Chapter Text
The Detroit asphalt was a gray blur beneath Bumblebee's tires as he sped through the icy March rain. The speedometer registered 140 miles per hour, then 160, then numbers that would have caused Ratchet's processor to completely melt down. But Bee didn't slow down.
I couldn't.
Because if he stopped, he would have to think. And thinking meant remembering the file Prowl had shown him that afternoon, classified, encrypted, marked with Elite Guard security seals that shouldn't even exist on Earth. Prowl shouldn't have access to it. But the ninja had his methods, his information networks that extended to Cybertron through channels that would make even Optimus frown.
The file had a simple title: DEFECTIVE UNITS - CONTAINMENT PROTOCOLS
And on page three, section B, subsection 7, there was a name...
B-127. Designation: BUMBLEBEE.
"The unit exhibits chronic emotional instability, tendencies toward insubordination, and consistent failure to follow established combat protocols. Field reports indicate erratic behavior during high-tension engagements. Recommendation: Continuous monitoring. Reassignment to low-risk duties. If deterioration persists, consider decommissioning or personality matrix reprogramming."
Signed by: Ultra Magnus, Supreme Commander, Autobot Elite Guard.
Data: Six stellar cycles before being sent to Earth.
Bumblebee skidded around a sharp corner, tires screeching against the wet asphalt, brake fluid vaporizing in his overheated hydraulic lines. Physical pain was preferable. It was tangible. He could process it, catalog it in his diagnostic systems.
Not like the pain that burned in his Spark chamber.
Defective.
Six cycles. For six entire stellar cycles, Ultra Magnus, the bot he admired, the one that represented everything an Autobot should be, had classified him as damaged goods. A defective part waiting to be discarded.
And Optimus knew. He had to know. He was Prime, after all. He had access to all the personnel files. Every time Optimus called him "young" or "impulsive," every time Ratchet reprimanded him for being "reckless," every time Prowl looked at him with that carefully neutral expression of disapproval...
They knew he was defective. And yet, they never said anything.
The worst part? Part of Bumblebee couldn't even disagree with that assessment.
How many times did he disobey direct orders? How many missions did he nearly ruin with his "jokes" and "improvisations"? How many times did Bulkhead have to save him because he was too fast, too confident, too stupid?
Defective.
The communicator on his panel began to flash. Optimus. Then Ratchet. Then Prowl. All demanding that he report his location, that he return to base, that he explain why he left without authorization.
Bumblebee reached for the console with trembling fingers and smashed the device. Circuits exploded in blue sparks, and the silence that followed was a relief.
He didn't want explanations. He didn't want your performative concerns or your pious lies. He wanted emptiness. He wanted to accelerate until his cylinders melted, until his Spark finally did what it apparently should have done cycles ago.
To switch off.
Bumblebee didn't realize where he was going until he was already there.
The industrial district on the south side of Detroit, a graveyard of dead factories and forgotten warehouses. The kind of place even humans avoided after dark. Perfect for someone who wanted to disappear.
He shifted into motion, momentum propelling him forward until he crashed into a brick wall. The structure exploded around him, gravel and dust raining down on his armor. He didn't get up. He just lay there, kneeling in the rubble, warning systems screaming about structural damage he didn't have the energy to process.
His right hand found his shoulder. Fingers traced the edge of the Autobot soldier emblem there, a symbol of everything he should have been and never would be.
He took off.
The metal screamed.
Underlying circuits broke down.
Lubricant spurted from damaged fuel lines, running hot and dark down his chassis. The pain was exquisite. Real. A welcome counterpoint to the emptiness in his Spark.
The emblem fell to the ground with a hollow clang. Bumblebee stared at it, that bright red symbol, now covered in his own energon, and felt absolutely nothing.
"Defective," he whispered to the metal in his hands. "Defective. Disposable."
The words proved something was breaking. Not its circuits. Something deeper. The last barrier between functional and non-functional, between operational and irreparable.
His cooling system was failing. He could feel the heat building in his Spark Chamber, regulatory processes struggling to dissipate energy that had nowhere to go.
