Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hi guys.

Guess who's obsessed with this silly show? Yup, me.

Too bad it only has one season amirite?

Anyways:

I will do:

• Fluff
• Angst
• Character death
• Injury (both minor and major)
• Sick characters
• Gore
• Depression and all it entails;

I will NOT do:

• Smut of any kind
• No romance outside of canon aka Dot x Alex and even that is iffy cuz I don't know how to write it

(More to be added)

If I am not comfortable doing your request, I will tell you so and you can choose a new one but I am FREE TO REJECT STUFF AND UPDATE THE RULES.

If you want me to get your idea written quick just focus on the original 4 kids, they are my beloveds lol

Chapter Text

Bee awoke to two small weights on his alt form and the sound of giggling.

A faint touch tickled across his roof and he twitched.

“Oh, hi, Bee!” Mo hopped down and grinned at him, “Hope you had a good nap!”

“What did you—” He trailed off as the ticklish sensation returned, dancing over his plating in a way that felt almost like—

“Wh— HEY!” The bot transformed, watching Thrash fall backward with a yelp.

But Bee was more interested in himself as he looked down.

“You did not—”

The kids started giggling while all Bee could do was stare at the squiggles of color covering his plating.

From flowers, to hearts, to wheels and cartoony cars, and even—

“Are you serious…?”

A wobbly drawing of Optimus and Megatron holding hands sat front and center of his chest.

“You kids are menaces!”

Bee could only roll his optics as the kids devolved into breathless laughter.

.

Hashtag leaned on Nightshade's shoulder, pointing at the tiny chemistry book in their hand.

"You mean to tell me all those names are real? And used by millions?"

"Indeed," Nightshade smiled, flipping through the pages and pausing on page 178, "Look here, I think you'll like this one."

"...found in old shipwrecks and mistletoes; the Pistacia resin often called—"

"Hey, Maltobots, what's—?"

Hashtag turned and pointed at Bee just as he descended the steps:

"Moronic Acid!" She screamed before devolving into a wheezing fit.

Bumblebee blinked, "Excuse me?"

He blinked, looking past the borderline-hysterical Hashtag to meet optics with Nightshade who just shrugs in response.

After a moment, they beckon him over and the scout joins the duo in discussing — and laughing at — the chemistry book.

.

“Could you look after the kids while Dotty and I are gone?”

“Of course, Alex,” Bee said, grinning, servos on his hips.

“Thanks, kiddo,” the bot sputtered when Dot gave him a wink.

“Wh— I am literally millions of years older than everyone in this household!” Bee squawked.

Both of the Malto adults chuckled.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you were in your twenties or thirties in human years,” Dot smirked.

Bee paused, a servo freezing midair.

“That’s… you know, fair point.”

The Maltos — Bee included — chuckled.

.

Twitch, Robby and JB were playing with Fluffy Ears, the dinobot cooing as the small cow rolls around, mooing.

Twitch giggles when she licks her outstretched hand.

“Hey, kiddos!” Bee strolls over, smiling at the display, “How’s it going?”

Twitch looks over, smiles and—

“He  y

B

    U

M

        B

L

  E

        B

    E

E…?”

Bee blinks and looks over his pauldron.

“Yes, uh…” He squints, making a face, “Witch, was it?”

The red drone before him noticeably winces.

“It’s Twitch,” she says, barely above a whisper, “But uhm, I was just wondering…” She trails off.

The scout stares, quickly growing impatient as the small drone literally twiddles her thumbs.

“Yes?”

“I…”

And then she gives him a look so sad it makes his spark stutter.

“Nevermind…”

“Wait, Witch— er— Twitch!” Bee grimaces, letting his outstretched servo drop back to his side when she does not look back.

.

Bumblebee was young by most Cybertronians' standards — yes, but he was far from dumb or naive.

He never missed the way everyone's faceplates— er— faces, dropped whenever they thought he wasn't looking.

He saw the way they held each other as though mourning a loss.

He knew it had something to do with him but he just had no idea what it was.

Bee often heard his name mentioned in the distance but when he looked, they weren't looking at him.

The little motorcycle named Trash— Thrash! Would often come to him with questions before wilting when he seemed to not give a satisfactory answer.

Why were his answers always wrong to them?

He'd notice the big purple bot — her name was Hitchrag, right? — looking through pictures, and he'd wonder to himself:

Why did one of the bots in the pictures look like him... but not?

The beastformer named Lampshade? Pineshame? Nightshade! would often tell him stories about things he wasn't there for — but they always insisted he had been there.

