Author's Note:

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

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

anyways here's thunderwonderwall

— ⛈ —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Speaking of…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perish the thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ratchet,” Optimus said in a chiding tone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… What?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’d been very… raw. That was a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure about this OP?” Jazz asked.

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

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

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

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

Hot Rod perked up. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belay that thought, actually—

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

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

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

… Almost as if…

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait, that was it.

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

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

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

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

Together, they painted a disturbing picture.

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

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

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

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

::How long until we take off?::

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

::Right. We’re on—oh Primus—::

::Hot Rod?::

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While their helm toppled forward, crashing to the floor.

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

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

— ⛈ —

Closing Note:

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

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

—

Author's Note:

my stupid quintesson sentence structure… i don’t want it to be unbearable by any means, so i tried to make it as clear as i could with the more complicated sentences, but please dear god tell me if you don’t understand what’s going on and i’ll go back and try and edit it for better clarity. still, the confusion is sort of intentional in some places, so… bear with me and thunderclash both lol

fun fact . i actually finished this chapter on like . the 10th of june? but it has been sooooo fucking hot lately that i do Not want to be on my computer At All. so yeah . it took me over a week to edit and then post this bitch. lol. lmao, even.

also sorry for how like . kinda long this chapter is. i sort of wanna keep up the whole pov switch each chapter thing for at least a little bit longer, and there was a decent amount of stuff i wanted to cover with thunderclash before switching back to hot rod’s pov next chapter and also this man would Not stfu

— ⛈ —

“[Affirmative].”

Thunderclash sucked in a sharp breath.

It was like a door opening. A light at the end of the tunnel. A hand, helping him up from out of the dark confusion.

He could’ve tried his best to figure things out on his own. He could’ve, and in some ways, he’d already started. Numbers were his first lesson, from the white and pink not-mecha who had first held up digits to explain one through ten before pulling out a mecha-sized tablet to try and explain the concept of fractions—and how weird had that been, playing a game with a deck of cards that contained non-integers.

He knew the word stay (or maybe here) and possibly the word with? And he could’ve figured out so much more on his own through charades of all sorts. It would’ve been hard, but it wouldn’t have been impossible by any means. But if Hot Rod could speak kaiju…

There were so many things he could ask, so many things he could say, but Thunderclash was just left speechless, staring up at Hot Rod.

And just about when he’d gathered up enough of his thoughts to speak, it was Hot Rod who went first, asking, “[Query] | [Thunderclash] ← [Active]?”

Hey, that was actually a pretty decent recreation of his name, regardless of how strange it sounded with kaiju intonations around it. It seemed Hot Rod finally figured it out. Part of Thunderclash would miss the nickname, though.

Active, though, which could also mean alive, operational… oh.

“[Affirmative],” Thunderclash said. I’m okay, yeah.

“[Positive].” Good.

Thunderclash let out a long sigh. So. Hot Rod spoke kaiju.

Poorly—almost as heavily accented as his, just in a different direction—but Thunderclash wasn’t exactly fluent himself. Ariel and Prowl had worked alongside the brightest minds the earth had to offer to first decode what words they could hear from the kaiju and then teach what they had figured out to the pilots. It was supposed to give them an edge out on the field, so they might hear a shouted order and be able to counter before it was followed.

That meant they certainly had a lot of gaps in their dictionary, but Thunderclash was always surprised with each new word they parsed out, as the hissing of the kaiju became ever clearer.

“Ah… [Query] | [Hot Rod] ← [Observation: Speech]…” How to put this… “[Query] | … [This] ← [Empty]?” Why did you say that, was what Thunderclash wanted to ask. What made you start speaking kaiju in the first place?

Hot Rod took a moment to parse Thunderclash’s statement before their soul smoothed out into understanding. “{[Hot Rod] ← [Owner]} ← {[---] ← [Kaiju (Language)]}. [Hot Rod] ← {[Observation: ---] ← [Past]}.”

Thunderclash could already feel a headache coming on. The layering alone was hard enough to parse, but in there were two words that Thunderclash did not know, and the auto-translator was coming up blank for them.

Perhaps… Thunderclash could simply figure it out with context?

Alright… so Hot Rod, who was an owner of… something to do with the kaiju language. And Hot Rod was doing… something. Kaiju didn’t really do verbs, but they had something close to conjugation that related to the certainty of something. Just now, Hot Rod had been doing something, and it was an observation because they obviously knew it was happening, they’d been doing it.

The two new words sounded similar, for all that they were markedly different. What could Hot Rod have been doing now that had to do with the kaiju language…?

Evidently, Thunderclash took long enough trying to figure out what was being said that Hot Rod simply snapped out, “[Command: Query].” Just ask, or something to that effect.

“[Query] | … [---] ↔ [---]?” Thunderclash asked, carefully repeating the two unknown words.

Hot Rod’s soul said disappointment as clear as a plaintive little oh… “[Query] | [Thunderclash] ← [Knowledge: Negative]?”

“[Affirmative].” I don’t know.

Hot Rod made a soft clicking noise—a word, or some form of placeholder word, like a hum or something? Then they repeated the first kaiju word, pulling out… oh God, reaching into their side where there was no opening and… pulling out another one of those tablet things. Thunderclash had been wondering where Arcee got theirs. Apparently they could just… summon stuff out of thin air?

Hot Rod repeated the word again, lowering the tablet towards Thunderclash’s face—not that they needed to when Thunderclash’s zoom could let him read a road sign five kilometers away. On the tablet was… a bunch of strange alien text. Then, Hot Rod pulled the tablet back towards themself, said the second word, and made a show of carefully looking over the tablet.

… Oh, reading! The second word was read, probably. Then the first… would be something that you read? Something Hot Rod owned that was in the kaiju language that they’d been reading? Or… trying to read? Text, writing, book, even… There were a lot of options, but at least Thunderclash got the jist of what Hot Rod was trying to tell him.

“[Thunderclash] ← [Knowledge: Affirmative],” he told Hot Rod, just to confirm. I get it.

“[Query] | [Thunderclash] ← [Theoretical: Read(?)] → [Kaiju (Language)]?”

