Chapter Text
Mechs scrambled about madly amidst the chaos, scuffed metal frames bathed in the warm pulsing red throb of the emergency lights, while the sirens blared and droned out the curses of anger, shouted orders, and cries of confusion and panic. Explosions could be heard above them and felt through the floors, and the fear laced cries rose and fell with the tremors of the walls themselves as the aftershocks were felt even in the deepest depths of the bunkers.
This wasn't like other attacks.
Other attacks you heard the war above, but didn't feel it pulsing through the bunkers like a living being intent on swallowing them. Casualties were those who chose to fight, or who were foolish enough to stray too far from the bunkers to make it back in time when the first proximity sirens went off.
This time their safe niche buried deep beneath the surface of Iacon wasn't so safe. This time the dark wasn't warm and comforting. It didn't shroud them from the attacks like a warm forcefield. This time it threatened to never let them leave and brought up terrifying recharge tales of Unicron gobbling up mechs by the thousands.
This time Galvatron was psychotically intent on deactivating them all.
It pierced him with the irony. Mechs had finally felt safe enough to return to Cybertron. The Prime had returned. Mechs wanted to rebuild. There had been beautiful speeches given for the masses on protection and safety, that they should think about the future and families and actually living again. Mechs had cheered and flocked to Iacon, not so much because they believed the words or the mechs spouting them, but because they so desperately wanted to believe that they could come home and that it would be true. Life could finally go on.
He wasn't one of the mechs who had returned. He'd always been here, albeit in a very sheltered position as Magnus' scout.
Wheelie pressed his back against the command room wall, feeling ridiculously small and helpless as Ultra Magnus barked orders. Or at least, he thought he was barking orders. His mouth moved, and the mechs closer to him bolted about with an intensity that belied the fear he himself felt. They were driven by the authority of command and blindly trusted that doing as their commander said would bring them out of this alive.
Scouts didn't get that confidence. Scouts were drilled incessantly to hide, never be spotted, never be heard, and always come back without anyone ever knowing you were there.
That meant no heavy plating to weigh you down and increase the sound every movement made. No weapons to risk dropping or creating any type of detectable energy signature that might give you away. No powerful turbo charged engines to roar to life with unbridled speed when you drove off.
Light. Compact. Quiet. That was the definition of a scout.
Nothing like the frontliners who bolted about with grimly narrowed optics. They had plating thicker than his entire arm to protect them from blows, and weapons that would leave no trace of his ever having been there. They gobbled up their orders and flung themselves into the melee because even if they wanted to hide, they never would be able to. Magnus was their commander. His job was to know how to win. Following him would keep them alive. That was the very spark beat of a frontliner.
But they hadn't even seen this coming.
One minute Blaster had been chatting with Jazz over a secure comm line as the shuttle approached, and the next the line had gone quiet.
Just interference from the moon my mechs.
Nothing to worry about my mechs.
But Jazz had seemed to stare just a little too intently at the view screen when the shuttle finally came within visual range. Just a little too quietly.
Magnus had noticed too. That was the last thing he had really noticed. Magnus crossing the room and leaning over Jazz's shoulder to stare at the shuttle.
Then the whole world seemed to rock from the explosions. The security feeds across the compound showed the horrified expressions of mechs in their final kliks, their faces contorting into impossible configurations of pain as plasma blasts tore through plating like paper. Even then, the empty shells seemed to stumble a few more steps before they would crumple to the ground or be slagged by another explosion.
It was almost as if they didn't quite believe they were deactivated, and that maybe, if they kept trying, it would not be true.
One of the wreckers streaked across one screen, vanished from view, and reappeared on the next screen, this time a severed arm in one hand. Wielded like a club, he slammed it into another con's head, and only then was the decepticon brand visible on the shoulder.
The second con crumpled to the ground to join his armless brother in the well.
He should know their names. It was wrong not to know their names. Not knowing their names was like dismissing them as drones, and the thought of his own frame being discarded like a nameless drone terrified him beyond words. He should look away. He should turn and take shelter in the lower bunker with the other non-combat mechs. He should do anything but stare at these screens that flashed death and destruction so casually.
No one should be that nonchalant about death.
Two front liners he recognized from Tyger Pax darted across screens. In and out of smoke and fire, here on this screen one klik, on another the next. They were a red and yellow blur smeared with the blues and purples of spilled energon and what struck him just then was that he never actually saw them in combat with a decepticon.
He only saw less and less of the yellow and red, and more of the blue and purple.
/I have a visual... gonna try and get in through the upper docking hatch.../
Slingshot and Silverbolt had caught up to the shuttle which was careening full speed in descent, no apparent pilot at the helm. They obstinately ignored the orders screamed back at them to abandon their rescue attempt and get back to the fight to save mechs who could still be saved.
More destruction. More deactivation. Not just good mechs. Great mechs. The kind that meant the difference between winning and losing. Not mechs like him. Mechs like Kup and Magnus. Mechs who were the subjects in history, the shapers of the future, and the navigators of the course of wars. They wrote the future from the adversities of the present instead of just trying to survive them.
