War Blessed
A tale of a soldier who fights to survive a war and struggles to find meaning in their suffering. One night, a stranger comes to them and gives them something that seems to be more than meets the eye.
Warnings: angst, survival, war, characters dying, an orphaned sparkling, some cussing, violence, reader nearly dying, not really specific universe setting, and this fic is pretty long, so not for those who only like short fics.
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The atmosphere on Cybertron was a dull gray at dusk. The landscape looked as ruined as the city around you—destroyed by battle a long time ago and turned into a tight battleground, with fallen bot frames littering the corners. A grim sight you got used to after being assigned to guard the space bridge located in such a location.
You sat on the edge of the platform, watching the morning mist roll over the cracked Cybertronian terrain. The relay tower buzzed faintly behind you, and somewhere nearby, someone was swearing at a ration crate that refused to open properly.
You figured this assignment would be important—and dangerous—as you were the only flyer on the team. You weren’t like the Decepticon Seekers, who were built for speed and battles. You used to be a small recon flyer, upgraded to battle grade when you joined the Autobots and got trained by other aerial bots. You were fast and sharp in a fight, just enough to face a con or two in the air.
But lately, all you’d been flying were patrol laps around this scrap heap of a bridge. Still, you weren’t complaining. Not really.
The Decepticons used to hit this bridge weekly—maybe even more. Now? Just scattered skirmishes. Nuisance strikes. Either they’d moved on to bigger targets, or they’d figured your team wasn’t going to budge. Sometimes the space bridge itself dares to malfunction, especially when it's needed for transport and other kinds of missions.
Despite the attacks and everything else, the space bridge hadn’t collapsed. That alone was a victory these days.
You sighed, trying to relax your wings. Another dull cycle at the space bridge.
“Fuel’s down 45% from last cycle,” said Rotorline, your team’s field tech, as he sat down beside you.
“Stonemarch won’t be happy, especially since we haven’t gotten the new supplies to refuel the space bridge.”
You gave a short shrug. “Still better than nothing.”
He snorted. “Well… if it at least serves one purpose, maybe it will make this space bridge less desirable as a target. Without fuel, the cons might be less willing to take it since they don’t like wasting their own resources.”
You hummed in agreement.
“I sometimes feel like Autobot Command is purposely ignoring us. Why else have our requests gone unanswered for so long? Or maybe they’ve just forgotten about us. They probably have better things to do than worry about a bunch of grunts guarding one of their ‘important’ space bridges,” he exclaimed, making air quotes with his fingers.
“If the fuel runs out at the worst possible time, it’ll be a pretty funny thing to explain,” he chuckled. “Well… at least they can’t blame us when they’re the ones who ignored our requests for the supplies we need to do our job.”
You hummed at the idea.
“Even though we’ve been doing well so far…” he murmured.
You thought about your team. Even though you were a small group, you had fared well against the cons and other setbacks. Stonemarch was an excellent captain—strict, but caring toward all of you.
After spending so much time with them, you had faith that you and your team would manage.
“He’s in the comm dish again!” Brakelight shouted.
You and Rotorline turned just in time to see the sparkling—barely old enough to transform—scrambling over the outer comm rig, giggling with optics wide in mischief. Brakelight and Glitchpatch were trying to catch him, though Glitchpatch was mostly just laughing at Brakelight’s trouble.
“Get back here, you little scraplet!” Brakelight yelled strictly only to receive another giggle from the sparkling.
You and Rotorline chuckled at the sight.
“That kid always comes up with new ways to get into trouble,” Rotorline shook his head.
“We might want to get him down before he fries himself. Again,” you said.
“At least there’s one thing to enjoy about this blasted place,” Rotorline replied as you nodded with a smile.
“When’s your next patrol?” he asked.
“In thirty nanokliks,” you looked at the time.
“I’ll go help our friends then. Better get him down before we have one fried sparkling again,” Rotorline said as he got up and left.
You smiled, thinking about the little guy—or Wingshot, as you all had begun to call him. In one of your patrols, you found him tucked beneath the smoldering wreckage of a dropship, clutching a servo like a stuffed plush toy. Unable to leave him there alone, lying in the energon of who you could only guess was his former caretaker, you took him in and brought him to your team.
