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Rodimus dug through the cluttered storage bin, servos shuffling through a mess of outdated datapads, mismatched tools, and bits of broken equipment. Dust coated everything, sticking to his plating and making his nose itch.
“Seriously, how long has this stuff been here?” he muttered, pushing aside a half-crushed helmet and what looked like a rusted-out communication module.
He had been searching for a replacement datapad cover after his last one got melted during a little mishap involving Drift’s sparring routine and a stray energon torch. What he found instead was a small, square case tucked near the bottom of the pile, covered in a thin layer of dust.
Rodimus pulled it out, wiping the grime away with the edge of his servo. The case was a dull, faded black, the latch almost rusted shut. With a little effort, he pried it open, revealing a pair of glasses resting inside.
“Huh.” He raised an optic ridge, holding the glasses up to the light. They looked oddly delicate—thin frames of silver with clear, slightly tinted lenses.
“What’s a pair of glasses doing on a spaceship?” he mused, squinting at them. “Who’d even wear these?”
Shrugging, he tilted his helm forward and slid the glasses onto his face. Instantly, the lenses darkened, tinting his optics a shade of cobalt blue. He blinked, surprised by how the lenses adjusted, almost as if they were scanning his optics for the best contrast.
He caught his reflection in the side of a nearby supply crate and froze.
The mech staring back at him looked… different. Sure, the colors of his armor and frame were the same, but the glasses somehow softened his features, making his optics look smaller and his face more angular. The darker tint obscured his usual vibrant gaze, and when he relaxed his shoulders and put on a neutral expression, he almost didn’t recognize himself.
A slow, mischievous grin crept across his face.
“Oh, this is too good,” he whispered, turning his head this way and that. With the glasses on, he looked nothing like himself—nothing like the brash, confident captain who always had something to prove.
An idea sparked, bright and ridiculous in his mind. What if he used this? What if, just for a little while, he became someone else? Someone quieter. Someone… different. The plan started to form in his head, a mischievous grin spreading slowly across his faceplate. He’d take on a new name, fool everyone for a bit, and then reveal it was Rodimus all along. They’d be shocked, floored, totally embarrassed for not seeing through such a simple disguise. He could practically hear Swerve’s sputtering and see Drift’s jaw dropping in disbelief.
Rodimus paced back and forth in front of the mirror, the glasses still perched on his nose. They felt odd, a bit heavier than he was used to, and the lenses tinted his optics a cool, unfamiliar blue. With each step, he adjusted his posture, exaggerating his usual swagger before forcing himself to stand still.
“No. Too cocky,” he muttered, forcing his shoulders to slump, letting his wings droop. “More… humble. Quiet. Like… like a nobody.”
He turned to the mirror, holding his optics half-lidded, mouth a neutral line. “Hey. I’m… uh… um…” He trailed off, frowning. The glasses darkened just slightly, reacting to his frown.
“What’s a loser sort of name?” he wondered out loud, tapping a digit against his chin. “Something forgettable. Boring.”
He paced another round, casting his optics around his habsuite for inspiration. A stack of old datapads caught his eye, the top one bearing the name of a long-forgotten Wrecker: Radiator. The name echoed in his helm for a moment, turning over and over until it began to morph.
“Radian!” he exclaimed, snapping his digits with a sharp, victorious click. “Yeah, Radian. Totally bland. Totally forgettable.”
He spun back to the mirror, finger-gunning his reflection with a lopsided grin. “Radian,” he said again, lowering his voice to a softer, more unassuming tone. “Hey there. Name’s Radian. Just transferred from… uh…” He hesitated, optics darting to the floor, searching for inspiration.
A half-burned map of the Lost Light was spread across his berth, the edge curling and singed. Rodimus squinted at it.
“From deck… seventeen,” he said, smoothing his expression into a pleasant, open smile. “Yeah. New transfer. Maintenance crew. Nobody important.”
The grin on his faceplate widened. This was going to work. This was going to be good.
Rodimus slipped the glasses off, watching his optics revert to their usual, bright blue. The change was startling; with them off, he was Rodimus again—loud, brash, unmistakable. But with them on… He slid the glasses back into place, and there he was. Radian. The soft-spoken, ordinary bot. Nobody worth a second glance.
His spark fluttered strangely, and for a moment, Rodimus paused, brow creasing. Was it weird that it felt almost… nice? To be someone else? To not have the entire ship’s expectations sitting heavy on his shoulders?
He shook his helm, forcing the thought away. This was just a prank. A joke. Nothing more.
