Chapter Text
Back aboard the Ark, the meeting did not end—it unraveled.
What had begun as a focused discussion, controlled and deliberate, slowly slipped into something far more fragile. The room filled with overlapping voices, each theory building over the last, each possibility more desperate than the one before it. No one liked uncertainty—least of all the Autobots—and yet that was all they had.
“What if it’s an ambush?”
“They’re grounded—why risk it now?”
“Unless they want us to think that.”
“Or it’s a trap to draw resources away from—”
“Or that strategist—Starscream—what if he’s planning something we haven’t even considered yet?”
The voices rose, layered, clashing—logic giving way to speculation, speculation twisting into fear. Even the most disciplined among them could not fully anchor themselves against the unknown. Because this was different. This was not an enemy they understood anymore.
And then—
The room shook.
The deep, resonant sound of Optimus Prime’s voice cut through everything, not loud in volume—but powerful enough to silence the chaos instantly. It was not anger. It was not frustration. It was authority, absolute and undeniable.
“Enough.”
Silence fell like a command obeyed without thought.
Optimus stood at the center of the room, unmoving, optics steady as they moved from one mech to another. There was no judgment there—but there was clarity.
“Theories will not protect us,” he said, voice calm now, grounded, pulling them all back with it. “Speculation will not prepare us. We need proof.”
Real. Concrete. Unquestionable.
Only then would they understand what they were facing.
He turned slightly, gaze settling on Ultra Magnus. “Magnus—you will coordinate with Perceptor and the science division. I want something deployable. Mobile. Discreet.” A brief pause. “A surveillance unit capable of transmitting live visual and audio feeds.”
Magnus straightened immediately, posture locking into purpose. “Understood.”
“Peaceful Tyranny does not have the same level of counter-surveillance as the Nemesis,” Optimus continued. “And more importantly… they do not have Soundwave.”
The implication was clear.
This was their advantage.
“We use it.”
Magnus gave a single, firm nod. The order was already becoming a plan in his mind.
Optimus shifted his attention. “Prowl.”
Prowl met his gaze instantly.
“I want everything,” Optimus said, voice quieter now, but no less intense. “On Tarn. On every member of the DJD. History, patterns, inconsistencies—anything that does not align.”
A brief pause, something deeper threading into his tone.
“Because if our assumptions are correct… then everything we believed about them is flawed.”
Prowl’s optics flickered—not with doubt, but with focus sharpening further. “Understood.”
“If Tarn is not loyal to Megatron,” Optimus continued, “then he was never a Hound. He was… an illusion. A construct designed to control perception.”
A lie.
One they had all accepted without question.
“And illusions,” Optimus finished quietly, “have weaknesses.”
Prowl inclined his helm slightly. He would find them. He needed to.
Optimus turned again. “Elita-One.”
She stepped forward without hesitation.
“For the time being, you and your team will not engage in active combat operations.”
The words landed heavier than any command before it.
Elita didn’t flinch—but something tightened in her expression. Not defiance. Not disagreement. Just the weight of understanding what that meant.
“That strategist…” Optimus continued, “has already demonstrated a level of precision that cannot be ignored. Every engagement provides data. Every movement becomes something they can learn from.”
His voice softened—just slightly.
“I will not risk you or your team becoming a pattern they can break.”
A long moment passed.
Then Elita straightened, resolve settling into place. “Understood.”
She would stand down.
For now.
Optimus nodded once before shifting his focus again. “Bumblebee.”
Bee perked slightly, optics attentive.
“You will maintain surveillance on the DJD. Use only your most experienced scouts. No risks. No exposure.”
A pause.
“They cannot know they are being watched.”
Bumblebee nodded quickly, determination lighting in his posture. “Got it.”
“Discretion above all.”
Next—“Ironhide.”
Ironhide leaned forward slightly, ready before the order even came.
“Prepare for all scenarios,” Optimus said. “Defensive measures. Equipment readiness. I want contingencies for outcomes we have not even defined yet.”
Ironhide gave a low, steady grunt. “You’ll have it.”
There was something reassuring in that certainty—solid, dependable, unshaken.
“Ratchet.”
Ratchet crossed his arms, already anticipating.
“Medbay remains on full readiness,” Optimus instructed. “Staff prepared for immediate response. No delays.”
Ratchet huffed softly, but there was no resistance in it. “We’re always ready,” he muttered. “But I’ll make sure we’re more ready.”
Optimus allowed the smallest flicker of acknowledgment before moving on.
“And finally—Jazz.”
Jazz tilted his helm, expression more serious than usual, though a faint hint of his usual ease still lingered beneath it.
“I need you to inform the rest of the Autobots,” Optimus said. “Be… selective. Share what is necessary. Not everything.”
