Chapter Text
Time passes as it often does, quite unapologetically, too.
Stellar cycles blend together, just as Newdawn once promised they would, but it’s difficult to feel much changing. The reality is that things change every solar cycle, constantly shifting and revolving; players come and go, and adaptation becomes an absolute necessity. Not that he needs to be taught the art. At his young age, he’s privileged to have mastered it already.
He feels older, even though he knows that it’ll take several vorns before he’s seen as anything other than a new build on the cusp of adulthood. He goes through one of his last frame updates, and is almost embarrassed when Ratchet personally ground bridges to Kalis for it.
The truth of the matter is that his presence is undeniably soothing. He gains several feet of height, but not enough to keep him from being seen as the youth he is. Several key components of his software optimize, and his inner workings fortify. He feels stronger by the end of it, and Ratchet looks utterly relieved to see that he hasn’t completely imploded on himself.
Honestly, his T-cog feels more capable than ever, and perhaps they should consider the fact that Ratchet is being a little dramatic. He is bapped on the helm for his insolence, though the reprimand doesn’t hold very much weight with the medic doing a rather poor job of concealing his amusement. They both sober quickly as Ratchet staidly reminds B-1 about the risks of his next update, which won’t happen for a good few vorns at this point.
His last frame is still locked away (something he tries very hard not to think about), but Ratchet is nothing if not cautious, and spares no details of what could happen if his next one goes wrong. B-127 hasn’t forgotten the details from the first time Ratchet gawked in horror at his T-cog activation log, but he allows his older comrade the steadying comfort of walking him through it once more, even if the gruesome minutiae of the whole thing make him a bit queasy.
“You’ll message me the moment something feels off?” Ratchet asks seriously. He can’t stay long; none of the commanders ever can. It's the sad reality of their situation. For all his rough edges, Ratchet tends to dote, and while not quite as severe as Elita-1 can be whenever they are lucky enough to meet, the mech is serious about his health, and that meticulous guardianship is something B-1 will always be sickeningly grateful for. He knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a healer who doesn’t truly care.
Gentle servos are not something to be taken for granted, and Ratchet was the first medic to prove that bots like Toxrine still exist.
His smile is real and easy, and he leans in to hug Ratchet for the third time. The older mech isn’t really a hug guy, and sometimes neither is he, but things are tough in Kalis, and he doesn’t know when he’ll get this kind of affection again, so he savors it deeply. “Nothing’s gonna feel off,” B-1 assures, happy with his newly grown wingspan, finding he can wrap his arms around Ratchet’s torso fully now.
A bit more hesitant than B-1, Ratchet gently pats his backstrut, the spot he can reach just before reaching the crest of his door wings. “Bah, of course not, I’m simply extending the offer. Covering my bases, as you say,” he splutters, false bravado so unconvincing B-127 wonders if a buzz fly would believe him. Ratchet is the most skilled doctor he’s ever met – and at this point, he’s met plenty – but with such prowess comes a harsh gavel, and it’s hard to feel the critical edge to his field. He doesn’t know how Ratchet could ever think such hurtful things about himself while hugging the bot he basically pieced back together from scratch, but people are complicated.
B-127 pulls away, snorting out a few chuckling bleeps from his vocoder, wryly raising an optical ridge at him. “Primus, it’s a good thing you aren’t a scout,” he teases, trying to milk his joy for all it’s worth, unsure of when he’ll get this again. “I think if I lied even half as bad as that, I’d end up as some hot-shot Decepticon’s new set of hub caps.”
He says it with a wide grin that he knows will annoy Ratchet just enough, and sure enough, it does the trick. He scoffs, rolling his optics and shaking his helm, unamused by B-1’s satiric remarks. But it appears he’s won, because Ratchet makes no effort to reply, and there’s a glimmer in his optics that wasn’t present before. It’s naïve and childish to yearn for the jovial atmosphere to last forever, but he can’t help it. It’s tiring, being here, with only one real friend and a whole lot of other “almost-friends-but-not-really’s,” and even more “yeah-they-definitely-hate-me’s.”
It’s a privilege to miss Iacon, but Primus, he does. ZB-12 was transferred there just a few orbital cycles ago, and B-127 and Blitz are beyond jealous. Kalis is a wonderful city, but a hurting one too, and being young here is almost a sin itself, and being a good sport about it doesn’t stop the weariness from creeping in.
Not that any of the commanders need to know that, of course. He’s been doing this a while, enough that while he’s still considered pretty green compared to the more seasoned bots who make up this place, he’s proved his worth in the field enough to be given some leeway. It’s useless to complain about the whole “not really belonging” thing when things are working out as they should, and his personal issues shouldn’t be a distraction for them.
So, it’s easy to lie when Ratchet vents a few times, cooling himself off to repeat his request, softer now. “But… if you – if I—am wrong, you will message?” His voice is light, hopefulness mixed with a sort of shame that comes with an inverted personality allowing their core some air to breathe.
“Of course,” he replies easily, knowing full well that if it came down to it, he wouldn’t say a thing. He’s kept Ratchet updated on his injuries when absolutely necessary, but the mech worries enough, and it’s not like the medics here aren’t perfectly capable. Risen Sun is fine company, even if she can’t always spare him the time to chat. “You know I would,” he adds, grinning wider. “Why waste an opportunity to pester you?”
Ratchet takes the tease with grace, this time allowing a rare, open smile, reaching to pat his arm lightly before seemingly finding himself and retracting the touch. B-1 appreciates it, however brief. “Better you than Jazz,” responds Ratchet, huffing through his vents as if the very thought of having the operative as his patient drains the very life out of him.
