Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When his optics first online, B-127 first sees the sky. The Well surges with power only feet from him, giving him a fond farewell even as his memory of crawling from it fades only moments after. His protoform is new and small, his body whirs with clicks and hissing as parts fall into place and his spark begins to glow all on its own, no longer sustained by Primus’ crafting hand.

It will grow, with time, his plating still a shining, unburdened silver. Glistening with its lack of abrasions and experience. Efficiency programs slot into place, and his processor works to teach him what little it already knows. His T-cog spins in his side, inactive now as New Sparks usually are, but it will burst with Energon and life soon enough. In the backlog of his thinking, B-1 can already sense the way the wind will whip around him, struggling to keep up.

But B-127 doesn’t pay that any mind right now. There are far more pressing matters.

They are stars, his infodex supplies, but it doesn’t teach him anything else. They are bright and glimmering in the deep purple sky, so very far but close enough that B-127 desperately wishes to reach for them. His logic center provides the sobering information that he cannot, even if it does not tell him why. Millions of them, his optics struggle to keep track of the shapes he traces following them. They remind him of something, even if he has nothing to think back on. Not yet.

They glimmer and entrance him for kliks that become groons, and by the time B-1 thinks to look around, he has analyzed the sky so thoroughly that even as he offlines his optics for a moment, the image of the shining gems bedazzling the heavens remains in his view. His head tilts, thinking for a moment that he should get up. He’s a young bot, too young, so very young – but something in his spark tells him he should move.

And besides, the pretty purples of the Cybertron nights have melted into a more mellow pink, nearly lavender at the edges.

Just as his interest wanes, the stratosphere blesses him with one more gift, one more present for his very first Spark day. His optics widen, and in the last several groons, B-127 has discovered the extent his lenses can zoom, the clarity he can achieve with ease. There’s no one around to tell or show, but somehow, B-1 knows this is impressive.

It does not feel like enough, though. Not as a brilliant star moves – soars – across the airspace lightyears away. No, comet, his processor provides. B-127 does not yet know the difference in definition, but he supposes he can guess. His view becomes distorted as he pushes his lenses to their limit, running his newborn clarity protocols over and over again. Hoping desperately to see the comet as it falls, runs from the skies. He wonders where it intends to go.

Pretty. His mind thinks, his first real opinion. The heavens, the stars – even the falling ones – are pretty. The edges of it burn bright with raw power of the velocity and it gushes with a brilliant, bright yellow, sailing at a speed B-1 cannot truly perceive, not even with his eyesight. Disappearing into the inky blackness of the universe, far beyond the new morning sky. Yes, very, very pretty.

Tingling erupts across his plating, and B-127 jumps with a series of colorful clicking and buzzing following. His eye is drawn away from the object of his awe to himself, for the first time. Sitting up in a slightly irritated huff, he takes in his sparkling protoform. His servos rub across his frame in piqued interest. The silver he knows he was born with has hidden itself away under a fresh, shimmering coat of golden, shimmering yellow, with black tracing along his edges. B-1 chirps, eyeing the last of the change as the nanites work to finish his paint across his pede.

It only takes an attentive glance before he decides with a nod that he likes it. which is good, since he was the one who changed it.

Perhaps in hopes that they also like it, B-127 looks up. To his dismay, the stars have faded beyond even his advanced optic’s reach, and all he is greeted with is the mauve morning light. It’s not as pretty as the stars and clearly doesn’t care about his paint.

The area around him is vast and lonely, his index supplies. He isn’t quite fond of those words or their meanings. His pedes are wobbly and unstable, holding him up. The oversized door wings hung across his back create a difficult counterbalance to which he will have to adjust. His sensory antennae calculate and recalculate as they grow active with his movement, turning and rotating as they try to provide him with the necessary information to stand.

The struts of his stabilizers stretch and pulse with Energon, flushing his helm with sensory information he has never felt. In the distance, B-127’s audials pick up the faint trill of a whistle, but there’s no telling from which direction it came. There’s some pride when he stops falling over after a while, but the ground around him is not smooth nor easy to traverse. Craters litter the surface and a twist in B-1’s spark tells him this should not be so.

In the new light of his first day alive, B-127 finds he is not very impressed. The stars were much better. There should be more bots, should there not? His processor is still developing, could there be an interloop somewhere? Does he already have a glitch? There should be more. Someone to greet him in his first moments. But the Well, a place even a new spark knows to be deeply sacred, is empty. Devoid of life with the exception of one of it’s last progeny.

His optics turn to it. The very center of his chassis pulses with familiarity, and he almost thinks to simply crawl back into it. This world he has been born to is quietly screaming, something B-127 isn’t sure to even be possible. But he feels it, down to his very spark. Already the dread of this place has crawled under his plating, making a home in the dark edges of his brain modules. Does he wish to be a part of that?

But the Well is dim, now, much dimmer than it should be, he thinks. It worked so hard to help him emerge; he can’t simply run back to it now. Not yet.

So, he sets his gaze in the distance. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to go this way, but his pedes don’t waver when he does. Unpracticed in all ways, but even still, B-127 moves with purpose.

He is small, he is new, and B-127 is alone.

***

There is not much else to do but walk, his grace growing with each ill-planned step or tumble he takes. It is a large planet, and B-127 gets the distinct feeling it should shine with proud glory. Instead, he finds rusted ground and devoid hollows. The lonely canvas of his homeworld slowly populates with thick plumes of smoke, and buildings that raze into the sky. B-1 ponders whether he could touch a star, were he to climb to the top.

New warnings pop into his HUD, and B-127 discovers he has been moving for a very long time. The stars are back, but they don’t seem to shine with the same excitement as before. Dimmer in the smog of the settlement he has found. His Energon has dipped below an acceptable level for the very first time, and B-127 discovers that to be very uncomfortable. Warnings of an essential recharge flash across his vision, but for the first time, B-1 blinks them away. His specs are efficient, even as a small new spark with limited access to his frame.

And in his walk alone, B-1 deduces that if he wants Energon, he will need to find it on his own. This “recharge” will have to come later. That’s fine, B-127 enjoys finding things, probably. He is pretty sure he does.

The settlement is large, but abandoned, B-127 is unsure of what to make of it. His legs creak with overuse, but he pushes them to continue searching. Destroyed buildings and debris clutter the area and B-127 finds several deposits of old and corroded Energon. Some are large puddles, while some are more dribbled across the rubble, all slowly evaporating over time. B-1’s logic center instructs that he should not try and intake this Energon, despite his rather furious curiosity.

Though tired and a tad peeved that the stars don’t shine as bright here, B-1 inspects all the intact buildings he can with a certain astonishment, cataloging everything he can even if his infodex cannot provide him with a definition. B-1 thinks that he likes to learn, very much. And though alone, this is all so new and exciting, any stimuli to keep him occupied is a joy.

This excitement screeches to a halt in one, spark-shuddering moment.

It is in one of the last doorways he can access that he sees it. The light is dim through the rusted holes in the walls, but B-1’s optics catch it immediately regardless.

A stiff, clawed servo reaches for the ceiling, frozen in place beyond a collection of rubble. B-127 freezes, a new emotion flushing through his processor and down to his pedes. Fear. His infodex does not have to define it for him, B-127 simply knows. This word needs no introduction. His finials pull sharply back.

He hasn’t met another Cybertronian before. He wishes to believe that he would be treated well, were he to meet another of his kind, but, well. The destruction and disarray of the planet had to come from somewhere, and B-127 is learning that he is observant – and he has observed much, though he has barely been online two solar cycles.

But, perhaps, they may appreciate his paint more than the morning light or the stars have.

This prospect is enough to convince him, infantile and Energon boiling for praise. So, he steels his fluttering spark and shudders forward, keeping his pede-falls silent as he maneuvers around the rubble. His language programs have successfully installed, and have been for some time, B-1 simply has not had a reason to use them.

What should he say? Would “hello” suffice, or would that be unremarkable? B-127 doesn’t really like the idea of being unremarkable.

His programming supplies him with plenty of interesting things to say, but it is exceedingly difficult to be interesting when you’ve only been alive for two solar cycles with no one else to practice with.

The frustration of this thought builds to the point that B-127 is stomping his pedes in a childish huff as he lands in front of the bot he hopes to introduce himself to. Utterly forgoing his attempt at stealth.

B-1 pauses, now fully taking in the state of his older and likely wiser brethren. The bot in question hasn’t moved since B-1 entered the room and has remained static as he approached. A coldness flushes the depths of B-127’s spark, and his form grows rigid. The bot is a mech, easily three times his size and they are… his optics take it in, the detail sharp. Too sharp.

Bright purple with neon green accents, this bot is all sharp angles and clawed digits. They don’t have door wings – at least not ones that look similar to his – and there are no sensory antennae to speak of.

Rationally, B-127’s brain module tells him that Cybertronians are meant to be different, unique in their own way exactly per Primus’ design, but he had at least expected to see some resemblance. He had hoped to feel a kinship in his spark.

Not that it truly matters, since evidently, this mech is dead.

There is a drawn out moment where B-127 fights this realization, straining his audials for a sign of a spark, pushing his young and erratic EM field around hoping to find another. All he hears is the rush of his own burning engine, and the creak of rusted scaffolding. His field rushes back to his center with a punching force, finding nothing. The sensation leaves him feeling hollow and distinctly more lonely than he had been a klik ago.

His servo shakes as he runs it along the bot’s cadulen, swiftly breaking the contact when the touch returns sickeningly cold. His own chassis radiates a living warmth, his spark bursting with life and his body  thrumming with Energon. That is what his kind should feel like, body and spark… this… this is not how it should be.

The bot’s face is set, and B-127’s tanks flip at how distinctly disturbing it is. Intake held in an eternal scream, offlined optics wide with a fear he will never be free of. This bot’s fear wasn’t like his own, it was not a feeble anxiety over meeting a new friend. No, this fear was terror, his processor says. B-1 backs away, slowly and then quickly, exventing heavily when he makes contact with the opposing wall, door wings flush and bent at awkward angles. His operating system stacks with increasingly urgent warnings of overheat and buffer fatigue.

He is small, he is new, but B-127 is alive.

This bot is not. The lance through the mech’s abdomen attest to it.

And with a horrible tremble, B-1 reconciles that he died afraid. Horror present in his every feature. His optics follow the bot’s dead stare, and the outreached servo, a constant plea for mercy.

The bot had died wailing toward the sky, to the stars.

Did he hope for salvation, in his last moments? Did he plead for deliverance? If he had screamed for their help, for their aid, and the heavens had done nothing, what hope did B-127 have that they would come for him if he asked? A lone new spark, so new even his T-cog has not come online yet? This bot was a warrior, a warframe, who better to save than him?

If even he hadn’t been granted mercy… then…

The pumping of his Energon increases as the cold plunge in his spark begins to freeze over to the point of burning, and his venting is erratic. Hexagonal grids appear in  his periphery, blinking in and out in frayed static as his optics struggle to understand the conflicting orders his neural net sends them. He doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to see. But it’s all he can do.

“I’m sorry,” he voices, his first words said in a frantic rush. He doesn’t know who he speaks to, his optics fixed solely on the bot, husk, corpse. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, certain warnings in his HUD glowing a menacing red. His voice, he hasn’t heard it before, but it crackles with panic. He apologizes over and over, and he doesn’t know why.

There is no Energon to be found tonight, so B-1 slips into an exhausted recharge, his buffers unable to handle the input and crashing. His infant frame shivering and the chill of his spark never quite leaving. When he reboots, he does not look up to the sky even once.

***

The unpleasant experience continues the more he moves.

Eventually, B-127 finds a small Energon reservoir that appears to be stagnant and has been for ages. But there is enough to fill two small canisters and B-1 is thankful to be so new that he does not yet require much more than that. His chassis quivers as he is forced to crawl over the husks of two femmes to get to it. Their Energon has long since evaporated, but remnants of it stain the floor and the walls. Their plating is freezing where he touches it. The same as the bot before.

He notes with some alarm that despite the fact that neither of them are – were – warframes, they are both armed with weapons. New additions made in plasma guns and blades built into their biology. He knows they are additions because while the rest their frames are frozen, stuck in their last moments, the weapons have begun to rust. Bio-weapons don’t rust, not without outside help.

Optics eyeing them warily, B-1 bitterly mourns what little their added firepower did for them, in the end. They share matching insignia on their helms, but B-127 doesn’t care much for that while his joints creak and tanks shudder. His episode has left his helm light and unfortunately slow, no more aided by his already depleted resources.

He refuels in a rather unbecoming frenzy, but has enough sense left to only intake half of one of the canisters he collects. They’re small, but still too large for him to carry with ease, and with his T-cog laying dormant inside him, he has no access to his storage chamber yet. B-1 fastens them across his back with a loose coil – it’s not like anyone around here will be needing it. His currently useless door wings, at the very least, help keep them from sliding off his back.

It’s unfortunate, but it is easier to clamber over the two husks a second time. B-1 isn’t sure whether to classify this as a good or bad development. The way he is already jaded to their deaths. The sight of them still inspires great unease, and he hopes in his spark that the gaping holes in each of their chest plates extinguished them quickly.

But, well, he needs to survive. Something stronger than himself tells him so, he must. They do not.

A selfish thought and B-127 decides he does not like thinking that way at all. His spark squirms in his chest against it – if only he had much choice.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers for perhaps the hundredth time, digits clenching the coil holding the lifeblood of his people with a vice grip. He stops, just as he is passing the threshold to the dingy and decayed outside. His optics find the femmes, and he turns to them fully, bowing his head. “… Thank you, too.”

He doesn’t know if they were protecting the Energon or fighting over it – so desperate that they offlined each other. What he does know is that without them, there may not have been any.

That feels a bit better.

***

Solar cycles pass and B-1 wanders the settlement. Searching for something. He isn’t exactly sure what, but Primus made him an inquisitive spark so he doesn’t mind the quandary.

 More offline bots emerge as his optics become more seasoned in what to look for, and B-127 sees agony in each one of them. It had felt so deserted before, but the more he looks, the more he finds. He wonders if Cybertronians do something for their dead, but his infodex doesn’t know the answer no matter how much he probes. There’s only so much data a new spark can be equipped with.

His processor develops more each cycle, small updates already queued to download once he has a certain amount of Energon and memory space. The file sizes aren’t too big, which B-1 thinks to be good, so he allows them in one at a time.

Despite the fact that he has evidently awoken to a home torn asunder, B-127 quickly struggles with boredom. The settlement is a horror scene, but it does appear to be safe, for the moment, so he remains while he tries to get his bearings. Many of the taller structures are either unstable or completely inaccessible. B-127 ponders as to why this place would necessitate buildings so tall. The stars are so dim here, he doesn’t like it at all – even if he is having a little disagreement with them right now.

He wants to make a smart, calculated decision. He needs to if he wants to survive, which B-127 is fairly certain he does. But it is difficult to when he has no idea what is going on.

New sparks don’t come online clueless – he was born with intelligence and basic knowledge, but even so B-127 is all too aware of his newborn naivety and limitations. His protoform is still brittle and a quarter of the size of even a femme bot. Here, a bot without access to their T-cog is a dead one, this, B-127 is certain. He has no one to protect him, and no way to protect himself.

Now if he just had some context, for anything, he may be able to remedy that – just a little. He can learn to work smart, work with what he has, which is almost nothing. If he could just understand what is going on.

B-127 is quite annoyed to have been born this way.

This is why he is thrilled when he comes across a small library. Well, it’s sort of a library.

In reality, it is more of a nook in the back of some sort of… it’s a room lined with berths, but he has no idea what the purpose of it is. He scarcely manages trudging through a small crawlspace to get inside. The lights above flicker as they struggle to remain online, likely burning up the last of whatever source of Energon is powering it. Beyond the room is some form of lounge, with tables and chairs that B-1 can just barely reach. The area where he assumes is supposed to hold an Energon reserve is, of course, completely empty. Depleted in whatever exodus had to be made of this place.

That disappointment is overshadowed immediately by the walls of datapads. Some are handheld and some require the use of a data port, which B-127 finds with relative ease near the edge of the room.

Resting his Energon canisters (which at this point are basically empty) in a nearby corner, B-1 gathers as many datapads as he can with his small wingspan, spilling them onto the center of the floor. They fall with flourish and many glow to life from the movement, illuminating the dim space.

The data console seems to have its own power source, so B-1 is confident that even if the central power system dies, he’ll still be able to read some of the data chips later on. Thank Primus.

The organization of the pads seems to be rather disorganized, whoever tasked with putting them together apparently not the most orderly. This would be more annoying to an older bot, but B-127, a small tired sparkling, doesn’t mind starting in the wrong order. This is more than he had hoped to find here.

A nervous trepidation spreads along his plating and B-1 is seized with tension, his servos gripping the first data pad with unnecessary force. He hesitates in turning it on. He wants more information, wants to understand the hunger for survival he has been programmed with, but his spark shrivels at the idea of having to find out on his own.

That itself is puzzling to him. Why should he care? He has been alone thus far, what good would having a bot around do now? Integrating information is as easy as venting to any Cybertronian.

It just. It bothers him, and his emotional centers are frustratingly underdeveloped to deal with it. What is more infuriating is the fact that he knows it. How useless is it to be born so helpless and yet be given the knowledge of it? He would prefer ignorance. Instead, he is trapped in this middle ground new sparks are onlined in.

Had he been taken in by caretakers – which B-127 thinks is supposed to be the norm – then perhaps it would not be so bothersome. Because even though he knows he is naïve, at the very least he would have bots to guide him through understanding. They would know what to do.

But that is not how things have happened, and his lack of awareness will only risk him being deactivated sooner. He was not built a quitter and that is not about to change.

With shaking digits, B-127 powers on the data pad.

***

A war. Of course it is a war.

He already knew that. Sort of. In his spark, he knew.

A majority of the files on each data pad are debrief notes. B-1 discovers that the building he is in is a rather poor excuse for a barracks for a faction known as the Autobots. The paragraphs he reads are thankfully rather informal, mostly complaints about lack of Energon and the weather or, to put it simply,  petty gossip. B-127 makes a notation with no small amount of disappointment that there is a shortage of Energon everywhere, not just here. This place, at some point, was a very stagnant place to be stationed.

The Decepticons are the enemy of the Autobots, B-1 is able to put this together fairly easily. Aside from some more well-worded reports about scouting missions or “seeker sightings,” the bots often leave scathing or sarcastic remarks about them in the margins. B-127 is very amused by this and giggles more than once while reading.

There are a few video recordings on file that don’t seem to be anything important. Mostly video logs of the bots inside the barracks, added from their own optic records. B-127 watches them over several times, even after the central power system gives and he is plunged into ambient darkness. It is strange to hear the voices of other mechs and femmes. They each sound differently from each other and B-1 loves to listen to them simply speak to each other. He learns several rather colorful curse words as they mess around. The logs have absolutely no value to anyone, and B-127 deduces that they’ve been added to the archive simply just… for fun.

“—I’m tellin’ you, if you leave that nasty thing on my berth again, I’ll turn ya over to the cons!” One femme threatens, and it sounds scary, but she’s smiling at whoever is recording and has a laugh lodged in her intake. B-1 catalogs the nuance.

“Oh please, you’d have to catch me first!” Replies the mech – Dasher, according to the file description.

B-1 listens to them bicker until he cannot take it anymore, swiping the feed away. His spark is cold in his chest once again. Lonely, and aching in a way he hasn’t felt in days. His jaded attitude peels away from him so fast he shivers.

It had been easy to forget that the shells outside had once lived. B-127 knew, and understood that as fact, but really how much could he truly care when he has never seen one before? Now he has, and they were so… they were so close. A unit, as the datapad had told him. They were alive and hopeful of better days, so much so that they had grown bored of their post and spent their solar cycles simply being a community.

In the end, that must have been what killed them.

Now hurting with the loss of bots he has never, and will never meet, B-127 truly knows the consequences of his curiosity. The weight of life is suddenly so heavy, and B-1 feels stellar-cycles older. He doesn’t smile anymore as he continues to look through the archive.

A new pad reveals a list of names, of each member of the unit. B-127 studies each one and recognizes several from the corpses he has come across, or from the video logs. Some, though, he has never seen before. He holds hope that they escaped whatever came and destroyed their peaceful boredom. The Decepticons. Nothing else makes sense.

The purple and green one from his first day here was the unit scout, designation Briskcharge, a new recruit. This place was his first assignment.

The two femmes in the Energon reservoir were sisters, a split spark. El-0 and Em-2. One was a trainee medic and the other a warrior class. They both have excellent marks noted in their files. They would have been amazing, if given time.

The list continues and B-127 mourns for the bots with his newly deepened empathy, feeling utterly out of place on this planet. What good is a new spark in a war?

It has been going on for vorns now, according to some records. The factions are split aggressively, with neutral parties tragically stuck in the middle. B-1 is not quite sure which of the factions holds the moral high ground, but the Decepticons have a much higher death toll.

He moves to the data chips once he has gone through everything. He intakes a small amount of Energon when he realizes just how long he has been sitting here. He wants to deny it, but his chronometer is blaringly accurate in its display on his HUD.

B-127 searches and finds much of the same – though he is certain these contain more sensitive information. He is proved right when there are several chips he simply cannot get access to. They hide behind encryptions he does not even hope to decipher with such inexperienced programs, and even if they were more viable, it would take serious schooling and upgrades to get through the first firewall.

Well, it may be asking a bit too much to be fresh out of the Well and cracking intricate codes. He loses interest in the inaccessible chips and sets them aside.

All in all, B-127 learns a lot that day. Learns the names of each of the soldiers who once lived here. Learns of the war he hadn’t asked to be born into. Learns about protocol and weaponry and Energon reserves, though unfortunately not their locations. Of the state of cities and the Decepticon’s recent unrest. Too much for a Sparkling with a budding neural net, but he reads it anyway.

He also learns of the existence of a certain Optimus Prime.

***

The settlement is left behind soon after his educational experience. Now that he understands the purpose of the place, the phantoms of what once was haunt him, more than his subroutines can try to convince him to stay. He can’t, not when he feels he knew these people, like his spark connected. He didn’t, and he hasn’t, but he simply cannot shake it, no matter how irrational it is.

So he leaves. Near-empty canisters lazily strapped across his back. He leaves.

Energon is nigh impossible to locate, and B-1 only finds success by using the maps he integrated into his geo-cortex in the barracks. Cybertron is large and the atlas diagram is, for the most part, unmarked. Major cities are labeled clearly but smaller encampments are missing. B-1 guesses that if he had the right clearance or passwords, more information would be labeled.

Not one to be deterred, B-127 pushes on anyway.

To keep his mind occupied – and to distract from his sore struts and pulsing pistons – B-127 keeps his own company. One-sided conversations aren’t really as fun as he would like, but at the very least he never argues with himself. He reenacts many of the conversations from the video logs, word for word, even acting them out when he finds a place to stop for the cycle. It’s not that exciting, but at least it is even somewhat stimulating. The heavens above don’t seem too impressed, but B-1 doesn’t really care. It only makes the idea of one day having a real conversation all the more enticing.

An unending ache in his brain module makes itself known as more and more sensory updates stack on top of each other and his cache becomes clogged as he forces them to the back of his subroutines. When he does find a source of Energon, he allows one or two to flow through, but the new inputs and optimizations do little to ease his over-taxed CPU. The error screens that are irritatingly present on his HUD make this expressly clear. His buffers feel likely to snap any cycle now.

His build is efficient, and his operating system handles the excess information with tired poise, considering his state, but it’s not enough. He needs Energon, resources, and a pleasant recharge. In the orbital cycles he wanders the ruins of his planet, B-127 is seldom rewarded for his efforts.

***

He keeps to the shadows, even when he finds a small colony that appears relatively intact. In his travels he has learned what a “seeker sighting” is and does his very best not to be shot at by any platoon of Decepticon flyers. They apparently have a reputation of shooting first, asking questions later.

So, staying hidden is good. There are not too many bots here, but B-1 can’t tell their allegiance, so he takes great caution. He wishes to think that Autobots would treat him well, but he isn’t sure, he is even less so about the Decepticons. Neutrals would be best. The time spent alone has made him a tad cynical. Regardless of faction, he isn’t sure any of them would want to take on another intake to fuel. Not when B-127 has virtually nothing to offer them.

Getting the courage to test his luck has been rather strenuous and B-1 hates how he trembles at the idea. He wants to meet, to talk to other bots. He does.

Flush drains line the perimeter of the colony, and B-127 makes one of them a sort of base of operations. He has a small amount of Energon collected from his ambling through ruins or forgotten battlefields. It’s not ideal, but he has been able to cope with it. He has a several step plan to finally introduce himself at some point, each step mostly involving him procrastinating. He goes over it day after day, refining it and adding more steps that might help him appear somewhat… useful.

If he can just prove his worth for even a solar cycle, that’ll be enough. He can scrub floors, buff bots, something. He’s small, sure. Inexperienced, yes! But don’t let it be said he isn’t a hard worker. Well, he doesn’t really know if he is – he has spent all his time surviving, does that count as work? It should count for something, at least, right?

His processor whines, hurting and already so exhausted, it can’t take more of his overthinking.

He has yet to imagine exactly how to prove he can do anything, but surely they’d be willing to give him a chance. It’s the instinct of bots to help a poor helpless new spark, isn’t it? If they just give him a chance. It’ll work. It will, he has hope. There’s always hope.

If they don’t want him… he’ll leave, that’s fine, he will. He can be alone, he knows alone.

The plan is flawless, sort of. Not really. It’s really rather bad, actually. Maybe he should just scrap it and start over –

These thoughts wrack his neural cortex for solar cycles. He pushes off action over and over until his own betraying spark forces his servo.

After a rather fitful recharge session, B-127’s body awakens tense. His optics stare blankly for ages as he silently digests the information blinking across his HUD.

 There is urgency thrumming through him. On top of all of his delayed downloads, a fated frame update has scheduled itself. His first of many meant to happen over the next several orbital cycles. The first weary spin of his T-cog as it rearranges his frame into what will eventually become him. His whole self. Rationally, B-127 is aware that it would happen, it’s common knowledge even to him, but he had hoped to be in a better spot to deal with the strain.

With the Energon pumping through his fuel lines, he’ll fry his motherboards before any of his joints even begin to shift. The first update is never a large one, but it’s enough that B-1 knows he just simply doesn’t have enough fuel.

Even if it doesn’t, there is the issue of his growth, period. More mass means more Energon to keep his spark alive, and even with an infant protoform, he has been struggling.

He won’t last long. His processor can’t make up for a weak frame. It won’t matter how determined he is, once his engines give out, so will his spark.

His chronometer sits menacingly in the corner of his HUD, counting down to the inevitable. Static fills his stack as the weight of the files bears down on the smaller, less essential ones. It’s probably not smart to ignore them all, but B-127 knows no better. Or maybe he does, and simply doesn’t care.

With dizzy spells and near blue-screens becoming an increasingly volatile issue, B-1 knows he has no chance of sneaking into the settlement. Not without tripping over himself and alerting every bot there to his existence. There’s no time to wait until the cover of night, either.

No, if B-127 wants to survive this, he’ll have to ask for help. He’ll have to be seen.

By living, functional bots.

Cycles ago, that prospect was exciting. Now it just leaves an unpleasant burning on the underside of his plating. He wants to be liked, valued, but Primus there is a war, what on Cybertron can he do?

Ah well, needs must. He has to try. Weak and small as he is, B-1 has to try.

So, as he hobbles from his dank sanctuary, B-127 tries to remember the video logs of the lost soldiers, orbital cycles ago but still fresh in his data cache. Thinks of the lost scout and the sisters, who all met a bitter end. He chooses to see their hopeful expressions from the logs rather than the final lock of their dying faceplates.

Whatever the Autobot cause is, those bots believed in it. Enough to die for it. In B-1’s version of the story, the sisters died with fury and courage in their eyes, defending their Energon from the tyrannical Decepticons. Briskcharge took that lance to his chassis moments after delivering vital information to whatever major headquarters he reported to. They may have lost that battle, but their mettle was proven through their sacrifice.

It’s a heroic picture, and B-127 uses it to spur him on.

His pedes are unsteady and worn, but he marches with a fiery confidence he does not fully believe. The crest of the colony is close, and two mechs guarding the perimeter spot him immediately. This is definitely not how his plan was supposed to go – how exactly was it supposed to go? His memory banks are annoyingly uncooperative. He stops where he is, taking in a deep ventilation. He squares his shoulders and pulls his antennae back, standing as tall as a new spark riddled with update errors can.

Meeting their wide and puzzled optics is easy, he sees them so clearly. He wonders if Briskcharge felt this way when he arrived at his first and only station.

Well, no need to mix bolts.

“Hey!” He yells, vocoder crackling slightly. His door wings shudder with a twinge of shame. Great start, dynamo they’ll totally let you in now.

The two bots jump, startled by his sudden outburst. They are both armed, B-127 scans the small blasters mounted to their forearms, but neither of them pull their weapons on him, which is a relief considering he had expected to have been fired upon by now. “Is that a sparkling?” One of them whispers to the other, confusion and astonishment laced in his tone. B-127’s audials barely pick up the frequency.

Unwilling to let his resolve slip away, B-127 pushes on, taking another badly telegraphed step forward. He sees no reason to lie, so he doesn’t. His plan was slag anyway, and he doesn’t want to die in such a stupid way. With a cleared vocoder and another shuddering vent, B-1 makes his very first demand.

***

“Honestly, I am amazed that you’ve survived this long, it’s incredible,” says the medic. She is rather fussy and seems more enamored by B-127’s existence than caring for his current predicament. Still, she doesn’t hesitate to hand him his second Energon cube, bringing out a third to give to him later. B-127 accepts it with ravenous gratitude. The medic gives him a keen smile, which B-1 likes very much – making people smile, that is. Especially her, since she’s the first person to ever smile at him, it feels special.

She had hastily introduced herself as Toxrine, barely getting the words out before she forces all of the curious bots away from her… clinic? It’s more of a shed. B-1 is both saddened and relieved when the crowd has to leave. While he is overjoyed that he has been welcomed into the settlement, the sudden rush of attention is a tad overwhelming.

Toxrine must know this and kicks them all out, but B-1 can tell a lot of them are hovering just outside. They don’t know just how well he notices stuff like that, not yet, Toxrine seems none the wiser. She is a flyer, but her wings are a lot smaller than the ones of the seekers he has seen zoom through the skies. Maybe they get bigger? Robot modes can sometime be disproportionate to their alt-mode. Do doctors have to fly very often? Does she enjoy it? If B-1 could get a word in, he would ask.

She also talks a lot. B-127 is pretty sure her intake hasn’t stopped moving since they met all but a handful of kliks ago. So, needless to say, B-1 quite likes her. She’s a lot more interesting to listen to than himself.

He shrugs. “I did my best,” he explains, finding his voice rather soft in comparison to hers. Childish, his infodex unhelpfully defines.

Tutting her denta, she shakes her helm at the data pouring in from his processor, the display a wash of information that B-1 can’t even begin to understand. “Goodness, child, you are two processes away from creating an interloop!” She exclaims with no small amount of dismay. “What a mess,” she then mutters, mostly to herself.

More of that uncomfortable shame spreads and B-1 casts his optics to the floor. “Sorry,” he whispers, unsure of what exactly he has done wrong. This is what he feared, only just accepted and she has already found something wrong with him. The viewing of his processor isn’t something about this experience he particularly enjoys, and it leaves a strange fog in his helm. Like optics are sifting through his every thought.

Apparently having realized her tone, the femme returns her optics to him, pulling her servos from her display console and kneeling to where he is sat on a rather large recharge berth. “Don’t be, little one. You’ve done what you’ve had to, in order to remain online, yes?” Toxrine inquires, voice gentler than before.

Nodding, he places his empty cube beside him, finials pulling back despite his waning attempts to keep them in place.

She exvents, placing a reassuring hand on his helm. “Well, you’re here now. I’m sorry there was no one at the Well when you emerged…” she leans back on her pedes, canary-yellow and maroon paint flashing under the overhead lights. B-1 reads her expression as pensive. “I had thought the Autobots had scouts stationed there…”

His helm tilts, and he gives her a shake of his helm. “There was no one.”

While clearly not exactly pleased with this information, Toxrine hums her understanding. “Regardless, now it won’t be necessary for you to backlog all of these patches,” she gestures to the insurmountable wall of code on the screen. “It’s not safe, nor is it healthy. With this much stored in your buffers, you risk a few errors evolving into full blown corruption.”

That sounds very bad. “Oh,” is all he manages to say. He’s so stupid, a glitch of a spark, of course that was a horrible idea.

“Yes, ‘oh’ indeed. You’re far too young to have to deal with that.” Replies Toxrine, returning to her full height to examine the wall of text once more. “Corrupted files are one thing, that, a medic can fix. I’ve already kickstarted your self-repair, your errors will be corrected in kliks. Now, corrupted hardware? Another unfortunate story.” Her wings sag. “Bio-components like that cannot be healed that easily.” For a moment, she is silent, optics staring at the data-screen but taking in nothing.

 Then, in an instant, she shakes herself back to vibrance, stretching a grin across her derma. “So! Let’s try to avoid this in the future. Should it happen again, it could stunt your frame – or even lock you out of essential programs and that would be so awful for a new spark and there’s no telling what it cou—”

Her rambling continues and B-1 tries to keep up with her instructions as best he can, because of course it’s all important and essential and every new spark should already know this stuff yadda yadda yadda. You’re stupid and you should have known better and now I’ve got to fix you.

It’s mostly helpful if not a little embarrassing.

His attention is mostly occupied by the swirl of information on the screen, and even more so the frame update which slowly counts down in the corner of his HUD. Toxrine is supposed to be helping him with it, afterwards she is then supposed to escort him to a couple of bots who are willing to house him, if not permanently then just for the night. He isn’t exactly clear on that yet and he doesn’t have the courage to ask.

As the numbers tick lower and lower, the medic only seems to talk more and more.

While his Energon levels are now even above optimal levels, which he hasn’t experienced since he first onlined, he still remains wildly unprepared for the change. In theory his CPU will do all of the heavy lifting, he just has to allow it to. However, with the proverbial junk pile of ignored updates piled on his drives, B-1 has his doubts about how smoothly his frame will handle it. He doesn’t want to interrupt, not when she is going out of her way to help him. It would be rude, and the last thing he needs to do is upset these people.

This isn’t exactly how he’d hoped for his first experience with other bots to go.

***

“Oh Primus! We really don’t have a lot of time, do we?” Exclaims Toxrine, having finally cut herself off from her endless chatter about the importance of “fuel line care” and “pre-mature information creep” to actually look at B-1’s schedule log.

His optics roll, but he allows a smile to spread across his intake. “No, not really. That’s why I barged in here.” He mentally kicks himself, that is not how you make people like you. Just because it feels natural doesn’t mean you should say it! This is all his fault, talking to himself for so long, he’s forgotten all his social protocols in the back of his slogged processor.

Only, Toxrine doesn’t pay his tone any mind. Pressing her palms together, she shakes her helm swiftly, and B-1 can practically see her brain module kicking into overdrive. The pinch of her derma, the squaring of her shoulders, he sees it all. “Right, of course – let’s see.” Her expression grows further thoughtful, roaming over the screen and actively avoiding B-127’s inquisitive stare. She’s uncomfortable. Why?

Her cheery demeanor becomes disconnected and clinical in a flicker of the optics. “We’ll have to do a batch upload of all these updates before your frame shifts – it’ll just cause more problems if we wait.”

He nods, that makes sense.

She drums her digits across the console. “Unfortunately, it may not be the most… pleasant.” She explains, turning from the screens to him, looking down on him with professional empathy. “Normally, these don’t take up much processing power as they download – they’re important enough, but they can still be sent to the back of your neural net so a budding sparkling can worry about other things.” Her persona breaks for a moment to give an encouraging smile, before it drops to something more somber. “But doing them all at once…”

“It’s gonna give me a helm-ache,” he surmises simply, more so in unfortunate acceptance than in question.

“—it will put stress on your processor,” Toxrine amends with an amused laugh, optics gazing at him in some form of awe. “You’ll be alright, your wiring is new and still – thankfully – in near-perfect condition. I’d put you into recharge for it if I could, but a frame update necessitates a conscious mind.” She adds, her professionalism swiftly failing as she immediately turns apologetic.

B-127 is pretty sure he already knew that, an inherent fact to ensure a new spark’s smooth growth, but he appreciates her kindness and intent to keep him informed. It’s nice, leaves his chassis buzzing with warmth that isn’t simply because of his engines. “That’s okay,” he tells her, because it is. He isn’t exactly fond of pain, but earlier today he wasn’t sure he would even survive the cycle. So, some discomfort is certainly tolerable.

Besides, he’d hate to upset her more.

His reassurance helps, and she visibly brightens, her optics shining like the stars he so enjoys.

“Alright, then let’s get started. You’ve got nothing to fear, little spark.”

Fear seems like a big word. He wants to tell her he’s scared, but he has no fear. No, fear is what has held him captive since the very solar cycle he emerged. Fear is what has had him hiding from the light, from the stars, from his people. Fear is what clung to Briskcharge, El-0 and Em-2, in their last moments.

Fear is what keeps him clinging to life even with a quivering frame.

***

It’s worse than he was expecting.

Pain lances through his helm like nothing he has felt before and it is nothing like the dull throb that follows him in his Energon deficiency. He can feel the heat building in his neural cortex as it slogs through the excess information. His optics flicker from the stress, and they cast a hazy feed as opposed to his normal pristine picture.