Ah. Something of an echo of Thunderclash’s earlier question. Can you read kaiju? “[Negative],” he said, shaking his head.

Hot Rod slumped slightly. “[Negative]. [Negative], [Negative], [Negative].”

“You said it, buddy,” Thunderclash said in agreement. He was also feeling pretty negative about this whole thing. “Hmm… [Query] | [Hot Rod] ← [Active]?”

Hot Rod blinked down at him. How novel—mecha that could blink.

“… [Affirmative].” Hot Rod’s voice came a little softer there. Then, with a more grinding, perhaps grumbly tone? “[Energy] ← [Low].”

Thunderclash gave a soft chortle. “[Agreement]. [Thunderclash] ← {[Energy] ← [Low]}.” He was pretty tired too. Go figure, running around fighting kaiju all day and getting teleported to other planets took a lot out of you.

“[Command: Sleep] → [Thunderclash],” Hot Rod said. Go to sleep. Heh, it would’ve been nice to know the word sleep a little while ago, before Thunderclash almost had a heart attack fearing that Hot Rod’s battery had run out or something. His heart couldn’t take stuff like that. “[Eventuality: Speech] ← [Future].”

Talk more tomorrow. Yeah, that sounded pretty good to Thunderclash. “[Affirmative]. [Night] ← [Positive].”

“… [Query]?”

Ah. Would alien space mecha even say good night? Thunderclash waved Hot Rod off, repeating their own words of, “[Eventuality: Speech] ← [Future],” and, “[Command: Sleep] → [Hot Rod].”

Hot Rod bleated static, but rolled back out of sight, their soul running the gamut from grumpy to tired before finally settling into something quiet and content. Asleep.

Alien mecha that slept. Alien mecha that slept, that got tired, that took communal showers, that drank liquid electricity out of square-shaped glasses, that felt full, that played card games with metal sheets as long as Thunderclash’s arm.

They weren’t mecha. They couldn’t be mecha. They were just… giant metal aliens.

Did they even know that Thunderclash wasn’t one of them? That couldn’t be it… the Vis Vitalis looked nothing like any of them! But… then, the four aliens he’d met so far had a fair few disparities…

Still, Thunderclash was too different. There was no way they’d mistake him for anything but an alien, even if just a fellow robotic one instead of, y’know… person inside robot.

Ugh, Thunderclash really was getting a headache from all of this. A part of him wanted nothing more than to terminate the sync so he could just lean back in his seat and relax. Rub away his headache, stretch his limbs, close his eyes so he might be able to experience true darkness for just a moment.

But he couldn’t do that anymore.

And he only wanted to in the first place because he couldn’t really feel his human body right now. The moment he could, he’d want nothing more than to go back to just being the mecha. He definitely didn’t want to go back to a body poked full of needles and cables, tubes going in and out of his skin, limbs weak and muscles atrophied.

He didn’t want to go back to the pain.

Most pilots were warned against ever trying to sleep while still synced with their mecha. There was monitoring equipment built into every one that knew the second a pilot went unconscious so the sync could cancel. But Tarantulas had told Thunderclash that, with the Vis Vitalis’s upgrades, it was probably safer for him to only ever cancel the sync if he had to be removed from the mecha entirely.

Otherwise…

Thunderclash’s thoughts grew sluggish as exhaustion overtook him. In the relative silence of the alien robot spaceship, he drifted off to sleep…

-

“You’re… Thunderclash, right? That’s what they’re calling you on the news.”

“Thomas McCleary. Thunderclash is my callsign. You’re Ms. Fèvre-Starr, right?”

The woman let out a laugh. “You know, I think you might be the first person here to actually say my name right.”

“Really? Funny. It’s not even that hard of a name to pronounce.”

“That’s what I keep saying!” The woman shook her head, fire-bright curls bouncing with the motion. “But—please, just call me Soleil.”

“Thomas, then. Tom, if you want.”

“Alright, Tommy,” Soleil said with a smirk. “You gonna teach me how to kill these bitches or what?”

Thunderclash had laughed. “Well, you’ve certainly got the spirit. That’s half the fight, right there.”

-

“So. That’s it, then?”

“For now, at least.” Soleil’s hair was an ugly, faded blue. Her roots were showing, a deep dark brown that she usually despised ever being seen. There were prominent bags under her eyes and a pallor to her face that spoke of illness and injury. Admittedly, Thunderclash was sure he probably didn’t look much better. “They want me to try syncing with the next batch, but that won’t be ready until winter, and there’s no telling if I’ll even be able to.”

Thunderclash let out a long, shaky breath. “Okay,” he said, voice weak. Then, a moment later, “I’ll miss you.”

“Shut up, oh my God,” Soleil shoved at Thunderclash’s shoulder, half a smile on her face. “As if I’d just leave you. Ariel’s gonna have me doing press work in the meantime. Interviews, photoshoots, the works. You’re not gonna stop seeing me.”

“Think you’ll have any time to spare for little ol’ me?”

“They’ll have to pry me away from my phone, I promise,” Soleil said, an indulgent smirk on her face. Then, with a snort, she mumbled out, “I’ll miss you… God, you’re acting like I’m gonna—”

And suddenly, all the humor drained away from them both.

“… It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk about it.”

“God, Tommy, I should be the one saying that to you.” Soleil leaned forward, tucking her face into Thunderclash’s shoulder. “… Do you have any news? Is it… getting worse?”

“… Yeah. It’s—it’s pretty bad.” Thunderclash didn’t tell her that it could get better. That it was perfectly manageable, that Thunderclash could probably live a long and relatively healthy life if all the proper steps were taken. He didn’t say any of that because he wasn’t going to take the proper steps. And if Soleil didn’t know, it’d hurt less.

“I’m sorry, Tommy. This—out of fuckin’ everyone in the world, you’re the last person this should’ve happened to.”

“I don’t know about that,” Thunderclash said softly. In some ways, it felt fitting. He’d always been the lucky one. Always the one to get away with things where others suffered. It figured that, one day, his luck would run out.

“We’ll figure it out,” Soleil said, a fire burning bright in her voice. “I promise you, Tommy. You’ll be okay.”

-

“Will it hurt?” Thunderclash had asked.

