“Let ’em run” – another Transformers story

by Mayumi-H | Jun 8, 2025 | Uncategorized

I’ve been kicking around and noodling with this story idea for a while now: Ultra Magnus having one of those days where he has to make time for everybody else’s problems. The thing about Ultra Magnus is that he’s a kind, compassionate bot who will make time for everybody else, even if that means sacrificing the causes close to his spark. And even if he isn’t always aware of what those causes are.

This story sews together a bunch of minor plot threads that have been percolating in my personal post-G1 Transformers headcanon for the last few years, since I started thinking about writing in the Transformers universe again. Or, rather, writing in my Transformers universe, since the world I’ve created for them takes the original 80s cartoon, carves out a few end pieces, and relaunches into a sphere of my own making, ignoring a lot (most) of what happened after. I didn’t read all the comics. I haven’t seen most of the movies. I honestly don’t care that my alternate universe doesn’t fit in with or even outright ignores a bunch of continuity, characterizations, and events other Transformers fans hold sacred.

This is my universe to play in, and I’m happy with that. If you enjoy parts of it, I’m happy for that, too. If you don’t, that’s also okay. But please don’t let my little corner of Transformers fiction get under your skin. Imagination is for everyone. So, too, are the Transformers, in all their incarnations. Including mine.

Ultra Magnus stared at his monitor. The dots representing the bio-wrangling ground team moved in a spectacle of zigs and zags, each motion matched by a call over the field comm signal.

“Where in blazes is our air support?” Kup shouted.

Sideswipe laughed. “Who needs air support, when you’ve got a rocket pack?”

“Some of us don’t have a rocket pack,” Arcee bit back.

Despite their jabbering, the Autobot ground squad was holding their own against the bio, so Ultra Magnus tuned them out. He tapped over to the Decepticon tracking system. The air squadron was en route at speed, the dot with Cyclonus’s identification marker shearing atmosphere in front.

“Aerial squad inbound,” Magnus told the troops on the ground. “ETA, forty-two seconds.”

“Tell them to be careful,” Perceptor said, leaning close to the comm mic. Before Magnus could comment on their comrades’ proficiency, though, Perceptor clarified his concern: “This specimen should be taken alive.”

“My primary worries are for our own,” Magnus muttered.

The field comm lit up again with new chatter.

“You guys sure took your time,” Hot Rod snapped. “Were you packing each other’s missile bays, or what?”

Dirge gave a growl. “I’ll pack my missiles into your exhaust, wise-aft!”

Cyclonus’s deep voice ordered both sets of troops: “Initiate flanking maneuvers. Aerialbots, Seekers, on my mark—”

The signal fritzed, and Cyclonus’s identifier vanished from the screen.

Magnus lurched forward in his seat. “What the-?”

The comm corroborated.

“Cyclonus just disappeared!” Slingshot cried.

Thrust let out a panicked holler. “What do we do? What do we do?”

“We ram that thing!” Ramjet sounded delighted.

“No!” Perceptor shoved himself toward the comm control mic. “The biological specimen’s physical integrity must be preserved at all cost. Restrain at most.”

“I’d like to see you come out here and restrain this thing!” Skydive said.

Magnus left off scanning for Cyclonus’s signature – the air commander was capable of looking after himself – and barked into the comm mic, “Use the terrain. Air team, lay down suppressive fire along the coast; keep it from going back into the water. Ground team—”

“Way ahead of you, Mags,” Hot Rod replied over the telltale sound of transforming gears. His next words came over the rumble of multiple motors. “Let’s corral this crab!”

Whoops and hoots overtook the barrage of flight and drive directions. Beside Ultra Magnus, Perceptor clenched an anxious fist as they watched the spread of dots representing their comrades wind together as an orchestrated group to contain the biological anomaly.

A sudden screech filled the airwaves. The sound of metal crashing against what had to be rock broke across the comm as one dot went spiraling out of control from the rest.

“Kup’s down!”

“I’m going after him—”

“Stay in formation!”

The cacophony of voices made Magnus ground his jaw gears. “Someone, give me a sit-rep!”

“Under control.”

Magnus wasn’t sure he’d ever been so glad to hear Cyclonus’s low tones come in over the comm. The Decepticon’s identifier swept onto the monitor from one outside corner and zoomed toward the cluster of dots. The aerial team’s pattern coalesced. The ground team followed suit, buoyed by the precision of their brothers and sisters above.

