Chapter Text
Zaylin glanced at the clock in the corner of the register screen and sighed. Fifteen more minutes until the end of her shift. Mondays always dragged like molasses.
She rinsed out the pitcher she’d just used to froth oat milk for a latte, set it on top of the espresso machine, and tightened the knot on her gray apron.
There were supposed to be two baristas working that morning, but Chris had suddenly called in sick. The café hadn’t been too busy, but Zaylin still hated working alone.
The little bell above the door chimed softly.
“Welcome to Jasper Brew. What can I get for you?” she turned, flashing her practiced smile—only to narrow her eyes suspiciously when she recognized the newcomers. “Wait a second. Why aren’t you in school?”
“You’re not gonna believe it, but Miko didn’t get detention,” Jack said with a crooked grin as he slid his backpack under the four-top. “And I’ve got the day off.”
“Zay-Zay!” Miko leaned over the counter and threw her arms around the barista.
“Miko!” Zaylin laughed, muffled against the girl’s shoulder as she hugged her back. “Quit jumping on me while I’m working!”
“You’re almost done anyway!” Miko protested with mock indignation. “Your shift ends at four. That’s, what, a few more minutes?”
“The evening crew’s not here yet,” Zaylin leaned her chin on her hand against the counter. “And I’ve got the register. So I’m stuck here at least another ten minutes. Now—what do you want?”
“I’ll take that new berry smoothie!” Nakadai chirped, bouncing off toward a table and tossing her backpack beneath it.
“The usual?” Jack asked Raf, who nodded. Jack turned back to Zaylin. “A pot of black tea for me and Raf. And Miko’s paying for herself this time.”
“Hey, why should I?!”
“Because you always order the most expensive thing on the menu and stick me with the bill!”
“Some gentleman you are.”
“As if you were a lady.”
Zaylin could see Miko gearing up for a full-blown argument, so she tapped the counter sharply with the metal spoon she was holding over the teapot.
“Fine, I’ll pay,” Nakadai huffed, pulling a crumpled ten from her pocket. “For all of us. Since Mr. ‘I Work in Fast Food’ is too stingy.”
“I didn’t say that!” Jack shot back.
Zaylin blended the smoothie, poured the tea, and slid everything across the counter. She took the wrinkled bill, dropped it into the till, and handed the change back to the guitarist. Once she was sure no new customers were coming, she slipped over to sit with the group.
“So, what’s new, kids?” she asked.
“I’ve got two days off in a row,” Darby said, stirring a sugar stick into his tea with a pleased grin. “Planning to hit the roads with Arcee. Miko and Bulkhead are catching some horror flick at the drive-in. And Raf… flunked a test. Supposedly.”
Zaylin tilted her head toward the younger boy, her curls—tied up in a high work bun—bouncing with the motion.
“Let me guess,” she said thoughtfully, tapping her chin with two fingers. “You got a ninety-nine instead of a hundred?”
“Ninety-eight,” Raf muttered, and the others broke into warm laughter around him. “Easy for you to laugh. My GPA dropped.”
Zaylin ruffled his hair and turned to chat with Miko about the movie.
“Oh, I haven’t seen that one yet,” Hall said with a smile. “Mind if I tag along?”
“You have to!” Miko squealed.
Zaylin opened her mouth to answer—but the words died in her throat as a sharp pain stabbed through her chest, right where her heart was. It was like a hundred needles piercing her at once. She grimaced, gasping for breath, clutching at the black work t-shirt over her chest.
“Zaylin!” Jack was on his feet in an instant, a hand on her shoulder. “God, not again?”
She nodded, struggling to steady her breathing. The attacks usually hit once every two or three weeks, never lasting more than a couple minutes. The artifact embedded in her chest pulsed violently, as if its needle-thin tendrils were burrowing deeper into her flesh. Ratchet had never been able to explain it, but at least he’d assured her it wasn’t life-threatening.
A minute passed—though it always felt like forever—before the pain ebbed away. Zaylin finally exhaled, wiping away the tears that had welled at the corners of her green eyes. She pulled a trembling Raf into a one-armed hug.
“I’m fine, guys,” she whispered.
The artifact was hidden well enough beneath her t-shirt that she didn’t worry too much. Still, because of it, she’d pretty much given up on dating. No guy would understand why a ten-sided Cybertronian relic studded with tiny spikes was lodged into her chest. Faint scars still marked her skin from the original implantation. It rarely hurt anymore, but every accidental scrape sent an ugly jolt across her nerves.
“Oh, I wish I had one of those,” Miko sighed dreamily, resting her chin on her hand. “Then I could fight the ‘Cons myself.”
“Yeah, and enjoy your bi-monthly mini heart attacks,” Jack muttered, sipping his tea. “Real fun.”
“Jack’s right, Miko. Sometimes it’s really not fun at all,” Zaylin agreed, before glancing toward the door as the bell jingled again. “Well, look who finally showed. Five minutes late.”
“Quit whining!” Courtney called with a grin, a tall Black girl with striking gray eyes, as she swept past the counter toward the staff room. She shot a look at the group of teens. “Oh, them again? What are you, some kind of club?”