“Alright,” he said, standing straighter, rolling his shoulders. “Time to make my debut.”
He grabbed a worn, gray cloak from the back of his chair, wrapping it around his shoulders to further obscure his frame. He even tucked his flame deco under the cloak’s folds, hiding the unmistakable paint job that everyone knew too well. Rodimus—no, Radian—took a deep, steadying vent and stepped toward the door.
Outside, the corridor stretched out, quiet and empty. But somewhere up ahead, he could hear the low hum of voices—Swerve and Drift, probably. Maybe Ultra Magnus. The crew. His crew. And as he started walking, a little thrill shot through his spark. Because for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t Rodimus.
He was Radian. Just a nobody.
And nobody had to try so hard to be liked.
Radian stepped cautiously into the corridor, helm tilted down, shoulders slouched under the dull cloak. He was so busy rehearsing lines in his head—gentle, unobtrusive greetings—that he didn’t see the small mech darting around the corner until it was too late.
A sharp clang rang through the hallway as he collided with someone smaller, lighter, and considerably more fragile. Radian’s optics went wide in surprise, and he nearly slipped out of character, a startled protest halfway up his vocalizer before he caught himself.
“Whoa—!”
He swallowed back the rest of the outburst, optics darting anxiously downward. Sprawled awkwardly on the floor was Rewind, limbs tangled in surprise, optics blinking up in confusion.
“Oh—Primus, I’m so sorry!” Radian sputtered, kneeling hastily. His servos fluttered uncertainly, not sure where to place themselves as he tried to help Rewind sit up. “I—I wasn’t looking—I mean, clearly—I should’ve been paying more attention, are you hurt? Did I break something? Please say I didn’t break something—”
Rewind’s optics brightened slightly with amusement, taking the offered servo and pulling himself upright. “Relax, it’s okay. I'm sturdy. Kinda used to it by now.” He paused, tilting his helm thoughtfully. “You alright, though? Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
Radian straightened awkwardly, adjusting the glasses on his nose as they started to slide. “Oh! Uh, yeah. No. You wouldn’t have. Just transferred in, actually. Name’s Radian. From maintenance. Seventeen—deck seventeen.” He stumbled over the explanation, feeling heat build beneath his faceplate. Primus, this was harder than he thought.
Rewind studied him for a moment, optics squinting slightly, before giving a friendly nod. “Well, welcome aboard. I’m Rewind. Ship’s archivist.”
“Right—Archivist,” Radian repeated, nodding enthusiastically. “I know—I mean, not personally, but everyone knows you, you know? All those great videos you do, really good stuff.” He paused abruptly, realizing he was rambling. “Uh, sorry. Guess I’m just… a little nervous. New ship and all.”
Rewind laughed lightly, optics twinkling. “You’re fine, seriously. It’s nice to have someone new aboard.” He glanced curiously at the glasses. “And hey, cool look. We don’t get a lot of bots with eyewear.”
“Oh, these? Bad circuits,” Radian mumbled hastily, gesturing vaguely toward his optics. “Can’t see without ‘em. Real mess.”
Rewind tilted his helm, clearly interested. “Interesting. You know, there’s a whole historical archive I’ve got on corrective optic hardware—some really fascinating stuff dating back to pre-war Cybertron. If you’ve ever got some free time, you should swing by.”
Radian blinked, genuinely surprised. Rewind had never invited Rodimus to visit the archives. But then again, Rodimus had never seemed the type to enjoy history lessons. “Oh, yeah? That—that’d be great, actually. I’d like that.”
“Awesome!” Rewind said cheerfully. He started moving past Radian, giving his arm an encouraging pat as he passed. “See you around, Radian. And don’t worry—first days are always rough.”
As Rewind disappeared around the next corner, Radian felt his shoulders slump further beneath the cloak. He let out a deep vent, spark fluttering with something uncertain and new.
Rewind liked him. Actually liked talking to him, and all he had to do was stop being himself.
Rodimus wasn’t sure if that felt good, or if it felt terrible.
Rodimus—no, Radian—took a moment to gather himself after the encounter with Rewind. The archivist had seemed so... casual around him. No guarded glances, no wary, half-judgmental looks. Just a friendly conversation.
He adjusted the glasses, letting them tint his optics a little darker, before pushing forward toward Swerve’s bar. The sound of chatter leaked through the closed doors, muffled laughter and clinking cubes filling the air. He hesitated, feeling his spark pulse unevenly. Usually, Rodimus would burst in with a loud proclamation, grab the first drink in sight, and soak up the attention. But Radian? Radian would slip in quietly, unnoticed.
