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story-weavr · 3 months

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A Hidden Story

Notes:

Inspired by The Bot Who Went Through Time by Commoncoral

This can be read as just TFA or a mixed universe.

The Autobots led by Optimus Prime were in a covert Autobot lab where experimentation for an energy source was underway. Due to the dangerous nature of the experiment, a secluded and hidden location was chosen for a lab.

Unfortunately, the Decepticons found the lab and attacked!

During the battle, an explosion occurred.

Waking up, Optimus Prime found himself on a Cybertron of the past. Unfortunately, he was smack-dab in the territory of Tarn. The most dangerous city-state on Cybertron, where crime, corruption, & brutality go hand-in-hand.

Knowing the danger he was in as well as the risks, Optimus opted to disguise himself with a new body and identity: Convoy.

He quickly found work where no one really cared who you were: Mining.

Luckily, he quickly made friends with another miner, Dion. He showed the young Convoy the ropes, and the two quickly became inseparable.

One day, a cave-in occurred. Convoy, furious at the foremen’s disregard for the trapped miners, immediately started the rescue effort. He, Dion, & others managed to save them.

The group was punished with cut pay and overtime for the resulting effect on production. Convoy, for leading it, was put on half-rations.

Later, at his hut in one of the miner camp-towns just outside the Tarn mines, Convoy received visitors. All but one were the mechs his actions saved.

Terminus, unfortunately, could not come with the others due to his damaged legs. Instead, he sent his son, Kilotron.

Kilotron was a gentle and noble soul within an intimidating frame. The mech was often visited by those who wanted him to work as a thug or a gladiator.

But Kilo was uninterested; he wouldn’t risk dying or killing.

After becoming closer with Kilo, Convoy later learned the young miner’s dream: to become a writer. One who could help, not just Tarn, but all of Cybertron to become better.

Something his grandmother, a Tarnian politician, failed to do. This resulted in her becoming a mining prisoner, and her son born in mining.

Over a short period of time, Convoy and Kiltron’s feelings became that of love. At first, Convoy tried to keep it platonic. But he started to lose hope that he’d ever return to his time.

One day, another cave-in occurred. This time, Convoy and Kiltron were trapped alone.

When they dug themselves out, something terrible greeted them. Among the casualties, Dion and Terminus had passed.

Convoy knew then: he or Kilo could die at any time.

That day, Convoy and Kilotron moved in together. In mining culture, they were now Conjux.

Time passed. Kilo moved up the miners’ informal ranks becoming a Head for a large team. Convoy had been reassigned to logistics and was now expecting their first sparkling. The two had become respected figures in their camp-town. They often met with other leaders to better organize the mine work and supply distribution.

One day, however, something terrible happened. The city-state of Vos, eternal arch-rival of Tarn, sent a squadron of bombers to various mining sites on the outskirts of Tarn. The plan was to take the mines for Vos by hitting the headquarters that were always a fair distance from the valuable mines themselves.

Unfortunately, Convoy and Kilo’s camp-town was right next to one of the targets.

Kilotron was still deep in the mines with his team. Convoy was surrounded by flames and panicking miners and civilians. He helped as many as he could escape.

Unfortunately, he himself became trapped. All hope seemed lost.

Then a portal appeared in front of him. Ironhide screamed Optimus’s name. Desperate, Optimus Prime ran through the flames and passed through.

Back in an Autobot lab, surrounded by old familiar faces, Optimus screamed in Ratchet’s familiar arms.

His Conjux was gone. Possibly dead in the attack. If not, he would die by the mines, Tarn’s corruption, the Vos’s attacks, by the Decepticon-Autobot war.

But worse than that, if Kilotron did survive, he’d be completely alone.

And the only thing Optimus had left of his beloved… was the sparkling he carried. The sparkling he would name Windblade.

When Kilotron finally came out of the mines, all he wanted to do was go straight back to Convoy and their unborn sparkling.

When he got out however, he was greeted by a group of miners led by one of the other camp leaders.

What he said caused Kilo to drop his tools and take off running. He ran, and ran, and ran.

Until finally he reached the hill that overlooked his home.

Where a dilapidated but lively camp-town once was, there was only smoking ruin and the smell of ash.

Kilotron let out a ROAR. One of grief… and rage!

That day, Kilotron… the miner… the writer… the mech with a family…

Was dead.