The human family — the Maltos — would often try to invite him to "Sunday Malto Game Night" but he always declined.

He didn't feel like part of the family.

The dinobot — Jawmaker —  kept trying to play games with him and asking him question after question.

He seemed to know too much about Bee.

But worst of all was that little red drone — Wit— Twitch, who gave him sad looks even when he was looking.

She would always glance away when he looked over.

The family...

They felt incomplete...

But the last piece could not be him, could it?

He'd never met any of these bots or humans in his life.

He was sure he'd remember.

Right?

Chapter Text

The beach should have been peaceful.

It wasn’t.

Dot was wrestling with the stubborn blanket while Alex tried (and failed) to keep a cooler from tipping over.

“Why does sand exist,” he muttered, as the wind tried to steal the napkins.

Optimus Prime knelt with absolute sincerity, anchoring a beach umbrella into the sand like he was stabilizing a battlefield structure.

“Ir must not fall,” he said gravely.

“It is a beach umbrella, Prime,” Megatron sighed, arms crossed.

Behind them, Elita-1 had already set out towels in a painfully neat row.

“No running with weapons out,” she called, “And absolutely no carrying sand within ten feet of the human food area.”

Thrash immediately sprinted toward the water.

“I’M GONNA FIGHT THE OCEAN—!!!!”

He made it three whole steps before a wave knocked him flat and sent him tumbling.

“Six seconds,” Hashtag called out, whistling, “New record.”

Twitch immediately dropped to the sand, gathering shells into neat little lines.

“This one feels… nervous,” she murmured, holding up a tiny spiral shell.

Nightshade leaned in, considering it, “Yes. It looks socially anxious.”

Wheeljack dropped down beside Twitch with an easy smile, “So! What are we inventin’, kiddo?”

“What if we draw ourselves in the sand?” Twitch asked without looking up, carefully aligning her seashells.

Wheeljack paused, then grinned.

“…I would be honoured.”

Arcee, meanwhile, was teaching Thrash how to “totally skip rocks like a pro,” which mostly involved throwing them as hard as possible.

“I think you cracked the ocean,” Thrash said in awe.

Bumblebee was mid-laugh when a volleyball smacked gently into his hands.

“Nice catch!” Jawbreaker called.

Bee grinned and tossed it back, accidentally nailing Hardtop square in the chest.

Hardtop blinked slowly, “Oooh… Ball.”

Breakdown rolled up beside Bumblebee, already halfway buried in sand thanks to Mo and Robby.

“Hey, bro,” he called to Bee, “This is a terrible place to race.”

“It’s a literal beach,” Bee snorted.

Across the sand, shouting erupted.

“Oh yeah?” Aftermath snarled, engine revving aggressively.

“Yeah!” Spitfire shot back, dropping to her knees in the sand.

“Oh YEAH?!”

“YEAH!!”

“OH YE—”

Megatron appeared between them so fast it was genuinely frightening.

“Build.” he commanded.

Both of them froze.

“…Huh?” Aftermath asked.

“You will not scream your superiority,” Megatron continued, kneeling down and scooping up sand with complete seriousness, “You will demonstrate it.”

A very long pause.

Spitfire’s optics narrowed.

Aftermath’s engine revved.

They immediately began shaping sand with the anger of ancient rivals.

A few feet away, Starscream was promptly buried alive by the rest of the Terrans.

“You will PAY for this indiGNITY—!” he screeched before his mouth got filled with sand.

A tiny shell was gently placed on his forehead like a crown, courtesy of Twitch.

Hashtag took a picture.

Nova Storm and Skywarp crackled into existence in identical lightning flashes near the waterline.

“Yes!” Nova Storm said, raising her arms, “So much awful, awful sand!”

Skywarp kicked it lazily, “I hate it.”

Nova Storm elbowed her. Hard.

And then vanished with a crack of electricity… only to reappear two feet to the left and immediately faceplant.

Swindle had set up a tiny, illegal beach booth.

“Special deal!” he whispered to Hardtop, “Authentic sunscreen. Definitely not just tinted paint.”

Hardtop squinted at it, “Smells… criminal.”

“Family discount,” Swindle insisted.

Wheeljack finished the sand art and started helped Nightshade construct what started as a sandcastle and slowly turned into a structurally sound… sand observatory.

“This is where we observe the tides,” Nightshade explained.

“Sure is,” Wheeljack said proudly.

Down the beach, Alex manned the grill while Megatron loomed behind him like a terrifying advisor.