He must suck pretty bad because B-1 knows that, using himself as a standard, he’s a terrible patient to begin with.
Too soon, they part once again, Ratchet’s brightly shining taillights blipping out soon after he drives through the cycling mass of color and raw energy. He struggles not to feel the yearning and inexplicable urge to transform and speed through the vibrant bridge, following right after him. Iacon may feel like home, if such a place can still be found, but his place is here, and more than anything, B-1 is a slave to his duty.
***
Ratchet’s concerns turn out to be unfounded, and he finds no new pains and hears no odd creaks. It’s a relief that he has no need to lie to the mech, even if by omission.
He and Blitz spar once a deca-cycle, since they struggle to find time to do it more frequently. Blitz is hardened and pained by the war more than ever, and B-1 thinks that the unwitting betrayal of Flor Del truly harmed his spark in a way he won’t speak about. Optimus says he goes by a new name now, but refuses to tell him what or why, something that saddens B-1 down to his purest essence, wishing to understand his friends, present and not. But, they mutually benefit from being able to let off some steam in the training hall, and B-1 is greatly soothed by the small iota of peace his friend seems to find each time.
Blitz hates it here more than B-1 does. He supposes it isn’t very hard because he finds himself making excuses for their treatment more often than not, which he imagines comes from some other unaddressed issue he actively chooses to ignore. Still, Blitz abhors being condescended to, and, unfortunately, that is a common occurrence around here.
He’s fostered a working relationship with his unit, and if you ask B-1, he’s fairly certain that the older bots have grown a little protective over him, but Blitz does not see it that way at all.
“Man, it’s like they can’t decide whether they think we’re gonna kill them in their sleep, or if we’re just incompetent,” he spits, grunting a bit as he and B-1 grapple.
They’ve had the same conversation hundreds of times now, and he doesn’t have the spark to argue much anymore. Trying to reason with him just makes him angry, but Blitz also hates it if he just gives in and agrees in order to appease him, so he’s settled to remain silent. The ranting seems to help, anyway, and in the end, that’s all B-1 wants. His words can’t fix anything in the long run, so who cares, right?
Things become a bit more difficult once the ration order rolls on through.
It’s a supernatural and incredibly disturbing event that serves as the catalyst for the whole thing. Fuel has always been scarce, even when B-1 was just a trembling new form bumbling around a decrepit Autobot scouting outpost, but the extreme lack of Energon has now truly become an epidemic.
Four of Cybertron’s richest Energon mines dry up within three solar cycles, and no one on the entire planet knows why. One cycle, the miners could work diligently through the night and emerge with a decent cache to be processed; the next, nothing.
Panic spreads quickly, and B-127 likes to think he’s pretty solid, but he is thoroughly shaken by the revelation. Everyone knew their planet was dying, but it’s never felt so… inevitable, as if he ignored the signs, he could march on in willful ignorance.
Morale drops on all sides, as if dying too, and B-1 thinks that the irony of this being what unites everyone is so stupid he could actually laugh.
He and Blitz do, one night that they miraculously have free. They’re a bit too drunk to play any games, so they try to pretend like they’re still the little teenagers who spent all their time racing and causing trouble. Kalis has a few lounges, but everyone is so busy, they are seldom used. Just as well, they’re lame compared to the rec rooms of Iacon Tower. Still, it’s a nice reprieve from the usual gloom that seems to surround their brotherhood now.
Blitz jokes, pondering how long it’ll take the older generations before they start blaming their kind for this, too. It’s a mean thing to think, but B-127 cackles anyway, pushing aside his loyalty to allow some of his natural spitefulness some purchase. He doesn’t want to harbor any anger towards the older generations, but it’s hard, especially after guzzling down two cubes of high-grade and a potent cube of Energon wine.
“They’ll probably say we need too much fuel,” he posits, snickering through the statement because, aware of its lunacy. Most bots from their cohort are efficient like he is and survive on a lot less than previous generations, but logic has no place when laying blame.
Blitz grinds his denta, leaning back to stare at the ceiling. “Slag, they’ll say we shouldn’t require fuel at all.”
B-1 allows a small laugh, just tipsy enough to find it funny and not alarming. Tomorrow, he’ll mentally quarrel with Blitz, worrying about his growing prejudice and whether B-1 has a chance of changing his mind.
Things aren’t all bad, he’ll try to reason, holding on to his belief that good does prevail, even when it doesn’t always feel like it. Blitz doesn’t seem to share his conviction, and he’s not the only one.
The darkness warring inside him is like a challenge, a taunt. Though he isn’t a field soldier like Blitz is, the fuel staining his arms is a constant reminder of the sins just below the surface of his spark, a tangle of black, inky limbs that constantly fight against the burning light that makes him up.
There is time to wallow in it, of course, but B-127 does everything he can to keep it from affecting the bots around him, or his performance in the field. There’s already so much of it stored within him, he can’t justify trying to find more reasons to be angry or despondent.
It’s easy enough to excuse the slightly higher intake of high-grade, he’s just going along with Blitz’s need for camaraderie. That’s what he tells himself, at least.
He misses racing, badly, but Blitz isn’t much for the sport anymore, and his squad doesn’t play around that way. Not with him, anyway. He doesn’t want to know if he’s the exception, so he’s done his best to avoid investigating it, despite his natural instinct to poke and prod.
Besides, it’s unwise to go out wasting Energon, now more than ever. A little fun isn’t worth the fuel burned up in the process. Because things are slowly falling apart, and B-1 isn’t angry about it.
He’s not.
***
B-127 does his best not to slouch as he is addressed. He knows it is improper, and despite the fact that he isn’t fond of his base commander, the dislike isn’t quite potent enough to warrant any disrespect. Well, and he wants to avoid the consequences of such a display, but that’s secondary.