Critical warnings flashed in his vision:
[WARNING: CORE TEMPERATURE EXCEEDS SAFETY PARAMETERS]
[WARNING: SPARK INTEGRITY AT 67% AND FALLING]
[WARNING: IMMINENT SYSTEM FAILURE]
Bumblebee reached for his chest panel and manually released the emergency latches. The compartment slid open, exposing the containment chamber where his Spark pulsed...that small blue flame that was supposedly his soul, his life essence.
She seemed so small.
So fragile.
So easy to erase.
His fingers hovered over the safety controls. One command. That was all it would take. Deactivate the containment protocols, let the Spark burn unregulated until it consumed itself.
Fast.
Clean.
Final.
No one would miss him for long. Bulkhead would be sad, sure, but he'd get over it. Sari would cry, but she was human, she had a whole life ahead of her without war bots ruining everything. Optimus would give a speech about sacrifice and service. Ratchet would grumble about wasted resources. And Ultra Magnus would file the report with a note: "Unit failure confirmed. Recommendation justified."
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The backup communicator in the hidden compartment in his forearm began to vibrate.
Not the team channel, that one was destroyed. Not an official Autobot frequency. It was the other device. The illegal one. The one he concealed as a sin because connecting to it was treason and keeping it was madness.
A particular Decepticon frequency known only to two people on the entire planet.
Bumblebee stared at the flashing device with something akin to hatred. Of course. Of course it would be now.
When he was literally seconds away from shutting down his own Spark, the universe decided it was the perfect moment to...
The device vibrated again. More insistently. Furiously, even.
With fingers trembling so much that he could barely hold the controller, Bee activated the receiver.
The voice blasting through the speaker wasn't what he expected. It wasn't the Warm face, all dangerous charm and violent flirting. It wasn't the Random face, with its unpredictable whims.
It was the Cold Face. And it was screaming.
"BUMBLEBEE! Answer now, you little procedural freak! I'm tracking your energy signal all over the damn quadrant and you're registering as critical!"
Bee opened her mouth. Closed it. She couldn't find the words.
"Your Spark levels are fluctuating!" The icy voice continued, and there was something about it that Bee had never heard before. Panic. Pure, unfiltered fear. "You're going into a failure cascade! What the hell are you doing?!"
"Nothing," Bee finally managed to whisper, her voice distorted through damaged synthesizers. "It's nothing."
"Nothing?" The roar that came through the communicator made Bee shudder. "Your vital signs seem as if you're actively falling apart! Your Spark containment is compromised! You are—"
A pause. A long, horrible moment of silence.
When Blitzwing spoke again, his voice was different. Softer. The kind of tone you'd use with something fragile. Something breaking.
"Bee. Little Autobot. What have you done?"
And this kindness, coming from a Decepticon, from an enemy, from someone who should want his destruction, broke something that the classified files couldn't.
"They knew," Bee sobbed, lubricant leaking from his optics in dark trails. "Blitz, they knew. For cycles. Ultra Magnus, Optimus... they all knew I was defective and never... they never..."
"Where are you?" It wasn't a question. It was a command, cold and absolute.
"It doesn't matter-"
"Where are you."
Bee looked around the destroyed warehouse, at the bloodied Autobot emblem at his feet, at his exposed Spark chamber pulsing faintly in the darkness.
And he realized he didn't want to die alone.
"South Industrial District," he whispered. "Warehouse 47-B. But Blitz, no... you don't need to—"
The line died.
Bumblebee didn't know how much time had passed. His internal clocks were distorted, time stretching and contracting in ways that made his cognitive processes scream. He just stood there, leaning against the rubble, watching his Spark pulse ever weaker through the exposed chamber.
Each pulse was weaker than the last. Each processing cycle was slightly slower.
Then he listened.
The distant roar of jet turbines, coming fast. Very fast. The kind of speed that burned through emergency fuel reserves and chilled cooling lines.
The sound grew until it was deafening, and then Blitzwing crashed through the ceiling.
It didn't land. It didn't descend gracefully. It literally plummeted from the sky like a guided meteor, its wings barely retracting before crashing into the concrete floor with enough force to crack the foundation. The impact shook the entire building, metal beams groaning in protest.
For a moment, Blitzwing remained motionless in its landing crater. Then it stood up, and Bumblebee saw its face.
Coldface was in control, but it was different. The red monocle was focused with an intensity bordering on pain. There were scratches on its facial armor, the kind you get when you're flying so fast that airborne debris causes kinetic impact.
