Chapter Text
"Ultra Magnus!" Optimus Prime greeted as the door slid open. "Thank you for joining me, old friend."
"Of course," Ultra Magnus replied with a respectful dip of his head. "You wanted to see me."
Optimus sat himself behind his desk and made a motion for Ultra Magnus to take a seat in a chair opposite. The Prime made it a point to have several chairs available for different frametypes, with each of them being further adjustable to accommodate for a range from the smallest cassette to the largest- well, the largest Ultra Magnus. The only mechs that were larger than Ultra Magnus either wouldn't fit into the room altogether (as in the case of Omega Supreme,) or were counted among the Decepticon ranks (as in phase sixers.)
"I hear your integration with the Wreckers is going well," Optimus began, folding his hands on the desk. "I know it hasn't been that long, but I've been told the number of insubordination reports from other officers, as well as damage reports, has already started on a much more encouraging trajectory since you've stepped in."
"We are making progress," Ultra Magnus admitted hesitantly. He clenched his fists, pressing them against his knees. "I believe that they have, what is the phrase? 'Begun to warm up to me.' I was even invited to spend time with them in their common room outside of missions."
Optimus' optics were glowing brightly with joy. "Excellent! And did you take them up on it?"
"Obviously not. As for some of the metrics I have highlighted as targets for improvement: I do believe we've made progress on collateral damage. At the end of this first quarter, as you've noted, my goals for expense report reduction have been met and exceeded. On the topic of insubordination…" he vented slowly. "I am still working on gaining their trust and respect on the field; while most other Autobot squads follow orders from their commanding officers as a matter of procedure, the Wreckers are… defensive, for some reason I haven't been able to clearly identify. They often take actions that directly conflict with orders given, moving independently, making choices that simply do not make sense." He stopped there before he started ranting. He would not rant to Optimus about the mission Optimus entrusted to him.
"I may have a solution for that, actually," said Optimus, leaning forward a little, the crinkle at the corners of his optics belying the grin beneath his faceplate. He slid a datapad across the desk. "A tactical communications specialist recently requested a transfer to base. If we want the team to be coordinated, the next step is to give you the tools, I think. Not only that, but the next mission we have lined up for the Wreckers is on a planet that this mech spent extensive time on in the past."
Ultra Magnus reached for the datapad curiously.
He turned it on.
He-
He saw the specter of a life he left behind, while all the energon in his lines turned cold.
The shock was enough to disconnect him fully from the armor for a fraction of a click, leaving Ultra Magnus' faceplate frozen in a ponderous frown. Deep inside the dark cradle of the armor, Minimus Ambus wheezed. Then the linkup reinitialized, and Ultra Magnus set the datapad back down on the desk. Very deliberately.
After pressing the power button and watching the mech's frozen face wink out of existence, of course. A datapad left on was wasteful.
"I am—not certain that a tactical communications specialist is what the team needs," Ultra Magnus very nearly stuttered. "Perhaps—" his vocal component failed him, and so did his processor.
"I know it's a bit of a shakeup, given that you've just established rapport, but the timing works too well to let it pass by. I'd like to give him a chance, put him in the position and see what he can do to further improve team coordination," Optimus insisted. "This is coming from Prowl, who has extensive history with the team, and you know I trust his judgment. And the mech himself comes with a solid resume; his list of accomplishments is quite impressive. Did you know he-"
"-I don't care what he's done," said Ultra Magnus' mouth.
Optimus froze, clearly taken aback. Ultra Magnus did not interrupt other mechs like this, especially not superior officers. It was a terrible breach of protocol.
"I'm sorry," Ultra Magnus tried to backtrack. "I just don't believe this is the right time. If you want to add a communications specialist, what about…" he searched his memory banks for anyone applicable. Anyone at all. "…Blaster?"
Now Optimus was looking at him oddly. "The Blaster who runs communications for the entire Autobot faction? You want to take him off of that and put him on the Wreckers?"
"No, of course not. I just wanted to be clear that there are options. Options other than this."
"Magnus, I trust you, you know I do. But If you don't have any specific objections to this mech in particular," Optimus picked up the datapad and waved it a little, something confused and a little concerned in his brow, "then this mech is who you'll be getting. He's qualified, he's available, and he's interested."
"I- no," Ultra Magnus said, quietly drowning. "No specific objections as such."