He can’t help it, his vocoder crackles to life. “Hurts,” he whines, clawing at his helm as if he could pull the exhausted wires from his head.

Toxrine gives him a remorseful glance, but keeps her attention on the data console. Shockingly silent as opposed to her earlier demeanor. “Almost done,” she quietly reassures, and despite the pain, B-1’s plating tingles with the warmth of it. He hones in on it, on the comfort of another. She’s so nice, and nice to him. Not just nice to someone on a video log he replays over and over. She honestly cares for his wellbeing.

And in spite of the discomfort, B-127 can actively feel his CPU optimizing, and it is so very annoying. He is glad and equally peeved that this pain is already feeling very worth it.

Seemingly reading his thoughts, Toxrine chirps, daring to look at him with hopeful optics. “Just think, once all of this is over, you’ll have the beginnings of a processor, and a frame fit for such a lovely paint job!”

That leaves him barking with laughter and for a moment, B-127 forgets the pain. He knew it. He knew bots would appreciate his paint! Take that, stars!

***

In comparison, the frame update is so very mild. When his chronometer finally meets zero, the quiet whir of his T-cog and the rearranging of his plating only takes a matter of kliks. Thankfully, it does not hurt in the slightest, not like the batch updates. Though it does leave him in desperate need of a recharge, and upon the last click of his pistons, Toxrine shoves his last cube of Energon nearly straight into his intake.

The change had been smaller than either of them were expecting. He’s a decent few inches taller and in rotating his helm as much as he can, B-1 discovers that his already over-sized wings have somehow grown even more awkwardly large on his back. This is a little annoying, but at least it didn’t fry him.

His chestplate holds more definition, and along his forearms now end in twin razor-like edges. His pedes and cadulens have significantly more plating. He feels strong, reinforced despite his lean frame. Completely different from his infant protofrom.

“Huh, I wouldn’t have guessed that,” Toxrine mumbles to herself.

He’s inclined to agree.

It had been difficult to tell, without their first frame, most new sparks are indistinguishable from each other in terms of build or class. There are signs, of course, but nothing can be confirmed until the first shift of their plating.

B-127 had hoped that with this new update – given he survived it – his first frame would help him to find some sort of worth to offer the settlement. It’s pretty clear that he’ll never be construction class, but maybe something more… menial? Like maybe some sort of tech or assistant.

It appears that B-127 is neither.

He feels them folding into place, twin barrels on either forearm just under his plating, waiting to be brought out once his T-cog grows active. There are empty slots in his neural cortex where combat protocols can easily be inserted with proper teaching.

No, B-1 is no construction class.

Toxrine voices her thoughts, staring openly. “I haven’t seen the Well make warframes in a long, long time.”

Chapter Text

They sure are nervous.

The two of them have been flitting about the space prepared for him like a couple of glitch mice trapped in a jar for about ten kliks. B-127 waits patiently for them to feel satisfied, but he admits this is getting a little grating.

Who knew caretakers could be so… flighty.

Kind enough, from what he can tell, the mech and femme who have generously volunteered to house him (hopefully permanently) greet him with great excitement as soon as Toxrine deems him fit to travel. B-127 enjoys them already simply because they haven’t thrown him to the scrap heap yet. While he isn’t quite clear as to why the little corner they’ve made with him in mind needs to be absolutely spotless, B-1 appreciates the sentiment. To him, it doesn't really matter, it’s not like his plating is exactly clean, anyway, he’ll dirty the area as soon as he steps a pede into it.

He prays that they don’t mind that too much. He shifts on his stabilizers, a pang of self-consciousness scorching through his processor. His new frame is still fresh and he feels unstable on his upgraded appendages.

The femme bot introduces herself as Faylever, taking particular care to spell it out. “I don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea,” she stresses when he gives her a look he doesn’t remember to suppress. She’s a petite thing, a baby blue three-wheeler. His first impression of her is that she is perhaps the most anxious creature he has ever seen. As Toxrine gives instructions to the couple on his care (which he finds mildly annoying that they talk as if he isn’t in the room) Faylever nods along even to things that don’t require it. Her optics jump from the medic to him so fast so many times that B-1 actually wonders if they are malfunctioning.

Even still, she earnestly cares about how well his first recharge with them is, so he doesn’t really mind it. She keeps a firm hold of his servo as they head to the small cubic housing unit, which keeps him grounded as he basically relearns how to walk on his upgraded pedes.

The mech by her side is Newdawn, a tall green and black mech with four large wheels, and he must be the polar opposite to his Conjux Endura because the man barely moves. At all. He only shows a shred of emotion when Faylever asks him for help with prepping B-127’s recharge berth. Then, then a switch is flipped. He dotes on her and asks her opinion often when moving things, wherein she often replies with stressed and unsure whirs from her vocoder. Which in turn quickly evolves into Newdawn asking B-1’s opinion instead.

“Do you want this here? It’s just a box of data pads, in case you wish to look at them, they could be close by.” He inquires, his vocoder projecting a deep baritone.

B-127 isn’t sure about how to answer because no one’s ever asked his opinion on anything before, and he hates that he has no idea what reply will gain him the most favor. This is one sequence where it appears there is no wrong answer, which is very odd to him.

He ponders this. Well. He does enjoy reading. “Um, over there is okay,” he responds meekly, door wings folded firmly to his back, antennae mirroring the position.

Newdawn nods curtly and moves on to his next task, a well-oiled bot who has not so much as smiled, but clearly, he values what B-127 has to say. Truly strange. B-127 makes a notation of the couples’ dueling personalities and the clear grey area some bots live in.

When Faylever has preened the corner to her satisfaction, she exvents heavily, turning her worn frame to him with a creak of her chassis. “I’m sorry, again, we never expected this, I had no time to clean, I hope it’s to your liking,” Faylever expresses, her soft-edged plating sinking as she slumps her shoulders.

B-127 feels a distinct rush of wrongness pulse through his emotional processes, and he clenches his servos where he has them held in front of him. He is so grateful to be given a place here, to be welcomed rather than shunned, but Faylever’s EM field is a coursing charge of raw stress, and he can practically read her panicking thoughts. What are we going to do with a new spark? In this era? In this war?

He wishes he had an answer for her. He isn’t sure, either, but he does know he wants her to feel better. So, he pushes out his own untrained field, trying to emulate something soothing. His optics clock the moment both bots catch hold of the erratic pulses, and Faylever relaxes minutely, and while B-1 can’t even register a hint of Newdawn’s field, he catches a small twinkle of relief in his weary yellow optics. “That’s okay, it’s really cool,” he offers, and he speaks honestly. While the housing unit is certainly modest, it’s more than B-127 has ever experienced.

The berth they’ve prepped for him is on hover-wheels and clearly something rolled in here at the last minute, and it is entirely too big, but Faylever has covered the legs in chromatic decals of characters B-1 has never seen. While he doesn’t recognize them, he likes the color they add, and it feels so very homely.

Other things populate the space and B-1 thinks they are enrichment items which have his finials raising with a small bit of excitement. The data pads sit exactly where Newdawn rested them.

Though, B-127 has to admit his favorite part is that they’ve put him by a window. It’s narrow but tall, safely shielded with privacy tinting, but it is clear enough that should he so desire, B-1 can stare at the stars overhead all he pleases. It’s a nice corner, a good corner, his corner. At least for the night, or a few, or more. Whatever, he’ll worry about it later.

In an awkward show of his gratitude, B-1 shuffles forward on unsteady pedes and places a servo on the end of the berth, his berth. His frame update comes with some benefits, like how he can reach it and certainly get on it without help. Had he been accepted here still with his infant frame; he would need assistance. 

He’s already burdening them enough. His helm turns, and they’re both eyeing him intently. He musters a smile. “Thanks,” he winces, way too informal. He calls on his static social programs. “Thank you, a-a lot,” his vocoder buffers and frag, that was worse. Sounding so pathetic will not make them feel better at all. He sounds like such a kid.

Thankfully the couple seem to have some grace for him, and Faylever’s field is bursting with something warm and tingly, but B-127 doesn’t have enough data to define what it is. It’s nice. “Ah, it’s nothing, you’re welcome to whatever you like B, please make yourself at home!” says Faylever, with a sort of nervous cheer he doesn’t understand.

Home. B-127’s infodex defines it a hundred different ways and yet all of them remain a mystery. The very concept leaves his spark aching with a deep, scourge of longing, and an emptiness that makes his plating shiver with a chill that is not so willing to depart as it was to arrive. His optics scan the housing unit, so small, compact. B-127 isn’t sure if this is standard, or just something having to do with the war. Either way, even with just the couple, this space is cramped. Very lived in but cramped. They probably step on each other’s pede’s often and now with B-127 taking up space, they’ll likely be tripping over him. This is their home, theirs. They’ve offered it up to him selflessly even though they clearly have no idea what to do with him.

Scrap, scrap. They’ve gone through so much trouble but look at this place, they can’t take care of him, he can’t give anything in return. This settlement is so small, and everyone is so nice and B-1 can offer them nothing.

“Hey,” comes a soft voice, and B-1 recoils sharply. His optics refresh with an electric jolt, and upon their start up, Newdawn is kneeling, tilting his helm to be optic-level with him. B-1 freezes, meeting his optics with a sort of urgency and he doesn’t even know why. It takes a moment before he realizes his EM field is a roaring tumble in the air, and behind Newdawn, Faylever looks near despondency. Pits, he’s upset her. How do older bots have such control over their field? Scrap.

Newdawn brings up a servo, slow and delicate in a way that doesn’t feel right coming from him. With that same care, he brings his palm to the back of B-127’s helm. The contact with his plating buzzes in a similar way it had when Faylever had held his servo, and that has B-1’s sparkpulse slowing before he notices its breakneck pace. Newdawn pulls B-1 closer to him, allowing his own EM to permeate B-1’s. It’s very sunny, not what B-1 would have guessed for the mech. “It’s alright, B-127. You are welcome here.” He promises, the depth of his voice smoothing into a calming whisper.

The words spread a shiver throughout B-1’s plating and his intake parts in awe. Faylever kneels down aside her conjux, nodding her agreement as she dispels most of her sadness from her faceplate, smiling with a compassion B-1 has never seen before. His optics scan them both for so long, his processor begins making remarks on each of them with more and more detail until his HUD is clustered with information. It becomes so overwhelming that he sends all the data away to be filed during recharge, leaving the clear view of the bots in front of him.

Welcome, he is welcome here, with them. In this settlement, in this home. The concept has his spark beating erratically in his chest, nearly dizzying. He has done nothing to earn his place here, and B-1 knows that underneath their kindness, this couple are truly terrified of his existence. Not so much of him, a budding warframe or not, he is far from imposing. No, they fear for him, for his safety and his future.

His vocoder bleeps with a small whine. His infodex, partnered with his optics, are masters of deciphering the emotions of those around him. They aren’t so effective when trying to define his own. A wash of sensation circulates his cortex and all of a sudden B-1 doesn’t feel like the frightened little new spark who has lived on his own the past few orbital cycles. No, he feels as he did fresh out of the Well, new and happy and cared for. It was the stars who comforted him then, and now so do these bots, caretakers.

Newdawn pulls him in more, and with a metallic clank, B-127’s helm meets the epicenter of the mech’s chestplate. The heat from his spark pools around him, stronger than that of an EM field and so, so nice. The ache in his own spark is abated, and the apprehension over his belonging here melts away, if only for the moment. The last time he reached out his servos to another bot, he was met with a stiff, glacial response. Now, as he moves his uneasy arms to wrap around Newdawn’s midsection, he is only greeted with gentleness. Larger restarlueus wrap around him, so large in comparison to his sparkling form that they completely encapsulate him. Smaller ones soon join as Faylever finds room.

“Shh, it’s over now, little spark, there’s nothing to fear,” whispers Faylever, and B-127 knows she is lying. The war is raging now more than ever, and he knows that there is much, much to fear. He may be young and lacking wisdom, but he is not ignorant. But the steadfastness of her tone, the caring nature in her and Newdawn’s touch has B-127 all but disregarding his logic center’s line of thinking. For the moment, he shuts the subroutines off entirely. He notes that he’s shaking, chassis creating an uncomfortable racket against Newdawns chest, and he exvents to try and cool his components.

For the moment, he is protected. Safe. It’s a new word for him, used in this context.

Through the haze, B-127’s intake releases a hurt laugh. He should have tried harder, should have held some faith in his race. Instead, he spent cycle after cycle avoiding his kind, and for what? He suffered anyway. Only one solar cycle with these people and he has a berth, the ache of Energon deficiency is absent, and his frame is intact.

He was foolish, to stay away. He’d been blinded by the war. His fear had taken his resolve for so long he had to be forced out of his hiding.

So, as his audials pick up the hum of his caretaker’s Energon flow, the whirr of their engines, and their steady sparkbeats, B-127 vows to see more clearly.

***

It’s difficult, adjusting. It’s also so very easy.

For the first handful of deca-cycles, B-127 has trouble truly feeling “at home” as Faylever puts it. Mostly hovering in the general area of the space the couple have given him; it takes cycles before B-1 feels comfortable leaving the metaphorical lines of his sanctum. Fearful that if he leaves it, he’ll muddy the space not his own, and the kind bots will realize just what nuisance he is.

But Faylever begs him to join her in the viewing of an old holo-film, and B-1 obviously can’t say no. That would be rude. The film is sappy and very romantic, but Faylever enjoys it and keeps a restarlueus snug around his neck the entire time. It takes until the very end of the second act before B-127 relaxes. His optics stop taking in useless information to distract him, and he truly watches the film. It’s fun, despite not really being his speed. “Thanks for watching that, I hardly have the time to anymore, and it's not as fun to enjoy it by myself,” she says once the film has reached its grand climax. B-1 nods nervously, but his spark jumps when she pulls him into a hug.

She shows her appreciation later that night when she helps him push his berth to the very edge of the room, right near his window. He thinks of her as the stars wish him goodnight.

B-1 isn’t quite sure what to do now. His first orbital cycles alive have been focused on staying functional, but now that isn’t really an issue anymore. They offer him more than enough Energon, and he has frequent visits with Toxrine to monitor the state of his biomechanics and the health of his processor.

With that sort of worry out of the way, what else is there to do? He’s too young to work, and even if he wasn’t, B-127 finds himself rather apprehensive about the weapons that are neatly locked away behind his plating. Once his T-cog is active, he’ll be able to bring them out, and he isn’t sure what he will do with that.

So, with nothing much to do, B-1 takes to looking over the data pads Newdawn gifted him, integrating the information on them with enraptured excitement. These pads are filled with much more informative entries, news articles, short stories, and animated cartoons. B-1 quite enjoys it. The episodes are short and a little crude, but they are entertaining and the plot quite engaging, B-1 recognizes the cast as the character’s printed on the decals Faylever decorated his berth with.

“It’s older Decepticon propaganda, from the civil war cycles, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it entertaining,” Newdawn explains one cycle, when he catches him viewing an episode under his berth.

The civil war cycles seemed a lot safer than what’s happening now, from what B-1 learns. Hence the civil part. Lots of prejudice and anger, but less death. He isn’t sure how he feels about the Decepticons, or the Autobots. He had used the Decepticons as his villainous scapegoat when telling himself stories while alone, but he doesn’t know now. Each article he reads is clearly biased one way or another, he finds it hard to form an opinion. Newdawn and Faylever don’t seem too fond of them, but B-127 is too nervous to ask.

He does discover with no small amount of joy that they have two other sparklings living here, though they are several stellar-cycles older than he is. That’s great! That at least proves that B-127 is not the only member of his cohort! He may be one of the last, be the Well didn’t force him out on his own.

Eventually, deca-cycles pass, and he has looked over the data pad’s contents dozens upon dozens of times, he doesn’t even have to call up the integrated data to recite lines from them. This leads him to the enrichment items from Faylever. There aren’t many, but they keep his attention for a small amount of time. Some are simpler than others, just figures which transform with the push of a button, a tasteful recreation of their race. B-127 enjoys playing out scenes from the show, and sometimes recreates the video logs from orbital cycles ago. Faylever is appalled when she first hears him curse, and B-127 learns that perhaps the language learned from an Autobot barracks is not for the faint of spark. He whispers those reenactments.

Most of all, B-1 enjoys the puzzle items. The first one he plays with takes some time to crack, and he does not let Newdawn explain how it works because he can figure it out. He likes doing that, working his processor, pulling up observant subroutines and stressing his logic center to find answers. It comes to a point where it’s been groons and he has made slow, slow progress, but has more or less determined the nature of the item. It is a small silver cube – though large enough in his new spark servos – adorned with several pins impaled throughout its surface.

Through trial and error, B-1 discovers that in order to complete the puzzle, he must pull the pins in a certain order, and each pin pulled out to a certain degree. He observes each failure with keen optics as the pins click back into place, taunting him to try again. 

But he is determined. With each failed attempt, his processor files away more information, his HUD outlining the known correct patterns and calculating the likelihood of future ones. His chronometer ticks by, but B-1 barely feels it.

When the solution is found at last, B-127 releases a triumphant whoop before he can think of stopping himself. He really needs to ask Toxrine to see about his social protocols. If his caretakers are annoyed by the outburst, they don’t show it in their body language or their EM fields, Newdawn even seems impressed. “Took me solar cycles to get that one…” he mutters to Faylever, and while neither of them know B-1 can hear them, he nearly bursts with pride.

The box then twists at its center, the pins retreating back inside the box fully to give the cube full form. It glows an Energon blue and pulses three times before the top opens, one cubic layer at a time. Peering inside to spy his prize, B-127’s optics observe a data chip, smaller than ones built for console use. His helm turns and he finds Faylever, already looking at him fondly from across the room, where she works on her personal data hub. “What’s on it?” He inquires with a tilt of his helm, sensory antennae turning upwards in question.

Placing her hub down, Faylever meets him in his space, kneeling to his level on the floor. Plucking the chip from the cube, she holds it in two digits before pointing to her audio receivers. “Music, you link it with your processor, and it plays from your neural net, circulating to your audials. When I lived in the city, I listened to lots of music while I was working.”

B-1 listens with wide optics. He thinks he likes music – he’s only heard it in the background of the Decepticon cartoon, or in the video logs, but he never listened that closely. “Is it okay if I integrate it?” Asks B-127. He knows he doesn’t really need to ask, but he has trouble shaking the urge to keep his servos to himself.

Of course, she smiles with a quiet laugh, taking the data chip in her digits and reaching to the back of B-127’s helm, running her servo across until she finds the appropriate port. “I’ve had this album loaded for vorns, you can keep it,” she utters as she slots the chip into place. B-127 stiffens as a small jolt reverberates across his processor, and his HUD alerts him of an intrusion inside his neural cortex, his firewalls raising in alarm. With an appreciative glance in Faylever’s direction, he bypasses the warnings and allows the file download.

Faylever returns to her work after that, and B-127 finds it increasingly difficult to sit still. Cybertron music is something he thoroughly enjoys, he decides. It’s metal and strong and emotional. Synthesizers bleed into weeping high notes and B-1’s plating prickles all over. The music spurs him on and he finishes three more puzzle items in half the time as the first. None contain any more data chips, simply resetting themselves to a new solution once he solves them, but B-1 enjoys what he already has so much that he hardly cares.

In time, he goes back to the figures and plays with them, this time creating his own stories with the sweeping orchestra resounding in his inner audials as the score. He finds the drama is far more palpable than it was with just his voice. He still struggles with leaving his corner of the unit, but has gotten better over time, slowly accepting that while the corner is his, he also has the right to the rest of the unit. His stabilizers carry him around the room as he spins with a figure in hand, sensory input wild as he moves without telegraph. With the music, it’s so freeing to simply move. He can’t wait for his T-cog to come online.

 His antennae barely manage to warn him as he nearly topples into Newdawn, who catches him by his midsection before he can fall on his faceplate. The figure in his servo slips from his grasp and crashes to the floor. Horror pulses through him as its head pops clean off along with both arms, he cuts the music immediately, finials pulling back flush to his head, his door wings matching the movement.

“Woah,” Newdawn simply says, setting B-127 back on his pedes, but keeping his servos near in case he struggles with his balance. 

“—I’m sorry,” B-127 blurts, raising his pleading optics to Newdawn for a moment before he scrambles to the ground to retrieve the pieces of his fallen soldier. “I’m really sorry, I was just so, so, I don’t know–”

“—It’s alright, B, it’s just an enrichment tool, it’s ancient anyway,” Newdawn excuses.

His sparkbeat slows just so, but his servos remain shaking as he gathers the pieces. “… But Faylever gave them to me. I should have been paying attention.”

Newdawn pauses, his optics flicking to Faylever, who is casting the two a worried glance, B-127 watches as he waves her off. Newdawn places his servos over B-1’s, gently but firmly taking the pieces from his hold. “Maybe,” he admits, opening his subspace and storing the broken figure from B-1’s view.

B-127 crumples, clasping his now-empty servos together and staring holes into the floor. He’s so stupid, he should have known better. This isn’t his house he can’t just run around like a starving scraplet. Newdawn and Faylever have been so tolerant of him and he has nothing to give them in return. They’re so stressed already and now he is breaking things they’ve loaned to him and he’s got to say something to make them like him again got to do something but he’s such a glitch he can’t do anything—

“I’ve got an idea,” Newdawn announces, breaking B-1 from his interlooping thoughts and causing him to shoot his helm up. Newdawn doesn’t really smile very often, but he does in this moment. He doesn’t extend his EM field out, but he is close enough that B-1 can feel his spark just the same. “We can find other ways to get your energy out, before your T-cog comes online.”

And that… that sounds good. B-127 does have a lot of energy, and though thankful for the safety, the unit can get… crowded. And besides, maybe this is a chance to actually earn his place. His spark shudders at the idea, getting to be useful.

“Yeah… yeah, okay,” he agrees, and he really does feel like the new spark he is. So small, and hoping for approval. He intends to do whatever is necessary to get it.

***

B-127 takes to his little tasks quite well. Well, not really, but he tries very hard, and that must count for something.

After it becomes apparent that B-127 needs more room to flail about, Newdawn begins taking him on his route. B-1 likes work even if it leaves the pistons in his legs strained and his struts sore. Newdawn works as an Energon courier for the colony, spending a good portion of each cycle delivering to the housing units and the few businesses they have. Some units need more than others, and a lot of it goes to the power grid giving the town life.

B-1 is impressed at how much they are willing to give, during his scavenging, he spent solar cycles without even a drop of Energon, but this small settlement seems to have it by the cubed dozen.

Newdawn gives him a brief explanation when he inquires about it one cycle. “There are several old mines and reservoirs in this area. Most of them are empty, now, but we are lucky to have some former miner bots with us who know where to look.” He doesn’t say more than that, but by the slightly troubled turn of his intake, B-1 figures he shouldn’t push it.

His use mostly starts and stops at pinging residents that they’ve arrived to deliver, and helping transport what little he can carry into each housing unit’s stores. On the bright side, he gets to meet most of the town, and while B-127 can see that same anxious worry for him in their expressions, the bots are mostly kind to him.

“Do you think we could visit the other sparklings?” B-127 asks, unable to keep the trepidation from his tone. It’s been on his mind for cycles.

“Maybe when we have the time, you all can meet.” Newdawn purposes, and B-127 is sure to work extra hard for the remainder of the day.

***

“What was it like?” B-1 questions one solar cycle, interest inspired by a story he’s read to pass the time. An old fable about a gladiator.  “Cybertron, before the… this.”

Newdawn is pensive for a moment, leaning back against their Energon cart, spiked arms crossing. B-1 understands it’s a difficult question. Long before the factions of Decepticon and Autobot sent the world into division, their history was far from perfect. It’s been mega-cycles, but B-1 sometimes questions how he would be treated were he born back in the days of the Council. Where warframes were either expected to dp bloody and hard work or be cast aside, locked away simply for their bio-weaponry. Still, good can be found anywhere, even in the midst of corruption.

He doesn’t reveal anything through his field, but after a time, Newdawn gives one of those small, near-hidden smiles he sometimes gifts.

“The entire planet would shine, brighter than the stars above.”

***

Orbital cycles pass faster than B-127 can handle.

“Slow down, B! I can’t keep up,” Faylever calls, trotting behind him as he sprints across the settlement.

He slides under the pedes of a passing mech. Said mech nearly stumbles to the ground and releases an indignant squawk from his vocoder. “Fay! Please control your sparkling!” He calls – B-1 feels bad for not remembering his designation.

Faylever races by with an apologetic bow. “Sorry, Brax! He’s just… Excited!” She explains, and B-1 slows minutely. Right, Brax is his name, he runs a small Energon bar down the street, Newdawn and Faylever like to visit it sometimes. They like to act like B-127 doesn’t know what Energon wine is. The soldiers of the defunct barracks indulged in it quite a bit.

Hardly able to contain his glee, B-127 just barely reels in his stabilizers to slow himself down. Faylever reaches his side with a tired exvent and a loud rumble of her engines. B-1 only feels mildly guilty. “B, I promise your friends won’t mind having to wait five more kliks.” She gently admonishes, still struggling to cool down her components with heavy vents.

B-1 rolls his optics, crossing his arms and shaking his helm. “You don’t have to go with me, I can get there on my own. Lycan and Blue Breeze don’t have to be escorted,” he grumbles, lowering his optical ridges in visual protest.

She presses a servo to the top of his helm, she doesn’t have to bend so far now, with his latest frame update he reaches her hips rather than her knees. “Lycan and Blue Breeze are older and much more updated than you, they don’t have to be worried about being trampled under-pede.” Faylever stresses, her EM field striking out in unhidden worry.

Pulling back from her touch, B-1 huffs blatantly, finials lowering with his door wings in a poor pout. “As if, I’m too fast to get trampled,” he vehemently rebuts.

The femme chuckles, reeling her EM field back – she’s always so forgetful when it comes to controlling it – and begins walking ahead. “I’ll say, when your cog comes online, you’ll be a menace,” says Faylever, mostly teasing but optical ridge furrowed in clear anxiety for that concept. Her optics turn towards the skies. “There’s freedom in that.”

***

B-1 asks many questions, Faylever and Newdawn are happy – or at the very least, tolerant—enough to answer.

“When the city was safe, with just a connection of your neural net, you could learn about anything. I wish I had a more curious spark back then,” Faylever sighs, pulling her knees to her chest plate. “You don’t realize what a privilege knowledge is until your access to it becomes severely limited…”

The sparkling hums, tilting his helm. “Do you miss Iacon?”

Her field flutters at the edges, yearning. “Yes, I wish we hadn’t left, some days. It was never a perfect city, but oh, it was beautiful.” She exvents heavily, pushing off on her pedes to her full height. Her kibble brushes against his shoulder. “I hear the Autobots are taking good care of it…” her optics grow distant. “… But hey, if we had never left, we never would have known you. That’s worth more than any of my nostalgia.” She says, soft spark brimming and leaking out into his own field.

His finials swivel, and his faceplate grows hot as bashfulness has him scrambling away.

***

The cycles roll by.

Blue Breeze cackles, tossing his empty Energon cube in B-127’s direction. B-127’s sensor nods tingle across his door wings, and he ducks out of its trajectory.  “You’re joking! You honestly think that killing him off was the best way to end his arc?” His faceplate twists incredulously.

B-127 shrugs sheepishly towards his older cohort. “I don’t know, I thought it made sense! They were building it up the entire season anyway!” B-1 meekly defends, a smile tugging across his derma, his legs swinging lazily from the roof they have congregated on.

“Man, I think they just realized they were makin’ the Autobots look too good and had to kill him before they started changin’ minds.” Lycan inputs, turning her helm in their direction from where she lays in the center of the unit, stargazing.

That makes sense, B-1 reasons. A cartoon meant to make the Decepticon cause look like heroes wouldn’t fare too well in making you sympathize with any Autobots. “Maybe some of the writers forgot that’s what they were supposed to do.” He posits, looking around to his two companions. He knows that when he is telling a story, be it in his neural net or with his figures, he sometimes forgets the original purpose of what he is trying to say. He doesn’t voice this to his friends, he’d definitely be ridiculed for it. After all, despite being part of the same Wave, Blue Breeze and Lycan are far too old to play with enrichment items like simple figures. Though they tease him for his age plenty, B-1 knows by now that they value his presence as another piece of their generation.

Shrugging, Blue Breeze lays down parallel with Lycan, optics scanning the nightly glow. “Slag if I know, I just think it’s stupid. Just lazy.” He says with a shake of his helm, his array of finials dragging across the roof’s metallic surface.

Hopping from his perch, B-127 meets them in the middle as he lays with them, his door wings just barely cooperating in lying flat. Finding comfort in the view of his oldest friends, the stars greet him fondly. “Would it have been better if he had gone back to being a villain?”

“Uhg, at least he woulda’ been alive!” Blue Breeze exclaims, flailing his bulky red arms above him. “He was my favorite!”

Lycan scoffs, rolling her optics and hoisting herself on her elbows, her sizeable purple wings swinging outwards from under her. “You’re only sayin’ that because you want to join the Autobots.”

Blue Breeze stiffens, interlocking his servos together on his mid-section plating. “Damn right, if my folks would just let me.” He says it with a frustrated bitterness, B-127 turns, observing his friend. Blue Breeze has always fantasized about joining the fight. Being a budding construction bot, B-1 thinks he’d be a natural. “But pits, I’ll probably have to join Drip and Litecal in the mines.”

“They’ve been so busy lately,” Lycan quietly points out.

That’s true, B-1 thinks, Faylever has been cataloguing Energon inventory almost nonstop these past deca-cycles.

This doesn’t seem like news to Blue Breeze. It wouldn’t, of course, not when your caretakers are the head miners of the settlement. “Yeah, but they won’t tell me frag-all. I think they found something, something big. They’ve been hauling in so much Energon that Drip comes home covered in it.” His optics narrow, the vibrant blue of them briefly flickering to a paler shade. “They never tell sparklings anything.”

Her wings lower, pensive, but Lycan has her optics to the heavens above. If she shares Blue Breeze’s irritation towards the older bots of the colony, she doesn’t show it. “If they have found something, do you think it could help end the war?”

Hope spirals within B-1’s spark.

***

He claws at his finials, the uncomfortable sensation it causes sending his CPU into a frenzy. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I should have been paying attention.” B-127 apologizes, frame shaking as his optics take in the Energon spill he has caused in excruciating detail. The townsfolk pass by, disapproving. Energon is not a substance to be spilled in a moment of clumsiness.

Newdawn is upset, B-1 knows. He sees it in the way his amber optics are dim and thoughtful. The way his movements jerk with poor control. B-1 wilts, feeling very close to implosion. He’s been asked not to touch anything, and it kills him to be unallowed to clean up his mess. Newdawn hauls a broken cube back onto the cart.

“It’s fine, B, accidents happen. We have more. You’ll do better next time,” he says, clipped but at the very least sincere.

It wouldn’t have happened to another bot. If B-1 hadn’t been thinking so much as he always does, he would have seen that step coming, wouldn’t have toppled over with those cubes in tow. His optics, for all their advancement, can’t help him if he can hardly pay attention.

***

“Why do some of the bots look at me like that?”

Faylever’s armor tenses, and she just brings a servo to his helm. “Some bots can get… uncomfortable, around warframes.” She answers simply, sending a placating stream through her EM.

The edges of his door wings fill with static as they take in unnecessary data as he lowers them to the small of his back strut. “Even me? But they know me, I’m not scary. My cog isn’t even active yet, I don’t even have claws.”

Her helm shakes, and she brings her servos together against her mid-section plating. “This war… B, they just don’t know what to say.”

***

More cycles come and go.

Faylever is troubled. “I’m not saying it’s a bad idea, I just think we need to talk about this as a colony, I just—”

“I agree, but it’s out of my servos, dear.” Newdawn interrupts quietly.

Though he has his optics shut off, B-1 has his audials set to their most sensitive settings, gained so even the ambient sounds around him are grossly boisterous. It’s rude to eavesdrop, but his caretakers have been keeping secrets. The Conjux Endura whisper on their berth.

With his sensitive settings, B-1 can hear Faylever’s auxiliary vents kick on as her engine heats up. “Dawn, we’ve got sparklings to consider.” She practically begs, and B-1 feels a twist in his neural cortex at the fear in her tone.

Newdawn shifts, his plating mildly scrapes against the berth, it has B-1 wincing. “That’s why we are doing this. They’ll be able to help, they have the resources we need.”

“We have the resources we need, we’ve been fairing just fine, Lycan and Blue Breeze thrive here, why do we need extra help with B?” Faylever’s spark shakes with anxiety, B-1’s follows along. Has he done something to upset them? They speak of the colony, are they upset with him? He knows he’s become rather… rambunctious, but he just has so much energy! He can reel it in, he can. He should have known better.

There’s a tap of metal, and the sound of pedes on the ground. Newdawn has stood up. “They arrived stellar-cycles ago, they’re nearly finished with their frames, slag, they have access to their cogs, Fay. You know things were different when they were delivered to us. B arrived all on his own. The times have changed.”

They speak as if he’s a burden. He works very hard not to be. He has been doing well working with Newdawn! He’s a little taller now, he can do so much more! Is it not enough? His cog won’t activate for at least three more frames. His chassis feels cold, and he wills it not to shake. He knows he’s small and a worrisome presence but frag, he’d hope that by now they wouldn’t be so troubled by him. What has he done wrong? If they’d just tell him, he’d fix it, change whatever they want, he’ll do it. Just don’t send him away, not back to the silence. To the hunger.

Unaware of B-1’s woes, Newdawn exvents harshly, the sharpness of his voice hurting B-1’s audials with a piercing twang. He frantically lowers the gain sensitivity. “My conjux, we put him at risk by not aligning ourselves. He’s a warframe, Fay, you know what they’ve been doing to those. Slag, they won’t care that he is a new spark, they might want him even more,” he pauses, Faylever makes no attempt to fill the silence. “… If they find out about the deposits, they won’t attempt to be diplomatic about it. It’s not just about B, it’s about us, too, my love.”

Quieter, Fay’s sparkbeat slows, and her joints creak as she sits up. “… The assembly is in agreement?” She inquires after a time.

Newdawn’s heel-strut whines as he leans heavily against one. “Enough, those opposed have been overruled. We have a holo-meeting in a few solar cycles. It will be set in stone then. They’ll arrive to help within a few deca-cycles.”

Fay’s field casts out with fearful melancholy, doubt lacing the edges and mixing with B-127’s brewing misery. “Alright, as long as B will be safe. I’ll support it.”

“As they say, ‘till all are one.’”

***

“B, be careful up there,” Newdawn strictly warns, pointing a digit up at him.

He only grins back, hanging by one servo on the communication tower’s rickety scaffolding. “It’s fine, Dawn, I can land on my pedes, even if I fall from here.” B-127 remarks confidently.

Newdawn exvents. “On your skid plate, maybe, those bars are poorly secured at best. If you misplace your pede, you could take the entire tower with you. We’d have no way of contacting anyone outside of range.”

B-127 huffs, antennae pulling back, making a show of dramatically lowering his wings as he begrudgingly crawls down. Just a short distance from here rests the flush drains that once gave him solace. It’s cathartic to now look over them. He only meant to enjoy the view.

***

This is still his least favorite part. “Tox, can’t we just skip it?” He whines, falling on his backstrut in a huff. The metal of his door wings clang against the medical berth under him.

To her credit, the medic only snickers, messing with her tools a short distance from him. “My dear B, keeping your pistons and coils properly calibrated is an essential part of frame care – especially for warframes. Your natural agility requires maintenance! You leave them alone, your protoform will grow sore and atrophy.”

Faceplate scrunching at the rather uncomfortable picture, B-1 scoffs. “I move plenty! I don’t need pokey wires to check my joints every two nano-kliks,” her grumbles, crossing his arms in protest.

Tutting her denta, Toxrine examines a particular tool that seems to be below her standards. “Perhaps, but new sparks like you need monitoring, B. With the constant updates and patch uploads, it’s crucial to ensure that you don’t have to deal with any malfunctions or frame misfires. If something updates wrong and your frame clicks together in the wrong place, your T-cog won’t be able to fix it on its own!” She tilts her helm, offering him a kind smile.

“You may not enjoy it, but I enjoy being able to keep that from happening, and if it does, being able to fix it. That’s my job, you’ll let me do my job, won’t you?”

And of course, B-127 can never say no to her, not when she casts her optics down on him in that kind and energetic way. So, he slumps, scowl softening to a resigned pout. “… Okay, fine.”

***

Blue Breeze fixes him with a serious look. “So, are you gonna join the Autobots when your frame is grown enough?”

Door wings giving away his opinions regarding that question, they lower with a start, and he looks away. “… I don’t know. I don’t see why. It’s not like I would be very helpful,” he answers honestly.

And now servos are fixed firmly to either pauldron, tight enough to have B-127 grimacing. Blue Breeze leans in. “Dude, you’re a warframe, you have to!” He moves in further; a devious smile spreads across his derma. “We could sneak off and join together.”

Optical ridges furrowing in a disapproving glare, B-1 shakes his helm. “We can’t do that, Blue, you know how they worry.” He replies, not bothering to elaborate on who ‘they’ is. “… Besides, just because I’m a… just because I’m armed doesn’t mean I’m any stronger than another bot. If you and I fought right now, we both know who would win.” He shrugs. “I’ll never be the fierce warrior that they need. You could be.”