He didn't speak for the first few cycles—most likely traumatized by whatever had attacked the ship and the loss of his former family. Since there had been no badge at the site, you guessed his family had been neutrals who either got attacked outright or caught in the crossfire. It wasn’t unheard of for the Decepticons to target neutral bots, though it was still despicable.
After some time, Wingshot warmed up to you and your team. Now, you couldn’t get him to stop climbing everything.
Stonemarch had tried to get someone to come and take Wingshot in, so he could be taken to safety and perhaps find a new foster family—away from the war. However, so far, nothing which kinda pissed all of you off. You figured that taking an innocent sparkling away from a warzone would be a pretty important matter.
But despite that, Wingshot had become an essential member of the team—a reminder of the good still left in the world, and of what you were all fighting to protect in this war. He lifted your spirits in a way that made your stay at the space bridge bearable.
You watched as Brakelight, Glitchpatch, and Rotorline played together with Wingshot before finally catching the sparkling, who only giggled after being caught. You smiled and then checked the time again. Seeing it was time for your patrol, you got up and left the platform.
At nightfall, inside your resting quarters. The firelight crackled low in the center of the makeshift ring. Not an actual fire, of course—just an old maintenance lamp repurposed and covered with scrap to give off a warm glow since your previous heater broke down.
You sat cross-legged on a supply crate with the sparkling tucked close at your side, drowsy but stubbornly refusing to enter recharge.
Around you, your team had scattered themselves in a loose circle—some sitting, some half-leaning against broken walls or their own gear. A game of "Truthchip" was mid-round, the data cube pulsing faintly in the center as it prepared to select the next target. It was a little made-up game created among you.
“I swear if it hits me again, it’s rigged,” growled Brakelight, their plating scuffed from yesterday’s patrol.
“You say that every round,” Glitchpatch smirked, slotting in another cube with a cheerful chirp. “Maybe the cube just doesn’t like your face.”
Laughter echoed softly, filling the quiet night with something almost like warmth.
Music drifted from someone’s old comm speaker—a bouncy old energon-jazz tune that had no right to survive the war, yet somehow had. It gave the whole scene a surreal kind of charm. As if, for just a moment, the war was somewhere else.
You glanced down as Wingshot curled tighter against your side. He let out a soft hum, optics fluttering. Gently, you draped the small blanket around him, shielding him from the cool wind that drafted around in the sleeping quarters.
Despite his mischievous streak, ever since you’d found him, he had clung to your side the most.
Your captain, Stonemarch, emerged from his office and took a seat beside the group.
“Still no word from command?” Glitchpatch asked.
Stonemarch shook his head. “Sent another request yesterday. Nothing. Not even an acknowledgment ping.”
“Third time this week,” you murmured.
“Fourth,” Rotorline corrected.
Silence followed—not tense, not panicked. Just… aware.
The bridge still hummed faintly outside the room. The war still loomed beyond the ruins. But here, within this small circle of survivors, there was a fragile kind of peace—something worth holding onto.
The Truthchip buzzed again and lit up—this time, it was targeting you.
Brakelight leaned in with a grin. “Alright, (Name). Truth or dare?”
You smirked. “Dare.”
“Oh, you’re on.” Glitchpatch clapped their servos. “I dare you to sing that energon-jazz chorus that’s playing. Bonus points if you dance.”
Laughter broke out around the circle. Even Wingshot stirred, letting out a sleepy giggle of his own.
You exhaled dramatically, playing up your defeat. You gently moved Wingshot before standing up. The chorus kicked in. With a shake of your head and a grin tugging at your faceplates, you began to sing—and even threw in a few half-hearted dance moves for effect.
For a moment, just a moment, the shadows around the bridge seemed a little less heavy.
The air reeked of scorched metal and spilled energon.
The attack had been worse than any before.
You’d been out on a maintenance sweep with Rotorline, checking motion sensors along the outer perimeter. Two Decepticons came out of nowhere. You and Rotorline barely managed to hold your own against them. Rotorline had taken a vicious gash along his side, but luckily not too severe to threaten his life. After dealing with the cons, you rushed back toward the space bridge when you heard gunfire.
By the time you reached the outpost, the firefight was already in full swing. Fliers cut through the air like razors, and the ground was thick with chaos. It was a Decepticon assault team, sent to attack you for reasons you can only guess.
You took down three, maybe four of them. But there were simply too many to handle at once.