He closed the distance between them in three strides. He landed on his knees beside Bee with a crash that made the ground tremble. And then, with visibly trembling hands, he reached for Bumblebee's exposed chest.
"You," Blitzwing whispered, his icy voice cracking, "are an idiot."
Bee tried to laugh. It came out as a static sob. "Sorry?"
"Excuse me?" Blitzwing's face turned. Hot now, but without his usual charm.
Pure, burning fury. "SORRY?! I detect your Spark entering critical failure on the other side of town and you give me SORRY?!"
His claws circled Bee's chamber, his fingers thundering against controls never meant to be accessed externally. He was manually closing the security protocols, undoing the shutdown that Bee had initiated.
"No," Bee whispered, her hands weakly pushing against Blitzwing's wrists. "No, Blitz, just... let it happen. Just let it happen."
"NO!" The scream was deafening, echoing through the empty warehouse. The face spun again, Random, misaligned eyes spinning wildly. "No, no, NO! You stupid little bee, don't die! Don't allow it! DON'T ALLOW IT!"
Tears. Pure lubricant, they were leaking from Blitzwing's optics. From all three cheeks. Bee had never seen him cry before. Nor did she know he could.
"Please," Bee pleaded, but she no longer knew what she was pleading for. For Blitzwing to stop? Or to continue?
Cold Face returned, and this time, when she spoke, her voice was very, very calm.
"You're going to listen to me, Bumblebee. And you're going to listen well." His hands moved from the Spark Chamber to Bee's face, holding it with gentle firmness. "I don't care what they said about you... I don't care what Ultra Magnus, or Optimus, or any other pompous Cybertronian official thinks."
To them, you're a number. A statistic. Defective merchandise.
He pressed his forehead against Bee's, a gesture of profound Cybertronian intimacy, a sharing of EM fields, almost merging Sparks.
"For me? You are everything."
All.
Bumblebee broke.
Not gently. Not quietly. He shattered, sobs tearing through his vocalization systems, his whole body trembling so violently that circuits disconnected and reconnected. He clung to Blitzwing tightly enough to leave weld marks, his face buried in the Decepticon's armored chest, and screamed.
All the pain.
All the anger.
The whole cycle of being insufficient, of failing, of being the laughingstock of the team, the army, and the entire universe. It all came out in a deluge that left him empty and trembling and irrevocably broken.
And Blitzwing simply held him. Claws tracing calming patterns on Bee's back, engine purring at a subsonic frequency meant to soothe distressed Sparks. He said nothing. He didn't need to.
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Eventually, the hiccups subsided. Bumblebee ran out of lubricant to cry, his hydraulic systems were dry and burning. He remained safe from Blitzwing, his processors slow and dull, Spark still weak but stable.
"I can't go back..." Bee finally whispered. "Blitz, I can't... I can't look at them knowing that..."
"Then don't come back."
Bee stepped back far enough to meet Blitzwing's optics. The Warm Face was in charge now, but there was something serious beneath the usual smile.
"Come with me," Blitzwing said simply. "To the Decepticon side."
The world stopped.
"You... you're crazy?" Bee whispered.
"Obviously." The smile widened. "But that's never stopped us before, has it?"
"Blitz, I can't... I'm an Autobot. Even if they see me as defective, I still am—"
"What? Loyal?" The cold face returned, monocle focused intently.
"For an organization that classified him as expendable? For a commander who signed his eventual execution order? Explain the logic of that to me."
Bee had no answer.
"The Decepticons don't care if you're 'defective'."
Blitzwing continued.
"Half of us are experimental, modified, or reconstructed in ways that Cybertron would consider abominations. Lugnut has a megalomaniacal religious devotion. Blackarachnia is half organic. I have three personalities that disagree on what to eat for energon."
He touched the side of Bee's face again, very gently.
"You would fit in perfectly."
The temptation was overwhelming. To leave everything behind—the expectations, the disappointments, the constant weight of trying to be something he could never be. To join Blitzwing, to fight alongside him instead of against him, to be liked instead of tolerated.
But.
"Sari," Bee whispered. "And Bulkhead. They don't... they don't deserve to be betrayed like this."
Blitzwing sighed.
"So what do you propose?"
"I don't know." Bee looked at her hands, still trembling, still stained with her own lubricant.
