Persistently. Like a weed under pede. No matter how many times it was stepped on. For that, he’d at least give the planet some credit. But that’s about it. His target remained submerged underwater. That was the only detail that mattered to him. He belonged there. Though admittedly, Snaptrap spent his years in the bog as a mechling until he earned his title as commander.

Around him, his unit idled. Quiet for once, void of the usual bickering he was subjected to. Even Tentakil was silent—Snaptrap merely suspected the other was weaving something elaborate in the dark behind his smug stillness. Overbite stayed his twitchy self, smelling pressure changes before the sensors could register them. Muttering over static-warped sonar files was Nautilator, and by the rationed coolant was a sulking Skalor. Every bit as annoyed as he was that they’d been sent here to fight a what? A losing war. The sea bridge had mostly been another Decepticon’s idea. A pathway they could use to remain hidden just in case the worst-case scenario came to fruition.

He realized his crew’s unrest might have been tied to that, too. They were significant figures in battles that occurred beneath the waves, and now? They were forced to search for a way to hide. Snaptrap couldn't say for sure, but he knew a losing side when he saw one. And his Seacons—afraid of becoming irrelevant in this century-old war—knew, in some parts of themselves, that this was unavoidable. That none of the things they were promised to fight for were going to matter. And he’d write their supreme leader a strongly worded letter if he could, but not until he was sure his crew was safe with the coords. At the very least, they would be able to flee. Though divided, they might not be Piranacon once more.

Snaptrap’s focus returned to the descent vector. A sharp slant through Earth’s atmosphere, aimed like a harpoon straight into the largest trench in the planet’s ocean. A fall from orbit, to return to the depths. This would perhaps be their final reclamation, if their prior ones ever counted at all. His claws flexed, systems humming with the promise of cold pressure—the familiar grip of deep water crushing his frame in ways no land-based combat ever could. Water dulled nothing for him. It only amplified his protocols, because down there, he was the apex. Down there, the pressure drowned his enemies before they could scream.

“Ten kliks to atmospheric breach,” Seawing said over the comms.

Blinking once with narrowed optics, he expected darkness. Heat. Impact. And while those did ensue in the following moments—before the Seacon commander realized Earth's gravity had ripped the hull of their ship open—he didn’t expect songs. Eyes. And certainly not her.

You weren’t in any of the files. Weren’t even supposed to exist. But you did. He faced gods, monsters—and devoured them both. Yet he found himself clueless as to how to fight the taste of salt that lingered in his mouthplate days after you escaped. He did not know how to silence the echo of that voice. Because as brief as the meeting was, Snaptrap remembers everything clearly. Vividly. As if he could still feel the softness of your scales brushing against the living metal of his faceplate. Even now, when he closes his optics, the deep is no longer quiet.

• When you felt the surface water ripple with waves as something heavy sank further down, you had been so surprised to see that there were more of him. Towering, like sunken monuments that moved in predatory grace amongst the darkness. The archives mentioned these beings once. But almost all knowledge of them was lost during the Hidden Age. The surface was dangerous to be explored then—other mermaids had lost the ability to shift their tails from legs because of it. Scrolls told you they were capable of rendering your home to ash, something about a war—and that eventually became the reason why humans built their ride to get off Earth.

• Two others circled once they made contact with the seabed while your tail was still pinned in what felt like a clam’s grip. You’re pretty sure you just chipped off a scale with how much you’d thrashed—and still, the metal beast kept you in its unyielding hold. Watching you with sharp red hues. Glowing. A mask covered his face when the others finally got close enough, hiding those incredibly human-like features.

“Flesh. But not weak.”

A low growl, speaking in a language he thinks you can’t understand. Snaptrap imagines it must sound like metal just grinding against metal. “Pretty thing,” he notes absentmindedly, with a voice that reminded you so much of a submarine’s death-knell. Tentakil drifted near your side, murmuring something ancient to him in Cybertronian before he could think about snarling at the tendril-covered mech. Is she prey? Or a lure? Pit if he knew—but he doesn’t argue with the fact that you are, pretty much, a lure. A shiny, soft-looking one.

• Your heart pounds, burning under their gazes. Their presence suffocated you, unblinking—so you sang. More of a scream than a melody: sharp, pure, primal. It hurt them. And you could tell—it made them reel back. Not physically, but in something deeper inside them.

His SIC had to be held back by Tentakil, restraining the shark mech with tendrils while the sly octopod gave a strained laugh. Snaptrap recoils, your voice carving into their processors like seafoam into a ship’s hull. His hand spasming, and you bite him. Your denta may have been blunt, but they were strong enough to leave a small scratch in his coating—metal bent just barely under the force of the bite. His grip loosens and you dart away once more. Bolting successfully into a shaft of volcanic warmth rising from the trench vents, into a crevasse no mech could fit in.

Gone, like a ripple in the deep.