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It was a trap. It’s always a trap, always always always, but Bumblebee could never hate Optimus for trying every single time. The rescue signal was strong enough and familiar enough to be one of their own, and if they survive this they’ll make sure to sit on him and talk him through it until he believes them and if they’re very lucky maybe Optimus will ask them to stay with him throughout the night, held so close and pretending that he loves them.
A shot goes wild and it’s only thanks to Cliffjumper slamming into them that it doesn’t take off Bumblebee’s helm. Right, slag, active battleground. Shove all the thoughts of Optimus that haunt their processor all day and throughout the night aside; there’s no place for them here, not when they need to make sure Optimus lives to see the end of this battle, him and the rest of their hive. If any of them manage to make it at all.
The second they stepped foot in the strange cavern everything had gone wrong, from the floor sounding wrong to the enemies pouring in from all sides. Backup is too far away if they could even get a comm out, which are, of course, jammed; this is too smart to be a ‘con trap and more than smart enough to be dangerous. Ironhide is already down, smoking from his chassis and missing all but one arm. Ratchet is flitting between him and five others as best he can, just barely able to keep their sparks on this side of the well alone.
In the active firefight their hive surrounds them, some moving too slow and others too quick, all too unfocused, too panicked. Those closest to them, those who someone else might call units are able to stay calm and rational. Prowl is covering for Ratchet, Jazz is watching his back, Ratchet is hauling Wheeljack’s slumped frame behind cover with the rest after a flashbang lit up the entire cavern. So many enemies, too many enemies they have to retreat but they’re all spread throughout the cavern to take cover but they can’t stay they’ll be overwhelmed they’ll all die-
Bumblebee looks for Optimus, spark threatening to go supernova in their chassis if they don’t find him in the next nanoklik- there. Back of the cavern, gun roaring and echoing through the high ceiling, between the army and the rest of the hive in harm’s way their queen is in harm’s way.
They’re moving before their processor even catches up with their frame, ancient coding reactivating with a long, shaky shudder.
He is before all else, standing firm as Jazz hollers to retreat, braced for impact to give them time to flee, spark burning so bright, their queen/leader/above all else/precious so precious/DEFENDDEFENDDEFEND/the love they can never have/giveyourlifegiveyourlifegiveyourlife/nothimNOTHIM NOTHIM NOTHIM
Bumblebee was made to die. Scouts, replaceable. The most common frame type ordered pre-war due to overuse, falling to pieces, or unexplained disappearances. Expected, accepted. Worker hivers, soldier hivers, replaceable. Hundreds upon hundreds clutched at once, removed from stasis together, trained to be Perfect in their roles. Expected, accepted.
Optimus is not. The loss of primequeenleader would be the loss of the entire hive. The loss of primequeenleader would be the loss of everything Bumblebee has to live for. An enemy takes aim and they leap forward, tearing through a pocket of them without seeing, optics only on the threat, cutting it down without a second thought.
queenleaderaboveallpreciousDEFENDlovenevertheirsGIVEYOURLIFENOTHIMNEVERHIM
Someone hauls them to their pedes, tries to take them away from their fight, from where they belong. Bumblebee whirls on them with a snarl before they see- Prime. Their Prime but never theirs alone don’t be selfish don’t be selfish their queen their Prime their queen their Prime dont be selfish dont be selfish dontbeselfishdontbeselfishdontbeselfish their queen their Prime their queen their queen their queen their queen their queen their queen above all over anything always forever into death their queen
Optimus is kneeling before them, a break in the fight; Bumblebee’s audials register input but nothing cuts through the energon roaring through their lines, screaming at them to fight and defend until their frame lies broken and empty. The air in the cavern shudders and another wave pours in from a portal, their helm snapping to the noise and tracking each new target. Enormous servos are on their shoulders, stern voice raising over the oncoming troops, something meant for someone else.
Bumblebee sees one leap forward and flings themselves out of a strong, rigid grip to meet it, burying their knives in the enemy's throat in nanokliks. Another takes its place then another and another and another and Bumblebee’s frame sings with violence, with following their purpose , electricity cascading off of them and delivering shock after shock to any hostile within range. They lose themselves to this dance of violence and protection, a counter in their HUD flying higher and higher for every body felled at their pedes.