“You flip the meat too early,” Megatron critiqued.

“Who's the chef here? You or ME?,” Alex rolled his eyes before fumbling the spatula and dropping it into the sand.

Dorothy walked by, handing him a plate, “You’re doing great, honey.”

Arcee zipped past with Twitch perched on her back like this was normal.

“High-speed beach reconnaissance!" Arcee declared.

Twitch did not yell but she did squeal with joy.

Skywarp teleported into the air, immediately fell, and reappeared standing like nothing happened.

Nova Storm applauded.

Aftermath and Spitfire’s castles were finally complete: one spiked, brutal fortress and one elegant, dangerous sand palace.

Megatron walked between them, arms folded.

“…Both are acceptably impressive.”

They both groaned loudly before Spitfire launched herself at Aftermath, bowling him over right into his creation.

As the sun dipped lower, almost everyone ended up in messy clumps of towels and sand.

Down at the shoreline, Bee sat beside Thrash and Breakdown.

Bee leaned back, laughing as Mo tried to bury his pedes.

Breakdown bumped shoulders with him, “Not a bad day.”

“Yeah,” Bee said, watching everyone talk, laugh, run around, argue, build, and exist together.

Not quite peaceful.

But perfect in its own ways.

Chapter Text

Silence.

That was the first thing she felt.

Then the water.

Cold. Still. Heavy.

Hashtag opened her optics slowly. Her vision wavered in pale blue, filtered through a thin layer of water that pooled around her. She lay half-submerged in a bubble of trapped air, a small cave separated from the outside by collapsed stone.

Her head throbbed.

Her side burned.

And her voice—

Her voice didn’t work at first.

“…h…hello…?”

The sound barely echoed. It sounded small. She clutched her arms to her chest, shaking.

“Twitch…? Thrash…? Mo…? Are you there…?”

Only the drip of water answered her.

Her lip quivered as panic rushed back into her chest like a wave.

She remembered the screaming. The falling stone. The way her siblings’ hands reached for her through the dust. Thrash’s desperate voice cracking. Twitch sobbing her name. Nightshade stumbling to their unsteady feet, pushing at the rubble with trembling arms—

Hashtag swallowed hard, optics burning.

“…don’t leave me…”

She pushed herself upright, wincing as her body protested. Her plating was scraped. Her frame was dented. A line of water ran down her cheek from a cut.

Her voice trembled.

“Anyone…? Please…?”

Nothing.

She hugged her knees and squeezed her optics shut.

“I’m alive,” she whispered, “I’m alive. I just— I need to get out. I need to find them.”

The cave rumbled. She froze.

Was it collapsing more?

Her spark pounded so hard her whole frame shook.

Then—

THUMP.

Hashtag gasped and scrambled backward.

BANG.

The rock wall trembled.

Then she heard it:

The whoosh of turbines.

Voices.

Sharp. Familiar in a way she didn’t understand yet.

“Yo, Nova, why’s it so wet in here?”

“It’s a cave, Warp. Water happens.”

“No, but like— what if it’s haunted?”

“Everything’s haunted if you’re a coward.”

Hashtag held her breath, barely able to see through the dust as the rocks collapsed inwards.

And then vague shapes stepped into view.

Tall.

Winged.

Predator silhouettes with glowing optics.

Transformers.

Skywarp splashed into the water first, arms flailing.

“EW! It’s COLD! Why didn’t anyone warn me?!”

“You leapt in before we were even done scanning,” Nova Storm sighed, "Again."

Starscream descended last, wings folding sharply behind him as he scanned the chamber with impeccable posture and zero patience.

“Both of you are insufferable. Spread out. Someone survived the collapse and our readings say—”

He stopped.

Because Hashtag was staring at him with giant, terrified optics.

And she was dented.

And shivering.

Skywarp pointed, “Uh. Found something.”

Nova Storm blinked, “Is that… a Terran?”

Starscream stepped forward. His face shifted — surprise softening into something unreadable.

“…A newborn Terran.”

Hashtag made a tiny sound, “P— please don’t hurt me…”

Skywarp immediately flailed her hands, “WHAT— NO— WE DON’T— NOT— WE AREN’T PLANNING ON HURTING ANYONE TODAY—!”

Nova Storm smacked her, “Why would you clarify it like that?! That makes us sound like we do that every other day!”

Starscream silenced them both with a snarl.

He knelt — slowly, carefully — to Hashtag’s level.

His voice dropped in pitch, surprisingly gentle.

“Little one… you are injured. How long have you been here?”

