Jetfire

Rusty POV

Here I am, Rusty, the illustrious Cybertronian explorer, venturing through an air and space museum like a bot on a leisurely Sunday drive. Spoiler alert: no one bothered briefing me on what the heck I was supposed to be looking for. So, I've been scanning every aircraft in sight, hoping for a cosmic makeover – you know, just your typical robot metamorphosis daydream.

Amidst this chaotic exploration, I collide with Jetfire, a relic from the past, more rust than wisdom. Note to self: avoid becoming a cranky old bot.

Well, isn't that just my luck? Attempting to be the hero, I transform and try to grab the cranky old bot's attention. What do I get? Ignored. Classic. Next thing I know, a stray missile is heading my way, a little "hello" from the universe, apparently.

Boom! I go flying through a plane like some metallic superhero on a mission. To top it off, a rocket decides to join the party, bringing another explosion. Movie logic at its finest – who needs fuel to explode, right?

Muttering about the absurdity of it all, I emerge from the wreckage, dust off my robotic shoulders, and saunter over to the gang, where they're still grappling with Mr. Grumpy Bot.

Here comes JetFire, spouting tales about his father being the inaugural wheel – as if it's some damn prestigious title. And then, oh, the grand performance as he ejects a parachute from his ass, leaving him sprawled on his back. A symphony of metallic grunts follows, with him struggling to regain an upright position, all the while bemoaning the sorry state of his ancient, and might I add, "fucked up" systems.

Well, at least he's not rolling into battle as a Reliant Robin, the pinnacle of transformer fashion, or grappling with the peculiar phenomenon of memory amnesia, where essential details are traded off for what I can only sarcastically refer to as "other" damn memories.

Is that a form of dementia?

Just then Sam went on about Cybortonian symbols. Oh, bravo, Sam! Because clearly, in the grand scheme of things, consulting a centuries-old librarian with a fucking wealth of Cybertronian knowledge is utterly preposterous. No, by all means, let's continue relying on your artistic prowess, scribbling symbols on the damn ground like a Cybertronian Picasso.

So, there I am, flailing my appendages in frustration, making it abundantly clear that I'm not just a hunk of metal; I'm a hunk of metal who happens to be a literary aficionado from the bygone era of Cybertron. But, of course, Sam remains blissfully oblivious to the fucking brilliance in his midst.

"Sam, you idiot," I mutter under my metallic breath, watching as he persists in his charmingly misguided endeavours. "I was here this whole time! You could have fucking asked me! I'm a bloody librarian, for Primus's sake!" Ah, the joys of dealing with humans and their charming lack of fucking logic.

Sam, with all the grace of a human trying to decipher Cybertronian hieroglyphics, shot me a sheepish glance as he uttered, "Look, I'm sorry. Just calm down; let's just get these read, yeah? Okay?"

Oh, splendid. Let's all gather 'round the exquisite chalk art, children, as Sam enlightens us with his profound understanding of ancient Cybertronian symbols. I exchanged a glance with Bumblebee, who mirrored my silent exasperation.

Sam continued his cryptic doodling on the ground, blissfully unaware that he was the key to unravelling a colossal cosmic conundrum. "The symbols come in waves, and Megatron and The Fallen want what's on my mind," he declared with all the gravitas of someone discussing tomorrow's weather. Marvellous. Just what we needed – a cosmic mind-reading sideshow.

Jetfire, ever the drama queen, embarked on yet another tirade about the sheer horror of toiling under the Fallen's employ. It's as if he expected a standing ovation for his contribution to the cosmic complaint department. Meanwhile, I desperately tried to recall if I archived this particular monologue in the annals of Cybertronian history – perhaps under "Unbearable Whining."

Before I could share my wisdom or mock Jetfire's theatrics, he activated his space bridge, and we were catapulted unceremoniously to the other side. I collided with a cliff face, the unmistakable sound of breaking something – be it metal or dignity – filling the air. Jetfire, that old bastard.

