Buzzkill. LOG-001.

Buzzkill.

LOG-001.

Sword to the face plate.

They had won.

He had won. In every way he could possibly imagine.

He’d gotten lucky, in truth. His voice box returned thanks to the Omega Lock’s energy core. The final blow delivered to Megatron by his servos, thanks to the Star Saber suddenly deciding it liked him enough to be wielded by anyone other than Optimus.

It was all just a ridiculous bout of luck, really. He kept that point in mind, because it was the only way anything really made any sense.

Bumblebee still figured he’d earned it, though. After everything he’d done. Everything he’d had to deal with up until now.

And yet somehow, it didn’t actually surprise him that the mad tyrant managed one last spiteful swing of the corrupted mockery he’d forged to match the Primely relic the scout was using, neatly bisecting the black and yellow Autobot as he was offlining.

Again, sword to the face plate.

Kind of a buzzkill, really. That’s probably something Raf would say. Or maybe Miko. Definitely Miko, actually.

…Raf. How would he take this? And the rest of team Prime, would they be able to finish the job?

No. No of course they would. They were some of the best bots Bee knew. His loss wouldn’t mean all that much, considering he’d managed to take out the chief Con in charge with him. Good trade, that.

So everything would be fine. He could die without regrets on that front.

Which of course begged the question…

Why…wasn’t he dead yet?

He should be in The Well Of All Sparks by now, right? Resting. Getting clapped on the shoulder plates by congratulatory Autobots from ages past. Maybe even getting a chance to speak with Primus himself, if he was lucky.

Bumblebee…had been hoping to see Elita again, if he was being entirely honest with himself. He’d missed Optimus’ Conjunx Endura. Everyone had.

But instead, he was…somewhere. Laid out flat on the ground, and if his self diagnostic systems weren’t actively lying to him, surprisingly intact.

His voice box was gone though. Taken out by Megatron. Again.

…Buzzkill. Major buzzkill.

Still, flexing his joints brought about a surprisingly lively whirring noise, and he could feel what felt like sand beneath his servos and pedes, when he cared to move them.

Nothing for it then, Bumblebee onlined his optics and…

Stared up at a dark, distinctly familiar night sky. He remembered those constellations. There was the Big Dipper. And there was Polaris. And even Orion, a memorable one, considering Optimus’ old designation.

Which made no fragging sense, considering none of those sets of stars were supposed to be visible from Cybertron, as far as he knew.

A low, confused croon escaped his helm in favour of what he truly wanted to say as the scout slowly sat up, glancing around in uncertainty.

The sights and sounds of an average night in Jasper Nevada filled his optics and audials, only furthering his confusion.

He was on Earth.

Somehow.

…Bumblebee grumbled to himself in a long series of electronic beeps and buzzes, a few of them translating into words he’d forbidden himself from uttering around Raf, even as he did what any scout worth their energon would do.

The young Autobot picked himself up, brushed off the dust coating parts of his frame, and transformed, moving towards the nearest road he could make out in the distance.

—

He wasn’t sure why his first instinct had been to return to where the silo had been. Nostalgia, maybe. Or the practical concern of there being no one present to actually answer a distress call.

Everyone was supposed to be on Cybertron, after all.

Still, his faux engine thrummed a little louder once he got within the outer peripherals of what had been team Prime’s first base, his processor whirling as he took in the sight of an intact outpost.

Omega One wasn’t supposed to be intact. It was supposed to be scarred and heavily damaged. With a staggering amount of rubble coating its exterior after the Decepticons’ overwhelming assault.

And yet somehow, the old base still stood. He questioned why, but didn’t hesitate to race towards where he knew the entrance should be, rolling through the holographic mirage hiding the tunnel leading into the outpost and shifting back into his root mode seconds later.

His struts tensed the instant his optics made contact with the interior around him, what he liked to think was a healthy amount of paranoia immediately halting his advance.

Autobot outpost Omega One might have looked like how he remembered it from the outside, but the base’s innards were…

Cybertronian.

The descriptor felt ridiculous. Ratchet likely would have thrown one of his tools at Bee’s helm if he’d heard it, but the word felt fitting nonetheless. Ever since their landing on Earth, the Autobots had needed to make do with what they had. Salvage. Synthesis. Compromisation. Every piece of actual use from their homeworld had been something to be treasured, rare as it was.

Whatever this place was…it felt more akin to the Nemesis than his old home, ironically enough. There was no human influence. No hybrid tech or scavenged material. Just pure, coldly efficient Cybertronian technology.

It…felt unnerving enough that Bumblebee decided to keep himself quiet, rather than calling out. Striding forward and sticking to the shadows, he let his new, predominantly black paint job assist in the venerable task of keeping him hidden as he ventured deeper into the base.

Silly as it seemed…something inside of him didn’t feel safe here, and he’d long since learned to trust his programming when it came to things like this.

