Chapter Text
Optimus' pedesteps were eerily silent as he made his way down the ramp with a large crate in servo. The thick voidsphere of the waystation ate the noise faster than it could be made, and instead, a strange sort of internal vibration was all that his audials could discern from the action. His pedes clung to the metal scaffolding that made up the floor. On stops as insignificant as this, where the planetoid was too small to create its own gravitational pull, but too far away from civilization to waste resources making an artificial gravity well, pede-mags were a constant. The almost-sticky sensation of fighting to lift one's pede was an irritant that Optimus wasn't sure he'd wish on his worst enemies.
The waypoint on Lumox II was a loose amalgamation of rods, pipes, and platforms. Its spacebridge sat atop a naturally formed mesa on what could be graciously considered an asteroid. The 'station' itself was a series of mezzanines connected by corrugated steel ramps and rails; the edges of which were taped up with bright yellow as a warning not to fall off and float listlessly into space. At approximately the midpoint of all the platforms was a single doorless, windowless box where a mech could stand—they would have to strap themself into a seat in order to sit due to the aforementioned lack of gravity—to work the controls for the spacebridge, which was actually in fair-enough shape. There were panels broken off from collisions from space debris, but it could still power up and transport ships if the correct keylog was present. Optimus' team had a universal key for all spacebridges in Autobot territory; a helpful thing to have, considering they were the spacebridge network's main—and only—repair team.
Optimus' derma thinned a little at the thought.
His team had been servicing spacebridges at a rapid pace for the last several vorns—aided by the constant harranging and cajoling of faceless, nameless occupational supervisors back on Cybertron. The suspicious lack of Decepticon activity was seen by many higher authorities as a grand opportunity to complete time-sensitive missions in deep space which had been previously put off. The risk of scouting and repair teams running into a Decepticon patrol had been low, but it never zero. Thus, the work queue never seemed to go down. Optimus would log in every orning to check the task list and would promptly lose himself under heaps of new worksites to service and items to complete. Waystations, docking stations, regional nexuses, loading, reloading, transporting, refueling, regauging, logging reports; shot after shot after shot, blasting Optimus and his team like rubble all over the known—and sometimes unknown—universe.
He could tell that they were getting tired. The good natured groaning and griping which had once filled their ship was now a sullen and tense silence. They drank the same stale, cold energon; they slept in the same unpadded berths; they sat in the same positions in the same chairs in the same viewdeck, day-in, day-out. Never changing, and never ending.
The hot, sickly flash of guilt settled more securely in Optimus' processor the longer he considered their situation. His team was a motley group of misfits, but truthfully, they were only being punished with this work because of Optimus. The reject. The washout. The friendkiller. If it weren't for Optimus' involvement, it was entirely possible that each and every one of these mechs would still be on Cybertron. They wouldn't be out in the nothingness, fixing failing machines and being hounded to traverse longer and farther from home; living an unspoken but understood exile.
Optimus allowed those noxious thoughts to swirl around his helm as he set the crate down and thumbed the latches. Out of his periphery sensors, a small flash caught his optic. His helm snapped in its direction, but it was just Bumblebee. The bright yellow mech had his back leaned against a safety rail, one pede carelessly kicked up off of the ground and crossed over the other. It appeared as though he were fidgeting with something in his servos, but from a distance, Optimus couldn't make it out.
Optimus opened a comm line—yelling was a useless endeavor in the vacuum of space—prepared to tell Bumblebee to get both pedes on the ground, when the toy in his servos caught a spark.
Finials jerked up in panic. Optimus released his mags, grabbed the lip of the crate and used it to launch himself towards Bumblebee. Bumblebee didn't appear to notice Optimus' oncoming approach as he continued to flick the toy—which Optimus could now recognize as some sort of flint—sending sparks fizzling and dying into the not-air.
:Bumeblebee!: Optimus barked over the comm line.
Bumblebee gave a full body flinch; his helm whipped back and forth like the prongs of a cleaner drone until he caught sight of Optimus' stony faceplates. The yellow mech chuckled—or least appeared to—and brought up both servos as if he could physically hold back the oncoming thundercloud. :Hey, Bossbot! Didn't see ya there—:
Optimus grabbed the rail and stuck himself back onto the platform. He crossed his arms and allowed the disappointment to leak into his field. :Bumblebee. You're on duty right now.: He gave a hard side-eye to the flint. :And you shouldn't be playing with that out here. There are pockets of oxygen on this asteroid. Setting yourself on fire isn't on the docket for today...:
Bumblebee's optics and helm rolled with exaggeration. :It's not that serious, Bossbot! Besides, I've been doing this for like, five kliks,: Optimus' frown deepened, :And nothing's happened yet!:
As if it had been politely waiting to be introduced, the universe extended a servo.