You fought as best as you could, but things quickly turned bad. The old building above Brakelight collapsed, burying him under it. Glitchpatch had been caught too close to a bombshell, ripping him to pieces.
And many others in your team began to fall one by one.
And Stonemarch… your captain…
He saw the missile before anyone else. It was aimed randomly, but its trajectory was heading straight for the quarters where you’d hidden Wingshot. He didn’t hesitate to throw himself into its path, taking the full brunt of the explosion.
He fell to the ground, smoke rising from the wound, while the quarters remained intact.
You all screamed when it happened and fought harder—hard enough to finally force the cons to retreat.
You all then rushed to your captain.
While he was being treated, you went to check on Wingshot inside the quarters. You found him unharmed. He was trembling with fear—most likely startled by the sounds—but he had been spared from the blast.
With Wingshot in your arms, you came back outside and watched as your team medic, Medspanner, frantically tried to keep your captain's spark online. Stonemarch’s optics flicked briefly toward Wingshot, relief softening his features. Weakly, he told all of you to look out for each other before his optics dimmed and the color drained from his frame.
Then… silence.
You all stared at your captain’s still form, grief tightening every joint. Wingshot began to whimper, tears welling in his optics as if he could sense the sorrow in the air.
The battle was over. But the losses were greater than ever before.
Just a few hours ago, you’d seen your whole team alive and well—Brakelight wishing you good luck, Glitchpatch cracking a bad joke, and your captain offering his usual careful words before heading out. Now there was only you, Rotorline, and Medspanner… and Wingshot.
Only three of you left to defend a space bridge that still hums quietly over a battlefield littered with the lifeless frames of your teammates.
You reported the outcome of the battle while Rotorline and Medspanner dug graves for your dead, listing every name of the fallen. But after sending the report, the only reply you received was yet another unanswered ping.
A week after that battle, your energon reserves had dipped below 10%. You had shut down the space bridge to conserve energy and fuel. However, after days of ignored reports and unanswered messages, you were struggling to keep your weapons operational. At this rate, your weapons would be nothing but paperweights by the next cycle.
And you still hadn’t received any answers from command—not even a cold reply about a new captain being assigned or reinforcements being sent to replace your fallen team.
Now it really felt like your post was being deliberately ignored.
With depleting supplies and just three of you, you and Rotorline decided to set out toward the ruins of an old supply station a few kliks north. You left Wingshot with Medspanner at the space bridge, activating a few automated turrets and what little shielding you had left. It wasn’t ideal, but you desperately needed supplies.
The ruined city was a jagged skyline of twisted towers and cracked roads. The atmosphere felt heavy, and you both were on high alert because there was no knowing what would happen if you weren’t.
When you finally reached the station, you found it empty and abandoned. It was clear it had been inactive for some time. Still, you managed to locate a small cache with just enough energon to keep your systems running a little longer. You were so relieved to find supplies that you didn’t even consider the possibility of it being a trap.
What attacked you then was something you had never seen before.
It was massive and hideous. Its long body was supported by a thousand writhing legs, each one carrying and gripping the weight with unsettling precision. Its head was a monstrous, gaping maw lined with jagged rows of teeth. A dreadful stench hung in the air, a sickly mix of dried energon and the decay of dead bots.
You and Rotorline nearly froze in your places when you saw it. Seeing it made you think of the rumors about the infamous Decepticon Shockwave’s creations. He was known for crafting abominations and setting them loose to bring death to any Autobot and unlucky bot who happened to cross their path.
The monster shrieked and attacked.
You and Rotorline fought back as best you could, but the creature lunged with terrifying speed, slamming Rotorline to the floor hard enough to knock him offline for a second. You quickly checked on him and found him critical. Energon poured from his wound, and he seemed to be paralyzed. The thing's bite was venomous.
Seeing no other options, you fired at an old support beam, sending sparks and shrapnel flying. The station groaned as the ceiling began to collapse. You grabbed Rotorline and hauled him out, your thrusters burning as you barely escaped while the monster was buried under the rubble.
With Rotorline in critical condition, you pushed yourself to get back to the space bridge. Medspanner rushed over the moment he saw you, tools already in hand, and began working to stabilize Rotorline. For a brief moment, it looked like he might make it.
Then Wingshot screamed.
You turned just in time to see the creature from the station tearing through the outer wall.