After several minutes of more measured communications, Scrapper’s voice came online.

“Bio is secured.”

“Uninjured, I hope!” Beneath Perceptor’s testiness was a note of distress, and Magnus reminded himself to forgive the scientist his impatience.

“Don’t tell us our job,” Scavenger said testily, while Hook was more relaxed, albeit snootier.

“Our designs are faultless.”

Magnus allowed himself a brief hum of relief. “Dispatching Skyfire to help bring it in. Good work, everybody.”

There was some self-congratulatory chatter before Arcee said:

“We’re going to need medical transport for Kup.”

“It’s just a suspension wound,” Kup protested, but Magnus cut him off.

“Copy that. I’ll send First Aid along with Skyfire.”

Perceptor harrumphed and crossed his arms. “I suppose we can’t expect to advance our research progress without some minor setbacks.”

Magnus was glad he’d already turned down his comm mic. After alerting the mop-up team, he turned to Perceptor with a frown. “I know you’re fascinated with these creatures—”

“These ‘creatures’, as you refer to them, are the result of our tampering with the planet’s natural energy resources. They can’t help what they’ve become. Whereas we owe it to them and the rest of Earth’s inhabitants to find a solution to this dilemma that we created.”

“I’m aware of that. And Leadership agrees that we need to find an answer and put a stop to the mutations before they get worse.” Magnus tilted his head the other way and opened one large hand. “But these are our people out there, fighting against these things at a disadvantage to keep them safe. They deserve compassion, too.”

Silence dropped between them like a tiny bomb. Perceptor bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Ultra Magnus. I forget sometimes—”

Magnus turned his palm outward. “I understand,” he said, and he did. The troops stationed on Earth in Little Cybertron, nee Autobot City, were an eclectic mix of fighter, scientist, administrator, and strategist. While on the surface everyone shared the same goal – protecting the planet’s fragile ecosystem by counteracting and, hopefully, reversing the impact of their Cybertronian presence – they came with different priorities. Soundwave and his menagerie had chosen this assignment because it provided them with more high-level opportunities than they’d have elsewhere. Hot Rod and Arcee had strong emotional connections to the Witwickys, for whom Earth and Luna were home. For all his purported devotion to logic, Shockwave’s ego seemed to require he be in the forefront of this research opportunity, the same as Perceptor wanted to be. Some Cybertronians, like Tracks, Blaster, and Sunstreaker, simply preferred Earth’s culture over others.

“Just try to remember: we need to work together,” Magnus said. “Morale is a significant part of that.”

“Of course.” Perceptor’s hips straightened. “I’d like to prepare my lab for specimen samples,” he said to leave.

Ultra Magnus nodded. “Keep us posted.”

As Perceptor walked out of the command room, Magnus stood, wincing at the sound of a grinding gear along his back; he’d have to find some time for a lubricant bath. He swung his focus toward the exit but stopped halfway on Wheelie, who sat hunched and petulant in a seat by the doors.

“What are you so glum about?”

Wheelie glared at him. “To hold me back isn’t right. Like the others, I can fight!”

“I know you can,” Magnus said, trying to placate. “But this was a special case.”

“They’re all special cases, listening to you. I’m never on the team.” Wheelie crossed his arms over his chest. “Your judgment’s skewed,” he grumbled.

Magnus lowered his shoulders. “Not every incident needs everyone—”

“Especially not me. To that, you see.”

As Magnus swung his head, more gears made straining noises. “Can we talk about this later? I need to meet the response team.”

Wheelie got to his feet. “Talk when you want. I don’t care.” He turned for the exit, though not without adding, “Don’t expect me to be there.”

Ultra Magnus slumped in his wake. Spike Witwicky had recently lamented about the mood swings of human adolescents, his son Daniel being part of that contingent. Magnus wasn’t sure if adolescent mood swings applied to Wheelie, though it certainly felt that way. The young bot had some issues with socialization, so Magnus had attempted to teach him, bring him into the fold as a kind of protege. The results had been mixed. While Magnus liked Wheelie, talking with him often felt like trying to talk with a wall.

At least Wheelie wasn’t so self-absorbed that he didn’t care about his fellow bots. When Magnus walked out to the receiving bay to meet the returning ground and air teams, Wheelie was already there, waving to the approaching dust runners.