The flint gave a magnificent spark, and then let off a small combustion that engulfed Bumblebee's thumb. The mech's mouth opened noiselessly, but a sharp burst of static flew across the comm line. Optimus immediately grabbed the younger mech's servo with one of his own, his other one shooting out to grab the flint as it floated out of Bumblebee's grasp. He forced Bumblebee to uncurl his digits and he pinged Ratchet.
Thankfully, the damage was mostly aesthetic; the flare hadn't been hot enough to burn through Bumblebee's protoform, but it didn't exactly look painless.
Ratchet harrumphed as he clunked towards them, :All right, what'd the little glitchmouse do this time?:
:Minor burn,: Optimus reported duly, leading Bumblebee's singed servo into Ratchet's.
Bumblebee gritted his denta and whined, :I didn't do anything! And I'm fine!:
:I'll be the judge of that,: Ratchet challenged. He turned Bumblebee's servo from side to side, testing the give of the warped metal. Bumblebee made another staticky noise on the comm, which Ratchet ignored. He hummed. :You won't die, but you are an idiot.:
Bumblebee began to puff up, and Optimus stepped in.
:Let this serve as a lesson, Bumblebee.: Said bot pouted at him. :And… I'll be taking this,: Optimus flashed the confiscated flint at him.
Bumblebee's servo flew out of Ratchet's and waved around. :What!? You can't do that!... Can he?: He directed that last part at Ratchet, who simply grabbed his servo and kept buffing out the warp.
Optimus shook his helm and put the flint in his subspace. :It's your property, so you can have it once we're back on the ship, but it's a hazard out here. Once Ratchet's done fixing you up, help Prowl sort out all the damaged supplies,: he jerked his helm in Prowl's direction. :The faster we work, the faster we can get back on the ship, and the faster you can have your flint back,: he offered dryly.
Bumblebee's helm flopped around as he groaned over the comm, but Optimus just trudged back to the crate. He indulged himself in an exaggerated sigh as he made his way over; the fact that no one on the team would be able to hear it was one of the few benefits of being on such a small repair run.
Optimus unlatched the top of the crate and wedged the lid under one arm. He rifled through the materials inside and took out some ship-grade paneling; he put the lid back on and he made his way up to the topmost mezzanine, where Bulkhead was hard at work pounding panels into shape for the spacebridge with his hammer mod.
Optimus shifted the panels in his servos and began to tuck them under a small section of rebar jutting out of the railing. He rattled them a little to be certain they were wedged in enough that they wouldn't float off, and then stood back up. His helm fell back as his optics scanned around the spacebridge. There was only a small section of exposed machinery left. The panels he brought up would be just enough to get the job done; after that, they could clean up, reload the ship, and make their way to the next site.
He looked back down at Bulkhead and stepped closer. He gave the green mech a firm pat on the pauldron, and gave a lopsided smile, :Great work, Bulkhead. It looks like we're almost done here.:
Bulkhead took a nanoklik to process the compliment, then he lit up. A wide, goofy grin bloomed, shining and crystalline over his faceplates. He rubbed the back of his helm self-consciously and commed back, :Thanks, Bossbot! I just gotta shape up the last of those panels and we can bolt 'em on and we'll be all good to go!:
Optimus nodded, taking a look at the repairs that had already been done. :Nice timing. I think Bumblebee is getting a little stir crazy out here...:
Bulkhead's frame shook with a chuckle, Optimus could feel the vibrations of it through his pedes. :I don't blame him. Little guy's been bouncin' off the walls like a tumblerweed. I think he just misses home.: Bulkhead's tone was… Nostalgic.
Optimus' finials perked. He turned slowly and looked at Bulkhead.
Bulkhead stared at the panel under his servos. :We've been out here a real long time. Don't get me wrong, repairing spacebridges is a dream come true,: he grimaced, waving his hammer servo, :But the only messages I send my folks these orns is about how much shanix I'm sending back… There's not really a lot else to talk about. We don't do anything else worth talkin' about out here.: Bulkhead gave Optimus a dejected look. :I've been on long missions before, but this one really takes the oilcake…!: His pauldrons drooped comically low. :Haven't we earned a shoreleave…?:
Optimus' spark spun and clicked in its casing. To be perfectly honest… He wasn't sure.