It had followed you.
The monster shrieked and lunged. Before you could even blink an optic, it had snatched Medspanner in its jaws. His screams were muffled as the creature pushed him inside its mouth, and the teeth ripped him apart, energon spilling from between the plates of its throat.
You nearly froze at the sight.
Then its gaze locked on Wingshot.
Wingshot screamed as it moved toward him.
Without hesitation, you threw yourself at the monster before it could reach the sparkling, slamming against it hard enough that it turned its attention toward you. You then flew in the air and unloaded every shot you had left. The rounds barely scratched its armor. It came at you again, forcing you to duck and weave as its teeth snapped inches from your plating.
Rotorline’s voice cut through the chaos. He had managed to drag himself to the space bridge controls, Wingshot beside him. He activated the space bridge, and the portal roared to life. You quickly understood what he was planning.
You baited the creature, luring it toward the glowing vortex. At the last possible moment, you boosted backward out of its path. The monster barreled through the vortex, and Rotorline deactivated the bridge mid-transition. The thing’s scream was cut short as the portal sheared it in half, and its cut-off body fell at the feet of the space bridge.
It was finally dead.
You stumbled over to Rotorline and Wingshot. The sparkling was pressed against the wounded mech’s side, optics wide and tearful. You tried to stop the bleeding, but it was far too late.
“Scrap…” Rotorline rasped. “I’m really messed up this time.”
He looked down at Wingshot, who let out a soft, mournful coo.
“At least you’re okay, kid. Gotta say… you’re the best part of this place.” He gave the sparkling a weak pat before meeting your gaze.
“Sorry, buddy. I’m afraid this is the end for me…”
You begged him not to leave you, telling him you couldn’t watch the bridge alone. His optics softened.
“Buddy… if command ignores you after this… leave this scrap heap. You’ve got something better to defend…right here.” He patted Wingshot’s back.
Then with one last exhale, his optics went dark.
At the sight of his colorless frame, you broke down, sobbing. Wingshot’s cries joined yours as he shook Rotorline gently, as if he could wake him.
Two hours since the fight with the monster, you stared blankly at the graves you had made for your team. Just a week ago, you had built markers for Brakelight, Glitchpatch, and Stonemarch. And the others. Now, two more joined them—Rotorline and Medspanner.
Wingshot cooed softly in your arms. You held him closer. Now it was just two of you, and this accursed space bridge.
The quarters were silent. Eerily silent. Once filled with bad jazz music, laughter, and the easy voices of your team, now there was nothing but silence. Only Wingshot’s soft snoring and the low, constant hum of the space bridge.
The dim room was lit only by the glow of your datapad as you typed your report—alone, the last one left to do it. You logged the events, added two more names to the casualty list… and paused when you heard a faint noise.
The hum cut out.
Knowing what it meant, you added the last line to the report:
0% fuel. Space bridge non-operational.
Then you sent it.
You skimmed through the other unanswered reports. Their dates served as an awful reminder of how long you had gone unanswered, and how, during that time, your entire team had been wiped out.
Turning off the datapad, you stood up and walked to the security consoles. You set the motion alarms to their highest sensitivity. If something came, you wanted to know the instant it crossed the perimeter.
Then you walked over to the berth where Wingshot was sleeping, carefully lying beside him and gently wrapping your arms around his small frame. You held him tightly against your chest, as if it could keep him from being taken next, before closing your optics and falling into a dreamless sleep.
For the next few days, you stayed on the highest alert, barely getting enough recharge to keep going. Perhaps out of some mercy—or simple disinterest—the Decepticons ignored your location. The rations on hand lasted longer with just the two of you, though you often gave your own share to Wingshot so he wouldn’t have to starve.
Despite your latest report—one that should have been impossible for command to ignore—you’d heard nothing back.
Rotorline’s words echoed in your mind. Leave this scrap heap. Maybe you should. But where would you go? If you abandoned your post, you could be punished. Worse, you could run into another monster and fail to protect Wingshot.
You just didn’t know what to do.
Then, one late cycle, as dusk painted golden streaks across the jagged metal plains, you stood outside keeping watch. That’s when a figure emerged from the shadows.
“Who goes there?!” you called, drawing your weapon.
The figure froze and raised their hands.
