Hold Fire
Summary: Megatron never kept you a secret… just away until his plan was ready. Optimus steps in. Guns freeze. The war holds its breath. You’re not just a Decepticon. You’re his daughter.
Bumblebee x (f)reader
Humans.
Fragile, loud, wrapped in soft flesh and rigid armor. They formed a loose semicircle around you, rifles lifted, fingers hovering just shy of triggers. Two Autobots stood among them, unfamiliar silhouettes bristling with plating and glowing optics, their cannons angled downward but not powered off.
Not attacking.
Watching.
Waiting.
Their voices spilled into the air in clipped bursts of a language you barely parsed, harsh consonants ricocheting off metal walls and concrete. Orders, maybe. Warnings.
You answered in the only universal dialect.
A low, grinding snarl reverberated from your chest plating, hydraulics whining as you brought your weapon up in one smooth, lethal motion. Energy pulsed along its seams, bright and hungry. One twitch. One spark. The room would become wreckage.
• ───── ✦ ───── •
Across the base, far from the standoff, Sam Witwicky leaned toward a bank of monitors, blue light carving shadows under his eyes. The camera feed jittered as a technician adjusted the zoom, your towering form swallowing the frame.
“I don’t get it,” Sam muttered, fingers gripping the edge of the console. “It’s a Decepticon. Why are they holding their fire?”
Colonel Lennox stood beside him, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw working. “I don’t know—”
He lifted a hand to the comm unit hooked behind his ear. “What’s going on over there? Talk to me.”
Static hissed, then a soldier’s voice cut through, tense but steady.
“The Autobots told us to hold fire, sir.”
Lennox’s brow creased deeper. “Hold for what?”
On the monitor, movement.
Massive crimson-and-blue plating entered the frame, pistons hissing softly as Optimus Prime stepped between raised rifles and glowing cannons. The soldiers didn’t relax, but the air shifted all the same, as if gravity itself had recalibrated around him.
His voice rolled through the chamber, low and resonant, carrying both command and restraint.
He spoke your name.
Slowly.
Each syllable deliberate. Heavy with something older than the war.
Your optics snapped to him, lenses tightening as internal systems recalibrated, targeting reticles faltering for just a fraction of a second.
• ───── ✦ ───── •
Sam looked between the bots and the screen. His voice strained. “Who is that?”
“The daughter—”
In the control room, Sam and Lennox turned at the same time. Behind him, Ironhide muttered under his breath, thick arms crossing with a metallic groan.
“Daughter?” Sam echoed, disbelief hitching the word in his throat.
Ironhide’s optics slid toward Ratchet, the medic stiff as a locked servo.
“Tell them.”
On-screen, Optimus didn’t move, standing alone between you and every weapon in the room.
“Tell us what,” Lennox pressed, voice sharpened like a blade.
Ratchet exhaled through his vents, optics dimming just a notch.
“…That Decepticon isn’t just any Decepticon.”
His gaze lifted back to the feed.
“That’s his.”
The sentence hung in the air, electric and dangerous.
Silence flooded the room.
Even the monitors seemed to hum softer.
“She is Megatron’s daughter,” Ratchet did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
The words reverberated through the command center louder than any explosion. Screens continued to flicker with telemetry data, infrared outlines crawling over your silhouette, threat markers blinking in nervous red, but every human in the room froze as though time itself had briefly forgotten how to move.
Sam’s laugh came out thin. Brittle. “No. No, that’s… you guys are messing with us, right?”
Ironhide didn’t even look at him. His gaze stayed welded to the monitor, thick cannons flexing slightly at his sides. “Wish we were.”
Lennox’s jaw tightened until the muscle jumped. “Ratchet.”
The medic folded his arms, plates grinding softly, optics reflecting your image. “Records from the last solar cycles of Cybertron. Fragmented. Sealed. Megatron constructed a private forge sector beneath Kaon’s lower spires. No broadcast. No registry.”
Sam swallowed. “That sounds… subtle.”
“It wasn’t meant to be found,” Ratchet replied.