Certainly, his team had worked hard, and they deserved to be rewarded for putting up with the conditions they'd been dealing with thus far. The number of times his team had been held at blaster point, threatened by pirates and narrowly escaped mass events was staggering; and that was on top of the ludicrous work schedule outlined on their task list.
The matter of the fact was that Optimus didn't know if he was allowed to go back to Cybertron.
At least out here, running from mission to mission, he could pretend that everything was okay. The thought of returning to Cybertron and being turned away… It made his tanks clench up.
Optimus took in a sharp invent, then exvented slowly. He braced himself, then met Bulkhead's gaze, so unusually serious. Even if he wasn't certain that he would be accepted back, he had a duty to his team. They had a right to go back to their home planet. If he had to go through the mortifying, terrifying ordeal of being turned away from his own planet…
Then he would do so.
Optimus nodded once, with bravado he didn't quite feel. :You have. Once we go back to the ship we can have a talk and see how we all feel about putting in a couple decaorns to go back to Cybertron and depressurize, all right?:
Bulkhead's grin returned threefold, and the relief of seeing it made the spark-consuming dread a bit more tolerable.
Suddenly, a sensation like static raced along Optimus' lines. Without fully knowing why, his armor began to bristle defensively. He saw Bulkhead's elated expression turn into confusion, and felt the squeeze of a comm line opening a nanoklik before—
:Optimus!:
It was Prowl.
Optimus spun around.
The tinny vibrations that were making his plating flare out revealed themselves to be the humming of high-powered thrusters. There, hung in the soundless skyscape of space like an ominous piece of art was a small behemoth of a scouting ship. It was done up in a muted, dark color, and it was clear that it had been modded to near-indiscernibility. There were only a couple of reasons to refashion a ship like that…
The mercenary ship—for that's all it could be—hovered menacingly over the lower platforms. Optimus slowly reached back, intending to grab his battleaxe, when a small laser light pierced through the darkness and shone onto one of the platforms. It jerked wildly, going back and forth like a mechanimal, searching for something. It moved quickly, but with purpose, all the way down to Ratchet.
Immediately, the laser widened, and the light—the tractor beam—began to pull Ratchet up from the platform.
The medic widened his stance, clearly rerouting full power to his mags. A moment later there was a jolt, and then Ratchet's pedes popped off of the corrugated ramp.
Optimus disabled his own mags and threw himself onto the rail. Before he lunged, he saw Bumblebee transform and attempt to speed to Ratchet's position. With his gravs active only in his pedes, the acceleration of his wheels only resulted in him spinning wildly, after-over-bumper, while floating up off of the platform. Optimus cursed, and he swiftly changed his positioning. He shot down the mezzanine like a blaster bolt. He reached Bumblebee and used him as a springboard, launching Bumblebee down and himself up.
He hadn't been fast enough.
Optimus watched Ratchet disappear into the ship and the port door spiral shut behind him. With not a nanoklik to waste, it blasted off. The comm line between Ratchet and Team Prime closed as the distance between them increased.
Flipping around, Optimus shot a grappler down onto one of the rails and pulled himself in. Prowl, Bulkhead, and Bumblebee were gathered together, their frames tense.
:They just took Ratchet!: Bumblebee yelled incredulously over the comm.
:We saw,: Prowl growled witheringly. He turned to Optimus. :What's the plan?:
Bulkhead jumped in indignantly, :We have to go after them! We can't just let them take Ratchet!:
Optimus ran past them, :We're not going to. Everyone back to Omega!: He dashed up the ramp, and he could feel the vibration of their hurried steps behind him. :I'm on nav. Prowl, take shields. Bumblebee and Bulkhead, tighten everything down and get on turrets.: The ramp closed behind them, and the room depressurized. He turned around as they all entered the ship. "Ratchet's safety is our priority. Don't shoot unless shot at, understood?"
"Got it, Bossbot!" Bumblebee chimed as he and Bulkhead started swiping loading belts over all the cargo.
"On it!"