As the humans and Autobots rendezvoused with the former Decepticon, the conversation quickly devolved into a heated exchange about unexpected teleportation and the perplexing relocation to Egypt. I watched with a mix of amusement and exasperation, contemplating whether these animated debates were the cosmic version of reality TV or merely a consequence of intergalactic jet lag.

I decided to enlighten the group with a history lesson. "Earth was visited long ago by the 7 primes in search of uninhabited solar systems and to collect engorgon by destroying the suns. They had one rule—never destroy a planet with life-"

Before I could continue, Jetfire, being the eternal interrupter, chimed in. "There was only one prime who defied this rule and he was forever known as the Fallen."

I shot Jetfire an irritated glare before continuing my tale. "The Fallen wasn't too happy with the human race, you could say he despised you. He planned to turn on the Harvester and kill you all. But the other six primes stopped him from getting his hands on the only thing that could activate the machine-"

But, you guessed it, Jetfire rudely cut in again. "The Matrix of Leadership, A GRE- argh!"

I fired a missile into his side as payback from earlier and finally shut him up. "Stop interrupting or I'm tearing out your spark." I was growing tired of this old bot's habit of playing Decepticon stand-up comedian during crucial moments.

I growled at Jetfire before turning back to the humans and Autobots, continuing my story. "A great battle took place over the possession of the matrix. The Fallen was stronger than the other six primes, so they could only steal the matrix and seal it away hidden within a tomb of their own bodies here on Earth."

Jetfire, never one to miss an opportunity to be annoying, decided to step in after I was done. "Somewhere on this planet. That wretched machine remains, and if the Fallen gets the Matrix, your world will be no more." His tone was dramatic as if he were auditioning for a bot Shakespearean play.

In the grand play of cosmic uncertainties, Michaela took the lead, a relentless inquisitor in the pursuit of a plan to dodge the impending doom. Jetfire intoned the grim revelation – only a Prime, with the gravity of their stature, could stand against the looming menace. My optics dipped, a silent homage to Optimus Prime, the enigmatic hero swallowed by the murky depths of my Cybertronian memories.

The destiny of Optimus, a plot twist veiled in the haze of my recollections, hovered like an elusive plot twist. Sam, the eternal optimist in our cinematic saga, tossed a key into the script, a potential game-changer borrowed from the echoes of the third movie. The revival of the crimson bot fluttered like a fleeting scene in the fractured gallery of my Cybertronian mind.

As Sam probed about the key's role in rekindling Optimus, I, tethered to elusive memories, sighed a tentative "Sure, why not."

Picture it: the cosmic ballet, Jetfire and I in a synchronized performance, belting out prophecy like a Cybertronian choir. "When dawn alights the daggers tip. Three kings will reveal the doorway." It sounds profound, doesn't it? Almost like a dramatic climax, the kind you'd find in a Shakespearean tragedy.

With a flourish, Jetfire, the maestro of our robotic opera, decrees our mission. "Find the doorway! Go now, go! I failed my mission; it's your mission now. Go before the Decepticons find me and they find you." Cue the spotlight on our cast of heroes, driving across the desert in a vehicular procession, guided by the cosmic cues whispered to the humans.

However, our interstellar escapade encounters a mundane twist – the authorities. Picture us, the cosmic fugitives, seeking refuge in a humble village, crouched atop structures like metallic ninjas in hiding. The former agent, our behind-the-scenes director, pulls strings and orchestrates a call, manoeuvring Optimus like a cinematic chess piece.

In our relentless pursuit of answers, we set up camp near a pyramid, under the assumption that if the stars and ancient structures were having a gossip session, they might spill the cosmic beans.

So, racing with anticipation, we reached an old stone building, only to discover it wasn't harbouring the long-lost tomb we were hoping for. Cue the collective sighs, eye rolls, and some mild bickering among the crew, while I decided to play detective inside.

Transforming my saw, I carved into the walls, hoping to unearth the treasure trove of information. Meanwhile, Mudflap and Skids unleashed their unique brand of archaeological chaos, clattering into walls. Grudgingly, I dismantled the barrier for the humans, only for them to emerge with a handful of dust – talk about a grand cosmic letdown.