This effort to remain upright is proving to be a difficult task, considering it has been around five solar cycles since B-1 has had any time to properly recharge. With the recent rationing order and subsequent fuel-tracking assignments, it’s a wonder that he hasn’t fallen over during a debriefing yet. His joints feel sore, and his door wings hang low. There are alarming moments when the edges of his feed distort with static, and he has to pause whatever he is doing to ride out the rampant dizziness, feeling like a complete invalid for having to lean against a wall.
Honestly, he should blame Ratchet, or Elita, or whoever spoiled his body and made it all… sensitive to this. It’s stupid, it’s not like he hasn’t been without Energon before, and he feels even stupider for feeling this weak when his fuel percentage really isn’t that low compared to what he used to deal with. Fifty-five percent is the hard line given to them, with explicit instructions not to go lower than that. Easy numbers, truly.
He’s an efficient build, too, so his drama makes him feel even worse as he witnesses the shock some of his fellow soldiers went through when the rationing first began. That hunger… it takes a heavy toll, and B-1 does not doubt that perhaps for the first time, all sides of this war are finally understanding that. He takes some comfort in knowing that while their suffering is great, somewhere, a Decepticon is slogging through their cycle the same as he is.
It’s all a warning, a subtle tell that no one wants to voice out loud, but B-1 knows what is being said. He has for a long, long time. Their planet is dying, Primus, their loving creator, is falling asleep, and no one knows what to do. They fight for their planet with all their might, but if they win, what will be left?
He tries not to think about it as his base commander and his merry band of goons lay out some of the more sensitive assignments for the Kalis branch Covert Operations Unit. He’s been a Corporal Scout II for several stellar cycles now, so he supposes it should be a privilege to be allowed to stand by his fellow scouts and spies for these meetings. It should be a privilege, but really, these always feel like a chore and always feel entirely unnecessary.
Base Commander Flywheel is a seasoned Warrior with vorns of experience to his name. He stands about as tall as Ironhide with a build to rival him, with a solid blue and black paint job. B-127 respects his authority – because Optimus surely wouldn’t put a moron in charge – but finds him rather brusque and dismissive of anything that isn’t a full-frontal assault, not something a Covert Ops unit specializes in.
His understanding of their work is rudimentary, which B-1 honestly finds impressive, considering how long he has been an Autobot. It doesn’t help that it has been several vorns since the mech has been in the field, having suffered a debilitating blow to his chassis that leaves him with a rather harsh limp. According to Risen Sun, with the lack of materials and appropriate donors, it would be incredibly difficult to fully repair him. B-1 once again considers himself immensely lucky to have been under Ratchet’s care with an injured body still within the boundaries of healing. Not everyone can be so lucky.
Though he isn’t the bot to plan out every mission, he does have to sanction each one, and despite the sudden cut of fuel, their caseload hasn’t lessened at all. The sheer amount of work doesn’t necessarily bother B-1, since standing still makes him absolutely miserable, but he can’t deny the fact that his refined form has slipped since having to cut down on refueling.
Scouting can go on for solar cycles, sometimes deca-cycles if the intel is vital enough, and it requires a keen and impeccable focus that is difficult to sustain when you lack the time to recharge, nor the sustenance to renew energy.
While his lack of perfection is annoying, his processor is eased by the fact that it is a universal experience. This current meeting feels more like a dressing down than a briefing. Cdr. Flywheel is flanked by his officers, all high-ranking officials. B-1 thinks that most of them are fools who haven’t stepped a pede on the battlefield in way too long, but there’s nothing for it. Like it or not, they have to address them with deference. Not something that is always easy for B-127.
Conversely, their unit chief is a fairly young mech, about First Aid’s age, who definitely shouldn’t have the job at all. B-127 thinks he’s a nice guy, but Primus, wound tighter than Ratchet on a bad night. He basically worships the commander, and B-1 has a theory that he only got the job because of that. B-1 has read his mission reports. While impressive, they don’t exactly inspire the image of profound leadership.
He’d ask Jazz what he thinks of the guy, but he doesn’t want him probing. Jazz is an astute mech, and even through online communication, B-1 has no doubt that he’d glean some discontent from his inquiry. Things are strange right now, and he doesn’t want anyone getting distracted because he just so happens to dislike the people in charge. He can rebel in smaller, more sly ways. His spark convulses as he looks around, taking in the weariness of his fellow scouts, the slight sway in their stances. No one is feeling right, but at least they can feel wrong together.
Time passes by quickly now, and B-127 is almost thankful for it. The rift between his cohort and the ones that came before it is still starkly present, but their constant proximity with each other as a unit has definitely helped foster a fonder relationship. Maybe not exactly friends, but comrades who have each other’s back, and that’s more than enough for him right now.
“We need time to rest, sir,” one of the femmes on his squad says, her frame sagging at the shoulders. She clearly doesn’t possess the same desire to save face in front of her superiors. “The infirmary is already half-full of weakened bots who could barely stand to ground-bridge, much less carry out these missions with the level of expertise required.” Her body shudders as if to prove her point. “I understand that things are dire lately, but…” She gestures to the group as a whole, as if that encapsulates the crux of her statement.
B-127 hides his frown behind his battle mask, more used to having it up than down at this point. It feels like they’ve been going in circles for orbital cycles, and he really doesn’t have much hope of making further progress anytime soon. They’re all trapped in a sounding board of “doing the best we can,” and “pushing through the hurt,” and all the resounding noise is beginning to grate on him.
At this point, he’d rather just be told to shut up and do the work. False promises just make him irritable, and he does not like being irritable. It’s already enough to have to kiss up to a group of mechs and femmes that have no respect for his job.