• ───── ✦ ───── •
On-screen, the camera zoomed closer. Heat shimmered around your armor. Microfractures in the concrete beneath your feet radiated outward like spiderwebs, crushed by your sheer mass. The weapon in your grip thrummed, its core rotating, cycling energy in slow, predatory spirals.
Optimus stood ten meters from you.
Ten fragile, catastrophic meters.
Open hands.
No shield.
No blade.
Lennox exhaled through his nose. “Prime’s lost his mind.”
“He hasn’t,” Ironhide said.
Sam glanced up at him. “Then what’s he doing?”
Ironhide’s optics narrowed. “Standing in front of a war that doesn’t know what it wants yet.”
Ratchet tilted his head slightly. “He is attempting recognition.”
“Recognition?” Lennox echoed.
“Megatron hid her existence,” Ratchet continued. “But Optimus learned. Briefly. Before the final siege. He met her once.”
Sam’s head snapped around. “Oh?”
Sam shook his head, sweat glistening down his face. “No—no there’s no way. She’s gotta go— like now. Lennox—“
Lennox looked between the monitor and Autobots. “Shit.”
————
You shifted into your Cybertronian form.
The language slid from your vocalizers in angular tones and harmonic sublayers meant for titanium ears, not human ones. The syllables vibrated through the hangar’s skeleton, rattling loose grit from overhead beams.
“What is this?”
Several of the humans flinched anyway.
Optimus Prime did not.
He stood where he was, towering but still, red-and-blue plating catching the emergency lights in slow pulses. His optics narrowed, not in threat, but in calibration. Assessment. The kind that came from centuries of battlefields and broken treaties.
He did not trust you.
Not yet.
He did not know how much of Megatron’s code ran in your spark.
How much of your will was truly your own.
You let the silence stretch, letting him weigh those unknowns.
“Orion.”
The name cracked like an old weld.
Optimus’s vents paused mid-cycle. For the smallest instant, the war leader vanished and something older surfaced beneath the armor, something forged in quieter halls.
“…What do you know, young one?” he asked at last, voice gentled by care he had not intended to reveal.
You lifted your optical ridge, an instinctive display that sharpened your silhouette.
“I am on a planet I do not know,” you replied. Your processors tagged the unfamiliar gravity, the low-oxygen ratio, the crude but effective lighting rigs bolted to the ceiling. “Surrounded by organics whose weapons are trained on me.”
Your gaze returned to him, “Only you are familiar.”
Hydraulics whispered as you lowered your cannon.
A fraction.
Enough to shift the balance of the room.
Enough to make fingers hover closer to triggers.
“…Is my father dead?”
The words surprised even you. They slipped out stripped of armor, unadorned by challenge or threat.
Optimus did not answer that.
His optics dimmed, light scattering across scuffed plating scored by centuries of war. Behind him, Ironhide’s stance widened. Ratchet’s hands twitched, already imagining triage protocols that involved entire limbs.
The name Megatron was not spoken.
It did not need to be.
Prime took a single step forward before caution caught him, locking his servos in place.
“I cannot answer that lightly,” he said, each syllable weighted. “I have not seen him in some time.”
Your internal targeting lattice jittered, recalibrating for a world where that was not an evasion and not quite a lie.
“…That is not what I asked.”
The air hummed between you.
Optimus lifted his helm.
“No,” he said quietly. “He is notdead.”
Something shifted behind your optics.
A surge in your spark chamber. A spike of energy that diagnostic systems could not immediately label.
Outside the shattered hangar doors, thunder rolled, low and planetary, and wind dragged rain through twisted steel like breath through broken ribs.
You held his gaze.
“Come,” Optimus said.
The single word carried farther than any shouted command.
It was not an order barked across a battlefield
It was an invitation.
Your optics narrowed, tracking the minute shifts in his plating, the way his stance angled just enough to shield the humans behind him without making it obvious. A diplomatic formation. Old as Cybertron itself.
[At Base]
Behind reinforced glass and humming servers, Colonel Lennox swore under his breath.