He ducked his helm, slouched his shoulders, and shuffled inside, keeping his optics downcast. As expected, no one gave him a second glance.
Swerve was behind the counter, wiping down a sticky spot with a rag that looked more stained than clean. Radian approached cautiously, waiting until Swerve looked up.
“Hey!” Swerve greeted brightly. “New face! Didn’t see you come in.”
“Oh. Uh, hi,” Radian stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just... looking for a quiet spot.”
Swerve grinned, giving him a quick once-over. “You’re at the right place, pal. First drink’s on the house. What’ll it be?”
“Uh, just... a basic energon cube. Thanks.”
Swerve didn’t question it, just prepared the drink and slid it over. Radian nodded his thanks, picking up the cube with slightly trembling hands, and made his way to a small, empty table in the corner.
He hadn’t even settled before he picked up the conversation from a nearby table.
“Can you believe him?” That was Drift’s voice, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “Rodimus really thinks he can just waltz in and take credit for the entire scavenger mission. All he did was shoot the wrong panel and trip the door lock.”
Across from him, Pipes snorted, rolling his optics. “Classic Rodimus. Always makes everything about him. Remember that time he ‘fixed’ the ventilation and almost got us all poisoned?”
Laughter broke out at the table. Even Ultra Magnus, seated nearby, gave a resigned shake of his head.
“It’s not that he doesn’t try,” Magnus said, more diplomatically. “It’s just that his efforts often... create more problems than they solve.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” Drift muttered. “I swear, sometimes I wonder why we even let him lead. He never thinks things through. Just rushes in and expects everyone to catch him when he falls.”
Radian’s hand tightened around the energon cube. His spark gave a painful throb, like someone had twisted a wire too tight. He bit back the urge to stand up, to shout at them, to demand they respect him. But he couldn’t. Radian wouldn’t do that. Radian was meek, quiet.
Taking a shaky vent, he mustered his courage and spoke softly. “Um... maybe you’re being a little harsh? I mean... leadership’s hard, right? Maybe he’s just... trying his best?”
The table fell silent, everyone turning to look at the unfamiliar bot in the corner. Drift’s optics narrowed slightly.
“What’s your name again?”
“Radian,” he said quickly, looking down at his cube.
Drift huffed, glancing at Magnus. “Look, it’s not about effort. It’s about consequences. Rodimus doesn’t think about them. He just dives headfirst into everything, and we’re the ones who end up dealing with the fallout.”
Magnus gave a somber nod. “Rodimus often mistakes boldness for strategy. It’s not that he doesn’t care about the crew—it’s that he lacks the foresight to keep them safe. That kind of recklessness... it wears people down.”
Swerve chimed in, setting down a fresh round at the table. “Yeah, like that time he almost flew us straight into that ion storm ‘cause he thought it looked cool. Would’ve been vaporized if Perceptor hadn’t yanked the controls.”
Radian stayed quiet, his spark heavy in his chest. The words stung, but what hurt more was the realization that... they were right. He did that. He did all of that. And at the time, he hadn’t really considered how it made his crew feel—how they must have been constantly bracing themselves for his next screw-up.
He took a slow sip of his energon, his mind reeling. Was he really that selfish? Did his crew think of him like that all the time?
“You just don’t get it,” Pipes said, shaking his head. “It’s like he wants to be a hero so badly that he doesn’t notice he’s just making things harder for everyone else. I mean, we’re happy to help, but it’s exhausting.”
Drift leaned back in his chair, vents hissing softly. “If he’d just slow down and think once in a while... Maybe actually listen when someone tries to help instead of making it a competition.”
Radian couldn’t swallow past the tightness in his throat. His hands were trembling around the cube, and he forced himself to take another sip, hoping it would ground him. Instead, the taste was bitter, his own thoughts swirling darkly in his helm.
Had he really been like that? Just charging ahead without a thought for how it affected everyone else? Had his need to prove himself really overshadowed his responsibility to his crew?
His hands dropped to his lap, and he hunched forward, the glasses slipping slightly down his nose.
For the first time in a long while, Rodimus didn’t feel like talking.
Rodimus stared blankly at the datapads scattered across his desk, optics glazed as he rubbed at his aching helm. Paperwork had never been his strength. It was boring, tedious, utterly devoid of heroics or excitement—but necessary. He sighed, tapping the stylus impatiently against the tabletop.
