Chapter Text
The outpost had long since been stripped of its purpose. Once a proud Autobot relay station, its towers now loomed over the cratered plains of the forgotten moon. Dust floated lazily through the thin atmosphere, coating every surface in the same dull gray. But under the muted glow of alien starlight, seven sparks flickered—persistent, searching, and just stubborn enough to believe that somewhere in the ruins, hope still hummed.
Hot Rod stood at the edge of the shattered command console, helm tilted as faint readings flickered across the display. His commander level access code allowed him to power on the station, but nothing else. The rest was up to Arcee and Wheelie—the tech experts. “We’re getting something,” he said, voice edged with optimism that made Kup sigh audibly. “Signal fragments, weak, but—”
“Fragments don’t mean slag without a source,” Kup interrupted, grizzled voice like grinding metal. “Could be old noise, could be Decepticon bait. Could be someone’s ghost. We’ve been chasing those for years now, Hot Rod.”
Ultra Magnus loomed beside them, arms crossed like a fortress. His expression was unreadable, but his tone carried that measured weight he always had—the kind that sounded like an order even when it wasn’t. “Regardless, we’ll catalog the signal and proceed by protocol. Kup is correct that it could be a trap.”
“Protocol?” Hot Rod scoffed, half turning toward him. “Magnus, the Cybertronian race is on the brink of total extinction. Our only purpose is to search for the Ark. To the Pits with protocol.”
Kup smirked, optics narrowing. “He’s got you there, Magnus. Kid’s reckless, but he’s not wrong.”
Ultra Magnus’s optics flickered once and he sighed. “Recklessness isn’t leadership, Kup.”
“Depends who you ask,” Hot Rod muttered under his breath.
Across the room, Blurr was a streak of blue motion, flitting between shattered terminals with manic energy. “Found-nothing-found-nothing-found-foundnothing—wait—nope—still-nothing!” he announced, dumping a pile of dust-coated components onto a crate. “Springer, I told you this place would be picked clean, but nooo, you said there’d be something worth salvaging—”
“Because there is,” Springer snapped back, braced against a collapsed pillar as he pried loose a half-fused energon cell. His voice was rough but carried an easy charm, the kind of casual confidence that usually made Blurr twice as irritated. “You just don’t look properly.”
“Properly?! I’ve checked every nano-spec of space in this dump twice!” Blurr zipped in front of him, pointing accusingly. “You think slower means better?”
“Sometimes it means accurate,” Springer shot back with a smirk. “Not that you’d know.”
“I know plenty! Like how we’re wasting time when we could be halfway to the next system!” Blurr’s arms moved as fast as his words, gesturing wildly.
Springer chuckled, setting down the cell. “You talk enough to fill the next system.”
Wheelie, crouched near a corner of the ruined control room, glanced up from a pile of cracked datapads. His optics were wide and curious, glowing softly as he muttered to himself. “Records broken, systems fried, who lived, who fought, who died?” He brushed off the dust from another tablet and tapped it to life.
“Keep talking in riddles and you’ll drive me to an early offline,” Kup grumbled, though his tone lacked bite. “Find anything useful, at least?”
“Old logs, what's new? I can feel my processor melting into goo,” Wheelie sang absently, optics reflecting fractured lines of code as they flickered across his visor. “But maybe, maybe… something’s still here. Even after all these years.”
Arcee moved through the shadows near the far wall, her steps quiet, deliberate. She kept her blaster drawn—she always did, even when they were supposedly safe. Her expression was calm, though her optics swept every corridor like a hawk. “You all argue too much,” she said, crouching to examine a terminal still faintly alive with residual charge. “If anyone’s out there listening, they’ve already heard us three systems away.”
“Hard to dispute that,” Hot Rod replied, moving beside her. “You find anything?”
“Maybe,” Arcee murmured, tracing a finger along the console. The glow pulsed under her touch, then flared bright. Lines of Cybertronian script flickered across the cracked screen — a timestamp older than any of them wanted to see. “This outpost didn’t just go dark. It received something before it did.” She glanced at Hot Rod. “I just need to dig it out.”
Arcee crouched beside the cracked terminal, her servos working with careful precision as she pried open a warped panel. “Wheelie, hand me that dataprobe.”
