Transformers Omegaverse (WIP)

Mission City glittered beneath a late-evening sky the color of polished steel. Neon crawled up the sides of high-rises, hover-ads scrolled in brilliant bands of color, and traffic streamed through the streets in orderly rivers of white and red light. At the heart of it all rose Sumdac Tower, a spear of glass and innovation piercing the skyline—its upper floors still humming with human ingenuity long after sunset.

Detroit was thriving. Alive.

And watching over it from the shadows of a forgotten warehouse in the industrial district were the Autobots.

The building they occupied had been abandoned —brick walls faded by decades of soot, windows half-boarded, its signage long since rusted away. Inside, however, the space had been transformed. Cables ran like arteries across the ceiling. Monitors flickered with surveillance feeds. In a sealed chamber down the corridor, bathed in a soft, pulsing blue glow, the AllSpark rested—quiet for now, but never truly dormant.

Sari Sumdac had left not long ago, backpack slung over her shoulder, chattering about homework and promising to bring takeout the next evening. Her laughter still seemed to linger faintly in the rafters.

Near the main console, TFA Optimus Prime stood tall, servos clasped behind his back as holographic displays scrolled before him. His faceplate was set in thoughtful concentration, blue optics reflecting streams of data. Beside him, TFA Ratchet hunched over the console, grumbling under his breath as he adjusted the scan parameters with sharp, efficient movements.

“I’m telling you,” TFA Ratchet muttered, tapping the display with a metallic finger, “these readings are inconsistent. Either the Decepticons are masking their signatures again, or this scanner’s about as reliable as a rusted-out servo.”

TFA Optimus leaned slightly closer to the projection. “The energy spikes are faint, but they’re there. Repeating at irregular intervals. That suggests movement.”

“Or interference,” TFA Ratchet shot back. “This planet’s got enough wireless signals flying around to scramble a space bridge. Humans can’t even make a toaster without slapping a transmitter in it.”

TFA Optimus allowed himself a small, patient smile. “Your skepticism is noted, Ratchet. But until we confirm otherwise, we must assume Decepticon activity.”

TFA Ratchet crossed his arms. “I liked it better when our biggest problem was you accidentally activating a centuries-old superweapon.”

TFA Optimus winced slightly. “In my defense, it did appear to be a standard-issue maintenance console.”

“Uh-huh.”

Across the room, the atmosphere was considerably less tense.

TFA Bumblebee lounged in front of a secondary console, digits flying over controls as a racing game blared from the speakers. On-screen, a sleek hovercar weaved through a digital recreation of downtown Mission City at impossible speeds.

“Oh yeah! You see that drift? You see that drift?!” TFA Bumblebee crowed, optics bright with glee. “That’s skill, Bulkhead! Pure, unfiltered—whoa—no, no, no—!”

TFA Bulkhead, seated heavily beside him, leaned forward with intense concentration, his massive hands surprisingly nimble on the controls. “You’re cutting corners too sharp, Bee. You gotta anticipate the turn. Watch this!”

On his side of the split screen, TFA Bulkhead’s vehicle rammed TFA Bumblebee’s with a metallic crunch.

“HEY!” TFA Bumblebee yelped. “That’s not racing, that’s cheating!”

“It’s called defensive driving!” TFA Bulkhead shot back, grinning broadly. “You left yourself wide open!”

“You totally screen-watched!”

“I did not!”

“You did! Your optics flickered!”

TFA Bulkhead laughed, a deep, booming sound that echoed pleasantly through the base. “Maybe you just need better reflexes!”

Near the far wall, removed from the noise, TFA Prowl knelt in stillness. His legs were folded precisely, servos resting on his knees, blue visor dimmed to a tranquil glow. The faint hum of his processor aligned with the rhythm of his internal systems. Beside him, TFA Jazz sat cross-legged in an approximation of the same posture—though his shoulders swayed faintly to a rhythm only he seemed to hear.

For several quiet moments, neither spoke.

Then—

“You’re distracted,” TFA Prowl said calmly, without opening his optics.

TFA Jazz’s visor tilted slightly. “Am not.”

“You adjusted your posture three times in the last solar minute.”

TFA Jazz gave a soft chuckle. “That’s called improvisation, my serene samurai.”

“Meditation is not improvisational.”

“Says you.” TFA Jazz leaned back on his palms, visor brightening. “I’m meditatin’ on the vibe of the city. Hear that hum? Traffic, music, people movin’. Mission City’s alive tonight.”

TFA Prowl finally opened his optics serene but firm. “Awareness is acceptable. Attachment is not.”

TFA Jazz smiled. “I ain’t attached. Just appreciative.”

From across the room, TFA Bumblebee groaned dramatically. “Bulkhead! You just knocked me off the map!”

“Victory is mine!” TFA Bulkhead declared triumphantly.

TFA Ratchet didn’t look away from the scans. “If you two dent that console, I am not fixing it.”

“No dents!” TFA Bumblebee called back quickly. “Probably!”

TFA Optimus exhaled softly and turned his attention back to the display. “Ratchet, magnify sector twelve. Near the river.”

TFA Ratchet adjusted the controls. A map of Detroit expanded, highlighting a dim industrial block not far from their own location.

“There,” TFA Optimus said quietly. “A residual spike. Similar to the energy signature we encountered last week.”

TFA Ratchet’s expression darkened. “Decepticons.”

“Most likely.”

“Think they’ve figured out we’re holding the AllSpark here?” TFA Ratchet asked, voice lower now.

TFA Optimus glanced instinctively toward the sealed corridor. “If they had, we would already be under attack.”

“Comforting thought.”

TFA Optimus straightened, resolve settling over him like armor. “Our mission remains the same. Protect the AllSpark. Protect this city. Protect its people.”

“Yeah, yeah,” TFA Bumblebee chimed in without looking away from the screen. “Save the humans, stop the bad guys, be heroic. Got it memorized.”

TFA Bulkhead nudged him lightly. “You like being heroic.”

TFA Bumblebee smirked. “I like being awesome.”

TFA Prowl rose smoothly to his feet, silent as falling ash. “The city is unsettled tonight.”

TFA Jazz stood as well, stretching his arms overhead. “You feel it too, huh?”

TFA Prowl nodded once. “A disturbance in the flow.”

TFA Ratchet snorted. “It’s called criminal activity. We’re in Detroit.”

TFA Optimus allowed a faint smile at that. “Whatever the cause, we remain vigilant.”

A moment of quiet settled over the team—their differences in temperament, in age, in outlook blending into something cohesive. Outside, sirens wailed faintly in the distance. The city pulsed with life.

TFA Bumblebee’s console emitted a triumphant chime. “Ha! New record! That’s how it’s done!”

TFA Bulkhead leaned back, arms crossed. “Rematch.”

“You’re on.”

TFA Ratchet shook his head but didn’t hide the hint of fondness in his expression. “Unbelievable.”

TFA Optimus watched his team—their laughter, their focus, their calm. Then his gaze drifted once more toward the corridor where the AllSpark rested, its blue light casting long shadows against reinforced steel.

Somewhere out there, in the maze of thriving streets and glittering towers, Decepticons were waiting.

But so were the Autobots.

And in Mission City, Detroit—beneath the glow of Sumdac Tower and the ever-watchful skyline—the battle for Earth’s future continued quietly in the spaces between heartbeats.

Then suddenly.. a huge rift opened in detroits sunny skies.. and the universes.. began to merge.

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