Another explosion, and his HUD briefly flashed a warning about an EM flux that he didn't have time to read before everything went dark.
"SLAG OFF!" Slingshot screamed into his comm before he cut the lines. No one would tell him who was and wasn't worth rescuing. Ever.
Especially now.
He was supposed to have been on that shuttle. He was supposed to have been to one to have gone as backup air support just in case. At the last minute though Hoist had requested Superion's assistance with some riskier than usual demolition.
Springer had volunteered to take his place.
He had protested, but Silverbolt had agreed that it was the best use of their resources. Springer could provide aerial backup if needed, and Superion would muscle through what only a gestalt team could. So Springer had taken his place. Instead of him lying in there victim to whatever fate they had shared, it was Springer.
/Going for it.../
Slingshot swung down to a position slightly below the shuttle in case his brother needed a rescue. Completely unnecessary as Silverbolt timed his transformation sequence flawlessly, and landed in his root mode in a kneeling position on the roof, bracing himself against the wind with one hand as he struggled to open the emergency hatch.
/Running out of runway bro.../
/The fragging piece of scrap is jammed... New plan.../
Slingshot swung back up and above them, and watched as Silverbolt stood carefully, seeming to surf upon the top of the shuttle. The team leader's massive frame was so comically disproportionate to the transport that Slingshot nearly laughed. Silverbolt meanwhile had dug his large black fingers into the shuttle's plating, gouging deep holes in it, and used that handhold to forcibly pry the hatch up from the hull.
/Get in!/
He didn't bother answering through the gestalt link. He was already feeling anxious with his other brothers' nervous tension urging him on from behind them in Iacon. The three of them had wordlessly nudged the two of them towards the damaged shuttle in silent support before they had darted out to join in the incoming fray.
Air Raid and Fireflight were struggling to contain their excitement from the bond and he could almost feel Skydive's reprimanding gaze trying futilely to remind them to curb their glee at the adrenaline rush. Gestalt teams didn't get to participate in war as their separate units all that often, and Superion wasn't as explosive as those two loose lug nuts would have liked. It was win-win as far as those two were concerned: let their brothers save a couple mechs they all really liked and respected while they got to really cut loose and blow slag the frag up to pit and back.
Instead, he simply wagged his wings at Silverbolt in acknowledgement, angled his nose up to gain a bit more altitude then dove through the hatch, transforming in a blur of steel and crimson as he went.
The jet landed on his feet with a solid thud, and felt the shuttle rock in response.
/Still here. Gonna 'form and line up my hatch./
/Roger that./
With the knowledge that his brother was still secure on the roof, he turned his attention back to the battle scarred interior. The air was thick with acrid black smoke, and golden sparks hissed and spat as they burst out in sporadic showers from the darkness.
His spark twinged as he cautiously stepped forward into the black. Vents hissed pressurized air at him, and electricity crackled over smashed panels as he passed. It was a flying-
He stumbled and yelped as he stopped his fall by grabbing ahold of a scalding panel, searing two joints together from the heat.
"Fraggin'..." The string of expletives died in his throat though.
He had tripped over a body.
A body missing half its torso.
The paint was black and charred from having been near one of the panels when it must have exploded, and his spark fluttered coldly in his chamber as he reached down and gingerly rolled the mech over to see who it was.
A purple emblem greeted him and he vented in relief.
From the looks of the rest of him, Prowl's acid pellets had gotten him before the console's explosion had. Tough luck for him, the rotten fragger had it coming.
He turned and stepped forward again, gingerly toeing the debris on the floor to the side to check for other bodies. Another con... part of the wall the cons had burst in through... some... thing... maybe it had once been a mech but now he couldn't tell and was afraid what he might find out about it if he stopped to really examine it... A mini-con...
"No fraggin' way..." He leaned forward to identify the little bot and jumped as his brother's voice startled him.
/Running out of time 'Shot... Find any survivors or what?/
/Not yet... but I think Soundwave actually left one of his cassettes behind./
/... No fraggin' way!/
/It's not pit slag bro... Little guy's right here... Can't be one of Blasters... They all stayed home./ Slingshot leaned down and nudged the little bot, then started as doing so brought a familiar shade of red into view.
/'Shot, what's wrong?/ Air Raid's tone was sharp as he shoved at the bond, the tumultuous wave of his brother's reaction slamming into them all despite the distance.
/'Bolt, where is he? What happened? Has he been hurt?/ Skydive's nudge was laced with concern.
/No clue... I can't get the hatch open enough to get through.../
/I'm heading over to you two./
/NO! Don't! Just stay there... I'm coming out.../ Slingshot hastily shoved his brothers back out of his private space. He had to think... He had to figure this out... He had to...
/Come ON 'Shot! This coffin's going down!/
Silverbolt was about to release his docking clamps and transform to try and find another way in when he felt his brother fling something into his hatch.
