Chapter Text
It was a familiar sight.
The thousandth clash between two titans for whom everything else fell away when they found each other.
Hot Rod’s optics were locked, wide and horrified, on Optimus Prime.
He’s going to lose.
It was a traitorous thought, he knew, but looking at Prime, there was no denying it. The two of them, Prime and Megatron, tended to do a little dance. A bit of mutual wounding, posturing, maybe a moral grandstanding, and they would go their ways to lick their wounds and prepare for the next one.
Here, though, Optimus was moving sluggishly, systems sputtering with every step. There was a fissure running down his chest plate, weeping acrid energon that steamed in the cold air.
Megatron, conversely, looked terrifyingly pristine. The Decepticon warlord was enjoying it, Hot Rod realised with a horrific twist in his spark. Every swing of his arms were calculated to humiliate, making Optimus scramble to dance around his weapons.
Hot Rod stilled, the sight so horrifying he couldn't rip his gaze away.
"Get up," Hot Rod whispered, his servos clenching into fists so tight his hydraulics groaned. "Please, get up, Prime."
Prime swung his fist, a blow that would have decapitated a lesser 'bot, but Megatron caught it. The sound of metal grinding against metal shrieked through the battlefield, a discordant symphony of torque and stress.
"Gone softsparked, Prime?" Megatron laughed, a low, wet sound, and twisted Prime’s arm. Optimus stumbled, his knee hitting the concrete with enough force to crack the foundation.
Optimus didn’t cry out.
Hot Rod’s vents hitched, pulling in a ragged gulp of cooling air. His optics zoomed in, tunneling out the smoke and the fleeing Decepticons to focus solely on the Autobot leader’s battle mask.
That mask.
It was a slab of impenetrable steel, the only thing hiding the absolute agony he must be in. Hot Rod found himself fixating on it, desperate to translate the microscopic shifts in Optimus' facial plating. Maybe he would tell them what to do, how to do it. Optimus had to have a plan, he always had a plan!
And yet, he didn't glance around, didn't look for an out. His optics stayed steadily fixed on Megatron, glowing wildly with a frantic brightness that didn't make sense.
Optimus pushed himself up, the sound of grinding metal screeching like a dying animal, but he didn't rise to attack. He merely straightened his spine, a superheated cloud of steam rising from his frame.
He could shoot. Megatron was right there. And yet, he didn’t.
“Megatron,” the Prime growled, brandishing an arm-blade. The pitted edge reflected the glowing embers of the fires burning all around them.
Hot Rod spun, blocking a hit from Long Haul, his attention torn away from the ailing Prime. As his battle protocols sharpened his focus, he couldn’t help the slightest hint of relief easing his spark. The Prime had stood. He was speaking to Megatron, the volley of words before they exchanged blows once more.
“Eat this, you dumb, slag-eatin’ ‘Con!” he shouted, voice hoarse from the smoke choking his air intakes. His fist slammed into the Decepticon’s faceplate, and he heard metal squeal as he twisted all his weight into the blow. Long Haul stumbled back, servo flying up to cradle his dented face, just as the Prime’s voice rang out over the battlefield once more.
“Enough! You mistake mercy for weakness, Megatron. I have offered you peace at every turn, and you have answered only with fire. I have tried to reach the spark you buried beneath the hatred, yet you prove, time and time again, that there is nothing left under that armor but bitterness and tyranny. One shall stand… and one shall fall!” Optimus snarled, lunging at Megatron.
The words certainly sounded heroic. The sort of words that would one day grace history books, quoted by countless wanna-be leaders who would come after the Last Prime, but would never quite fill his pedesteps. The sort of words that looked noble, but when they filtered through Hot Rod’s audial receptors, he felt only dread.
Optimus’ voice, usually deep, sometimes tinged with a hint of roughness around the edges, but always, always self-assured with the knowledge he was the rightful bearer of the Matrix, Primus’ chosen one, the one who was destined to bring balance and peace back to Cybertron, now sounded thin. Perhaps it was just hoarseness from the smog and shouting, but it was the way he moved that betrayed him. When he lunged, he faltered. A klik too slow. The angle was all wrong. He aimed too low, his swing was sloppy, and Megatron’s fist slammed into the side of his helm before Hot Rod’s optics could even cycle.