“Please! I’m just an old bot!” a voice answered. As the stranger stepped closer, you saw the truth in their words—dented plating, worn joints, slow, careful movements. Their frame bore the weight of years, and you saw no Autobot or Decepticon badge.
“A neutral?” you asked, lowering your weapon slightly.
“I mean no harm,” the bot said, voice steady but tired. “I only ask for a place to stay the night… and perhaps a cup of energon.” Their face was kind. Weathered, but not untrustworthy.
Despite the voices in the back of your mind telling you not to trust what you were seeing, wanting to uphold some sense of kind hospitality, you allowed the old bot inside your quarters.
After helping them settle in a warm corner, you returned with a half-cracked canister holding the smallest measure of energon. “I’m sorry. This is all we can offer. Our supplies are nearly gone—we can barely sustain ourselves.”
The stranger accepted it with both hands and bowed their head. “This is more than enough. Kindness is rare these days… especially from soldiers.”
You sat down across from them, Wingshot curled up against your side, his tired optics studying the visitor.
The stranger sipped quietly before looking around. “Are you the only ones here? Odd, for just one bot to guard a space bridge.”
You hesitated, then began telling the bot everything that had happened, the downfall of your entire team, how your reports had gone unanswered, how you had found Wingshot and ended up the only ones left.
The bot looked at you sympathetically, offering their condolences, then asked gently, “Why stay here? Why keep guarding this forgotten gate?”
Your gaze lingered on the floor. “…I’m not sure. Maybe I’m afraid of what happens if I leave,” you answered. “What if…” You glanced down at Wingshot. “I make the wrong decision, and he pays for it?”
You let out a long breath. “I used to think the Autobots stood for something—freedom, justice, hope. But the longer this war goes on, the more gray it all becomes,” you said. “I don’t even know if I believe in the cause anymore, “you uttered.
“It feels like we’ve been ignored on purpose,” you said. “If command had answered our reports and sent the supplies we needed, maybe most of my team would still be alive.”
You brushed your servo over Wingshot’s helm. “He’s the last good thing I’ve got. A friend said I should leave—that Wingshot is the better thing to protect than this blasted space bridge that doesn’t even have fuel anymore,” you added.
“I want to do the right thing, or at least protect what truly matters,” you said.
You collected yourself and apologized, realizing you’d been more sentimental than usual in front of the stranger.
The stranger studied you for a long moment. Then, with a quiet smile, they set down the empty cup and reached out.
Their hand—cool and scarred—took yours with surprising strength.
“The unknown can be frightening,” the old bot said. “You’ve been strong for so long and lost so much, yet you still have the strength to protect something as precious as this little one.” They nodded toward Wingshot, who was now sleeping against your side.
“So I believe you’ll have the courage to do what you think is right.” The old bot smiled gently. “Don’t be afraid to follow your spark when the orders don’t make sense.”
“Thank you for your kind words,” you said softly. The old bot smiled again. “And if you ever have doubts, ask yourself what your team would tell you to do.” Their words made you pause and reflect. “I might not have known them, but hearing you talk, they sounded like a caring bunch.”
“They were…” you replied quietly.
The old bot smiled once more, and the night passed in a peaceful silence.
At the first light of morning, you and Wingshot saw the stranger off.
“I’m afraid I can’t give much,” you told them. “Are you sure you don’t want any weapons to defend yourself during your travels?”
The old bot smiled. “I carry no such things.”
They looked at you warmly. “I thank you, soldier. You have been so kind for sparing me a cup of energon and letting me stay the night.”
You nodded. “It’s the least I can offer in these hard times. I’ll admit, I partly expected you to suddenly turn into a monster and eat us in our sleep," you said, earning a chuckle from them.
“But I’m glad you didn’t. It’s been… difficult to trust what I see these days,” you murmured.
“I’m afraid I cannot give much in return,” the old bot said, extending their hands. “But I can offer my blessing.”
You placed your hand in theirs.
“I bless that when the sun burns low and shadows close in—when your limbs fail and hope seems lost—in sunlight’s embrace, you shall find the strength to protect what lies behind you,” the old bot intoned.
A gentle warmth settled in your spark. You didn’t think much of it, but you gave a grateful nod. “I thank you for your blessing.”
You stood tall and offered a respectful nod. “May your road be safe.”
“And may yours lead to more than survival,” the stranger replied before stepping out into the pale morning. “Farewell, good soldier, and farewell, little one.”