"I just know I can't go back and pretend everything's okay. I can't look at Optimus and not see the words in that file. I can't hear Ratchet call me 'young man' and not know they think I'm a broken time bomb waiting to explode."
"Then don't pretend." Blitzwing's cold face was very, very serious. "Confront them. Demand answers. Force them to see you as more than just a statistic."
"What if they can't?"
"So," his face turned to Random, with a maniacal grin, "we blew up their base and escaped to Havana! I ALWAYS WANTED TO SEE HAVANA!"
Despite everything,the pain, the fear, the completely uncertain future,Bumblebee laughed. A genuine, surprised sound.
"You're insane."
"And you love me for that." The Warm Face winked. "Don't you?"
Bee looked at the Decepticon holding him, this complicated, dangerous, deeply flawed bot that had raced through the city at suicidal speeds because it had sensed his distress.
Who wept when she saw him on the brink of death. Who offered betrayal and exile as if it were a gift.
"Yes," Bee whispered. "I think so."
Blitzwing pulled him into a kiss, their first kisses, awkward and desperate, tasting of metal and energon and something that could be hope.
When they parted ways, Blitzwing gently began repairing Bee's Spark Chamber, welding shut what he had torn open.
"You'll come back," he said calmly. "You'll look them in the eye. And you'll decide if it's worth staying."
"What if it doesn't happen?"
Blitzwing's smile was all sharp claws and dangerous promises.
"So you know where to find me."
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Bumblebee returned to base as the sun was rising. He didn't sneak around. He didn't try to sneak in. He simply transformed into the garage, walked through the main door, and entered the common room where he knew everyone would be waiting.
They were.
Optimus Prime stood near the window, back stiff, hands behind his back.
Ratchet leaned against the work table, arms crossed, his expression more worried than angry. Prowl sat in a meditative position, but his eyes were wide open and alert. Bulkhead sat on the sofa, looking miserable. Sari was beside him, her eyes red from crying.
They all turned around when Bee entered.
For a long moment, no one spoke. They just stared at him, taking note of the damaged armor, the shoulder where the Autobot emblem should have been, the dried lubricant tracing dark trails on his chassis.
Optimus was the one who broke the silence.
"Bumblebee." His voice was carefully controlled. "You're hurt."
"I am," Bee replied calmly. "But not in the way you think."
"Hey, man." Bulkhead stood up, taking a step forward. "We were so worried! You just disappeared, destroyed your communicator... we thought maybe the Cons had..."
"The Decepticons didn't capture me." Bee kept his voice steady. "I just needed time to process some information."
Prowl's eyes narrowed slightly. "Information about the file I showed you."
Everyone looked at Prowl.
So, for Bee.
"Archive?" Optimus stepped forward. "What archive?"
Bee looked at Prowl. The ninja stared back, his expression impassive. But there was something in his eyes,not regret, exactly, but recognition. He knew what he had unleashed. And he wasn't backing down.
"The Ultra Magnus file," Bee said calmly, looking back at Optimus. "The one that classifies me as a defective unit recommended for eventual decommissioning."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Ratchet spoke first. "Bee, that's... you shouldn't have access to that—"
"But I do." Bee cut in, her voice hardening. "And now I know. I know that for cycle after cycle, Ratchet, I was considered damaged goods. I know that every lecture about being 'reckless,' every reprimand about 'following orders,' every time you treated me like a child who needs constant supervision... it was because you know. You always knew I was defective."
"You're not defective." Optimus's voice was firm. "Bee, please, you need to understand the context—"
"NO!" The shout surprised everyone, including Bee. "No, Optimus. I don't need to understand anything. You need to explain. You need to tell me why, in all this time we've been on Earth, fighting together, bleeding together... you never thought I deserved to know that my own commander considers me expendable."
Optimus took a step back as if he had been physically struck. Optimus seemed to want to say something, but remained silent.
"Bee," Sari said softly, tears streaming down her face. "Please don't say that. Optimus doesn't think you're disposable."
"Then why didn't you tell me?" Bee looked at her, then back at Optimus. "Why did you let that file exist without ever, not once, telling me that I was under surveillance? That each mission was a test to see if I would finally break down enough to justify my removal?"