Hashtag’s lip wobbled.

“I— I don’t know— I was with my family and then the whole cave fell and there was water and yelling and I— I—”

Her voice finally broke.

Starscream’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

And then—

He placed a servo on her helm.

A soft, careful pat.

Skywarp gasped loudly, “DID YOU JUST— DID HE JUST—??”

Nova Storm grabbed her arm, “Shut up, he’s having a moment!”

Hashtag blinked up through her tears.

“…you looked scary at first but you're not," she muttered.

Starscream’s wings shot straight up.

“I— well— of course not— I mean, I am intimidating, yes, but— well—”

He cleared his throat loudly.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

Hashtag reached toward him instinctively.

Starscream froze.

Then gently scooped her into his arms.

Skywarp whispered to Nova Storm, “Screamer is adopting another stray, isn’t he?”

“Absolutely.”

.

The Seekers flew Hashtag across the mountains to a forgotten Autobot-era hangar — their unofficial hideout. Concrete cracked. Vines crawled up old jetways. The roof was half-collapsed.

But compared to the cave?

It felt like heaven.

Starscream set her down on a soft pile of old tarps.

“There. Better?”

Hashtag nodded, staring up with wide, trusting optics.

Skywarp crouched beside her, “Sooo… kid. You got a name, or should we call you ‘Cave Goblin’?”

“Warp,” Nova Storm groaned, “For the love of Primus.”

Hashtag sniffed, “I… I’m Hashtag.”

Skywarp blinked, “Wait, that’s actually cute.”

Nova Storm crossed her arms, “A little too cute. Suspiciously cute. I don’t trust it.”

Starscream gave them both a glare sharp enough to peel paint.

“She has just survived a cave-in. She is frightened. She is alone. And she is under my protection.”

Hashtag looked up, “Thank you, mister.”

The twins froze.

Skywarp blinked, “Huh?!”

Nova Storm pointed accusingly, “I— Star— what have you done to her?!“

Starscream straightened proudly.

“I have done nothing except provide basic compassion, which the two of you lack.”

Hashtag frowned at the twins.

“Don’t be mean to him.”

Skywarp clutched her chest, “OH WOW. She’s already taking his side. We’ve lost her.”

Nova Storm pointed at Hashtag, “You’ve been here five minutes!”

Hashtag shrugged shyly.

“He found me and took me in.”

Starscream’s optics softened and he crouched beside her again.

“Little one… a Cybertronian of any kind, including a Terran is shaped by the environment. By influence. By choice.”

Hashtag watched him, hanging onto every word.

“You were born from magic and water. But that does not define you.”

He gestured to his wings.

“There are other paths.”

Skywarp leaned over his shoulder, “Like flying!”

Nova Storm slapped her own chestplate, “Or flying better than her!”

“HEY—!”

Starscream ignored them both.

“You could become a jet, Hashtag. One of us. Strong. Fast. Free.”

Her optics went wide.

“…really?”

“Of course.”

She hesitated.

“Can I still keep my name?”

Starscream smiled.

A real one.

Warm. Gentle. Almost fond.

“Of course, little one.”

Skywarp jumped into the air.

“CALLED IT! I’M HER COACH! I’M TEACHING HER FIRST!”

Nova Storm shoved her.

“NO WAY! I AM. YOU CAN’T EVEN FLY IN A STRAIGHT LINE!”

“STRAIGHT LINES ARE A SUGGESTION!”

“YOU’RE A SUGGESTION, YOU AFT!”

“THAT DOESN’T EVEN MAKE SENSE!”

“NEITHER DO YOU!”

Starscream rubbed his temples.

Primus give him strength.

Hashtag giggled —actually giggled— for the first time since the collapse.

And Starscream looked down at her, something warm and protective blooming beneath his armor.

“…Welcome to the skies, Hashtag.”

Chapter Text

Bumblebee hated being still.

He hated being grounded. Hated the way his systems lagged when he tried to move too fast, the way his transformation cog stubbornly refused to engage, the way the steady drip—drip—drip of the energon IV reminded him just how close he’d come to being offlined.

But most of all, he hated worrying the kids.

Right now, he lay reclined against a pile of cushions in the dugout, cables tucked neatly along his arm and into a clear energon line that pulsed faintly pink. His plating was scuffed, cracked in places, patched with quick fixes that would not pass Wheeljack inspection. His optics were dimmer than usual, set to low-light mode to reduce strain.

He felt… fragile. And that was not a feeling Bumblebee enjoyed.