“Science fiction,” Zaylin snorted, untying her apron.
***
Even though Zaylin’s official partner was Optimus, his duties as leader of the Autobots meant he couldn’t always drive her to and from work. Not that she minded. She wasn’t sixteen anymore (Jack would just have to forgive her that comparison).
“Hey, Optimus!” Zaylin hopped out of Bulkhead’s altmode, patting the big green mech’s thick armor in thanks before turning to their commander. “How’s it going?”
“Greetings, Zaylin.” Optimus tore his gaze from the massive console for a moment, where lines of Cybertronian script streamed rapidly across the display. With the faintest smile, he inclined his head. “All is well, thank you. And how is your work?”
Instead of answering, Zaylin glanced back to make sure the kids were at least ten meters away. Then she tapped the artifact on her chest three times with two fingers.
A pulse of pale yellow light spread outward from it. Her human features began to melt away, replaced piece by piece with intricate Cybertronian design. Limbs elongated, plating formed, her whole frame restructuring. Emerald optics lit up, adjusting to the heightened sensitivity of Cybertronian sight. Her systems synchronized smoothly, bridging the gap between human and Cybertronian abilities. When the transition was complete, the artifact sank back into dormancy, settling as part of the raised plating on Zaylin’s chestplate.
“Whew.” Hall stretched easily. In her Cybertronian form, her primary color was a deep, saturated maroon. Gray traced along the seams of her transformation lines, pedes and servos like subtle striping. Strangely enough, she bore a pair of small wings on her back. Still, she had no trouble shifting into her altmode: a rugged off-roader. With no fliers among the Autobots, there’d been no one to teach her how to actually use the wings. Her audio sensors resembled long antennae, and though she never joined battles, she carried a blaster mounted in each servo. “Such a boring shift today.”
“You know,” Ratchet remarked from his console without looking up, “you don’t have to transform every single time you’re on base.”
“First of all, I don’t do it every single time,” Zaylin said brightly, cracking her back. “Second, if I get the chance to be almost eye-level with titans, why wouldn’t I?”
“Eye-level?” Bulkhead chuckled low, giving her a playful nudge with his thick elbow. “Zaylin, you’re barely half a helm taller than Arcee.”
Arcee crossed her arms sharply, clicking her glossa to draw his attention.
“Oops. Sorry,” he scratched at his helm with a sheepish grin. “But hey, truth hurts.”
Arcee shook a fist at him, and he laughed, stepping back in mock surrender. Bumblebee chirped a teasing string of beeps. The kids laughed too, but quickly turned their attention back to a new game on the console.
***
“My Lord, please!”
Megatron didn’t listen. He never did.
“There are only five Autobots left on this planet, and yet you lost them an entire mine!” His massive fist slammed across his second-in-command’s faceplate, making Starscream stagger on weakened servos.
“M-My Lord,” Starscream rasped, coughing hard. “We… we managed to transfer ninety percent of the mine’s resources aboard the Nemesis! The Autobots only got pathetic scraps—”
Another blow. This time square across his chestplate, sparks bursting from the impact.
“The Autobots must be left with nothing. Nothing! Not even pathetic scraps of energon!”
Megatron seized him by the throat and hauled him off the ground. Starscream clawed desperately at the warlord’s massive hand, kicking his legs uselessly in the air.
“M-My liege!”
“Silence!” Megatron hissed through bared denta. “Silence, wretch!”
With one violent swing, he hurled Starscream across the command deck. The seeker had no right to be surprised; he’d grown used to Megatron’s fists over the millennia. He glanced around the bridge. Vehicons pretended not to notice, keeping their optics averted as their commander was tossed about like a rag doll. Of course. Who among them had the courage to intervene? Most Decepticons thought only of their own gain. That was nothing new.
The sting of humiliation burned, as it always did, but it quickly gave way to blind rage—and a sharper, hungrier desire to overthrow the ex-gladiator of Kaon.
“Get out of my sight,” Megatron growled, turning away toward the massive viewport. The Nemesis drifted above a breathtaking mountain range, cloaked in heavy snow.
Starscream gathered the shards of his pride, limping out of the command deck on a damaged pede. Instead of heading for the medbay, he stalked toward his quarters. Clawed fingers punched the code, the door sliding open with a hiss.
Inside, he exhaled shakily and opened the bottom drawer of his desk.
“Again,” he muttered into the silence, pulling out a small handheld welder.
At least this time, the damage wasn’t as bad: just one servo and part of his flank. The pede would recalibrate itself in time. He didn’t want to face Knock Out’s smug comments, anyway. Years under Megatron had raised his pain tolerance to obscene levels; he’d long since learned to patch himself up. A useful skill, though bought at an unbearable cost.
“Your time is almost up, Megatron,” Starscream hissed, running the hot tip of the welder along his shoulder plating. “I will lead the Decepticons to victory. I will destroy you.”
He knew his goals. He knew his desires. And he knew the path to reach them. But failure after failure still dogged his wings, dragged down by his ego—and by his blindness to what he truly needed.