“Probe or cord? Don’t be bored!” Wheelie replied, juggling both in his tiny hands before tripping on a coil of wires. He landed with a grunt, muttering, “This floor bites, no delights.”
Arcee smiled faintly, trying not to laugh. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a straight sentence.”
“Straight lines are dull, words should dance!” Wheelie chirped, connecting the probe with a satisfying click. “See? System’s got a chance.”
“Let's just hope that I don't accidentally activate long dormant self-destruct codes," she said, cycling through the terminal’s decrypted data. Lines of decayed Cybertronian script scrolled past, broken transmissions and error codes flooding the display.
Wheelie leaned over her shoulder, optics reflecting the flickering light. “Memory gaps and fractured files… names of soldiers, endless miles.”
“Yeah,” Arcee murmured, tone softening. “Too many names.” She paused as a corrupted fragment of audio crackled faintly through the speaker — a garbled voice, distorted beyond recognition. “Wheelie, isolate that frequency.”
“On it, on it, tune and spin, let’s find the truth beneath the din!” Wheelie worked furiously, fingers moving with surprising skill for his size.
Across the room, Hot Rod glanced over his shoulder, watching them work before turning to Blurr and Springer. “Alright, you two—keep looking for anything salvageable. Power cells, scrap, even intact energon filters. It might be a while before we can find an alien port that's friendly to Cybertronians.”
Springer gave a quick salute, half-grinning. “You got it, boss. I'm sure we can find something useful.”
Blurr rolled his optics, already speeding toward the next corridor. “You always say that and it’s never true! This place is nothing but dust and rust and—wait, maybe a pile of slag worth something!”
“Or maybe ghosts,” Springer teased, following behind him with a smirk.
But before they could get too far, Ultra Magnus’s voice cut through the chatter, firm and commanding. “No. They should return to the ship.”
Hot Rod turned, brow furrowing. “What? We’re not even done checking this place.”
“We’ve been here for hours,” Ultra Magnus said, stepping closer. “If this station was compromised once, it could be again. We can’t risk losing more of the crew. Sending them back ensures their safety.”
“Their safety?” Hot Rod’s tone sharpened. “We’re Autobots, Magnus, not scared sparklings. They can handle a little dust.”
Ultra Magnus’s optics narrowed slightly. “Caution isn’t cowardice. And someone has to think about the crew’s survival when their captain won’t.”
Hot Rod’s plating bristled. “I am thinking about them! I’m the one leading this mission—”
“Are you?” Ultra Magnus interrupted quietly, his voice like the weight of stone. “You’re only captain because of who your sire was. The Autobot Council wanted to placate you so you didn't start an uproar among the Autobots—you're no leader.”
The words hit like a plasma shot. Hot Rod froze mid-step, his flame-painted armor seeming to dim. His optics flicked downward, a hollow edge forming in his voice. “Magnus…”
“Magnus,” Kup barked, stepping forward. His voice cracked with anger sharp enough to silence the room. “That’s enough. You had no right bringing that up.”
“It’s the truth,” Ultra Magnus replied, tone still flat but softer. “He deserves to know what—”
“He knows,” Kup growled. “We all know. And now’s not the time to drag that scrap heap of history into the open. You want to talk chain of command, fine—but don’t do it by tearing down your own.”
Silence settled over the group, heavy and uncomfortable. Wheelie stopped typing, and even Blurr, halfway down the hall, peered back with wide optics.
Ultra Magnus stood rigid for a moment, unreadable. Then, slowly, he stepped back. “Very well,” he said at last, his voice returning to its measured tone. “I’ll be on the ship. Notify me if you recover anything of significance.” Without another word, he turned and strode toward the exit.
The sound of his footsteps echoed long after he was gone.
Hot Rod stayed where he was, helm bowed, hands clenching and unclenching before he pressed them to his face. His vents exhaled a shuddered sigh, the kind that seemed to pull every ounce of energy out with it. “Primus,” he muttered, voice muffled behind his servos. “Every time I start to think I can do this…”
Kup placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and steady. “You can, kid. Don’t let Magnus’s sense of duty make you forget you’ve got a spark built for leading, not following.”
Hot Rod didn’t answer. His optics glowed faintly behind his fingers, dim and tired.
From across the room, Arcee looked up from the console, watching silently. She didn’t speak—she didn’t need to. The silence between them said more than any words could.