A short time later, Tarn’s infamous gladiator circle was shaken by the criminal lord Cryotek’s newest talent!

Megatronus!

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nn1895 · 2 years

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The Night of the Storm

Transformers Halloween fic time! Cross posted on AO3.

Summery: Prowl misses his old school, his old life and his kind, awkward uncle. When his creators decide to send him to an elite boarding school, Prowl is plunged into a world of bullies, controlling teachers, and homesickness. One night, he runs out into the rain and meets a curious sparkling that is not just a sparkling. This sparkling is -!

This sparkling is an idiot.

Prowl&Jazz kid friendship fic! With light vampire elements!

Prowl was not scared. He was not a sparkling. He was not crying.

He just…he just missed Uncle Magnus.

The branch scrapped against the window again and Prowl bit his fist to keep from yelping. It was a wicked storm and the Darkling season in Praxus was famous for them. It wouldn’t be letting up anytime soon.

All the other sparklings were in recharge.

He didn’t know why his creators had decided to send him away to school after ignoring him for most of his life. Why couldn’t they have just left him with Uncle Magnus?

The room lit up with strange, bizarre shadows as the lightning spiraled down to the metal planet, sending arcs and sparks out in all directions.

Prowl grabbed the heavy blanket and pulled it tightly around his shoulders and imagined it was Uncle Magnus, hugging him on the couch.

On stormy nights when neither of them could sleep, Prowl would curl up against Uncle Magnus and listen to him read. Uncle Magnus didn’t care for vids and had never owned a holoscreen. He said the pictures ruined a good story. As he grew, Prowl found he preferred listening to stories as well.

He wanted to go home.

Was Uncle Magnus sitting up, right now? Was he still reading The Mystery of the Floating Optic? Or had he only been reading that for Prowl? He claimed he’d been waiting for Prowl to be old enough to read it to. He’d said it was his favorite as a sparkling. Had he lied?

No. Prowl shook his helm under the covers. Uncle Magnus didn’t lie to him. He needed to remember that. Uncle Magnus always told him the truth.

And he loved him. Even if he said it with actions instead of words like Archivist Orion and Officer Strongarm.

He built the picture up in his mind. The tiny front room with the squashy couch facing the huge window. They were on a high floor and their room looked out over the ocean. They could watch the storms roll in and have sweet energon and spicy crisps. Uncle Magnus would –

Was that a window opening? No, everyone was asleep. He was fine.

Uncle Magus would pick up their book from the table and scroll down to where they’d left off. He’d –

That sounded like something slithering across the floor, didn’t it? Or was it the rain against the window again?

He’d start reading right where he’d left off, as if they’d never paused and he’d show Prowl the pictures. There was a really scary one where Detective Lamplight was walking down an alley and he didn’t know that behind him –

Something slammed into the berth frame and shrieked. Prowl threw himself out of bed and screamed, pulling the blanket over him. He started to roll under the berth – find a safe place to defend from, then attack – when he heard the laughing.

He saw a half dozen pairs of pedes bouncing in excitement as they spoke.

“Did you see him?”

“What a snotling!”

“He screamed and everything!”

“Hey, slagbrains! Anyone ever tell you monsters aren’t real?”

“Aw, want creator and carrier, little sparkling?”

“Run away home, little sparkling!”

They burst into louder, rougher, crueler mirth and it scratched at his plating like glass shards.

Prowl stood up. He was sad and lonely and he hated them. His spark was exploding out of his chest and they were laughing.

He wanted to – he wanted to – hewantedtohewantedtohewantedto –

Prowl ran.

The blanket slipped from his servos and he slammed into the dormitory doors. The hallway flew by him – his pedes weren’t touching the floor – and then he was out in the storm, still running.

The problem was, that he could. He’d taken martial arts classes since before he came up to Uncle Magnus’s knee. He could have hit the other younglings. They were just other younglings. They’d probably only gotten into playground scrapes before.

Prowl could have hit them and they’d have stayed down.

And because he could have, he didn’t.

Prowl’s pedes slapped the wet ground as he slowed, splishing in the puddles of oil and solvent rain. He came to a stop in the big courtyard, the grand hall on one end, the professor’s quarters on the other. The huge, gaudy front gardens looked dull and messy in the storm.