“I will endeavor to make it as painless as possible,” Tarantulas had promised, which hadn’t been a no.

-

“Fucking—I’ll fucking kill you, you two-faced spider-bastard!”

“Firestar—”

“Use my fucking name if you’re gonna try talking that shit to me!”

“… Fèvre-Starr. If all you are going to do is cause a scene, then I am going to have to ask you to leave. The patient—”

“Thomas McCleary! His name is Thomas McCleary and he’s not just some fucking—some fucking experiment! He’s a person and you should’ve never—!”

“… Sol’?” Thunderclash peered blearily up at his friend. Soleil whipped around, already blurry shapes smearing further. Thunderclash was sure that she must have looked as stunning as she always did, but all he could see of her was a blob of red-orange-yellow.

“Tommy,” Soleil was saying, her hand over his. “Tommy, you’re gonna be just fine, okay? Just—just relax for me, alright? Go to sleep. I’ll be here the whole time. They won’t do anything else to you, I promise.”

Do anything else…?

Mmh, but Thunderclash’s senses were already dulling further. Moments later, he was gone again.

-

“You’re letting them kill you.”

“I made a choice, Soleil. And it was my choice to make. Not yours, not theirs. Mine.”

“You’re letting them kill you. You’re—you’re killing yourself, Tommy.”

“What else can I do?”

“You could live. You could fucking act like you want to live.”

“Soleil, either I die in a year because my heart gives out or I die in ten because the kaiju take over the planet.”

“You don’t know that’ll happen! There will be more stupid pilots and there will be more stupid mecha! Why—why does it have to be you? Why can’t you just put it down?”

“Someone has to do it. I’d rather use what time I have left doing this than… than waste away in a hospital somewhere.”

“You know exactly how much they’re willing to give you if you retire. You wouldn’t even have to live in a hospital! You could get the best fucking treatment money could buy, you could get better! You could—”

“I could what? Live like you do? Smile for the camera, parade around in front of crowds, lying and telling them that everything’s gonna be just fine when the world’s on fucking fire around them? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I’d rather die than do what you do.”

Thunderclash had meant it, was maybe the worst part. But not like that. And not spit out like that. By the time he finished speaking, Soleil had been staring at him with wide eyes, toeing the line between hurt and rage.

She didn’t even say anything back. Simply picked up her things and left.

Thunderclash thought about that conversation a lot in the ensuing weeks, wishing he’d said something different. Wishing that if that was how he chased away his closest friend, that he could’ve at least said more. Goodbye, maybe.

It was the last conversation he’d ever had with Soleil Fèvre-Starr. With Firestar.

-

“Will it hurt?” Thunderclash had asked.

“Like hell,” Velocity had said, her voice grim.

-

I want to go home, Thunderclash thought desperately. I want to leave, I want to be somewhere far, far away from here. I want my dad. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want—

“Initiating sync,” Tarantulas said, and there was the edge of a smile in his voice.

Please, no. Please, God, no, Thunderclash tried to say, but he couldn’t because—because—

Because he didn’t have—

A mouth—

-

PROXIMITY ALERT.

Thunderclash snapped awake, jackknifing up from the bed—or—no, not the bed, the—the something. Something was… where—?

Static, beeping, chirping. Then, “[Stop]. [Query] | [Thunderclash] ← [Status]?”

“What?” He asked, still struggling to grasp what was real and what wasn’t.

A sharp hiss of air. “[Query] | [Status]?”

Query, Status, Thunderclash’s HUD spit back at him. What? He thought, incredulously.

“I—I don’t—”

Something came over him, then. Something warm and welcoming, like the physical sensation of bundling him up in a blanket. Soothing feelings washed over him like the gentle lapping of calm waves.

Thunderclash had never seen the sea before coming to the city. He remembered the first time he’d looked out over those wide waters and seen nothing but blue as far as the eye could see. It had been beautiful and terrifying in equal measures, like he might get lost in it if he looked for too long, but he might find himself somewhere out there.

Sort of like the sky, in that sense. Like the stars. Gaze into the abyss, and all that.

“[Query] | [Status]?”

Words. Words in… in the kaiju language. A question about… status. Thunderclash’s status.

“[Active],” Thunderclash croaked out. The warm pressed further against him and Thunderclash could almost imagine the physical embrace alongside it.

But… no, he didn’t have to imagine it. There were arms wrapped around him. Wrapped around his mecha, the Vis Vitalis. Hot Rod was sitting in his lap, arms thrown around his chest, face pressed right over the cockpit. Shakily, Thunderclash brought a hand up to rest between the two golden wing-things on Hot Rod’s back. The alien mecha let out a squeaky sound and the warmth went wobbly for a moment, but before Thunderclash could pull back, the warm feeling returned with a determined edge to it.

“Thank you,” Thunderclash whispered. “[Gratitude].”

“[Acknowledgement].”

Thunderclash tipped his head down until the bottom of his visor rested on the top of Hot Rod’s helm. And he stayed there for a good minute or so, cycling down from the panic of waking.

Honestly, the scariest part was the mecha responding at all. Every time he’d woken up before, it was to true paralysis. Tarantulas had always disabled his motor relays whenever he went unconscious to prevent any disorientation. Probably for the best—if Thunderclash had woken up like that back home, he could probably have very easily ended a few lives before reorienting himself.

Finally, Hot Rod began to pull away from him, mumbling out, “[This] ← [Stop]. [More] ← [Negative]. [Thunderclash] ← [Release] → [Hot Rod].”

If nothing else, he appreciated the relatively simple phrasing of that statement. “[Affirmative],” he said and pulled his hand away to let Hot Rod shimmy out of his lap. Hot Rod checked themself over and then gave him a long glance as well, but didn’t seem to find whatever they were looking for. Their soul gave off a mild sense of relief.

Thunderclash wondered what that was about. Then he realized that he could technically ask.

“[Query] | [Hot Rod] ← [Look]?”

Hot Rod glanced up at him, a sudden mixture of surprise and embarrassment in their soul. “[Hot Rod] ← [Look] → [Color].” A pause, then, “[Color] ← [Thunderclash].”

They were looking for… Thunderclash’s colors? On them?