"Because that's not how it was!" Ratchet stepped forward, his vocalization systems heightened. "Bee, that file... it was Ultra Magnus's thinking, not ours. Optimus disagreed with the assessment. That's why you're here with us, instead of in some insignificant patrol post on Cybertron!"
"Ah." Bee laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "So I should be grateful? Grateful for being hidden on Earth instead of being officially decommissioned?"
"That's not fair," Prowl said calmly. "And you know it."
"Fair?" Bee turned to face him. "You want to talk to me about fair, Prowl? You're the one who decided I needed to see that file? You're the one who chose to destroy any illusion I had about my place on this team?"
"Yes." Prowl stood up, staring at him without blinking. "Because you deserved the truth. Even if it hurt. Especially because it hurt."
They stood there for a long moment, the tension between them almost palpable.
"Prowl is right," Optimus finally said. "You deserved to know. And I... I failed you by not telling you sooner. This is my responsibility."
He took a step closer, but didn't touch. He just looked at Bumblebee with something that seemed genuinely remorseful.
"But Bee, you need to understand. That file... it's not who you are. It's just a bot's assessment that prioritized order over individuality. Ultra Magnus sees the army as a machine, and any part that doesn't function exactly as designed is considered defective. But you're not a part. You're a living being..."
"Am I?" Bee touched his shoulder where the emblem should be. "Because now I don't know. I don't know if I'm an Autobot. I don't know if I'm a soldier. I don't even know if it matters whether I continue to exist or not."
"Don't say that!" Bulkhead stood beside him, two big strides away, his hands on Bee's shoulders.
"Dude, you're my best friend! You matter to me! You matter to Sari, and Optimus, and all of us!"
Bee looked at Bulkhead's sincere face, his first real friend, the bot that had accepted him without reservation since the day they met.
And he felt something softening in his chest.
"I know, Bulk," he whispered. "But knowing intellectually and feeling are different things."
"So what do you need?" Ratchet asked, his voice gentler now. "Tell us. What do we need to do to prove that you're not defective, that you're not disposable, that you're part of this team?"
Bee looked around the room. At every face. Every expression of genuine concern.
And he realized that he didn't know the answer.
"Time," he finally said.
"I need time. To process this. To figure out who I am when I'm not trying to prove that I'm not flawed."
Optimus nodded. "As much time as you need."
"And..." Bee added, her voice hardening, "I need you to stop treating me like a child. No more lies of omission. No more 'protecting' me from information because you think I can't handle it. You either trust me, or you don't. But you can't have it both ways."
"Fair enough," Prowl said calmly.
There was a long silence. Then Sari got off the sofa and ran to Bee, throwing her arms around his leg (as far as she could reach given her size).
"I don't care what stupid files say," she sobbed into her metal. "You're my friend. And friends don't give up on each other."
Bee looked down at the tiny human clinging to him, so fragile and brave and impossible.
And something in his Spark, which had been cold and dead for hours, began to warm up.
He knelt down, carefully releasing himself from her grip so they could be eye to eye.
"Thank you, Sari," he said softly. "This... means more than you know."
She hugged him again, and this time, he hugged her back.
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That night, after everyone had gone to rest, Bumblebee lay in his berth, staring at the ceiling. His shoulder had been repaired by Ratchet, including a new Autobot emblem carefully welded into place. The doctor hadn't said anything about the previous one being missing, but the look he gave Bee spoke volumes.
I know what you tried to do. And I'm watching.
Bee adjusted his position, his systems still aching from the self-inflicted trauma. Ratchet had done an impeccable job of repairing it, but some of the pain wasn't physical. It was a ghost in his circuits, an echo of a decision he'd almost made.
The clandestine communicator in his forearm vibrated. Once. Twice. Three times.
Their standard.
The silent code that meant: "Is he still alive?"
Bee stared at the device for a long moment. Part of him wanted to ignore it. He wanted to prove to himself, perhaps, that he didn't need this illegal, dangerous, impossible connection.
But his fingers were already moving, activating the encrypted frequency.
"I'm here," he whispered in the dark.
The sound that came through the speaker was not a voice.
It was breathing. Or rather, the Cybertronian equivalent: the cycle of cooling systems, the murmur of operating fans, the low hum of an idling engine.
Blitzwing was just... listening.
Certifying that Bee's voice was real.