Thrash, however, was having the time of his life.

“Okay, Nurse Thrash reporting for duty!” the small Terran declared, standing on a crate beside Bee’s shoulder. He wore a towel tied around his neck like a cape and a grin that was a little too enthusiastic, “Patient Bumblebee, how are we feeling today?”

Bee cracked a tired smile, “Uh… on a scale from ‘ready to race’ to ‘don’t sneeze on me,’ I’m at about a… ‘gentle breeze might knock me over.’”

Thrash nodded solemnly, scribbling nonsense onto a datapad with a stylus that wasn’t even turned on, “Mhm. Mhm. Very serious. Very medical.”

Twitch hovered nearby, propellers buzzing softly as she adjusted the angle of the IV stand with exaggerated care. She’d stuck a hand-drawn label on it that read: SUPER IMPORTANT LIFE JUICE — DO NOT TOUCH.

“Thrash, you’re not supposed to interrogate the patient,” she said, trying very hard to sound professional and failing completely, “You have to do… uh… bedside manner.”

Thrash gasped, “You’re right! Bee, I am so sorry.” He leaned in close, “Would you like a pillow? A snack? A dramatic retelling of how awesome I was at game night last night?”

Bee snorted, immediately regretted it, and groaned softly as his chest plating twinged.

Both Terrans froze.

“Too much?” Thrash asked, shrinking in on himself.

Bee lifted a servo weakly, “No, no, I’m good. Just— note to self, laughing is temporarily illegal.”

Twitch zipped closer, optics worried as she scanned him, “Your energon levels are stable,” she said quickly, as if reassuring herself as much as him, “They’re coming back up. You’re just… really drained.”

“Yeah,” Bee admitted, “Turns out getting your energon siphoned feels about as fun as it sounds.”

Jawbreaker, who had been sitting quietly near Bee’s feet, perked up at that. The big Terran held a small stack of smooth rocks he’d collected earlier, turning them over in his hands, “You were very brave,” he said, voice low and earnest, “You protected us.”

Bee’s spark gave a little ache at that — the good kind. The kind that hurt from too much sweetness.

“Hey,” he said gently, “That’s what family does, big guy.”

Nightshade, perched on a shelf nearby with their legs dangling, tilted their head, “Still,” they said, thoughtful, “You pushed yourself past safe limits. That was… statistically unwise.”

Bee winced, “Ouch. Even when I’m bedridden, I get called out.”

“But,” Nightshade added quickly, softening, “We are… glad you are here.”

That made it worth it.

The dugout was quiet for a moment, filled only with the faint hum of Bee’s systems and the soft clink of energon moving through the IV line. Then Thrash brightened again.

“Oh! Oh! Bee, guess what happened today!”

Bee shifted slightly, careful not to tug the line, “What happened today?”

Thrash launched into an enthusiastic, wildly exaggerated story about how he and Twitch had argued over who got to organize the toolbox, which somehow escalated into a race, a spilled box of bolts, and Jawbreaker getting stuck with a traffic cone on his arm.

“It was not stuck,” Jawbreaker rumbled, “Well— well... It was… but I did it on purpose.”

Bee chuckled quietly this time, mindful of his chest. He let them talk. Let them ramble and interrupt each other and talk over him like everything was normal. Like he wasn’t hooked up to an IV, couldn’t even transform, couldn’t jump in and help if something went wrong.

Twitch eventually settled against his side, resting her forearms carefully on his plating, “You know,” she said softly, sighing, “We were really scared.”

Bee looked down at her.

“When you went down,” she continued, winglets drooping just a little, “And your energon readings kept dropping… I thought—” She stopped, shaking her head, “I don’t like thinking about it.”

Bee reached out, slow and careful, and rested his servo lightly on her head, “Hey. I’m still here.”

She leaned into the touch without hesitation.

Thrash climbed down from the crate and sat near Bee’s other side, bumping his knee gently against Bee’s arm, “You’re not allowed to do that again,” he muttered.

Bee smiled, “Do what?”

“Almost die,” Thrash said flatly.

“…Yeah,” Bee said after a moment, “Deal.”

They stayed like that for a while — the Terrans talking, Bee listening, occasionally chiming in when he had the energy. The IV continued its steady work, blue light reflecting softly off the garage walls.

He was sore. He was exhausted. He was more grounded than he liked.

But surrounded by kids who cared enough to play nurse, to tell him about their day, to sit with him just so he wouldn’t be alone—

Bumblebee decided maybe being still wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

At least not right now.