Apparently disagreeing strongly, Blue Breeze scoffs. “So what? Who cares if you’re built bigger or not? It’s about your spark! For a pipsqueak, you’ve got that in spades, bro!”

B-127 struggles away from Blue Breeze’s grip, crossing his arms. “You got that straight from an Autobot call to action poster.” He points out, memory banks scanning through the few he has seen on data-pads.

“So? It’s fraggin’ true! If your frame really mattered, half of the minibots on the planet wouldn’t be allowed to enlist! But they still kick hella aft!” His spirit is contagious, B-127 won’t deny that as his intake turns up into a smile. “I’m just saying, you’re smart, even for a little sparkling.”

B-1 rolls his optics but refrains from reminding Blue Breeze of his own age.

“… And you being a warframe wouldn’t hurt. We’ve both got potential. Just, different potential, y’know? I’m Wrecker material, you’re… I dunno, Autobot tactical stuff material. Don’t you think that we ought to use the skills we were built with? You don’t think it’s our responsibility?”  

He considers this, has considered it. But really, it’ll be orbital cycles before his cog is ready to come online, and even longer before his frame is fully developed. With no training, he’s no better than any other bot. Just a new spark who happened to crawl out with guns and knives. The weapons stored in his arms and the dormant instincts in his brain module stack are inert simply because of that.

Besides, whatever Blue Breeze says, B-1 is clumsy and asks too many questions and is far too nosey and again, so young. No Autobot wants a soldier like that. Optimus Prime would be a fool to allow him in to even the lowest academy.

Then there’s the whispers among the older bots. There is far too much going on in the settlement to just turn tailpipe and run away. The Autobots certainly don’t need him, at least here, he’s got some purpose. Some.

Instead of saying this, he only nods, absently. “When my cog is active, we’ll see.”

***

It’s a deca-cycle later that of course, only B-127’s optics see it.

“There’s something in the sky,” he points a digit, to the triangular shadow that no one else has noticed.

For a moment Faylever only laughs squinting her optics in the direction he gestures to. “Ah, B. I don’t see anything…” She replies with a slight tease in her voice. Still, something changes in her field, and she does not look away.

Then, the nose of something dips just under clouds. It doesn’t take B-127’s advanced optics to see it.

Faylever goes completely still beside him, B-1 wonders if her pistons have locked up. Her optics are wide with shock and if her field is honest – which it typically is – terror. Her servo suddenly has a vice grip on his shoulder, and they are turning around in a swift hustle that is very unlike her.

He runs alongside her, unsure as dread creeps into his spark, his HUD’s logic center and deciphering subroutines tell him something is very wrong.

They make it to the housing unit, B-1 is promptly shoved inside.

“Stay inside, no matter what happens, you understand?” Faylever orders, a grim horror set in her features that she poorly attempts to hide from him. Her shoulders shake with wanton fear.

And he wants to protest, wants to ask what’s happening, but by his betraying spark, all he can do is nod, numb with the fear he’d thought he chased off.

***

A housing unit is meant for a lot of things. A safe place to recharge, store your personal items, shelter from the elements. It is built for these purposes, and it does these things well.

It is not built for holding up against a Decepticon strike.

The ceiling is all but caved in, metal curling around the edges in sharp, offending angles. Smoke fogs B-127’s optics but he wills himself to stay still. His HUD screeches pings and diagnostics of his damage in grave detail, he blinks it away before he learns something he doesn’t want to know. The first blast sent him flying, slamming into corner of his berth which is nothing more than scrap now. The second has him ducking, praying that every soaring piece of debris misses him.

And with the third, the wall which had once been a pillar of his safety screams with a mighty groan, and B-127 blue-screens the moment it makes contact with his helm.

When his frayed circuits manage to cycle enough power, he comes online kliks later. Each system is slow to boot up, but his sensory nodes are all too eager. The pain is relentless, and it courses through him without remorse. His diagnostics warn him of several abrasions and a sizeable helm fracture, Energon pours from it, coating the view of his left optic in an eerie florescent blue. One door wing is wedged between the ground and the rubble, one sharp edge digs into it with considerable weight.

With an awkward angle it pulls at his lateral scapulas and the joints of his wing curve in a way they certainly should not.

The steep ringing in his audials shows no signs of stopping, the pained sting joining the manic cacophony of screams and blistering explosions which now cover the colony in a thick smog. B-127 whimpers under the prison of debris he has been trapped under, the rasps of electricity in his tracheatic sensors warn him that his vocoder is exhausted and overheating, much like the rest of him. His excessive venting only serves to bring in more hot air and his HUD blares with warnings as his buffers try to stop overclock.

He's going to die like everyone else at the barracks, barely even alive and already extinguished. Barely a nano-klik in a Cybertonian lifespan, his existence would mean nothing, if it ever did in the first place.

Which is stupid.

It’s unfair.

Faylever and Newdawn are out there somewhere, suffering and unarmed for the sake of the colony, for the sake of his safety.

He’s small, he’s useless, but frag he is a warframe and they aren’t. Blue Breeze is right. He needs to do something. His fear is so palpable he could swallow it, it permeates the air around him with his inconsistent and irrational wheezing.

But this is his home. He feels a calling deeper than his fear, he must fight for it.

There must be something. He won’t be the weakest link, he can’t be. The way they all look at him, they expect him to go first.

With newfound desperation, B-127 forces his processes and subroutines to their optimal levels, blinking away any of his HUD’s stressed warnings. He filters out all unnecessary information, dialing back his sensory input to push the pain to the back of his stack. The ringing lessens if only because it’s been taken off priority. He pushes all his processing energy into his optics, and the static lining the edges of his vision disappears entirely. Complete clarity soon follows.

It's overwhelming to see with such perfection. He sees the specks of dust cast wildly in the air, sees the individual rivets of his destroyed home and the materials that make it up. Catalogs each small dribble of his Energon splattered across his frame and the area around him.

It’s enough to bring a pulsing pain to the forefront of his CPU, and B-1 grits his denta with such force his mandible drones with a metallic grinding.

See something, find something. You’re weak and useless and small but you have this. Use your helm, see something nobody else would.

He almost misses it, but his HUD explodes with ideas. Two hover-wheels from his berth lay buried, a short distance from him. If he could just reach them, he may have a chance to keep from being crushed.

With quivering servos, B-127 reaches for them. The pressure on his door wing increases with a rumble and B-1 lets out a pathetic gasp, palms slamming to the dirty ground as he rides out the pain. He doesn’t scream, whether it’s from the shock or the fear of being heard, he isn’t sure. His sensornet forces its way to the top of the stack and before long B-1 has his forehelm to the floor, shaking through wheezing vents. The strain on his back is so great B-127 fears his wing may rip itself from his frame if he moves any further.

With great effort, B-127 vents through the agony lacing him, grabs for coherent thought. With his wing so thoroughly pinned, he’s stuck on his side. Clearly reaching with his servos is out of the question, not if he wants to keep his wing. He could risk it for the sake of survival, but without a wing for counterbalance, his sensornet would no longer be stabilized. Aside from the potential agony, he’d be half blind. But his pedes are longer than his servos, and all he needs to do is angle himself in the correct direction.

It’s slow going, and the exertion he has forced on his processor is catching up with him. His control over his subroutines slips into auto and the sounds of rampant chaos slowly filter back in, and the pain in his helm becomes near blinding in combination with his back. Even still, though a tribulation, and uncomfortable arch of his back-strut, B-1 is within a reasonable position.

Just out of reach, the hover-wheels mock his suffering with their flickering glow. Optical ridges furrowing, B-1 grunts with effort as he stretches his leg as far as possible, pushing the coils in his joints to near-hyperextension. Gears grind and he is certain he feels a few wires pop in his knee, but with the very edge of his heel-strut, B-127 brushes one of the wheels.

For a moment, all he can feel is this small, minuscule victory. He rides it as long as he can, giving his strut a swift turn to jet the wheel in his direction. It’s damaged and leaking Energon through a crack in its components, but it is functional. It’s quick work getting the other within snatching distance, and once they’re in his grasp, B-127 exvents heavily, allowing just a nano-klik to rest.

A Decepticon flyer soars above him, low to the ground, searching. B-127 freezes. His spark races so fast he fears it may implode like a dying star in his chest. He shields the glow of the wheels with his chassis, willing himself not to shake. The debris provides him with decent cover, enough for a sparkling to remain undetected, but it doesn’t stop B-1 from praying to Primus for even a hint of mercy.

His pleas are answered with shuddering relief. The jet flies by without so much as slowing down, canvassing for more threatening bots, bigger, grown ones. Like Faylever and Newdawn.

By the Allspark, are Lycan and Blue Breeze okay?

The deep concern for his caretakers and friends is what pushes him to continue with his idea. Small things like hover-wheels use an extremely small capsule of Energon which can sometimes take stellar-cycles to require replenishment. Too much, and you’ve got a recipe for overheat and eventual short circuit.

If he can overload the mechanics, then perhaps there is a chance the explosion would be enough to free B-1’s wing. He’s no tech expert, but the nature of Energon is essential knowledge, even to a sparkling.

Unfortunately, there is only one source of Energon within reach. B-127 shudders, wincing through the pain as he brings a servo to the gash in his helm. It leaks freely and is likely to continue until his self-repair can find the broken fuel line. At the very least, he can put the open wound to good use. His digits are jittery and do a terrible job of listening to him, but with some finagling, he is able to open one of the wheels, then the other. He isn’t sure how long it will take for the devices to short out, but hopefully it's enough time for him to at least put them down.

Exventing for a few kliks, B-1 gathers his courage as he once did when he first stomped his way into this settlement. His spark, though drained, oscillates in its chamber, telling him to forgo his hesitation. His spark has never led him astray, so, despite the risks, B-1 takes the leap. He tilts his helm, ignoring the wave of nausea that breathes through him at the sight of just how much Energon he is losing.

The broken Energon capsules within the wheel’s mechanism fill quickly, nearly too fast for B-1 as before even a few nano-kliks, Energon is spilling over and onto his servos. His tanks flip at the utter heat of it. In haste, he clicks the wheel back together and repeats the process with the next one as fast as his slogging processor can manage. By the time he snaps the second wheel into place the first is emitting an obnoxious buzzing noise, glowing far brighter than it should.

Before he can think too much about it, B-127 shoves the wheels in a small open crevice. Having two volatile batteries so near to his wing in such a confined space is disarming, but dying here is not an option. Soon the other wheel is buzzing too, and B-1 can feel the heat they’ve begun to exude scorching down his back. He prays the metal burn isn’t too severe.

And the first wheel explodes with a grave and leaden crash, the other soon following only a moment later. The blast is small but loud, worsening the clamor in his audials, but the explosion they create is just enough to shift the scrap, slanting it at an angle and beginning to slide. Just before it can settle and trap him further, B-127 twists his back strut to its limit, pressing his pedes to the debris. Gritting his denta in preparation for the pain, he pushes against it with all his might. His engines whine and his wing’s joint pops a sickening burst. His scapula’s inner circuitry is alight with pained electrical sensation as his plating pulls from his protoform. The agony is all-encompassing, but it’s not without success. His wing grinds against the metal and B-127 can feel his paint peeling down to the mesh, but it comes free.   

He rolls a few feet, carried by the momentum of his pedes on the metal. He ensures he lands on his stomach, rather than his back, but the open air reveals a boiling sting. B-127 takes a long time to find the nerve to look. His chassis radiates heat, and he vents in a frenzy to cool his bio-mechanisms. So much of him just hurts and slag it’s not even over and he’s lost so much Energon oh Primus it’s pooling by his helm—  

But he has got to keep going.

Weakly pushing himself to his knees, B-1 finally turns his helm to inspect the damage inflicted on his door wing. His HUD blinds him with panicking explanation but the inherent knowledge of his diagnostic system is nothing compared to seeing with his own optics.

He tenses, optic lenses becoming pinpricks as he gawks at the damage. He had been wrong, it hadn’t been mesh he’d felt scrape across the debris, but his internal plating. As well as being over-extended at the joint, a long, Energon-weeping slash runs across the lateral siding of his wing. In terms of leaking, it’s no worse than his helm, but to have two points of bleeding is an added weakness he definitely does not need.

His self-repair has a lot of work to do.

Who is he kidding? This is doctor’s work; he doesn’t have enough nanites or Energon to heal up wounds like these. Not completely.

Maybe Faylever can help, if they can find Toxrine…

He recalls an episode of the Decepticon cartoon, where the heroes have been backed into a corner after having faced loss after loss. Battered and broken, the team begs the leader to allow them to flee. He does not. Their leader gives a rallying speech about hope, and the future of Cybertron, and even the simple words are enough to rally the troops, willing to push through their injuries for the possibility of victory.

While he doesn’t think he can ever view the media again – not without shaking – B-127 takes the motivation the fictional hero gives. Musters up that same irrational courage.

With a jolt of forced determination, B-127 stumbles onto his pedes, his stabilizers creating an unfortunate rasping sound at the knees. Leaking or not, he’s got to move.

His spark tells him so.

Chapter Text

The sight of corpses hits him like he has never seen them before.

It shouldn’t disturb him to his spark like it does. The number of fallen bots he has encountered before being taken in is sizable, and though his empathy rested with the dead, laying his optics upon them had only inspired a fatigued sadness within him. He supposes that was before, before the joy of knowing others became his reality.

That was then.

Now, dragging his pede through the rippling Energon puddles has him gagging, laying haunted optics on a mech he once knew. Half of his helm is completely missing, along with the entirety of his right arm. His Energon is still warm. B-127 never learned his name. He should’ve.

There are more husks in the streets than there are live bots, who are on their own mission to escape. At one point, a femme transforms, and in her desperate attempt to find safety, nearly runs B-1 over. He isn’t sure she even saw him. Fear can be blinding like that.

His injuries are slowing him down, but he doesn’t stop. If there’s a chance Faylever or Newdawn are still alive, he has to try.

But his resolve is shaken. Death is thick in the air, and B-127’s olfactory sensors scream at him endless lists of data. He ignores the contents very blatantly. There’s no need to put names to what hides in the smog.

His HUD complains about a lack of Energon, B-127 rolls his optics and blinks it away. Duh.

Newdawn is probably still towards the outskirts of the settlement – hopefully, Primus, hopefully – and B-1 has no idea where Faylever could be, though he suspects that were she to drive anywhere, she would look for her Conjux.

Which mostly has B-1 running around the ruins of the colony like a rabid scraplet. He isn’t sure what he’ll do when he finds them, there’s nothing he can do. Useless as he is. He toys with the concept of convincing them to take the weapons hidden away under his plating, but there is no way his caretakers would agree to it. Not without a medic’s help. He just wishes he had something, anything, to help. To do something to make this better.

A purposeless sparkling orbital-cycles ago, a purposeless sparkling now.

The dead around him, they seem to agree.

***

The Decepticons are looking for something.

This is obvious as B-1 surveys the edge of the settlement. Though flyers and grounders are scouring the destruction of the town, the majority of this unit is clustered near the miner’s usual route. What could they possibly hope to find? Energon? What does a Decepticon unit want with a neutral camp’s supply? Is the war really so desperate now?

B-127 files that disturbing concept to the back of his stack.

***

There are benefits of being ignorable.

The cons’ must have other things to worry about, because they don’t bother to even check the perimeter wall as he shuffles along it. His servo drags across the metallic barrier, optics noting with jaded acceptance the sheer number of holes that now mar its surface. None are so low to give his presence away, the blasts that caused them clearly meant for taller, older targets. This is confirmed when B-1 shakily has to limp around Brax’s rapidly cooling husk.

Many of the flyers scanning the settlement avoid this area, B-1 assumes that the sheer number of cons on the other side of the wall make it a useless task. In his opinion, that is a rather large oversight, but he’d be silly to ignore an opportunity to move without detection.

By no means is the town big, it’s occupied by only a small margin of bots, but it’s big enough that B-1’s stabilizers are screaming from the abuse of running on them. He doesn’t have enough Energon and the circuitry in his pedes buzzes with an uncomfortable static, his body struggling to circulate enough fuel.

Now is not the time to fall on his aft, so he throws his gyroscope into overdrive to compensate for the weakness in his limbs. It’ll all be alright if he can find Faylever or Newdawn. If.

Hope still burns in his spark, he still believes.

 But just to be sure, he begins inspecting the corpses as he passes by.

***

Certain portions of the town have been left untouched. B-1 catalogs this information, but has no idea what to do with it. The entirety of the mining sector is swarming with cons, but B-127 is too far to see what they are doing, even with his optics.

His tanks turn in his chassis as he sneaks by. They’re laughing. They’ve just destroyed everything good that B-1 has ever known, and they are laughing. Making jokes, like this is a regular day for them. If it weren’t for the fact that B-127 needs his available Energon, he’d purge right here on the ground.

He’s such an idiot for ever having doubts about their cruelty. No wonder Blue Breeze is so charismatic, no wonder Faylever shivers at every casting shadow.

Things are not as they were during the civil war cycles. The Decepticons have become something new entirely. He wonders if they even care what they fight for anymore.

Do they even shudder at the Energon on their servos?

***

When he finally spots their frames, B-1’s spark is already dropping down to his pedes. They are hidden under a creaking canopy, a hollow that was once someone’s cosmetic metal working shop. The sky is blocked from view, hidden behind the red smoke that billows in the wind. Soot covers B-1, his wounds stinging. Despite this, the damaged form of Newdawn recognizes him immediately. His optics blow wide, shock and B-1 thinks relief colors his expression.

“B, you’re alive,” he rasps, vocoder just barely warbling out the words. B-127’s venting picks up, and he struggles to keep it under control. Newdawn is fading and only just functional, B-1 can tell. A series of bleeding holes litter his chassis, each one weeping far too much fuel. Without a medic, Newdawn will die within kliks.

Like his Conjux, who Newdawn grips with all of his strength, as Faylever lays across his lap. Lifeless. B-1 gasps, bringing a servo to his intake and hardly able to keep from screaming. His optics glare in horror at the blade driven straight through her spark chamber. No one survives an injury like that, not without divine intervention.

Primus, she’s dead. Faylever is dead.

Pain and overheat have left him quivering and weak, but B-127 forces his subroutines into motion and scans the area around him, taking note of everything before turning to Newdawn. He is so, so tired, but he has to do something. “What do I do?”

Something sad comes across Newdawn’s faceplate and he reaches his feeble EM field, engulfing B-127 in the first pleasant feeling he has experienced in groons. It breaks B-1’s spark, and he whimpers as he meets Newdawn’s optics, who instinctively tightens his hold on his extinguished Conjux. “Ther-e-e-e-e-e is a-a-a-an op-oopening i-nnn the east-east-east wall.” Newdawn clears his malfunctioning vocoder. “Bots are escaping t-t-through there, you must fo-fo-follow.”

A chill casts over B-127’s plating, down to his spark. He pushes the phantom sensation aside. “Okay, how do I help you?” B-1 asks, ignoring the shake in his inquiry.

Newdawn’s entire form creaks as he shakes his head. “B… you’ve got t-t-t-to le-e-e-ave, without-t-t-t me,” his optics dart to Faylever, his field spasming with sorrow. The weight of a broken Conjux Endura is a heavy one. “… Without us.”

Shaking his head vigorously, B-1 finds the largest crater in Newdawn’s chassis, placing his servos on it to staunch some of the Energon flow. It does very little. “No, we can make it together, I believe we can,” he says, fierce and true.

“B…” Newdawn’s vocoder just manages to bleep the name out, shrouded with static. B-127 shudders, feeling the older mech’s field recede with weakening acceptance. “The-the-there’s nothing, B, I-I-I-I’mmmm begging yo-o-ou.” He murmurs, increasingly more lethargic by the nano-klik. No, no, there has to be a way. There is always a way. His spark feels so strongly about this, it must be true. It is true.

His own vocoder warbles. “I have to try.” His entire chassis shakes so vigorously that he struggles to keep the pressure on Newdawn’s broken form. It’s not enough, it was never enough. Newdawn is going to die, he is going to die and B-127 can do nothing to stop it. A vicious and frustrated sob escapes B-1’s intake. “Please, Dawn, if I could just get you to a medic, if I can find Toxrine...” He moans, pathetic in his foolish belief. He knows he is, but he presses on.

Finding what little strength his Energon-depleted lines can supply, Newdawn places a shaking, blood-stained servo to the back of B-1’s helm. Their combined quivering creates a depressing symphony of metal clicking against metal. Slowly, so slowly, B-127 brings his optics to Newdawns. So dim, too dim. Still, Newdawn smiles, resolute. “Toxrine escaped, gr-gr-groons ago. O-O-One of the first to leave.”

The hope B-1 holds so close to his spark, that is his spark, crumbles around the edges. He vents harshly, nearly collapsing right then and there. The reality comes crashing all at once, and before his optics even flicker, B-1 is huddling his forehelm against the crook of Newdawn’s neck, Energon staining his filthy plating. Without Toxrine, there really is no hope. B-1 may be young and a master of denial, but he isn’t stupid. A useless new spark like him has no chance of repairing him, with no knowledge of medicine besides his own base code. He might as well not be here at all.

“Slag, slag, slag!” He exclaims, the misery in his spark boiling over to red-hot rage. He pulls away several pede-steps, taking in his caretakers, one alive but not for long, and stomps his pedes against the charred ground.

“Lan-g-guage, B,” Newdawn gently chides, helm lulling to the side. B-127 turns, optical ridges arched as the anger leaves as fast as it came. He gives Newdawn a broken, helpless look. Newdawn exvents, and B-1 nearly gags upon seeing a gush of Energon flush from his outer ventilation. “T-T-The east wall, B. G-et-et there. Run. Survive.”

A miserable whimper. “What can I do? I’m small and weak and useless! If I escape, I’ll die out there anyway!” B-1 sobs, clawing at his helm in awful desperation. He should be mindful of his volume, the Decepticons are everywhere. In this moment, B-127 cannot bring himself to care.

Bringing a servo to hold the cold, stiff digits of Faylever, Newdawn shakes his head. “N-o B, y-you-you-you’re wrong.” He replies, sounding surer of the statement than he has been of anything.

B-127 freezes in his all-suffering meltdown, tilting his head incredulously at his caretaker. “Wrong?” He asks, almost accusing. He knows affection can cloud judgment, but has Newdawn looked at B-127?

His smile returns, shakier than before but no less sincere. “B, you are stronger than you know,” he says, his vocoder sounding clearer than ever. B-1’s spark flutters. The leaks in Newdawn’s chassis have slowed, thinned, there’s not much time. “I don’t know why Primus forged you, no one can say the e-exact reason for their emergence. But I can say he forged you with a spark built in that many spend eons hoping to earn.” His optics dim, and tension wracks his frame. He is in pain. He pushes forward. “… You believe, you hope, even when perhaps you sh-sh-shouldn’t.” He admits, laughing softly at the last part.

The praise leaves B-127 burning. Were he a better spark, he might understand the declaration. Who on Cybertron would ever wish to be like him? Even his cohort wouldn’t. B-127 isn’t hopeful, he’s stupid, and doesn’t know when to give up. He is a warframe of the weakest caliber, enough to cast weary glances but not enough to inspire any real intimidation. Newdawn is blinded by his love for his sparkling, that must be it.

But, if that’s true, then why is his spark alight and bounding in his chest? As if it agrees with Newdawn? As if to say, ‘this is why you were made.’

“I don’t know why you’ve had to en-en-endure, but y-y-you have, and yo-u-u must d-d-do so aga-in-in.” Newdawn vents, this time, his entire frame rattles with it. “Wh-o-o-o knows, B, y-y-you might h-h-have the spark to-to-to help s-s-save this dying planet.” Newdawn purposes, a confidence in his repeating vocoder.

What can a new spark do that an eons-old, experienced warrior like Optimus Prime can’t? He wants to ask, to make this all make sense because it simply doesn’t. He’s frustrated and in pain and nothing makes fragging sense. Only, he catches on to a particular word that derails his entire spiral. No, this opens something in him, a step to fall into a much deeper one.

Save.

Gears turn and things click into place, B-127 feels the ground slip out from under him.

“The east wall is on the other side of the town,” he states, wide optics jittering from where he stares at the floor. His spark fights against this line of thinking, but his will is stronger. “You were working over there today, Faylever knew that.” Spiraled optics briefly glance over her corpse. Her optics, for all of the horror, are frozen peacefully. Though exhausted, B-1’s analyzing processes fire up immediately. “You both would have had plenty of chances to escape.”

The shine of pride disappears from Newdawn’s dying optics, and he frowns, shifting as if in attempt to sit up fully. It doesn’t work, his chassis only protests with a series of crackles. “B, don’t,” he quietly begs, optics pleading.

But B-1 persists. “… You would have been able to escape, but instead, you backtracked. The only reason to backtrack is, if…” He takes a step back, vents shuttering with his processor. Looking around, B-1 fully realizes where he is. Only a few blocks down are the remains of their housing unit.

“B, it’s—”

“—You came back to save me.”

Newdawn is silent, and when their optics meet, he looks beyond sadness. Something worse, something hollow. “Yes B, we di-di-did.”

A tidal wave crashes over him with such force that B-1 is brought to his knees, servos scrambling and gripping at his sensory antennae like lifelines. The sensation makes him dizzy but he doesn’t even care. His optics zoom to the size of the smallest speck and B-127 gags. His survival subroutines stop him from fully purging his tanks but his circuitry feels wiry and his spark is beating too fast and no, no, nonononono.

“Oh Primus, oh Primus. It’s my fault, oh Primus if you’d stayed, you’d be alright.” He heaves, the words coming out in a slurry as his gyros fail and he feels so, so dizzy. “Oh Primus it’s all my fault if you’d just driven away – but god you didn’t you came back and now you’re –”

“—B, no, please—”

“—Faylever is gone and Primus you’re going too, if I was older and stronger this never would’ve – Oh Primus almighty you’re dead because of me –”

“—B! Stop,” His voice is so small now, Newdawn’s vocoder struggling to pull any energy to it. B-127 has static humming at the end of each of his limbs, and it’s all he can do to frantically turn his helm. Newdawn looks farther away as his bio-lights grow dimmer. “P-Pllllease B, Do-on-on’t th-think like that, it-it-it wil-willlll destroy-oy-oy you.” Faceplate shifting, Newdawn’s features pinch together as a wave of what must be agony passes over him. Still, his optics remain on the new spark. “Res-res-rescuing you was n-ot-not a mistake,” he states simply, mournful but true.

A wounded noise escapes him, and B-127 shakes his helm sharply. “No! No, you don’t understand,” he stresses hunching onto his servos, helm nearly level with the ground. “My life isn’t worth more than yours. What use is a new spark in a world that needs warriors?” Pain pulses through his sensors as he rests his helm down, shaking too greatly, venting with everything he has but still being pinged warnings of component temperatures.

He quivers there like the wretch he feels he is for a while before he forces his helm back up, back to the bots who have died trying to save him. Newdawn still flickers with fading light, eyeing his sparkling with nothing but pure spark break. It’s the clearest emotion B-127 has ever seen on his faceplate. His servo has secured itself to Faylever’s, tight enough that it would hurt, were the femme still alive. The position he wishes to join the Allspark in.

“… I wish I hhh-ad been able to-to-to know you long-onger, litt-tle spark, bec-ause I kno-w-w-w that o-ne day, you wi-ll-lllll become a w-arrior.” His chest plate continues to rattle, losing steam by the nano-klik. He smiles, one last time. In his last moments, looking upon his final project, Newdawn’s optics shift from their typical amber to a deep, deep indigo. “Patience, B-127. T-T-The world w-w-will wa-it-it for you.”

B-1 opens his intake to violently protest.

But.

Then.

There’s no big last vent. No forewarning or sweeping orchestra to signal the end. There’s no last-minute savior, no healing touch. There’s no moment of reconciliation or promise that everything will be okay. It’s nothing like the stories he’s read. Nothing like the show.

There’s no goodbye. Not when Newdawns optics give one last blink, and then he’s gone.

B-1 looks upon the husk for kliks, waiting against logic for his chest to move again in a cooling vent. Waits for the opportunity to tell him how much their kindness means to him. Waits for Primus to realize his mistake, and tear the mech from the Allspark and give him his life back. Waits for Primus to change his mind, and take B-127 instead. Waits, and waits.

And of course, with no action, there can be no reaction. B-127 sits there, optics cast over the shells of his caretakers, spark a roiling mess in his chest.

Then, he screams.

His logic centers erupt with alarm, telling him what a stupid thing that was. But he doesn’t care. In one solar cycle his world has turned from blue to a murky citrine, and he doesn’t care. His vocoder blares with various interference, sifting through the filth which has lodged in his tracheatic lines. He drags his form to them, shoving his helm in between them and releasing tortured howls of anguish. Newdawn’s plating is still warm.

The pain in his chassis is nothing to what has shriveled and died within his spark. His dry sobs cast error upon error in his HUD, all stacking and stacking when he feels too weak with grief to even send them away. Energon that does not belong to him smears across his dented and dusty plating. B-1 has never felt more squalid, and his plating has nothing to do with it.

It’s gone, everything is gone, and it’s his fault. If he had never shown himself, never begged for help. They would be alive. Maybe the attack today would remain, but Faylever and Newdawn would as well. God, it’s all gone and it’s all his doing. Not fast enough, strong enough, smart enough. Too small, too new, too little of everything that matters.

Strain on his processor is evident, it’s too much. There is too much. Still, he persists. Beyond even his own will, B-1 persists.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” he repeats, over and over as he once did to another unhearing husk. The past orbital cycles loop around in his memory banks like a painful kaleidoscope, and B-127 falls straight back down, back to that moment. An innocent lost new spark, ignorant of woes and yet so, so knowing. Has he changed at all, from that starving little thing? There was nothing to be done for Briskcharge then, and nothing to be done now.

The guilt threatens to swallow him, to allow his overtaxed processes to crash and render him a nothing, and B-1 has half a mind to let it.

Only, of course, there are other things around who could do the job for him.

“Well, hello, little bug.”

B-127 jolts with such a start that his optics fizzle out, shooting to his pedes in a way that has him stumbling through sudden grogginess. His spark spikes in his chest. Turning his helm sharply, momentarily forgetting his despair, B-127 wonders if perhaps he has fallen into stasis lock and he has not noticed. He feels suspended, bleary optics meet the rust-red of a Decepticon, peering in through the remnants of the building’s canopy. Grinning.

He isn’t sure why, but the first thing B-1 thinks to do is place his stained servos against the husks of his caretakers. Something not his own possesses him to speak. “Don’t touch them,” orders his drained vocoder, too frazzled to convey the fear he knows is there.

The con’s helm only twists, examining B-127 so closely that he wonders if he is peering into his very spark. Then, turning his helm up, he barks with laughter. B-1 is startled, pushing himself further against Newdawn and Faylever, still irrational in his hope to protect their empty shells. The con returns his gaze to him, sharp edges creating a deadly silhouette as he steps into the cramped space. “Them? Believe me, kid, you’ve got other things to worry about.”

In the moments that follow, B-1 expects to rejoin his caretakers in the Allspark, with his injuries and the weapons this bot is surely packing, it would hardly take even an ounce of effort. He’ll die and be forgotten, just as this entire town will be. Just another casualty of war. Just as the Autobot barracks were. Maybe he’ll get to meet Briskcharge, or the sisters.

That is not what happens. Instead of the barrel of a blaster, B-127 is greeted with two servos, clawing straight for him. He’s sluggish and miserable and tired, he doesn’t stand a chance at evading them as they clasp around his midsection. It’s not gentle and the Decepticon’s spiked digits dig into his chassis in a way that nearly breaks the plating.

There’s no point in struggling, there’s no chance of escaping. B-127 does anyway. With everything he has, he fights anyway. His vocoder buckles under the beating it has taken and completely cuts off multiple times, his inner voice box mechanisms crying for relief. The Decepticon, while annoyed, doesn’t loosen his hold as B-1 grapples, trudging across the ruins of the colony, all but ignoring the sparkling held in his grasp.

“Let go! You malfunctioning mistake of the Pits let me go!” He shrieks, twisting his neck at an odd angle and slamming his denta down onto one of the Decepticon’s digits as hard as he can.

In the moments proceeding, he gets thrown to the ground with such force B-127’s processor buffers short out from the impact with the ground. His optics offline and the gash in his helm throbs. “Scrap of a – fragging hell!” Swears the con, the sharp sway of air telling B-1 he is waving his injured servo to stave off the pain. He’d smirk if he had the energy.

Retribution comes down within kliks and B-127 wishes he’d had the strength to run when he had the chance. “Gee, your caretakers sure did a shitty job in correcting that fraggin’ mouth of yours,” growls the con, suddenly so very close. B-127’s optics flicker back to life, and his helm wound is free bleeding once more, the crash reversing much of his nanites' hard work. He expects to find molten rage in the bot’s optics, instead, he finds devious malice.

The clawed servo drives into the slash in his door wing, and B-127 shrieks in blistering agony as he is swiftly suspended by it. “We’ll have to fix that.” His overworked buffers barely handle noting the pain before he is slammed to the ground again. B-127’s vocoder glitches to one long bleep.

Several things snap throughout his protoform and his HUD notifies him of internal damage to a few bio-components. Wonderful. He feels weak and moronic, the fighting spirit he’d just possessed plenty of has fled completely, replaced by a full-chassis ache and an increasingly clogged data stack. The list grows longer and longer. His wing burns with an intensity so great all of his courage is sapped away.

The con continues to grumble insults and taunts as he drags B-1 against the floor, no longer bothering to hold him up. He catches on jagged metal and his numb pedes smear patches of Energon in some sick form of luminescent art. Electricity sparks idly in the broadened injury to his wing, delicate sensors marred by the broken circuitry.

The physical toll of the cycle catches up to him all at once, pistons pushed to their limits and fuel lines run dry, B-127 really has nothing else to give. He only wishes he could have done this earlier, in the company of those who valued him far more than this. It feels fitting, somehow. His form slackens fully, and he falls into an involuntary recharge.

***

It’s not long, but it’s enough.

Upon regaining consciousness, B-1 intakes a harsh and thready vent. Only his most important programs and functions remain online, the rest are sent to deep sleep until he can find repair and Energon. Well, that’s what his infodex says. As he is finally released and thrown against a pile of craggy sheet metal, B-1 finds it very hard to believe he will be granted either any time soon.

His geo-cortex takes in what few landmarks are left to reorient himself.

They’ve taken him to the northernmost perimeter where the communications tower still stands, if only barely. The starting point of the attack, and where the Decepticons have parked their warship. It isn’t large, not according to some examples in his databanks, likely only occupying a handful of soldiers and a few amenities. But for a new spark who has lost everything, it might as well tower into the heavens, extinguishing the stars that get in its way.

Murderous red optics breathe through his gawking, scoring holes in his helm. “You stay here, got it? You move? Well, we don’t need new sparks that bad.” He remarks offhandedly with a twinge of glee. “We can always harvest your parts,” he adds, pointing a digit somewhere behind himself. B-1 follows the direction.

What the frag. What in the pits of Kaon, what the frag.

Bodies lay piled in a haphazard mound off to the side of the ship, a few minicons circling it with appraising optics. B-127’s optics shutter and spiral, and he looks away before his accursed sight can capture the detail. But his processor, even as hurting and ill as it is right now, does what it does best and catalogs the information. Even the brief blip. Nausea roils against his inner components and his already barren tanks burn through the filters. Many of the bots B-1 recognizes, faces he once knew, ones that smiled upon him or rolled their optics at his reckless and often clumsy antics. Some of them glared, weary of war and in turn weary of the weapons locked away inside him. Weary of the frame he hadn’t asked to be born with.

Not all of them were bots B-1 liked, but they did not deserve this. No one does.

His field erupts with a burning peel of bereavement and empathy, a clipped sob blubbering from his dermas. Primus, he’d known the horrors of this planet, this war, seen it with his own infant, ignorant optics, but this.

He had put the settlement in a bubble, had assumed that because they had no faction, they would be spared. He’d come to believe it was an unspoken rule, despite the grueling reports he’d read at the Autobot barracks. What a fool he was, what a fool he is. A typical new spark, so small, so new, so stupid.

“… B…? Is that you…?” Comes a small, gloomy voice. B-1’s plating ceases its convulsion, and his memory banks fire with familiarity and his helm whips around.

The Decepticon has wandered away, seemingly confident in his ability to stop an injured, exhausted sparkling. But that isn’t what B-127 worries about. Instead, his venting jitters uneasily as he takes in the new sight before him. Though the top half of her faceplate has been all but cleaved away, B-1’s spark bursts with relief upon seeing Lycan.

Though only feet from him, B-1 has to crawl to her. The worsened gash in his wing has affected his balance as his sensory nodes misfire and spark. “Lycan. Yes, it’s me, oh slag, thank Primus you’re alive,” he greets, tone low so as not to distract the cons pottering around. His HUD lights up with activity, all observations on Lycan’s state, its prognosis grave but not deadly, not from what he can see on the surface. Stasis cuffs bind her wrists and wings, effectively leaving her T-cog powerless. Her optic ports are completely gone, leaving her sufficiently blinded aside from her sensornet and EM field. Without a skilled medic and incredible Cybertronian engineering, Lycan will never see again.

Various superficial dents and broken fuel lines leak Energon throughout her frame, but the jagged mutilation of her helm is the worst of the damage. His own injury throbs in sympathy, though in comparison, his pain feels rather minor. At least he has been able to keep all of his faculties somewhat intact. The agony must be immense. Lycan’s protoform vibrates with a clattering of metal as she tries and fails to hide it from him. Her discordant ventilations give it all away. B-1’s own discomfort falls away for the moment, and he steels himself.