He stood still, helm down, letting the steady, firm rhythm of the rain solder him to the ground. He out here, in the quiet, he felt like himself, like Prowl, Magnus’s creation, the enforcers’ favorite and the librarian’s bane.

Prowl stood still in the downpour and vented. The rain collected above his optics and dripped heavily onto his chest. He could feel it running down his back and drizzling off his fingertips like cold lightning. He stared at the chapel, tinted purple in the rain. The small, run-down chapel was the only thing Prowl liked about his new school. The rest of it was…style and pomp, Sergeant Kup would have said. It made Prowl vaguely embarrassed to be a student.

He would have to go back in. He briefly entertained the thought of running away, back to Uncle Magnus, but shut it down quickly. He would only send Prowl back and Prowl didn’t think he could watch that again. If there had been anyone sadder than Prowl that day at the train station, it had been Uncle Magnus.

Prowl had pretended not to hear the many – many – angry conversations between Uncle Magnus and his creators. He had heard the words “socially maladjusted” more than once on both ends.

Well, if this school was an example of well-adjusted younglings, Prowl preferred the company of his fellow weirdos.

Prowl was just starting to convince himself that the idea of going back inside and drying off sounded nice – it was difficult, but he’d been captain of the debate team back home – when he noticed something odd.

At some point, while he’d been staring at the chapel, it had started staring back at him.

Two dim green optics shone out of the top window. Which was strange, because Prowl knew that behind that window was open air, since the chapel had vaulted ceilings and no attic.

And, because he was Prowl again, not the cringing shadow of himself that the school was slowly forcing him to be, he marched up to the chapel doors to see what was hovering twenty feet in the air, inside a sacred house.

0-0-0

Prowl didn’t pause to knock, he threw open the doors and looked straight up.

“Eep!”

He stared into the bright green optics of another sparkling, floating above him, servo over it’s mouth.

“Eep!” it said again and plastered itself to the wall, as if that would hide it from view. It did not.

“I can see you!” Prowl shouted up. “What are you doing in here?!” He put his servos on his hips and tried to look like Uncle Magnus when he spoke to the door-to-door salebots.

“Um…Ah’m not! Ah’m…ah – ah – Ah’m –“ the sparkling sputtered. Its – his – voice was high and thin. “’m an optic-owl!”

“No, you’re not. You’re too big and you don’t have wings.”

“Ah’m two optic-owls!” he shouted down desperately. Unfortunately, Prowl had noticed, that as he’d been talking, the window in front of him was vibrating, the old, rusty latched threatening to give way under the wind. He opened his mouth to warn him.

At that moment, it snapped. The window slammed open, smacking into the sparkling that had been clinging to it, and sending him tumbling to the ground in front of Prowl.

Prowl rushed forwards and bent down.

“Are you okay?!” He grabbed the sparkling’s helm and turned it, looking for dents, like Uncle Magnus did whenever Prowl fell turning training. “What hurts?” He didn’t have a first aid kit, but he could run back up to the school if -

The sparkling sat up with a groan, letting his servos fall into his lap, optics mournful.

“Mah pride,” he said sadly, rubbing his backside and wincing. He slump forwards. “Ah am an idiot.”

“Yes,” Prowl agreed. He brushed a bit of chapel dust off the mech’s forehelm. “Why are you in our chapel?”

“Cause it’s rainin’ outside it?” he said, confused.

“I mean, why aren’t you at home with your family? Are you lost?” Wasn’t there something else – “and how were you floating? You’re not a seeker. Why are your optics green? I’ve never seen green optics.”

He certainly wasn’t a seeker. He was smaller than Prowl with rounded shoulders and a wide face. He was silver all over with a single red stripe going down each side.

The sparkling blinked at him.

“Ah dunno? Every energon seeker Ah know has green optics so –“

“Every what?”

“Energon seeker?” The sparkling kicked his pedes, nervously. “Ya not a Seeker hunter, are ya? ‘Cause if ya are – I’m not one! I’m an optic-owl shifter!”

“I am not,” Prowl answered, peering closer now. Uncle Magnus didn’t read a lot of scary stories, but his class had read Tales of the Energy-Suckers and he’d seen Don’t Let It In! with Officer Kup, who had laughed through the whole movie.

The sparkling had strange colored optics.

He could float without anti-gravs or wings.

He had called himself an energon seeker.