Chapter Text

Starscream did not move from where he stood.

He did not scream.

He did not fight.

He simply… stood and stared.

The battlefield around him was noise and fire and chaos — Autobots clashing with Mandroid’s machines, Terrans darting through smoke, the air ripped open by explosions — but Starscream stood perfectly still, wings locked in place, optics fixed on nothing at all.

The chip buried in his spinal strut pulsed once.

Then again.

And his systems obeyed.

He could feel everything. That was the cruelest part. The restraint fields humming through his frame, the forced stillness overriding every command he sent to his own body, the way his wings screamed to flex and couldn’t. He felt the wind pass over his plating. He heard the battle.

He could not move.

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years of white rooms and cold lights and hands that treated him like an object instead of a living Cybertronian. Fifteen years of G.H.O.S.T. carving knowledge out of him piece by piece, mapping his systems, drilling into his spine because “he will never obey otherwise.”

They had told him the chip was permanent.

They had been right.

When the signal reactivated, there was no shattering of control like before. No furious rebellion of will. No dramatic escape.

Just silence.

Obedience.

Starscream stood on the battlefield and stared into the horizon as the war raged around him and then slowly… didn’t.

The fight ended.

Mandroid fell.

The smoke cleared.

And Starscream remained.

Motionless.

Unblinking.

Days passed.

No one noticed at first.

Why would they? He was the worst Decepticon out of them all. A threat who manipulated and pulled strings. Someone everyone assumed would either flee or attack the moment he could. When he didn’t move, they thought it was a trick.

Then, slowly, concern crept in.

Then unease.

But no one approached him closely enough.

No one except Hashtag.

She found him at sunset.

The light was low, painting the ruined battlefield in gold and ash. Hashtag stood uncertainly at the edge of the clearing, doorwings twitching as her sensors flagged something wrong. Starscream’s energon signature was stable — too stable. No fluctuation. No movement.

She stepped closer.

“Starscream?” she called.

No response.

She stopped a few meters away, optics scanning him from head to toe. His plating was scarred. Old scars. New ones layered over them. His wings were locked half-spread, frozen in a position that had once been defensive, maybe even protective.

His optics were on.

But empty.

“Starscream,” she said again, softer.

She reached out — hesitated — then gently touched his arm.

Nothing.

No flinch. No reaction. Not even irritation.

Hashtag’s spark clenched.

She pulled up her internal scanner, diving deeper, following the rigid lines of his neural pathways until she found it.

The chip.

Buried deep in his spinal strut, fused into his systems like it had grown there.

“Oh,” she whispered, “Oh no.”

She couldn't leave him like that.

Instead, she drove.

The abandoned G.H.O.S.T. facility was still standing, scuffed up but intact enough to hold its secrets. Hashtag tore through corrupted terminals and broken data cores with shaking hands, pulling up experiment logs she had no right to read.

SUBJECT: DECEPTICON — STARSCREAM

STATUS: CONTAINED

NOTE: Control chip implantation successful. Removal impossible without catastrophic failure.

Subject resistance: persistent.

Hashtag swallowed hard.

She worked anyway.

Hours blurred together. She bypassed firewalls, rewrote code never meant to be altered, traced command loops and override protocols until her systems ached. This wasn’t just hacking — it was surgery. One wrong move and she could lock him like this forever.

Or worse.

Her hands shook as she initiated the final command.

“Please,” she murmured, to no one and everyone, “Please let this work.”

The chip pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Then turned off.

Starscream felt it.

Not relief — not immediately.

First came pain. White-hot, ripping through his spinal strut as the chip’s grip fractured, systems rebooting unevenly, his body suddenly his again after years of not being.

He gasped — a sharp, broken sound — and staggered forward half a step before catching himself.

But he didn’t move after that.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t react.

Hashtag stood in front of him, heart hammering. “Starscream? It’s me. You’re free. The chip — it’s gone. You’re not being controlled anymore.”

No response.

His optics still stared into the distance, unfocused, like he was looking through the world rather than at it.

Her voice wavered, “You’re safe now.”

Still nothing.

She felt something crack inside her.

Slowly, carefully, Hashtag stepped closer until she stood directly in front of him. She waved a hand in his line of sight. No tracking. No acknowledgment.

“…Starscream?”

He blinked.

Once.

That was all.

Hashtag’s shoulders slumped. She rested her forehead against his shoulder plating, warm against cold metal.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I didn’t know. I should’ve come sooner. I should’ve—”

A servo twitched.

Barely.

She froze.