 Extending his field, trying to convey comfort and camaraderie rather than the underlying fear, B-1 places his palm on her forearm. For a nano-klik, she grows stiff under the contact, but his field must bring some sense of safety, as she relaxes a moment later. He feels her field reach out as well, but it holds more gratitude in it than comforting waves, she is terrified, and beyond so, she’s traumatized. She fully yields herself to his field, taking in his warmth in greedy pulling motions. B-1 lets her, finials falling sadly as he brings her bound servos to press against the epicenter of his chest, the home of his spark chamber.

Like a frizz-rat deca-cycles without Energon, Lycan exvents heavily, leaning in with almost her entire weight. “It’s warm,” she mumbles, mostly to herself. Crestfallen, B-1 shakes his helm; a warm spark is all he has to offer her. He can give her no healing, no answers. To try and ease her, he fires up an old way of sparkling speak. Cybertronian Morse code, their oldest language. Telling her nothings through whirrs and bleeps. It’s universally understood, but there’s something personal in speaking it with another new spark.

“It’ll be alright, we’ll make it out, have hope,” he beeps, forcing the doubt from his spark.

She responds with less vigor, just hopeless clicks, and a single chirp. “Maybe.” B-1 appreciates her attempt. It’s been longer for her, anyway. The older you get, the more difficult it is to speak in that way, even if the awareness of meaning never fades.

“… Can I ask you what happened?” He gently inquires, pushing an intentional amount of understanding through his field. If she doesn’t want to tell him, she does not have to. Primus knows he wants nothing more than to forget.

Her form stills, and her erratic field destabilizes for a moment, but she nods a moment later. “Got caught in Mach Ten’s store, tried t’ hide. It didn’t work. Debris. Ten tried t’ help.”

Grief briefly encircles her frame and B-1 can only assume it must mean her caretaker did not make it. B-127 inclines his helm in solidarity, pulling back his personal feelings to allow her space to crumble just a little. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, Lycan only whines.

Despite his mental protests, B-1 gathers his nerve to observe the area once more. Decepticons litter the area, some mining class while others hold the obvious armed weaponry of warriors. Some glance in their direction, but none truly pay attention. Why should they? Lycan is too afraid to move and unable to see if she wasn’t. B-127 is even less consequential. Who needs stasis cuffs for a new spark whose cog hasn’t activated yet? They could crush him under-pede without so much as twitching.

Lycan swallows. “What are they doin’?” She asks, barely audible. B-1 curses himself, his inquisitive nature must have leaked through his field, cluing Lycan in on his actions.

His optics narrow. “I don’t know, I think they’re gonna use the bodies for… parts.”

“… Bodies?” She asks, a tremble coursing through her.

B-127 admonishes himself, Lycan can’t see. She doesn’t know. “There’s… a pile,” he answers, guilt sloshing through his spark despite his honesty. There is safety in ignorance.

The young femme shivers, denta gritting in pure revulsion. “Their spark chambers are hollow.”

He nods, then squeezes her arm when he recalls her condition. “I think they’re looking for something too, there’s an entire separate seeker squad around the mining sector.”

In a moment of surprising clarity, Lycan releases a harsh and bitter laugh. “Whatever it is, I hope it’s worth it. The Allspark has welcomed many today.” States Lycan, her pauldrons shaking with strain. “… Blue Breeze tried t’ fight.”

Spark hitching, B-127 chews his dermas, leaning forward to keep only Lycan in audial range. Blue Breeze would. He has always possessed such a strong and fierce spark. B-127 has always looked up to that. He would never allow his despair to overwhelm him, he would continue to look forward. Would continue to fight. “Is he…?”

In response, she only shrugs, the shivering growing tenfold as she lays out her thoughts. “I… I don’t know. They took us…  together, I don’t know what he did but… they separated us.” Spiked and raw agony lances across the edges of her field, and B-1 winces. The two knew each other for stellar cycles before coming to know B-1. The loss of that bond is dreary and thick around her spark. Lycan pushes nearer to his chest plates.

The sky is a deep shade of crimson, no stars peak through the smog. The land is cast in a brittle glow. The agony of the cycle threatens to take him over, as his wide optics try and try again to find the shining heavens that once brought him so much comfort.

His free servo clenches. “Why are we still alive?” He asks, swiveling his helm to the sparking gash in his door wing, blinking manically with the exposure of his internals. The Decepticon easily could have killed him with his bare servos, but instead chose to spare him, only harming a non-essential bio-mechanic. “Out of all the bots to keep alive, what use do they have for new sparks?”

For a time, Lycan is silent, B-1 turns to observe. She pulls her field tight against her frame, B-127 can no longer clearly distinguish her emotions. But under the quivering of pain, B-1 thinks he finds resignation within her body language. “I believe they intend to… make us one of them.”

All B-1 can hear is the un-yielding ring in his audials, and the flickering of fire. Cold in his chest, B-1’s spark fluctuates wildly, threatening to implode. His optics blow wide, staring at Lycan in horror. “What?” he asks dumbly. His antennae rise to their full extension and his door wings try to follow. His injured one whines and only buckles as it tries and fails to heed the command.

Gravely, Lycan nods, her bound servos pressing into fists against his chest. “Mach Ten says the Decepticons have been stealin’ new sparks right outta the Well,” she chuckles sadly, the noise morphing into a dry sob. “I thought he only said it t’ keep me from flyin’ too high when the skies were clear.”

Terror prickles across the mesh of his plating, his sparkpulse picking up as his optical ridges’ narrow. “Well, we aren’t right out of the Well, they can’t possibly think we’ll comply!” He whispers, fearful and indignant at the same time.

Resting her forehelm against B-127’s bitarlueus, her mouth turns downwards in a hopeless frown. “We don’t have to, B,” she mumbles heavily, her field casting back out in an oscillating torrent of fear and dread. “… Their engineering is second to none, B. They can make us, change us by force.”

Change us, his mind repeats, looping the feed and gripping his spark. He doesn’t want that; he doesn’t want that at all. Death and spilt Energon hang heavily in the atmosphere, stinging at his spark and burning his olfactory sensors. The Decepticons caused this, had burnt up his home and nearly everyone in it. His optics shutter to the ship, the sharp and threatening insignia branded to its side sending a chill down to his pedes. His weapons sit like lead in his arms.

This could not happen. This would not.

These monsters would not turn their victims into murderers.

“I’ve got to get closer,” he suddenly says, lurching forwards to eye where a small group of cons are speaking. Lycan’s desperate servos clench and unclench where his chest had just been, her shaking worsening almost immediately from the loss of contact. B-1 turns back, guilt swiftly swarming him as he sinks back down with her. “Lycan, I’ve got to get closer,” he gently repeats, placing his servo against her spark chamber this time around.

She shakes her head sharply. “No, B, you can’t. They’ll kill you,” she stresses urgently, hurt creeping into her tone. “They’ll kill you,” she says, barely audible, a deep ache pressing around her.

At that moment he notices his own shaking, his palm chittering against Lycan’s chest plate. He invents, offlines his optics, and then exvents. His components don’t require it, they are hot underneath his armor but no longer overheating, but the action readies his resolve. His optics blink back and he nods to himself. “Maybe,” he concedes, casting a scanning glance across the Energon-stained area. “… But if I can get some information on what they’re doing, I could find a way to get us out of this.” He tells her, his processor is already whirring with potential.

But Lycan only exvents, wincing slightly as she shakes her helm. Her servos clamp around his arm. “You don’t get it… B, there is no getting out.” She states, hopelessly, helplessly.

Spark pulsing in quick succession, B-1 worries his dermas, fruitlessly nodding his helm. “No, don’t say that. I can find a way. I can figure something out, I’m good at that.” He says, an edge of pleading in his tone, his tired vocoder buzzing around the edges of his words. Doubt swims in the recesses of his brain module. He shoves the feeling to the back of his logic centers. Sure, almost everything is lost, Newdawn and Faylever’s deaths loom heavily over his spark, but Lycan is alive, and he is alive. If he can just get her out of this mess, there may be something left.

“I can’t let this happen.” He leans over her, gently pressing his forehelm to her own with a metallic clink. “I just need to get closer,” his voice switches to code. “Don’t give up hope.”

Lycan’s intake opens to protest, but by the tightening of her pauldrons, and the curling of her knees, B-1 has talked her down. “Quickly, B, please… I don’t want to be alone,” she trills despondently, unable to keep the unease from her field and her expression.

Out of habit, his dermas upturn into an encouraging smile. Predictably, Lycan doesn’t react, but B-1 holds the smile anyway. “I’d like to see them try and catch me,” he proudly taunts, pushing as much false confidence as he can into his voice.

It has the intended effect, and Lycan laughs, glitched and quiet, but a laugh all the same. “Sure. As long as you don’t trip over yourself,” she gently teases, some shaken levity bleeding through her field.

The burden of the day is far for just a nano-klik, but B-1 preens under the comfortable atmosphere. B-1 drinks it in with reverence and cements the feeling inside his spark. The moment he turns, it will be gone, and his caretakers will be dead, and fire will burn his home away. But in this small moment, this vignette, he shares a connection with his friend, a member of his generation, and a survivor. “I’ll be back soon,” he promises.  

With that, he is off. His optics notate the number of visible Decepticons and their direction in relation to where he wishes to go. He looks around and up twice, three times, before he feels confident in moving.

His pede-falls are silent but heavy, his processor throbbing dully in time with his sparkbeat. With many of his subroutines offline to conserve power, he has no way of recategorizing the importance of his sensornet, leaving him no choice but to feel the full force of his injuries and lack of Energon. His efficiency programs take up a large percentage of his processing power as they do their job of keeping him online despite the circumstances. Drawing power from his unused mechanics like his T-cog or weapons and circulating it. His gyros are largely unhelpful, especially with his marginally functional door wing, he is wobbly on his pedes.

But it helps to be small. Most bots wouldn’t think of looking down when searching for a prisoner. His youth may have gotten his caretakers killed, but in this specific instance, it’s his greatest asset. He takes a couple of moments to rest behind what was once a fence, now dented and warped in the wreckage. His venting grows obnoxious as his engine rumbles under his chassis, a complaint of exertion. He pushes on.

There is a small collection of Energon cubes near the ship, a short distance away from where three cons are discussing something. He recognizes one of them as the bot who hauled him over here. It would be far too dangerous to get too close were it not for the sheet haphazardly laid atop the pile. That could give him decent cover, and if he can nab some Energon for Lycan and himself, they may have enough energy to get away. Maybe. Frag, he wishes an adult was here. One that didn’t want to wipe his processor or turn him into an irredeemable soldier.

Thirty nano-kliks pass before B-1 feels secure enough to dash to it. Pushing a large amount of his Energon to his stabilizers, B-1 bends his knees, vents, and pushes off with a mighty force. Thank Primus he was forged for speed. Strength would be better, but speed helps too.

He red-lines to make it there without detection, scrambling to his knees and dashing under the tarp, venting harshly to bring his mechanics back to a reasonable temperature as well as cycle his Energon back to his most necessary functions. The glow of Energon cubes creates an unpleasantly detailed contour as B-1 briefly examines himself. The state of his frame cannot be understated – he is completely disheveled. Dirt and soot grind at his transformation seams and Energon blankets his plating with various levels of severity.

Whatever, if he can survive this day, then he can treat himself to a nice oil bath. In his helm of course, since he isn’t sure when he’ll be able to find one. Semantics.

He drags himself by his spiked elbows until he finds a decent crevice to lodge himself in. If a con were to pass by, it would not do him well to be caught by the outline of his frame underneath the tarp. To be safe, he lifts several cubes around him to deepen the space.

Now, his audials are still stuck with that fragging awful ringing, though it has lessened in his left. He needs a clear channel, lest he risk mishearing something and getting he and Lycan killed, and besides, it will conserve his power too. So, he reaches a shaking servo to the right-most side of his helm, using his digits to gently pull at the plating until it comes loose with a pop. It only stings for a moment, and with his systems down he cannot do this automatically.

Fishing around his audial canal isn’t exactly pleasant, but he doesn’t have to go very far before he finds a small trigger in its wall. With a tug, his right audial deactivates. B-1 invents, relief at the quieted ringing washing over his processor. It doesn’t aid his sensornet, but it should help him focus for the moment.

Tilting his helm, B-1 then channels his processing power to his left audial, gaining up the sensitivity and bringing the volume as loud as he can bear it before the ambient noise becomes torturous.

His Energon sluggishly running through his lines, the pulse of his spark, and the quiet rumble of his engines. The crackle of fire, the subtle buzz of the Energon cubes. The heavy pedesteps of Decepticons, the clanging of metal. The raze of wind.

B-127 filters through the noise until he finds the voices.

A rough, gravelly tone. “—And I’m telling you that isn’t plausible. We need people here.”

The groan of a vocoder, B-1 recognizes this as the voice of the con that captured him. “Yeah, yeah, I just don’t get why it’s gotta be me. The last thing I wanna do is babysit a buncha’ miners. Aren’t there drones who could be doin’ that slag? Programmed for it and everything.”

Another con scoffs. A monotone, colorless voice. “Take it up with Commander Starscream. This place requires fortification for when the Autobot’s inevitable arrival and you happen to be an expert. You’ve been given a mission, it’s hardly my fault you don’t want to complete it.”

A shuffling. “Easy for you to say, you get to get the slag and leave.”

“On the contrary, Locke Up. Though my job here is nearly finished, I will be doing my own babysitting.”

B-127’s spark chills, and he brings his helm to his knees, shuddering. That doesn’t sound promising. The Autobots are coming? When? Why? What reason would they have to come to the rescue of some back-alley Neutral settlement? None of that is helpful, it only cements the dread he’d been keeping at bay. The cons don’t plan on leaving, and the ones that are will be taking Lycan and B-1 with them. Slag. He’s got to think.

“I guess. Be careful with the brats, the yellow one bites.”

That does bring a smile to his dermas, despite the horror pulsing through him.

“I’ll keep it in mind. Even feral animals learn to quiver under the whip, Locke.”

And just like that, the smile is gone. That doesn’t inspire any hope for him if they end up on that ship. Lycan won’t be able to withstand it, if she lives, her entire self will be wiped away. B-1 doesn’t know this for certain in his processor, but his spark is adamant. He needs to find a new plan.

First, he needs Energon. His spark twists with guilt as he consumes a cube without Lycan here to have one too. But he has failed to gain an edge, only confirmed the dire facts of the situation, he needs strength, needs access to his subroutines. He intakes the substance in greedy gulps, mildly annoyed as fresh Energon falls from his forehelm, just a small rivulet where his nanites have grown too tired to heal him efficiently. At the very least, now they will be swift.

He only takes one cube in before his remaining audial picks it up.

A scream.

Lycan.

“No, please, let go!”

No, no, no.

With a start, B-1 slams to his pedes, using his newly reactivated subroutines to bring his right audial back online. He won’t be able to run effectively without it. At the same time, he dials down his left audial settings to keep from blowing out the sensors.

For a moment, he misses those damn Energon canisters. There is no way he can carry any cubes and be fast enough to help Lycan at the same time. She would go without. The Energon that he’d taken in sours in his tanks. He’s so fragging selfish, ugh. She had begged him not to leave her and he did anyway. The information he’d learned was useless anyway. Terrifying, but useless.

His optics peak out from under the sheet, with no cons in his immediate direction, B-1 makes his move. Though his injuries pound and a recharge notice blinks tauntingly in his HUD, B-1 now has the ability to push all of it aside. His off-balance stabilizers move rapidly, gliding to his knees and catching on his spiked knee-caps behind that same fence.

Lycan continues to scream, he hears her thrashing.

He shouldn’t have left her. Shouldn’t have let Faylever leave. Shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t.

Venting in desperate, hushed gasps, B-1 tries to come up with some sort of idea. Something, anything. If he runs to her now, he will only be killed for getting in the way, or simply dragged along with her. Both hold irreversible consequences.

But he doesn’t know, Primus, he doesn’t know.

He’s got to try. By the Thirteen he has got to try. Blue Breeze would. His logic centers unhelpfully point out the bot’s unsure fate, but B-1 pointedly ignores it.

Screw it, he’ll run to her, it will be stupid, but he has no other plan. Maybe, just maybe, he can take the heat off of her for a moment, and she’ll be spared, if only for a klik or two. He has more energy; he might be able to sling her over his shoulder and run. Maybe. She’s taller than he is, and her wings are long and obtrusive. But he can try, oh, he can try. They have to stick together; she is a part of his cohort. They must.

A shadow, and a threatening, bubbling EM field. B-1’s plating locks up, and his sparkpulse increases from racing to slag near lightspeed. The new Energon within him runs through his fuel lines with frantic abandon as his processor shorts out, unsure of what to do with the horror spreading down from his helm to his pedes. His helm tilts, his optics widen, and zoom two sizes too small. That mech, Locke Up, apparently, grins down at him, sharp denta marring his faceplate.

“Now now, little bug, what did I tell you about wandering?” He taunts, pointing a clawed servo to the ground.

His entire frame shudders, and B-1 follows the digit’s guidance. His spark skips. Beginning from the place Lycan and he were being kept and all the way to the covered cubes, there are small, trickled puddles. Deep, glowing blue puddles. Energon. It doesn’t matter how fast he is, how smart he played it, he left a fragging trail. He had left a trail.

His helm whips around, and his whole frame may as well melt into yellow and black slag. It’s a moronic thing to forget, and shame bursts from B-1’s spark and tingles across his plating. As if to mock, his door wing continues to lazily leak Energon. It has been since Locke dug his servo into it. How could he forget it? His non-essential systems shut down and he immediately forgets? He has to have the fragging HUD ping of a leak right in front of him? A crucial oversight. A stupid oversight. “Scrap,” he breathes.

“So, you recall; good.”

And the servos are digging into his wing again. The same one, in the same place, this time deeper, rougher, and much, much angrier. The sharp digits slice through the delicates of his internals, snapping vital wires and shredding sensor nodes like a blade to hot metal.

Sensory data pours in and B-1 offlines his optics to wail as the dull ache of his wing reignites into a fresh monsoon of stringing intense pain. Locke drags him the same way as before, but B-1 struggles against the abuse. This is not supposed to happen, B-127 cannot save Lycan if he is trapped within his own conflict.

All at once, B-127 is shoved against the sheet metal he and Lycan had been left by. Locke releases his wing with a wet scrape as he presses the bloody servo to B-1’s chestplate, firmly pinning him in place. While B-1 weakly fights, clawing at the servo holding him down, his optics swivel and turn to try and find Lycan. Behind the foreboding silhouette of his captor, B-1 finally spots her. Two vehicons have her by her wings, utterly unaffected by her kicking and screaming. They loom closer and closer to the maw of the warship.

“Lycan!” He yells, pushing his vocoder as loud as it can go in order to reach her. Locke growls and pushes further against B-1’s chest plate, making the armor creak under the pressure. B-1 gasps but continues to fight. His spark chamber rattles, as if trying to escape from his chassis.

Even from the distance, B-1 can see the moment Lycan hears him. Her armor locks up and she tries to wrench herself free. B-127’s entire protoform feels cold. There is no way she can free herself. “B! B, please! Help me! Don’t let them take me!” She screams, her vocoder shrill as terror grips her so tightly. Nausea roils and B-1 shrieks, frustration and devastation pulling at his spark. He can’t save her, she is so afraid, so alone and hurt and B-1 can do nothing. Something breaks apart inside him as he watches them tow his last friend into the ship’s hangar. Her shrieks continue to echo within his audials.

Newdawn and Faylever’s sparkless optics bore into him.

For all of his spirit, Locke Up doesn’t even twitch. In fact, he appears rather amused. An indignant growl bubbles from B-1’s throat and he glares, as hard as he possibly can. “What are you going to do to her?” He loudly asks, allowing anger to imbue every syllable. A poor attempt to hide his anguish. His field casts wild and wide, lapping at the pedes of the nearby soldiers.

Locke snickers, nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders. “Eh, she’ll be fine.”

“She can’t see!” B-1 loudly protests, his vigor returning to try and bite the con again. If he could just bend his fragging neck enough.

Using his other servo, Locke Up simply waves him off. “Ah we can get her new ones, nice and fancy,” he remarks, returning his optics to B-1, he brings a digit down to his faceplate. B-1 leans as far away as he can manage. The pointed claw hangs agonizingly close to his optic. “Maybe not as fancy as yours, but she won’t mind.”

Pauldrons tensing, B-1 grits his denta. His spark pulse rages within his chassis, so intense it resounds in his helm. “You’ll make her into a monster!” He declares miserably, his ire petering between sobbing and screaming.

The seeker’s optics narrow, and he leans over to meet B-1’s faceplate. His hot ventilations tingle across B-127’s helm. In an instant, B-1’s field is completely overshadowed by the complete and total hatred and sadistic glee within Locke’s. “We will make her strong.” He rebuts emphatically, vocoder a dangerous low that sends a tingle across B-1’s plating. His intake twists, dermas forming a sickening grin. “We’ll make you strong, too.”

“B, you are stronger than you know.”

And as the ringing in B-1’s audials grows to a screeching crescendo, B-127’s spark lurches in his chest, and his chassis bursts along with it. No, no. Newdawn and Faylever did not die for this. By Primus they should not be dead at all but more than anything they did not die for this. They are gone and now so are Lycan, Blue Breeze, all of the bots B-127 once knew. They are gone.

But B-127 is small, he is new, and he is alive.

He will not be changed, not by these sparkless creatures and not by this war. A fierce roar rips through him. “No! I refuse!” He howls, gripping at the con’s wrist with more strength than he has. The plating of his bitarlueus only rattles along with his desperate shaking, but his determined spark remains.

The talons close around his transformation seams, and within a blink, B-127 is suspended in the air, held by his chest plates so tightly B-127 feels hairline cracks spider across his chest. Fresh Energon buds from the fractures, but B-1 doesn’t let the hurt show on his face. The crimson of Locke Up’s optics glows brighter than ever. “Tenacious little spark, you’ll soon learn that in this life, what you do and don’t want matters very, very little.”

B-127 quivers, optical ridges set in a wavering glower. This can’t be it, he’s only just begun, this cannot be it. Misery abounds but his spark is so, so sure.

“Intact, Locke Up,” admonishes that voice from earlier. A slender black Decepticon with a medical symbol painted across his chassis. For a moment, B-1 grows still as the bot stares, up and down, picking apart his every plate, wire, and dent. His field is nothing like the bubbly kindness that Toxrine exudes. No, it’s something new altogether. Cold, calculating, and to B-1’s dismay, intrigued. B-127 exvents harshly, field receding in discomfort.

Locke Up scrunches his face plate, rolling his optics in poorly hidden derision. “Whatever you say, doc,” he grumbles. He meets B-1’s optics with almost… pity. “The guy thinks himself a new Shockwave. You get one compliment from a commander and wham! What a jackaft.” He says it through sharpened denta. “Guess I’m lucky to have him and you outta’ my tailpipe.”

Without so much as a warning, Locke swerves, taking B-127 with him as he turns, heavy pedesteps punctuating the rapid slam of B-1’s spark. Oh, Primus, Primus Primus they’ll destroy him. His body will remain intact but Primus B-127’s spark howls. It knows, it knows that if he ends up in that ship, everything Primus forged him to be will be lost. He’ll be a nothing, not even a martyr, he will be a monster. Less than a drone - he will be their slave.

Need a plan. By the Allspark, he needs a plan. His optics cast around the area wildly, angered, terrified whimpers clawing from his throat. Primus please no. Think, think, figure something out. Do something.

He meets the optics of a dead femme, strewn across the edges of the horrible pile. His processor logs the dried coolant around her optics, and deep, deep sorrow billows from him, his field a wild tumble of panic and fear. Locke doesn’t even flinch, not even as B-1 beats against the servo holding him with every ounce of energy he has. The ship looms ever closer.

His processor fires back half-finished improbable or completely impossible ideas, taking in the information from his optics and completely bypassing his logic centers as his subroutines are infected with the terror.

Think, think, think. Dammit think! Do something they cannot make me a monster they can’t no no no helphelphelp dosomethingthinkfleescreamcrydosomethingDOANYTHING—

Something shifts. Something clicks. Something changes.

Every piston and coil and gear grinds to a halt in the span of a nano-klik and B-127’s ventilation completely stutters. Time halts, the world. Stops. Freezes. And.

A wall of text and intermittent binary slams against B-1’s processor so fast and so harshly that B-1 can hardly cope with the whiplash. His HUD bleeps with warnings and information sosososso much information oh Primus – and then. It’s gone. It spins. Fast, fast, fast. His spark, burns. Burns. His chassis, Burns. And the world. Spins. Clicks. Pistons. Shift. Gears turn. Coils. Spring. And the world.

Transforms.

Fast, fast, fast too fastfastfastfast—

Plates rearrange and make room for new functions and B-1 gasps at the sudden tightness in his midsection plating. Sleek, streamlined armor slides into place from the subspaces within his transformation seams. His pedes and servos brim with static as they rotate and adjust. Out of instinct, or some unseen command, B-1 clenches his servos.

And with the distinct whir and turn of his T-cog, two long pointed bars emerge from a previously dormant chamber within his wrists. And in one fantastical show, Energon pulses through the new appendages, the plasma blades ornamented on his forearms pulsate and burst to life. Blue and brightly glowing, B-127 has used his weapons system for the very first time.

His frame shudders from the exertion the forced change has pushed him through and B-127’s brain module completely blanks. His optic lenses are pinpricks as he gawks at the twin blades, fluctuating with super-heated Energon. Locke has stopped as well, wary and shocked optics staring down at the small mech in his grasp.

B-1 doesn’t pay that any mind. His subroutines blare with a sense of wrongness. A sense of too soon, not yet, why now. It should be several frame updates from now, something to happen in the safety of a medical clinic or at least in the sight of a caretaker.

But that isn’t what happens. No. In the heat of tragedy, B-1’s Transformation cog has come online.

New functions make themselves known to B-1’s processor, and though the information is new, it somehow feels as if he has been aware all of this all along. Like it’s only been waiting in the back of his neural net, preparing to jump into the open. He’d known of his blasters and his blades, but just.

No, time. There’s no time to be shocked or to adjust.

Locke is still glaring down at him, clearly unsure of what has just transpired. B-1 invents, deeply to cool his rapidly working mechanics. Think, use your helm. An idea, a stupid, extremely dangerous, but possible idea.

He can’t afford to make any mistakes, battered and bruised he may be, but he’ll have to work around it. He cannot die here.

With a twinge of grief, B-1’s optics flash to that dreadful ship. He’ll have to leave Lycan behind. Primus. Newdawn and Faylever’s lost sparks would moan with disapproval. But if he tries to come for her, he will fail. He’s already failed her, the moment he stepped away from her, Primus. He’s so disgusting.

He hates this.

Hates it all.

Hates what survival makes you do.

Hates himself for being willing to do it.

Hate, hate, hate.

His servos curl further, clenched so tight he threatens to break through the outer plating. His blades burn bright. He needs to be fast. Faster than he has ever dared to go. Swift and clinical and angry.

And he is.

Before anyone can make helm or tailpipe of the situation, B-1 twists, slamming a pede against Locke Up’s side plating with a great clang. Using the momentum this gives him, B-127 shoves himself upward, ignoring the way the Decepticon’s clawed digits slice deeper into his chest plates. He’s got other things to worry about.

He can’t save Lycan, but he can bring some small form of justice. The worn yellow of his field twists to an irate red, and directs one of his plasma blades into the centralized lens of Locke Up’s left optic.

The motion is a sweeping arc, and B-1’s sensors pick up the exact moment molten Energon makes contact with the faceplate’s delicate metal. It’s almost too easy. The blade runs through the bio-mechanism with such ease it practically glides through as if it is nothing but air. There is the vague sensation of wires and internal components snapping and melting under the hot surface, but the moment is over within an instant.

Completely sliced away, a sparking electrical mess is all that remains of Locke Up’s optic. Underneath the rush, B-127 finds a certain satisfaction in finally being able to make his enemies scream.

And scream he does.

The claw holding B-127’s chest plate in a vice is all but gone in an instant as Locke Up shoves him to the ground, yowling in gravelly agony as he shoves his servos to the offending injury. “Frag! My optic!” He shrieks, his voice becoming shrill as the pain sets in.

No time to waste.

Without sparing a glance, B-1 charts his course, pushing past the aches and pains to pull himself up onto his pedes. He hears the whir of blasters and the shing of blades being drawn as several Decepticons ready their weapons. Hopefully their aim is as poor as their humility. No matter, his spark is a storm in his chest, bursting with an intensity he has never experienced before. As he pushes off into a sprint, and he’s fast. He is so fast, faster than he has ever moved.

B-1’s audials pick up fragments of conversation. “—No! The fragging brat is mine!” Locke Up seethes.

“—Intact, Locke,” reminds the doctor.

And the rest is lost. Energon cycles deafeningly loud in his audials as he turns a corner, narrowly avoiding tripping over debris. He hears the telltale clank and buzz of a transformation, and in sparing a glance behind him, he sees the jagged edges of a Decepticon flyer, whom B-1 can only assume is Locke, judging by the stray sparks flying off of his windshield.

Can’t stop, can’t slow, stop and you’re dead. Keep going.

That jet is definitely faster than him, but B-1 has the advantage of being able to weave the buildings, whereas Locke must take to the skies. The world rumbles as the disheveled con fires shot after blazing shot at him, but B-1 manages to dodge each one, if only barely. Metal burn cascades across his back, but it’s better than being blown to scrap. He had been expecting to be pursued by a number of cons, so just the one irate seeker is a win. With his missing optic, Locke must be relying on his targeting system, and despite his flashy paint, B-1 is no easy catch.

The benefit of being small.

He drops to his knees, skidding underneath a large piece of warped metal, before he clumsily launches back to his pedes.

B-127 chances a glare up to his pursuer. He frowns. If this plan is going to work, Locke must be in root mode.

He turns, dialing his optics up and cataloging information as he speeds by. The gash in his helm throbs with the effort, but as he stumbles over a substantial puddle of Energon – leaking from somewhere he’d rather not see – B-1 slides to a stop. Several points of interest appear in hexagonal windows in his HUD, a broken streetlight, a sparking pergola, and a rapidly approaching Locke Up. He has nano-kliks, it’s all he needs.

Energon is combustible.

In treated form it's less unstable, but it’s no docile substance.

It’s as easy as venting, like he’s done it hundreds upon hundreds of times. Pivoting on one pede, B-1 calls upon the living cog in his chassis, and it responds with ecstatic eagerness. In a clean motion, his blades sheath themselves within the casings of his forearms, and in their place, the fuel lines redirect to the wider storage space within him, and in a matter of nano-kliks, his blades are replaced with twin blasters.

His aim isn’t flawless as he has never shot at anything before, but a natural grace finds him as he invents, holds, and exvents. And the Energon grows molten in his lines as it runs to the barrels of his guns. It’s as easy as his processor sending the command.

The plasma jettisons from him with a kickback that has him stumbling onto his back in a loud clatter.

But it does the trick.

The flowing Energon ignites instantaneously, fantastic vividly blue flames tint green and orange as it flickers and crawls for the heavens. The destruction spreads rapidly, the electrical fire taking hold of anything with its own power source. Bursting sparks erupt from the edges, and in a prismatic arc of fluctuating power, it shoots up to the malfunctioning streetlight, the simple brim of a broken light swiftly overloading in a loud and dramatic burst.

His arms shoot to cover his helm from the shattered glass that showers over him. The explosion in turn begins a chain of unstable Energon blasts. In a satisfying moment of retribution, a blast wave dislodges the pergola from its secured rivets, completely bursting from the chain reaction and breaking into several jagged metal pieces as it explodes.

As the debris flies, the eruption is too sudden for Locke Up to evade, and several red-hot metal sheets slam straight into his frame. He is destabilized immediately, fruitlessly pulling up to escape, he only pitches up and stalls as the shrapnel burrows into his plating. With a pained yell, and to B-1’s satisfaction, Locke jerkily reverts to his root form, and falls into a brief free fall.

There’s no time to revel in the success of the plan, not as B-1 realizes too late that he is too close to the blast zone. His HUD warns him a nano-klik too late of several large sheets flying towards him, and he only manages to scramble a few feet away before a large jagged piece slams directly into him.

The force is enough to briefly cut out his optic feed completely, his mandible clicking painfully as his helm hits the ground. Frantically, his systems scramble to boot themselves back up, Energon running through him at a breakneck pace.

A large slab of the pergola rests on top of him, unstable Energon dribbling to the ground in hot, fizzing globules. B-1’s audials pick up a commotion behind him as Locke puts himself together, swearing loudly. His vocoder sounds strained with pain.

Thankfully the metal is not heavy as much as it is cumbersome, and upon finding feeling in his servos again, B-127 shoves it off of him. His helm feels foggy, and standing on his stabilizers leaves him dizzy beyond belief.

But the communications tower is within reach. If he just keeps moving.

Heat grows around and inside of him, his ventilation growing heady and ineffective as he takes in more hot air which scorches his filters down to his engine. Through the blaze, B-1 breaks back into a sprint on unsteady, exhausted pedes. The delirious trip of his cog’s activation is waning, and the cost of Energon was high to force the mechanism alive. Software errors and recharge warnings sit heavily in his stack.

Something to worry about later.

Locke Up doesn’t transform again, to B-1’s relief, but his longer legs give him an advantage that B-1’s newfound speed struggles to compensate for. “Oh, the doc’s gonna have a field day screwing you back together!” The con yells through virulent growls, heavy pedesteps nearly shaking the ground under him. But B-1’s observation subroutines point out the slight shake in Locke’s vocoder; he’s tired too.

Raising a shaking arm, B-1 aims at a passing pile of debris, bracing himself as he shoots a small volley of plasma bolts at it. Anticipating the recoil, he does not stumble this time, though B-1 does note the unpleasant sting pulsing under his forearm’s plating.

The debris dislodges several pieces, clattering into the open street and forcing Locke to slow down, with a messy series of expletives.

He’s made these turns dozens of times, sprinting, skipping, or tripping over himself. The horrors of this war may distort it now, but as B-1 turns the final corner, the tower is exactly where it always has been. A desperate hope bleeds across B-127’s frame and his fatigue falls into something more benign.

There is a tall chain-link fence that lines the perimeter of the tower, but it’s all but hot bent coils now, only standing in certain places the Decepticons didn’t care to target. Door wings scraping against the blemished metal, B-1 crawls under the barrier with ease. It leaves a static sting, but it’s hardly the worst of his torment.

Willing his servos not to shake, B-1 approaches the tower and finds the closest metal bar, and grips it. Though barely standing at this point, the tower possesses just enough stability to harbor his weight as B-127 begins his frantic climb up the tower. The movements are familiar, he’s done this so many times he could probably do with his optics offline. Pedes find holds and his engine purrs in his chest as he directs and redirects his weight.

The ground grows further from him as he climbs, but his optics remain fixed on one specific point. Keep going. There’s hope, there has to be hope it doesn’t matter how much he shakes or how much of his spark has already died with this place because he’s so close he’s so so close—

“—I should just fragging kill you!” Locke screeches, a twinge of delight mingling with the great acrimony infecting his speech. Whipping his helm back, B-1’s spark staggers in its chamber, alarm flooding his field and cooling his heated blood like liquid nitrogen to a fuel tank. Locke Up stomps on rampant pedes, completely bypassing the fence with several pointed shots from his multi-barreled plasma blaster, which emanates an eerie glow in place of the bot’s servo. “I could just kill you, and no one would fragging care!”

While the chill runs down his backstrut, B-1 also fights off rolling his optics at the Decepticon’s stellar strategy. Yeah, murder the potential slave-soldier-thing because he pissed you off. Genius move for the glorious Decepticon cause. Gold stars all around. The sardonic thought takes some of the edge off, and instead of replying he simply turns his helm and orders his gears back to turning.

Blaster fire zooms by him in a storm of smoking blue and B-127 narrowly avoids losing an antenna, but B-1 persists. Locke’s ability to shoot straight has deteriorated even from a few kliks ago. B-1’s processor logs the information, but he dismisses it for further examination later. If later ever comes.

But, the world isn’t all dark and dreary. As B-1 ascends the last crossbar he can reach, his optics dilate, focusing on the object of his plan. A series of old scaffolding held loosely to the tower. No one has worked on the tower in stellar cycles and it shows in the way the metal rusts and flakes under his servos. The same can be said for the scaffolding, which has completely collapsed in certain places far before the Decepticons rained their terror down on them.

It’s notoriously unstable, even more so than the tower, Newdawn always completely forbade trying to climb it. B-1 ignored this rule often. Field pulsing with the grief of the memory, B-1 tries to remain focused.

His servos barely reach it, even as he wraps an arm around the tower structure to stand on the tips of his pedes. A large bolt juts from a rung. Bingo. His palm shakes the entire unstable framework as he grips it, giving a desperate whine when his attempt to turn the bolt lends no results. It’s completely rusted, gritty against his digits but utterly unmoving.

The tower shakes, B-1 loses his balance and tumbles to the rung below him, dangling by his arms. He chances a glance to the ground below. Locke Up is kicking the base of the tower. The old metal crumbles under his furious pedes.

“I mean, how much do we really want you? Look at you! A little runt born from the dredges of the Well. You’re no prize.” Locke sneers, sending a rickety quake throughout the entire structure with another blow. The words rip through his chassis like a new wound, but he can hardly afford to focus on verbal lashings.

