not dirty in a way that indicated a fight on a level high enough to hurt him.

“Jason?” Now you’re getting scared.

He looks away and mumbles something.

“Please? This is what's scaring me now.”

He whips his head back.

“I-uh, the cold. It hurts my scars.”

You close your eyes in grief.

“...Do you want a massage?”

Jason’s throat bobs, his eyes light in excitement and he seems to want to say yes, but he bits his lip. 

“You sure?”

“Of course I am!” You grin. 

You were studying to be a nurse, and already had a massage therapist certificate-you had gotten it as part of your studying of the human muscular system. 

The movie plays in the background and the scent of hot cocoa wafts through the room as you bring two mugs through the open bedroom door. 

Jason has dressed down to his boxers and a white undershirt. 

He seems to be hesitating.

His palm rests over the vivisection scar the same way your own hand often jumped to your heart. 

To even things out you also get down to your panties and a camisole you wore during winter. 

“Get on the bed for me?” You ask softly.

He scrambles to comply, whipping off his shirt.

You know exactly what it means for a man like that to leave himself vulnerable before you and you would rather die than throw away that trust. It took so long for Jason to reveal his body to you.

He had crawled onto your balcony and collapsed on your bedroom floor. It had taken you hours to pick out the glass, sterilize the wounds, and do the stitches. In part because seeing the extent of his scars had blurred your vision with tears and had made you so furious your hands shook with the urge to strangle anyone who had ever touched your childhood bestfriend turned lover. He was more injury than unmarred skin. You were aware the two of you were codependent but couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

Jason lays down.

His pupils have blown wide.

He looks like a painting laid out like this.

You oil up your hands and crawl onto the bed and onto him. You relish in the feeling of the slow drag of your lotion soft skin over his rougher, textured skin. Skin with history. Each scar a story, information. 

You lift yourself up and gently settle by straddling his thick waist. 

Right above the vivisection scar. 

“Hey honeylove. It's okay. Breathe with me, match my breaths, okay?”

It’s extremely intimate as his large hand comes up and under your cami, palms resting against the softness of your tummy, fingertips brushing the underside of your breasts. You feel the little nicks and scars on the pads of his fingers from a mishandled batarang as a preteen.

His hand follows the movement of your ribcage.

Under your thighs you feel his lungs expand, the effortless way he draws in a deep breath despite your whole bodyweight on him, the way his front rises with you on it. 

He looks at your skin. Soft. The occasional patch of stretch marks or acne scars.

Then his own.

That's it.

He breaks.

“Jesus! How can you even look at me?!” Jason spits. The sheer amount of self-disgust and horror catches you off guard. 

 His head turns sharply, his hair-overdue for a cut- flies in his face and cuts off his gaze. You can feel him trembling under your legs and the apex of your thighs. 

“Oh baby, no, don’t say that.” You whisper. 

“I-why put up with me? When I haul my ass through your door how are you not scared? Why don’t you call Batman on me?” He says tearfully. Your Jason had always been a cryer, going all the way back to your earliest childhood memories with him. He hid it well but his heart was big. A big target for a cruel world. Big like everything else was about him now. 

A huge arm comes up to place his forearm over his eyes. His chest heaves with muffled sobs and almost knocks you off.

His other arm comes up and around your waist before you’re sent to the floor.

“Sorry!” He sobs. 

Your face twists up.

You lean forward and press your chest to his, tuck your face into the junction of his shoulder because you can imagine no greater place of safety and comfort. When you had told him that the first time he had looked at you like you had hung the stars.

You both cry.

Jason holds you to him like your body could cover his own body that he hated so much.

“Jason when you died I felt a piece of my heart go with you. Having you back in any capacity, in any way, shape, or form, it’s a damned miracle. I am so grateful everyday, I-it doesn’t matter to me what you look like!”

Jason scoffs.

That hurts.

“You don’t believe me?” You whimper.

“No, wait, I-you don’t need to say that to make me feel better.”

“Well I was saying that ‘cause it’s the truth! Ya know what, I’m gonna say something else-I think you’re really handsome!” You say resolutely, sitting up on his torso to put your hands on your hips, mouth in a frown as if daring him to challenge you.

He doesn’t.

His eyes simply trace your mouth.

There has been a time Jason had felt shame and disgust towards himself about his attraction to you. You had also felt guilty the first time you realized that Jason’s size was a turn on for you, self-flagginating for the crime of objectifying Jason. You didn’t want to sexualize a man you knew had spent so much time dehumanized. 

“...you do?” He wonders. 

You smile softly at him.

To think, the terrifying Red Hood, the one all the online forms lusted over and characterized as a casanova with a million notches in his belt, was yours and only began to explore pleasure with you.

“I-I get so confused sometimes. I forget I’m alive. I forget that I’m this now. When we were Christmas shopping the other day past the store windows I nearly yelled at you to get down, cause I didn’t recognize that man walking next to you. But it was me!” Jason bursts out sounding completely devastated. He had died young, only 15. A few weeks before his murder you had taken him to your prom as you were a Junior and he was a Sophomore in highschool, and only Juniors and up had Prom’s. He had been an inch shorter than you.