Another break in the bloodshed. Something thin and flexible wraps around their leg, something that they must not harm, trying to tug them back, yank them from their fight. Another flash, another wave; Bumblebee goes deadweight for a moment, flinching out of reach of the grasping, flexing thing in favor of tearing an enemy’s throat out with their bare denta as it tries to reach their level. A howl of pain, a death rattle. Five more, ten, cut down in a blaze of light and blood, viscera spread out across the cavern floor in a macabre display of loyalty, of sacrifice.
See how well they can kill, see the protection they offer. Leave them. Retreat, leave them, not a single enemy will get by, it doesn’t matter if they don’t survive all that matters is the safety of their hive, their queen.
There is blood coating their servos, their arms, their knives out and screaming with electricity. There is a generator torn to shreds before them, bodies sprawled across the platforms around them. There is buzzing in their audials, the swarming of their long-forgotten siblings filling their frame, the anger of a hive scorned burning through their circuitry, their wings, their knives, their fangs. The world is bright and flashing, burning blue and snapping yellow, hissing steam and screaming voices, blood and energon in so many colors pouring onto the ground.
“GRAB THE LITTLE ONE!” something screams. Distantly they know that the little one is them.
Two enemies lunge and are sliced through in moments, the next three falling in a burst of electricity. There are too many, too many, it is time to run but a scout a worker a soldier can never flee must stay and fight they are not worth retreat they were made to die they were made to die they were made to die made to protect the hive protect the queen leave them leave them let them protect and LEAVE THEM
Retreat behind them, a surge of enemies in front. Hand on their intake, severed through. Claws in their wings, shocked with enough electricity to melt flesh. Arms around their waist clawed, cut, torn free from their frame, free from their bodies. Hands, so many hands, too many hands, dragging down down fight back fight back fight back
Electricity sings out in their audials, sharp, vicious crackles the only sounds to break through the static. Bodies collapse, fires begin to burn. There is so much blood, so many enemies fallen, so many left to kill. The hiver loses themself to it again and again, screams and the sounds of metal on metal and the wet sound of death and dying filling their processor until all they can do is follow where the code points them, optics unnecessary audials unnecessary all they need it to be pointed and to kill.
“BUMBLEBEE!” Their name. Their name? No. No, desperation, fear, a terrified plea. They are a soldier, a worker, a scout, they have no name no life their only purpose is protect, defend, die for their hive, their queen, lay down their life defending their queen no one is going to touch their queen.
“BEE!” Insignificant, unimportant, not for them. They flip over a laser shot fired wild, leaping onto the enemy’s back and slitting its throat. Keep fighting, keep killing, don’t turn from the only duty they have. Kill for the queen, die for the queen, kill for the queen, die for the queen.
They are all alone, the rest of their hive in retreat, what feels like miles of empty space between them. Good. Good. No hiver has never been afraid to die. Cornered for a moment, firing off with so much electricity that the entire cavern is lit up like daylight, frying every enemy near enough to be touched. Kill for the queen, protect their queen, protect their hive.
“BUMBLEBEE, RETREAT!” An order. For who? A command. For…them..? Terror and desperation wrapped in an iron will, an order from their Prime an order from their queen.
They have to obey they want to obey they do not want to die here they do not want to die alone they must die here they must not give up ground they must obey their Prime they must obey their queen they must lay down their life they must not stand down no one can get by them not one single flicker of life can escape them they must defend they must defend they must defend they must defend-
“THAT IS AN ORDER, SCOUT.” A full body shudder slams through the hiver, through Bumblebee, the coding snapping free from the cycle of kill-defend-protect-die, all else overwritten by their queen. Bumblebee evaluates the battlefield before them, hissing a breath through their denta as they take in how well and truly cut off they are. Not the worst position they’ve ever fought their way into, but not far from it. They feint left before diverting all spare electricity to their wings, sending them shooting up and back, frying whatever enemies are fool enough to stand in their way.
It gets them some distance but not enough, not as portal after portal snaps into existence, pouring more and more enemies into the cavern. At least their hive is safe and evacuating. At least their queen is safe with them. They still fight their way through, following the order as best they can, obeying their queen as best they can. There’s blood and energon coating their frame, hardening within their joints and making it difficult to move, systems gumming up as exhaustion hits them harder than an F-15 Eagle. Ask them how they know.