Hot Rod lowered his hands after a long moment, drawing in a sharp breath through his vents. The silence had stretched too long—too heavy. He straightened up, squaring his shoulders as if forcing himself back into the shape of a leader. “Alright,” he said, voice steady but quieter than usual. “Enough standing around. We’ve still got work to do.”
Kup gave him a small, approving nod, the kind that said that’s more like it. Wheelie looked at him for a moment, then went back to his datapads, muttering something under his breath that rhymed with duty. Arcee kept her optics on the terminal, the faint flicker of blue light reflecting off her armor.
Blurr, however, took Hot Rod’s words as a starting gun. “On it! I’m-going-I’m-going-I’m-going!” he shouted, vanishing in a streak of cobalt light down the corridor. The faint echo of his voice trailed behind him. “Checking-every-corner-checking-every-room!”
Springer groans, shaking his head as he hefted a half-broken rifle over his shoulder. “And off he goes again. One of these days he’s going to run straight through a bulkhead and keep going until he hits another moon.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Hot Rod said, tone easing just a fraction. “Try to keep him from tripping any security locks while you’re at it.”
“Got it, boss,” Springer said, his voice light but his optics soft with quiet concern. He gave Hot Rod a lazy salute before trudging off in Blurr’s direction, his footsteps a rhythmic contrast to the faint electrical hum of the outpost.
For a while, only the sounds of old machinery filled the space—faint static, the creak of long-abandoned metal, and the steady typing of Arcee’s fingers at the console. Kup leaned against a cracked wall, his gaze distant, fixed on nothing in particular.
“Y’know,” Kup started, his voice low and gravelly, “I almost signed up for the Ark.”
Hot Rod glanced over, curious. “You did?”
Kup gave a noncommittal grunt. “Back in the day. Before the launch. They were recruiting anyone with flight experience or combat expertise. Magnus asked me to consider it—said Prime wanted a few seasoned hands aboard. I figured… maybe I’d go.” He chuckled bitterly. “Wouldn’t that’ve been something?”
Wheelie perked up, his little optics blinking. “If you wanted to go, why’d you stay? Why not chase stars that fade away?”
Kup sighed, the sound long and weary. “Because Cybertron still had fires burning, kid. I had a duty to stay. To help clean up what was left after everyone else went chasing dreams across the void.”
He ran a thumb along a dent in his armor, the mark older than some of the crew. “And when those fires burned out, there wasn’t much left but ash. Ash and agony. That’s when I realized staying behind didn’t mean anything anymore.”
Wheelie tilted his head. “So you came here, with us? That doesn't sound like such a big plus.”
Kup nodded slowly. “Someone’s gotta keep an optic on the next generation before they fly straight into another warzone. And because… maybe part of me hoped we’d find something worth believing in again.”
Hot Rod looked at him for a long moment, that faint, thoughtful frown tugging at his mouth. Kup never said things like that unless he meant them, and when he did, it stuck.
Before the silence could settle again, Arcee’s voice cut through the quiet. “Kup,” she said, her tone even but edged with something new—urgency. “Everyone. You’ll want to see this.”
Kup straightened, walking over with the slow, deliberate stride of someone who’d seen too many bad surprises. Wheelie hopped up onto the console beside her, optics wide.
Arcee didn’t look away from the screen. Her fingers hovered over the glowing keys, and the static on the monitor began to sharpen into an image. “It’s an old data cache,” she said. “Buried under three encryption layers. But it’s not a report, or a log.”
Hot Rod moved closer, the faint hum of the terminal washing faint blue light across his armor. “Then what is it?”
Arcee tapped the screen once, and the fragmented signal flickered to life. “It’s a message,” she said quietly. “A video message.”
The outpost seemed to hold its breath as the screen resolved into something clearer — the faint outline of a face, framed by static and interference, but unmistakably familiar.
Wheelie’s voice broke the hush, barely above a whisper. “Who… who is that on the screen? Can you make them more seen?”
Arcee didn’t answer yet. Her optics narrowed, her hand hovering just above the playback control. “Let’s find out.”
The screen flickered once, twice—and then the static cleared. What emerged was faint and grainy, but the outline of the mech was unmistakable. The wide shoulders, the matrix blue optics dimmed with exhaustion, and the calm, steady tone that seemed to carry the weight of the entire galaxy.