Grappling against the bar, B-1 strains his arm to the point of clicking at the shoulder, he grabs ahold of the bolt, but for all of his determination, the bolt refuses to budge. Frustration broils and the irrational terror just under the surface leaves static running rampant at the edge of his appendages. Please, please, please just turn. He prays to Primus, the Thirteen, and whatever god he can think of, willing the coolant away from where it sends several requests to leak from his optics.

He's never cried before, not to the extent of leakage. He doesn’t intend to break that streak now.

Repeating what he’d done with his pedes, B-1 shuts down non-essential functions for the moment, diverting his raging Energon to his servo gripping the bolt. Warnings bob in and out of his HUD, processor near steaming inside his helm. He can’t take much more, he’ll blue screen at this rate.

A blaster bolt sizzles past his hanging leg, and B-1 grits his denta as a searing sensation spreads across his mesh. Even with the added boost to his dexterity, the bolt only groans under his abuse. The fear within him oscillates in his spark and turns to a crimson rage. He’s come so far, he’s so close. Please. “Please,” he begs, whimpering like the tortured new spark he is.

It’s not going to work. The bolt is simply just too secure, it’s stuck, it’s stuck and B-1 is too weak and small to break through the stellar cycles of rust. It’s not enough, he’s not enough. He’s fought so hard and it. Isn’t. Enough.

The perfect resolution his optics normally project blurs around the edges, black hexagons appearing in the corners of his vision as the panic sets in. The Energon flees from his servo as his cruel spark abuses its chamber in fluctuating, distraught beats, near bruising his underplating. The hope he’s clung to so tightly is slipping through his digits faster than he can try to catch it.

At least Locke plans to kill him. He’d rather have his spark extinguished and see his caretakers again than have to become one of them. Locke doesn’t realize the mercy he would be granting B-1.

Maybe… maybe it’s for the best.

His spark jolts with a fiery protest, shocking B-1’s subroutines back online and forcing a gasp from him. It slams inside as if to say no, absolutely not, push forward. There’s more, there’s so much more. Don’t give up. You haven’t seen the stars clearly yet. Keep. Going.

In the farmost borders of his optic feed, a small blaring notice bleeps into existence, the object of his observational subroutines outlined in a deep, grabbing cerulean. Above the scaffolding smolders a gaping, red-hot crater where the plasma bolt had narrowly missed him. Molten metal deliquesces in a bubbling, festering display. The blast destroyed the support beam with shocking efficiency. Melted straight through it.

As if to answer, B-127’s T-cog gives a few willing spins. Ready, waiting, asking.

Of course. His servos aren’t enough, not very dexterous or strong, they aren’t built that way, not for that purpose. But where his small ill-plated servos fail, Primus has equipped him with other things. The twin blasters in either bitarlueus may not quite hold the punch that Locke Up’s do, not quite yet, but they were enough to cause the Energon explosion, and they must be enough now.

Another tremor riles the tower, and though it shakes, B-1 finds himself remarkably still. Either this works, or it doesn’t. Either he lives, or he dies.

His guns deploy, and with his free arm, he aims for the god-forsaken bolt.

On the ground, Locke stops moving. “Hey… what are you doin’ up there?”

But B-1 pays that no mind. The burning in his fuel lines and plating returns with a force as he calls upon his systems, and tired as they may be, his engine and processor don’t skip a beat. He fires.

Time slows, his optics taking in the very pico-klik that the plasma fire makes contact. The bolt and everything around it completely disintegrate in a mass of heated rebar, now nothing more than a picture in his memory banks. He’d done it. He’d actually done it.

The beam comes loose, in all the cycles of disrepair, this single bolt had become the only thing keeping the scaffolding in one piece. The entire structure rattles, and the tower and scaffolding both begin to crumble. It had failed to signal the world of their plight, and now it too would become one with the destruction.

Everything seems to give at once, and the bar holding him up creaks and lists to the side, sending B-1 sliding to the edge as it breaks down. The beam above him completely snaps, swinging by old welding for only nano-kliks before it can take no more, and plummeting to the ground below. As it all implodes on itself, B-127 hugs the beam with everything he has, but with the tower falling in, his grip strength does nothing to protect him as it descends.

The crash that follows is louder than anything before as Energon lines break off from the tower, and metal clangs and screeches against the ground. B-1 cuts off his audials when he fears his inner canals will blow. The beam he clings to snaps in half.

Impact with the terrain is less exciting the fourth or fifth time. The slow creep of the tower slowed the descent, but B-1 still braces himself as he falls into a tumble. He lands a small distance away, nearly flush with the fence. Pieces of the tower tumble across his chassis, clipping his door wings and shaving his paint. Gosh, he’s so tired.

Logic centers firing up, reminding him that now is not the time. Weaving through the tower's remains, B-127’s spark stops, his optics take in the scene. His ventilation picks up. It’s hot, he feels hot. So very hot.

Standing in the center of the clearing, exactly where he had been a moment before, is Locke Up. His remaining optic glows bright with fresh shock, his ventilations coming in quick, wet bursts. His frame is stiff, frozen aside from the tremors wracking him. A sickening, horrible, wretched feeling injects his every piston and fuel line. B-127’s plan has worked.

When the beam had been shot loose, B-1 had made sure to duck out of the way of it as it careened to the ground. He’d been expecting it.

Locke hadn’t.

Well, at the very least, he had not been fast enough to dodge as it lodged itself directly through his spark chamber.

The Decepticon is pinned in place, choking on his own Energon as his body slowly shuts down. His optics meet B-1’s.

It’s then that B-127 realizes he’s overheating. Smoke billows from one of his vents, one of his inner components utterly spent and bordering on nonfunctional. B-1 isn’t sure which one, his CPU is too stressed to tell him. His optic feed is slowly fading, pixels crashing out in random, blaring batches. He forces his gaze to remain, meeting Locke Up’s with determined, impassioned ferocity. Locke’s derma curls. Smiles. “That look…” his thraceatic cables gurgle, and he spits Energon. “… You planned this, didn’t you?” He weakly asks, dying optic so very seeing.

And the horrifying truth of the matter is that he had. Locke Up would die here. No matter the medic, you can’t treat the crushing of a spark. B-1 hadn’t known this would happen… But he’d known it could. And he proceeded, aware of that.

Maybe the Decepticon doctors and scientists wouldn’t even need to touch him. He has made himself a monster, all on his own.

“It’s alright, B-127. You are welcome here.”

Something more inside him dies, right then, right there. His field shifts, the anxious yellow turning a weeping amber within his spark.

And it must show on his faceplate, because Locke bursts into broken, glitching laughter. It makes a home in B-1’s spark, loud and shrill and proud. The noise lasts only a moment, but B-1 suspects he will be hearing it a lot soon. Locke Up’s optics flicker, Energon sliding down the pole and forming a pool under the Decepticon’s pedes. It’s the telltale signs of a near death, a terrifying fact. But Locke doesn’t look scared at all. His voice is a horrible contrast to Newdawns encouraging words. “Oh, cunning. Very, very cunning.”

The last of him burns up with that assessment, the last syllable dragging on in the last dying command his processor signals.

A thick blanket of darkness looms over B-1. A shadow. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, but it hangs above him now, seeping in between his transformation seams, down to his internals. Shock settles in his midsection plating, traveling, and leaving a tightness in the back of his helm.

Dead. Locke Up is dead. They’d tussled and B-1 had won. B-127 killed him. Murdered him.

The shadow crawls through his optics, his intake, grabbing hold of his throat cables and squeezing. His venting cuts off completely, and the pixelation of his feed spreads dramatically.

In the lens of Locke’s optic, he sees Lycan, Blue Breeze. Sees Faylever, Newdawn. Sees himself.

Dead. Locke Up is dead. B-127 won. And he’d hoped for this outcome.

Hoped for it.

His HUD crashes in several corrupted points, shutting down his chronometer and cache stack list. He staggers to his pedes, backing away. Backing away. Under a fence. Over a mound. Below an outcropping. Below an outcropping.

His biomechanics blaze inside of him. His helm hurts. His chassis hurts. Door wing hurts.

And yet, he feels nothing at all.

Dead. Locke Up is dead. And B-127 is relieved.

Dead. Locke Up is dead. And B-127 is relieved.

Dead. Locke Up is dead. And B-127 is relieved.

Dead. Locke Up is dead. And B-127 is relieved.

Dead. Locke Up is dead. And B-127 is relieved. Dead. Locke Up is dead. And B-127 is relieved.

Dea@Y*#Y*Y!d. Locke Up is dead. And B-127 is relieved. Dea#&*$#@*&$d. Locke Up is dead. And B-127 is relieved.

Dead. Locke Up is dead. A3y32u1nd B-127 is relieved. Dead. Lock@^#@!)(e 8 is dead. And B-127 is relieved.

Dead. Locke Up is dead. And B-127 is reli#&*!^(eved. Dead. Locke Up is dead. And B-127 is rel@#^!ieveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[!!!]

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Chapter Text

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[INITIALIZING]

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[!!!]

[SUBROUTINES (#012H-B-127) & (#1982M-B-127) FLAGGED – POTENTIAL INTERLOOP]

[QUARENTINE RECOMMENDED]

[QUARENTINE APPLIED]

[SYSTEM DIAGNOSTIC INITATED]

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[WARNING – DAMAGE TO BIO-MECHANISM(S) (#46HG-B-127), (#98SAM-B-127), (#35IF-B-127) DETECTED]

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[EFFICENCY PROGRAMS (#4242A-B-127) APPLIED]

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***

When he awakes, it’s to the ringing in his audials and the pain.

The drainage tunnels are the same as ever, unaffected, unaware of everything. The Energon canisters he’d once relied on are right where he has left them. Foolishly, stupidly, B-127 had once thought he’d never have to see them again.

He’s weak, and rife with errors. Right back where he started. Newdawn would think it rather poetic.

B-127 just thinks.

***

It’s funny to consider that the measly stores of Energon he’d abandoned here were once enough to sustain him.

He’d been so little, all those orbital cycles ago.

So afraid, but so hopeful.

How silly.

***

Above ground, the world rumbles, and B-1 tenses at every noise and crumbling plate shift. His finials remain raised to the skies, scanning and rescanning every few kliks.

His door wing injury has sufficiently hindered his sensornet and he is severely off balance. His gyroscope snips at him testily whenever he attempts to walk more than five feet, leaving him dizzy and nauseated.

When they find him, he won’t be able to flee.

During his escape, he left a trail of Energon, he thinks. His memory banks are corrupted from a certain timestamp.

It’s only a matter of time before they find him.

They’re crafty, smart, and everyone else is gone. They’ll take him too, soon enough.

***

…

They don’t.

***

The small amount of Energon left in the canisters gives his nanites the boost they need, but even they are sluggish with exhaustion. It’s simply too little, his frame has grown large enough to require so much more. He does what he can to divert them to major places, focusing on his processor to regain some access to some locked subroutines.

He doesn’t have much hope that it will work. His CPU is tangled in so many places, getting it to right itself properly is a feat best performed by a doctor who understands the intricacies of hard coding. But with some time, and an inconceivable amount of willpower, his nanites unblock a few things. His chronometer comes online, though the time is completely inaccurate. He is too afraid to look outside to attempt to sync it.

The damage to his chassis is far less willing to cooperate with the hardworking nanites. Cyber-matter regeneration takes Energon in a quantity he does not possess. His self-repair processes shudder and dodge the commands he sends, constantly switching from auto to manual. As if afraid to even try. The bleeding stops while he is offline, but the healing slows to a crawl from there.

It hardly matters. He spends all of his time staring at the ceiling anyway.

There are no stars. Not here. B-1 isn’t sure there are any out there, either.

Death has slithered inside him and whispers treacherous doubts.

***

Recharge is fleeting.

Well. He can fall into it just fine. It’s staying that way that gives him trouble.

His chassis jerks and quivers, and his ventilations make him sick. His right vent is all but burnt up and barely functional. It stings. His whimpering echoes.

Faylever would know how to make him feel better. But.

Would she want to?

He’s a murderer. A dirty bot who killed so many in one measly solar cycle. All for his survival. The lowest of them, smallest, least anything. Least alive, least cunning, least experienced. Least, least, least.

A monster.

The red optics that cleave through his dreams tell him so.

***

His emotional centers must be corrupted. They must be. That section of his cortex is not quarantined, but surely his afflicted programs are bleeding into it.

He swings between wanting to wail and give in to the unceasing despair, and.

 To feeling nothing at all.

The worst of it is that he truly doesn’t care. Doesn’t even try.

His caretakers died believing he held unshakeable hope.

What had he done in his time with them, to make them believe that lie?

***

Shock, his infodex lazily defines for him once his brain module has enough power. That’s what it is. His mind is still young, it can’t give him the details he yearns to know, but it does tell him this. Shock. And so it is.

B-1 stares at the explanation for groons.

***

Newdawn’s bleeding corpse does not lean heavily against the curved walls of the tunnels. He does not offer him reassuring smiles – after all, Newdawn hardly ever smiled. He does not tell B-1 that he needs to leave.

“They’ll see me. They’ll kill me. Capture me.” Retorts B-127. To nothing, to no one.

“You need Energon,” the ghost argues – doesn’t argue.

Optics narrowing, he eyes the large puddle on the floor, where Newdawn sits. “I don’t have the energy. I can hardly walk.” He says, and it’s true. The diagnostic report sits heavily on his stack. His voice echoes.

“You don’t need to,” Newdawn reminds. Doesn’t.

In the side of his mid-section, his T-cog gives a few elated spins. “I’ve never done it.”

The phantom doesn’t smile. Does. “It’s easier than you know.” His voice rumbles, the vibration of his engines punctuating the husk of his vocoder. No. None of that happens.

Averting his optics, B-127 huddles his knees to his chest, his pointed knee plates helpfully obscuring his view of his caretaker. His lack of view.  “It’s too soon,” his vocoder crackles. “… I could break.”

“You didn’t when you used your weapons system.” Emphasizes Newdawn, who doesn’t tilt his helm encouragingly

At the mention – there is no mention – of his artillery, B-1 tenses. There is harsh burning in his forearm underplating, and static within his fuel lines there. The metal-burn analysis blares in his HUD. As do the reminders of his sins. “It hurt.”

The glitching specter frowns, a twinge of sympathy ebbing through the idea of his field. “I know, but you were stronger than it.”

B-1 chokes on a sob, shaking his helm with grizzly vigor. His servos begin to shake. His door wings rattle against his lateral scapula, pressed snugly against the tunnel’s wall. “No, no I wasn’t. I was scared. I ran. I ran and I left Lycan. I left her. I left her.” His vocoder cuts off in a ragged ventilation, he peaks through his knee spikes. Newdawn’s optics burn blue, brighter than the Energon slipping down his dead frame. It’s strange to see the color projected, rather than the amber he recalls. The amber he feels within his own field. B-1 shudders, Newdawn’s figure briefly frays at the edges. “I left you,” B-1 adds painfully.

The words bounce off the walls.  

Nodding his helm, Newdawn does not shrug his pauldrons. “I told you to.” His intake curls up in a smile. “But you stayed with me, until the end. Thank you for that.”

A shot of indignation quavers past his vocoder. “Stop it, stop thanking me! You aren’t real. You’re not real, you’re just a malfunction of my audio-visual processing routines!” he asserts, louder than necessary and with a break in his voice. He brings his servos to his finials and grips them harshly, dismissing the swimming sensation. Perhaps it will banish the ghosts from the tunnels, and from his helm.

But Newdawn’s smile only shifts, melancholy and accepting. “No, but you know deep in your spark that I’m right.” His optics flicker, don’t. His whole being flickers. “You wouldn’t have been able to save Lycan.”

“Stop. Frag,” He grinds out, hurt shading his every feature. Please just go, please just go away.

Newdawn’s image does not. “Language, B,” he gently chides. “They outnumbered you by the dozen, B. Even if you had gotten her that Energon, she couldn’t see.”

A growl rumbles from his tired engines and he stands on shaky pedes in a swift, furious motion. Thankfully, no one is around to see his pistons lock up, sending him to the floor once more. His Energon percentage is glaringly low. Faceplate to the ground, B-127 whimpers, curling his wings over his helm. Well, he curls the functional one. “I would have figured something out. I could have seen for the both of us.”

Silence.

Fear grips him, as it has and likely always will. Shakily, he lifts his helm.

Through saddened optics, Faylever sits in the exact same place Newdawn occupied not thirty nano-kliks ago. A desperate blubber crawls from his intake. Her chassis is crooked where it barely hangs on to her protoform, the blade driven through her spark chamber displacing everything and creating a warbled, awful mess. B-127 doesn’t remember it being that gruesome.

Despite the horror, Faylever looks to him kindly, optics glimmering with fondness. “B, you need to leave.” She instructs, the same way Newdawn has.

She isn’t real.

Pushing off on his servos, B-1 simply sits there. Hanging his helm and quivering like a newborn, freshly activated. He prays for the numbness to return, prays for that sweet nothingness to cascade over him. He preferred the shock. The pure ripping agony he feels over the hauntings is destroying him. No more, please, no more.

“It’s not so bad, to hurt over us,” Faylever does not say. Able to read his thoughts, or rather, are his thoughts.

His denta click together and his mandible groans from the pressure. “How can you say that? Don’t you see how I’m losing it? Don’t you see? How can you say that?” He wails, his sparkpulse spiking and pulling away from his chest.

The strain on his processor throbs, a dull ache pulsing from the tips of his helm casing and down to the base of his neck. He shrivels, resting on his elbows and shutting off his optics to save himself the pain of the projection, and the sight of her. The rest of his injuries murmur underneath the surface of his delusion.

He thinks of her field, intertwining with his own in a secure, protective hold. Knowing it’s all in his mind hurts so much that his spark chamber may as well be empty, he feels so hollow. “I know it’s sad, but don’t you think it’s a privilege, to love enough to mourn?”

Images of spilled Energon flash across his memory banks. The resounding screams of the damned haunt his inner audials. The stench of oil and fire and death invade his olfactory sensors.

The creeping of darkness, crawling amongst his once clean and bright spark. Now marred with the demise of many.

Locke Up’s laughter permeates his very being.

Another broken, wretched sob. “No, Primus, no.”

“You don’t mean that,” she replies, so very quiet. “You yearned to know others, and you have. It may be a curse, but it can also be a gift. No living experience is just one thing. It can be both.” She urges. “B, it can be both.”

More quiet follows, but B-1 finds himself utterly petrified. Too afraid to look up and see himself alone once more. He is alone. She isn’t real.

His memory banks bring up the way she used to place her servo across his shoulder. Calming and kind. “You could find help,” Faylever sweetly whispers, now so close she may as well be directly inside his helm.

He barks a mordant cackle. His ventilation stings. “No one is going to help a useless sparkling.” He argues simply, spitting the words out with such ire and reproach that it scalds his tanks.

Faylever responds with her own laughter. Soft and bubbly, light like the morning air. “We did.” She replies, B-1 can hear the smile on her dermas. The affection. The love. All of the things she gave him freely when he had nothing to give her in return. That never really changed.

A clenched servo leaves a dent in the tunnel floor. It hums with new pain and his HUD sends him pointedly snarky notes on the micro-abrasions now adorning his digits. He dismisses it, pushing his vocoder to the limits as he shoves himself to his pedes for the second time. This time, he merely wobbles, spark thrumming with anguish as he yells at the wall. At Faylever. “And look where that got you!” His screeching voice tapers to a dull whine, processor tired and unwilling to push more power to his vocoder’s voice box mechanisms. So, his next words come out as a static whisper. “You would’ve lived. If you hadn’t. If you’d left me. You’d have survived.”

And though the declaration has left an uncomfortable static in his throat, Faylever finds no such trouble, she hardly moves. “That’s irrational, B, and you know it,” she gently points out, creaking her broken chassis forward just so. Sickly Energon weeps from her broken chest. “We accepted the risk of coming for you.” She invents, the blade protruding from her wobbles. “The same way you accepted the risk in attempting to save Lycan. Perhaps we both knew it was in folly, but we tried anyway.” She brings a servo to her chest, and in a blink, the blade is gone. “That’s love, B. Leaving you behind? That would not have been love.”

There are no nanites to spare his aching vocoder, but resetting it a few times offers some relief. His clenched servos shake. “Then maybe you made a mistake in loving me,” he offers, weakly, a timbre of hushed resignation bleeping through. His voice echoes.

And Faylever doesn’t say anything to rebuke that, because she isn’t real. She’s in his helm. And as much as his exhausted and Energon-depleted processor can try, his logic centers can’t override the emotional ones. His spark whines in his chest, willing to do something different. But a delusion of the helm can only fight so hard.

She finally says, “So, then it’s a debt.” A compromise. Her vocoder projects a certain coldness. Faylever would never talk to him like that. In the same way, the sickly and hurting part of B-1 that manifested these hallucinations in the first place – it kind of wishes she would.

The fluctuations in his field unravel with mild confusion.

“You owe it to our sparks,” she gestures to her chest, the horrible blade is back, and it looks deeper than ever. “To our sacrifice, to stay alive. It’s a debt.”

His optics spiral, dilating.

Newdawn is back, Faylever’s image blipping out of existence as if she was never there. She never was. The mech stands, so tall, so strong, so hurt. B-127 swallows down a sob. The contorted image leans in close. B-127 shivers so violently, he crumples to his knees. Newdawn is unaffected. “Pay your debt, B-127. Stay alive.” Newdawn orders. His voice does not echo, but it certainly feels like it does.

And he’s alone. He always was.

Collapsing to the floor, B-127 does not move for a long, long time.

***

His dry weeping continues for groons. He’s learned by now that the cons can’t hear him here, no matter how much his paranoid CPU tries to lock up his vocoder. He’s loud and so tired and miserable and he misses his caretakers and his home and his friends –

Primus almighty.

His voice box mechanisms eventually become too hot and shut themselves off automatically, almost angrily denying his request to turn it back on. His plating continues to warble long after he’s been forced into agonizing silence. The only sound to resound is his desperate, rattling ventilations.

***

The shock returns. Thank Primus.

So does the fear.

He’s less thankful for that part.

***

“Look at you, talking to yourself, the picture of mental health, obviously,” Locke Up mocks, grinning manically as Energon dribbles down his chin from the hole in his optic socket.

B-1 shoves himself as far away as possible. “I’m not going to argue with a delusion,” he says, for himself, not for Locke. Locke Up is dead. B-127 saw to that personally.

A painful twist strikes in his spark. He grits his denta.

“—Really? Feeling guilty over me? I’m flattered, kid, but c’mon. I thought I was sick.”

Forehelm slamming against the ground, B-127 covers his audials. Locke Up is as clear as he always is. “Shut up. Please, please, just shut up.”

Locke chuckles. It makes B-1 sick. “Why don’t we just reenact the deed, it might help ya ‘process.’ You like doing that, right? Repeating slag over and over and over and over and over and—”

B-1 screams until the noise stops.

***

Maybe it’s not shock. Maybe not anymore.

There are queries his infodex tries to answer.

Sure that truly, he doesn’t want to know what this is, B-127 dismisses the information.

***

In the end, he is weak to his curiosity. He always has been.

Derealization.

Yeah, he doesn’t really like that.

He sends the definition away, but it’s scorched into his HUD array.

***

Lycan smiles, her whole self, because B-127’s glitching processor can’t bear to picture her as she was in the last moments he saw her.

Her optics were always a pretty aqua.

“You told me there was hope.”

He doesn’t react, doesn’t even flinch. There’s no point. Real or not, they appear. He lulls his tired helm to the side, dinging softly against the tunnel walls.

She’s right in front of him. Lycan inquires. “Was that a lie?” it seems like an honest question. Something his spark is using to ask his helm. A sick form of self-reflection. B-127 wants no part of it.

Shuttering his optics, comforted by the lack of constant data inflow, he exvents. “I don’t know,” he mutters, and she isn’t there anymore. Never was. He’ll never be able to know if she believed him, if she’s still alive.

Though, through the aching, awful loss pulsating inside him, B-127 knows that she never made it out of that ship. Not as she once was. Her terror rips through him, an ever-present reminder of her EM field stitched into his own. He had believed he could save her, or at least that he had a chance. His spark was so certain.

Even now, it burns like it is, like it knows.

But he’s learned much. And he has learned that your spark, for all of its brilliant light and guiding wisdom, can lie. It can whisper sweet nothings about pushing forward, persisting, only for failure to follow you. And he wants to hate it, wants to bring down his righteous anger and deliver some form of justice.

Except, well. A spark isn’t so simple. Isn’t some lying minibot on your shoulder. It is you. The deepest, purest self you could ever hope to know. Even if it takes eons to fully grasp what makes up your core.

B-127 isn’t sure he quite likes what makes up his.

His spark believes in a better day. In having hope. Even now, with a beast living with it, his spark believes.

Which means that in some way, B-1 must too.

There is an unfortunate doubt in his voice. “I don’t know.”

***

A good dream dances across his processor. Delivering Energon with Newdawn, watching a holo-film with Faylever. Playing with Blue Breeze and Lycan.

It’s a dream, and he knows it’s a dream. He’s become so intertwined with his memory banks in his time recalling and replaying that when something is amiss, he simply knows.

And a dream sticks out like a blade in plating.

But Faylever laughs at a joke he tells that is objectively bad. Newdawn’s optics remain blue for the entire duration. His cohort tease him with jabs about his minuscule age and even smaller frame.

It’s so wonderful, he allows it to play out.

It’s so wonderful, that when the recharge cycle ends, and his logic centers begin to purge the larger details from his memory banks, B-1 holds on to the sensations thrumming across his spark. Reality creeps in slowly, reminding him that those experiences are now relegated to the past, but B-1 savors every sliver of joy he can.

He even dares to smile, if only for a moment.

***

It takes a few solar cycles to get up the nerve.

With his Energon levels sitting at a pathetic fourteen percent, B-127 really has no choice. He either stays here and starves, or he leaves.

And dies in some other horrible fashion.

It’s a toss up, really.

Still. He’s got to try. As Faylever said – didn’t say – he owes it to them to try.

Optics surveying the extensive damage, B-127 reluctantly admits that perhaps, even among the smallest margins, he may owe it to himself, too. It’s a contradictory feeling, and B-1 has trouble reconciling it.

Even if the majority of him really, really just wants to stay.

Because in here, he is certain of what will happen. He will shut down, slowly and painfully. It’s not a pleasant fact but a fact all the same. Something he can count on. Out there, there’s no telling. No distinct pattern, no script or fact to call on. No next part of the story. The datapad of his life is wholly unwritten, down even to the barest code.

He’ll have to write it himself.

The prospect would be exciting if he wasn’t born into a world with sticky servos who could wrench the proverbial device right out of his grasp. Claiming it and by extension, him, for themselves. Whether that be in the literal sense, or something more figurative, he doesn’t know, and that drives him crazy.

B-127 likes to learn, observe, and figure things out.

But there is nothing to analyze, no shitty plan to put together and maybe fail, maybe prevail. Hah, rhyme, Newdawn liked rhymes. Poetry. Softer stuff you wouldn’t infer to be enjoyed by such a big, stoic bot. B-1 shakes his helm, the lack of Energon is diluting his thoughts.

Out there, the world is uncontrollable, unpredictable. With cruel bots with cruel intentions ruling with titanium servos, and kind bots with kind intentions being left for scrap.

Wincing, B-1 blinks away the memories that try to play across his feed.

That seems to be the way the world works.

Even his made-up stories about Briskcharge and the sisters ended in their demise. Is that truly the fate destined for all bots with a kind spark? Is that truly all there is?

A certain Decepticon cartoon tried to tell him otherwise. But, well.

The Autobot cause preaches hope and fighting for your home and your right to have one, but thinking of the faction’s ideals turns so very sour in B-127’s tanks. If that really is the sparkpulse of their beliefs, where were they when his home was being torn asunder? Where were they?

The hallucinations have ebbed away for the moment, whatever backward subroutine that projects them now too fatigued to even do that. It should be a relief, he begs them to leave whenever they appear. To ease his quiet insanity, to try and delude himself into believing he is even fractionally okay. Now that they are gone… the silence has never been so loud.

Talking to himself just doesn’t feel as it did, before. Before he knew the voices of others, knew what it was like to argue, laugh, and cry with others. Knew their sparks in the form of personal, different fields. Now he does. He does and his tattered voice is only a withering plea to the ether. Not even the phantoms answer.

With his own company to keep, he is rife with indecision.

That wasn’t the case, before. After all, what’s a lonely new spark to do but listen to themselves? He’d known no other.

But voices and influence and people squabble in his mind now, each lesson learned from them giving conflicting ideas and opinions on the situation. His helm and spark are no longer in perfect unity.

But the influences saying to stay and die here are scared and small, they mock and doubt, saying he’ll die out there anyway, take his place with the rest of the settlement, and crawl back to the Well.

They’re cruel demons, those thoughts. Harvesting on even his most enchanting thoughts and feasting on them, forever starving and crying for more. And ever the storyteller, B-1 feeds and feeds, listless even as their snapping saber-toothed maws begin gorging on more than what he offers, leaving dripping scores in his servos.

B-127 doesn’t want to be scared and small.

He wants to be strong.

Strong like Newdawn believed him to be.

***

The cons still litter the settlement, but in the time B-1 has been cooped up and beyond misery, they’ve grown organized… made it their own. Even the hole in the east wall is completely patched. He wonders just how many bots escaped through it before the new metal was soldered on.

He knows only who didn’t make it.

If he had any Energon to spare, he’d purge.

***

It’s scary.

It’s really scary.

Though the cog in his side certainly seems to disagree. He feels it flay out in certain places, hooking into where it needs to be in order to spin. To change. To change him.

It’s necessary. He has to transform. His gyroscope is thrown off to a startling degree, and without fuel, he stands no chance of repairing it.

On wheels, it’d be more manageable. Wobbly and perhaps skittish, but better than tripping and falling on his aft every two nano-kliks.

Everything everyone ever has ever told him is that it’s easy. It’s a change, a transformation, but it’s still you. It’s not another self or a special trick. It’s you, in a personal display. Different for each bot in an outward appearance of personality and purpose. A function that is just as necessary as venting. He puts himself at risk by not transforming. It’s something so intrinsic.

So important to their bodies. He’s read about bots who choose not to use it, for various reasons. Choose to completely neglect their cogs. It’s a living thing, your T-cog. An extension of your spark and deeply, deeply personal.

Those who choose not to use them often lose access to the organ completely, disuse soon becoming utter disrepair.

B-1 isn’t one of those bots. Though his weapon systems have hurt him he knows it wasn’t intentional. He wasn’t built with weapons meant to harm himself. It’s just… it’s too soon.

But he can’t change it now.

His update log is all out of order and errors are stacked all over the place, frantic and unsure of what to do with a T-cog activation when he doesn’t even have the appropriate frame yet.

It’s funny, with a throb of his helm, B-127 can just picture the horror on Toxrine’s faceplate, were she to plug into his neural net.

He’ll make do. He always has.

What troubles him is whether or not he can handle the shifting, the warping, and storage. The first transformation is meant to be important. Faylever had detailed the story of her own once, of her caretakers and friends celebrating and admiring her newly activated alt mode. B-1 had so hoped to be able to have something so special.

With a heavy exvent, B-1 reconciles that he cannot. Will not.

It’s a matter of survival, not celebration.

***

Lycan and Blue Breeze had made bets as to what his alt mode would look like. B-1 of course had an idea, as all new sparks do, an inherent knowledge even if the specifics remain unclear until complete activation. Blue Breeze had instructed him not to give any hints.

“Don’t be a whining buzz fly, dude. Let us enjoy the mystery,” Blue Breeze had stressed. B-1 had laughed but agreed despite the absurd nature of the bet.

Lycan was certain he’d be a smaller, more practical cab. Something round and cute, but deceptively fast. “Just fits your personality, I think,” she explained. B-127 wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. She may have infantilized him a bit.

But Blue Breeze always enjoyed things of action. “Ermmm, if he was a civilian build maybe, but c’mon Lycan! He’s a warframe! Definitely a sleek muscle car, with bangin’ stripes!” He’d been adamant, and Lycan had rolled her optics and argued that plenty of warframes must have cute alt modes despite her being unable to give a serviceable example.

Personally, B-127 had been partial to Blue Breezes’ bet.

***

Primus, moving is hard. Though his optics are steady, his feed blips in and out, turning at odd angles and firing through inaccurate calculations. He stumbles several times. He’ll never complain about aching pedes or sore struts again. Ever. At least the pain proves you can walk straight.

            ***

In the moment he finally gathers the fortitude – and he has hobbled far enough from the settlement to avoid detection – B-1 makes a rather humorous discovery.

As he gives in to his T-cogs near ecstatic urges, and things click and spin and buzz, a certain awareness uploads into his neural net.

It’s weird, to see from his optics but not see from them. To feel his spatial awareness shift and field fluctuate.  He uses more tools he didn’t have before, mirrors and wheels and a rear spoiler he definitely hadn’t known was there.

Had he been less dizzy from the transformation and the Energon required to do it, he’d burst out laughing.

He’s small, of course, if he can get the fuel, and live long enough, he’ll grow, but for now, he is small. But he is aerodynamic and fast. B-1 knew he would be, but Primus, give him an open space and he will fly.

There are curves in places and sharp edges in others, blue bio-lights line his chassis from front to back in various locations. Black racing stripes run all across him.

In some ways, Lycan had been right. And in some ways, so had Blue Breeze. He’d been aware of that, sort of, but the confirmation makes him feel connected to them. Wherever they are. He wishes he could show them. They’d been so excited.

What prize do you give when you both win?

***

Switching to drive has his spark hitching. In his rearview, the settlement rests at the crest of a small hill. As it always has. It’s not as picturesque as it once was. Most of the debris is gone, but so is any semblance of real life. Decepticons run the place, the small perimeter walls upgraded to ones that must be quadruple the height of an average Cybertronian. Smokestacks cast up into the heavens.

It’s nothing like the home he once knew.

But leaving it behind still feels like tearing a plate from his protoform. Bloody and electric and painful.

There is nothing left for him there, but by the Thirteen, B-1 wishes so desperately to walk amongst the buildings one last time. To take in the scent of fresh, clean Energon. To laugh with friends and strangers alike.

Out of the question, but B-1 wishes. He wishes.

Revving his engines. B-127 turns his optical feed ahead.

All he has now are his memories, and they will simply have to be enough.

***

For all their advancement and military might, not one Decepticon notices him as he shreds across the flat metal plain.

***

His plating feels a little fragile, and his bio-mechanisms rattle like an astro-turkey trying to take flight. He swerves and has a hard time driving in a straight line, and has to stop frequently to cool off. It’s annoyingly present, the fact that his frame is not yet equipped to handle transformation, but has been forced to anyway.

But Newdawn had been right.

It’s so easy.

It’s so freeing.

It’s almost like the pain isn’t there.

It is, of course it is, but the sensation of the wind whipping at his plating, the turn of his wheels. The speed – Primus the speed – it’s so easy, as natural as anything. He can almost forget the unpleasantness entirely.

And well, the stars are out. Nearly hidden away by cloud cover, but that doesn’t change the fact that they are there. In his hiding, they hadn’t all died out on him. They waited for him.

It’s the first good feeling he’s had in solar cycles.

***

After a time, his components begin to ache, so much. There is no choice, he will have to stop soon. His geo-cortex still has access to those maps, and he uses them to plot his way through the wastelands. Avoiding major city-states is an easy decision to come to. There’s no telling what they hold, and really, he isn’t sure he’s ready to give himself to the care of other bots.

That didn’t end well the first time.

Not that he feels very deserving of care. He can’t exactly walk up like he once did, anyway. That’s a difficult situation to explain. ‘Hey! What’s up? Yeah, I’m the new spark warframe that got my caretakers and my friends killed and/or captured. That’s me, in the mesh. Did I mention I murdered a Decepticon? Oh also I sometimes talk to people who aren’t real. Super sane right? I’ve got virtually nothing to offer you! Now let me in.’

Yeah, no. The loneliness will take some adjusting to, but he’s well versed in it at least. It won’t reject him or cast him out. No, as he pulls in the fresh kill of the day, the darkness glides its bloodied tongue across its teeth, unsatiable hunger clawing deep divots in him as he gets close. Loneliness will accept whatever he gives it.

But for now, he flies over a small ridge, and lands keenly in one piece, peeling past the terrain with ease.

He whoops with excitement. It feels right.

***

 The fun’s over when his right ventilation begins smoking again. Right, the injuries don’t just go away with the new form.

It’s a miracle his build lends itself to enduring long distances, so despite the overheating, he’s thankful to see his Energon usage is still abysmal, but not stasis-lock abysmal.

Transforming back to root form is a lot less pleasant than shifting to his alt had been. All of the new movement has left him aching, and his T-cog is so sore he nearly doubles over once his last gear clicks into place.

Though he’s always been naturally athletic, his protoform is sorely underdeveloped for this amount of activity, and he’ll have to bulk up his piston strength.

He wonders if other new sparks have that issue.

Limping to the side of a metallic cliffside, B-127 yields to resting through the night in a small cave where the metal has warped. Pretty constellations illuminate the space, B-1 finds some peace in that, at least. He spends some time identifying each star representing Canis Major, all one hundred and fifty-five. He doesn’t recognize many names, but he holds on to the information his infodex gives him like a lifeline.