"You're back," Blitzwing finally said, and his voice was cold, but there was something about it. A crack. A glitch in the usual control. "To their base."
"Try."
"And they... accepted you back?"
"More or less." Bee ran a hand over his face, feeling the weight of the previous conversation. "Optimus apologized. Bulkhead cried. Sari hugged me. Ratchet fixed me without asking too many questions."
"But you still don't feel like you belong," Blitzwing concluded.
"No." The word came out small. "I don't know if I'll ever go."
There was a long pause. Bee could hear something in the background, the distant sound of metal creaking, as if Blitzwing were squeezing something too hard.
"You scared me." The voice changed, not completely to another facet, but something in between. Unstable. "When I detected your Spark malfunctioning, I thought... I thought it was too late. That you had already..."
The voice failed. Literally failed, synthesizers stumbling over the words.
Bumblebee felt something tightening in his chest.
"Blitz..."
"Don't do that again." Now it was the Warm face, but without charm. Just raw vulnerability. "Please. Don't make me feel this again. Feel you fading, your Spark fading from existence while I was too far away to do anything except fly faster."
"I won't go," Bee whispered. "I promise... I... today, I was on edge. But I'm not going back there."
"Do you swear? On your Spark?"
It was a serious oath in Cybertronian culture. To swear on the Spark itself meant committing one's existence to fulfilling the promise.
"I swear," Bee said firmly. "On my Spark."
The sound of relief that came through the communicator was almost a sob.
"Good. Because if you died, little Autobot, I'd have to come after you in the Matrix and drag your stupid spark back."
Despite everything, Bee smiled.
"Would you do that?"
"Without hesitation."
The Random face now, but softer than usual. "I would go back and forth from the Well of Sparks, fight Primus personally, blow up the gates of the afterlife. NOTHING would keep you away from me. NOT EVEN DEATH!"
"You're impossible," Bee murmured, but there was affection in her voice.
"And you love me for that."
"...Yes. Yes, I love it."
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They talked for hours.
About nothing.
Above all.
Blitzwing recounted a ridiculous mission where Lugnut nearly destroyed an entire refinery because he thought he saw an insult to Megatron written in human graffiti. Bee laughed, a genuine sound he didn't think he'd be able to produce today.
But eventually, the conversation returned to the archives. To the Elite Guard. To the weight of ratings and expectations.
"You know Ultra Magnus," Bee said softly. "Personally, I mean. You fought him on Cybertron."
"I know." Blitzwing's voice hardened.
"A rigid bot that believes order is synonymous with morality. That sees the universe in absolute binary terms: functional or broken, useful or disposable."
"And I am disposable."
"For him, maybe. But Magnus is an idiot."
Bee snorted. "He's the Supreme Commander of the Elite Guard."
"And even so, an idiot." The cold face was absolute. "He created an army of tools, bots as if they didn't have processors. You think you're the only one he marked as defective? Half the Decepticons started as Autobots that didn't 'function properly' under Magnus and the Elite's standards."
This information hit Bee like an electric shock. "Seriously?"
"Do you think we all woke up one day and decided to conquer the universe for fun?" There was bitterness in Blitzwing's voice now. "Some of us were pushed to this side because there was no place on the 'heroic' side for bots that didn't fit the mold."
"And you?" Bee asked hesitantly.
"You are... that's why you have three...?"
"Three personalities?" The face spun, Random. "Oh no, little Autobot! This was an EXPERIMENT! Some idiot thought it would be FUN to see what happens when you fragment a personality matrix into three distinct cores! SPOILER: chaos and violence!"
"Blitz..."
"But you know what's funny?" The Warm Face returned, and there was a bitter smile. "Before the experiment, I was a soldier in the Elite Guard. Perfectly functional. Perfectly obedient. Perfectly bored."
Bee sat down on the berth. "Were you an Autobot?"
"Through cycles. Serving under Ultra Magnus himself before Megatron emerged and restarted the war." The voice softened. "Until I was captured on a mission. A madman used me as a guinea pig. And when the Guard finally rescued me, the leader looked at me, at what I had become, and said: 'Unit compromised. Decommissioning recommended.'"
"Primus," Bee whispered.
"So I ran away. I found the Decepticons. And I discovered that they didn't care if I had one personality or ten, as long as I could fight."