Letters from Iacon are few and far between lately, which isn’t something entirely unwelcome. He misses them every solar cycle, but it’s difficult to lie to them about how happy he is when he can barely function optimally. It’s a universal struggle, and he doesn’t want to be the guy who acts like a whining sparkling under any inconvenience; he needs no help being underestimated and mistrusted. Getting visits from any of them gets him plenty of grief already, not that he’d ever tell them that.
He's grateful for them and would give his very spark for each of the commanders, but it would be a lie to say that being seen with them doesn’t get him a whole new round of suspicious whispers every time. Proving his mettle over and over just isn’t enough, it seems, when it’s so much easier to say that he’s just the kid who got lucky by being on Cdr. Elita-1’s good side, or something. He still gets asked what loops he had to jump through to get Chief Medical Officer Ratchet to offer up his services personally.
It’s bitterness that festers, and it wounds his ability to hold healthy camaraderie, but he knew bitterness before he knew friendship, and Primus, it’s a lot easier to grasp right now.
Not everything is bad, not everything is hard. He reminds himself of this in revolving intervals, begging himself to believe it. Primus, he’s tired. Damn, do these morons ever stop talking?
They get told the same slag, and the mech next to him says something else, far more crass than his femme squadmate. Cdr. Flywheel explains the importance of their place, and it’s almost laughable. Stars dance above their helms, and B-1 briefly wonders where they came from and why they are there. He doesn’t recognize those constellations.
He swerves a bit on his pedes, not quite sure why his body feels so flimsy. Wait, he does know why. It just takes a moment for the wires in his brain module to fire up. He feels slow; he’s never slow. Damn, he left his data pad on his bunk, rookie move. He probably has around a dozen mission requests lined up already, and he likes having the device on servo to sift through what’s important and what is… less important.
A few warnings blink in and out of the corner of his HUD array.
Request is sort of a deceiving word. Of course, he can pass off certain assignments to scouts he thinks may be more qualified, or, depending on whether it is a solo-ranked mission or a team-ranked mission, he can relegate them to different squads, but it all needs to be approved by the higher-ups. Thing is, B-1 doesn’t tend to pass up missions, since it’s his opinion that if he went through all the trouble of being the best in school, he better damn well be able to deliver on that performance.
The fuel in his tanks turns a few times, and B-1 visibly wavers, barely catching himself. Revelation washes over him, and he almost gasps at himself. He’s about to pass out. Primus, how pathetic is that? He can feel it now that he’s looking for the symptoms. He’s been chasing away dizziness and fatigue like a turbo-fox chases an astro-turkey, but the pixelation of his vision and disorder of his thoughts are startling. Taking the constant abuse at the servos of the bandits left him rather adept at picking up the signs, and he’s horrified to feel them now, in the middle of a meeting.
He can sense a few optics on him, and he can tell that his little stumble did not go completely unnoticed. He resolves to ignore every curious or concerned glance, straightening his posture once more to try to recover from his blunder. The last thing he wants is to be sidelined, not now that things are growing so tense.
Still, his awareness doesn’t do much to sway the way his body is reacting. His helm is foggy and grows more so every klik, something he quickly becomes quite frustrated with. Efficient specifications or not, his recent exertions have come to collect, and B-127 is gravely concerned that he doesn’t have what it takes to settle up.
Ratchet would be furious with him, falling into an involuntary power-down in the middle of base. He can hear the lecture clearly. “Surrounded by competent medics, and what do you do? Ignore them! Pah!” He would say, and B-1 would smile sheepishly, apologizing in that way that he knows would usher easy forgiveness from the older mech.
Ultra Magnus would likely follow up the tease with a lecture on proper procedure and being aware of your limits. Blah blah, he thinks. He’s never been particularly adept in either of those areas, and clearly that hasn’t changed. Locking his armor up to better stabilize, B-127 wonders if he isn’t the biggest idiot in all of Kalis.
Now that he’s looking at the contents of his HUD stack list, he notes dozens of warnings, fatigue, defragmentation recommendations, and other things that definitely require more rest and fuel that he currently possesses. A lot of the programs listed he’s never seen before, and he realizes then that his newer updates from his frame growth a while back must be to blame, and he wants to smack himself.
Now, it’s not really a new habit of his to dismiss the red blaring text that often appears in the corner of his vision, but he must truly be a dullard to have missed all this. Has the numbness returned? That can’t be it, for all his forced joviality, he doesn’t feel like a ghost living in a casing, and even if he did, the weird puppet version of himself is meticulous and present. He wouldn’t have missed this.
Clearly, the fun version of himself is the problem here. Wonderful.
His subroutines are reasonable, though, and he manages to get through the remainder of the meeting by rearranging a few things, shutting off a few functions here and lowering an output or two there. It’s not ideal, but it keeps him upright, even if the strain it puts on his brain module gives it a bit of an ache.
A deal is made, and no one is particularly happy about it. For the foreseeable future, all solo missions are to be chaperoned by one field soldier, two for team missions. It feels a lot like bitty-sitting, and B-127 isn’t the only one slightly insulted by the new rule.
Despite the stigma against the rank, most, if not all, scouts are perfectly capable in battle. Just because their methods rely more on silence and cunning, and less on shock and awe, doesn’t mean they are helpless. Having to be followed around by a less qualified soldier doesn’t sound like a reasonable way to handle their exhaustion, but the council is resolute in their decision, and B-1 wonders if it’s not a good idea to complain to Optimus after all.
He won’t, but the idea does cross his mind.