Exhaustion clings to him so tightly that he practically collapses the instant he trudges inside the crevice. His secondary fans sputter and spit with effort, doing their best to compensate for his malfunctioning bio-mechanism.

The condition of his injuries will only worsen if he doesn’t find any Energon. His nanites can only hold them in place, but soon enough they too will groan with fatigue. The state of his self-repair subroutines is laughable.

He should be more concerned about it than he is.

But it really was so fun. To drive, glide across the landscape. A piece of himself that he’s been missing and all of the adults and Lycan and Blue Breeze had been right – he feels so seen, even with no one around.

Now, if he can avoid driving himself into shutting down, that would be beneficial.

Well, it’s not like he doesn’t have experience searching for Energon. Something to worry about tomorrow.

For now, as he slips into a weary recharge, he dreams of weaving through the stars, sparks flying under his wheels as he traces shapes into the heavens.

***

Ouch.

He wishes Toxrine was here.

He is so sore.

It’s kind of awesome.

But really. Ow.

***

“… What the frag? Ahg— still alive still alive still alive!”

He shrieks as he comes online to three roboto-possums nibbling on his pedes.

One of them plays dead when he kicks out. The guilt is immediate, and B-127 briefly loses track of where he is. Cracked and grating laughter infects his ringing audials. He nearly burns up his right vent again.

Primus.

***

The more he drives, the more ruins he finds.

And it isn’t like it’s new. He’d seen this type of horror before he’d come to stay with the neutrals. But now the suffering permeates him, scrubbing through his firewalls and making it his own like he was right there with these corpses, these people, as all they knew was destroyed.

In a way, he was.

It’s luck he finds a single mid-size Energon cube within what was once a small campsite of bots. It’s unclear what happened, but by the husk of an unfortunate femme laying at its center, B-127 can fill in the blanks. One cube isn’t nearly enough to sustain him, but it eases the hammering in his helm.

He sits with her, for a while. Frozen, in her last moments, she looked afraid. It hardly phases him anymore. Few die in resignation. And so it is.

But he sits with her still.

Someone should.

***

He plays her the music Faylever once allowed him to integrate. She can’t hear it, one because it plays through his neural net, and he has no speaker mechanism. And two because she’s dead. It’s the thought that counts.

Her corpse says nothing about his shuddering sobs. He appreciates it.

***

Scraplets have gotten to her internals, but she must have had some sort of virus or something, because they never finished destroying her. B-1 does his best to straighten her out, placing what is left of her servos on her midsection plating.

Venting shakily, B-1 thanks her for the Energon.

While his imagination has always been wild and his ability to separate reality from fiction is definitely feeble right now, B-127 still thinks she looks a little more peaceful, this way.

***

And so it is.

It’s almost as if he had never been a part of a community at all.

His habits return and B-127 survives.

He’d known he would, somehow. Deep in his wounded spark, he’d known he would.

Though his access to Energon remains undeniably stilted, his T-cog acclimates to his unprepared frame quickly, and soon enough B-1 can transform in less than two nano-kliks. He enjoys driving, it’s probably the only thing he does like.

And though they bring some unease, he also grows acquainted with his weapons systems. He hopes never again to turn them on another person – not like he had Locke Up – but they are an asset when searching for Energon in places more difficult to access.

But he needs so much more than he once did, he feels almost greedy to take in so much of what he finds. Other bots need this too, need it to survive.

And B-1 feels even worse when he begins to think that perhaps, if they wanted it, they should’ve found it first. Whenever he finds even a scrap, he doesn’t want to share, not the way that Faylever and Newdawn once had. He wants what he finds and he wants it all.

God, what a selfish little astro-vulture.

***

And so he is.

***

Sometimes, he comes across other bots. Sometimes, it’s two or three, just traveling together for whatever reason. Sometimes, it’s a settlement, much like his own. They come from all factions, Neutrals, Autobots, he even sees a group of civilian Decepticons. B-1 didn’t even know those existed. Maybe they just look civilian – plenty of Autobots are civilian builds, why couldn’t the same be true for the cons?

Regardless of faction, B-1 typically turns and drives in the opposite direction.

There are moments when he contemplates asking for help. It wouldn’t be so overwhelming as barging into a city. Right?

Then, he remembers the screams, the loss.

Remembers his inability to do anything about it.

Even with his weapon systems, he’s malfunctioning in several places, and lists to the side whenever he attempts to walk too far. His self-repair has been able to fix him up marginally, in the fleeting solar cycles he can stock up on Energon, but his gyros still leave something to be desired.

And besides. The Decepticons would probably just turn him in to be made into a weapon. Like Lycan, like Blue Breeze.

And besides. The Autobots would probably just ask him to join the cause, say pretty words and suddenly he’d be a weapon for them too. Well, if they wanted his help, they should have saved his home, should have done their job.

Hah, they’d probably throw him out the moment they saw the state of his processor.

And besides. The Neutrals… they—

Don’t need another intake to fuel. He’d been right from the beginning.

A liability, that’s what he is. A selfish, error-filled liability.

It was enough, he tells himself. His wonderful experience with the Neutrals, though fleeting and now smeared with heated Energon, was enough. He tells himself that he’s content with the memories, with replaying them over, and over, and over.

He can – he has, faired just fine— just okay, on his own.

He doesn’t need their help.

Perhaps, too, he dreads allowing his spark to come close to someone else’s.

Only for them to die.

The loss has ripped him to shreds. Enduring that again is a possibility he is horrified to open himself up to.

So, he drives in the opposite direction.

***

A frame update schedules itself in the pixelated and throbbing corner of his HUD stack, sending rippling warbles throughout the array.

Of fragging course.

Now, really?

Read the fragging room.

***

Cursing himself does not help the situation, doesn’t further his rabid search for fuel, but it does ease the hungry beasts.

What a complete glitch he’d been during his time at the settlement. Shattered Energon cubes flash across his memory banks. One of the many instances his air-helmedness ended in wasted sustenance.

Newdawn always took it with grace. B-127 wishes he had not.

***

Need Energon, need it now.

Primus, he’s so scared, why is he so scared?

***

Oh, Newdawn and Faylever would not approve of this. They would not approve at all. Their disappointment presses harshly against his backstrut, and the guilt is leaving him queasy. He shouldn't do this, he should not. He can find another way to get through the update without resorting to this.

They’re just trying to survive.

They’re just trying to survive, just like he is.

He isn’t a thief; he is not a thief.

He’s a scavenger, he’s good at finding things and figuring things out.

There is another way, there always is.

But he isn’t sure he’s got enough time to find that way. Signs of life are typically either a few groons apart, or entire cycles of travel away. He doesn’t have enough time to risk the latter.

In theory, his frame is developed enough that despite his Energon levels being perpetually low, he’s got enough natural endurance to handle the shift in his plates without frying his processor. Maybe, probably.

His cables are pulled taut and his underplating is sore pretty much everywhere, even if he survives the update intact, he’ll have burned through enough of his reserves that he’ll be too tired to move.

And… this group is somewhat large. Ten, maybe twelve bots make up the camp. They seem to be Autobots and B-1’s tanks rumble at the sight of their badly hidden Energon cubes. It’s a caravan, and B-127 doesn’t think they are armed, besides maybe three of them who are standing sentinel while the other bots recharge.

Soon enough the others will come online, and his chance will be gone. The bots aren’t doing a particularly good job of keeping an optic on their Energon, and it would be so easy. So easy to get in, take a handful into his subspace and get out.

A tightness settles within his mid-section plating and B-1 invents sharply, clutching at the armor as if a new wound has sprung there. His spark is rebelling, his deepest self urging him to turn away from this line of thinking. He can’t, he shouldn’t, he’s better than this.

 And maybe at one point, he was.

Now he’s just the starving little new spark who steals from innocent Autobots. Who all look exhausted and just as weary as he does. Who have suffered just as much as he has. Maybe they’ve even suffered more, they are older and smarter and have probably seen so much more than he has. Lost so much more. They deserve this Energon, even if they didn’t help him save his home.

That tense feeling sinks its claws in, as phantoms of the servos that spread the cracks speared across his chest clamp down. B-1 shudders, disgust slogs through him in thick rivulets, coating his spark and nearly causing him to gag.

Even still, B-127 drops into a crouch, monitoring the movements of each bot. A shiver runs down his backstrut, he does not know what they will do to him if he fails, but at the moment, he does not have much choice but to take the risk. His servos shake, but he waits for his opening. Though they find their attention better suited to other places, B-1 still stalls until the bots have all fully turned from their posts, a flaw in their patrol structure.

Correction, what a selfish thieving little astro-vulture.

***

They don’t see him. Their audials don’t hear him. Their fields don’t feel him.

He really does feel sick, because it’s so fragging easy.

Even with his gyroscope cluttered with errors and his body slowed with exhaustion, he dashes to the cluster like it’s nothing.

How could the Autobots allow this? He sneaks right past them, and with a wretched vent, takes as much as he needs and even some extra. His optics glance over a recharging mech, a large scar running the length of his chest plates. It looks old. It looks painful. B-127 bites back a whimper.

He feels so dirty, but as he hobbles away, he doesn’t put any back.

***

It’s rather eerie, but B-1 never hallucinates Blue Breeze, never hears the facsimile of his vocoder, never lays lying optics on his form. B-127 doesn’t know why. Doesn’t care to learn.

But for all his lack of physical display, B-1 knows he is there, regardless. Watching sadly from the corners of his processor. A darkening of his spark in the form of quiet disapproval. Blue Breeze always had such a strong field.

Autobots don’t steal.

B-1 bites his glossa, stopping himself from reminding the specter that he is no Autobot, slag he is hardly even a Neutral. He’s an existence, a craggy mess of proto-flesh and dented cyber-matter.

A sharpened grip clenches around his spark and he gasps.

This isn’t right, you’re built for better. I believed in you. Think, remember. Get up, try again, it’s possible. You burn hotter than you think.

Just a malfunction. Just a malfunction, just a malfunction—

***

The update is clunky and weird, no doubt an unfortunate byproduct of his premature T-cog activation, but his pilfered Energon keeps his bio-mechanisms from shorting out. By the end of it, he is ten inches taller with a significant upgrade to his processing capacity and frame density. It’s a little disappointing that the change does nothing to heal his cracked plating or ease the corruption in various chambers of his brain module, but he takes what he can get.

It’d be more exciting if it wasn’t chartered on the backstruts of his deceit. A wrongness simmers under the surface of his protoform and he keeps his denta deadlocked with helm-numbing pressure. Dark and sinuous, it takes hold.

The stretch of his fuel lines offers a good distraction to the pooling shame keeping him in a vice, the flush of fresh Energon bringing life to his longer limbs and dispersing with a slight burning. It’s uncomfortable and B-1 can’t help but feel he has earned it. His frazzled sensornet takes its time making sense of the update because his helm is so clogged.

It’s all rather poetic, a haze distorts the distant bedazzled sky, leaving B-1 with only a plaguing glimpse of his guiding lights. The demons bite down, and B-1, so weak in his resolve and blinded by smog, allows them to gorge themselves, not on the feast he offers, but on him.

***

… He needed it.

Needed it more than they did.

Surely it was not such a selfish act – surely Primus might offer him some leeway.

… Right?

***

He has a debt to pay.

Monsters to feed.

Another camp, another flaw in their guarding system. They’re Neutrals, and they don’t deserve it.

He doesn’t take much. But he takes, all the same.

***

Newdawn purposes a question on one particular cycle.

“Would you have taken from us? If we had not taken you in?”

And with all of his spark, B-1 wants to say no. Wants to say he would never, of course not.

But then that would not really be fair, now would it?

To say he’d treat them any different. To say they would be the exception.

It would be a lie.

He doesn’t answer, because it’s foolish to.

But he can tell by the chill that they both know his answer.

***

A callous forms over his spark.

Remorse is a bitter thing, and B-127 roils in it for cycles before the apathy presses coldly, taking its place with the darkness hiding in the shadows he casts. His spark rages, warring against it valiantly, scorching agonizing disgrace so pungently it threatens to melt the ground below him.

But soon enough, the ethereal light inside him grows tired, joining the rest of his body in begrudging alliance as it settles, stupefied and despondent, disagreeing with its own indifference but too detached to fight it.

It’s a loss to himself, something swallowed whole by something greater than what he is built for.

Introspection becomes a favored hobby, he’s prone to thinking, just built that way. The ghosts don’t possess alt modes to torment him as he rumbles about his planet in some carnivorous hope of escape, so he tends to stay that way, razing past the decrepit wastes for cycles on end. Just to escape the voices, the projections.

But without the company, he must find other ways to elicit emotion. It’s so difficult to grasp.

Who better to keep himself company, just he and the grotesque murkiness of his spark.

When he does dare to stop, dares to give the ghosts an inch of purchase, they surround him, circling like a phantasmic zoetrope of bitter cries and dire pleas. In time they aren’t such a shocking sight, they don’t rattle his plating beyond a passing shiver and unpleasant sensation. They stand just out of his comprehension, the strain of his CPU just enough to know they are there.

Faylever begs him to open his spark and try to smile. He walks right past her, reminding himself bitterly that her warmth is nothing but a good memory to feed to his misery.

***

Nanites indulge in the Energon he intakes in a frenzy, the cache of his self-repair clears, and once his fuel percentage reaches above forty it creates lethargic lines of cyber-matter across the cracks and open wounds that he’s come to know so intimately. It’s not much, a humiliating display of silver scarring where the soldering is sloppy and his nanites struggle to fill in the paint, and the gaping gash in his door wing remains along with a warped dent in his helm, but like its own cruel knife, the pain does lessen.

He should celebrate that, should dance around his make-shift campsite, and scream his thankfulness.

Instead, he only stares at the fire he’s made. Accursedly perceptive optics take in every detail, down to the smallest flickering ember.

At this point, B-1 would not put it past Primus or whatever is watching over him to find it all hilarious. His functions hold steady for the first time in orbital cycles, and precious lifeblood courses through him with boiling warmth. The flames lick at his plating as if trying to crawl under to his softer protoform, and he dares to flare his armor to allow it.

Anything to ease the frozen state of his core.

It tries, by Primus it tries. The heat saturates his chassis and hopes for more, hopes to reach further. Memories of kind servos and idyllic laughter hope to chime in the canals of his inner audials, recalling a time when his tanks were full to bursting, content, never uttering a request for more because it was enough. All of it; it was enough.

That vicious black storm of bottled-up something clamps down on it and dissolves the raucous noise like grime in acid rain, and his spark is unmoved. In fleeting despair, a few tired tendrils try to reach out for the warm touch, but they are quickly whipped into submission, recoiling back to their eternal spiral, now festering with calcified edges.

There’s a part of him that wonders why he continues to try. All he does is try, try, try. Rarely does success find him and in the fleeting moments it does, it only leaves him writhing in the crushing clutches of a guilt he doesn’t know how to be rid of.

Perhaps it’s better this way.

The degrading yellow of his field nips at his pedes and crawls up his chassis, a crying aura that in one moment casts wide in search of another, only to shrink back and shrivel when it comes up empty, alone.

Stolen blood thrashes within his lines, he shakes despite the emptiness. The fire flickers, nearly lashing his spiked knees and leaving a mark. The crackle of the flames sounds an awful lot like the snapping of necks and the whispers of those lost.

And so it is.

A drive, he will go for a drive.

Chapter Text

Rationing his (stolen) Energon is near torture but a complete necessity. Satisfaction is four cubes away but B-127 forces his contentment to take in one a solar cycle. When his reserves get low, his efficiency programs burn slow enough that he can even go down to half of one.

And despite his apathetic spark and his avaricious servos, his reserves are often lean. Not ideal, never ideal, but he functions, and he supposes that’s enough. It’s fine. He is no withering husk, just close enough away from that definition to be something more stable. Supposing his processor could ever truly find meaning in that word. He makes do as he always does.

The lackadaisical behavior his self-repair programs illicit has him finding creative ways to maneuver without collapsing or driving into ditches. Without the function of his door wing’s sensor nodes and the sorry state of his gyroscope, B-1 trains himself to balance without the useless appendage’s help. His sensory antennae are raised to their full height nearly constantly. He focuses his weight on the opposite side whenever he feels his pedes slipping or a dizzy spell forming.

It works, for the most part, though his tactical subroutines whine about his agility and dexterity.

Just silly warframe groanings, he ignores them.

If he refueled more often, he’d probably have better control, but needs must, and he isn’t willing to waste good Energon just so his knees don’t wobble when he walks.

Simply not worth it. It’s practical, smart. It makes sense.

And if in the very corners of his vision, he observes the vestiges of Newdawn’s frowning form, then, well, it’s none of their business.

***

Not too long ago, B-127 would have been dismayed by the dust and muck that clings to his frame, ground so fine that it infiltrates through his transformation seams and leaving grit all over his internals. They chafe and sting at his scarred wounds and make him look far more damaged than he truly is.

A solvent shower would be heavenly.

That’s not to say the tarnish does not have its advantages. Uncomfortable as it may be, it does a wonderful job of cloaking his paint coating.

B-1 has never hated his paint. The medallion yellow and ebony accents feel right, as much a symbol of himself as his alt mode or his vocoder’s distinct intonation. Under the right light, the yellow shimmers like gold and B-1 has always liked that.

But it’s garish. It’s bright and lively and so noticeable. In a world of muted tones and corroded metal, his pop of color feels… wrong. Mocking, almost. Mocking of the pain that saturates the air with a thickness that sticks to plating like tar. It’s an insult, to stand out as much as he does.

So, it’s not so bad, to be as dirty as he is.

After all, stealing is so much easier when you blend with the landscape. It’s better, to stay obscured. He’s got enough optics drilling into him wherever he goes, whether they’re ghostly or not, he’d rather just leave them be.

Whatever.

***

This settlement is a little more developed than the usual ones he usually takes from. A Neutral town with a relatively small populous. It reminds him of home. His spark withers in his chest, but the gnashing teeth swallow down the pain before it breeches his spark chamber.

It doesn’t take too much snooping to find that their Energon is stored in one dingy shed nearing the center of the colony.

Kind of a crude place to keep your lifeblood, but okay.

As it tends to be with Neutral camps, the security is lax but not so lax that B-127 – a new spark who gets dizzy from simply standing for too long— can access it easily. So, he spends a good portion of the solar cycle memorizing the patrol circuit. He sits, perched a good eighty yards away, resting atop an array of cyber metal that just barely constitutes as a hill.

 It’s jagged and hollowed in some places, and by the thrum of electrical tingling just under his plating, it must have been a mine at some point, though whatever Energon crystals it once housed are long gone.

Well, at least someone got to enjoy it. B-1’s mid-section plating grows tense as his field flushes with bitterness.

Spying on people can be boring work, but B-1 hardly pays it mind anymore.

Things here are not the same as they had been at home. There are no precocious trios of sparklings running about, no laughing bots enjoying the pretty lavender hues of the setting sky. It’s nearly lifeless, this colony. The distance is nothing to his optics, and all he sees is an uneasy tension and shaking servos.

No, things are not the same as they had been at all. These bots are tired, afraid.

Maybe they heard what happened. Maybe they feel they are next.

B-1 reason they probably aren’t. Their Energon reserves are measly and with no new sparks to steal and reprogram, they’re hardly anything to the Decepticons. Less than a buzz fly. His maimed spark rams against the walls he’s built around it.

There’s a guilt that always comes with stealing. He doesn’t want to, especially not from these people, they’re innocent, and they deserve to be left in peace.

“But hey, it’s either you or them, and you’re gonna choose you, every time, aren’tcha?” Locke Up derides from his place somewhere just out of view. “Just like you chose to run, instead of savin’ your friend.”

His servos creak, and it’s only when a rather pointed ping appears in his HUD array that B-1 eases his clenched digits, having nearly dented the chrome of his palm. It’s a physical reaction, he reminds himself, nothing real. He won’t be affected by malfunctions. Locke Up is dead, and he has no right to mock him.

Regardless of how true his words are.

One of the guards watching over the Energon places his weapon down to stretch his stabilizers and curl his neck cables. He’s growing tired. Either a change of shift will arrive soon, or this bot is thoroughly overworked.

Either outcome holds the same connotation: it gives him an opening.  

And though B-1 knows they don’t have much, it’s enough to keep him from wasting away. He reasons he won’t take a large amount, he never does, when it comes to Neutral camps. They’ve suffered and will continue to do so.

But Locke Up is right. It’s either them or him. He needs the Energon and his scavenging has been fruitless. Taking is his only option.

Well, it’s not, he could always barge in like he did the first time, but one more glance at the resident’s forlorn and hopeless expressions has the concept wilting away. Most of the time, he is content with his loneliness. It’s familiar and though it doesn’t help with the quiet insanity, it’s nice to worry for no one but himself. He has resolved to keep alone, and it will stay that way.

Sometimes, though, and only sometimes, because he does everything he can during the waking groons to ignore it, his spark pours over as if molten, and he shakes with loss as if the events pouring over his processor are new. They are not, it’s been orbital cycles, nearly an entire stellar cycle, but it feels like they are. He does not sob or scream, he’s lost his taste for that, and his spark just doesn’t have the strength anymore. No, he simply shakes, staring at the sky as if wounded and fading, plating clenched so tightly to his softer protoform that it’s nearly damaging. Even when he is staring straight at them, the stars can never find the right words to say. It can sometimes take groons before his processor can catalog the misplaced information, and give him some semblance of awareness back.

He misses them always, in the back of his emotional centers, the small portion that has not completely frozen over. But in those moments, it’s almost as if he is burning up, beginning at his spark’s epicenter and traveling out. It’s agonizing, even if the pain is all psychological.

It is in those weaker moments that he misses people. Misses being stupid and happy, misses being frail and cared for.

But those moments are just that, moments. They pass, and B-127 remembers himself and exactly why he stays away.

“They wouldn’t wanna fix you anyway,” Locke Up sneers. “They’d see your bloody servos and scream.”

B-1 thinks he’s probably right.

***

It’s a bit of an unpleasant shock when he realizes he’s getting rather good at this.

Night falls and B-1 finds the courage to move in. His engines hum as he drives, neatly pulling under a crumbling archway.

Many of the bots have retired to the shelter of their housing units, hiding away from the chill of the night air. It’s just as well, it’s cloudy tonight. The dark and dreary navy is a lot less exciting when he can’t see the luminescent speckled thermosphere.  

Predictably, the poor bot standing guard eventually falls into a standing recharge. It’s a light thing, he stirs every few kliks when the wind picks up, but B-1 is perfectly capable of keeping his pedesteps light.

Well, light enough. Halfway through his trek to the town’s center, his gyroscope miscalculates (because of course it does), and his stabilizers give out on him completely. He’s thankful no one is around to witness him slamming his faceplate against the metallic streets.

But, as he always does, he helps himself up, ignoring the angered sting across his dented metal. A breeze flushes past, whistling through the sharp angles of B-127’s plating. His tanks clench, B-1 shakes his helm.

“I’m sure they’d be willing to share,” Faylever whispers, sweet and quiet and so very sad. Her voice always does something funny to his spark, even now. He waits, and it’s only a moment before it freezes back over.

He pushes on.

***

Scrap.

His gyros must need defragmentation because as he’s piling cubes into his subspace, his vision tilts and grows fuzzy around the edges. His finials rise to their full height, but the correction turns to over-correction and the input of information makes him queasy. He fights the nausea – he’s used to this, he is used to this – but it doesn’t help the way it forces his grip to weaken.

A cube clatters to the floor.

Loudly.

Really loudly.

Pits.

The clamor is immediate, and B-1 resists the urge to collapse to the floor like some sort of invalid.

He’s so tired.

Heavy pedesteps punctuate his frantic jitters as his helm pivots throughout the room. His optics are sharp as he scans every seam of poorly fused metal, every subtle imperfection, every loose screw. Find an escape, find an escape. Make a plan.

There is none. There is only one entrance and soon enough it will be swarmed with guards. Granted there are only four, but that’s more than B-127 is equipped to handle. His weapons shift and click in place, but B-1 silences the intruding requests for activation. He eyes the stacked Energon warily. He may be a monster, but he won’t go so far as to destroy the only fuel these people have, just so he can make a clean getaway.

A pointed clicking, and the shin of a door sliding. Scrap.

The pilfered Energon sits like lead in his subspace.

Spiraling optics meet harrowed and frenzied ones. They aren’t warframes, the four of them, but they are big, big enough to crush him if they really wanted. He takes several unwieldy steps backward toward the opposing wall.

For all their might, the sentries appear more shocked than anything else. Their optics blow wide as they process what’s happened, and grow wider as they peer straight through him. His back meets the wall. His mangled wing buzzes with the dull throb of an old injury. The weight of their stunned fields is heavy and B-1 winces, inventing sharply. He’d nearly forgotten what that felt like.

One of them steps forward, careful. As he takes in B-1 in all his splendor, he almost… softens. “Wait, you’re a—”

Using their shock, B-1 moves. From where they rest under his plating, B-1 calls upon his plasma blades. It’s only a matter of nano-kliks, and he feels a little bad for destroying their supposed stronghold for their fuel, but he pushes the guilt away as he carves a hole in the building’s siding. The metal parts for him as if nonexistent.

He’s left with a shocked outcry as he stumbles away, transforming in a less than dignified manner. He nearly clips a building trying to steady his rear axle.

Okay, maybe he’s not as good as he thinks.

***

They may be big, but they aren’t fast.

He glides across the matte plain, barely reaching top speed while he smells their burnt rubber. A wave of wrongness sends a shiver up his chassis. They’re tired, to the point of falling into recharge. B-1 wishes he hadn’t had to take advantage of that.

It’s silly, but they never raise their weapons towards him.

Don’t they know he’s stealing from them? He’s a thief, a scavenging turbofox, callously taking the one treasure they still have. They should be doing whatever they can to get their stores back, but they only shout their pleas for him to stop.

With a vicious twist of his gut, he ignores them every time.

***

After a while, they’re nothing but blips of color in the pallor of the nightly hues.

Locke is laughing, cackling at the top of his vocoder’s strength. It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real—

It’s deafening.

***

Time after time he runs diagnostics on his Gyroscope, resetting and resetting, hoping his self-repair can find something to hold on to, something to fix. There is plenty, he is aware, it’s foolish. They find exactly what is wrong, but the issue was never the incompetence of his nanites. They understand something is off just fine, there’s just nothing to be done about it. The code needs patches, detangling, something his nanites are incapable of doing on their own. Not without commands and intricate medical knowledge. Things B-127 most definitely lacks.

He knows that. He has known that for orbital cycles, but he still hopes for progress. Still thinks that if he just pushes his self-repair far enough, it’ll get it’s act together and make him better. Fix what’s broken. Primus, he’s so sick of being broken.

Because he can’t risk that happening again.

It was a lucky break that he was not immediately shot and killed.

Even with his countermeasures, he’s only half functional. Weak.

Consuming a second cube – something he absolutely does not want to do – B-1 prays that the extra fuel has the strength to just do something.

Of course, all it does is fill his perpetually dry tanks an inch or two higher.

Lycan tilts her helm, holographic form waving in and out of focus with his campfire. “So, was it worth it?”

She always asks that, whenever he’s done things like this. Always with that same, quiet grief. Over what, B-1 has no idea, he’s never been able to dissect it further. The burning it causes his spark is too great.

At this point, he doesn’t even look up. Why should he? He never has an answer.

***

Giving up on the attempted healing is easy as it usually is, his indignant fury over his ineptitude fizzling out in one big frigid burst. And then, it’s back to the cold nothingness. It’s better that way.

Fresh Energon roils within his tanks, pulsing through his filters and to his lines with elated intensity.

He resists the urge to intake more, and instead chooses to wallow in his regret of even taking in two.

Stupid. Selfish.

But what’s new?

He shivers. There’s no ghostly voice to taunt him. No, that thought echoes like the loud clang of bells. It rings in his voice.

***

It’s when his HUD pings a small announcement of his second stellar cycle alive that B-1 realizes just how little time he spent at the settlement.

The solar cycles had moved so slow, so peacefully, B-1 had hardly noticed. Maybe six or seven orbital cycles. Almost eight. Almost. Cybertronians are so long-lived, a couple stellar cycles is nothing, just a servoful of data to store in data banks, left to be cataloged into their respective chambers and pushed along. If he somehow finds favor in Primus’ divine optics, he’ll live for millions more and beyond.

Seven orbital cycles is nothing. Not even a blink of an optic.

But when he was with them, learning, living – oh, it had felt like eons. Maybe time moves slower for the young, Newdawn had once confessed that at a certain point, the stacks upon stacks of memory data begins to blur together, and so do the cycles. Not in a sad, mind-numbing way, no. It simply comes to a point where the little lessons you learn every day become so commonplace that you barely think to notice them anymore.

Things that held your attention for groons become passing data-points, not even flagged by your processor.

“By your first vorn, you barely notice the time pass,” he’d said, something wistful passing across his features.

At the time, that seemed like something to look forward to. A moment where your wisdom of the world becomes sufficient enough to carry you, to keep you alert even when you are not. Enough to teach you without having to be taught.

Now, B-1 dreads it.  

Dreads being so unaware of the passage of time, of being so willing to let it flow over him like a flood of solvent. Every moment, every passing nano-klik, he feels himself forgetting more and more. Feels himself moving on in ways he never, ever wants to.

Feels the warmth they spread across his plating begin to grow as cold as his spark.

 He doesn’t feel much these days – it’s better that way – but this, this he feels deeply.

When he first blinked his optics and rested his newborn legs, the world gifted him a comet. A celestial body made of ice and dust, gasses melting from its icy nucleus, aglow and soaring just for him.

B-1 knows now that it will likely be eons before he gets to see that particular comet again, it’s orbit long and arduous, a game of hide and seek that Cybertron often loses. It sometimes feels like fate, that he’d gotten to lay his infant optics on it.

It had given him his color, offered some of its cold, flying light to him, and he’d taken it.

The stars had been his only company, his first companions.

Now, on his second anniversary, B-1 has made his orbit, and alone he is, as he was.

He thinks of giving himself a present, something nice like an extra Energon cube – he’s got a few stockpiled in his little hovel – but he somehow feels it isn’t earned. It is meant to be a milestone, a remembrance of where you once were.

What right does he have to a gift, if he is right back where he started?

A tired servo reaches for the warped metal of his helm, a reminder of his helm-wound in the form of a mal-treated gash. It’s a closed wound, and the pain is just a memory now. But by Primus, it feels fresh. All of his wounds, they still feel so fresh. Sometimes, it’s like he’s still there.

Is this what Newdawn meant?

If at some point his memories of home begin to compress into simple low-res logs, just snippets of a bygone era, then so will the memories of that cycle?

With a gentle clink, his forehelm rests upon the flat just before his spiked knees.

“Keep dreamin’ kid.”

***

But the stars are bright, and late into the night, B-1 indulges himself in finding constellations he recognizes.

Chronoarchitect is especially bright tonight, and B-127 dares to smile up at it.

A cloud covers the edges of Yggdrasill, but no nimbostratus fools his optics.

The Void is where it always is, vast and lonely. B-1 looks at that one for a long, long time, even if it’s a rather dull sight.

He can’t help but feel that it looks right back.

A meteor passes over, and something punches through the ice, the glacier of his spark.

He laughs, an honest, light little sound. Small and fleeting, but strong. A weight slips from his pauldrons, if only for this minuscule klik. A tingling emanates from his chest, spark unsure of what to do.

It’s not a comet, not a gaseous body of ice, forever racing around the sun until it becomes inert.

No, a meteor. An ephemeral, burning rock of pure energy and heat and power.

A shooting star, his infodex defines, almost sweetly.

There will be no reappearance, no orbit or encore. No, this, this is this star’s one big show, its single performance, its first and final call.

It doesn’t worry about the past or what comes later. The here and now is all it has, and it uses every nano-klik. B-1 does not know if any other optics are watching the show, but he finds that he doesn’t care. He is watching, he is taking it in. Even if no one else in the entire galaxy sees, if anyone cares to look up to the heavens anymore.

B-127 does.

After tonight, no one may know of the star’s grand display, but B-1 will. He will know and carry it within his memory banks even if no one else will. No one can take that from him. Not even time. The black, oozing hunger grinds their jagged teeth, but in an almost gentle manner, his spark ushers it to sleep. Just for the night. Just for this special night.

Pretty, his infodex supplies.

***

And as it always does. Time moves forward. A star burns up in the planet’s atmosphere.

 And then it is no more.

***

He intakes his one cube for the cycle.

***

One.

One.

One.

Half.

None.

Half.

Half.

None.

None.

None.

***

There’s only three of them. Mingling together in what was once a small villa. Their Energon is abandoned around the perimeter under a slanted awning.

It’s not a lot, but B-1 could use the extra fuel, if only to tide him over before he finds a bigger stash somewhere.

A little irresponsible to leave your Energon out in the open like that. What’s with people these days?

The empty chasm that gores his internals has him feeling weaker than he normally does – he really should have been more diligent about how much fuel he was burning. If these bots are irresponsible, he is downright negligent.

… He’ll work on it.

For now, he’ll take the punishment in the form of piston fatigue and slower processing speed. He’s not some sparkling who cries until fed.

He's lithe enough to roll under the villa's gates, only becoming slightly disoriented from the motion.

One of the bots laughs at something the other says, somewhere behind a wall.

Well, at least they’re happy, that’s more than most bots can say. B-1 allows a small moment to lament ruining some of their happiness.

Light pedesteps stop, and B-1 crouches to examine the spoils. The cubes look reused, non-edible casings meant to be opened rather than consumed. Smart, B-127 thinks, a more compact version of the canisters he used to parade around before he had access to his subspace.

Audials cranked to their limits – and ignoring the subtle ringing – B-1 waits for only a moment. The bots are chattering about something about their last few days of travel. The distance is just great enough that he can’t make out the details, only that they enjoyed it.

Judging by the immersed flare in their vocoders, they won’t be finished talking within the next few kliks. Good.

Scene thoroughly cased, B-1 gingerly plucks a cube from the small pile.

Click.

… And is immediately harpooned through the cadulen.

A million sensory inputs and damage reports bash against his helm all in the span of a nano-klik and the shock of the harpoon through his leg leaves him momentarily speechless. Frozen in place as his optics blow wide, taking in the new injury.

Another hidden mechanism whirs and buzzes to life and it’s only because of his current audial settings that he hears it. The cube he’d palmed slips from his servos as the pain suddenly registers, and the harpoon – which is fastened to a rusted chain – begins to pull. A strangled cry escapes now that the agony of damaged components and angry sensor nodes sets on him like ravenous beasts. Upwards and stupidly fast, in the shutter of an optic, B-1 is dangling upside down by his leaking calve.

The sudden and complete shift of equilibrium has the entire world spinning and his gyroscope is so confused he feels so so sick oh Primus.

Locke Up laughs somewhere just out of reach. “Nice, strung up like a criminal shamed. Fitting, ain’t it? Missed your spark chamber by a mile though. Oh well.”

He swallows down a gag, which comes out as a strained whimper. Prongs of the harpoon dig gratingly into his mesh and barb themselves there. The taut hold of the chain against his form brings a horrible tension to his struts and inner cables, no more helped by the gaping hole in his leg.

Energon runs down his leg in lethargic, trickling lines, scaling past his thigh and running along the joints and grooves of his mid-section plating and absorbing into the grime he’s covered in. He needs that inside of him, Primus, he’s already so low, he can’t afford to lose any more than this.

Struggling only makes the chain whine from having to bear his weight, swaying with his every struggle and jittering vent. It’s so much to process and his fragging stupid broken CPU is struggling to keep him from purging, his helm is positively swimming. Pain is coming through in rough discordant throbs and B-127 has to slap a servo to his intake to keep from crying out again. Gritting his denta only generates a grinding noise from the gears in his mandible, and his HUD pings with an annoyed warning saying he should stop doing that.

A trap, of course it was a trap he’s so stupid. Stupid, naïve little sparkling. Of course it was too easy and of course he got caught – that’s the idea. Self-berating enmity pulses under the chemically charged fear beginning to surge over his systems, and B-1’s chassis practically vibrates from the clashing sensations.

Please, he was just hungry, he just needed fuel. Primus. The demons are frantic, and his spark is in agreement with them.

“What in the ever-loving frag is that?”

He stills, only mildly wincing when the sudden lack of motion localizes all the sensation to his aching, bleeding calve. Primus almighty, he does not have the nanites to spare for an injury like this.

That is, if the three angry mechs staring him down don’t kill him first.

For all his belief that his spark has grown rather cold, the icy wash that prickles his fuel lines is arctic. His shaking is aborted further, and his only dared movement is the involuntary swing of the damned chain. The lack of inertia makes him sink, and the barbs of the harpoon bite deeper into his mesh. A shiver crawls up his lateral-scapula, but he keeps from gasping. His secondary fans are annoyingly loud.

One of them – a tall, lanky grounder with long, arched finials – approaches him slowly, optical ridges furrowed. Shock colors his features for only a nano-klik before a long, disconcerting smirk sprawls across his dermas. B-127 pulls his field tightly against his frame, locking his working doorwing against his back. Even as he hangs, the bot is tall enough to look down on him. “You’re not an astro-turkey.”

And B-127 has several things to say to that, because obviously he’s not, but in the face of those searching yellow optics, B-1’s vocoder’s voice box remains stubbornly locked up. All he can manage is a shaken noise, and a helpless opening and close of his intake.  