“Bye…” Wingshot gave a tiny wave.
You glanced at Wingshot, then remembered something. If the bot wanted to know any safe places…
“Hey—do you—” you looked up, but the stranger was gone, as if they’d never been there. Confusion settled in you. With their age and slow movements, they shouldn’t have been able to disappear so quickly.
It was strange… and stranger still, in the morning light, you felt more energetic than you had in days. Whatever the reason, you were glad for such an ordinary encounter—no matter how odd it had been.
The comm unit crackled to life for the first time in cycles.
“Space Bridge Outpost 45. Space Bridge Outpost 45,” the voice repeated.
You scrambled to your feet, startled that someone had actually contacted you. At the comm unit, you pushed the receive button.
A blue hologram of a mid-ranking Autobot officer fizzled into view—prim-polished armor, stern features, and the unmistakable smugness of someone who had never seen real battle.
“Scout (Name) of Space Bridge Outpost 45, responding,” you responded with a salute.
“A scout? Where is your team leader?” he asked with an unimpressed tone.
“Fallen in battle. Have you not read the reports I’ve sent?” you asked, confusion bleeding into your tone.
“No matter,” he said briskly. “We’ve received your previous transmission. We have an upcoming mission that requires the space bridge to be operational again, so we’ll be sending supplies and—possibly—a new captain.”
You let out a breath. Finally.
“However,” he continued, “a Decepticon warband has been detected heading toward your location. You are to hold the bridge at all costs until reinforcements arrive. Estimated ETA: three hours.”
You stared at the hologram. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am quite serious. You and your team—”
“My team? There is no team!” you snapped, cutting him off. “I’m on my own here. You’d know that if you actually read the reports!”
“That is… unfortunate. Well… nothing can be done. You must defend it yourself,” the Autobot officer said.
You stared at him, appalled.
“I can’t defend this bridge by myself.”
“Improvise. You must have operational defensive systems,” he said.
“They’ve been offline since three cycles ago. There’s no fuel. Can’t you send a team ahead of schedule?” you asked, nearly desperately.
“I don’t appreciate your tone, scout,” he said, frowning. “We will stick to the planned schedule, and in the meantime, you are expected to comply with the orders you have been given.”
“You think I can hold back a full-on Decepticon assault with a standard-issue rifle and a sparkling clinging to my leg? That’s suicide!” you nearly yelled at him.
“Soldier. If you leave your post, I will have you court-martialed. You will hold that bridge until we arrive,” the officer stated.
Something inside you snapped. He expected you to defend the bridge on your own? At that moment, Rotorline’s and the stranger’s words echoed in your mind. You asked yourself what your team would have done. Brakelight and Glitchpatch would have been outraged by this. Even Medspanner would have called it unreasonable. And Stonemarch… he would have been furious.
You glanced at Wingshot, who looked at you quietly with a trusting look, unaware of what would come if you followed those orders.
In that moment, you didn’t even doubt what your team would say if you asked whether you should leave this place. Deep down, you knew they would say yes.
You turned toward the officer.
“Come defend it yourself,” you said coldly.
“Excuse me?” the officer blinked.
“Frag your orders. Frag you, your polished desk, and your empty commands! You want the bridge held? You come here and hold it!” you spat, every word sharp enough to cut metal.
“You are dangerously close to insubordination—”
“I am insubordinate,” you growled. “I’m done dying for a cause that treats lives like spare bolts. I’ve watched good bots bleed out waiting for a reply that never came. I’ve buried teammates while you sipped energon and made maps,” you spat.
You looked back at Wingshot, who stood quietly behind you, wide-eyed but trusting.
“Come on, Wingshot. We’re leaving this place.”
“Soldier! If you leave your post, you will be marked as a traitor and a deserter!” the officer barked.
You ignored him, gathering what little gear you had—rations, emergency energon, field tools, Wingshot’s small datapads, and his blanket.
“You know what?” you turned toward him. “I’d rather be a deserter than a disposable pawn. I’ve got one good thing left in this world, and it’s not this bridge.”
You tore the Autobot badge from your chest and slammed it down in front of the holo-projector.
“I’m officially done. Good luck getting your bridge back, glitchhead.”
The officer stared at you in stunned silence.
“This will not be over, Scou—”
You cut the channel before he could finish.