There was a heavy silence on the line.
"That's why," Blitzwing continued, his voice very quiet, "I can't bear the thought of you deleting. Because I know exactly what it's like to be marked as defective. To be looked at by bots you respected, admired, served... and see only disgust."
Bumblebee felt lubricant accumulating in his optics again.
"They didn't look at me with disgust," he whispered. "Optimus seemed... guilty. Remorseful."
"So maybe he's different from Magnus. Maybe there's hope for his little team."
"Perhaps."
"But Bee," Cold's face returned, serious and intense. "If someday, someday…they make you feel like tonight again? If they make you question your right to exist? You come to me. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Jure."
"I swear. On my Spark."
"Good." A pause. "Now sleep, little Autobot. Your systems need proper regeneration time."
"Blitz?"
"Try?"
"Thank you. For coming to get me. For not leaving me..."
"Always." The voice was as firm as forged steel. "I will always come for you. No matter where you are. No matter how dark it is. I will find you."
The line was cut, but Bee held the communicator against his chest for a long time before finally entering sleep mode.
And for the first time in cycles, he slept without nightmares.
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The next few days were strange. Bumblebee carried out his patrols, completed his missions, laughed at Bulkhead's jokes. But there was a distance now. An invisible wall between him and the rest of the team that everyone could feel but no one knew how to cross.
Prowl tried to meditate with him. Bee politely refused.
Ratchet offered "check-ups," which were obviously excuses to talk. Bee made up excuses.
Sari tried to drag him to movie marathons. Bee attended, but remained quiet throughout the entire screening.
And Optimus... Optimus just watched. With that heavy, guilty look that made Bee want to scream or hug him or both.
It was on the fourth night that Optimus finally approached him.
Bee was on the roof of the base, looking out at the Detroit skyline, when he heard heavy footsteps behind him. He didn't turn around.
"Can I join you?" Optimus asked calmly.
"It's a free base."
Optimus sat down beside him, not too close, respecting the space, and for a long time, they just sat in silence.
"You avoid talking to me," Optimus finally said.
"I've been busy."
"Bumblebee." The voice was gentle but firm. "Please don't insult me with polite lies. We both know you're avoiding me."
Bee pressed her knees to her chest. "What if it is?"
"Then I would deserve this." Optimus looked at his own hands. "I failed you, Bee. Not just by hiding the file, but in so many other ways."
"You did not fail—"
"I failed." Optimus's voice was firm. "I knew you struggled. I knew you felt like you constantly had to prove your worth. And instead of addressing that, instead of making sure you knew your worth... I let you carry that burden alone."
Bee finally looked at him. "Why? Why didn't you say anything?"
Optimus hesitated, and for the first time, Bee saw something he had never seen before in his leader's face.
Shame.
"Because," Optimus said calmly, "I was dealing with my own demons. And I was too cowardly to face yours as well."
"Your...demons?"
Optimus stood up, walking to the edge of the roof. When he spoke again, his voice carried a weight that Bee had never heard before.
"Do you know why I'm on Earth, Bee? Why a maintenance and repair team was sent to a meaningless organic planet?"
"Because... we were looking for the AllSpark?"
"Officially, yes." Optimus turned, his optics dark. "Unofficially... We were exiled."
Bee stood up. "What?"
"I shouldn't be a Prime, Bumblebee. I never should be." Optimus touched the insignia. The Matrix of Leadership that marked him as a Prime… which he didn't even know how to use or what to do with.
"This was given to me because I was present when Alpha Trion died. Because I received his final wisdom. Not because I deserved it. Not because I was the best candidate. But because I was in the wrong place at the right time."
He laughed, a bitter sound.
"The Elite were furious. A low-caste bot, a spaceship washer, suddenly elevated to Prime? It was an abomination to everything the Elite Guard stands for. So they did what they always do with things that don't fit into their ordered system."
"He marked you as defective," Bee whispered.
"Worse. He gave me a choice: renounce the Matrix and return to obscurity, or accept a 'special mission' that would keep me away from Cybertron indefinitely." Optimus looked to the sky. "I chose exile. And I brought with me other bots that Magnus considered... problematic."
"Ratchet. Prowl. Bulkhead." Bee felt the pieces falling into place. "And me."