/GO!/
His clamps unlocked and Silverbolt lurched. His brother hadn't transformed but was hanging one handed from his docking clamp. /What the frag are you doing?!/
/Gun it. Ratchet. NOW./
His brother was blocking them all. Silverbolt frowned and gave him an angry shove before gunning his thrusters as high as they would go. At least if he wanted a medic then someone had to be alive.
Some one.
There wasn't enough weight to account for more than one mech. The gestalt leader clamped down tightly on that thought to keep it from spilling out across the link. Their brothers didn't need to be distracted with fears over who had and hadn't made it out.
/Just stop squirming... You're throwing off my balance./
The auxiliary medbay was in chaos when the three remaining arial bots straggled in. Air Raid was limping between his brothers from a torn aileron, yet still swung his head about scouring the far corners of the crowded room for his other two brothers. They all did. An aide waved them towards the left and they joined the large group of bots waiting to be triaged. Most were survivable scrapes and bangs at this point.
They all tried not to look at the lumps hidden beneath a white sheet scattered here and there. Or at least not longer than was needed to determine if it was a winged frame or not.
They were all poor sparks who had never stood a chance.
Mechs darted here and there with cobbled together first aid kits that they used to try and stabilize or repair those they had the limited skill to help while the handful of remaining medics struggled with the more severely injured.
Here and there a snippet of conversation would drift back towards them: a name they knew, one they didn't, a casualty estimate... Nothing that was reassuring in the slightest. Air Raid tugged his brothers closer, and they both readily complied. Neither of them was feeling all that confident just then either.
A black and white mech darted past, skidded to a halt, and came back to them.
"Hey Groove."
"Hey... You okay?" He gestured towards Air Raid's leg and the mech shrugged it off with his usual bravado.
"You shoulda seen the other seeker."
"Ah... Well... I'm probably glad that I didn't..." He replied softly as he ran a quick scan then tapped on the medical port on the jet's upper leg. "Open up and I'll pop in a blocker. Can't do much else. You're probably gonna have to tough it out for a few orns before they'll be able to get you in to the repair bay for that one."
"Yeah I figured that. Hey..." He hesitated and watched as Groove plugged the blocker into his port and re-sealed his plating before he continued. "You haven't seen 'Bolt and 'Shot have you?"
Groove blinked in surprise, obviously confused that they didn't already know the answer to that. "Over there on berth 12. Silverbolt is fine... Slingshot is gonna need some work but it's nothing that will deactivate him. You should go join them. It might calm him down."
"They're both right here?" Even Skydive was unable to fully conceal the shock in his vocalizer. It was pretty hard for a gestalt to hide from their brothers, and even harder when you were in the same room. Groove knew that better than any other bot.
"Hey..." He called softly after them as they stood and helped Air Raid limp across the room. "Thank them again... For bringing Aid back... I mean even... I know Ratchet'll figure something out..."
Frag. They'd almost forgotten First Aid had been on the transport. But that had to mean they were alive at least...
The three fliers nodded silently before resuming their slow weave across the room towards berth 12. When they arrived, they were even more shocked by what they saw.
Slingshot was leaning back against the berth hooked up to two drips and several blockers. One arm was curled forward as though he had been cradling something against his chest, and that something had apparently fused every joint from his elbow to his fingertips in place. The plating all along the interior of his arm was deformed and scorched as though he had been trying to hold onto molten slag, and half of his chest plate had been melted. The bright red actually ran in thick rivulets down his front and side almost like candle wax, and in more than a few places, his interior compartment was visible through holes in the underplating.
Most shocking of all, their brother was just lying there as though he hadn't even noticed any of it and was staring at the doors to one of the critical care units as though staring hard enough might somehow grant him the ability to see right through the wall.
"I know Ratchet'll figure something out..."
Did that mean everyone on the shuttle had been subject to whatever had done this?
A commotion from behind startled them all, and Silverbolt turned and finally noticed the three of them standing there as Wheeljack skidded around the corner, his arms full of parts and devices for Primus only knew what, and nearly collided with the door. He had barely slowed down enough to give it time to open enough to let him through, and the few seconds they were parted gave them just enough of a glimpse to know that whatever was going on in that room, it was redefining chaos to the medical staff.
"Hey."
That was all their team leader said before he pulled the three of them in close for a long hug before stepping back to help Air Raid sit up on the berth beside Slingshot. He grinned weakly at them at gave them a thumbs up before he pulled his brother up against him in a reassuring snuggle.
"I'm not hurting you am I?"
"Nah Raid. I can't feel a thing right now. Ratchet slapped in a few blockers then decided to just slag it and shut off my entire sensory net instead."
"What the frag happened...?" Skydive murmured as he gingerly traced a finger over one of the cooled rivulets of steel that dribbled down his brother's side.
"I think..." Slingshot frowned and turned his gaze back towards the closed doors across from them. "I think... It was Prowl..."