Optimus and Prowl quickly made their way to the bridge. They flung themselves into their respective chairs and strapped in; their servos flew over the controls with purpose. Systems: check. Breaks: check. Fuel gauge: check. Thrust: check. Omega shuddered, then stabilized. Optimus cranked up power to the engines, and they coasted forward. After making sure everything was truly in order, he commanded the landing servos to retract and he aimed them in the direction of the mercenary ship. Omega flew forward, moving with tangible effect through the voidsphere.
Without turning from the viewport, Optimus barked, "Two layers on shields, Prowl."
Prowl complied, and the shield burned away the usual space debris, clearing their view.
It was a tense klik as Optimus and Prowl waited for a signal. Then, a small ping on the radar. Optimus angled Omega to follow the alert; he strained his optics trying to find the shape of the other ship against the twinkling blackness. His optics recalibrated; near simultaneously, Optimus noticed an artificial silhouette against the red-blue-pinks of the cosmos and Prowl wordlessly pointed in its direction. He felt the slightest prickle of relief as the ship formed into something more cognizable, which disappeared as panels folded off the back of the ship and defensive cannons jerked into place. Omega's sensors pinged a warning that a nearby weapons' system was targeting them.
Scrap.
Optimus kept pace with the other ship. He reached over the console and aimed a call at them. The other ship promptly disconnected the line. The cannons began to glow.
"Prowl, full shields!" Optimus commanded, and a barrage of turretfire skirted along Omega's hull. The shields deflected most of the shots, but a couple got through before Prowl could get them to full power. Optimus distractedly swiped away the damage warnings—nothing was on fire and none of the internal flaring had been breached—and opened a comm to Bulkhead and Bumblebee, :Don't fire!:
As expected, the attack lasted only a moment; a warning more than anything.
He tried hailing the ship and was again ignored.
"It doesn't seem as if they're keen on having a conversation," Prowl said flatly. Having known Prowl for so long, Optimus could just barely make out the seething anger under those tightly controlled glyphs, and he grimaced. For a ninjabot, Prowl was notoriously bad at tolerating inaction…
"Keep it in neutral, Prowl. If we attack the ship, we could also hurt Ratchet," he said, allowing a sliver of sternness to color his glyphs.
Prowl made no verbal acknowledgement, but his servos did readjust on the controls.
Optimus stared hard at the other ship. They were keeping pace with it—neither falling behind nor getting closer, and that seemed to stop them from shooting. Of course, considering the ship's captain was likely a bounty hunter, there was a strong likelihood that the absence of that canonfire was more to conserve energy than to keep the peace.
Optimus motioned for Prowl to lower the shields again as his optics scanned along the other ship. It was a muted purple, but color didn't necessarily denote faction when it came to neutrals—which most bounty hunters were. Now that they were level with it, it was clear that most of the changes made to it were broadside; added paneling for protection and small geometric protrusions which broke up the lines of the ship, which would make it difficult to automatically target. The back of the ship had the most offensive abilities; in addition to the blaster cannons, Optimus could barely make out the glint of specialized targeting sensors honed in on them.
Testing a theory, he slowly drifted Omega to the left.
The trackers followed them.
He tilted his helm to the side, and finally, his optics swept over the top and bottom of the ship. The top was bare except for the antennae of a long range comms system. It was done in a vibrant yellow, and Optimus would bet his own battleaxe that there were deflection shields all around it, ready to redirect a shot back to its original sender. The bottom of the ship held nothing special. Two stabilizing dorsal panels jutted from the metal hull, and one of the landing servos was still sticking out of the ship, as if stuck in place. Optimus stared at it. He leaned over the console and cycled his optics. They whirred in the quiet of the cockpit.
Optimus ignored the inquisitive touch of Prowl's field as he trained his optics on the area around the landing servo.
A small rock pinged harmlessly against the bottom of the ship.
Another.
Optimus unbuckled himself.
There was no light refraction at the point of impact.
"Optimus…?" Prowl finally voiced his confusion.
Optimus glanced at Prowl, the mech's visor couldn't hide the furrow of his brow ridge, and he motioned to his newly vacated seat. "I need you to take over nav. I have an idea."
Prowl's helm quirked.
Within a klik, Omega began to rise, and the other ship's weapons tracked them cautiously.
They made a clean quarter-circle around the periphery of their previously established safe-zone, going slow the whole time. Then, they moved in another quarter circle to the left side of the ship; its turrets stayed locked on them.