Cyclonus and the air squad came in first, transforming to bipedal mode amid a cloud of particles from their subsonic journey through the stratosphere. A few of them jostled each other and exchanged some healthy ribbing, but Cyclonus’s distracted dourness provided an overall pall. He walked away from his fellow flyers toward the interior of the city.

Ultra Magnus stepped toward him. “Cyclonus?”

Little Cybertron’s air commander didn’t break stride. “I neither want nor need a lecture from you,” he rumbled.

Magnus grabbed his elbow joint to draw him to a stop. It worked, though just barely. “I’m not lecturing,” he said, sending his volume low for sake of the others around them. The ground team had started to arrive in a roil of dust, and Magnus knew that the sense of sometimes unhealthy competition between the two teams would only make Cyclonus lock down his mouth motors. The flyer relied on a firm stoicism to keep his own troops in line, and Magnus guessed he was having a hard time keeping a straight face.

“What happened out there?” Magnus went on, keeping his voice hushed. “One moment, you were on target, and the next…!”

Cyclonus stared straight ahead. His red optics went dull, as if reflecting inward. Only his jaw seemed to move, though his mouth stayed closed. When at last he spoke, his voice modulator trembled. “I teleported,” he muttered.

Magnus pulled up in surprise. He knew the technical specs of everyone on Earth assignment, from Rewind in the comm cluster in the heart of Little Cybertron city to Beachcomber and Acid Storm in the Amazon and Snowcrash in the Arctic. No one in Autobot or Decepticon ranks, though, had the ability to jump space at will. “I didn’t think you could do that.”

“I can’t!” Cyclonus clenched both fists. Then he dropped his head, his tone swinging from frustration to misery. “I couldn’t. I shouldn’t,” he said, his voice no more than mutter. He almost seemed to collapse on himself, like there was a black hole inside his chassis. “It was something…he could do.”

The implication of those words itched at Ultra Magnus’s logic circuits. He’d known, fought against, then fought alongside Cyclonus for so long, he’d forgotten that the flyer had ever been anyone but. “You mean Skywarp?”

Cyclonus’s optics flared, and he straightened up, full of pride and wrath. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I just want to help—”

“You can’t.” Cyclonus hopped from his heels and transformed into his vehicle mode. He rotated about and pointed his nose toward the bay doors and open sky. “No one can.”

Magnus turned after him, but Cyclonus was already away. Standing beneath his invisible exhaust stream was the trio of Hot Rod, Arcee, and Sideswipe. Arcee and Sideswipe offered him sympathetic looks while Hot Rod stepped forward.

“Debrief delay?” the cavalier suggested with a spread of both hands.

While the offer tempted, Ultra Magnus knew that his troops had interests outside of meetings and logistics. He shook his head. “Now’s just as good a time as any.”

Hot Rod lifted his shoulder pauldrons. “Fine by me.”

Ultra Magnus led them into the circular conference room that doubled as the city’s staging room as well as his preferred office. It was bright, with multiple comms monitors and seats. It also had a locking safe that contained some of the best energon refreshments on this side of the galaxy. Opportunity for that later, though. For the moment, Magnus concentrated on the reports from the ground team.

“The bio had a unique signature, at least,” Arcee said in closing as she rose from her seat.

Magnus grunted. “That should make Perceptor happy.”

“Maybe not,” Hot Rod said with a chuckle. He stretched to stand with Arcee. “You know how he likes a challenge.”

“I think he’ll have his circuits occupied with figuring out this one as it stands.”

Sideswipe clapped his palms on his thighs as he got to his boots, too. “Well, if that’s it, I’m going to have a nice soak in the oil baths.”

Arcee hummed. “That sounds good. Mind if I join?”

Sideswipe gave her a welcoming leer. “Always room for one more.”

“Or two.” Arcee nudged Hot Rod, her optics flashing with something like mischief.

Hot Rod seemed to take the hint but said, “I’ll catch up.”

“Suit yourself.” Sideswipe crooked one elbow. “M’lady?”

Arcee took his arm with a smile and accompanied Sideswipe out the door.

Hot Rod stepped aside to let them pass, watching them go a moment before turning back to Magnus. “So,” he said by way of preamble. “You want to talk about what happened with Cyke today?”