His confusion must have come through, since Hot Rod gave a huff and then roughly knocked their knuckles against the metal slabs they used as beds. Left behind was a tiny streak of gold.

“[Color],” Hot Rod said.

Ah. “[Affirmative].” Well. It was probably about time they had a conversation, wasn’t it? “[Query] | {[Thunderclash] ↔ [Hot Rod]} ← [Theoretical: Speech]?” We talk?

Hot Rod gave a nod. “[Affirmative].” Then they held up a single finger and their soul went determined with a severe tilt to it. “[One]. [Important]. [Thunderclash] ← {[Command: Speech] ← [Kaiju (Language)]} → [Hot Rod]. [Alone]. [Thunderclash] ← {[Command: Speech] ← [Kaiju (Language)]} → [Other (Person)] ← [Negative].”

Well that was a weighty few statements. Hmm… So firstly. And importantly. Thunderclash would speak in the kaiju language with Hot Rod… alone? Alone as in… without people? Then, the second statement was Thunderclash would… no, would not speak in the kaiju language with other people.

… Oh. It… probably was somewhat suspect that the only language they had in common was the language of their enemies. “… [Kaiju] ← [Enemy],” Thunderclash mused. With a grim edge to their soul, Hot Rod nodded. “… [Query] | [Hot Rod] ← [Ally]?”

Hot Rod seemed to hem and haw, but there was a playful edge to their soul. “… [Affirmative],” they said after a moment, a slight smile pulling at their metal mouth.

Right then. Questions… Might as well get the big ones out of the way first. “[Query] | [Location]?”

“… [Query] | [Location] ← [Present]? [Query] | [Location] ← [Future]?”

Well, they were just in space right now, weren’t they? He’d much prefer to know where they were going. “[Location] ← [Future],” Thunderclash said.

Hot Rod went contemplative. Thunderclash supposed it might be a difficult question to answer. He also figured that whatever the answer was, it might not really mean much to him.

“[Planet],” Hot Rod landed on eventually. “[Planet] ← [---].”

“[Query] | [---]?” Thunderclash asked, unfamiliar with the word being used. Hot Rod let out a hiss of air.

“[Place] ← [People (Plural)].”

People place. Planet… with people place. That didn’t really clear anything up, but Thunderclash didn’t know what to ask to specify, so he switched gears.

“[Query] | [Hot Rod]?” He asked.

He meant… he meant it as in what are you? But Hot Rod’s soul gave out only confusion. Shit, that was too vague…

“[Query] | [Hot Rod] ↔ [Springer] ↔ [Arcee] ↔ [Blurr]?” What were all of them?

Still just confusion. Confusion and mounting frustration. Hmm…

“[Query]…” No, he was getting nowhere with that. “…[Statement] | [Hot Rod] ↔ [Springer] ↔ [Arcee] ↔ [Blurr]… ← [Kaiju: Negative].”

Hot Rod let out a whuff of air. “[Affirmative],” they said with vehemence.

So, if not kaiju… “[Query] | [Hot Rod] ↔ [Springer] ↔ [Arcee] ↔ [Blurr]?”

A pause. Then, a slow half-understanding. “[Kaiju] ← [Kaiju]. [Hot Rod]… ← [---].”

Well there was a new word. Cybertronian. Was that the name of these strange alien robots? Their race?

Thunderclash was startled out of his thoughts when Hot Rod haltingly placed a hand on his arm and said, softly, “[Thunderclash] ← [Cybertronian].”

Oh God. They did think he was one of them.

Thunderclash frantically shook his head. “[Negative],” he was quick to say, “[Negative], [Negative], [Negative]! [Thunderclash] ← [Cybertronian: Negative]!”

He couldn’t lie to Hot Rod, couldn’t take advantage of their hospitality by pretending he was something he wasn’t. But Hot Rod’s soul was only edged in pity as they reiterated, much more firmly, “[Thunderclash] ← [Cybertronian].”

Thunderclash sighed. Ugh, okay, whatever. He wasn’t, but it wasn’t as if he could explain that without exposing himself in the vacuum of space. Until such a time came that he could show Hot Rod what he really was, he’d allow them to believe he was the same species as them.

… It probably would be safer for Thunderclash. Hot Rod was thus far the smallest Cybertronian he’d met, and they were still easily double the height of Thunderclash’s human body. Beyond that, Thunderclash worried that Hot Rod would take one look at the flesh-creature inside the Vis Vitalis and decide it was some kind of miniature kaiju. Thunderclash did have a lot more in common with them than any Cybertronian.

And given the way Hot Rod had impressed upon him the importance of not even talking in the kaiju language around anyone else, Thunderclash worried that any other connections to the monstrous aliens would only do his reputation ill.

Well. He’d cross that bridge when he got there.

Begrudgingly, he said, “[Affirmative],” but he was sure Hot Rod could feel how little he meant it. Their face scrunched up with a little glare that was far too adorable for how serious Hot Rod was feeling. A moment later, though, their expression smoothed out and they let out another puff of air.

“[Query] | [Thunderclash] ← {[Location] ← [Past]}?”

Where did you come from?

“[Planet],” Thunderclash said, then, “Earth.”

“Errf?” Hot Rod attempted.

“Earth. [Planet] ← [Thunderclash].” His planet, the place he was from. “[Planet] ← {[People (Plural)] ← [Thunderclash]}.” The planet of his people.

Hot Rod perked up slightly. “[Query] | [Cybertronian (Plural)]?”

Thunderclash couldn’t visibly make a face, but he knew Hot Rod could feel the immediate denial he felt. They made their own face, a kind of displeasure in their soul. They made as if to speak again, but paused suddenly, head tilting away from Thunderclash to stare at—Thunderclash turned to look and found… wall.

“Thunders,” Hot Rod called out, using their little nickname for him. “… [Query] | [Theoretical: Speech] ← [Inside]?”

Speak… inside? Talking inside… what, thinking? Or—oh!

“You mean comms?” Thunderclash blurted out. “[Speech] ← [Inside],” and he tapped the Vis Vitalis’s head. “[This] ← [Inside]?”

“… [Affirmative]?” Hot Rod said, but they didn’t sound supremely confident.