Lifting Wingshot into your arms, you stepped outside onto the platform. The space bridge loomed behind you—silent, cold, as forgotten as those who had died defending it.
You looked to the horizon, then down at Wingshot. “Hold tight. This will be a long trip… but we are never coming back here.”
“Promise…?” Wingshot asked softly.
“Promise,” you said, just as softly.
Transforming into your alt-mode, you rose into the air and pulled away from the bridge. The wind rushed past your frame as you swept over the graves of your team. For a fleeting moment, you swore you could feel their sparks—cheering you on and wishing you good fortune.
Despite the gnawing fear of what might lie ahead, a strange sense of freedom settled over you. No longer will you be bound to a half-empty cause or fight for bots who could not give two scraps about you.
With Wingshot secured inside, you flew toward whatever waited beyond the horizon.
Flying low over Cybertron’s scarred landscape, Wingshot tucked safely within your alt mode, you kept to quiet, careful speed. Every vibration in your frame felt louder than it should, every shadow a possible threat.
You’d deserted the Autobots. That left only one real destination: the Neutral Zone. Not safe, exactly, but safer than staying under any faction’s banner. You’d rather take your chances among neutrals than serve alongside bots who no longer acted on the principles their cause claimed to uphold. With luck and credits you managed to gather, you might find someone willing to take you and Wingshot off-world.
It gave you no pleasure to leave your home, but better to take your chances somewhere else than on your war-torn planet.
At first, the flight was quiet. Peaceful, even. Then the shots came.
The first round slammed into your plating with a sharp, ringing crack. You banked hard on instinct, HUD flaring crimson. Five incoming Decepticon signatures—fast, aggressive, and closing in.
You quietly cursed. Why now? Why bother coming after alone bot?
Then you remembered that the Decepticons weren’t against attacking neutral bots for no greater reason. For all you knew, you were just target practice.
Well... you were gonna show them that you were not going to be an easy target.
You told Wingshot to hold on as you made evasive maneuvers. You darted between shattered towers and twisted skyrails, alarms screaming in your helm. Each wingbeat rattled your frame as tracer fire tore past. The seekers stayed on you, relentless.
You dove toward a jagged skyline, weaving between the skeletal remains of old buildings. One advantage of being smaller was that you could maneuver easily and quickly through tight spaces.
The cons avoided flying through the rubble, but one seeker closed in, riding your tail.
You spotted a gap ahead, too small for the seeker but small enough for you to slip through. Perfect.
You flew toward the gap as the con still came after you. At the last moment, you transformed to bot mode mid-flight, clutching Wingshot to your chest. You blasted through the narrow breach, twisting your wings smaller, then shifted back to alt mode as the seeker tried to follow—only to slam into the structure with a satisfying explosion.
One down. Four to go.
You pushed further into the ruins until you found a sheltered alcove between collapsed girders. You stopped there to stay hidden as the structure could dampen your signal on their scanners. There, you tried to wait them out.
“Come out, little bot!” one of the cons yelled as they circled the area. "We're not gonna hurt you... much!" he said as sinister laughter followed.
You silently cursed. They weren’t leaving. They were fully intending to get you and do primus know what.
Your spark sank. Waiting them out wasn’t an option, but neither was running. You were fast, but they were faster—especially in open space.
The city ruins could give you an advantage. If you stick close to cover and avoid the open spaces, you just might have a chance.
You turned to Wingshot, kneeling so your optics met his. “Stay here. No matter what. Do not come out.”
His optics flickered, uncertain. “Okay…”
You tightened your grip on your weapon. You did not have much ammo, so you had to make every shot count. “I’ll be right back.”
Then you transformed, flying out of the hiding place.
One other advantage you had over the seekers was that you could fly far more quietly and tail them without giving yourself away.
With an element of surprise, you shadowed two of the cons. With your targeting system locked on one of them, you fired. A clean shot ripped through the engine of the first con, sending them plummeting toward the ground in a spiral of flame.
Two down. Three more to go.
You aimed at the second con on your system and fired. It evaded your shot, forcing you to give chase. The con led you weaving desperately through the ruins, nearly pushing you to the edge of panic—because if the last two arrived, it would be over.
By luck, you finally clipped the con’s wing, causing them to lose control and crash into one of the rusted skyplates.
Three down. Two more to go.