Ultra Magnus looked at him. Insight wasn’t wholly alien to Hot Rod, but he’d been evincing a lot more of it since he’d relinquished the Matrix of Leadership to Optimus Prime. That felt like a long time ago already.

“He said that he…teleported,” Magnus got out.

“Huh,” was all the cavalier said.

Magnus had no reply.

Hot Rod crossed his arms. The stance was very Rodimus-like, and for the second time in a day cycle, Magnus was reminded that some of his fellow Cybertronians were much more than met the eye.

“Is that in his skills set?” Hot Rod asked.

Magnus shook his head. “No. At least, we didn’t think so. But it had been. Before.”

“Before what?”

“Unicron,” Ultra Magnus said heavily.

Hot Rod’s mouth fell open a little. “Right,” he said at last.

“Do you think you could talk to him about it?”

“Me?” Hot Rod’s sudden smile and tone were incredulous. “Talk to Cyclonus?”

“You’ve been through what he has.”

“Not exactly!”

“You were Rodimus Prime.”

“And now I’m not.”

“But he’s part of you. And there are parts of him that you still carry with you.”

“Like blistering self-doubt.”

“You understand what it’s like to be – to have been – someone else.” Magnus laid his hand on his chest, where the Matrix had once rested, briefly, despite him being unworthy. “I’ve always been just me.”

“A brilliant tactician and city commander who’s always put the lives of friends and comrades first.” Hot Rod snickered, waggling his fingers beside his head as he skewed his mouth for a sardonic drawl. “Yeah, you’re so far down the list of bots I’d want to talk to.” He shook off his sarcasm with a quick and dismissive judder of his head and what sounded like a sigh. “Cyclonus respects you a lot more than he respects me. Heck, you might be the closest thing he’s got to a friend around here.”

Magnus hunched over the desk. “I can’t understand what he’s going through. But I want to help him.”

“So, help him. Assuming he wants that.”

“How?”

Hot Rod raised both shoulders. “Let him decide. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a hot oil bath I want to slide into before the next crisis hits.” He inclined his head, offered a lackadaisical salute, and was gone.

Ultra Magnus pushed himself away from the desk and got to his feet. As soon as he was up, though, and ready to go look for Cyclonus, Kup stepped into the doorway.

“Magnus,” the older bot said. “Got a minute?”

Magnus paused, his hands still on the flat of the desk. What could this be about, he wondered, and gestured to another seat, setting aside for the moment his Cyclonus conundrum. “Of course,” he said. “How’s the leg?”

Kup took a second to swing the limb, testing the hip joint. It squeaked a bit, but he only smiled. “As if it never came off.”

Magnus nodded as he returned to his chair. “First Aid does good work.”

“He does.” Kup listed to one side as he took the seat across the desk. “Though, I’m thinking it’s time I put my days of going under his laser scalpel in my rearview.”

“Retirement?” Magnus said in surprise.

The old veteran’s back went straight, and he bristled with indignant offense. “I’m not sending myself to the scrapheap yet!” He quickly and quietly fell into a slouch then, under a rippling of exhaustion that Magnus was starting to feel himself. “But racing around the planet, trying to wrangle radioactive beasties? To say nothing of keeping up with the punk?” Kup shook his head in rueful remorse. “That’s a young bot’s game.”

“I understand,” Magnus said, and he did, more than he liked to admit. This change would mean more than just replacing a soldier from the ranks, though. “I’ll miss you at the front of the pack.”

Kup laughed. “I haven’t been at the front of the pack in a long time!”

“Regardless, I’d like you to stay on here, if you’re willing.”

“Oh, you won’t get rid of me yet. I’ve got ideas for this place.”

Magnus felt himself smiling despite the news. “Any particulars you want to share?”

Kup sat back, stroking his chin. “I was thinking about putting on my trainer’s helmet.” His optics glimmered knowingly. “Even born leaders need fundamentals.”

“No arguments from me. Have you told the troops?”

“Not in so many words. But they know. This has been coming for a while. Today was just more evidence it’s time.”

Magnus gave a single, slow bob of his head before attempting to lighten the mood with an offer. “A drink? I’ve got some good stuff,” he said, gesturing toward the safe set in the far wall.

Kup stood and waved him off. “Save it for my retirement party.” He stuck Magnus with a point of one finger. “Which I do want, by the way.”