Comms. Internal communications. But how would Thunderclash be able to… to ring up Hot Rod, as it were?

Thunderclash leaned down until his head was level with Hot Rod’s and then flipped down his visor. Hot Rod’s soul retreated back for a moment, as it did the last time Thunderclash did this, before returning with a sort of forced calm. What about this was so odd to them? Perhaps just that Thunderclash didn’t have a face. He supposed that if a biker flipped up their visor and Thunderclash just saw meat inside, it’d be pretty distressing.

Carefully, Thunderclash pointed out a socket. Traditionally, it was used to do diagnostics on the mecha, sometimes to update internal software. Perhaps, though, Hot Rod could use it to… make a connection of sorts.

Hot Rod grimaced, but took out the cable in their wrist and Thunderclash watched through blurred vision as it… changed. The end narrowed down until Hot Rod was able to neatly slot it into the plug. Hot Rod’s soul pulsed with embarrassment and discomfort even as they did it, and Thunderclash came to the abrupt realization that he might be committing a severe alien robot faux pas right now. Or—

Oh god. Was this sex? Did he proposition Hot Rod for sex without realizing? Oh god, wait, no—

He let out a soft grunt as the connection was established. It was never fun having Tarantulas poking around in the Vis Vitalis while the sync was still active, but at the very least, Tarantulas wasn’t alive through the connection. Alive and—

And—

Disgusted.

The sensation bowled him over, a roiling revulsion so strong it very nearly made Thunderclash puke, did make his human body gag on reflex. Then, after the initial wave of disgust… curiosity. Familiarity. He knew this—no, Hot Rod knew this, recognized something of themself inside Thunderclash.

Even during the sync, there was still something of a barrier between Thunderclash and the Vis Vitalis’s coding. He could access some things, but never all. Hot Rod had no such barriers. They could pore through all of the Vis Vitalis’s programs as much as they liked. It was likely they were seeing things that Thunderclash never had and never would.

He could feel the moment they found what they were looking for, the way their attention went sharp and something—

Thunderclash let out a soft keening noise as something grated, a piece of code jammed into a system barely designed for it, and those chafing edges seeped through the sync into his actual self. Hot Rod tried to soothe with a mildly frantic apology, but Thunderclash saw the need. If they could figure something out, if they could make this work—

Thunderclash gasped as Hot Rod drew back, and the moment the cable was clear of his head, the Vis Vitalis’s visor was snapping back into place, hiding the connective port that Thunderclash would swear felt raw, even though the Vis Vitalis could not actually transfer sensations of physical pain.

::[Query] | [Thunderclash] ← [Active]?:: Hot Rod asked, a tangle of concern and anticipation in their soul.

“I’m fine,” Thunderclash said, waving off his new friend. Then, remembering, he said in kaiju, “[Affirmative]—”

Except—

Wait.

Thunderclash hadn’t heard Hot Rod say that aloud. In fact, Hot Rod’s mouth hadn’t even moved around the words. Thunderclash had only heard them internally…

Through comms! Hot Rod did it! Thunderclash let out a bark of laughter as he tabbed into his communications array and found a truly strange signal of nonsense letters that Thunderclash could send and receive messages from. Through this new line, Thunderclash excitedly said, ::{[Thunderclash] ↔ [Hot Rod]} ← {[Observation: Speech] ← [Inside]}!:: We can talk inside!

Hot Rod grinned, showing off some mouth internals that Thunderclash kind of really wanted to get a closer look at someday. There wasn’t really any definition between teeth… was it just one curved plate? He was distracted by the words, ::[Command: Follow],:: in his ears. Hot Rod then hopped off the metal bed and gave Thunderclash an expectant look.

::[Affirmative],:: Thunderclash sent back, still a little giddy over the success of figuring out comms.

Hot Rod led him out of the tiny room that was actually kind of massive and only felt small because he was in the Vis Vitalis, which seemed absurdly large even by the standards of metal giants. Cybertronians.

He was guided to the room where he’d played a card game with a name that had something to do with the Cybertronian word for the number three. There had been a lot of stuff to do with triplets in the game, so it made sense for the name to reflect that. In the room were Arcee and Blurr and even Springer. Unless there were more people on the ship than just them, then that meant everyone had gathered in one place.

As Hot Rod stepped into the room and Thunderclash ducked in after him, the green mecha, Springer, began to speak. Most of the words went right over Thunderclash’s head, with the exception of a handful of numbers that he remembered well enough. He wondered if he could get into the program the Vis Vitalis used to help auto-translate kaiju to start up a Cybertronian dictionary…

As the four mecha beeped and whistled and clicked at each other, Thunderclash took the moment to check out of the conversation that he didn’t understand. It was high time to take stock of his own situation. He perused the Vis Vitalis’s readouts, going over the numbers.

Oxygen… was alright. Estimates gave him approximately a hundred and fifty hours left. So, still most of a week’s worth of oxygen. The Vis Vitalis had fed him sometime during the night—or, while he slept anyways, day and night weren’t really a thing in space—and Thunderclash was quick to input the emergency rationing feature Tarantulas had coded in with the Vis Vitalis’s overhaul.

He could probably stretch a month’s worth of food and water over double that time if he was careful. And even beyond that…

Well. Oxygen was the most pressing thing right now, but Thunderclash hoped he could simply ask for some at some point. Hopefully that some point would be in the next one hundred and fifty hours. Hydrogen and oxygen could be found basically everywhere in the universe, and Thunderclash refused to believe that any race advanced enough to have achieved space travel couldn’t get some of both so Thunderclash could have something to breathe and something to drink.

Food would also be something of a non-issue so long as Thunderclash could be routinely pointed in the direction of some kaiju or another, which were technically edible to humans. Chewy as hell and they tasted like tires if they weren’t seasoned, but edible was edible. Thunderclash might theoretically develop certain deficiencies without things like vitamin C, but he could probably last long enough on a mix of rationed food reserves and kaiju calamari to find a solution to that.

What he was more worried about was running out of his heart medication.

::[Thunderclash].::

Thunderclash startled slightly at Hot Rod’s voice in his ears. ::[Query]?:: He asked. Hot Rod waited a moment to see if he’d actually ask something before they barrelled on with their own statement.