Coming up behind his comrade, another bot with dark blue paint narrows his optics at him, frowning with unhidden appraisal. His door wings are large enough to encompass his entire back, raised high enough that they nearly flush against the corroded awning. “… Certainly not, greedy like one, though,” he states, an icy edge in his tone.

“Oh, you’re so screwed, kid,” Locke Up adds unhelpfully.

The tall one snickers, bringing a servo towards the chain. B-1 fights off a wince as he grips it tight enough to cause a jerk reaction of movement, sending a shooting buzz of hurt through his body. The older bot brings his faceplate close to B-1’s, the warmth of his frame causing a weird burning underneath B-1’s plating. The dim glow of his optics is the only light cast around his hulking frame. B-1 flinches away despite his commands to remain still. The bot sneers.  “Thought you found a pretty good score, didn’t you?” He asks venomous, horn-like finials splaying out like a crown across his head.

B-1 restrains himself from admitting that this ‘score’ is actually rather measly in comparison to some of the other heists under his belt. His social protocols remark that it is probably not the wisest thing to say given the situation. If the pain lancing through his cadulen is any indication, he agrees. His optics spiral wildly, making a rather telling whirring noise as his feed takes in unnecessary information, causing his underlying dizzy spell to worsen with data overclock.

Shaking the chain a bit, the offending bot brings his free servo to poke at B-1’s faceplate. B-127 reels back to recoil from the touch, but only gets as far as snapping his neck back. His neck cables whine and his thraceatic lines constrict around his voice box mechanism. The mech’s grin sours, rich anger spilling over into his EM field and overwhelming B-1’s senses. “Thieving little brat, aren’t you, little bug?”

“—Hey, that’s my demeaning nickname, get your own,” interjects Locke, ghostly voice sounding altogether too affronted. B-127’s tanks turn, and he gags again, barely holding down his reserves. This is all becoming too much too quickly.

The mech steps away at the reaction, jostling the chain as he lets go. “Ew, what the frag. You can’t be this afraid, I ain’t even touched you yet.”

From somewhere behind the two harsh mechs, the third bot speaks. “C’mon, Lariat, he’s a new spark, cut him some slack.” While he is no shorter than the other two, this mech’s field – while still holding an aggressive twinge – is far less aggravating. He’s a muted grey and black, as flat as they come.

This attempt at mercy is met with the growling rumble of an engine, and the tall mech turns his helm back to shoot a glare. “Oh, that’s a load of bolts, this little glitch knew exactly what he was doing.” His gaze returns to B-127, who tries to activate his vocoder in protest. He only squeaks. “… Didn’t you?” He inquires, more of a threat to his tone than a sincere query.

He doesn’t answer, even as hundreds of potential rebuttals sit on the tip of his glossa. His social protocols and logic centers screech, begging him to just speak.

But he can’t.

All he can do is stare up at the trio, feeling all to aware of himself. Aware of the subtle quiver he’s failing to suppress, aware of the Energon painting his chassis in warm rivulets. Aware of the static in his servos and the way his helm keeps tilting this way and that, an involuntary movement as his antennae struggle to make heads or tailpipe of his surroundings.

Aware that he had been trying to steal from these bots, and for the first time, he’s been caught for it. Well and truly.

And perhaps, aware that if he admits the truth, using real, big boy words – he will definitely get a faceplate full of plasma.

Because the guns strapped to their side-plating are burnt around the barrel. They are used often.

Something tells him that they won’t care too much about using them on him. Regardless of his youthful status.

A servo grips around his mandible, and B-1 startles when the dark blue mech wrenches his helm upwards, leaving his neck to bear all his weight in an awkward arch. It takes some pressure off of his leg wound but does nothing for the storm in his tanks. “… Interesting frame,” the mech mutters, optics casting up and down. B-1 shutters his optics, sparkpulse racing under the scrutiny. His attempts to free himself amount to pathetic wriggling.

Then.

Oh.

Oh.

Slag, he’s so stupid.

Warframe, he’s a fragging warframe.

Primus, he is so slow. If he survives the next five kliks, he is not going this long without any Energon again, if he can help it. He’s so stupid.

Before he can finish another self-deprecating thought, B-127 has his plasma blades burning a brilliant, pulsing ultramarine. The shock of the movement has the clenched digits around his mandible loosen just enough for him to lurch upwards. Gravity pulls him down simultaneously, and his bulk is held by the chain, but he’s fast enough to swipe at the old metal, slicing through it fast enough that he almost doesn’t notice the sudden descent to the floor.

He crashes on top of the trapped Energon cubes in an unceremonious heap. With the state of his leg (see: spear lodged in it), B-1 has no choice but to scramble to his pedes with the grace of a bot with no optics or stabilizers. Though the room is positively spinning like the world’s worst phenakistoscope, the small part of his processor still in control finds some footing and he stumbles off of the cubes in a clumsy, but swift, shuffle.

As there typically is whenever B-1 makes a getaway, there’s an enraged grumble of disbelief but B-127 dismisses the input, pooling all of his energy into sprinting with a pole gouged through him. It is considerably more difficult to slide under the gate, and he just manages it. There’s a quarry around here somewhere, if he can just get to it, he can perform some sad interpretation of first-aid and rest, and come up with a new plan.

And perhaps allow some time to wallow. He hasn’t done that in a while, been too numb to do much other than recharge, refuel, drive. Drive, drive, drive.

But his spark beat is racing, and real gripping fear has a hold over him.

Did he honestly fall for a trap meant for slagging astro-turkeys?

And he is about to pick apart every  little thing he has ever done – a fun pass time to be sure – when –

The force is too much and he feels a piece of plating snap clean in half. His HUD stack pixelates from the sheer volume of data inflow, nearly crashing his stack and sending him careening into a blue screen.

Getting hit by a mid-size rig will do that to you.

Any and all plans or ideas or thoughts he has completely overwrite themselves until all he is left with is delirious panic. Metal dents and old scarred welding pops back open as he tumbles harshly until he settles in a quivering heap, his nonfunctional door wing sizzling its aching complaints from where he has it pinned under him.

Fog muddles his brain module, and B-1 is so disoriented he hardly has the presence of mind to notice the new pain splintering  out across his hip-plates and lower back. Servos grip at his pauldrons and shove him to his knees. His helm lolls to the side and his optics flicker in and out. The pressure on his cadulen is nearly enough to send him into an involuntary recharge.

“Would you fraggin’ at that, a warframe. Primus sure has a slaggin sense of humor,” he thinks the Lariat jeers. B-127 is fairly certain he is the one who hit him.

The three warble out other mocking and vaguely threatening snarls, but his audials catch the sounds like Energon running through his digits. If hanging by his leg had been dizzying, this is as if Primus himself has reached inside his processor casing and taken a servoful of wires in one big chunk. The only reason he doesn’t throw up right then and there is that his CPU is simply too confused to send the command.

“—Mute? I swear he looks dea—”

Digits grip at his plating tight enough to cause the metal to whine, and he is lifted from the ground. His helm falls back and glaring optics shine too brightly within his feed. Their fields are oppressive and thick like tar. It has B-1 shrinking in his own field to protect it. The tall one is in his face again, B-1 feels his right vent growing hot. Is he venting too much? He hadn’t even noticed, he should be paying attention – oh, he’s talking, oh slag, what was he saying? B-1’s hazy optics try to follow the bot’s intake to read them, but his dermas are drawn in a thin line.

“—We’d be doing him a favor—”

What are they talking about again? Why was he here? He’s really tired.

“—Why would Primus make—”

Attempting to replay the last ten nano-kliks just sends a burst of binary over his HUD array. That should not happen.

Slowly, at a turbo-snail’s pace, his processor tries to puzzle itself back together. The servos gripping him grate against his paint. Ouch.

“—Still needs to be puni—”

His hip really hurts.

It’s rather mocking that one of the first subroutines to reboot is his self-diagnostic. His Energon levels are dropping rapidly.

Uhg, his leg really hurts too.

Something within him seizes, going taut while his spark reels back against the cage he’s put it in.

Danger, he is in danger. His logic centers are scrambling for purchase, grasping at strings of code to give him some sort of instruction. His emotional centers don’t fare much better, trying to find context and only finding blank feed recall.

A recharge request blinks obtrusively across his HUD, B-1 attempts to blink it away, but it only frays the edges of the text.

Someone is fiddling with the transformation seams in his arm.

“—Say we gut em’ for his weapons—”

A digit wedges itself intrusively in the chamber where his blasters are housed. His weapons protocols bleep in question, unsure if they should activate or remain dormant.  

Cognizance crashes down as his brain module fully takes in the urgency of the fragmented words. Primus, they want to tear him apart. Are they really so mad he’d triggered their trap?

A cube punctured with long pins appears in his minds optic.

A rapid shot of electricity forces his locked vocoder alive. And finally, finally, B-127 finds his voice. The charge his CPU sends to his thraceatic cables is so forceful it rattles B-1’s entire frame. A desperate servo grasps at the first wrist he can find. “Wait!”

The plea is loud and raw, static around the edges and burning at his voice box. The invasive prodding stops for the moment – that bot with the big-aft wings apparently the offender – and three sets of optics stare down at him. A twinge of surprise colors their fields.

The Lariat grins. It brings a chill to B-1’s spark. “Ah, so you can talk.”

This fear isn’t quite the same as the terror he felt the day he lost faced Locke Up, the cycle he’d lost everything, but it is pungent enough to usher a wheezing vent and a clunky nod. His processor is barely slogging through the data of simply being awake, but it is putting itself back together better than some other mechs would fare. “I can do more than that,” replies B-1, hastily enough that he doesn’t care to conceal the quiver in his voice. These bots know he’s afraid, his field is leaking through cracks in his spark. All his processing power is being funneled elsewhere; his EM fluctuates in radical waves.

They know he is afraid, but they should also know that he isn’t afraid of them.

“Promises to keep, eh little bug? Nightmares to chase? Debts to pay?”

He pays Locke Up no mind.

He pulls a small pin in his mental box.

For all of their oppressive fields and lack of moral direction – hitting a new spark with a fragging semi – the bot’s seem intrigued. Or at least amused. He isn’t quite sure.

The pin clicks in place. The correct placement.

B-1 tries not to let that distinction wilt his resolve. “You’re bandits, right?” He inquires, more in the sense of acknowledgment, rather than a true query. Newdawn had warned about bots like this – bots who will do anything to survive – thrive – in the conditions of this world. Whether that means extinguishing a few sparks or not.

In a sense, B-127 isn’t so different.

“B, they’ve nearly shattered your side plating and torn a hole in your leg, you are nothing like these men,” chides the faded baritone of Newdawn.

Uhg, not now, go away, all of you. How so many of his subroutines can completely fizzle out in his weakness, but the phantoms never do, is beyond him.

From the edge of his optic feed, the grey mech slowly nods, optical ridges pinched in some unreadable expression. “So?”

Inventing harshly, B-1 grits his denta for a nano-klik too long. With the clarity pushing through his helm, the pain is returning with a righteous vengeance, it’s almost too much to keep talking. His internals feel hot, and his ventilation only half works as it is. His secondary fans are sputtering in his midsection plating. Primus, what would he give for some Energon? Even a drop.

Regardless, he pushes into action. This pin is a little harder to pull at. “So, I’d be more useful to you alive.” He states, the strain of his frame coming through in the tension in his voice.

Captain Wingspan narrows his optics, wriggling his digit wedged in his transformation seam. “I beg to differ, child. Do you know just how much bio-weaponry goes for on the market?”

B-1 doesn’t know, but he imagines if these bots are greedy enough to want to despoil his chassis for them, it must be a lot. He clears his vocoder, wincing when the action sends a throb to his hip. “Plenty, I’ll bet, but that would be a one-time thing, right? You steal my components, sell them, and then what? You made it out with a box of shanix for your trouble?”

And because he has not been mocked quite enough today, the three don’t nod along to his logic like he’d hoped they would. Instead, the trio burst out into a raucous chorus of chortling laughter.

The pin retreats back to its original position.

Lariat tightens his hold on B-1’s shoulders, pulling him closer to his face. B-1’s leg swings weakly, so numb now the pain hardly registers, there’s just enough Energon in him to feed his sensor nodes there. Lariat doesn’t seem to care. “Primus, you really are stupid, aren’t you?” B-127 struggles not to droop under the insult. “What fraggin’ demand for shanix is there? No, we’ll trade your goods for fuel, kid; pure barrels of it.”

His spark sinks, because that makes a lot more sense.

A little demoralized, B-1 takes in a shuddering vent. His helm is spinning. “Sure, you—you could, but you’d run out eventually, right? Big bots like you, it wouldn’t take long.” Casting his optics down, his optics spiral to take in the servo he has holding Lariat’s bitarlueus, his servo barely meets the circumference of the thinnest wrap of metal. “I mean, if you’ve gotta hunt astro-turkeys for your fuel, you’ve gotta be desperate.”

Probably could have worded that a little better. Lariat’s optics narrow into slits, and he gives B-1 a shake that has him biting down a gag. “We ain’t desperate, bug, we’re innovative.”

Boring Dude rolls his optics. “Get to your point, kid.”

Forcing an agreeing nod, B-127 lets go of Lariat’s wrist, trying to create as much space as possible. “Right, sorry, I’m sorry,” he swiftly placates with a slightly strained chuckle. His leg sputters with electrical arcs to punctuate his statement. “What I mean to say is… you totally could kill me and take my bio-mechs, totally.” He refrains from informing them that a decent chunk of his components are damaged. “… Or, you could employ the help of a bot who actually knows how to use them.”

His words reverberate around his helm like the final chime of a clock. He feels sick.

A mixture of perplexed and snide amusement spreads across their expressions, and B-1 tries not to feel like the smallest buzz-fly ever born. Captain Wingspan removes his digit from B-127’s plating, the audible click of it returning to its proper position makes him shiver. “I find it hard to believe a new spark of your age has a true understanding of your weapons system.”

Biting his glossa, B-1 shrugs as best he can. “I used my blades to escape, didn’t I?”

Wingspan rolls his optics. “Only once you’d calmed from your panic. It should be instinct for you warframes. What good is a bot with weapons whose first thought isn’t to fight? You could have turned your guns at us, but you did not, have not.”

HUD alerts frame the degrading glare the bots all give him, seemingly all coming to an understanding. Scrap, this isn’t good. “Look, I’m small and fast, okay? I can get to places you can’t, find Energon you might not be able to get to. I’m quiet, too,” he finds the courage to look them in the optics. “Before I triggered your trap, you didn’t even know I was there, did you?”

The three share a glance, silently conceding his argument. He pulls the pin back out.

“I’m more…” His spark constricts, he ignores it. “I’m more useful to you alive.”

Vocalizing the statement nearly makes him double over.

Though their fields seem marginally less bloodthirsty, Lariat isn’t any gentler as he drops B-1 to the ground. The force of the fall has chunks of data blocking out and his vocoder glitching in a static-laden gasp. Almost all of his weight lands on his harpooned leg and it takes everything in him not to fall ill from the shocking pain.

Above him, the three are talking, tones hushed just to be out of audial range. B-1 doesn’t bother to tune back up his gain in order to make out what they’re saying, he just needs to stay awake. With an awful clench of his chest plates, B-1 sees he’s resting in a small pool of his own Energon.

“—Hey,” calls Boring Dude, and B-1 hastily looks up at the towering mechs. Boring Dude leans into a crouch, meeting B-1 at optic level. “What are your specs?”

The pin clicks in place.

B-1 only splutters for a moment. “Efficient.”

Boring Dude looks him over. “You’re a little young to have your cog.”

He nods, unsure of what to say.

“How’s your control?” Asks Boring Dude, tilting his helm.

Another one pulled, it clicks too.

“Great,” B-1 replies forcefully, a little more confident now because it’s true. He worries his lower derma. “… I’m fast, my commands respond in pico-kliks.”

Optical ridges rise at that, some surprise ebbing through the mess of fields.

Lariat kneels down too, his expression far less impressed. “Big fragging deal, fancy specifications didn’t save you.” His pede lightly kicks against the harpoon as if to attest to his point. There’s no point in hoping to look tough, so he doesn’t try to stifle the pained groan. “Doesn’t change what you are. Doesn’t make you any less of a little rat that won’t even draw his weapons.”

Even through the sickening broil of pain and nausea, B-127 feels the demons and their teeth snap down on him, pulling him apart in sinuous chunks. The pins revert back to their original position.

Remaining an inspecting shadow, Captain Wingspan keeps a completely blank expression. “A rat who thieves when our backs are turned, then flees when he’s been caught.” Finally. He crouched, pushing in close enough to encompass the entirety of B-1’s optical feed. His optics are a harsh maroon. “In case you haven’t noticed, child, we are not the running sort.”

A sort of dull horror courses like a riptide underneath his plating, scorching his delicate internals. Because well, B-1 thinks he truly is the running sort.

 Captain Wingspan pulls back, still eyeing B-1 in that overly observant manner that makes his plating crawl.

“Say we keep you – get ourselves a little tool— that’s more Energon, more maintenance, more work, more everything. Do you honestly think you’re worth all that trouble?” The Boring Guy asks, tone rather flat as everything else about him.

No, he thinks immediately, but his spark reminds the darker thoughts that he’s got phantoms looking over his shoulder, hungry ones expecting their payment. “Then don’t think of it as work, think of it as an investment.” A stasis lock ping bleeps at the top of his HUD, A few more kliks of this and he'll be a dead mech. He’s so tired. “I don’t need a lot of fuel; you’d barely be wasting your spoils on me.”

A sort of queasiness washes over him, awfully gentle, his helm lists to the side. The bandits don’t seem to care. With a flourish, Lariat takes hold of the Energon-stained metal of the harpoon, giving it a small jerk to angle B-127’s leg at an odd angle. The pain barely registers anymore but he still grimaces. “… An investment, ay? What do ya’ think, boys? Think our greedy astro-turkey’s worth more than the blood in his lines?”

In response, the two bots look at each other, sharing an unspoken conversation. Lariat’s grin returns, rictus, and spark-stopping. “What about you, kid? Think you’ve got the mettle?”

Probably not, he wants to say. He may be a thief, but he’d never wanted to wander into bandit territory. He’d only heard stories from Newdawn. Cyber wildlife trapping is the least of these bots crimes. These bots don’t just steal, they hurt people to do it. He’d never wanted to carve that sin into his spark.

But a familiar desperation burns within him and it’s the hottest his spark has felt in orbital cycles. It hurts so much that he could cry, it’s too intense. He never thought he’d miss the numbness, but he does.

If he still had that, the cracking of his spark would not be such a potent blow. Slowly, defeated, B-1 nods. A few commands run through his stack. His vocoder wants to lock up, but he does not allow it. He pulls a pin as far as it will go. “… I’ve killed before.”

And that gets their attention. The pin settles in place, the puzzle is nearly complete. “On purpose?” Boring Dude asks, somewhat incredulous.

B-1 shakes his helm yes, attempting to look past the vertigo the action causes. “A Decepticon.” The guilt doesn’t pounce the same way it used to. What was once a burning inferno has been replaced with molten, broiling tar, dripping down his backstrut in syrupy rivers. Sticking to every part of him and scorching down to his internals, settling like ice in his spark. “I lured him into a trap.”

Lariat’s chassis rumbles with mocking laughter, the heat of his vents an uncomfortable burst along B-1’s armor. “You expect me to believe that a little blip of a spark like you extinguished a con? With what, mind games?”

It is becoming increasingly difficult to focus. His grip on this puzzle is waning. “Check my spark, can’t you feel it? I can feel the death in yours, you must feel it in mine, too.” Pleas B-1, voice warbling as his vocoder tries to shut down to conserve power. He gently denies the request.

For a time, the bandits are silent, and B-127 slowly releases his weak clutch over his field, allowing the ebbing push and pull of it to fluctuate around them. His is nowhere near the harsh edges these bots possess. His is softer, quiet, haunted. Not violent, like theirs. It’s a risk, letting them know that, but in the grand scheme of things, B-1 knows bandits hardly care about what makes up your spark.

As long as you don’t get in the way.

And it isn’t like he is lying. The slight jittering of his field, the way it flows between yellow and blue. The shadows it casts.

They can feel it. The life he took. The others he feels responsible for.

“Shit, I’ll be slagged.” Lariat murmurs. Captain Wingspan is searching his frame now more than ever, and Boring Dude just gawks, optics wide in disbelief. Something changes in their demeanors, but B-1’s social protocols are long locked away, and he doesn’t have the energy to analyze the shift himself.

They talk amongst themselves some more. The pain is bad. At the same time, he doesn’t feel it.

[WARNING – STASIS LOCK IMMINENT.]

Oops, times up.

One of his optics flickers out entirely. Components shut down, pistons relax, gears slow. This all feels so very familiar.

A face enters what’s left of his vision.

“You better not waste our time.”

He nearly dares to smile. The puzzle box clicks open.

***

Energon is shoved down his throat and craggy metal soldered to his leg once the harpoon is removed. Captain Wingspan is the apparent ‘medic,’ if he can really be considered that.  

“Bastard never finished his first term,” Lariat says in between his greedy sips of high grade.

B-1 learns his name is Dea-8, a rather creepy medical academy dropout with the bedside manner of a scraplet. “There was a war starting, I had other things to worry about,” Dea-8 deadpans, slapping a slim piece of metal over the split in his hip plate.

His servos aren’t gentle the way Toxrine always was. His medical plug-in burns in the back of his neck where Dea-8 has connected. He pours over B-127’s data discordantly, flipping between routines to logs to his component processes too fast for B-1’s flagging brain module to handle. “Can you… slow down…?” He mutters softly.

“No, stop talking.”

He listens.

***

“How do you even walk straight?” Dea-8 asks, normally stoic expression shifted to mild disgust as he takes in the data.

B-127 shrugs. “Practice.”

***

“All this trouble just to become someone else's tool. Tell me, was it worth it?”

B-1 turns over, unable to fall into the recharge he so desires. Locke Up grins from behind his shuttered optics.

***

Driving with them is long and draining. They don’t stop for breaks even when B-1 gets the courage to speak up about his heated ventilation. Apparently the Boring Dude – or Trailrunner, as B-1 has come to know him – has a more informed atlas integrated, and the bandits use it to find their next hits.

“Everyone south a’ Iacon follows these routes, sometimes we can hit two or three a cycle.” Lariat gloats, his ever-present smugness alight in his light tenor voice.

He doesn’t particularly enjoy how proud he is to hurt people for his benefit, but they watch him carefully, always an optic focused to ensure he doesn’t run off.

They aren’t nice to him, not even a little bit, but they provide him Energon even if it’s a small amount. They don’t seem to despise him, rather they are sort of amused and perplexed by his existence. That’s fine, as long as they don’t kill him during recharge, though they are not too fond of the moments when his balance gets the better of him. He pushes his drives to their limits to adjust to the limp he walks with now. Dea-8’s healing ability mostly starts and stops at mesh-level damage, and B-1 accepts the cowardly fact that he’s too afraid to complain about his damaged internals.

They hadn’t left him for dead. His play had worked. He should be happy about it. Happy to live another day even if it means sacrificing a bit of his moral comfort.

Besides, if you ask him – not that anyone would – B-127 supposes he forfeited his right to judge a long time ago.

So, he ignores the way his spark is rotting from the inside out. The shadows eat and eat.

***

They sort of take him for a test drive, force him to prove he’s as capable as he claims.

Coming upon a caravan of five bots, B-1 obliges.

It’s probably the expectation that he uses his weapons to rustle the bots out of their fuel, but as long as they’re making him do this all on his own, B-1 opts for his typical approach.  His blaster’s have been given freedom to the open air, but only for a fleeting time to fire off two shots, aiming for a serrated expanse of wild and tangled tendrils of cyber metal. The heated Energon does not burn his lines like it once did.

An old trick, the cacophony of groaning metal startles the group. They’re vigilant, as most bots these cycles are, but it’s enough that they turn their helms in surprise, two of them standing to their pedes.

If only they’d had the sense to look down instead of up.

***

Of course, they’re pleased. Not so much with him, more with what he can do. For them.

“Smarter than you look,” Trailrunner utters idly, counting his collected Energon cubes with a small smile.

Rubbing the mesh of his leg helps to ease the ache there, but they don’t pay him mind as they ration out the cycle’s intake.

He only gets one, regardless of the effort he put in. It’s fine, he can handle one, he had been handling one.

It doesn’t bother him. It doesn’t.

At least he’s alive. At least.

***

The little blessings matter. It becomes apparent very quickly that his cycle will go a lot smoother if he doesn’t talk. He isn’t here as an equal he is here as a tool.

He wonders how Lycan and Blue Breeze are doing. If this is a fraction of their pain.

No one deserves what happened to them, no one at all.

Even still, B-1 can’t help but feel that he does.

Small mercies come in that he has not had to hurt anyone yet. His first ambush isn’t very eventful. Dea-8 and Lariat hit two poor bots head-on. They are bigger than B-127 is, so they don’t sustain the same damage he had. His hip a patch job and lower backstrut a silver lightning strike of exhausted nanite welding, his spark pulses in a fit of quiet jealousy.

But the most they make him do is hold his plasma guns at the victims to keep them compliant, with Trailrunner at his side. The older bot holds his weapon with far more confidence.

A horrible tearing stretches inside him, tense and emanating from his spark chamber and continuing on down to his pedes and the tips of his door wings. Terror has the captive bots quivering to the point of clattering their chassis. They make no attempt to hide their EMs and the fear has B-1 internally reeling with guilt-ridden nausea.

There is a clink against his helm, he turns just so, wide optics meeting Trailrunner’s. “Stop shaking,” he instructs, stern navy optics glaring.

He tries, he really does, but it’s impossible. He just can’t, their fear is so potent he can’t even tell where his ends and theirs begins. Extending his field, he hopes they understand, turning his helm back to them, imploring. Please understand, please know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.

One of them twitches, but nothing changes. He knows what they see.

They see what B-1 had seen, when he’d met optics with Locke Up that very first time.

They see a monster.

***

With great relief, Trailrunner does not inform the others of his weakness once they’ve taken all the Energon these innocents have.

A small kindness, but the expectation is there, he knows.

He’ll have to do better.

***

It’s sort of a habit of his to take only a certain amount.

Bandits aren’t too fond of that concept.

“—But, they need it too,” he asserts, gently and mildly because any louder and they’ll think he’s daring to have an opinion.

Examining a small size cube in between his digits, Lariat rolls his optics before intaking the cube in one swallow. “This isn’t a world of virtue, kid. Your altruism isn’t wanted.”

B-1 tries not to steep in that blow, kicking up the dust under his pede like a child scolded. Calling on the frozen plain his spark has lived on is like trying to reach a shelf two helms too high.

The helplessness of being alone was, at the very least, his choice.

This helplessness is gripping and branding. Constricting all his gears and pistons, struts creaking.

Lariat places a servo against the back of his helm. It is not a kind, reassuring caress like whenever Newdawn would do the same. It’s a warning, his digits poking against his softer protoform that peaks through his plating. “Look, it's sad, I know, but the truth is that sparks like that… sparks like you… they died out, near the beginning of the war.” His expression twists, a mockery of empathy. “Poor things, soft sparks… gave and gave and gave, til’ their sparks couldn’t sustain anymore. Burnt up. Not even Primus himself could save ‘em.” His free servo reaches down to the floor, carefully ushering an Energon cube into B-1’s humbly shuddering palms.

The bandit continues. “What’s left of our people… they wouldn’t return your gesture, kid, remember that. If you don’t wanna end up like the others, you’ll let your light go.”

Once more, B-1 ponders exactly why Primus made him at all.

***

He likes his light, though.

That’s his trouble.

It’s what Faylever and Newdawn liked about him, too.

And what if he lets it go? Then is that bot they took in still alive at all? Would he be killing him to be born anew? To be born from the wells of these bot’s jaded and unkind servos?

To fight so hard to stay alive and forsake his reason why, is that not another form of murder? A death of the spark. To deny what he’s made of. What his caretakers died for.

It sounds like greedy, selfish thing. To throw all that away, for his sake, for Lariat’s sake.

It also sounds a lot like what he’s already been doing.

Primus, what an absolute wreck.

***

The next time they make him steal (a decent cache hidden underground for an Autobot colony), they hold a blaster to his helm.

“All of it, child,” Dea-8 commands, tone a threat under no uncertain terms.

With the main corridors of the base heavily guarded – geez, since when were the Autobots so heavily armed – there’s not much else to do but send B-1 in through the smaller emergency halls. Which they apparently have.

Trailrunner explains. “Normally we just wait until the changing shift,” he pats a servo over the gun slung on his hip. “… Take care of business, and get out. But with you, we won’t have to.”

A sharp jab of warning penetrates B-127’s field. He eyes the group’s leader. “Unless he screws it up,” Lariat says through a chuckle.

Biting down on a scowl, B-1 steps back. “I’ll be back.”

Replacing his gun along his hip, the medic calls to him. B-1 can just hear his jeering glee that hides under the surface of his apathetic demeanor. “You fall on your face and we’re leaving you there.” Dea-8 reminds coldly. “Those Autobots are crueler than you may think.”

Grimacing, B-1 dismisses the hardy laughter that erupts at his expense. That’s usually how it goes.

Already trudging towards the stupid hatch to the stupid base, B-127 rolls his optics only because he knows they can’t see it. He pushes his equally stupid gyroscope to functioning levels to steady his steps just to spite them. His antennae are pinned to the back of his helm, but the bandits are too self-absorbed to care why.

***

Sometimes he wonders if he did screw up enough to die or be captured during one of these stupid escapades.

Would they feel bad? Would their sparks recall what it is like to care for another? Would they know what they’d done?

All things he wants to believe, because B-1 is as stupid as he always is, and that small little bright part of him wants to hope that even they could remember their remorse. It’s not all a good thing.

Part of him wishes the guilt would find them and eat them the way it’s eaten him.

Oh, a muse of ire.

***

Ow, ow, ow, ow.

Dea-8 solders the wound in his shoulder shut.

“Stop fidgeting.”

He does.

***

“Please don’t hurt me,” she pleads, coolant pooling around her optic ports.

B-1 whimpers, his plasma blades faltering in their Energon flow, as if his spark can’t even bear to send fuel to them any longer.

Groaning, Lariat puts a pede to her chest and shoves her to the dirty ground. “Shut up, and stop crying, both of you.”

He does.

She does not.

***

“There’s a seeker squad up here,” B-1 announces, skidding to a halt and reverting to root form. His optics spiral as his lens pushes for better clarity. “Four of them, Echelon formation.”

They stop for cover until they pass over, he gets a little pat on his helm for his efforts.

It does not feel as good to be praised by them as he was expecting.

***

Primus, he’s burning. Every nano-klik of every cycle he is burning. He’s so sick and so hot and he burns. Burns, burns burns.

Lycan places a servo across his optics. It feels so fragging real. “Rest, B, please.”

And he shouldn’t reply, he doesn’t ever reply, not anymore. But for her, for his greatest mistake, he can’t help but make her feel heard. “I can’t, I can’t I can’t I can’t,” he wheezes, voice haggard. The stars are blocked by the smog, by her servo.

A sweet, yet melancholy hum escapes her vocoder. “Your spark is rejecting, ya need to see things as they are.”

He exvents, heavily and hurting. The bandits around him don’t stir. “I am, don’t you see? Don’t you see what they’ve made me?” Loss tumbles within him and its rhe most disgusting feeling. Such a selfish feeling.

She laughs, a soft melodious sound. “No, B, I don’t.”

That makes him pause, and for the first time in a long, long time, he grants the delusion enough purchase to truly take form.

Venting hitching, B-1 takes in the sight of Lycan as she was in her last moments. Exactly as she was. Dented and hurt, bleeding and broken, optical sockets all but gone from her helm. He’s never seen her this way, not in this sense. Not since then.

Primus, it hurts.

“You haven’t met yet zenith yet, B, but you’re already blistering, scorched and turning t’ ashes.” Her helm tilts. “You’re burning up, B. You’ve got to let some of it go.”

Of his own accord, he presses the heel of his palms against his optics, colorful static bursts around his feed. “Maybe I should let myself. Maybe I’ve already made my orbit. Maybe I’ve given my one good show.”

“You would betray me like that?”

He shoots up, spark tightening like a greased rivet. “What? No!” he freezes, when none of the sleeping vagrants move, he invents. “… No.”

With that same childlike bounce, she crosses her stabilizers and sways, smiling despite the sadness. “It’s too heavy for you, B, you’ve got t’ rest. You must.”

The quiet but earnest urge in her voice nearly breaks him. Despite the very fact of her incorporeal nature, of her inexistence, he nearly tumbles down to the lowest depths of himself. But still, he looks down, shielding his feed from her. “I don’t know how,” he admits quietly, barely an audible breath, but she hears, she must.

She sighs. “I know, I know, but promise you’ll try, fer’ me.”

Looking up, she isn’t there, and for the first time, a real tear rolls off of his faceplate, just one, lonely tear. He nods, to the nothing. “Okay,” he warbles, because in the end, trying is all he knows how to do.

***

Trailrunner and Lariat hold the unfortunate mech by his pauldrons, gripping down to his wrists. B-1 winces, empathy pooling as the pure unadulterated fear undulates wildly around them all.

“Please, please, I promise I don’t have any. There—there’s no stash I’m hiding from you! I’ve been depleted for days!” Cries the mech, struggling weakly in their hold. They’ve roughed him up enough that even his attempts to activate his T-cog are feeble.

They’d caught him scrounging around an abandoned settlement, minding his business. Just trying to survive another cycle. Now they have him holed up in the remains of the town’s bank. Half-melted shanix litter the floor. It shows how little they are worth any more.

Dea-8 has his blaster aimed, steady and unmoving as always. B-1 has his blades drawn, but he doesn’t have the spark to lift them from his sides. They’ll reprimand him for that later, but he doesn’t care. This is just evil.

Daring to fidget, he speaks up. “He’s telling the truth,” B-1 says, and it’s honest. His body language is only fearful, shifting, and contorting in desperation, not deceit. He could be wrong, but about matters such as this, B-1 finds he rarely is.

Annoyance passes over Lariat’s faceplate, intake a crooked line and optical ridges lower to a pointed scowl. “Fine.” For a moment, B-127 flushes with relief. They know he doesn’t particularly enjoy having to tag along with them, but at the very least they don’t think him a liar.

“We still need Energon,” Dea-8 says, setting everyone back on task.

This is also true, the others have had to cut their rations and B-1 was only allowed half of a cube yesterday. It hasn’t affected him yet, not really. He only feels marginally more sluggish than normal, but if he goes another cycle or two without fuel he’ll start to slow, and the others will not like that.

He's about to take the leap and ask if the mech comes from a settlement they can potentially raid when Lariat pulls out a blade from his subspace.

Freezing, B-1 feels his optics blow wide in a loud whirl, fuel lines running cold. “Uhm, Lariat…?” He takes a small step forward before retreating when the captive bot yelps.

With a rotation of the blade, Lariat presses it snugly against the bot’s neck cables, who immediately gasps into helpless blubbering. “What? You heard em’, we need fuel.” He presses the sharp of the knife a little deeper, eliciting a cry. “He’s got fuel.”

There’s no hope of trying to hide his horror, so he doesn’t, shutting his ventilation off out of impulse. “… But he’s alive, he’s a transformer.”

Next to him, Dea-8 huffs, his version of a laugh. “Did you honestly think we only stole Energon from astro-turkeys? For three full-sized bots?”

Yes, he almost says because this is insane. This is awful this is again, evil. He knows that this entire ‘partnership’ is formed on the basis of them not harvesting his bio-mechanisms, but seeing it from another perspective. He’s so sick he could pass out.

Taking another shaken step back, B-1's plating feels too loose attached to his proto-flesh, wires tight and yet uncoupled from his neural net. “But – that’s—”

Lariat groans. “Primus, if you say ‘murder’ I swear I’ll use this on you next.” The blade is briefly removed from the bot’s neck and twirled around a few times in his digits. “Gotta do whatcha’ gotta do.”

B-1 nearly opts to follow the instinct to stay silent, passive, cowardly. But he meets the bot’s optics, and for a moment, sees himself. “…This is wrong, Lariat. We can find fuel somewhere else.” It’s amazing he’s able to keep the fearful warble from his voice.

Something shifts in the three bandit’s demeanors and B-127 knows he’s overstepped, but this is something he feels is worth the fight. The fear. “Kid, let this go,” warns Trailrunner, expression wild with barely tamed flabbergast.  

His helm shakes, and he actually manages to ignore the way his gyros protest. “Just give me a joor, I’ll have found another source somewhere.” B-1 barters, and it helps that he believes the statement. He’s good at this, hunting Energon.

And for a moment, for a small, fleeting moment, B-1 thinks Lariat actually considers it, because he must know that this bot cannot have enough fuel for the four of them. Not when he’s been starving for cycles already.

Then, his optics are taking in B-127 in his entirety, tracking up and down several times. Something feels wrong. With careful slowness, Lariat slides the knife back into his subspace. That’s good, right?

 “… No.”

Optics shuttering, B-1 casts a glance at the three of them. “What? Why?” in his incredulous haze he takes a few steps forward to the center of the building. “You must get that you’ll get almost nothing from him, right?” he voices, in hopes of appealing to Lariat’s darker logic.

But the bot only nods his helm no. “Sure, I get that, but he kicked me, and his whining is annoying. Besides…” And a razor sharp wave of bitter hatred hits B-1 far too hard, Lariat’s field attacking and swallowing his own. “I think it’s about time you proved your mettle, kid.”