Because panic would help no one.
Jazz nodded slowly, understanding settling in. “Got it, Prime. I’ll keep it smooth.”
The room remained quiet after that.
Not tense anymore. Not chaotic.
Focused.
Each mech stood with their orders now, their roles clear, purpose restored. The uncertainty was still there—it hadn’t vanished—but it no longer controlled them.
Optimus looked at them all one last time.
Whatever was coming…
They would be ready for it.
Two days passed.
Two days of tension held carefully beneath routine, of movements measured just a fraction more than usual, of every Autobot carrying the quiet awareness that something was coming—they just didn’t know what. And yet, despite it all… things held. No attacks. No sudden shifts. Just the steady hum of preparation threading through the Ark like a second heartbeat.
In the main lab, that quiet preparation had taken form.
“What you’re looking at,” Wheeljack said, with a hint of unmistakable pride in his voice, “is not a rock.”
In the palm of his servo rested something small, unassuming—irregular in shape, dull in color, something that would disappear easily against any terrain without a second glance.
Optimus leaned slightly closer, optics narrowing as he observed it. There was nothing remarkable about it at first sight. No visible seams. No indication of advanced technology. Just… a stone.
Perceptor adjusted his stance beside Wheeljack, voice precise, measured. “It is a mobile surveillance unit, Commander. Fully autonomous locomotion via micro-wheel systems concealed beneath the outer shell. It can traverse uneven terrain with minimal sound emission.”
As if responding to the explanation, the “stone” shifted.
It rolled—slowly, almost lazily—before stopping again, as if it had never moved at all.
Optimus watched it in silence.
“A near-complete visual field,” Perceptor continued, “with approximately three hundred and sixty degrees of image capture. High-resolution optics, enhanced auditory sensors… and—”
“—a power core that’ll keep it running for years,” Wheeljack finished, a small grin slipping through. “No need to retrieve it unless you really want to.”
For a moment, Optimus said nothing.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
“It will be sufficient.”
There was something almost reassuring in that. Not certainty—but progress. A step forward in a situation that had offered them nothing but questions.
And then—
The doors slid open.
Prowl entered without hesitation, his presence cutting cleanly into the moment. There was no wasted movement, no unnecessary preamble—but there was something different in the way he held himself. Something sharper. Something… charged.
“I have found something,” he said.
Optimus turned immediately. “Report.”
Prowl stepped closer, datapad already in hand, but his optics remained steady—focused not on the data, but on what it meant.
“It concerns Tarn.”
The room shifted.
Even Wheeljack straightened slightly, interest replacing casual ease. Perceptor’s attention sharpened instantly.
“For a long time,” Prowl continued, voice calm but carrying an unmistakable undercurrent, “we have operated under the assumption that Tarn is… exactly what he presents himself to be.”
A pause.
“That assumption is incorrect.”
He activated the datapad.
A name appeared.
Not Tarn.
“Glitch.”
The word settled into the space between them, quiet—but heavy.
“His original designation,” Prowl explained. “Before the war. Before the DJD. Before everything we associate with him now.”
Optimus’s optics narrowed slightly, absorbing the shift. A name carried history. Identity. Meaning.
“And it does not end there,” Prowl added.
The data shifted—images, fragments, records pulled from places that did not give up their secrets easily.
“He was a champion of the Pit Arena!Before Megatron!!”
That drew a reaction. Subtle—but present.
The Pits were not simply places of combat. They were brutality refined into spectacle. Survival stripped down to instinct. To endure there—let alone rise within it—meant something fundamental had been forged… or broken.
“He was not freed,” Prowl continued quietly. “He escaped.”
Another pause.
“With assistance.”
The room stilled.
“An unidentified mech,” Prowl said, “sold himself into the Arena as collateral—to pay a debt owed to its owner. In doing so… he created an opening.”
Optimus felt something shift, something quiet and heavy settling deeper into the truth of it.
“Tarn—Glitch—used that opening to escape.”
Silence followed.
Not empty.
Full.
Because for the first time… Tarn was not just a name. Not just a weapon. Not just an idea shaped by fear and myth.
He had a past.
A beginning.
Something that came before the monster they knew.
Wheeljack let out a low breath, rubbing the back of his helm. “Well… that explains a few things.”
Perceptor remained still, optics flickering faintly as he processed the implications. “Such an environment would produce extreme psychological and tactical adaptations,” he murmured. “Efficiency. Endurance. Detachment.”
Prowl lowered the datapad slightly, gaze steady.
“This is only the beginning,” he said.
But even so—
For the first time since this began, something real had surfaced.
Not theory.
Not assumption.
Truth.