By the time he stumbles out of the briefing room, there’s a sharp pain just behind his optics and a churning nausea making its way up B-1’s neck cables. He’s so focused on keeping what little fuel he’s got in his tanks that he barely registers trudging to barracks. His squadmates are chattering around him, perturbed by the commander’s lack of consideration. There are a few colorful expletives thrown into the mix, many of which would make B-1 laugh on any other cycle. He tries to shake it off, hoping to dispel the weakness by some miracle of will, but all the motion serves to do is throw off his balance. Primus.
There was once a time when he had to live with a barely functional gyroscope, and as he all but slams into the barracks’ wall, he has no fragging idea how he managed to survive that. Even overcoming this little spell seems insurmountable, and he’s nearly grown now. How could a sparkling endure this every cycle, all the time?
He hates that he doesn’t remember how.
Weakness tingles at the tips of his digits and the edge of his pedes, pulsing in his neck cables and dragging down his door wings. It’s been too long since his body has had a break, and he can feel it in every piston, strut, and actuator.
It’s almost funny, and he almost laughs as he forces one pede in front of the other. Surrounded by this stronghold, his body continues to decay, in its own way. The hunger persists, it seems, and it looks like it always will.
Collapsing onto his berth isn’t a graceful movement; his mesh clangs against the opposing material, and his strained nanites flare up on impact, but he can’t bring himself to care. Looking at his assignments can wait, just for a moment, right?
He’ll chide himself for it later, but for now, he allows Faylever to sing him to sleep, wondering if she’d look at him and his kind the same way the others do.
***
They had been right, of course. To put it simply, the new rule completely blows. Bless their sparks, most soldiers aren’t as adept at crossing rank boundaries as Cliffjumper is. Having to do their jobs on top of ensuring that their “chaperones” don’t compromise the mission quickly grows old for everyone involved.
The soldiers are frustrated by the amount of discretion involved, and the scouts are distracted by the extra presence. Overall, it’s a bit of a disaster, but technically, no one passes out on their missions anymore, and if they do, then no one squeals about it, so the higher-ups deem it a cautious success. It is nice having someone to watch your back while you rest, but it would also be nice to have more fuel or to have the Decepticons up and surrender.
B-127 doesn’t mind, or at least he tells himself that he doesn’t. He’s a social bot despite his more inward tendencies, and it’s sometimes nice to have someone to talk to besides himself on solo missions, though they don’t always make the best conversationalists. It’s sort of a hostage situation, he reasons. They have to listen to him, and he has to listen to them, so why not take advantage of it?
Stubborn and unprofessional as it is, it works with some bots, and he manages to score a few new fond acquaintances. Calling them friends, as usual, would be a stretch, or at least a one-sided endeavor, because B-1 would certainly like to. Oh well, he’ll take what he can get.
Team missions are a bit more tedious, with more opportunities for in-fighting, but it’s really not that bad. Things could always be worse, he tells himself.
It’s not his place to complain anyway. The sigil emblazoned on his midsection stands as a testament to his covenant to the Autobot cause, the same one that he swore to be of use to all those stellar cycles ago. No part of him desires to dishonor that code now, and even if he did, he wouldn’t, not with his debts still resting long overdue.
So, he endures the hunger, the aches, and the endless demands. Mission after mission, cycle after cycle. We need more from you, more, more, more.
Sure, no one passes out on missions anymore, but in the quiet moments, B-1 comes close, and that’s just something he has to deal with.
Of course, it’s not all bad, as he’s grown more accustomed to saying. After all, before this, the likelihood of he and Blitz being placed on the same mission together was negligible. Now though? It’s as easy as requesting his presence, and B-127 is more than happy with that silver lining.
It’s a bitty mission, if you ask him, just a covert op staking out a smaller Neutral camp. The intel states a rather strong suspicion of the settlement harboring Decepticons, and it’s their job to ascertain the truth. It doesn’t bode well if it is, because a Neutral camp hiding ‘cons is about two unfortunate attacks away from fully aligning, and they want to do what they can to avoid that.
A Neutral settlement falling under Megatron’s rule never lasts long; everyone knows that. If they aren’t talked into enlisting, they are shipped off to some mine to spend their cycles fueling the troops. It’s a brutal truth and one that B-127 does not enjoy considering at all.
One can only think, that perhaps his home from so long ago was doomed either way. They died for their lack of allegiance, but maybe it never really mattered at all. Maybe, it never mattered at all.
“Yo.” Blitz’s field flares, breaking B-1 from his stupor and causing him to swerve a bit. His wheels make a rather terrible sound before he steadies himself, and he’d scowl at his friend if he were in root mode. They drive single file, just along the edge of a craggy cliff of cyber-matter, the steep drop to their left a fine motivator to hug the cliff wall.
Cycling through a few ventilations, B-1 revs his motor once or twice, pouting. “I suppose you’re trying to run me off the road?” The question has more bite than usual, but the rumination of this whole thing has put him in a sour mood.
“You were veering,” Blitz replies simply, seemingly unbothered by B-1’s poor attitude. “I mean, your helm is hard enough that you’d probably survive the impact, but I’m not trying to catch a case on your account, y’know?”
It’s light banter, and it feels good to be able to speak like this again, even if they both know it’ll be difficult to maintain. They’re both changed, and Blitz doesn’t have the energy to force it anymore, and while B-127 does, his efforts hardly matter when executed with an unwilling party. “Are you saying you wouldn’t be able to catch me?” B-1 teases, moving in a light zig-zag from where he drives in front, trying to cover up the fact that he feels terribly dizzy. These rations are killing him.