“We’ll make it a blow-out.” Magnus rose to meet him and offered him his hand. “It’s been an honor and a pleasure, sir.”

Kup took his hand, his grip still firm despite his years. “For me, too, Commander.”

They shook with mutual strength and solidarity. As they released, Magnus felt a passing of energy in the air, as if this was a moment of import. But sentimentality wasn’t one of his primary functions, so he simply said, “Ground team’s in the oil baths.”

“Of course they are,” Kup muttered, once more the grumbling curmudgeon. “Kids these days don’t know how good they’ve got it.”

Magnus laughed softly. “Tell me about it.”

Kup started off, but at the doorway, he stopped to look back over his shoulder.

“Y’know, I know you want to keep everybody safe. That’s your job. But it’s a big galaxy out there, with lots of life worth protecting. You can’t take responsibility for it all. There are other folks ready to take up the challenge. Ready to fight, do what’s right.” He swung his head once. “You can’t make them spin their wheels forever. You’ve gotta let ’em run.”

Ultra Magnus watched the space where Kup had stood for a long time. Had the old veteran been talking about himself? Hot Rod? Wheelie? Cyclonus? He was doing his best, though maybe his best wasn’t good enough. Or maybe he was focusing on the wrong issues.

He sat down again amid a feeling of contemplative woe. He wasn’t a leader, just a commander. Those were two different things.

“But not mutually exclusive,” he said to himself, echoing some wisdom Optimus Prime had bestowed upon him when he’d first made Magnus commander of Autobot City. They’d still been at war with the Decepticons back then. Unicron had been little more than a myth. He hadn’t even met Wheelie yet. And Cyclonus had still been Skywarp, one of the deadly Decepticon Seekers out for Autobot blood.

How the galaxy had changed.

Hot Rod was right: Magnus was probably one of the few friends Cyclonus had, on this planet or any other. The Decepticon air commander was a perennial loner. Too bold to be a bootlicker, too clever to be a cog. Snooty, exacting, and officious, he’d set himself outside his fellow flyers, and while they respected his command, they didn’t count him as one of their own. Despite all of that and their bitter past, Magnus actually kind of liked him. Cyclonus had had leadership of the Decepticons thrust upon him due to Galvatron’s ongoing psychiatric rehabilitation. And though Cyclonus took to leadership well, he didn’t seem to enjoy it. He and Magnus definitely had that in common.

Ultra Magnus tapped his helmet comm. Leadership might be a heavy burden, but it had its advantages, too. “Cyclonus, report to my office.”

“What do you want?”

Magnus looked up toward the doorway, surprised to see Cyclonus already standing there, with his arms at his sides and that unfailing dour look on his face. “I…just want to know how you’re feeling.”

Cyclonus pulled a scowl. “How I’m feeling? Is this meant to be some sort of intervention?”

“No.” Magnus showed him both hands. “But you’re my colleague,” he said, turning his palms upward. “And I’m concerned for your wellbeing.”

The scowl shifted, ever so slightly. The cringing around Cyclonus’s mouth relaxed, though the furrow in his brow remained. “I do not know,” he said, lowly and slowly, “what this means.”

“We can talk it through, if you think that would help?”

Cyclonus just stood there a long moment, a silent violet monolith in the doorway. Magnus wondered if he’d fly off again, draw on him, or simply shut down. But then Cyclonus took a step into the room, and another, and another. He approached the desk, sat in the seat across from Magnus, and said, “Do you have anything to drink? Preferably something with strength.”

“I’ve got some fermented fusion,” Magnus told him.

Cyclonus nodded. “That will do.”

Magnus got up from his chair. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“It’s your reserve. You can do with it as you like.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Magnus opened the safe and pulled out the good stuff. Into two containers he poured the thick, iridescent fusion extract. He passed one to Cyclonus and kept the other to himself, raising it in salute.

Magnus expected Cyclonus to drink his straight in one swift knockback, but the flyer took a moment to savor the drink’s warm glow before tipping it gently to his mouth for a controlled sip. He raised his brows and looked across the desk.

“That is good.”

“Rank has its privileges,” Magnus said with a little smile.

“As well as its problems,” Cyclonus said, and sipped again.

Magnus felt his smile slip. “I won’t argue that.” He took another taste, too, leaving neat the space and silence between them. Sometimes, patient quietude worked better than active prodding.