“I don’t look like this in my head!” He follows up. His arm lowers from his face to scratch deep pink into his scar tissue. The vivisection scar.

You rock your hips forward to stop him, blocking his access as he’d have to go through your thighs. You take his hands and he lets you place them on your hips and he holds onto them like a lifeline.

“I’m not them. Please. I wouldn’t do that to you.” Jason begs you to understand, maybe to convince himself. 

“I know. I wouldn’t be here otherwise, beautiful.”

Jason shudders at your pet name. He looks like he wants to believe it so desperately. Others thought Jason was not the ‘pretty’ one. That was Dick. Tim was the handsome one. Duke was charming. Cass was graceful. Steph was beautiful. Damian was cute despite the murder attempts.

“Don’t go. Don’t…” Jason can’t finish his request. Can’t dare to ask you to stay forever and chain you to Frankenstein's monster. Mary Shelly’s book had been your favorite once upon a time and you and Jason used to read classics out loud to each other. When you tried to do so again and picked up Shelly’s book he had a panic attack. 

He was asking you to not leave him like everyone else in his life had. 

“I’m here. I’m real. See?”

You place his hand over your heart. Watch like a hawk as his adam's apple bobs, his pupils dilate-you notice how they never reflect that spark of life anymore. The pads of his thumb rub circles into your skin, his fingers outline your breast.

“I dreamed about you when I was trapped. They didn’t know about you like Batman so it was the one thing the Joker couldn’t take from me.” Jason murmurs. 

It devastates you all over again.

“I saw you everywhere Jason!” The confession burst out from you with a sob you hadn’t expected. 

“I sat at your grave and read out loud until I lost my voice!”

“I know.” Jason says quietly.

You desperately try to catch your breath. You need to let him know. 

“You’re stuck with me for life, unfortunately.” You try to say lightheartedly. “Now that you're back I’m sinking my claws in.” You take your oiled up hands and teasingly grip his biceps. Very muscular. 

He grins wobbly. 

You can’t help yourself and kiss that scarred lopsided smile, then his crooked nose from breaks, his jaw, his ‘J’ scar, both eyelids in a futile attempt to express the amount of love you feel for him.

“Alright alright!” He laughs, hiccoughing one last time. “My turn!”

You squeal as he effortlessly flips you beneath him, peppering you with kisses, pulling both your wrists into one hand that easily pins them above your head, wrapping your legs around his waist and effortlessly pinning you with his weight. Some of the only times he forgets to hate his size is when he uses his body to love you, loves how he can give it to you and you just have to take it.

Your peals of laughter turn into a surprised moan when he shifts and accidentally brings his front to your apex. He’s so big that even relaxed you feel the weight of him pressed to you. 

He stills.

His eyes are so dark as they look at you, searching, then hunting. 

“...Easy there cowboy. We’re not done with your massage.” You breathe. 

Jason takes the hint and slowly gets off you and settles on his stomach next to you. You straddle his waist again from the back this time. You work out deep knots in his shoulders and triceps and clench your thighs at his deep, rumbly moans, the vibrations shooting right through his back to where you're connected sitting on his waist. As you work out a kink in his back his hips jolt beneath you, harshly grinding himself into the mattress and you can’t help your high pitched whine in response as his movement also causes your hips to jerk forward and your barely covered clit to grind against the hard plane of muscles on his back.

He mutters something like a prayer and you grin.

You lean forward and then sink your teeth into his neck to give him a fierce hickey. 

He gasps. 

His hands clench the thin sheets so hard they tear. 

He reaches back and flips you onto your front. In a single motion he pulls your panties down to your knees, lifts up your camisole to expose your chest, and has kicked off his own boxers to reveal his dripping length. It’s a bright angry red and you are about to make a untimely joke about the color matching his Hood when he pins your arms again, spreads your thighs, and reaches down with a calloused thumb to flick your clit.

You wail.

“C’mon. Sing.” Jason breathes hot and heavy at your back, pressing his weight to you and pinning you. His index and ring finger spreads you wide and his middle finger rubs fierce circles to your clit.

The overstimulation causes your legs to snap together but his ankles wrap around your and pulls them open. His cockhead begins rutting against your entrance, the large tip catching and pulling, making you clench around nothing. 

You cum so hard your vision whites out and everything between your thighs is covered in your honey. 

Jason finally allows you to close your thighs only to use the new slickness to guide his length between and start thrusting. You feel each pass of veiny length against oversensitive folds, the blurring of his tip as it pulls your clitoral hood back with each thrust to fully expose your clit with the drag, then the hot wet pressure of his cock’s skin against your little bud.

You shake apart under him and he follows almost immediately, gasping into your hair, mouth on you neck like a wolf’s jaws around a rabbit, pinning you in a mockery of the hickey you gave him before, holding you close as you feel his cock jerk and sputter between your legs, as spunk shoots onto your chest and drips from your nipples. 

Jason collapses to the side, pulling you on top of him again as you both catch your breaths. The earlier despair is forgotten as the two of you clean up and laugh. Jason pinches the nipple he licked clean and you squeal in indignation as he takes a sip of the now lukewarm cocoa. 

You two settle in to watch the movie and you finally allow yourself to calm, knowing Jason isn’t going anywhere, and neither are you.