The cry that Optimus finally let out made Hot Rod nearly purge his tanks then and there. Hot Rod stifled a cry of his own as he watched his leader, who had always stood strong, a beacon of hope and nobility in the shadows of this endless, brutal war, fall to his knees.
As Hot Rod saw the violet light of Megatron’s fusion cannon begin to glow, roiling heat washed over his frame. He was vaguely aware that Long Haul had clasped a servo around his arm, trying to pull him back into their fight, only for the Decepticon to recoil with an agonized scream when flames exploded from his body, crackling and licking across his plating.
Hot Rod transformed, engines revving as he shot out over the uneven terrain. The moment he felt his tires leave the ground, he transformed again, twisting through the air. He pulled all the fuel he had in his tanks for this, feeding the volatile energon to the flames roaring up through his spark, and clung to Megatron’s arm with every ounce of strength he had. His vision flickered, fire snapping and dancing, and he channeled them towards his servos, curling his super-heated digits into the seams of Megatron’s fusion cannon, teeth bared in a wordless snarl.
He rarely used his outlier ability. He knew it scared bots. They thought he was unpredictable. He was out of control. He was dangerous. But when he saw the Prime fall to his knees and look up at that cannon, staring down the muzzle with resignation flickering across his dimming optics, the inferno had rippled up from his spark before he realised his processor had sent the command.
Megatron howled, plating starting to ripple and deform from the sheer heat radiating off of Hot Rod’s frame. He spun in an attempt to fling the smaller bot away, but Hot Rod doggedly dug in deeper.
Just as Hot Rod managed to ram a digit into the joint where the fusion cannon attached to Megatron’s arm, pain, cold and sharp, ripped through his frame. Warnings blared in his HUD, and he faintly realised that Megatron had curled his other servo around Hot Rod’s collar plating and squeezed, denting metal as he ripped through the armor. He flung Hot Rod to the ground, despite the fire still coating his frame.
Megatron loomed over him, one servo still grasping his collar, flames that were slowly beginning to die licking weakly at his plating. It was as if the warlord didn’t even feel the heat. He pinned Hot Rod down with one knee, pressing him into the earth with enough force to begin denting his chest armor, and he flailed, digits scrabbling, trying to press against any weak spot he could find, to summon more fire, but what was once a wildfire began to sputter into sparks as he squirmed.
A scream finally ripped its way from his vocalizer when Megatron’s claws found the spoiler jutting from his backplates, digging in and wrenching down and away with all the warlord's strength. With the terrible screech of rending metal, mixed with Hot Rod’s panicked howls, the spoiler was ripped clean off, jagged chunks of wiring and backplating still attached when it was torn free. Energon immediately gushed from the gaping wound, sparking and igniting from the residual tongues of flame still flickering weakly along Hot Rod’s plating, and his own fire roared back to life in an uncontrolled blaze, quickly traveling along the burst energon lines.
Hot Rod had never burned before. He understood why it might hurt, of course. The fear of melting metal and the irreparable damage was a risk most bots would have. But that would not be a concern for him. Flames were not his enemy. His outer armor was impervious to the blistering heat he produced, but now he understood the fear in other bot’s optics when they shied away from the flames. His voice rose in an agonized wail before finally cutting out in a garble of static as Megatron’s servo closed over his throat, shoving him back against the volatile puddle of fuel, using his frame, his outlier, his life source against him.
His systems struggled to compensate. Warnings upon warnings stacked on top of each other until the text obscured anything else in his vision. A hydra of warnings, dismissing one sent five, ten, fifteen more popping up.
The energon pooling beneath him was thin at first, a disgusting drop against his limbs. Then it caught, fed by the rush from torn lines and the flames around them. Heat and fire crawled up the fuel lines, through the gaps where plating met the soft inner lines.
Megatron’s weight pinned him. The warlord’s knee pressed down harder, metal groaning. Hot Rod felt his chestplate deform another fraction. The pressure drove the burning energon up against his frame, forcing it into seams it hadn’t reached yet.
His own outlier flared in panic.