Then, gently — like he wasn’t sure it was allowed — Starscream’s hand rose until it hovered just above her back. Not touching. Not yet.

His voice came out hoarse, unused.

“…Is it… over?”

Hashtag let out a shaky breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob.

“Yes,” she said, “It’s over. You don’t have to stand there anymore,” her breath hitched, "You're free."

His hand finally settled against her back.

He didn’t glance away from the horizon.

Didn’t look down.

But he leaned — just slightly — into her.

And that was enough.

They stayed like that as the sun dipped below the ruins, Hashtag holding him steady while Starscream relearned how to exist in a world where he could move again.

Not healed.

Not whole.

But free.

And not alone.

Chapter Text

The dugout was quiet.

That alone should have been the first warning sign.

Jawbreaker sat cross-legged on the floor, a datapad balanced very carefully in his massive hands, optics narrowed in intense concentration. Across from him, Hashtag laid upside-down on a crate, visor humming softly as she scrolled through article after article at alarming speed.

“…Okay,” Hashtag said slowly, flipping the datapad around so Jawbreaker could see, “Either the internet is lying to us.”

Jawbreaker leaned closer, squinting, “The internet would not do that.”

“…Or,” Hashtag continued, ominously, “Stygimoloch is not a real dinosaur.”

Jawbreaker froze.

“What.”

Hashtag tapped the screen.

[STYGIMOLOCH — INVALID GENUS.

Likely juvenile Pachycephalosaurus.]

Jawbreaker’s optics widened.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Jawbreaker looked down at himself.

At his horns.

At his carefully cultivated, extremely intimidating spiky head.

“…I am a lie.”

Hashtag winced, “Okay, that’s a bit dramatic.”

Jawbreaker’s shoulders slumped, “It says here,” he rumbled, reading aloud, “That as the animal aged… the horns were reabsorbed into the skull.”

Hashtag made a face.

“Reabsorbed?”

Jawbreaker lifted a hand and gently touched one of his head spikes.

“…I will become smooth.”

Hashtag burst out laughing.

“I’M SORRY— I’M SORRY—” she wheezed, flipping upright, “It’s just— I didn’t expect it to say it like that.”

Jawbreaker stared at her, horrified, “Hashtag.”

“I’m trying to be supportive!”

“You are failing.”

Hashtag wiped a tear from her optic, “Okay. Okay. Serious face.” She reset her vocalizer, “So. Technically. If you’re following biological precedent—”

“I am listening but I do not like it.”

“—as you age, you might… lose the horns.”

Jawbreaker whispered, “My brand.”

Hashtag nodded sympathetically, “Your brand.”

The door to the dugout creaked open.

Nightshade poked their head inside, “Hey, have either of you seen— why do you look like that?”

Jawbreaker turned slowly.

“I am going to be bald.”

Nightshade blinked.

“…What.”

Hashtag spun around dramatically, “STYGIMOLOCH IS FAKE.”

Nightshade paused.

Then, very calmly, they said, “Explain.”

Five minutes later, Nightshade sat on a crate, datapad in hand, reading in silence.

Jawbreaker stood rigidly beside them like he was awaiting a verdict.

Hashtag hovered between them, vibrating with barely-contained energy.

Nightshade scrolled.

Scrolled.

Scrolled some more.

Then looked up.

“…Oh.”

Jawbreaker made a small, distressed noise.

“Oh is bad.”

“Oh is very bad,” Hashtag agreed, nodding solemnly.

Nightshade smiled softly, “From a paleontological standpoint, this is fascinating.”

Jawbreaker stared at them.

“I am not fascinated.”

Nightshade continued, “However, yes. It appears Stygimoloch specimens are now believed to represent adolescent pachycephalosaurs.”

Jawbreaker slumped against the wall.

“I will molt into a businessman.”

Hashtag lost it again.

“NO— STOP—” she wheezed, “Why would you say it like that?!”

The door opened again.

Thrash leaned in, holding a half-eaten energon snack, “Yo, what’s with the weird vibes—”

“JAWBREAKER IS GOING BALD,” Hashtag announced.

Thrash choked.

“HE’S WHAT.”

Jawbreaker covered his face with both hands, “Please stop telling people.”

Thrash rushed over, grabbing and staring up at Jawbreaker’s head, “No way. No way. You can’t go bald. Your whole thing is spikes and horns!”

“Yes,” Jawbreaker said miserably, “That is the issue.”

Thrash squinted, “Okay but like. What if you don’t?”