Behind the safety of his shield, Optimus let slip a small grin. He held tightly to the crumpled spacebridge paneling he was using as cover as he floated closer and closer to the mercenary ship. He used controlled bursts from his axe to propel himself forward. His optics squinted against the cold of space as he raised his helm and checked to make sure none of the turrets left Omega to track him. None had. Still, Optimus remained vigilant as he got to the belly of the ship. He holstered his axe and reached for the landing servo. His cables tensed.
Nothing happened.
Optimus discarded the paneling and quickly clambered up the landing servo and into the internals of the ship. It was a middling size, so the insulation layer wasn't thick, but it was enough for a mech of his general proportions to squeeze past wires and conduits and into the guts of the ship. His derma twitched as he imagined the verbal tirade he would receive from Ratchet about electrical safety and the crush limits of his armor.
Once Optimus got to the top frame, he carefully got his axe back out and allowed it to power up in his servos. He then pushed the energy blade into the panel above him, melting and slicing into it. Micron by micron, the axe moved. He strained against the vibration of the blade, and disregarded the stinging burn of it on his servos as he maneuvered it to cut a hole substantial enough to fit his pauldron width. Task completed, he powered it off and waited for the blade to lose its glow. He would need stealth in this operation. He felt along the molten edged and pulled down. The paneling creaked and bent, and Optimus felt himself lift up and into the ship as the voidsphere leaked in.
As soon as his pedes touched down, he crouched low. His exvents sounded loud, even behind his battlemask, and it took a nanoklik for his optics to adjust. His helm swept from side to side, slow and methodical. There were several upturned crates, metal meshes and steel rods strewn about as if there had been a small skirmish. However, there was no one around to blame the mess on. Optimus stood slowly, and made a full turn. This room must have been the cargo hold. He could faintly make out the outline of an escape pod at the very back of the room and filed the information away for later as he turned back around. Despite his straining audials, he couldn't hear any alarms going off. He wanted to believe that his intrusion hadn't been noticed, but it was better safe than sorry. Optimus adjusted his grip on the axe and moved forward. His steps were soft and swift as he padded to the open doorway and peaked out into the hall. It was brightly lit, and there were three doors, all closed, with one door on either side and a door at the end of the hall leading to what must be the bridge. He waited for a sign of life, but heard nothing.
Keeping low, Optimus moved into the hall, and then put his audial against one of the doors. Nothing. He tried the access panel, and the door obligingly slid open. He winced at the slight grating noise, but when he looked inside, there was no one there to notice it. The room appeared to be a habitation suite, a small one. A single berth with a couple of metal meshes was bolted to the floor. A desk sat next to the berth, also bolted to the floor. It was so empty that it could be called pristine if not for the layer of dust. This was likely a space that didn't get used often.
Optimus pulled away and snuck to the other side of the hall. He put his audial to the door, but same as the first door, there were no sounds coming from this room. He touched the access panel, and it opened. He peeked inside. The lights were off, but there was no space for a mech to hide. There were weapons lining every available space on all four walls and overfilled cabinets full of datapads and chits of various shapes and sizes. Optimus' nasal ridge crinkled under his mask as he made note of the intermingled Autobot and Decepticon credits. This mercenary was a mech of opportunity, it seemed.
Optimus raised himself to his full height and turned towards the final door. There was only one more place that Ratchet and his captor could be.
With swift steps, Optimus stalked to the front of the ship.
He steeled himself, pressed his servo to the access panel, and let the door fly open.
Optimus registered a figure in deep greys and greens and lunged forward. In a nanoklik, his axe was raised over the mercenary, and he used the blunt end to crack across the mech's faceplates. The mech went sprawling out of his chair and onto the floor.
Optimus leaped atop him; when the frazzled mech attempted to strike him with a clumsy fist, Optimus took a pair of stasis cuffs out of his subspace and cuffed the mercenary's right servo. The mech's optics fizzled with panic as a neutralizing jolt went through his frame. Optimus was able to grab the mech's other servo and lock that one up as well. The mech's frame went completely still. His optics blazed with fury, but he was unable to move.
In the next moment, a form wriggled its way out from underneath the ship's console directly beside them. Optimus' optics cycled wide.
"Ratchet…!?"