A burst of flame exploded from his shoulders and forearms, uncontrolled and wild. For a moment, the blaze brightened so hard it turned the battlefield into a white-orange smear.
Megatron didn’t recoil.
Megatron’s optics narrowed, irritated, as if Hot Rod was nothing but a messy problem.
“Stupid,” Megatron snarled, and the word came out near Hot Rod’s audials, disgusted. “Little. Scrap.”
Hot Rod tried to answer. Tried to spit something defiant, something brave. Optimus would find the right words. He would say something that would be remembered for centavorns. Hot Rod just wanted to say something that would be remembered for the next few orns.
All he managed was a strangled, broken sound as Megatron’s digits tightened on his throat.
His vocaliser crackled. Nothing came from it.
The pressure on his chest was suddenly gone in a flash of familiar blue and red, and the Prime was tackling Megatron, a growl rumbling deep in the larger bot's engine. They rolled away, great clouds of dust obscuring the two bots as they writhed in the dirt. He heard Megatron shouting, the clang of metal, the rumbling of engines.
At one point, a figure stood, half concealed by the dust. His spark nearly stopped spinning when the gleam of red optics cut through the haze, but then the Prime was there, too, and Megatron turned away, his optics reserved for one bot, and one bot alone.
Hot Rod lay there. Energon continued to trickle from his wounds, steadily fueling the fire eating him alive. He couldn't move. He couldn't think. All he could do was watch as fumes burned in his throat, seeping out of cracks in his armor in bitter, dark plumes.
His processor wandered as he watched blue sparks dance in the smog, optics glazing over, glassy and unseeing.
He stared at the sky through drifting smoke.
The clouds above were grey. Ash fell in slow flakes. It landed on his faceplate and burned away.
Stay awake, he told himself.
Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake.
His optics blurred again. He tried to force them to focus. He tried to count vents, the way Ratchet had taught him once, half-joking, when Hot Rod was a rookie and thought he was invincible.
One. Two—
His vents hitched. The third didn’t come.
Pedesteps pounded towards him as Hot Rods optics snapped to the side and caught a flash of white and red racing through the smoke. Well, more like gray and red, or was it just all gray? Everything was starting to turn gray.
“Prime!” Ratchet shouted across the field. “Move!”
Optimus turned, just enough to see them. Hot Rod watched his optics land on the fire consuming Hot Rod’s frame.
Optimus’s posture faltered.
His blade dipped.
Then his gaze flicked back to Megatron.
Hot Rod heard the faint sound of clashing metal pick up somewhere around him, as Ratchet hit the ground beside him hard enough to jostle him, the flames jumping into new crevices that continue to burn. There was a smear of energon down one side of his faceplate and cracks running through the plating on his chest and shoulders.
“Primus,” he whispered. "Hot Rod—”
His gaze snapped to the burning energon underneath him, to the flames engulfing his entire frame.
“I’m going to pull you out of there,” Ratchet muttered, glancing around to try and find Inferno. “You’re going to die if you stay there.”
Die?
Die wasn’t a word Hot Rod considered often. Or ever, even.
Ratchet didn’t wait for permission, and reached in.
His servos made contact with the edges of burning energon first. Melting metal and paint and sealant stuck, tacky and hot as they looked for fresh, unburnt surfaces. Ratchet jerked, a sharp hiss escaping him as he yanked his servo back and stared at it.
The metallic pads were already blistering. Paint had melted off in a second from the heat. Lingering energon burned until it ate itself and finally died.
Ratchet’s optics widened.
This was it. Ratchet would decide it was more important to triage other bots and leave Hot Rod here to die.
That… That was okay.
He could understand it.
Then, slowly, Ratchet flexed his burnt digits and shoved his servo in anyway.
“N… no…” Hot Rod whispered, the sound barely more than a whisper.
Ratchet’s servos slid down to Hot Rod’s sides, digits searching for a place that wasn’t on fire. There wasn’t one. The flames had crawled up under Hot Rod’s arm joints. The heat radiated off his torso in waves.
“Stay with me,” Ratchet said, gritting his teeth as he started to yank. “Stay with me, kid. I swear to Primus, if you go out—”
Pain. There was nothing but pain.