Blitz manages a scoff. “Oh, I’d catch you, but I also know you, and because I know you, I might just drop you anyways.” Jest heavily laces his tone. “You’d find a way to mangle yourself just from dangling in my grip, and how the hell would I explain that?”
He pretends to think about this concept for a while before humming. “Ghosts attacked me.” In place of a smile, his bio-lights flare, finding the images conjured by the concept rather amusing.
Blitz’s genuine laugh is an experience found few and far between lately, but B-1 cherishes every moment the sound is granted purchase into the open air. They’re guys, they don’t really… talk about stuff like that, but B-1 sometimes wishes they could. He wonders if their ability to be genuine might be a saving grace, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever know. He’s far better at half-truths and puzzles, and Blitz only replies in kind. “Whatever you say, criminal.”
***
This place is a lot different from his home, when he had one.
Tall, striking walls border the settlement, spiked around the edges, patched with corrugated metal and rusted in certain places, as if erected ages ago. The Neutrals value their privacy, which he doesn’t blame them for one bit. There’s something to be said about the ethics of spying on supposedly innocent people, but the security of Kalis demands it. Being aware of all major and minor Decepticon outposts within range is crucial, and they need to know if this place is about to become one of them.
Infiltration should be easy enough; he’s done this hundreds of times now, and he doubts the Neutrals have any secret tricks he hasn’t come across before. Blitz is a decent operative when it comes to espionage, helped largely by the nature of his build, which is similar to his own. Still, doubts spring up just under his plating, wriggling around his protoform and leaving him a bit unbalanced.
Trusting your team is crucial when working on a mission like this, so he does his best to shelve his worry for the time being. This could be fun, if Blitz is willing to play, that is. While it can sometimes be difficult to tell, his friend seems to be in a giving mood this cycle, but even if he isn’t, B-1 would rather try his luck with his emotionally volatile friend than try to confront the lake of sweet and painful memories threatening to shove him under.
He really hates missions like these.
So. “So,” he begins, grinning from where he is perched on a small craggy collection of metal, turning his helm to peer down at Blitz from his lower position. They’ve been surveilling the settlement for a while now, scoping out the best point of entry. It appears that they don’t appear to have any aerial patrol, and they’ve only seen two ground security, pretty standard for a Neutral camp. “… Race me to the top?” His challenge is said hopefully, leaning in just to permeate Blitz’s inner resonance. His chest tingles, and the joints of his sensory antennae swivel.
Blitz’s features aren’t hard to read; he wears his spark on his sleeve, and though the emotions contained within it have grown darker as of late, his thoughts still telegraph as clear as ever. His frown is a weak one, the kind that he gets when thinking rather hard about something, particularly the little pinch at the corners that says you know you’re about to do something you shouldn't.
Protocol is important, and B-127 follows it about ninety percent of the time, less if you ask bots like Corvus, but personally, he thinks it’s a pretty fair statistic.
But, c’mon, it’s a giant scary wall, just short enough to avoid wasting precious Energon, but enough that his competitive spirit is thrumming wildly. It’s been so long since he’s played a real game with anyone, besides Jazz online when he has the time, but that hardly counts.
“You’re faster than me,” Blitz points out with a flick of his wrist, adjusting his stance into a relaxed crouch. B-1 is surprised to hear him admit that. “You just try’na make me look bad in front of the nice and-or potentially not nice folk?”
A small flood of relief washes over him, thankful to have Blitz’s approval. He clicks his denta. “Nah, man, just making sure your unit isn’t letting you go soft. Besides, why would I try to make you look bad? From where I’m standing, you don’t need the help.”
Mandible clicking open, Blitz looks utterly affronted, intake agape, and optics wide. There isn’t any real offense there, which is both a relief and an unspoken permission to smile even wider. “How dare you! I’m a catch, and I’m strong, that’s like, the total package!” Exclaims Blitz, loud enough to voice his faux conniption, but not so loud as to alert any potentially unwanted parties. “I have a stellar mission record!”
“So do I,” B-1 unhelpfully points out, knowing he’s playing with fire here.
Blitz scoffs, already standing to stretch his pistons. “So what? You finished second in our class; excellence is expected of you.” A few loud cracks sound as he rolls his backstrut, they both wince. “My exploits are a lot more impressive.” His statement is sharp, but he’s smiling now too, hopping from their perch, waiting for B-1 to follow. He does, without complaint.
Shaking out some static from his limbs, B-127 raises an optical ridge. “Alright, how so?”
“For one, I’m in the field more often than you.” There’s a slight edge to that, but B-1 can see Blitz doing his best to keep hold of the levity. “And two…”
B-1 crosses his arms, catching up to him as they walk. “Two?”
“I’m thinking.” Snaps Blitz, gritting his denta in a pinched grimace. B-127 snickers, trotting on ahead, contented despite the underlying tension that always precedes the execution of an assignment. He and Blitz bicker the entire way, which rejuvenates B-1 in ways he hasn’t experienced in forever. Blitz ends up beating him at their so-called race, though Blitz is skeptical of his statement that his previously injured leg was giving him trouble the whole way.
Memories assault B-1’s processor the moment they touch down, fractals of moments so long ago, it’s near dizzying. Blitz doesn’t look nearly as affected, but of course, he could just hide it better. Even hiding amongst the shadows, the faces that pass by seem so familiar, despite knowing he’s never met any of them before.
He can almost hear Faylever whispering to have courage, and make some new friends. She only ever said that to him once, but he’s done his best to live by it, even when all he seems to find is rejection. There’s no time for that, anyway.
With Blitz operating strictly as a chaperone, B-127 is calling the shots, which is a bit uncomfortable for him. Telling people what to do opens a pit in his tanks and causes static to run up his backstrut. Working on a team or by himself is one thing; just come up with a game plan and execute it.