The medic glared up at him witheringly; he'd been tied up with some wire cords and silenced with a transport mask. Optimus was awash with relief—or at least that was the excuse he gave himself for nearly laughing. He cleared his vocalizer under the proceeding glare and pulled Ratchet up from the floor. He began to undo the knots in the cords. As he unwound them from Ratchet's frame, Ratchet reached up and unclasped the mask from his faceplates. He gave an exaggerated invent and turned around. His derma was stiff as he put his servos on his waist plates and grouched, "About time you showed up, kid. Bein' on that floor was killin' my backstrut…" He then began to twist and turn his upper half, and several worrying pops and clicks sounded from inside his frame.
"Good to have you back, Ratchet," Optimus huffed charitably. He left Ratchet to rub out the kinks in his protoform as he took hold of the pacified mercenary and tucked him under the console—payback for botnapping his medic. He stood back up and searched the primary viewscreen for the comms system; the sooner he could hail Omega, the sooner he and Ratchet could get out of there.
Browplates furrowed as he scanned his optics over the comm unit. Something tickled at Optimus' processor as he looked at the topmost recent message sent out. It was a long distance databurst.
Spark spinning, Optimus navigated to the message.
Inside was a set of coordinates.
"We have to go!" Optimus exclaimed. He grabbed Ratchet's pauldron, but before they could take a step, a rumble went through the entire ship. Behind them, the console began to incessantly ping with an energy-based proximity alert.
There was someone on the ship.
With his hold on Ratchet's pauldron, Optimus maneuvered both of them off to the side and pushed Ratchet behind him firmly. He brought up his axe and turned it to full power. The droning hum filled his audials and spark with a measure of comfort. He clenched the handle firmly with both servos, and widened his stance.
Heavy, purposeful pedesteps came steadily closer. The bridge shook with the weight of them, and Optimus let his secondary and tertiary battle protocols take over in preparation; his fuel gauge immediately dropped.
He opened a channel to Ratchet, and commanded without uncertainty, :When you see your chance to run, run.:
He could feel Ratchet's field lash out against him, but he closed the line and his battlemask as a servo appeared on the frame of the door.
Thick, black, clawed digits curled around the edge, hard enough to warp the metal. A titanous form ducked under the frame, all sleetmetal grey with deep red accents. The frame's metal was scuffed and scratched, but clean enough to make out the forge lines criss-crossing across their expanses. As the mech stood back to full height, luminous crimson optics unwreathed themselves from the shadows of their spark-pale faceplates, followed by a harsh, downturned lip, and a face that had been burned like a brand into every Autobot's core processing units immediately upon activation...
Megatron.
The feeling that submerged Optimus wasn't unlike that of finding yourself coming into full lucidity while dreaming. Within the span of a nanoklik, he felt himself swim through the incredulous fog; his processor fought to take hold of the mesh covering the image of the mech before him. Megatron stood shrouded and nearly indiscernible, but as the haze was pulled back, Optimus saw with frightening clarity—a nightmare, as terrifying and beautiful as sailing along the edge of a cosmic singularity. The entire room seemed to warp around him, spiraling into a single choke point, broken only by the undeniable mass of his body; contiguous to the universe itself.
In the next nanoklik, Optimus watched as that blackhold of a mech raised one arm as if in slow motion, and brought up a cannon. He stared blankly into the mouth of the barrel, its teeth glittering with charge. Optimus' optics dilated; his vents, controlled and slow, sounded unbearably quiet under its metallic whine.
Then, suddenly, the universe snapped back into place as if it had never changed at all. Optimus came back to himself with a fully charged fusion cannon aimed directly at his face.
Optimus threw his axe. Megatron's other servo raised to smack it away, and while his optics tracked it, Optimus hooked the cannon with his grapplers. He ducked under the initial blast, then shot forward on the line. His pedes were on top of the cannon by the time Megatron batted it away. Optimus lunged and caught it. Using his entire frame, he spun, swinging the blade at Megatron's throat.
Megatron effortlessly dodged the strike.
His optics narrowed in consideration.
Optimus' pedes touched the ground, then slid back. His frame pinged with stress and heat, but he ignored the discontent of his body and readjusted his grip on the battleaxe. He tensed as Megatron's free arm rose up and over his back plating, grabbing hold of a hilt peeking out from behind his pauldrons.
Optimus optics flashed with panic. He hurriedly wound back and swung, but his hesitance cost him a clean hit.
The axe and sword met with a ringing clatter, and sparks flew at their contact point. Optimus strained against it, but Megatron simply shoved him back with the sword. Optimus stumbled, but regained his footing in time to skid out of the way of a powerful jab. The force of the movement was palpable. As it retreated, the air followed, refilling the vacuum with a biting breeze.