"It's settled," Optimus declared, setting aside the datapad atop a stack. "Let the team know that they'll be getting a new communications specialist. I'll ping you when Dominus Ambus' ship sets down."
After several million years, Ultra Magnus' feelings about Dominus Ambus were, somehow, even more complicated than they'd been the day he'd decided to shed the Minimus Ambus identity altogether.
They had rarely crossed paths with each other during that entire near-endless span of time, as unlikely as that sounded. Always a passing acquaintance. Each time, Ultra Magnus had spoken the fewest possible words and left quickly.
(He was known for being rather taciturn, anyways. No one would have known the difference.)
It was strange to interact with his brother as though they were strangers. Their interactions always felt so one-sided; Ultra Magnus' words and actions towards Dominus, short as they were, always had a depth and complexity behind them, hidden behind his usual brusqueness, while Dominus's own demeanor had been quietly respectful but incredibly distant. It was incredibly uncomfortable to know and not be known in turn, almost as uncomfortable as Dominus' deference. Ultra Magnus had never expected to outrank his brother, and had only managed it due to proximity and Orion's friendly overtures, being at the right place at the right time and managing to somehow make the right decisions.
The other option, however-
Ultra Magnus did not want to tell Dominus who he was.
Millennia and galaxies of distance had only sharpened the edges of their last conversation. Minimus Ambus had never apologized. He'd never had the opportunity, before his comms had scrambled for good. That lingered between them in a way that would no doubt sour any eventual reunion. And explaining that he'd built the armor would necessitate an explanation as to why he'd thought the armor necessary in the first place, the alienation and entrapment he'd felt, the way it was an escape into a better life.
Dominus had had time to move on, as well, and it was more than likely he hadn't spared much thought to his wayward sparkbrother in a good while. Minimus Ambus had never been that important in the grand scheme of things. Dragging up old feelings would do nothing to help a mech who'd already moved on.
Additionally, Minimus Ambus had become comfortable in himself as Ultra Magnus. When he had recharge fluxes, he was more often than not in his large blue body, and any dreams otherwise were usually the result of stress or poor recharge. Any risk of discovery was a risk of losing the reputation he'd built, the life he'd made with his own two hands, and the trust that his compatriots held for him. He had never known Dominus well enough to truly, confidently know what he'd do with a secret like this. They just… weren't ever that close.
Ultra Magnus was a mech of habit. He had a life he had long ago settled comfortably into wherein he felt secure, despite his assignment to the Wreckers having rocked the boat more than a little. Anything that threatened to upend that stability was to be avoided at all costs.
There was also something utterly, ridiculously selfish in there as well—this life and his coworkers were his, and Dominus had a tendency to take everything of Minimus Ambus' for himself, even if unintentionally. Everyone flocked to him; he shone far too brightly for anything less.
So, no, Ultra Magnus did not want to work with Dominus Ambus.
Even when not speaking, which was a rarity in and of itself, the Wreckers were loud.
No matter if he was seated, standing, or in motion, Twin Twist kept twisting his shoulder in its socket in an almost reflexive manner, which made an unsettling click-thunk every time. The noise was sharp and irregular, and Ultra Magnus couldn't help but wince every time. He considered sending him to medical. Then he recalled the last time he'd tried to send a Wrecker to medical and decided to refrain from pushing on that particular front until absolutely necessary.
If it were just that particular sound, it would be terrible enough, but Hot Shot seemed to gravitate towards tapping his fingers on any available surface, and bouncing his knees whenever he was in a position that allowed for it. Moonracer hummed under her breath. Topspin played music over his internal speakers loud enough that it could be heard externally, a low buzz that made Ultra Magnus more than a little concerned about the state of Topspin's audio receptors. Whirl liked to pick at his paint with his claws.
It was a cacophony of discomfort.
Still, he tried his best to ignore it all, folding his hands in front of him as he sat in the just-a-bit-too-small chair which creaked under his weight as he shifted. "I have something to announce."
"We've barely broken in the one," Topspin groaned over morning energon. "And they're putting someone else in here now, too, to watch over our sorry afts?"
"Yeah, I don't like it," Hot Shot murmured, slowly cycling his optics as he struggled to boot up. "Changes so fast, all at once- we sure everything's cool on the corporate level here?"
Moonracer mumbled something into her crossed arms.
Perceptor stared into his own mug of energon, flatly, like it held the secrets of the universe.