Having Blitz just wait for him to gather the intel is the easiest option, but he knows how poorly that would go over. Blitz may have been a bit lazy in school, but he wasn’t a slouch by any means, and he’d never have it if he implied he wasn’t capable of assisting B-1.
So, they traverse alleyways and forgotten streets, with B-127 cataloging observations he deems important and Blitz covering him while he does so. The perimeter wall is far more reinforced on the inside than the outside, which B-1 finds interesting. The wall around his home settlement didn’t end up protecting much, but he has no doubt that the tempered beams lining these walls would tell a much different story.
But, this settlement of Neutrals operating on a much more vigilant level doesn’t necessarily mean they’re leaning one way or the other. Neutral camps that end up choosing to align with the Autobots are cared for with protective reverence, but it isn’t subtle, not like it is here. Cameras line certain buildings, moving back and forth, keeping sentry.
Advanced Scouts are equipped with jamming protocols for occasions such as this, so it isn’t a cause for concern, but he does note the added security. Watching the bots dwelling here, B-127 shudders. After a while of searching, he sees no sparklings of any kind, which again, doesn’t necessarily mean anything. His home only had three, including himself, as most sparklings are rounded up to the Autobots, or taken by bandits or Decepticons before they can do anything. His spark lurches.
There used to be programs where Autobot strongholds would be willing to send sparklings to smaller settlements, if they expressed a wish for them, but since… everything, no such agreements exist anymore.
It could be nothing, it could mean absolutely nothing.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Blitz whispers, scanning the town’s square from their vantage point on top of a nearby building. It’s risky up here; they could easily be spotted by any Flyers, but the skies have been quiet enough that B-1 is willing to make that gamble in order to gather information.
He nods his agreement, tamping down the irrational offense he feels at Blitz’s crass admittance. It’s true, this place is a bit odd, and he understands why he was given the task to investigate. The residents don’t exactly stand out, but there’s something about the atmosphere of it all. It’s eerie. Like a cold front has blown through the settlement and made itself comfortable.
It’s a feeling of the spark, and B-1 does his best to trust those gut reactions. They’ve saved his life before.
Blitz saddles up beside him, leaning in close. “They look so normal.” B-1 nods again, optics spiralling in and out as he makes a list of things that stand out. “Who would willingly side with the ‘Cons anyway?”
His spark twists a bit, and his door wings fall, shrugging through a heavy exvent. “I don’t know, ‘Litz. Maybe they haven’t seen what we have, don’t know what they’re capable of doing to them, to us.” The reply feels insufficient, but honesty is all he feels capable of grasping.
“Oh, please,” Blitz sneers, sitting back on his heelstruts. “This war has gone on for how long? You’d have to be stupid not to see what they’ve done to our home.” Blitz’s field is razor sharp now, uncomfortable enough that B-127 has to shift his stance a bit to wave out the excess negativity his spark absorbs.
Shaking his helm, B-1 breaks his concentration for just a moment to catch Blitz’s optics. He looks tired, angry. Does he look the same way? “They’re just trying to live their lives. We don’t know what they’re offered if they align themselves. Desperation can go a long way.” It’s true, he would know. Looking back, he resets his vocoder a few times, trying to clear it of the invisible blockages he feels now.
Blitz’s EM roils with a pang of annoyance, and B-1 hides his wince. “So can hatred.”
The pure acrimony rolling off of his friend, trouble B-127 greatly, now concerned whether or not Blitz is capable of remaining unprejudiced enough to carry out this mission effectively, but he pushes his worry away for the moment and returns to his task. As long as B-1 gathers the right amount of information to discover the truth, then everything will be alright.
The monotony drags on for several groons, with Blitz growing antsy several times. B-1 is sympathetic; he doesn’t particularly enjoy this aspect of the job either, even though he’s rather good at it. They play word games to pass the time, but Blitz doesn’t really enjoy riddles, figuring them out, or making them up, so eventually they return to the silence.
Switching positions doesn’t do much good besides giving B-1 a better chance to eavesdrop on the local drama. The new roof they transfer to has a canopy, which both helps and hurts them in terms of surveillance, but the move makes Blitz less twitchy, so he supposes it was worth it.
A shrill, sharp ring pierces through the quiet, and both of them jump, and he barely has a moment to collect himself, just barely refraining from drawing his weapons. Blitz doesn’t hold back, drawing his own and turning about wildly, looking for the source of the disturbance.
B-1 already knows, and Blitz’s mind catches up a nano-klik later, and they both stiffen. The familiar, spark-shattering crack of a Seeker soaring through the sky is utterly unmistakable, and both of them have been enlisted long enough to have heard it hundreds of times now. Green as they may be, you learn to look out for that noise very, very quickly.
Now, here’s the golden question: are they under attack, or returning home? He and Blitz share a tense glance, hunkering down on the roof, as small as they can. B-1 scrambles their Autobot channels, hoping that it is sufficient in masking their presence. You’d have to have some technical know-how to work through the web's hiding them, but it’s not worth the risk, especially with just the two of them.
The sound persists for a few kliks, and B-127 can’t risk peaking out of the canopy to get a better idea of what they are dealing with. His audials separate the engine noise of about three flyers, but it could be more, even gaining up as high as he is able. His assets rest in his optics, not his audials.
“Slag,” Blitz swears quietly, tense as a storm before it breaks. B-1 sends over a ping of encouragement, hoping that it is enough to soothe him.
A telling factor in all of this is the lack of fear permeating the ether. Sparing a glance at the ground below, a thick, heavy darkness settles in his midsection, making him a little sick. No one looks afraid or even confused. They all know what’s happening and who is near, but they are as calm as ever, if not a bit perturbed by the noise.