The scout’s caution was vindicated less than a moment into his exploration as near identical voices echoed down a distinctly alien yet somehow familiar hallway, prompting the mech to squeeze himself into a small alcove and watch with wide optics as what looked like a pair of Vehicons stalked past him.

Weird looking Vehicons, with the Autobot insignia emblazoned on their ashen chest plates. In purple.

…Huh.

Leaning out of cover slightly, Bumblebee observed from their backs as the duo continued their patrol, noting the tires on both of their respective sets of shoulders, before the two soldiers turned a corner and disappeared.

Quietly venting some air to cool down his raging processor, the scout moved on, trying his best to consider the implication of Autobot branded cannon fodder.

—

He’d figured it out after a bit more exploration. Or maybe infiltration was the better term here, considering the amount of sneaking around he was doing.

Regardless, this wasn’t Omega One. Not by a long shot. It was the Ark. Or at least the remnants of the old ship, buried beneath countless layers of rock.

He still recognised some of the hallways, now that he knew where the vibes were coming from. It was the colours that had thrown him off. All dark greys and purples, rather than the warm orange and silvers that he remembered.

Different colour palette or not, Bumblebee didn’t let his surroundings distract him, digits flying across the control interface of the terminal in front of him, occasionally shooting a glance back through the door he’d entered this particular room from.

…He was pretty sure this had been a maintenance closet, back when the Ark had still been starbound. There were still some attachment points that looked ready to hold up shelves, if needed.

Still, repurposed maintenance closet or not, the larger surprise was Teletraan I seemingly operating at full capacity, actively assisting him with his efforts after the scout input his credentials.

The semi-sentient computer had been a shell of itself ever since the destruction of their old ship, its remnants barely held together by Ratchet’s efforts. Not here, apparently. Instead, the program was alive and well. Or as alive as a program could get anyway.

Brief searches brought up status reports, resource statistics, patrol schedules and more. But what interested Bumblebee the most was the date.

Namely because as far as he understood, he was supposed to be ahead of said date. The only other explanations he could think of was the reasonable assumption that someone had reset it for some reason, or something more outlandish, like that movie about time travel Raf had shown him once. With the crazy scientist and the car with the neat doors.

The sinking feeling in his fuel pump grew a little more at the idle thought, even as he silently downloaded what seemed relevant into his processor., like the patrol schedules. An optimist would assume that the Autobots had won and somehow recruited Vehicons into their ranks after Megatron’s demise.

Most optimists had died over the course of the war. The few that remained had learned to temper their attitudes with practical cynicism, Bumblebee among them.

Risking another glance outside the doorway, the scout confirmed that no one was about to interrupt him, and warily continued his impromptu research session.

—

Nothing made sense.

Compared to what he knew and was used to, these Autobot archives were almost shockingly encrypted, with borderline Decepticon levels of security. What he even could access only served to confuse the black and yellow mech further.

Certain parts of history seemed almost…censored. With other parts heavily expanded upon.

One of the first things he’d noted while travelling back through the near countless logs was that, according to these records, Orion Pax had apparently been the one to ignite open rebellion against the old Cybertronian government, with a Megatronus rising up to lead a counter revolution against the former’s attempted religious military coup, following his ascension to Primehood and rebranding to Nemesis Prime.

It almost sounded like really bad Decepticon propaganda, so the fact it was contained within the systems of Teletraan I only served to make his fuel tank churn even more, optics widening as he continued to read.

The text was like a parody of history as he knew it. Everything somehow following the same lines yet reversed. The Autobots had been on the verge of victory after successfully countering their enemies’ attempts at halting their advance, only for Megatronus, now merely the treacherous Megatron, to launch the Allspark into space, denying ‘Lord’ Nemesis Prime his victory.

There had been attempts made by various Autobots in the past to refer to the leader of their faction as Lord Prime, sure, but Optimus had consistently, almost vehemently refused it, and Bumblebee knew for a fact the old archivist would never have stood for being addressed as such in allied archives, not if he could help it.

So…what did it all mean? Why was Megatron the defender here? Why were there Vehicons in the Ark bearing Autobot sigils? Why was he-

“Bother me later you worthless scrap heaps, I’m busy.”

Bumblebee stiffened as a familiar (he was really starting to get sick of that word) voice echoed from somewhere down the hall outside his little closet, the sound of fists thumping against chests in salute shortly followed by light footsteps as what he could only assume was a certain femme drew closer.

Hastily clearing any history of his search attempts, the scout powered down the terminal and turned around just in time to come face to face with what his sensors told him was Arcee, but felt like someone else entirely.

Crimson optics narrowed, purple, grey and black armour shifting in time with the cyclebot’s frame as she took him in, confusion, irritation and what almost looked like a slight amount of fear overtaking her previously nonplussed expression.

“...Yellowjacket?”