Twin Twist was just finishing up a shower in the racks across the hall; Topspin could feel phantom rivulets running between his brother's seams, the relieving stretch of heat-loosened gears and slowly warming motors. He'd be along in a moment, once he dried himself off. The temperature was soothing, enough to make Topspin drift a little in his own head.
The doors to the Wreckers common room slid open to reveal a disgustingly cheery Whirl. Which wasn't new; Whirl was disgustingly cheery all the time. Cheery and disgusting and disgustingly cheery. "'Sup, losers? Ready to relentlessly hassle the new guy? Or girl, or whatever, of course—I'm an equal opportunity hassler. I'll hassle all of you. I'll hassle myself."
"There will be no relentless hassling," said the large looming shadow behind him. "Hazing and other such activities are expressly forbidden under Autobot Code section…"
…and that's about where Topspin stopped listening.
He took another sip of his slowly cooling energon, glancing around the room, feeling Twin Twist set down the towel and press a hand to the washracks door, heading their way, movements still a little sluggish from recharge and heat. If the top brass wanted to introduce the Wreckers to someone new, this was honestly a pretty ideal state to do it in; most of them were too tired to be too rambunctious this early in the cycle. Prowl had used that tactic before, for some of the more skittish commanders. The Wreckers had chased them all away eventually, obviously, but this early-morning bleariness was certainly a way to lure them into a false sense of security.
Springer was the last to show up; mouth pulled into a thin line, he'd slid into the room quietly after Ultra Magnus and Whirl, leaning up against the wall at the front of the room with his arms crossed. Protective, that guy. No one could ever say he was anything more than a hundred percent dedicated to the team, and each one of his teammates' wellbeing. It was a load off of Topspin's shoulders to know someone would always have his back.
Then the doors slid open and everyone's optics snapped to the front.
Unlike with Ultra Magnus, or many of their other commanding officers as of recent, Prowl didn't give them any sort of shovel speech or threats about getting along. He seemed almost in a good mood, actually, which was weird because he was never in a good mood when forced to talk to the Wreckers. Huh.
The mech himself was maybe a little taller than average height, with elegant lines to his frame that spoke of money. Old money, probably—the colors were a little outdated, a little worn, not the kind of thing a younger wartime mech would buy if they happened to come into some cash. Something odd on his face too; an insignia of some sort? Old money indeed. A House.
Topspin wasn't particularly impressed.
"Your new communications officer, Dominus Ambus," Prowl introduced curtly, motioning at the stranger.
The mech smiled at them, rather neutrally.
Yeah.
Topspin definitely wasn't impressed.
Being in the same room as Dominus for extended periods was distracting. Ultra Magnus felt it like an itch on his protoform; Dominus' presence, Dominus' attention every time he turned his helm in Ultra Magnus' direction. His armor was larger, now, than it had been in the past; it seemed that every time they crossed paths, Dominus' spark had grown strong enough from regular exercise to upgrade his shell another degree in size - subtly slow for anyone not looking for it. He looked average-sized now, in fact, tilting his head up to look at Ultra Magnus without craning his neck.
Ultra Magnus had never minded attention. He had not commissioned the armor with the intent to fade away into the background, after all. He'd made himself almost spitefully large so no one could ignore that he was there, that he mattered. He'd rarely ever regretted his choices.
He almost regretted them now.
"-lastly, Whirl, if you damage the simulator one more time, I will take the cost of repairs out of the Wreckers' weapon acquisition budget and force you to use only the guns you already own for the next two and one third solar cycles. I will tell Wheeljack personally not to deal with you, even under the table, for the entire probationary period. Do not test me on this."
Whirl folded his claws underneath his chin and rapidly blinked his single optic. "Aw, Mags, you and your jokes."
"My name is Ultra Magnus, as you well know, and I have never told a joke in my life."
Upon that last statement, Dominus had gained an odd expression, opening his mouth and then closing it without saying a single word, so Ultra Magnus turned to him next. "Did you have anything to add about the upcoming exercise?"
Something startled flashed across Dominus' face then and he chuckled. "No, I'm sorry. You just—kind of reminded me of someone, that's all. Only a little bit."
Oh. He was certainly not going to think about that any time soon. Ultra Magnus cleared his intake. "If that is all, then let's proceed."