If he was going to make Radian believable, he’d need to fabricate detailed transfer records. Crew manifests, maintenance rotations, official duty rosters—all the boring stuff Ultra Magnus practically lived for. And that meant learning exactly how to fill out the mountains of paperwork he usually shoved aside or pawned off on someone else.
He glanced up as the door slid open, revealing Skids leaning casually against the doorway, a grin already on his faceplate.
“Hey, Rodimus, you comin’? Drift and I are about to try that new sparring simulation—heard it's super glitchy, could be hilarious.”
Rodimus opened his mouth, about to agree, when his gaze dropped back to the stacks of datapads. He hesitated, spark twisting slightly. Normally, he'd already be halfway to the training room, but right now…
“Actually,” Rodimus said, voice oddly tight, “I... can’t.”
Skids blinked, confusion clear on his faceplate. “Wait—really? You okay?”
Rodimus managed a half-smile. “Yeah, fine. I just... have paperwork.”
Skids snorted. “Paperwork? Since when do you care about paperwork?”
Rodimus felt his wings twitch defensively, and he quickly grabbed a datapad from the desk, holding it up as if to prove a point. “Since right now, I guess. Look, Ultra Magnus has been on my aft about getting this done, and I’m trying to show him I’m not completely hopeless.”
Skids studied him thoughtfully, optics softening into something close to understanding. “Huh. Alright, well... don’t strain yourself.” He gave a small, supportive nod. “Seriously, good luck. Magnus will probably blow a gasket if he sees you actually doing your own paperwork.”
Rodimus chuckled weakly as Skids slipped out, leaving the door hissing shut behind him. Alone again, he took a deep vent and picked up another datapad, squinting at the dense rows of text. It made his helm spin, but he forced himself to read slowly, filling out each line carefully, one by one.
If he was going to pull off Radian convincingly, it had to be flawless.
He slipped back into Swerve’s later that night, this time as Radian. The glasses sat comfortably on his faceplate, optics tinted a soft cobalt blue as he settled quietly in the back, hoping to catch some feedback about Rodimus’s recent behavior.
Ultra Magnus and Drift were sitting near the bar, optics focused on a datapad Magnus was holding.
“Is it real?” Drift asked incredulously.
Magnus nodded slowly. “Apparently so. Rodimus actually completed all of the crew rotation schedules correctly. He even managed to organize duty rosters.”
“Without anyone prompting him?” Drift leaned back, skeptical.
Magnus vented softly, a subtle pride hidden behind his careful neutrality. “Completely unprompted. I was quite surprised. Perhaps he's finally listening.”
Radian’s spark fluttered in his chassis, relief flooding him. It was small, but it felt good. Genuine praise, something he’d rarely heard.
Swerve piped up eagerly. “Oh! And he skipped sparring earlier, too! Skids said he actually stayed behind to finish reports.”
“Did he now?” Drift raised an optic ridge, clearly impressed. “Maybe he’s finally growing up.”
Magnus looked thoughtful, nodding slightly. “It’s promising, at least.”
Radian took another quiet sip, helm ducked low to hide the grin that tugged at his lips. It was strange—he never thought he’d feel so satisfied to hear compliments about completing something as boring as paperwork. But it mattered. It meant something real.
Maybe leadership wasn’t all daring rescues and heroic speeches. Maybe it really was about showing up, even for the boring stuff.
Back in his quarters, Rodimus tossed the glasses aside, flopping down heavily into his chair. The desk in front of him, once cluttered and ignored, was now neat, organized, and properly filed. It looked unfamiliar, but it felt oddly satisfying.
He leaned back, optics slipping closed. He was exhausted, but it was a good kind of tired, the kind that came from doing something meaningful—even if it wasn’t flashy or dramatic.
Rodimus cracked an optic open, glancing sideways at the discarded glasses. They sat quietly on the desk, reflecting the soft light of his quarters.
“Not bad, Radian,” he murmured to himself with a quiet chuckle, “You’re teaching me something after all.”
The alarm blared through the corridors, a piercing wail that made Radian—Rodimus—jolt upright. Red emergency lights flashed, casting the hallway in ominous, pulsing shadows. He could hear shouts echoing up from the lower deck, panicked voices overlapping in a chaotic rush.
Smoke. He could smell it now—sharp, acrid, and far too close.