Their frame shudders, fighting to collapse now that the coding has run them through and left them falling apart on the other side, eager to lay down and die. They did what they were supposed to, they obeyed like a good soldier, a good worker, a good hiver, now it is time to give in to their exhaustion and collapse, let their spark burn out slowly to feed the next generation. Their knees hit the ground, each breath drawn through their intake coming harder and harder as all of their systems begin to shut down as they were designed to do, to be a good little soldier and die-
A howl cracks through the battlefield, loud and aching and brittle around the edges, like it was ripped from the very spark of the mech it came from. It’s unlike any sound Bumblebee has ever heard before but they know in their spark that it is for them, this premature mourning as they give in, as they prepare to die on the battlefield solely under the direction of ancient, vicious code. It’s laden with heavy sorrow and grief, the agony of losing another life, the agony of losing them, not just another spark, not another soldier to be used up and broken down, not a scout to be sent out again and again until one day they don’t come back.
His scout. His Bumblebee. Irreplaceable. Their queen’s soldier, their Prime’s scout, Optimus’s…Optimus’s Bumblebee.
Bumblebee hurls themselves back to their pedes, stumbling and light-helmed but already turning to run. There is no time for strategy, no space to be careful, not with their Prime grieving them when they’re not yet dead, not with so many enemies in too small a space. A voice raises above the rest, hollering something that Bumblebee’s audials can’t process; their frame reacts without needing their guidance, helm ducking low and optics cutting out. The sound of plasmafire, heat streaking past them and then exploding at their back. Ratchet, Ratchet hauling out one of Wheeljack’s weapons, Ratchet making space for them.
It’s a mad dash, a blind scramble back, dodging weapons and bodies, sending shocks into anything that latches onto them and slicing out with their knives automatically, all of their processing power focusing on escaping, on obeying their queenprimelove. Something roars to their side, sound and lights slamming into the enemies on their tailpipe like a physical wall and Bumblebee is close enough that they can see Optimus at the mouth of the cavern, fighting against Ironhide, Sideswipe, and Sunstreaker, one servo outstretched like he could just pick them up and run.
They’ll make it back. They will, they’ll do it for Optimus so that he doesn’t have to bury another solider, so that maybe his optics will go from frantic with terror to soft and gentle, so that maybe he’ll hold them close. Dodge three more, get Jazz in front of them, eyes on Prowl, on Optimus, keep running, fire off electricity one, two, three. Knives out and defensive, deflecting three rounds rapid before something wraps around their leg and yanks, sending them slamming into the ground.
Whatever it is it’s hauling them back fast, smooth metal flicking into sharp spines that dig into their leg, crawling up and up as it drags them back. Bumblebee fights it, stabbing at inorganic-organic that refuses to be cut, sending wave after wave of electricity into metal that refuses to conduct. Helpless, helpless and bound and being taken away from their hive should have just laid down and died- Jazz rolls out of his alt mode in a leap and catches their servo, holds on tight even as he's yanked across the blood-slick floor; Prowl lunges forward and catches Jazz around the middle before hauling him back, dragging Bumblebee along with him until he can latch onto their other servo.
Bumblebee clings back, kicking at the arms reaching for them, struggling against the, the thing winding up their waist now, more and more like it lashing out and catching their pedes, their legs, their arms, trying to latch onto their hive-! No time to breathe no time to think have to protect their hive have to protect their own, have to. Have to disobey their queen.
They reverse their charge, letting electricity build through their frame. Prowl sees what they’re doing, optics flaring wide. “Bee, DON’T-!”
Electricity leaves their frame in a controlled burst, just enough to fry the circuits in their servos, just enough to force them to let go- something. Something goes. Wrong. Another thing of metal descends, whips around, Bumblebee hears Jazz and Prowl howl out in agony too intense to come from their shock and suddenly they’re yanked back so hard that their helm feels like it’s going to snap off.
Their optics flicker as they begin to fail, flashing for one nanoklik, two, just enough time to see Optimus fighting forward, optics burning with rage and sorrow and-
Bumblebee topples through the portal, two now disembodied arms still holding them tight as they paint energon down their sides in spurting, macabre bursts. Rough, clawed hands dig into their helm and arms, one catching and snapping their antennae, killing any chance at accessing comms, as two others haul them to their pedes. The leader stands before them, a hideous amalgamation of flesh, scales, and metal that fills them with strut-deep revulsion.
Their electricity doesn’t even touch them, not through heavy scale and tough skin. The leader is saying something, mouth full of teeth and eyes and horror moving and screaming and sending splitting pains through their helm as metal winds up and up and up wrapping around their chassis, their intake, their helm. It stops, waits, as if it said anything worth struggling to understand. There’s enough smugness on its face to know that it thinks they’re cornered, that it thinks they’ll willingly give up their hive.
Bumblebee spits in its eye.