The group's first attempt at the combat training simulator ended exactly the way the last few had; someone making an irresponsible move with a too-powerful weapon, something sparking and igniting in one of the walls of the projector, the projections fizzling sadly out of existence before the team could successfully complete the objectives. Whirl looked a little droopy after that, as though he really had been hoping to get away without damaging anything so as to preserve his precious experimental weapons budget. It was unfortunate that that his self-restraint seemed to have a fairly solid limit to it.
Dominus was strictly there to observe the group's movements, learning their habitual roles and the way they moved in synchronicity—or out of synchronicity, as it often seemed, especially when Ultra Magnus was involved. Ultra Magnus couldn't help the shiver down his back struts at the idea of being watched and judged by Dominus in particular.
When the exercise had ended, however, Dominus' gaze had skipped right on over Ultra Magnus altogether, to settle on the rest of the team.
Everything he'd pointed out, then, in his brief verbal summary, was something Ultra Magnus had noticed as well, and it was strangely vindicating to know that the intelligent and tactical mind he'd looked up to his entire life was on the same wavelength, had noticed the same things, as though their processors really did work the same.
It felt like he'd finally, in some small way, caught up to Dominus, walking in-step instead of leagues behind in his shadow.
If there was one thing that intrigued Ultra Magnus, it was a paperwork mystery. It embodied two of the most intellectually stimulating things in existence: paperwork, obviously, and a puzzle.
The puzzle was this: the Wreckers' paperwork was clean. Too clean.
He'd attributed the consistency to diligent commanding officers, initially. He could imagine that any officer assigned to the team would have wanted to prove themself by continuing the group's long and consistent history of uploading their reports on time, formatted correctly, submitted to the correct inbox. He, himself, had been quite honored to be given that opportunity—even if nothing else about the assignment had felt like an honor—so obviously everyone else had experienced the same feelings upon research into their new role.
And yet, looking back through on his self-assigned quest to understand the group's behavior, the consistency of said paperwork felt almost… unnatural.
Ultra Magnus was familiar with how other mechs filled out forms. Most of them did not complete them with the full care and consideration they were due; it simply wasn't a priority to others in the same way that it was to Ultra Magnus. He'd picked those in his department carefully, finding diligent, detail-oriented mechs who liked to keep to themselves, but beyond the walls of his department? Statistically speaking, not every one of these commanding officers could have, or would have, been quite so diligent.
Something was wrong.
He didn't want it to be wrong.
He pulled up an old report at random.
The report was quite nearly word-for-word compliant with the original assignment, as though they'd followed the instructions to the letter with little to no deviation worth mentioning. Knowing what he knew about the Wreckers, that could not possibly have been the case. He briefly considered requesting medical intake records for the immediate cycles post-mission, but given the invasive nature of that route, decided that he wasn't quite ready to throw his command weight around quite yet for something that could be nothing.
It didn't feel like nothing, though.
What was someone trying to hide?
When Minimus Ambus had commissioned the Ultra Magnus armor, he'd paid for the best possible attention deflectors; an entire slew of them along the entire interior lining, complete with backup power sources. Even a mech with the most top-of-the-line processor would struggle to see anything other than what they expected to see behind Ultra Magnus' chestplates. Even so, if the armor took damage beyond its self-repair capabilities, he preferred to repair it himself whenever possible, just to be on the safe side.
(Twenty-two and a half percent of all of the datapads on his shelf were medical texts at this point.)
When attached to him, his armor was animated by his own spark force. It was essentially a second skin, living and healing and transmitting pain signals as appropriate. Sometimes an injury was dire enough to require complete armor removal to avoid entering stasis. Other times, the injury was in a difficult-to-reach place, such as on the head or the back.
These were the only occasions Minimus Ambus ever existed, these days; quiet moments in his own habsuite with the door firmly locked, surrounded by stagnant air and unfurnished walls, elbow-deep in energon and sparking wires or fiddling with a particularly malfunctioning circuit board.
He checked to ensure the door was locked every time before initiating self-repairs. Multiple times.
He checked.
He did.
He was sure of it.
Except for apparently this singular occasion, when the whine of engaging electronics broke the stifling silence, and before he could even begin to panic or try to disguise the way he, laser scalpel in hand, crouched over the larger suit of armor with its knees bent to fit uncomfortably on the floor in the tiny room, its chestplates open and a dark, gaping hole where the spark chamber should be, and a gash along its side still dripping energon onto a carefully-placed tarp-
"Oh," said Ironfist, optics wide, frozen like a robo-deer in headlights. Possibly not even cycling his vents, from the way he started going a little red in the face. "I, uh. This isn't my hab."