Nightshade deadpanned, “That is not how biology works.”

Thrash pointed accusingly at the datapad, “Says who.”

Twitch appeared in the doorway, drawn by the noise, “Why is everyone yelling?”

Thrash turned, “Jawbreaker’s head is temporary.”

Twitch froze.

“…His what is what—”

Hashtag waved the datapad, “Invalid genus!”

Twitch zipped forward, reading at hyperspeed.

Her winglets drooped.

“…Oh.”

Jawbreaker whimpered.

Twitch immediately grabbed his arm, “It’s okay! It’s fine! Bald is— bald is great! Look at— look at—” She paused, “Actually I don’t have a good example right now but still!”

Jawbreaker stared into the middle distance, “I will be aerodynamic.”

Nightshade nodded thoughtfully, “That is a benefit.”

Thrash looked between them, “So wait. Does that mean he’s like… a teen?”

Jawbreaker brightened slightly, “I am a growing boy.”

Hashtag grinned, “A pubescent dinosaur... lmao...”

Jawbreaker’s hope died instantly.

The dugout door opened one final time.

Dot Malto stepped inside, hands on her hips.

“…Why does it sound like a science documentary in here.”

Everyone turned to look at her.

Hashtag pointed at Jawbreaker.

“HE’S A FAKE DINOSAUR AND HE’S GOING BALD.”

Dot stared.

Jawbreaker stared back, silently pleading.

There was a long pause.

Then Dot said, “Okay.”

Another pause.

“…Do I need to sit down?”

The kids erupted into overlapping explanations as Dot slowly, very slowly, lowered herself onto something vaguely chair-shaped.

Jawbreaker sighed.

“This day has been… challenging.”

[Extra]

Jawbreaker took this very seriously.

That was, perhaps, the second warning sign.

The first was when Hashtag walked into the dugout and found him standing perfectly still in front of a reflective panel, carefully angling his head.

“…What are you doing?”

Jawbreaker did not move.

“I am appreciating them while I still can.”

Hashtag squinted, “Your horns?”

“Yes.”

He lifted one massive hand and gently traced the ridges of his cranial spikes with reverence.

“They are sharp. Majestic. Temporary.”

Hashtag winced, “Okay, wow. We are not spiraling today.”

“I am documenting,” Jawbreaker said solemnly, turning to a datapad propped on a crate. On the screen was an album labeled:

GOODBYE HORNS — DAY 2

Hashtag leaned over, “Is that… a photoshoot?”

Jawbreaker nodded, “Multiple angles are important for historical accuracy.”

Nightshade, passing by, stopped dead.

“…Is that a backdrop?”

Jawbreaker had, at some point, draped a blanket behind himself to create contrast.

“Yes.”

Nightshade blinked, “…Understandable. Carry on.”

Over the next hour, the dugout slowly filled with evidence of Jawbreaker’s grief process.

He refused to bump his head at all (“Impact may accelerate reabsorption”).

He asked Twitch to polish his spikes “so they would be remembered at their best.”

He gently corrected Thrash when he leaned on him too hard.

“Please do not touch the spikes aggressively,” Jawbreaker said, “They are in a vulnerable stage of their lives.”

Thrash stared, “They’re… attached to your head.”

“Yes,” Jawbreaker replied, “Emotionally.”

Twitch hovered anxiously, “JB, it’s not like they’ll vanish overnight!”

Jawbreaker sighed, “That is what erosion wants you to believe.”

Hashtag, meanwhile, had started labeling sticky notes and placing them near his head.

“‘Spiky Era,’” she read aloud, slapping one on a crate.

“Hashtag, no,” Jawbreaker said.

“‘Gone But Not Forgotten,’” she added, putting another one up.

“HASHTAG.”

Nightshade finally intervened, crouching beside him.

“Jawbreaker,” they said gently, “Even if your horns change, you will still be you.”

Jawbreaker considered this.

“…But what if I forget what it was like to be pointy?”

There was a brief silence.

Then Thrash grinned, “We’ll remember for you.”

Twitch nodded fiercely, “So many pictures.”

Hashtag smiled, “And we can always draw them back on.”

Jawbreaker straightened.

“…I would like a mural.”

And that was when Robby walked in, took one look at the spike shrine forming in the corner, and said:

“…I’m afraid to ask, but why does Jawbreaker look like he’s in dinosaur mourning?”

Jawbreaker met his eyes, dignified and resolute.

“My horns are finite,” he said, “Please respect this time.”

Robby paused.

“…Got it.”

He backed out slowly.