He swallows down his horror. He had hoped to infiltrate some of the administrative buildings to find further proof once it got dark, but he sees now that it won’t be necessary for that reason. Now, he’ll have to discover just why they are here, and whether they are hiding Decepticon secrets.
Blinking back the images of fire and the echoing screams, B-1 refocuses, locking his armor down as he clocks the telltale whistle of a descending Seeker. He locks down his fear and all of the disturbing ideas that pop into his helm when he recalls the fact that they have no backup, and until he reopens the channels, no ability to call for any.
It feels like all his bio-mechanics seize up at once when the smell of burnt fuel assaults his olfactory sensors, with the rumbling sensation of a Seeker touching down soon after. You never get used to the pit that forms inside you, intimidated by the way the very ground breaks.
Locke Up shook more than the ground.
Sensing that the Seekers landed somewhere north of their position, B-127 rallies, gathering himself and allowing some of the numbness to take over. “We need to get closer,” he whispers, turning just enough to catch Blitz in his periphery.
“How?” Asks Blitz, gritting his denta as he continues to look straight ahead. “These ain’t civilians, they’re trained to spot bots like us.”
That’s true, Decepticons tasked with going this far out are typically taught to seek out bots that stand out. Even if they had taken the precaution of hiding their Autobot insignias, they’d likely be weeded out almost immediately. Sneaking through the shadows is the only answer, but ‘cons are far more upgraded than the average Cybertronian, and with access to their commlinks, they have every advantage.
Maybe it’s a paradox to everything he’s ever wanted, but he finds himself wishing he were smaller. When he was a starving little sparkling, swindling and hiding were easy, because most bots don’t think to look down. Now, he’s just about as average as everyone else.
Still, he wasn’t near the top of his class for nothing, and a puzzle is a puzzle.
“We’ll stick to the roofs. I don’t hear any circling aircraft.”
Blitz tenses, exventing a few times. “Great plan B, why don’t you just call Megatron himself and ask him to kill us?” His whispering has grown rather hoarse, and B-1 frowns, saddened by the slight twitch of his friend’s servos that seems to have manifested at the cusp of combat. He hopes it doesn’t come to that. “We barely have cover here. Say you’re wrong, what’s the plan then?”
B-1 grows a bit sheepish, shrugging. “I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
Throwing up his arms, Blitz groans softly. “The genius of Iacon Academy, everyone.”
Laughing to himself, B-1 turns away, shuffling to the other side of their position, scoping out the area before making his first move. Keeping his pedes light and body lithe, B-1 makes the first leap to the neighboring roof. The landing isn’t as agile as he would normally allow, but he and Blitz had to split a cube this morning, and the stress of the situation is confusing his gauges, making him a bit shaky. This is beyond risky, and now he is fully exposed to any flying Transformers, but hey, forcing confidence in your plan is step one in hoping it works!
He turns, waiting for Blitz to follow through. There’s a distinct aura of skepticism about him that B-1 tries not to take personally. It’s been hard for him lately, and trusting others has always been difficult for Blitz, even when they first met. But most of the time, Blitz is perfectly sensible, and sobers up in just a few nano-kliks, narrowing his optics and nodding, launching himself to B-1’s side with seemingly less difficulty than him. “Don’t fret, criminal, I got your back,” Blitz assures, forcing a rather poor smile as if to silently apologize for his doubt.
He needn’t worry, B-1 could never hold a grudge against him for long, it’s just not in him. Plenty of worse people to hate anyway.
***
Thankfully, they aren’t shot out of existence like mere cannon fodder, and their caution is rewarded by the sound of chatter once they reach the northern perimeter. During their trek, many bots flocked to this specific area, so it is fair to assume that this isn’t a first-time meeting, which B-1 finds very disappointing. There are times as a Scout when being good at your job only brings you grief, and this is certainly one of those moments.
They don’t dare come any closer than about four buildings away, too wary of Decepticon tracking technology and their lack of aid. It’s just as well, B-1 can see just fine, and so can Blitz if he pushes the capability of his optics. This building does not offer the same cover as their initial stakeout did, but they do hunker down in the shadows of the large generator mounted at its edge.
Frag, he’d been incorrect before. Three Seekers had been a bit of an underestimation, as now he counts at least six decorated Seekers, standing idly by the perimeter wall. One of them is speaking with a Neutral that B-1 figures must be some important person, ‘cons hardly ever trifle with bots they deem less than, and Neutrals almost always fit that category.
There’s something strange about them, and B-1 squints, trying to figure out what stands out.
Blitz beats him to it, sucking in a harsh vent, skirting back in horror. B-1 is only confused a nano-klik more before his mind catches up.
“Oh frag,” he whispers, wishing he had the freedom to swear a whole lot more. The realization has dozens of warnings and files filling the edges of his HUD array, and it takes everything in him not to just say to hell with it and call for help.
“They’re Armada,” Blitz announces, gripping the edges of the building with such a vice that B-1 worries he’ll dent the metal.
Blitz is correct, they are. White and pristine as the members of Commander Starscream's personal convoy always are. Perfectly lethal and upgraded with the best technology available, they are not to be trifled with at all, and B-127 and Blitz are greatly unprepared for that kind of threat.
Well-trained as they are, these bots have generations of experience and Decepticon engineering on their side. Even if they didn’t have that, were they to engage in combat, they’d be grossly outnumbered and perhaps even outwitted.
Especially since their leader stands at the center of them, grinning audial to audial.
This Neutral camp isn’t just aligning with the Decepticons. It’s got to be so much more than that.
Because Commander Starscream has touched down.