He had, now that Prowl looked, two sets of very sharp, very long, fangs.

Oh.

Prowl considered, briefly, being scared. He decided against it. It wasn’t useful and being scared of something like, well, the clumsy sparkling in front of him would be embarrassing.

“Are you going to attack me?” he asked and the sparkling jumped.

“Wha – no! Carrier says ta always ask first! It’s rude not ta ask!” He was shaking his helm quickly. “Ah’d get such a lecture if Ah didn’t ask! So, can I?”

“Can you what?” Prowl asked before his processor caught up.

“Bite ya? Ah’ve been flying all night and –“

“No! You – “ This was getting him nowhere. Every time he asked a question the sparkling sparked two more. First things first.

“My name is Prowl. What is yours?”

The sparkling sprang to his pedes and smiled.

“Ah’m Jazz! Nice ta meet ya!” He stuck out his servo and Prowl shook it. Then he tried to let go.

“Jazz?”

“Yeah?” Was he inching forwards? Yes he was.

“I said no biting.”

“Yeah, Ah know. I’m not gonna bite ya. That’s bad.” His optics were becoming dimmer. Prowl waited. Better to know now if Jazz would keep his word and Prowl was confident in his abilities to fend off…what he could only describe as a doofus.

“Then why are you getting closer?” Jazz’s pedes bumped Prowl’s.

“Ya warm…”

Jazz flopped forwards and Prowl’s arms came around him automatically.

Now he had an admitted energon seeker – and idiot – wrapped around him like an robo-squid.

“Jazz. What are you doing?” Prowl wiggled and took a step back, but Jazz came with him.

“Need it,” he mumbled. “Been out alone too long.” He nuzzled Prowl’s shoulder.

Okay. This was odd.

Jazz was chilled against him, but not freezing. He definitely had a spark. This close Prowl could feel the faint corona of it through his plating. He shouldn’t be that cold…

Out ‘alone’ too long?

“Who are you supposed to be with?” Prowl asked, trying to sound stern. Jazz beeped at him like a sparklet and hugged him tighter. Surely no one would let, well, this, out by itself.

Prowl looked out the window. The storm was regaining strength. The walls of the chapel were shaking slightly.

“Carrier ‘n mah twin. Lost ‘em over the valley when the storm hit.”

Prowl counted back.

“That was four days ago!”

“Yeah, long time. ‘s cold.”

“Do you know how to locate them? Where do you live?”

“No? Ah live wit’ em, that’s where I live,” came the non-answer.

“What is your plan then?” Prowl wiggled his servo between them and started prying Jazz away from him. Outside the storm grew louder.

“Plan? Ah found the chapel ta stay out of the rain.” Jazz hadn’t caught on yet and was blissfully unaware.

“That is not a plan,” Prowl said as he shoved and popped Jazz off his plating.

“Hey!”

He caught the surprised sparkling and stood him upright. “We are going to go inside and call my Uncle Magnus and he will help find your carrier. Come on.”

Prowl held Jazz tightly by the upper arm like Kup had showed him and tugged him towards the door.

“Hey – no! It’s wet out there! I’ll get cold!”

“You can hold onto me,” Prowl said grimly. He could put up with Jazz –

Splat!

Great. Now he had an extra set of limbs to navigate through the storm.

Prowl held onto one of Jazz’s arms to keep it from strangling him and opened the door.

Outside, it was nearly black. The clouds had thickened and the warm starlight from earlier was gone.

“Let’s go,” Prowl said and pulled.

They found their way mostly by feel.

Jazz whined the whole way and tried to crawl inside Prowl’s plating.

“We’re at the door you – just – hold on!”

Prowl tugged his servo free and pushed the door open. They stumbled inside and, despite the lashing of the rain starting to turn painful, Prowl wanted to turn around and walk back out.

The dreary brown walls and the imposing busts and statues seemed larger and darker. Prowl remembered his arrival and his entrance through these doors with perfect, horrible clarity.

There was none of the frantic, weary joy that his old school had been filled with. Nor the creaky, worn care that has suffused the Enforcer’s station where Uncle Magnus worked.

The chilly cruelness of the teachers and the students had seeped into the walls and floor and he remembered stepping inside, like stepping into a silent methane blizzard. It hadn’t gotten any better, but Prowl had…maybe he’d gotten tired of fighting against it and trying to keep warm.