::[Collective] ← [Eventuality: Leave]. [Collective] ← [Eventuality: Arrival] → [---].::

Collective… us, functionally. Leave in the eventuality… we’re leaving, or we’re going to leave, Hot Rod was saying. We’re going to arrive at… that was a new word.

::[---] ← [Eventuality: Move],:: Hot Rod continued, swiftly following that statement with, ::[---] ← [Eventuality: Arrival] → [---].::

Okay, so they were going to arrive at this new word, which was then going to move… Take them somewhere, maybe? Take them to… oh! That was the word he hadn’t understood earlier, the people place planet!

They’d arrive at something that would take them to their destination. Another ship, maybe? Were they transferring?

Thunderclash would’ve asked for elaboration on Hot Rod’s statement, maybe an explanation of those words he wasn’t recognizing, but Hot Rod was swiftly interrupting his thoughts with another, ::[Command: Follow]!::

Thunderclash had to be quick to follow after Hot Rod, who was in turn following after the blue Cybertronian—Blurr, who spoke so fast that Thunderclash could never quite parse their words, even when they were just rattling off numbers with Arcee, trying to explain the rules of that card game to him.

Thunderclash was brought into a new room with a whole lot of weird computers and a couple chairs that… might fit Thunderclash, if he was very delicate about applying the Vis Vitalis’s weight to them. What caught Thunderclash’s eye more than the fancy alien tech or the bizarre scale of everything was—

The stars.

The room they were in was the front of the ship, facing forward at a sea of stars.

Staring out at the glittering black, Thunderclash was taken back to being a boy again. Lying on his back, tall grass tickling his cheeks, a cool breeze washing away the hot summer day as the night rolled in and brought with it a kind of magic that had seemed so real and tangible, a web of faraway lights that must’ve traversed through myths and legends for as long as people told stories. Longer, even, all the way back when the first keen-eyed creatures thought to look above them at a universe they would never fully understand, even with brains and thumbs and a head full of thoughts.

It had always been Thunderclash’s—Thomas McCleary’s dream to soar among the stars.

“Thunders?”

Thunderclash faltered, realizing that he’d approached one of the windows with a raised hand, halfway to touching when Hot Rod called out to him. He turned to Hot Rod, who was glancing between him and the wide windows. Blurr, sat in a chair and paying sharp attention to one of the maybe-computers, pair neither of them any mind.

Hot Rod glanced at his fellow Cybertronian before approaching the window, coming to stand beside Thunderclash. ::[Query] | [Thunderclash] ← [Look]?:: Hot Rod asked over comms. What are you looking at? What do you see?

Thunderclash looked back out the window. ::Stars,:: he said in English, since he had no clue what the kaiju word for them was.

Hot Rod made a soft noise, but his soul was silent, drawn back into himself in the presence of his fellow Cybertronians. He’d done it before around Springer and then again while he’d pawned Thunderclash off to Arcee and Blurr.

Thunderclash had managed, but he’d felt ill-footed around the two of them. They were so… quiet. If Thunderclash leaned in their direction, he could just barely get a feel for their souls, but they always drew back and took their emotions with them, leaving Thunderclash feeling blind or deaf, unable to listen in to their selves as he could with Hot Rod.

He wondered…

Hot Rod was already standing fairly close to him, so it took little for Thunderclash to close the gap entirely, to gently bump his wrist against Hot Rod’s shoulder. Hot Rod flinched slightly, but Thunderclash found he could feel the startled surprise in Hot Rod’s soul.

::[Query]?:: Hot Rod spat out over comms, leaning back out of Thunderclash’s space.

::[Quiet],:: Thunderclash said, trying to explain. What could he say when he barely even understood how Cybertronians could speak through their souls—if that was even what Thunderclash was feeling. ::… [This].:: And he gave a very pointed poke with his own soul, as much as he could manage. Hot Rod did that sort of thing much better than he could, seemed utterly adept at controlling and shaping their emotions.

Hot Rod made a face. A very interesting face, with wide eyes and a wobbly line of their mouth that could be a smile just as easily as a grimace. Hot Rod looked over their shoulder at Blurr—who was actually now sneaking glances in their direction every now and again—before letting out a long, drawn-out hiss of pressurized air.

Hot Rod leaned against him, treating him more like a wall or other structure than a person, projecting a very pointed feeling of nonchalance, a very intentional I don’t care.

Underneath, though, Thunderclash could feel their slight irritation warring with a strange relief.

Thunderclash had worried that he was pressing Hot Rod in some way, asking of them something they did not want to give, but so long as that slight edge of warmth won out over everything else, Thunderclash would simply appreciate just how much Hot Rod was willing to indulge him. It ached to be alone and confused in this strange new world with these inscrutable people.

The two of them watched through the window as the stars turned and passed them by, until eventually Thunderclash spotted something in the distance.

At first he was sure he was imagining it. Then, he figured there must be something on his visor obscuring his vision. Then, he finally just activated the Vis Vitalis’s scopes and zoomed in to see… the faint, distant outline of what was almost undeniably another spaceship.

Very far away, going by how small and fuzzy it appeared even at max zoom, but rapidly approaching them. Or, possibly, utterly stationary and being approached rapidly by them.

Thunderclash pointed it out and Hot Rod gave a sharp nod. They whistled out a word that Thunderclash nearly didn’t recognize, missing the kaiju modifiers from before. This was the something they were arriving at, the something that would take them to Planet People-Place. A spaceship, definitely.

… A… a really big spaceship. As they drew closer and closer, Thunderclash began to get a better figure on the utter scale of the ship, and it was almost horrifically massive. There was a fear of big things, wasn’t there? Megalophobia, or something like that. Thunderclash could never before have claimed to understand it, but gazing out at something that made even the Vis Vitalis look like little more than a speck of dust…

It was a daunting feeling, that was for sure.

Hot Rod, picking up on his sudden unease, pressed against him with a mix of curiosity and comfort. What’s wrong? They asked without saying a word.

::[Big],:: Thunderclash said softly into his comms.