"And you." Optimus turned to sit beside him. "A team of misfits and rejects, sent to the ends of the universe to search for a relic that nobody really believed we'd find."
"So we're all... flawed?"
"In the eyes of the Guard? Yes." Optimus placed a hand on Bee's shoulder. "But Bee, 'defective' is just another word for 'different.' And different doesn't mean lesser."
Bee looked at his leader, this bot he had admired, respected, sometimes resented. And for the first time, he saw not a perfect Prime, but a broken bot trying to hold the pieces together.
"You never told me that," Bee said softly.
"No. Because I was ashamed." Optimus lowered his hand. "Ashamed that I wasn't the Prime you deserved. That I was just a spaceship washer playing hero, using a Matrix that belonged to someone better. A washer who was on guard duty only for tasks that bots like Sentinel can't do."
"Optimus..."
"But seeing you that night, with your emblem ripped off and your Spark exposed..." Optimus's voice cracked. "Seeing what my failures almost cost me... I realized that shame is a luxury I can't afford. Not when it means losing a member of my team. Of my family."
He turned to face Bee completely.
"So I'm going to tell you the truth, Bumblebee. The whole truth. Not just about me, but about all of us."
And he told the story.
He told the story of Ratchet, a brilliant doctor who was demoted after questioning medical procedures by the Elite Guard that he considered unethical.
About Prowl, a cyber-ninja who was expelled from his order for refusing to execute an innocent target and for questioning too much.
Regarding Bulkhead, a spaceship and bridge builder deemed "too kind" for active military service.
Regarding each team member being labeled, in one way or another, as insufficient. Defective. Disposable.
"We're a team of broken pieces," Optimus concluded. "Held together by necessity and hope. And maybe that's why we work. Because we understand what it's like to be considered insufficient."
Bee felt something breaking in her chest. Not painfully, but like ice melting after a long winter.
"Why did you never say anything?" he whispered. "Why did you let us all think we were the only ones who were wrong?"
"Because I thought I was protecting you." Optimus closed the opticians' shop. "I thought that if you didn't know about the ratings, about the reviews, you could just... be. Without the weight of anyone's judgment..."
"But I already felt the weight," Bee said. "Every time you corrected me, every time Ratchet sighed when I did something impulsive... I thought it was because I was failing. Not because you cared."
"We care." Optimus opened the optics, and there was lubricant in them. "Primus, Bee, we care so much. You're so brilliant and quick and alive in ways most bots will never be. Your 'impulsiveness' has saved this team dozens of times. Your refusal to give up, even when you should, is why we're all still here. You're important, just like everyone here."
He placed both hands on Bee's shoulders now.
"You are not defective. You are different. And different is exactly what we need."
Bumblebee didn't realize he was crying until he felt the lubricant dripping onto his chassis. He leaned forward, forehead against Optimus's chest, and just let it flow.
Optimus held him. He said nothing. He just let Bee cry while Detroit gleamed below them, oblivious to the fact that on the roof of an old factory, two defective bots were learning that sometimes, being broken together was better than being perfect alone…
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That night, when Bee returned to his berth, he found a message waiting on the clandestine communicator.
[BLITZWING]: "You seem calmer today. I can feel it in your energy. What happened?"
Bee stared at the message for a long time. Then she typed:
[BUMBLEBEE]: "I talked to Optimus. I found out I'm not the only one who's defective."
[BLITZWING]: "And does that make you feel better?"
[BUMBLEBEE]: "Yes. Strangely, yes."
[BLITZWING]: "Good. So maybe there's hope for your little team of rejects after all."
[Bumblebee]: "Maybe. But Blitz?"
[BLITZWING]: "Yes, little Autobot?"
[BUMBLEBEE]: "I'm still going to need to see you. I'm still going to need... this. You."
There was a pause. Then;
[BLITZWING]: "And I'll still be here. Always. Knowing you have a team that understands you doesn't change the fact that you have me too. And you always will."
Bumblebee pressed the communicator against his chest, grinning in the dark.
He was broken. His team was broken. And he was in love with an enemy who was even more broken than all of them combined.
But perhaps, just perhaps, all these broken pieces could form something beautiful.
Even if it was dangerous.
Even if it were impossible.
Even if he was condemned from the start.
They were doomed anyway…