Rodimus took a shaky vent, his grip tightening on the railing as he tried to think. He was supposed to be Radian right now, the quiet, unassuming maintenance mech with bad optics and no combat training. If he ran down there, tore through the smoke, and started shouting orders, everyone would know. His cover would be blown.
But then another shout echoed through the corridor, this time more desperate, more strained.
“Help! The coolant tanks are about to blow!”
Rodimus’s spark lurched. The lower deck. That’s where all the heavy machinery was. If the coolant tanks ruptured, the fire would spread through the ship like a spark to kindling.
He could almost hear Ultra Magnus’s voice in his head: Leadership is about responsibility, not recognition.
With a growl of frustration, Rodimus ripped the cloak off and tossed it to the floor. The glasses clattered after it, lenses smacking against the metal with a sharp clink. Without a second thought, he surged forward, frame straightening, shoulders squaring as he barreled toward the lower deck.
Rodimus burst through the smoke-choked corridor, vents heaving. The heat was intense, the air thick with the acrid stench of burning coolant. Sparks rained down from an exposed power conduit, hissing as they hit the ground.
Bots were scattered throughout the corridor, some trapped behind fallen beams, others coughing and struggling to stand. Pipes was pinned under a heavy girder, optics wide and frantic as flames licked dangerously close to his pedes.
Rodimus sprinted toward him, sliding to his knees and gripping the girder with both servos. “Hang tight, Pipes!”
“Rodimus?” Pipes gasped, optics widening. “You—what are you—?”
“No time!” Rodimus growled, straining as he heaved the girder off Pipes’s leg. Metal groaned in protest, the heat biting into his palms, but he managed to shove it aside with a grunt. “Can you walk?”
Pipes nodded shakily, his frame trembling as Rodimus hauled him to his pedes. “Th-The coolant tanks—”
“I know,” Rodimus said, cutting him off as he shoved Pipes toward the exit. “Get to medbay. Now!”
Before Pipes could respond, another shout echoed through the smoke—a familiar voice.
“Rung!” Rodimus’s optics snapped toward the sound, and his spark clenched painfully. Rung was on the ground, struggling to pull Rewind away from a crumpled support beam that had fallen across his legs. Rewind’s optics were offline, coolant pooling beneath him.
Rodimus sprinted toward them, frame ducked low to avoid the sparks raining from the ceiling. “Rung! Hang on!”
Rung’s optics were wild, his frame shaking as he cradled Rewind’s helm. “Rodimus! He’s not responding—”
Rodimus dropped to his knees beside them, hands moving fast, scanning Rewind for signs of life. “Rewind! Come on, come on, talk to me—”
Rewind’s optics flickered faintly, his vocalizer stuttering. “Ro… di… mus…?”
Relief flooded through Rodimus like a tidal wave. “Yeah, it’s me. You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”
“Rodimus!” Ultra Magnus’s voice roared through the comms, urgent and raw. “The coolant tanks are reaching critical! If we don’t get them cooled down, we’ll lose the whole lower deck!”
Rodimus clenched his denta, optics darting to the far end of the corridor. The coolant tanks loomed in the distance, metal buckling under the heat, pipes hissing and spewing clouds of steam. The temperature was rising fast—the kind of heat that could fry circuitry and melt armor in seconds.
Rodimus shoved Rewind into Rung’s arms. “Get him out of here. Now.”
“What about you?” Rung’s optics were wide, his grip shaking. “You can’t—”
“Go!” Rodimus barked, already sprinting toward the coolant tanks.
The heat was blistering, his armor searing under the onslaught. The tanks were hissing, coolant spilling from ruptured pipes and pooling around his pedes, hissing as it met the flames.
Rodimus threw himself at the main valve, hands scrambling for the manual release. His servos burned, metal creaking beneath his grip as he wrenched the lever, forcing the release valve to open.
A burst of coolant shot out, a wave of icy mist engulfing him. The fire hissed and sputtered, smoke thickening as the flames struggled against the sudden drop in temperature.
Rodimus stood there, vents heaving, coolant dripping down his frame as the fire finally died out. The corridor fell silent, save for the low, crackling hiss of steam.
He turned slowly, optics heavy-lidded, feeling the sting of burns beneath his plating. His cloak lay forgotten in the hallway, singed and crumpled, the glasses broken under a fallen beam.
No more Radian.
Only Rodimus.
And as the smoke cleared, the crew began to gather, optics wide and staring. Magnus, Drift, Swerve—all of them staring at him like they were seeing him for the first time. Rodimus swallowed thickly, spark hammering.
He’d saved them. And he had never felt more exposed.