He began to sidestep and block with his axe. The blows rained down on him like acid; shallow gashes began to appear on his arms, his thighs, his chest, as he's spared death by the slimmest of margins.
At one point, he ducked under another powerful swipe, and he could feel the sword pass the breadth of a microfilament over his helm fins.
Optimus gritted his denta. If they kept going like this, he would slip up, and if he slipped up, he would die. He had to put some distance between them. On the next block, he lifted his pedes as his and Megatron's weapons met, allowing Megatron to push him back a fair distance.
He only had a moment to savor the breathing space before Megatron brought the cannon back up.
Frag it all.
Optimus transformed; his tires squealed as they fought for traction, but he would be faster in vehicle mode than he would on pede. He swerved around, side to side, and over the full length of the bridge.
As he drifted between shots of cannonfire, he registered a flash of white and red plating. He opened his comm and shouted through it, :Get out!:
:Like slag I will!: Ratchet yelled back, and Optimus's gears grinded. He jerked his axels to the side as he nearly fell into one of the holes blasted into the floor by the energy blasts. At this point, the entire deck was potted with smoking craters, and the metal was jagged and warped along the edges. The threat to Optimus' tires was a serious one, and he couldn't afford to split his concerns between them, the cannonfire, and Ratchet.
:I can't fight Megatron and keep an optic on you!: Optimus begged through the comm. :Go to the cargo hold and get into the escape pod!:
Ratchet cursed faintly across the line. Optimus was in the process of drifting through a full donut when Ratchet finally ground out, :Scrap and scrud… Fine—but don't get yourself slagged, you understand me!? Bein' a hero don't mean slag if you're dead!:
Optimus swallowed the reflexive hurt and barked a sardonic laugh. :Not trying to be one... Now go!:
He closed the comm and drew Megatron's attention to the opposite side of the room. He'd just about figured out the amount of time he needed between each shot to move out of the way (three and a quarter nanokliks, which—while not a lot—was enough to keep himself alive). In one of those intervals, Optimus transformed back into rootmode. He leapt forward with his axe in his servos.
Optimus purposefully overextended as he swung for Megatron, promising a clean hit to his own middle. Spotting the glint of Megatron's optics, Optimus could tell he fell for the feint. He jumped before Megatron's strike could land, and he propelled himself up using the sword as his springboard. His axe raised over his helm and sped downward towards Megatron's. At the last moment, the cannon appeared between them. Optimus' axe scored a line down its length.
In a flash, Megatron's cannon arm swatted him to the ground. Optimus hit the floor hard; his frame bounced after the impact, and the second drop didn't feel any kinder. He had only a moment to blink the stars from his vision before he caught them glinting off of the sword poised above him.
Optimus rolled out of the way, and there was a sound like shearing metal as the sword stuck itself into the internals of the deck.
Optimus flipped into a crouch, and with a wild, heaving swing, his axe glanced across the hilt of the sword, severing three of Megatron's digits clean off.
A flick of energon splattered over Optimus' face.
Megatron roared furiously. His other servo snapped out, lifting and slamming Optimus into the floor. The impact stole the equilibrium from his processor, and he felt the room spinning.
His vents came in panicked wheezes as his torsal plating warped and his windshield glass began to fracture and crack. Megatron leaned over him and snarled, pulling his derma back and revealing rows of sharpened teeth. His servos flexed, promising to crush him to death unless something was done, and quickly.
Optimus' arms desperately flew up. The nozzles on his forearm clicked out, and he sprayed Megatron in the face with an entire canister of pentane.
Megatron hissed as he was splashed by the fumey chemical solvent.
The mech's perfectly sculpted faceplates slowly screwed up, as if he couldn't decide whether to be incredulous or indignant about being sprayed by cleaning fluid.
Before he could make his decision, Optimus brought out the flint he took from Bumblebee, sparked it with his teeth, and tossed it up.
Megatron reeled backward, but the flame made contact with his chest. The liquid catalyzed with a furious burst of light—combusting across Megatron's chest, neck, and face paneling with the force of an incendiary round. Megatron cried out in genuine surprise in pain; his right optic burst into shards and tinkled like rubies across the floor. His servos—what was left of them, anyway—moved as if to pat out the fire, but it was already dying down.