Cyclonus sat back, keeping his eyes on the drink he rolled in its container. He didn’t raise his head as he said, “Do you miss the war?”

The question wasn’t one Magnus had anticipated, but he felt the urge to reply honestly. “Not usually. But sometimes, yes. War is…easy, in its way.”

Cyclonus nodded in agreement. “Everyone has their place. Soldier, commander, innocent, fodder. I was forged a soldier.” He looked up then, his optics shimmering, and added: “Just like the time before. That life once lived.”

“Do you remember?” Magnus asked him. “That other life.”

“As if a dream,” Cyclonus said, and Magnus started.

“Dream? You mean, you don’t just shut down when you recharge?”

“If only that were so. At least from the dreams I could wake,” Cyclonus went on in a pained voice. “On waking, I was me. But this…!” He scowled again and crushed the container in his fist, sputtering fusion extract over his clenched digits. “What does this make me now?”

Ultra Magnus set down his drink. His spark felt suddenly heavy. That was a mystery not easily solved. He’d asked the same thing of himself during the long, lonesome hours when he’d sat monitoring comm channels or reviewing status reports. The answer was, he didn’t know. What he did know was that, while he might not have chosen his fate, he had a responsibility: to protect, to aid, to provide. During the war, that duty had been straightforward. Less so now, but no less important.

Magnus took his responsibilities seriously. Cyclonus seemed to do the same. That was part of being a commander. It was also part of being a sentient in this dangerous, glorious universe.

“More than a soldier,” Magnus said.

Cyclonus stared back. A flicker in his optics broke the grim stillness there, and a strained but sly smile cracked faint lines in his face. “Indeed,” he said before frowning again as he set the crushed container on the desk. “My apologies.”

“I can pour you another,” Magnus said easily, but Cyclonus rose with a deliberate shake.

“No. I need to think.”

Magnus smiled up at him. “Perchance to dream?”

The human reference was lost on Cyclonus, who only frowned. “Hopefully not.” The elusive smile reappeared, briefly. “Though, if I do, I may need to return for that second drink.”

“My door,” Magnus said, gesturing to the space in the wall, “is always open.”

Cyclonus bowed his head. “Thank you,” he muttered.

When the flyer was gone, Magnus got up from the desk to clean the container and spilled extract. Down on his haunches while he wiped up the spots, he heard the ground team walk by in the corridor. They seemed to be joined by some of the aerial group – or maybe it was the comms team – who challenged them to a friendly game of fire hockey, a dubious offshoot of lobbing developed by one of the Combaticons that involved sticks and a timed fireball grenade.

Ultra Magnus allowed himself a short, beleaguered sigh. The arena was going to be a mess in the morning. But that was a concern for later.

He finished cleaning and stood, still mulling over this strange city with its cohabitants of former enemies. Many of them had managed to set aside their differences in favor of the grander experiment of camaraderie. Factions remained, such as scientists, fighters, scouts, and intelligence experts. But the animosity and bloodthirstiness had transformed into competition for bragging rights.

Another commotion from the corridor pulled his attention. It was the cassette-bots shouting and growling as they raced toward the arena with their fire hockey sticks.

“Hey!” Magnus called out after them. “Don’t swing those in the hall.”

“Bite me, square-jaw!” one of Soundwave’s contingent – Rumble or Frenzy; Magnus had trouble telling them apart, especially since they’d started swapping paint jobs as a prank – shouted back to him. That got them a round of jeers and laughs as the rest thundered away.

Wheelie, coming up the rear of the group of smaller bots, came to a jogging stop at Magnus’s office door. He didn’t have a stick.

“Not playing?” Magnus guessed.

“Too small, they say,” Wheelie told him, and shrugged. “But that’s okay. They let me keep score. That’s close to the floor.”

Magnus felt a pang of protective feeling. Fire hockey was dangerous and destructive, but he didn’t like hearing that Wheelie was being left out of something that he might have enjoyed. “But do you want to play?”

Wheelie paused as if in consideration. After a moment, he said, “Quintessa was lonely because I was an only. I prefer having friends. It’s a means to that end.”

“I don’t want you to be lonely.” Magnus frowned in a search for the right words. Kup’s sentiment – Let ’em run – echoed in his head. “I’m sorry I was short with you before—”

“No need to explain. You’ve been under strain.”