The moment Ratchet pulled, the wound on Hot Rod’s back shifted. Exposed wiring dragged through dirt. The torn plating scraped. Fresh energon surged out, caught fire instantly, and the heat shot up Hot Rod’s spinal strut.
He screamed.
He couldn’t stop it. It ripped out of him, warped through a damaged vocaliser so shrilly that Ratchet almost dropped him.
Embarrassing. He was being rescued. There was no reason to scream.
“That’s it,” Ratchet hissed through clenched teeth, voice trembling. “I know. I know. Just—just a little more.”
Hot Rod’s optics flooded. He could taste smoke. His vents stalled and then restarted, drawing in more heat and pushing out more flammable energon.
Ratchet dragged him another few inches.
The burning energon tried to cling to Hot Rod’s plating as he moved. It stretched in strings, snapped, splattered. Ratchet’s burned digits brushed through it again and he made a strangled noise. He gritted his teeth and kept pulling.
Hot Rod saw Ratchet’s servo shake. Saw the way Ratchet’s shoulders trembled under the strain. Saw the small, involuntary recoil every time the fire touched him.
Ratchet was afraid of the flames.
Anyone would be afraid of flames.
Hot Rod had never seen that before. Ratchet faced everything. Ratchet cut into sparks and pulled bots back from the brink without blinking. Ratchet stood over corpses and went back to work the next minute.
And here he was, kneeling in the dirt, servos burning, still doing it.
Ratchet talked to him as he worked. He whispered encouragement, he called Hot Rod’s name every time his optics flickered. He made a tiny noise, chest jerking as his burnt out vocaliser burst to life, then died out again.
“Shh, shh, it’s alright, kid. You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you,” Ratchet soothed.
Hot Rod had never heard him speak so gently. More tears sprung to his optics, streaking through the soot and grime, and he wondered briefly how he still had any fluid left in his smoking frame.
“Stay with me, Hot Rod. C’mon. You’ll be okay. You’re doing great. Kup’s waitin’ for you. Bee’s waitin,” Ratchet said, biting back a hiss as the flames licked up his wrist, staining his plating black.
“R—atch—?” Hot Rod managed to sputter, vents clicking, then grinding and catching as they stalled again with a painful shudder. Hot Rod barely even felt the pain anymore, though, as he began to shake, the burning replaced by icy, numbing cold, creeping along his lines. “I—”
“No, no, shh, don’t—” Ratchet soothed, shaking his helm as he turned to shout. “Where the frag is Inferno?”
“I-I—” his voice stuttered into a squealing whine, one optic flickering dark. “I want Kup,” he finally choked out.
“Okay, Hot Rod,” Ratchet whispered, nodding. “Okay. Just stay with me. Kup’ll be there. He’s on his way, he’s gonna be here soon. Stay with me, and hang on.”
Hot Rod shivered uncontrollably, cold seizing his spark as his vision blurred again. He’d never been so cold in his life. For a brief, scattered moment, he almost missed the fire.
“P—lease. W-why—?” he whimpered. The pain faded, replaced by the searing, terrifying cold. He just wanted it to be over. He was so tired… Why were they doing this to him? Why were they hurting him? Couldn’t they just leave him alone, let him lay there and slip away? He was ready.
“You’re doing such a good job, kid. Kup’s proud of you. Optimus is proud of you.”
Scattered noises reached his audials as the last of his vision wavered and faded. He struggled weakly to process it, but they came only as garbled sounds. And then there was at last, blessed, peaceful darkness.
Ratchet yelled at the top of his vocalizer, gesturing and ordering and carving a path through the chaos. When Inferno finally arrived, covered helm to pede in ash and soot and energon, he shoved the firetruck towards Hot Rod’s still smoldering frame, ignoring the stinging, blistering pain in his own servos.
He ignored the anxiety seizing his spark as he counted Hot Rod’s vent cycles. He snarled and pushed First Aid away when the medical apprentice asked if he was okay. When they’d finally loaded Hot Rod into the back of First Aid’s alt mode, he stuffed his emotions down into the dark, tiny box carved into his processor. He turned back around, not even watching First Aid drive away, sirens wailing, not allowing himself to feel, despite how much he ached for Hot Rod’s pain, and dove back into the fray.