“—This is Optimus Prime,” the recording began, voice distorted but resolute. “If anyone receives this transmission… know that the Ark has fallen. We were ambushed near a space bridge in Sector Twelve. Megatron’s forces struck with overwhelming precision. Our trajectory failed to correct in time.”
The audio hissed with interference before stabilizing again. Behind Prime, what looked like smoke and flame crackled through the frame. “The Ark made planetfall on an uncharted world. The atmosphere is steady enough to support organic life… the surface is covered with it. We are scattered, but functional.”
Hot Rod stood frozen, his optics locked onto the screen. His vents stilled as the voice he’d only heard in history videos—one that had shaped the very ideals he carried—spoke from across the stars and through the dust of centuries.
Optimus’s next words came slower, each one heavy. “Megatron and his Decepticons… crashed nearby. Hostilities ceased only because both sides were too damaged to continue. We… are stranded. Our systems are degrading.”
Kup’s optics dimmed, his jaw tightening. He’d seen this kind of recording before—last words sent into the dark, never expecting an answer.
The feed flickered, static briefly cutting out the next few sentences. When it returned, Prime’s voice was softer, almost weary. “I am… requesting assistance. The coordinates are embedded in this transmission. Bring supplies if you can. And if this message is all that survives… remember: Cybertron is our mission.”
A low rumble filled the audio—explosions in the distance, perhaps—and then Prime’s face flickered one last time. “Till… all are one.”
The screen went dark. Only the low hum of the terminal remained, echoing faintly in the silent chamber.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Hot Rod’s optics remained fixed on the now-black screen, reflections of static still dancing faintly across his armor. Kup’s gaze softened, and he placed a careful, steady hand on Hot Rod’s shoulder. “Kid…” he murmured.
Hot Rod blinked, like waking from a trance. His voice, when it came, was quiet but steady. “It’s him. It’s really him.”
Kup frowned. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s bait.” His tone wasn’t cruel—just cautious, as always. “The ‘Cons used fake distress signals before. The old Decepticon command network could plant an SOS anywhere they wanted to lure a crew in.”
Hot Rod shook his head immediately, stepping back from the console. “No. Not this one. You saw how deep that was buried—Arcee had to peel through layers of encryption so old they were practically fossilized. No Decepticon code would bother to hide a trap that well.”
Arcee crossed her arms, nodding in agreement. “He’s right. The encryption keys were Autobot signature-level, Prime’s command code included. No forgeries, no mismatched code fragments. It’s genuine.”
Kup sighed, rubbing his temple as though massaging away a century of cynicism. “Primus help me, you’re both probably right. And if it’s real… then Prime’s been stranded for who knows how long.”
Hot Rod’s optics lit brighter, that familiar spark of determination flaring to life. “Then we go get him. Whatever it takes.”
Wheelie, perched on the console, tilted his head. “Go to help, across the stars, chasing ghosts and old forgotten scars?”
Kup huffed, half a chuckle and half resignation. “That’s one way to put it, kid. Guess we’re all fools if we say no.”
Hot Rod turned back toward Arcee, resolve solidifying. “Download the message and the coordinates to a datapad. If this is Optimus Prime, we’re not wasting another astrosecond.”
Arcee nodded briskly and began keying in commands, the console’s glow reflecting across her faceplates. “On it. I’ll preserve the original logs too, in case we need proof of authenticity.”
Kup crossed his arms, staring at the floor. “Slag it all,” he muttered. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I hope you’re right, Hot Rod. Because if you’re wrong…”
Hot Rod met his gaze, unwavering. “Then I’ll take the blame. But if there’s even a chance Optimus is alive, I’m not ignoring it.”
The terminal beeped softly as the data transfer completed. Arcee pulled out the datapad, its screen glowing faintly with the encoded transmission. She handed it to Hot Rod without a word.
He accepted it carefully, as if afraid the thing might shatter in his hands. “We’re bringing him home,” he said quietly. “We’re bringing all of them home.”
Kup glanced toward the doorway where Ultra Magnus had disappeared earlier, his optics dimming thoughtfully. “Then I guess we’d better tell the commander the bad news—looks like we’re not heading back to Cybertron anytime soon.”
Arcee allowed herself a small smile. “He’ll complain,” she said, “but he’ll follow. He always does.”