“Huh,” came a voice beside his audial. “This place is gross, mech. Ah don’t like it.”

Prowl laughed.

“Me-me neither. Let’s find the comms unit. This way.”

They were dripping on the floor and Prowl took a vicious glee in tracking as much muck in as possible.

The public communication hub the school boasted was strictly guarded and its use was heavily regulated. Prowl hadn’t managed to ‘earn’ the privilege of using it yet.

It was located in an alcove close to the main doors to look like it was easily reached, but during the day there was always a teacher or older student watching it. At night they turned it off completely and set the code.

As if Prowl hadn’t learned to break codes at the pedes of Iacon’s finest hackers – the Archivists. Primus defend anyone who tried to put a paywall between an Archivist and a rare text.

He stepped up and turned it on. The quiet beep of the system set up echoed in the little alcove. A few clicks and Prowl broke through the factory setting password – if he’d known it was this easy…

The keypad lit up and the screen read Ready To Dial Out.

“Move away, I have to dial.” Prowl shook him off.

“But Ah’m cold, mech!” Jazz whined.

“Give me a klik!”

Prowl typed in their area code and then Uncle Magnus’s number and waited.

Click.

“What has happened,” Uncle Magnus demanded. “Is Prowl all right? I am coming down there now and if you have –“

“It’s me!” Prowl interrupted him. “I’m okay!”

“Prowl? You are all right? What happened?”

“I –“

His vocalizer stalled. It had been so long since he’d heard someone talk to him like this. So long since he’d heard Uncle Magnus.

“I-“ he tried again.

“Ya need help?” Jazz asked, swinging their servos, unconcerned.

“No.” He tugged his servo free – when has Jazz taken it? – and continued.

“Uncle Magnus, I need your help. I…something happened, but I’m okay! It’s hard to explain….”

“Just start at the beginning and go slowly,” Uncle Magnus urged.

Right. He could do this.

Prowl took a deep, even vent.

“The-other-sparklings-were-mean-to-me-and-so-I-went-outside-and-I-saw-optics-in-the-chapel-so-I-went-in-and-there’s-an-energon-seeker-here-and-he’s-just-a-sparkling-and-you-have-to-help-me-find-his-carrier-and-his-twin.”

There was a klik of silence.

“Frag. I had not planned on telling you about all of this so soon.”

Prowl’s mouth dropped open. Jazz inched closer again and Prowl was too shocked to stop him. Uncle Magnus had cursed! Wait…

“You know. About energon seekers?”

“There is…a second part of my job that we’ve never really discussed. There are cybertronians that don’t fit with our understanding and when they need help with the law, I am a liaison. Of sorts.”

“Of sorts,” Prowl repeated, sarcasm edging into his voice now that the panic was ebbing away. Uncle Magnus would sort everything out.

Jazz snuck closer still and tucked his helm under Prowl’s chin.

“Yes. I am going to drive up to the school and pick you both up. Go back to the chapel and wait there. I am putting you in charge, okay? Take your new friend and hide there. You are safe as long as you are on sanctified ground.”

Prowl peeled Jazz off and stood up.

“Safe from what?”

“I will explain later. Go back to the chapel and wait.”

“And you’ll pick us up? Both of us?” Prowl cycled his optics furiously – he was not going to cry in front of Jazz! He was in charge!

“Yes. And if your creators want to interfere again…I have made friends over the vorns with bots who can explain things to them more clearly. Be safe. I lo– I look forward to seeing you.”

“Okay. I love you too.” Prowl hung up.

“So, we’re going home? You too?” Jazz asked, servo creeping into Prowl’s.

“Yes.” Prowl gripped Jazz’s servo hard – and grabbed his arm with his other servo for good measure – and pulled them both back into the rain.

He was going home.

0-0-0

The next morning, being rocked gently as they drove on hidden back roads, curled up with Jazz in Uncle Magnus’s altmode, Prowl felt safe. He watched the trees pass them by and drifted in and out of recharge.

The strange shapes and shadows outside the window didn’t bother him. Uncle Magnus had called them friends and that was good enough for Prowl.

So...the other stories will be late. A little bit of Halloween bleeding into November never hurt anyone, though!

#transformers #transformers fanfiction #maccadam #maccadams #transformers jazz #transformers prowl #halloween fanfiction #transformers vampires #transformer sparklings

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