“That may be, but…! Listen.” He set his hand on Wheelie’s shoulder; the small bot nearly disappeared beneath it. “I know you’re a fighter. A survivor. But life is about more than just surviving. It’s about kindness and compassion, friendship and family. I want you to know that you have that here.”

“Friends – family – are worth fighting for,” Wheelie said, as if to agree. But then he clenched a fist and put it to his orange chest. “That means being a warrior. I want to fight, be a warrior true.” His optics shimmered. “I want to be as great as you.”

Magnus shook his head. “I’m not great,” he said, but Wheelie laughed.

“You’re Ultra Magnus! You never settle.” He became serious again, his modulator dropping in pitch so that his voice sounded almost severe. “To you, I want to prove my mettle. I can make you proud, if you give me a chance. I’ll wield a shield, a gun, a sword, a lance—”

Magnus raised his palm for pause. “I get it.” He got down on one knee, to be optics-to-optics with Wheelie, whose blue gaze was bright with expectancy. “But I don’t want that for you.” He gripped Wheelie’s shoulder again and said softly, “I’ve seen so many – too many! – of our kind hurt or killed. And I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“It won’t,” Wheelie began, but Magnus shook his head, cutting off whatever rhyme Wheelie had in mind.

“It will, if fighting is your only purpose. And the blasted thing of it is, it doesn’t need to be. We did that to you,” he said, moving his other hand to his own chest, like Wheelie had done, “with our Great War, and the wars before, and I am so, so sorry for that.” He thought again of the brief time he’d carried the Matrix within him, and how he should have used its carried wisdom to forge a better path, one toward peace, for the soldiers under his care. He didn’t have the Matrix anymore, but he could still do his part to break the cycle of destruction.

“Most of us were forged as soldiers,” he went on, thinking of Cyclonus, and Kup, even Hot Rod, Arcee, and the rest. “Everything we do is tinged by war. But it doesn’t have to be that way for you. I don’t want it to be that way for you. I want you to be able to study, and play, and do all sorts of non-lethal things that we never gave ourselves the chance to do.” He squinted against his own emotions and said in a quiet, hissing voice, “I want your world to be better.”

Wheelie had tilted his head to one side during Magnus’s short speech. Now, he tilted it to the other. “You say to play,” he muttered, his words shuddering. “But you work all day.”

“Well, yes,” Magnus said, shifting back. “That’s my job.”

Wheelie cringed both hands. “I don’t need to fight. I just want you to see…!” He glanced to his boots, paused a moment, then looked up again, straight into Magnus’s face. There were lines of anguish on his own. “You make time for everyone but me.”

Magnus felt his spark flicker. “You…You want to spend time with me?”

Wheelie’s mouth twitched. Then he said, “Yes.” That was all. No complexity, no rhyme. Just that single word.

“I-! I’m sorry.” Magnus tucked his chin, rumbled the lubricants in his voice box. The sputtering of his spark became a more consistent hum. “I’ll make time. Now, if you’d like that.” He smiled. “I’d like that.”

Wheelie started to smile, too, when the comm gave a fast, insistent ping.

“Ultra Magnus?” Perceptor sounded harried. Beneath that vocal agitation, Magnus could hear excited shouting from Skyfire and the Constructicons. “The creature’s awake. We could use some assistance with restraint.”

Magnus groaned and held his head. He opened his fingers and looked at Wheelie, whose already feeble smile had faded. “I should get to the containment lab,” he said in a pained voice.

“No need to fuss,” Wheelie replied, shifting away. That all-too-familiar veil of self-preserving aloofness once more began to descend across his features. “We can later discuss.”

Magnus started to get to his feet when a new thought occurred. “I could use some help,” he said, leaving the rest open in case this was a boundary pushed too far.

But that precious smile lit Wheelie’s face again, this time more brightly. “I’ll watch your back if you’ll watch mine. Then, together, we’ll both be fine.”

“I like that plan,” Magnus said with a nod. He rose fully. “Wheels, or run?”

“Run,” Wheelie replied, grinning now. “It’s more fun.”

Magnus nodded and kicked off, grinning himself. The pressures of the day were neverending, and there would be new and more pressures tomorrow. But for this moment, he could do right just by running to his friends with this little friend by his side.