A thunderous crash shattered the stillness of the outpost, followed by a shrill squeal that echoed through the corridors like a scream. Dust fell from the ceiling in lazy clouds, drifting through the flickering light. Every optic in the room snapped up.
Wheelie flinched so hard he nearly fell off the console. “That sound, that cry, that horrid whine—pretty sure that’s Blurr this time!” he yelped, clutching the edge of the terminal.
Hot Rod’s head snapped toward the noise, every servo tensing. “Blurr?” he called out. No answer — just the fading echo of the crash reverberating through the walls. He started toward the corridor immediately, blaster half-raised. “Come on!”
Before he could take two steps, a blue streak zipped through the doorway in a cyclone of dust and panic. “I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry—HE’S-REAL—there-was-someone—really-really-scary-probably-a-Decepticon-definitely-a-Decepticon—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down!” Hot Rod caught Blurr by the shoulders, trying to still the vibrating speedster. “What are you talking about?”
Blurr’s optics were wide, his words tripping over each other faster than even he could control. “There-was-this-guy—sharp—spiky—looked-like-he-didn’t-belong-here-and-he-was-just-standing-there-watching-me-and-I-think-he-was-with-Cyclonus's-crew-because-he-looked-like-he-could-kill-me-ten-ways-before-I-blinked-and-OH! I left Springer behind but-it’s-okay-I’ll-go-back-right-now-and—”
“Hold on, hold on!” Hot Rod raised both hands. “You what? You left Springer?”
Blurr nodded frantically, vents sputtering. “Only-for-a-second! He’ll-be-fine! I’ll-just—”
“No,” Hot Rod said sharply, tone cutting through the panic. “You’re not going alone.” He turned toward the corridor. “Show me where you saw him.”
Blurr hesitated, plating twitching, but when Hot Rod’s expression didn’t waver, he relented with a nervous nod. “Okay-but-you’ll-see-I’m-not-crazy-there-was-really—”
“I believe you,” Hot Rod said, even though part of him wasn’t sure if he did. He motioned to the others. “Stay here, keep working on the data. We’ll be back.”
Kup gave a grumble of protest but didn’t argue. Arcee’s optics followed Hot Rod as he disappeared into the dim corridor, Blurr darting ahead of him like a blue comet. The old metal groaned under their steps.
The air grew colder the deeper they went. Power lines crackled faintly, and the low hum of distant machinery gave the illusion of breath. Blurr stopped abruptly in front of a darkened chamber, pointing. “There! Right there!”
Hot Rod swept the room with his blaster ready. What met him was only silence and dust. Massive servers loomed along the walls, their shadowed shapes tall enough to resemble mechs in the dim light.
Blurr’s optics darted between them. “He-was-right-there-I-swear-he-didn’t-just-vanish!”
Hot Rod exhaled slowly and lowered his weapon. “Blurr, there’s no one here.” He stepped forward, brushing his fingers along a console. Dust came off in thick clouds. “It’s just old tech.”
Arcee’s voice carried from the hall as she entered, her tone calm but firm. “You’ve been locked in that ship too long, Blurr. Everything’s starting to look like it’s moving when it isn’t.”
Blurr shook his head so fast it looked like he was vibrating. “No, no, I saw him! Lots of mods, sharp fangs, glowing red optics! I’m not imagining things!”
“I thought I told you to stay back.” Hot Rod frowned. Arcee just shrugged, she tended to ignore his orders when convenient.
Kup’s voice came through the comm, faint but steady. “You two alive in there?”
“Yeah,” Hot Rod answered. “Just some shadows. Nothing real.” He glanced at Blurr, lowering his voice. “Hey. It’s okay. We’ll sweep the place again, just to be sure.”
Blurr didn’t respond—he just stood there, vents cycling too fast, eyes fixed on the far corner of the room like he was waiting for something to move again.
A moment later, footsteps echoed from the hallway—heavier ones this time. Springer’s voice carried before his frame appeared. “Primus, there you are!” he snapped, brushing grime off his armor. “Blurr, where in the Pits did you go?”
Hot Rod turned toward him, relief flickering briefly. “He thought he saw something. What happened to you?”
Springer’s optics hardened as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Because there was something. Someone’s sneaking around in here.”
Arcee’s servo tightened on her blaster. “Someone?”