“He’s bringing her here…”
He stepped back from the monitor, already tugging a phone from his pocket as aides erupted around him.
“Sir, phones are lighting up.”
“Social feeds just spiked. Someone’s streaming.”
Another screen flared to life, grainy footage from a civilian phone. A distant silhouette of titanic metal framed by storm clouds. Caption bars jittered beneath it. Location tags. Live indicators.
Optimus Prime, face to face with a Decepticon.
The feed count climbed by the second.
Lennox dragged a hand over his mouth. “Of course they did.”
Sam leaned closer to the glass, eyes wide. “That’s… that’s us, right.”
“That’s very much us,” Lennox muttered.
In the hangar, Optimus took a slow step backward, motioning with an open hand.
“This facility is not prepared for what follows if you remain here,” he said evenly. “There are too many weapons. Too many frightened minds.”
Your systems flagged a thousand variables at once. Escape vectors. Threat probabilities. Structural weak points. The humans’ heart rates flickered in your sensor feed like a swarm of sparks.
And yet.
You moved.
Not toward the exit.
Toward him.
Each step boomed through the floor, leaving hairline fractures in the concrete. Loose cables skittered across the ground. Soldiers flinched as you passed, some lowering their rifles by accident, others raising them higher in pure reflex.
Ironhide murmured into a private channel, “I don’t like this.”
Ratchet replied, “If Prime trusts her so should we.”
Optimus matched your pace, keeping himself between you and the humans, guiding you like a living barricade.
In the control room, Lennox barked, “Get Public Affairs on the line. Now.”
A staffer already had three phones pressed to their ear. “Sir, the governor’s office is asking questions.”
Another voice from across the room. “Pentagon wants eyes.”
Lennox grimaced. “Tell them… tell them Prime is handling it.”
Sam blinked. “That usually works?”
“No,” Lennox said flatly. “But it’s what we’ve got.”
Bumblebee stared at you, his optics and your meeting. He knew you, you knew him. You moved toward him as he did you. Optimus watched the both of you, as did Sam.
Everyone’s eyes were on you, you memory was calm with Bumbleebee.
“You look different,” you commented, touching his helm with a soft touch. He flinched at your touch, something you remember he never did. Your optics shifted around you, the fleshings still pointing their weapons at you.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Bumblebee chirped the radio, words that you didn’t understand.
Sam pointed between the two of you, “That you bee?”
You looked down at Sam, your optics lingered on him as he spoke to Bumblebee.
Bumblebee switched channels, now speaking to you directly. “You did nothing wrong. The humans know about your pops. He tried to take their planet sometime ago.”
You raised your ridge, “….this one? Why? It’s filled with…fleshings.”
Bumblebee reached for your hand, “They are our friends. We protect them and they let us stay here.”
Racthet walked up to you, hestation in his tone. “How is your helm?”
You turned to him, “Dizzy.”
You looked down at Sam once again, your optics scanning his frame from head to toe— he wasn’t like the others. He was younger, more antsy and more smelly.
“How do you know Bee?” He asked you, his voice both surprised and confused.
You didn’t answer, only looked at Bumblebee with a slight tilt of your head. You actually didn’t know what to say—your father—Megatron, never let you mingle much with the other bots. You only met Bumblebee once because of Optimus, back when times were peaceful. You hung out with him maybe a few times. But nothing serious became of it. Just friends.
“Excuse me—“ A man in a tight black suit stormed in. The Autobots groaned as he pointed at you, shouting at Optimus.”
“Excuse me, yes hi hello, Optimus what is this?” The man shouted at him. “The president is NOT happy about this one.”
Optimus placed his helmet on your shoulder, “She is no threat. Tell your leaders to stand down.”
“Stand down?” The man began to raise his voice once more, “Do you have any idea what this looks like! The daughter of a murderer—“
You processors finished picking up on the language, your optics shut for a moment then opened. “Your anger is justified—but I am no threat to you compared to the others.”
“I’m sorry?”
T.B.H