Hot Rod made a soft noise aloud and then spoke a few Cybertronian words into their comms, following them up with a simple, ::[Affirmative].::

There came a knocking sound and Thunderclash swung the Vis Vitalis’s head around to stare at the door. Springer, who’d leaned in with an open mouth as if to say something, was instead just… staring wide eyed at Thunderclash. So was Blurr, for that matter. Even Hot Rod was leaning away, taking with them a slimy, grossed-out feeling.

What? … Oh, the head thing.

Thunderclash twisted his body around so his head wasn’t turned at such a steep angle, though it seemed to do little to ease the awkward tension of the room. Springer said a few stilted words, stepping fully into the room with Arcee just behind them. Hot Rod gave a nod and dragged Thunderclash towards the little chairs.

Hot Rod patted at one of the seats, giving Thunderclash a pointed look. Thunderclash eyed the chair somewhat warily. It didn’t seem very sturdy… Thunderclash—that was, the real, human Thunderclash—had chairs break under him before, and it was always something of a mortifying experience.

Still, he gingerly sat down in it, having to angle himself awkwardly so that his legs and feet weren’t kicked up into the air but tucked slightly under the seat. He was surprised, upon settling fully, at feeling next to no bounce or give. The chair, thin and small as it was, seemed perfectly capable of holding his weight.

Hot Rod leaned over him then and began pulling large… rubbery straps over Thunderclash. Belts, seatbelts, Thunderclash was being buckled into his seat like a toddler. He let out an incredulous laugh. Hot Rod made a curious little noise, poking at his soul since they were close enough to feel each other.

“It’s nothing,” Thunderclash said aloud, shaking his head. Hot Rod gave him a look—accompanied by a little pout that made Thunderclash want to coo at them—but left him be after checking the tautness of the seatbelts. Thunderclash watched as Hot Rod and the rest of the little crew strapped into their seats. It seemed it really was just the four of them—five now, with Thunderclash.

Blurr’s hands were moving as fast as his mouth over the… keys? The keys of his computer, and Thunderclash felt a slight jolt as the ship moved. He looked back to the window and watched them approach their destination: another spaceship that just got bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger…

Thunderclash held his breath as the horrifically massive ship opened up and proceeded to swallow them whole. Inside the monstrous vessel was a hangar big enough to fit their own ship at least ten times over. Thunderclash glanced over to see if anyone was getting up, but the Cybertronians were all still sitting.

Springer, seated right next to Blurr, leaned towards the computer and said a few words. They were met with a voice coming through the computer, clicking and crooning and rumbling, a deep sound like the slow grind of massive mechanisms. Springer nodded and chirped another few words before leaning back and letting out their own sharp hiss of air.

… A sigh. That was what that sound was indicating, wasn’t it? Cybertronians gave dramatic, exaggerated hisses of air as some expression of emotion.

How fascinating…

Thunderclash jolted slightly in his seat as he heard a quick beep in his ears. Not aloud, but through his comms. ::[Collective] ← [Observation: Arrival] → [---].::

A repeat of a previous sentence, but slightly changed. No longer an eventuality, no longer something that was going to happen, but something that had. An observation, since Hot Rod and Thunderclash alike had been there for it.

::[Collective] ← [Eventuality: Arrival] → …[---]?:: Thunderclash attempted through his comms, saying the people-place word that he didn’t know.

::[Affirmative]!:: Hot Rod said, slightly surprised, maybe? ::[---] ← [Autobot].::

Hm. Well, Thunderclash had no idea what an Autobot was, but it was acting as a descriptor, there. Or… possibly a possessive? Autobot’s something? Autobot’s people-place? People-place that was Autobot?

Thunderclash might’ve said more, but his thoughts were interrupted by a veritable wall of sound. Loud, echoing metallic noises, like walking into an industrial plant that did nothing but machine miscellaneous metal objects. Thunderclash somewhat frantically turned down his sound settings until the crashing quieted down to—

To a voice. That was the Cybertronian language. Slightly different—accented, perhaps—but with the same recognizable cadence, deliberate pauses between what had to be words or sentences. An… intercom, maybe? Some big announcement made for making a person go utterly deaf? Then again, none of the Cybertronians in the ship seemed at all bothered by the volume… perhaps they weren’t as sensitive to sudden, massive changes in sound?

Perhaps they were just expecting it.

The world began to shudder and, through their comms, Hot Rod was quick to say, ::[---] ← {[Motion] ← [Present]}.::

Something—the something they’d just arrived at, the ship—moved now? Was going to move now? Was about to move?

As Thunderclash pondered the meaning of that short statement, he was hit with a sense of déjà vu as the world—

Pinched.

There was no green, this time, no swirling vortex of verdant stardust, but the wretched wrongness was something Thunderclash would never forget for the rest of his short life. Nausea swept through him as he came out the other side. The first thing Thunderclash felt in the aftermath was a prodding sensation of concern, Hot Rod’s voice in his ears asking, ::[Query] | [Thunderclash] ← [Active]?::

It took a moment for Thunderclash to gather himself enough that he wouldn’t just puke all over himself when he spoke. ::[Affirmative],:: he bit out after a moment. Hot Rod didn’t seem convinced, given the way they unbuckled themself to check up on him. The rest of the tiny crew were getting up out of their seats as well, moving to leave the room. Only the green mecha, Springer, waited at the door for Hot Rod and Thunderclash.

It really did take a moment to regain his bearings, but soon enough he was easing out of the small chair while Hot Rod pulled back and puffed up—literally puffed up, metal plating flaring out like the bristling fur of a furious animal—at something Springer said, beeping angrily in their direction. Hot Rod stomped after the green Cybertronian and Thunderclash followed with much less temper in his gait.

The ship had bloomed open once more, the long ramp having eased down to smooth metal flooring, where… where the biggest Cybertronian Thunderclash had seen so far was standing, seemingly waiting for them.

Thunderclash impulsively grabbed Hot Rod by the shoulder, trying to press his excitement forward, and comm’d them, ::[Query] | [Big]? [Big] [Big] [Big]?:: Big and blue was definitely notable in their size, to the point that they might even be bigger than the Vis Vitalis.