Your momentary relief was short-lived as the last two seekers arrived, hot on your tail. You dodged their shots and tried to return fire, desperate to keep them at bay.
Then—click.
Out of ammo.
"Slag."
The seeker’s aim sharpened now that they knew you couldn’t shoot back. You darted and banked, every jolt draining more from your dwindling energon reserves. You tried to think of another solution, but only things that came to mind were combat moves you learned during your training.
Guess you had no other choice but to combat them by hand.
You led one of the seekers higher into the sky. At the right moment, you transformed into bot mode and let gravity pull you down.
At point-blank range, you ignited your boosters and drove your heel into their helm in a powerful drop-kick, sending them spiraling into the canyon below.
They exploded on impact, the blast lighting up the canyon floor. It gave you a sense of satisfaction. Even if you were smaller than them, you could still hit hard.
Four down.
One left to go.
The last con came at you like a thunderbolt. Without warning, their wing slammed into your abdomen, sending a sharp shock of pain through your frame. Before you could react, they transformed mid-air and seized you, pushing you downward with brutal force. They aimed to crush you against the unforgiving ground — a violent end by impact.
Your body screamed in agony, every servo trembling. Your energon levels were dangerously low. Your spark thudded wildly in your chest, each beat a reminder of how close you were to fading. You struggled desperately, but the con’s grip was merciless, squeezing the last drops of strength from your battered frame.
“You’re finished, little bot,” the Decepticon snarled, venom dripping from his voice. “No one’s coming to save you.”
Fear welled inside you—not for yourself, but for Wingshot. The thought of leaving him alone, unprotected, struck deeper than any wound. This could not be your end. You could not leave him by himself after everything you went through.
Then—sunlight.
A piercing beam cut through the clouds, striking your frame mid-dive.
And then…
Warmth.
You looked at Cybertron’s sun as the old stranger’s words echoed in your memory.
“In sunlight’s embrace… when all hope seems lost… You shall find the strength to protect what lies behind you.”
Strange energy ignited within you. A hot surge ran through your veins, filling your limbs with strength that hadn’t been there moments ago. Your HUD system suddenly became stable, and you felt the weakness disappear.
You grabbed onto the con's servos around your neck. The con looked shocked as you suddenly had the strength to pry him off and use the booster on your legs to blast his face, forcing him to let you go.
As the con recovered, he looked around—and found you gone. Then he glanced upward, spotting you with your blaster aimed at him, humming to life once more and glowing with an eerie, unknown energy.
You fired.
A beam of pure energy surged forth, striking the final con square in the chest and erupting in a spectacular explosion. His wings melted from the intense heat as he spiraled down toward the earth far below.
Exhaustion overtaking you, your body went limp as you began to fall from the sky. With no strength to control the descent, you only managed to glide enough to avoid a direct crash. You hit the ground with a thud, skidding through debris and dust before stillness finally overtook you.
You awoke to quiet static and the gentle prodding of tiny servos.
“Wake up…” a small voice pleaded. “(Name). Please… wake up!”
When your optics flickered online, you saw Wingshot.
You blinked your optics fully back online. The sun was still warm overhead, and Wingshot sat beside you, dusty and worried, his tiny fingers resting on your chest.
“Wingshot…” you said gently, still a bit out of it.
Tears began to form in his little optics. “Sorry. I know you said not to come out no matter what. But when you didn’t come back, I got scared. Then I found you here…” he began to sob. “I thought you weren’t going to wake up.”
You gently embraced him. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“I still have more fight left in me.”
Then you noticed how oddly stable you felt. Despite your low energon levels, your energy was surprisingly steady, and your wounds seemed healed.
You glanced down and saw an odd symbol on your chest, replacing your previous badge. When you looked at it, the symbol suddenly vanished, along with the strange sensation.
Odd.
You recalled the stranger and the surge of energy you’d felt while in the sun’s embrace. It was like… in your direst moment, an unknown energy had come to your aid.
You began to think your encounter with the stranger hadn’t been entirely normal.
“Come on, Wingshot,” you said, picking him up in your arms. “We better keep moving, or more mean Decepticons will come.”
You lifted off and continued your journey, your mind still on the stranger and the possibility of the blessing being more than it seems. No matter. You were grateful because it had allowed you to survive and carry on with Wingshot, one of the last precious things in your life.