Title: The Vessel Half-Full
Fandom: Transformers (IDW)
Rating:  G
Length: 1245
Content notes: Spoilers for IDW Autocracy, MTMTE, RID
Author notes: Umm, hi? 
Summary:  The war is over, and instead of trying to nation build on Cybertron, a handful of mechs will make another choice, chase a dream they hope will save them all.

 

Drift:  The Redeemed

It was some kind of omen, the name, he thought, face tilting to take in the heavy swells of the thrusters as it lay on the launchpad. Lost Light, the lost light, that which had gone out of Cybertron, that which the Knights surely held. He remembered Perceptor showing them the Matrix crystal, the map it splayed against the six surfaces of the room, a grid of light and stars, leading to redemption.

He just knew it.

Maybe they’d find Wing’s city again. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to see it, but what warrior is truly comfortable on an old battlefield, where he had lost so much?  How could you tread the ground that had been steeped in the fluids of mechs whose histories had been lost to the grand flow of time and rejoice? How did you brace yourself for that?  And the inevitable measuring: have I done enough? Has the life I have lived since this battle been worthy of your cost?

The pink-gold light of dawn brushed gentle fingers over the ship’s contours, shadows fuzzy and grey and soft, as though even the darkness were no threat.

He reached up, one hand idly brushing the hilt of the Great Sword between his shoulders. Wing’s sword. Not his, never his.  He bore it as a reminder, of the life given for his, of the power of sacrifice, of the serene reality of the Knights.  He knew they were real, and he knew they would save them all.

He just hoped he could get it right this time.

 

Metalhawk:  The Conscientious Objector

In his opinion, they should all leave, he thought, crouched on the control tower, his engines still thrumming with heat from the flight up here, the pre-dawn chill bracing and brisk. All those millennia aboard ship, and he had learned to love sunrise, the reminder that no simple light cycle could imitate, of life returning, renewal, hope. He was enamored of the sun and whatever it gazed upon.

Even this.

But them, he thought, frowning at the crowd collecting around the ship.  Autobot, Decepticon, it didn’t matter. They’d been part of the war that had destroyed their world, twice over. It was only a miracle—compounded with luck—that life was stirring again, and this life, this new life, deserved a chance.  

And he’d been part of it too, but he’d seen his own error, at least, staring down at the body of one too many comrades, watching the light fade from one too many sets of blue optics. All that loss, all that death, and for what?  More death, and a future he’d found he no longer believed in.

He’d walked away, knowing they’d brand him deserter, coward, or worse. Knowing they’d hate him for his decision.  But it didn’t matter what they thought, because they couldn’t see what he saw.  And for all their boasts of courage under fire, bravery in the battlefield, he’d discovered a greater, deeper courage than they had: the courage to walk away.

 

Prowl  The Hegemon

The Lost Light.  Prowl snorted, looking over the manifest. He didn’t need to go to the launchpad, or even look out his window. He had all he needed to see right here in the dimness of his office.

Until the ship lifted off the pad, it was still under Autobot jurisdiction, and he had every intention of using that opportunity. Every iota of cargo was logged onto his tablet, every name that popped on the roster appeared on his own.

And every name a betrayal. 

This…mission was illegal. Or should be.  It was cowardice, running when the work got difficult. He’d always known that the peace would be harder to win than the war. He’d laid plans, sowed seeds ages ago, preparing for this moment, preparing for victory.  New rules, order, restrictions, Cybertron the way it had been. 

He’d tried to run, himself, before the war, and destiny—such as he believed it—had torn his ship from the sky, flung him down to his duty.  The Peaceful Resolution. A fool’s dream that hadn’t been able to even achieve escape velocity.

This cowardice, this fool’s errand, did not deserve to fare any better. Duty would not be run from, hard work would not be escaped.

And their pretty dream? Their fragile fantasy? 

Would be the end of them, as it always ended all dreamers.

 

Rodimus Prime  The Hero

He’d always thought that the end of the war would be different. Victory.  Glory. Peace.   Resting on laurels very well earned. 

He’d even expected it might be a little, well…boring. But he hadn’t expected this: Optimus gone, Bumblebee acting like Rodimus’s worst memories of Zeta Prime. Like they’d learned nothing: authority through force, repression. 

He’d never been one for rules to begin with, much less cramming them down another’s throat.  It just went against everything he thought being an Autobot meant, everything he’d always believed: freedom, free will, individuality. 

Maybe he’d gotten that wrong, too. It was a long road from Nyon to here, across the galaxy and back, skirting every side of every line.  And it was restless, that road, wanting to launch into the future, not muck itself down with trivialities and rules.

He looked down at the sunrise-cast shadow, spreading his image sharp and dark over the tarmac. Lost Light, gleaming in the sun, glowing with hope.  A bit battered, but, well, he wouldn’t trust a pristine ship.  Character, he thought, running a hand over the heat-scored nose.  It gave it character. Everything just a bit out of alignment, just a bit off perfect, as though deliberately tweaking its orange nose at the rules.  He caught sight of Drift, standing in the North, the mountains behind him, staring, almost enamored, at the ship, his tilted optics glowing through the growing light of dawn.

It was a good ship for this mission, Rodimus thought, comforted by Drift’s silent, solid presence, his powerful belief, and he wanted to fill the ship with mechs, lighting it from within with a new hope. 

 

Ultra Magnus:  The Law

He was not an impetuous mech. Ultra Magnus did nothing in the spur of the moment. Even in combat, each move, each motion was plotted three steps in advance.

He’d never done anything so…rash, so precipitous.  But he’d spoken up, his own words almost surprising him, siding with Drift and Rodimus against Bumblebee. He would go on this mission—that he refused to call a ‘quest’.  His romanticism did not extend so far.

Insanity, he thought. Temporary insanity. 

But the more he tried to rationalize a loophole out of it, he found himself snared deeper into it: Drift was not a mech to trust with half the Matrix: former Decepticon, one of Megatron’s most loyal and ruthless soldiers.  And Rodimus…was a bad influence unto himself.  The two together promised to be a dangerous, volatile chemical.

He needed to be there, as a reagent, to control them, to temper their wildness, their lawlessness. 

It was not about this silliness about Knights, saving the world.

Not at all.

He looked over at Rodimus, who was running a possessive, almost prayerful hand over the ship’s hull, Drift watching beyond, the other mechs beginning to shift and murmur up the loading ramp and he added, silently, his own benediction:  may this work. May all this hope, all this faith, all the pure intent, all that was best of them…may it succeed. May the Lost Light be found, may they win against the darkness.

And may he be allowed to contribute, some small part.