Springer nodded grimly. “Yeah. A sneaky fragger—quiet, fast. I only caught a glimpse before he bolted. And unless one of you’s picked up a new paintjob and a bad attitude, he’s not one of ours.”
Hot Rod’s grip tightened around his blaster again, his earlier doubts fading fast. “So Blurr wasn’t seeing things after all.”
“Looks that way,” Springer said. “We’ve got company.”
“Everyone, fall back!” Hot Rod shouted, optics scanning the corners of the dim chamber. “We’ve got what we came for—let’s not stick around to find out who’s lurking in the dark.”
Springer’s blade flicked back into its sheath as he nodded. “No arguments here.”
Blurr was already halfway down the hall by the time Springer finished his sentence, streaking ahead in a blur of blue light. “Retreat-yes-retreat-good-idea-I’ll-do-it-faster-than-anyone-let’s-go!”
Arcee glanced once more at the shadows, servos tightening on her blaster. “Whoever it was, they’re gone for now. Let’s not push our luck.”
Kup grunted through the comms. “About time you lot listened to me. Let’s move before this place decides to collapse on our heads.”
Hot Rod led the way out, his optics flicking back over his shoulder every few steps. He could feel it—someone was still there, watching them leave. The air carried that thick, heavy presence that couldn’t be explained away by paranoia.
As they moved down the hall, Arcee transferred the coordinates chip into Hot Rod’s servo. “Guard this with your spark,” she murmured.
“Don’t worry,” Hot Rod said, slipping it safely into his thigh compartment. “I plan to.”
They reached the outpost’s main hangar, where their small ship—the Starburst—waited cloaked in shadows and starlight. The vessel looked worn from long travel, paint dulled and scarred, but its engines hummed with quiet readiness.
Wheelie scrambled up the ramp first, muttering to himself in sing-song rhyme. “We’re leaving this hole, that's our goal.”
“Couldn’t have said it better,” Springer said as he followed him up.
Kup brought up the rear, keeping one optic on the outpost’s entrance. “Something tells me this place ain’t gonna be empty for long.”
Hot Rod sealed the ramp behind them and turned toward the bridge. “Magnus, prep for launch. We found something—and it’s big.”
Ultra Magnus stood rigid near the controls, his posture as exact as always. “Define ‘big,’ Captain.”
Hot Rod slid into the pilot’s seat, optics flicking to the coordinates Arcee had decrypted. “We found an SOS message. From Optimus Prime.”
That made even Ultra Magnus pause. “Optimus?” His voice softened, the faintest flicker of disbelief there. “You’re certain?”
Arcee stepped forward. “It’s encrypted in old Autobot command code—only Prime would’ve used it. Kup thinks it’s a trap, but I verified the signal. It’s genuine.”
Ultra Magnus crossed his arms, helm tilted down in thought. “Then our next course is clear.”
“Yeah,” Hot Rod said, fingers tightening on the flight controls. “Set the engines to Sector Twelve. We’re going after him.”
The ship rumbled to life, its engines cutting through the silence of the hangar. As they lifted off, the outpost shrank beneath them—an empty skeleton against the barren moon.
Kup leaned against the bulkhead, optics fixed on the distant stars. “Been a long time since I had any hope left,” he muttered. “Don’t make me regret finding some.”
Hot Rod smiled faintly, though the exhaustion in his optics betrayed the weight he carried. “Wouldn’t dream of it, old timer.”
As the Starburst accelerated into open space, its thrusters leaving trails of blue light behind, a shadow detached itself from the cliffs beside the abandoned outpost.
Tall. Angular. Predatory.
The mech stepped forward, armor reflecting faint starlight, his crimson optics cutting through the dark like twin blades.
He watched the Starburst disappear into the void, his expression unreadable behind a battle-worn faceplate.
A rough servo rested on the hilt of a sheathed blade strapped to his thigh. “Hot Rod…” he murmured, voice low and rough, almost fond. “Didn’t expect to find you so soon.”
The windless silence of space carried his next words like a promise.
“Enjoy your head start.”
The mech turned, cloak rippling faintly from the motion, and melted back into the darkness of the outpost’s ruins.
His red optics flared once—bright and deliberate—as he activated his communicator.
“This is Deadlock,” he said. “Target located. Commencing pursuit.”