"No it is not," said Minimus Ambus faintly.
Art by Airducts
Ironfist was about as difficult for Minimus Ambus to read as any other mech, which is to say that a solid ninety percent of his actions and interior motivations were about as clear as a windshield after a four-wheeled romp in the mud.
He was being particularly inscrutable now, perched on the edge of Ultra Magnus' recharge slab, staring down at the open chestplates of the armor that Minimus Ambus had crawled out of mere breems before his accidental entrance. Minimus had shuffled him inside as quickly and forcefully as possible. It might have involved actually picking him up and depositing him there so he could slam the door shut and lock it and then proceed to confirm its locking eleven times in a row while fighting down an unseemly urge to scream.
"You're Ultra Magnus," Ironfist said. "You. You're a little green guy."
"Minimus Ambus," said the little green guy who preferred not to be referred to as a little green guy ever again. He wasn't even in his irreducible form. Like this, he at the very least towered above eighty-seven percent of minibots.
"I'm Ironfist," said Ironfist numbly.
"I know."
The room was quiet.
Ironfist vented out, long and near-silent.
It seemed like he was processing.
Every click that ticked by sent another prickle of shame, discomfort, and uneasiness through Minimus Ambus, who could barely stand to look at Ironfist, and was instead staring at the familiar blank walls of his own living space as though they were entirely unknown and fascinating.
Finally, Ironfist opened his intake. "Do the, uh, the Wreckers know? About you? Little gr- Minimus Ambus you?"
With little else to do and nervous hands, feeling far too overexposed, Minimus Ambus began busying himself with continuing the armor repairs, releasing the armor's shoulderplate to inspect the sparking wires. "No. No one knows."
Ironfist whistled. "So I can expect Prowl to be rolling up anytime now with an NDA, I guess?"
Minimus Ambus startled, optics shuttering for a moment in surprise as he glanced upwards at Ironfist, who was still seated on the bed. "No, I think you misunderstand the situation. No one knows."
Ironfist tilted his head, steepling his fingers together. "Except the Prime?"
How many times did he have to repeat himself? "No one knows."
"Oh. Oh! Oh. Ohhh." With that, Ironfist went through what appeared superficially to be the five stages of grief, or possibly elation, or possibly just straight up confusion. "Can I… ask… why?"
Minimus Ambus resisted the urge to sigh. "Are you asking why no one knows that I'm the mech behind the Ultra Magnus armor, or why I created the Ultra Magnus armor in the first place?"
"Uh, both, I guess."
He wasn't entirely sure where to start. To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure that he should start. Ironfist was known for his propensity for sharing sensitive information, after all; that was his hobby. He'd very nearly made a profession out of it. Could Minimus Ambus afford to have someone like that privy to all of his secrets?
Beyond that, how could he possibly vocalize all of his reasons when they were so complex and mired in emotions he wasn't quite sure he could properly untangle into coherency?
It was lucky, then that that very moment, the lights overhead changed hue.
"Night cycle," Minimus Ambus said unnecessarily, firmly. "You should go back to your hab suite, Ironfist, to ensure that you attain the correct amount of recharge for your frametype. I refuse to be responsible for a fellow Autobot's defragmentation issues due to a personal matter on my part." Ironfist just blinked at him through his visor, almost dumbfounded at the sudden turn of the conversation. "As for the matter itself, I strongly dislike using my authority in such a way, but," Minimus Ambus stood above the collapsed armor with its open chestplates, holding the lit laser scalpel in his hand in a way that he distantly realized could possibly be misconstrued as threatening, though his current small stature certainly was not, "do not speak of this ever again, to anyone."
"I won't tell anyone! I swear. But… listen… I have questions. Burning questions. And I don't think I'm gonna be able to stop thinking about this until I really wrap my processor around this whole… situation."
Ironfist stiffened at the look Minimus Ambus gave him, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, but also a little beseechingly.
"…can I have another interview?"
"No."
"I won't tell anyone anything, ever, if I just get another interview. I promise. Swear on my life."
Minimus Ambus was not prone to hyperbole, but he thought the situation rather warranted it: everything was awful.