Hot Rod tilted their head slightly, something between amusement and irritation in the scant edge of their soul that Thunderclash could feel. ::[Thunderclash] ← [Big],:: Hot Rod stated. ::[Big] ← [Normal]. [Query]—:: and then Hot Rod somehow pressed a feeling of mock excitement through their soul. What’s so exciting about that? Hot Rod seemed to say.

Well… beyond the fact that this individual was the largest Cybertronian he’d seen thus far and the first to rival his own height, it was also…

There had been bigger mecha than the Vis Vitalis. There had been the original prototype, of course—which was perhaps about the size of Springer, maybe smaller—but the phase one mecha that came after had been the size of buildings, big enough to crush whole kaiju with nothing but their mechanical hands. But creating mecha of that size simply wasn’t feasible in the long run, and the kaiju were learning better and better how to counteract them.

So the EDC had scaled down severely by the end of phase one, when the original version of the Vis Vitalis had been built. She’d been overhauled once or twice in the intervening years, had a couple of repaints now and again, but her size had remained relatively consistent. If anything, with the latest rework, she was actually a bit bigger.

But it had been years since the days of Thunderclash being the smallest mecha around. Nowadays, the Vis Vitalis was the very biggest of them all, barring Metroplex.

::{[People] ← [Thunderclash]} … Mecha. [Mecha] ← [Small]. {[Mecha] ← [Big]}…:: Hmm… how did one say decommissioned in kaiju? Ah, well, Thunderclash knew one word that should get across the approximate meaning of his statement. ::{[Mecha] ← [Big]} ← [Dead].::

Hot Rod swiveled their head around to stare wide-eyed at him, a soft sort of horror in their soul. Most of my people, the mecha, are small, Thunderclash had just told them. All the big ones are ‘dead’.

Hot Rod gaped for a moment more before gathering themself, tucking their soul away, and marching down the ramp. Thunderclash followed after as Hot Rod approached big n’ blue alongside Springer to beep at the big guy. The big guy, however, kept their gaze on Thunderclash the entire time as he approached.

Springer and Hot Rod both awkwardly stepped out of the way as the big guy moved past them to meet Thunderclash in the middle, giving him a long once over, a grim look upon their metal face. They had a poise to them that brought to mind military men, but perhaps Thunderclash’s imagination was simply getting the better of him.

Then, big n’ blue held out a hand to Thunderclash and he…

Well, truth be told, he almost laughed. Really, he thought, what were the odds that giant alien robots also did handshakes.

Tentatively, Thunderclash took the proffered hand. The big bot didn’t shake it, but Thunderclash felt the barest hint of their soul brushing against his. Nowhere close enough nor loud enough for Thunderclash to pick up any emotion, but he could just barely feel the sensation of it. The big bot gave a nod, spitting out some rumbly static sounds, words like thunder and lightning, before letting go of the Vis Vitalis’s hand.

Helpfully, Hot Rod pointed up at big n’ blue and stated, “Ultra Magnus.”

That was certainly a name, sure. Thunderclash didn’t even get to introduce himself, however, before Hot Rod was herding him away. The big guy, Ultra Magnus, seemed to be following after, though. They exchanged a few words with Springer and then the green bot was peeling away with Arcee and Blurr hot on their heels. Arcee waved in Thunderclash and Hot Rod’s direction as they went, and Thunderclash gave them a wave back.

From the giant spaceship hangar, they made their way down another, much bigger ramp, and Thunderclash finally realized what Hot Rod had meant when they’d said [Place] ← [People (Plural)].

It was a city. A city bustling with metal titans of many shapes and sizes, every structure built at their scale. Thunderclash didn’t even realize he’d come to a complete stop on the ramp, staring out at the alien city the ship had landed on, until he registered two tiny hands pressing against his back. Swiveling his head around, Thunderclash saw Hot Rod pushing with all their might against him, trying to shove him down the ramp.

Ah. ::[Apology],:: Thunderclash hissed into his comms, turning to face forward once more and continue his descent into the Cybertronian city. Meeting them at the bottom of the ramp were two new aliens, two new faces. Would the introductions ever end? Not that Thunderclash terribly minded getting to meet alien mecha.

The two Cybertronians there to meet them both fell somewhere between Springer and Blurr or Arcee in size—notably bigger than Hot Rod, but notably smaller than Ultra Magnus. The dark blue one on the left was the more surprising of the two, with nothing but a visor for a face. Such a head would look right at home among the EDC’s mecha. The rest of the boxy frame, though… not so much.

The black and white one on the right, who was half-draped against the other, was also visored, but with a smile that bared… fangs? Pointed bits of metal, poking past metallic lips. They also had two little blocks poking out of their black helm, reminding Thunderclash of rounded bear ears…

Hot Rod had come up beside him, and Thunderclash took the moment to nudge them and nod in the newcomers’ direction, asking, ::[Query] | [This (Plural)]?::

This. Such a beautiful, awful word in the kaiju language. Encompassing everything from this to you to them to that. Very situational, very context based, but hopefully easily understood in this moment as the two Cybertronians waiting out the gate for them.

Hot Rod startled hard at his comm, head snapping… not in Thunderclash’s direction, but towards the Cybertronian with the facemask and visor. Then, slowly, haltingly, Hot Rod nodded in black-and-white’s direction, saying, ::Jazz. [2] ← [Autobot].::

Two? Jazz, who was… second of something? Thunderclash had certainly heard that word before… That was where they were, wasn’t it? Autobot people-place… Autobot city? What exactly was an Autobot and how could one be either two or second of it?

Then, eyeing the faceless guy, Hot Rod introduced them as, ::Soundwave.::

And Soundwave… seemed to stare directly at Thunderclash. Not even at the Vis Vitalis’s visor, but at his human body tucked away beneath three-layered outer plating and as many other shields as Tarantulas could fit into the space without sacrificing other systems.

Very slightly, Soundwave’s head tilted. Beside them, Jazz’s fanged smile grew just a hair sharper.

— ⛈ —

Closing Note:

burnout? i hardly know owt!

i’m actually so fucking scared with the rate that i’ve been writing that i’m just gonna drop at some point and find myself unable to update for like . a year. hhhhhhhhh anyways, soundwave! and jazz! what a fun duo. i wonder what they’re doing on the autobot base together :) wonder who else will be there 🤔

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