Optimus flipped over, frame screaming and grinding in defiance, and dashed for the hallway.
There was a loud growl, and Optimus was horrified to feel the too-quick pedefalls of the larger mech right behind him. He kept running, his spark thrummed in time with the steps of his soon-to-be killer. Quickly, he took aim with his battleaxe. He launched it at the access panel and hit true. It sparked and fizzled, and then the door began to close. Optimus slid sideways, barely squeezing through the gap.
The thud of a heavy body colliding with the door was enough to get Optimus to transform and peel down the corridor. Megatron's servos were breaching the gap and tearing the door from its rails by the time Optimus had reached the cargo bay.
He didn't slow as he crossed the threshold. At the back of the hold was Ratchet, sitting inside the escape pod. Ratchet jerked up, optics locked on something behind Optimus, and he shouted aloud, "Hurry, kid!"
Optimus drove straight into the pod, transforming as he did. The moment he was in, Ratchet punched the launch button. Optimus was tossed against the closed door of the pod; his helm cracked against the wall, but it was a better alternative to being caught.
Ratchet unbuckled himself and helped Optimus off of the floor. He tried to wave off the other mech as he turned to look out of the small viewport on the door of the escape pod. Slowly shrinking into the distance, Optimus could faintly make out the silhouette of Megatron. His single optic blazed red against the black of his body in the lit doorway, one servo was on the frame of it, and the other was clenched in a fist at his side; energon trickling drop-by-drop to the floor.
But he didn't follow.
Optimus reached up and stiffly adjusted the brim of his helmcap.
"That was a stupid stunt to pull," Ratchet started. "I would've expected that kind of behaviour from Bumblebee, not from you, Prime." Optimus grimaced out of the side of his mouth, and Ratchet popped the dent out of his helm with his mags. "A smarter mech would have left an old scrap heap like me behind…" There was an odd waver in the mech's voice, and Optimus turned around to look at him. Ratchet met his optics, then cleared his vocalizer and looked away. "... Guess I got lucky that you've got more brave than brains..."
Optimus' optics reset. He exvented, then smiled. He patted Ratchet's pauldron good-naturedly, "You're welcome, Ratchet."
Ratchet grumbled again, but by then, Omega was upon them. Prowl must have navigated the ship to intercept them. The pod was swallowed into the cargo hold. They waited for the docking ramp to close after them and the room to depressurize before exiting.
The main hangar door opened and Team Prime burst into the room. Bulkhead tripped as he ran, nearly taking Prowl with him, but Bumblebee escaped the waving arms and legs. He took a running leap at Ratchet, and both of them fell backwards onto the ground—one laughing and one shouting indignantly. It calmed Optimus' spark to see his team whole again.
"You got Ratchet back!" Bulkhead exclaimed from his place on the floor.
"We received an anomalous energy alert," Prowl intoned, arms crossed. "We weren't sure what was happening inside the ship…"
It had been phrased as a statement but meant as a question. Optimus considered it, then explained what he could. "I managed to get to Ratchet, but before we could leave, Megatron ambushed us. I managed to distract him while Ratchet prepped an escape pod."
"Megatron!? Like the Megatron!? How!?" Bumblebee shrieked.
Ratchet tossed Bumblebee off of himself with a grunt. He stood, knees creaking, and put both servos on his waist plating. "It ain't a question of how!" He turned to Optimus with a darkened brow. "I'll bet my aluminium alloy actuators that the Victory's nearby… From what I recall, the slaggin' thing's so big that it's got a fully functioning groundbridge to move all those grunts around." The Victory being the commandship of the Decepticons.
Optimus' spark dropped. Before he could say anything, Bulkhead scratched his helm thoughtfully. "But… groundbridges are short-distance. You can only get really far with a spacebridge."
"Precisely," Ratchet said with the same deadpan severity. "It can't be any farther than five kliks out from us... If we want to avoid the comfort and pleasantries of Decepticon holding, then we need to scram. Now."
Optimus' optics narrowed uneasily, but he brought up a servo and gestured the team out of the cargo hold. "Okay, to your stations. We can come back to the site once the danger's passed."
One by one, everyone made their way out of the hold.
On the bridge, Ratchet peeled back Omega's controls and reoriented the ship. He cranked up the thrust, and off they went. The ship hummed loudly, sailing them far away from the Decepticons, and Megatron.
Optimus stared out of the viewport and crossed his arms.
His servos were still shaking.