… Oh Primus, oh Primus oh god—

Whatever progress he’d made into the decrepit room is completely aborted as he backs up at such a pace, he nearly trips. Dea-8 catches him by the elbow joint, tightly. “No, no no no, absolutely not,” he proclaims as firmly as he can manage. His sparkpulse is already racing so quickly that he fears it will grow its own T-cog and drive away from his chest. He sets his faceplate, determined and not at all like a shaking, hopeless sparkling. “I am not killing someone just so you can… So you can prove a point.”

Dea-8 jerks him forward, and B-127 swears he feels joy under the surface. “You’ve said you have killed before.”

The reminder sizzles away some of his resolve and his spark chamber is much too hot, but he persists. “—Yeah, a Decepticon!” He tugs at Dea-8’s servo, not really making any progress. “After they destroyed my colony and slaughtered everyone who ever mattered to me!” Saying it out loud grates like millions of teething scraplets, leaving his thraceatic lines suffering from a phantom raw sensation. His helm swivels and he meets the horrified gaze of the poor mech who had been caught in the wrong place, at the wrong time. “This mech—he’s innocent!”

The words usher a sardonic cackle from Lariat’s dermas and his grin takes on a bitter quality. “Oh – Empty self-righteous platitudes. No one is innocent, you of all bots should know that.” B-1 visibly winces and he knows it’s a stupidly obvious show of weakness. Lariat turns his optics to the quivering wreck of a bot, giving him a decent shake. “Ain’t that right? I bet you’ve done tons of evil shit, huh?” The mech is too shell-shocked to respond beyond a staticky gargle.

All too soon, Lariat finds him again, narrowing his optics to thin slits on his face. “I told you to snuff out that light,” he growls, and it occurs to B-1 that Lariat is genuinely angry at him. Furious that he has dared to step this far out of his place. “I’m not all bad, I had hoped you’d come around, do it on your own.” His helm lowers, nearly resting on the shoulder of his captive. “… but I guess we’ll have to do it for you.”

The grip on B-1’s elbow turns from strong to completely vice, and the last of the icy tundra of his spark boils away and he struggles. Dea-8 is easily three times his size and he knows it, practically dragging him across the floor. No, no no nononono—

A moment of clarity has him swinging his free arm in Dea-8’s general direction, plasma blade bubbling and ready to score mesh. B-1 audibly whimpers when the medic catches his blow just under his wrist, holding it with that same strength. Oh Primus. He tries to deactivate his weapons, but Dea-8 knows plating, even if he never finished school. He wedges a digit under one of his transformation seams, catching a bracket just as it tries to retract back into subspace. He succeeds with one arm, but it hardly matters. His pedes scrape across the floor. Panic screams in his processor and his logic centers all but shut down due to the stress.

“Please, please, don’t make me do this oh god—” He begs and feels so entirely pathetic it hurts. The mech Trailrunner and Lariat hold is struggling now too, having gained just enough awareness back to understand. Primus he is so afraid. B-127 begins thrashing, kicking out and hoping to do something, anything. He wants to call for his cog but his CPU is so fried that the command comes back null whenever he tries.

Dea-8 inches him closer, and he screams. “No! Nonononono—” Every nano-klik he draws nearer and he’s burning oh Primus—

The distance is closed and with all of his half-functioning strength, B-1 plants his pedes to the ground, pushing off to try and gain back some space. The movement is shocking enough to stop Dea-8 but it’s only a moment.

“It’s for the best, kid,” says Lariat, not sounding remorseful whatsoever. “You’re different from those sparks in the early cycles, aren’t you?”

No, Primus, no he’s not.

He’s so near now that the closed space makes the sizzling of his blade echoes in his audials, an awful death toll he has never heard before. The bot is begging and so is B-1, their fields a tangle of intense fear and complete revulsion. They meet optics and B-1 stops his pleading and begins apologizing. “Oh Primus I’m so sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—”

Dea-8 directs his blade toward the epicenter of the mech’s chest plates as if he’s a husk to be manipulated. B-1 fights with everything he has, but it’s not enough. He’s malfunctioning, weak, and hungry, his defense in the face of these fully grown monsters is a sum of zero. So many commands flutter through his stack that parts of it crash out in horrible pangs of hurt in his helm, partially blocking his HUD feed. The heated Energon burns away the bot’s paint like nothing and it’s so close to his spark B-1 can practically touch it oh god it’s so sharp with horror oh no no is that me or him I’m so scared this can’tbehappeningstopisthismeoryouIdon’twanttodiedon’twanttokillthisismeorisityounononononono—

Something.

It.

Shatters.

“So, feeling strong yet, little bug?”

Chapter Text

There are stars out, the sky is clear as the sun sets. Already Luna 1 is shining.

That means something to him.

Probably.

“You love the stars, dude. What do you mean you don’t know?”

I don’t know. Can’t remember.

“Mmm, try harder.”

Why?

“Cause I asked? Do you need a better reason?”

… You’re annoying.

“And you’re disassociating.”

Is that why I can’t feel anything?

“Probably, but you’ve gotta drag yourself out of it.”

I can’t.

“Oh bull-slag, you’re a warframe! What can’t you do?”

Save you, save anyone. Save myself.

“Eh, you just need more practice.”

I think a part of my spark is dead. It died with him.

“It isn’t dead, you’re being dramatic, bro.”

Then why can’t I feel it anymore?

“You quarantined it, like a program or a subroutine. I didn’t even know that was possible.”

… Why would I do that?

“You were protecting yourself; you can get it back.”

Not the same as before.

“Yeah, that sucks. You’ll be okay, Autobots always get back up.”

… I miss you.

“You miss everyone.”

Why didn’t I let them take me, why didn’t I just let my wing get crushed?

“You’re a survivor, you always have been.”

Two people are dead by my servos.

“It’s more complicated than that and you know it.”

It’s not.

“Didn’t you tell Lycan you would try?”

That was before.

“Okay so? Don’t be lame, are you gonna let this stop you?”

I just don’t understand why you’re choosing now to talk to me.

“I’m not. This isn’t real, B. Your mind is fractured, and I was the safest thing you could grab on to.”

Oh.

“Sorry, brother, you know I’d kick these bots afts for what they’ve done, if I could.”

You shouldn’t, I deserve it.

“B, they made you do those things.”

I could have ran.

“You would have taken a couple of good shots of plasma to the face plate.”

That would have been better, one more person would be alive.

“… Uh, you realize that’s not true right?”

Why do you feel so far away?

“Well one, I’m not real, and two, you’re coming back to yourself.”

Oh. Can I stop it?

“Probably not, I dunno. I’m just an extension, I only know what you do.”

You guys always seem a whole lot smarter than I am.

“Projecting your passive wisdom onto us, it’s a form of self-soothing.”

How do I know that?

“… Dunno.”

Got it.

“Just… think about what I said. I’m gone, remember? It’s the least you could do.”

Hey, hey—

“—Hey!”

B-1 only twitches, wide optics turning. Trailrunner crouches, looking him over with a scowl. He places an Energon cube at his side. “Take this.”

There are portions of his memory banks he can’t account for, but something tells him he doesn’t want anything to do with this. He pushes the cube away, appalled by its warmth. “I don’t want that.”

Scoffing, the bandit, takes the cube back and stores it in his subspace. “Primus almighty, you are insufferable. You’re hungry, and you’re on thin ice. You need fuel.” Trailrunner grumbles, tilting his helm as if B-1 is a puzzle to be solved.

The stars are out, B-127 tries to remember his constellations. It all comes up blank. He keeps trying. “I don’t want it.”

The bot’s EM pulsates with a mild frustration, but he doesn’t push further. “Fine, suit yourself. You’d think after all that, you’d get it, but no…” he stands, continuing his irritated mumbling long after B-127 is out of audial range.

Time is coming through in chunky, helm-ache-inducing clusters, and B-1 is pretty sure he’s been sitting here for groons. He doesn’t entirely have the presence of mind to care or check for certain.

Laughter emanates from the building behind him, guess something was funny. He feels so empty, so nothing, he can’t quite recall what real laughter feels like.

Optics trail down to his arm, and it’s then he notices the glowing remnants of dried Energon caking the entirety of his forearm. His spark is exhausted, beaten into submission, but something jerks at the sight.

The cutting, dripping feeling of pushing it right through. Snapping something so delicate into hundreds of millions of pieces.

He doesn’t want to do that again. That was… Bad. That act, that feeling, that connection. Bad. All of it.

As if unconsciously, his weapons systems roar to life, his plasma blades unsheathe. All evidence of their crimes has burned away under the molten nature of the blades, but B-127 can somehow still see it, feel it.

There isn’t much he doesn’t see.

“You’re a warframe! What can’t you do?”

That, he can’t do that again, can’t feel that again, can’t think of that again. Can’t get that close, ever, again.

Another uproar of pure, all-encompassing laughter.

His field flares red for the first time in a long time. Numb, bruising hatred.

A servo finds a nearby sliver of sturdy metal, optics remaining fixated on the blades.

He doesn’t want to do that again. No, not at all.

He raises the metal above his blade’s transformation seam.

***

The blood along his forearms is no longer dried, and a deep, sweet throbbing covers the expanse. It takes over the rotting ache in his spark.

Optics shuttering, B-127 exvents. Still a few wires connected to this arm, one more hit should do it.

Just as he is swinging down, a servo catches his wrist. B-1 stares.

“You little glitch!” Lariat shrieks, forcing B-127 to his pedes in one reckless tug. He nearly hangs in the air. Energon trickles from his arms. “Look at what you’ve done!” His field is boiling and volatile, he’s never seen the bandit so mad. B-1 obliges the order, taking in the damage.

What’s left of his plasma blades lay in dented, bloody pieces on the ground. A few sparking wires remain on his left forearm. Lariat invents harshly, engines growling. “You mutilated yourself! And for what? Your precious morals?” Pushing his vocoder passed its limits, Lariat yells so loud that the edges of his voice nearly clip out completely. Barreling dangerously close to obnoxious white noise.

In his periphery, Dea-8 and Trailrunner are staring, wide-opticed and disgusted. Good, they should be.

He’s thrown to the floor unceremoniously, and B-127 releases a small grumble from his vocoder, struggling defiantly. Lariat’s field is oppressive but something in B-1 has snapped and he doesn’t care, he fights right back. “Do you feel better now? Did it fill that hole in your spark? Did you pay your dues?” Lariat mocks, baring his denta. “What the hell are you good for now, your guns? What happens when you actually have to use them, huh? You gonna gouge those out too?”

B-1’s expression sets in a glare, reaching up and smearing Energon across Lariat’s faceplate as he struggles to gain some space. “Then you take them! You want them more than me!” He yells.

Pressing his weight down through the knee he has pinned B-1 down under, Lariat huffs a laugh. “Oh no, we’re way past that now, brat. You fought so fragging hard to keep those and your life, and now what? You wanna give it all away to ease your conscience? I don’t fragging think so.” He reaches down, grabbing ahold of B-1’s helm in one servo and slamming it down against the hard ground. B-1 briefly loses track of himself before his drives put themselves back together.

Lariat presses close to his right audial. “I’m gonna work you til your gears strip, do you hear me?”

Still reeling, B-1 barely manages a nod.

Vents hissing, Lariat releases B-1, who shudders a sigh of relief when his midsection plating stops bowing. “I did you a favor, and you spit in my face.”

Energon dribbles down his digits as he forces himself to sit up. “A favor? A favor?” he repeats, breathless and biting down on the sobs he wants to release. “I felt that man die! Like I was dying too!” He clicks his armor securely to his protoform, refusing to shake. “… He was terrified.”

Using the back of his servo, Lariat wipes the larger globules of B-1’s Energon from his face plate. “It’s war, kid, we’re all terrified, but the sooner you get over yourself, the sooner you’ll be able to ignore it.” The bandit spits, not even attempting to conceal the aggravation in his inflection. “But I imagine you’ll burn up long before you give in. You’re stupid like that.”

His pede steps are harsh and powerful enough to shake the ground, he easily could have killed B-127 if he really wanted to. Instead, he kicks at the remains of B-1’s blades and stomps back inside, grumbling the whole way. Dea-8 gathers the pieces without so much as looking at B-1 before following. Trailrunner stares, for a long, long time before walking away as well.

His arms sting.

***

It’s an unfortunate error message to wake up to after every recharge, but he can’t help the little exvent of relief he feels whenever he sees it. His CPU may not understand what it meant, but he does, in his spark, he does.

[WARNING – BIO-MECHANISM(S) (#2788WPRY-B-127), (#2787WPRY-B-127) OFFLINE]

And while it doesn’t exactly make him happy, he knows it’s one less tool to be used to hurt someone. Because that’s what he was made for.

And he hates it.

***

Lariat keeps to his word and makes B-1 search for Energon or vulnerable bots about every moment he is awake. Even when in recharge, he’s instructed to keep it light in order to keep his audials online incase something happens.

It’s grueling and they are even worse to him than they were before.

But hey, at least he’s alive.

He thinks this often but it doesn’t have that same joyful undertone to it that it once did. He doesn’t want to hold bitterness towards his debt or to Faylever or Newdawn, but one night he returns to camp so sick with dizziness that he can’t keep his tanks full.

He’s just exhausted, and he hasn’t found anything so he has to deal with his failure to provide anything useful. Leg aching, B-1 sits at a distance, hoping to ignore their cold optics and will his turning mid-section to still, for the world to stop spinning. His components are hot and steam simmering his wheels, B-1 reconciles that it will be another night he goes without refueling.

As long as he comes up empty, so will he.

There’s nothing to do but think, think, think.

Nothing to do but feel his spark crying out in agony.

***

They ambush a small caravan.

Well, the bandits do, B-1 follows behind them pretending to help. It is difficult to be discreet with his field, but with enough practice he learns to reach out to their victims, trying to send some warmth to their fearful chassis. Placating emotions of I’m sorry, I don’t want this, stay strong. He doesn’t ever really know if it works, but he sometimes receives a questioning, if not pleading glance. Meeting the optics of a younger femme, she does something strange and reaches back to him.

A magnetic hum reverberates around his plating, kind and understanding and it’s okay. It nearly sends him to his knees, bouncing around his spark in giddy twirls. It’s been so long, too long, since someone has touched his spark in a gentle way. Primus, it’s near intoxicating, more potent than any Energon wine or high-grade.

Dea-8 catches him staring at her, and B-1 forces himself to break the connection before he draws too much attention. He brings his guns up, weakly pointing them at her and her compatriots. She doesn’t try to reach out again, but B-1 can tell by her expression she’s disappointed.

It’s so awful it makes him sick again and he doesn’t refuel for two cycles.

***

Maybe Lariat and Lycan were right.

He is burning up.

His promise to Lycan’s phantom had been real, to try. Somewhere inside him, he still wants to.

It’s just. Where the hell do you start?

***

In the middle of a cycle, he blacks out.

He is in the middle of nowhere, following older routes. Lots of Autobots frequent this road system, which from that he can infer that they must have a base somewhere. That line of thinking usually works out for him, sort of.

Kind of.

But his leg hurts even in its transformed state, and his spark is weary and Primus can the world ever stop spinning?

He’s too hot and too cold and too much all the time, and yet not enough of anything. His recharge percentage is laughable and Lariat hasn’t given him any time to defrag or process data. Sensor nodes are touchy and flaring over the simplest of things. His brain module is a fog and he’s cresting a hill with the hopes of leaping it – the one fun thing he can do – when his processor just… stops.

Cold astro-turkey, he bluescreens, T-cog drunkenly reverting him to root and leaving him in an offline heap.

It’s not stasis lock, but it is an involuntary shutdown. His body says he needs to stop, needs to rest, needs to refuel.

He cycles through terabytes of information before his drives are sufficiently backed, but it’s only when his Energon percentage rises does he return online.

His HUD array is painfully slow in booting up, and it’s with an old pang to his helm that he onlines his optics, groaning softly as his feed blanks out from the sun’s bright intrusion.

Some lethargy remains, but his helm doesn’t feel quite so clogged now. he reconfigures his chronometer. Primus, he’s been in stasis for a joor and a half.

“Oh thank Prima – I thought you were so dead!”

Relief crashes in a thick blanket on top of him, and B-1 shoots up into a clumsy sitting position when he realizes that it’s not his relief. He’s not alone. Resetting his lagging optics to wake them up fully, B-1 whips his helm around until he finds the source of the voice.

It doesn’t take but a nano-klik to find her, and B-127 jolts away when he comprehends her proximity. Alarm floods his field as he tries and fails to hurry along his slagging subroutines. Sensing his panic, the pale blue femme before him raises her servos placatingly. Finial’s pulling back, B-1 eyes the sniper rifle welded to her forearm with barely hidden apprehension. She follows his gaze, and with a muted ‘oh,’ she folds it back in to her arm’s subspace. She bares her denta in a wide, but slightly embarrassed grin.

“So sorry about that – yeah, my bad – I usually have it out when I’m on patrol. I promise I wasn’t going to shoot you in your sleep,” she explains awkwardly.

Her floundering almost makes him laugh, but he swallows it down, his gaze trails down to the blazing red insignia anointed to her chest plate. “You’re an Autobot,” he states, feeling rather silly for saying that out loud.

She nods emphatically retracting her legs from their folded position to cross them and lean forward. “Sure am! Best sniper in the universe!”

Unsure if that’s the best thing to brag about, B-1 just hums. There’s an empty Energon cube in her grasp, and it’s then that he deduces that she is the one who refueled him. “You gave me some of your Energon?”

Rolling the smaller cube in her palm, she tuts her dermas. “Yup,” she replies, popping the p. “Sorry I don’t got more.”

He shrugs, because he had not been expecting any in the first place. A sort of shame fills him and he shifts uncomfortably, and the dirt ground into the yellow mesh of his knees is suddenly very interesting. “Why?”

Giving him a strange look – all pinched optical ridges and contemplative opics – the femme just points at him. just points. “Ummm… because you were passed out in the middle of the road?”

Scoffing, B-1 shakes his helm. “Well yeah, but clearly you need the Energon too, if that was your only cube.”

This just makes her roll her optics. “I mean yeah, but I can always get more, you look like you’ll disintegrate if one drop of acid rain hits you. You needed it more than me.”

And that doesn’t really make sense to him, but B-1 doesn’t know what to say to the random act of generosity, so he just doesn’t say anything. His social protocols say he should thank her and do something nice in return, but he just… looks at her, like his spark and processor can’t quite connect.

It’s good that this doesn’t really seem to bother her, though. “My name’s Moonracer, by the way,” she offers with a smile, this version a lot less strained.

Right, names. She has one. She just gave him the last of her Energon and he hasn’t bothered to ask her name. Uhg.

“Oh, um, okay.”

What the frag was that? That was so rude. Say something better!

She giggles, and B-1 is so confused. “Sorry, what’s yours?” She asks, making B-1 feel like the most rusted piece of craggy metal ever smelted.

“B-127,” he replies numbly.

Moonracer repeats the name, quietly to herself as if committing it to memory. It sends a shiver town his backstrut. It’s been a long time since someone has said his name out loud.

A long time since someone living has.

“That rolls off the glossa! Good name, Primus, a classic as always.” She says to the skies, and B-1 wants to laugh at her casual prayer. He doesn’t, but he gets close. Her optics return to him, scanning him over. “Geez, you need a medic, man. Here, if you come back with me, we can get you fixed right up!”

His intake opens and closes several times. “You want me to… come back with you?”

Affirming with a shake of her helm, she sways back and forth on her crossed stabilizers. “Yeah! We’ve got the best of the best, no matter what the cons want to tell you. Masters of aggressive affection, our guys.” Moonracer answers, optics a glaze of fondness.

Tension forms in the back of B-1’s neck and he brings a shuddering servo to try and ease it. He doesn’t know why the concept makes him uneasy, but it does. “Ah… I don’t know.”

Her smile falters, and B-1 wants to bash his head in. “Aw, c’mon, they’ll love you! My unit is super chill – well, not really, but they’d be chill for you.”

B-1 thinks of the sheer number of times he’s stolen from the Autobots. The number of times he has taken advantage of their kinder sparks.

“Those Autobots are crueler than you may think.”

He doesn’t stop his grimace in time, Dea-8’s words ricochet around his helm and leave festering pockets of doubt wherever they land. Moonracer taps her digits together in front of her chest. “You do want to be repaired, right?”

God, yes.

Trying to recall the last time he functioned properly is like trying to ladle the material of a black hole, he knows it happened, but looking back only brings a mass expanse of darkness he can’t see past. With how low on energy he’s been, he can’t go as fast as he likes, his one joy hindered by all of his… damage. He wants to be repaired so badly he could explode. He opens his intake to tell her as much, but stops himself.

This girl has gone out of her way to help him, and B-1 can give her nothing in return. He can’t give her strength, Energon, and apparently, he can’t even give her decent company. He’s as much a nothing as he always has been.

Primus, he misses Faylever, she never cared about any of this stuff.

But this femme – however kind she may be – is a soldier, first and foremost. She’s fighting a war, doing something with her life for the supposed greater good.

Looking at her, disgust ebbs and flows through his lines and his sore pistons pulsate. He doesn’t want to take advantage of the Autobots, not more than he already has. Primus, if she only knew how often he’s taken from them.

If only she knew the blood on his servos. The holes in his spark.

Besides, if Lariat finds out he deserted them for the Autobots he might tear up Moonracer’s base bolt by bolt with the sole intention of killing B-127 as painfully as possible.

And he’d probably deserve it too.

If another life is ripped out of this world when it easily could have been him, B-1 isn’t sure he could take the despair.

Moonracer doesn’t deserve all of the baggage his existence comes with. Shameful, he looks away, and he can tell it leaks through his field. Scrap, he pulls his EM tight to his frame. “Can we just… sit, for a while?”

Her intake is drawn in a crooked line, her effeminate optics curved in a slight squint. She doesn’t bother to hide her field from him the way he does her, so he’s surprised to feel a burst of sadness from her. “Okay, that’s fine too. Sit, we’ll just sit.”

***

Moonracer talks a lot, all bubbly and sweet. Despite clearly being a few waves older than he is, she still holds her youthful spunk that B-1 finds himself fiercely jealous of. It’s a miracle that she doesn’t seem to care about his utter lack of social graces, since she can fill the silence for the both of them.

“—And Primus if you could have seen his faceplate! God, I want it on a holo-poster! Sharpshooter my aft, I humbled that mech like a sack of bolts—”

She goes on and on about her evidently exceptional long-range scores from her academy term, and B-1 accepts her rambling for what it is; white noise. The silence had been one thing, and the mocking timbre of the bandits is another.

He didn't know he missed the gift of just being able to listen. Not having to wonder if he’ll say the wrong thing or waiting for the moment that Lariet gets pissed at him again and sends him out to drive until failure.

But he can’t go with her. He reminds himself. He won’t.

It’s just… nice.

“—And Chromia—she’s a warframe like you y’know – I’m convinced she’s screening my transfer requests. It’s fine, she’s a big softie on the inside, you should see her talk to Ironhide – but god she doesn’t believe in me at all I swear –”

He smiles, soft and mild, but it’s nice that she doesn’t bring up his frame type for any other reason than to add a useless point to her anecdote.

***

Ah, he’s figured it out. Moonracer is so much like Blue Breeze it’s uncanny. Well, sort of. They share a kindred spark, that’s clear to see.

That’s why his shoulders relax the more she talks. Why he allows himself ignore the ticking of his chronometer even though he knows he’ll get in trouble for his tardiness later.

Maybe he is just projecting.

But really, he’ll take anything to ease the hurt.

“So, what would you have to do to get transferred to Iacon?” He asks, question sincere despite the way his vocoder projects it just above a whisper.

Moonracer preens, overjoyed by his engagement. “Move a fragging mountain, apparently, Prima I’ve begged to be stationed there for vorns! But you’ve gotta be like, the best of the best to be based there. With big boy Optimus.”

Tilting his helm just so, his antennae rise jovially. “I thought you were the best of the best?”

“I am! I could shoot a glitch-mouse from behind Alpha Trion’s beard, but uhg I guess that’s not enough.”

He’s sort of amazed at how calmly she admits that. B-1 has spent the better part of his life toiling over not being enough, and here she is, voicing it offhandedly like it truly doesn’t matter. It does matter, it matters so much, how can see be so at peace with it?

Well, maybe not peace, but it hardly seems like her spark is hurting over it. Not the way his is.

Bringing her knees to her chest, she exvents dramatically. “Oh well, I guess I get it. I just gotta wait for my big moment. I can wait.” She frowns. “… No I can’t, what the frag, I trained with the fragging elite guard!”

She continues her tirade about being sidelined and wasting her potential.

It’s hilarious. She really doesn’t know what she’s doing for him.

***

“Can I ask you a personal question?” She inquires, pursing her derma, apprehensive.

For a moment he thinks of telling her no, because he finds he really doesn’t like the idea of being asked questions, much less personal ones. But she’s been patient with him, and spilled her guts to him – even though he didn’t really ask her to – so he feels obligated to return the favor. If only a little. “… Okay.”

She brings a digit to her back, pointing to an empty space behind her. “Does that hurt?”

What doesn’t?

He doesn’t say that, but it’s funny anyway. Assuming she’s talking about his nonfunctional door wing, he shrugs. “Not really, not anymore. The sensor nodes in it just malfunction.”

Moonracer sucks in a vent, wincing in empathetic pain. “Yeesh, that would make me vom like, immediately. You’re a bad-aft bot, B.”

Allowing a chuckle, B-127 waves a servo in front of him. “Not nearly as much as you, I promise.”

Her field flutters at the praise and her smile lights up the setting sky. “Thanks, friend, gotta do what you gotta do, y’know?” She responds goodnaturedly, several nano-kliks pass, and she just… looks at him. Her field pulls back to her frame, and B-1 misses the connection. “So, B. I’m just – I don’t know. I know I shouldn’t push, and this is stupid, but… We could… Our guys, they could, I don’t know – they could help. Make it not so bad, y’know? We could help.”

Recoiling slightly, B-1 finds his spark flipping in its chamber.

His alarm must show on his face, because Moonracer wilts just a little. “Look, no pressure, but I’m vibing, I don’t know if you’re vibing, but me? I like you, and they wouldn’t even care if you’re crazy or anything. We’re not like that.”

A weak smile spreads across his intake, and the warmth under his plating fades, but he holds on to it as long as he can. “I know you’re not,” he replies, and is surprised to admit that he believes it. Primus, he’s going to be in so much trouble, he’s been out here with her for groons. “… I just, I can’t. It’s not… I’m not…” Deserving, good, anything. Enough.

“People are waiting, for—for me,” he finishes weakly, unable to stop his finials from pinning down to his helm.

She’s disappointed, B-1 can already see. Guilt swells, but he doesn’t change his mind. He consoles himself with the reminder that if she knew a thing about him, she wouldn’t be so keen on helping him.

They look at each other for a while, and her gaze is so strong against his weak and abused spark that he finds himself standing shakily. He’s surprised

When she follows, expression shifting to something more frantic and B-1 can’t for the life if him understand why. “I should go,” he whispers, after a while. He doesn’t know how much longer he can look at her. More and more he begins seeing someone else.

Primus, why can’t he just see things as they are?

Why can’t he do what Lycan asked?

“You don’t have to.”

He takes a step back, she takes a step forward. “I’ll be okay.”

She looks at him sadly. “Sure, but will you be happy?”

There  is no way to answer that, so he just smiles. “Thanks – thank you, for the Energon, I know there isn’t enough to go around.. I hope you get your transfer. You deserve it.”

A part of her falls, and it’s almost as if her vibrant blue dims. “Yeah… I… I hope you find what you’re looking fit, B. I know you see me as a stranger, but y’know what I see you as?”

He screws his helm in question. “What?”

Her dermas break into that huge, infectious grin. “A friend.”

And he wants to ask her why she feels that way about a bot who has barely spoken since their meeting, but he knows if he does, she’ll talk him into it. He’ll fold, give up his self-inflicted exile to bask in the sweet liquor of Autobot faith.

The sun is setting, pink hues paint her mesh a pretty purple. He wonders if the fading light ever makes him look so effervescent. Bright pop yellow doesn’t do much other than make you squint. “I can’t give you anything,” he says in lieu of an emotional response.

That just makes her scoff. “You don’t even know what you have.”

B-127 frowns, swaying ambiently as he typically does. “I have nothing.”

A laugh bubbles from her vocoder in joyful staticky bleeps. “Oh, trust me, kid, you’ve got something,” Moonracer says with all the confidence in the world and B-1 feels like a complete moron for understanding none of it. For not understanding her. He could never understand Blue Breeze, either. “… You just haven’t figured that out yet. I felt it the moment you came online, though.”

Unable to stand the weight she’s placing on his spark, he turns, admiring the last sleepy whisps of sunlight. He really should go – but should he return with empty servos? He’ll just say he got lost—he never gets lost, but they might believe his gyroscope interfered with his geo-cortex. Right, sure, fine, that’ll do.

“—Hey,” B-1 about comes out of his chassis. Moonracer is inches from his faceplate. “If you ever change your mind, you can go here. You’ll be welcome, I promise. You’re made of more than you think.”

Across his neural net, he receives a small data packet, lodged right against his protective firewalls and waiting to be let in. There’s no spyware to be found in it, the files are rather straightforward even before he gives them permission to integrate. Coordinates to a few select Autobot bases. His tanks spoil in his mid-section, and he meets her optics. “Why are you being so nice to me?” He whispers, desperate not to start crying.

Her field brushes graciously against him, tendrils wrapping and tying him in knots. Faylever used to do the same thing. “Because we’re friends, duh. We shared a moment together, that’s good enough for me.”

It can’t be that simple, it isn’t that simple.

Newdawn sounds so tired from beyond the veil. “Isn’t it?”

The simple declaration leaves B-1 reeling long after he has backed away further, gifting Moonracer a small, exhausted smile, barely a turn of his derma. Long after he has left her in the dust, and the stars retake the sky. He doesn’t feel much better than he did earlier in the cycle, but somehow, all at once, he feels lighter, too.

Because what a funny concept. What an idea.

***

Lariat believes his lie easily, but he still gets a slap to the helm for wasting the cycle trying to regain his bearings. The sting does little to cool the pillowy warmth settled in his spark. The demons aren’t too fond of it, but for some odd reason, they are hesitant to eat away at it.

Curious.

***

He doesn’t tell them about the coordinates.

Which is stupid. He should, that would help get him back into their good graces – he may even be granted more than one Energon cube – and he might be able to face a sound recharge.

But he just. Doesn’t.

Moonracer went against her better judgment to gift him the cords. To give him an out he won’t take.

The files are heavy despite holding barely any data.

Oh, if Lariat knew what he was hiding. Moonracer would be a dead bot, and Lariat would make him the one to kill her.

It’s a phantom pain, but the empty subspace where his blades once rested throb.

Uhg. He’s so sick.

***

Eventually, they migrate to a more western area and B-1 can’t help but feel relieved.

The farther they get from those bases the better.

Faylever watches over him, and B-1 feels like an utter fool for letting the coolant fall from his optics. If he really tries, really lets the delusion in, he can almost feel her servos on his faceplate, running a comforting touch down to his mandible.

The bandits are all passed out, too tired and giddy on high grade. They don’t hear him cry through the night.

He misses when he was too numb for tears.

Now it feels like an insurmountable task to get to that point again. He feels so much that it’s destroying him.

At least a cold spark is a living one.

He isn’t so sure his will last much longer.

***

He passes out again, but there is no one to revive him this time. His auxiliary power reserves kick on after several groons of stasis, and he’s no more rested than he was before the forced shutdown. His helm pulses to the beat of his spark and he crawls on his servos and knees until he can find the gumption to transform.

This can’t go on. It just can’t. He’ll burn up, he feels so sick and he knows his spark is rejecting again, pulling away from its chamber and trying to supernova. Something about his very existence causing it to implode. It begs to follow the maps pointing in the opposite direction, towards safety.

Why can’t he just follow them?

Moonracer had felt his spark, and she had not been obviously disgusted. Not the way he might expect.

Maybe they would see him as the filthy little hydro-weasel he is, but Primus surely the Autobots wouldn’t be so cruel. They wouldn’t send him out starving, creaking, dying.

… Would they?

There is a wicked pull, and his spark retreats back in fear, the darkness encroaching and calcifying it.

Because that’s all it takes.

That one sliver of doubt.

That’s all it takes.

At least with the bandits, he knows what to expect.

They won’t kill him for his failure even if they say they will. Eventually, he’ll be given a ration and perhaps a moment to rest his sore pistons.

And so the cycle will continue.

***

Primus why does he just take it?

Lariat shoves him to the ground, pede grating against his chest plates. A ringing replaces whatever harsh words he has to say, and B-1 doesn’t mind that at all.

Dea-8 checks him over as crudely as possible, servos pulling and prodding and medical port sparking in a dizzying throb. B-1 vaguely ponders if the medic has ever known a gentle touch in his life, because he certainly doesn’t know how to give one.

“You’re running hot,” he remarks, that twinge of biting aversion snapping out and swallowing blood. It’s not a medical observation, it’s an acidic one.

They both know why.

B-1 makes a bet with himself.

When he inevitably combusts into glorious, dying flames, how long until Dea-8’s grubby servos are rifling around his frame for parts?

How long indeed.

It takes all of his mental capacity to keep Dea-8 out of his passive files. He doesn’t know why he is protecting the coordinates so harshly. Sure, he’d be punished for hiding it, but it hardly seems worth the processing power.

But he can’t do that to Moonracer, he just can’t, even now.

The Autobots may have failed to save his colony, but B-1 doesn’t intend to fail them in return.

God, it’s true. He really is such a soft spark. A weak sparkling who only exists through sentiment.

He tries not to gasp a hurting vent as Dea-8 rips his medical plug from his head, static erupts from the back of his helm and completely sets his subroutines on edge. Toxrine was never so careless.

But he’s right. They give him a ration later that night – an entire cube. It’s heavenly, godsent. He has to keep watch but at least there are no clouds tonight.

At least he’s alive.

At least, at least, at least.

***

It’s an abandoned settlement.

Well.

It was a settlement. It’s almost entirely destroyed, craters exist where buildings once did, rusted and old husks pepper the grounds like tokens of war. It was a massacre. B-1 finds he can hardly stand to be here, but Dea-8 has his piercing optics on him and he cannot admit how fiercely nauseated he feels. He hears their screams in epic boosted surround sound, feels the warmth of fresh Energon on his gritty plating.

Remarkably, the ghosts are silent as they pass through, as if they too are weary of the sight.

Shelving the memories is difficult but B-1 pushes them to the back of his stack. If he can’t forget then he can at least ensure that his processor does not consider them a priority.

He’s busy looking up toward the bright but murky sky when his pede catches on a stiff sheet of debris. Trying to overcorrect is rather fruitless and before he can assess the situation, he is tumbling down one of the forgotten colony’s numerous sinkholes.

Several colorful expletives leave his intake, and he only just manages to catch himself by his palms to avoid slamming his face plate into the ground.

Exventing heavily – and ignoring the way his engines groan – B-127 immediately gives up on trying to hold his weight and collapses onto his chest. “Slag,” he swears, ventilation overworking as his processor catches up.

His optics adjust to the dark atmosphere quickly as they tend to. His HUD array is a data pad of angry micro-abrasions and B-1 rolls his optics in jaded annoyance, sending the reports away with a single command. A few scratches are the least of his problems. His gyroscope is a flurry of activity but B-1 is able to push through to stand to his pedes. The nausea isn’t new, and he really doesn’t have the energy to give it a moment of his time.

Observing what must have once been a vast tunneling system, B-1 deduces that this settlement was being converted into an Autobot outpost of some kind. Neutrals have no need for such construction, and Decepticons have too many flyers to justify having too many of these. They tend to build towards the heavens, not towards Primus.

A few of the tunnels are caved in, leaving a sharp and jutting hazard that B-1 grumbles about when he has to hobble and step around the debris. The halls that remain intact are lined with doors and malfunctioning holo-signs.

The wise thing to do would be to return back to the surface and inform the others. While it is true that they push him to his limits to find fuel, they may be angered to learn he investigated something like this without their supervision. After all, he is a greedy little spark, wouldn’t want him hoarding, would they?

A bitter noise escapes him, and his servos curl.

Pivoting to examine the point of entry, his optics narrow. They wouldn’t fit through there anyway.

He’s always been curious, shouldn’t he get to indulge in that every now and then? Who are they to stop him? Moonracer would want him to explore, wouldn’t she? Lariat can beat on him for it later but at this point what is new? He could bring them a spoil so large they’d never have to hunt again, and they would still find something wrong.

Frag them and frag that stupid hole and frag the way this place makes him sick.

He pushes forward.

***

Most of the rooms are empty and without any sort of description. He finds a wash rack but is dismayed that no solvent is still running to them. He’s so filthy he doesn’t remember what it was like to shine.

Construction warnings line certain areas, ranging from near-finished architecture to complete disorganization and clutter. B-1 enjoys cataloging everything to go through later, to look at the Autobot symbols he doesn’t have the key to decode.

It’s all rather musty, but at least there is no scent of oblivion down here, not like on the surface. Decayed but untouched by the horrors that befell the town above. B-1 is surprised to realize that no one has been down here since the attack; the only pede-prints he notes are his own, and non-descript markings of scavenging animals.

On a whim, he decides to follow some.

That’s where he finds the Energon reserves.

Upon turning a corner into a larger area which appears to be the makings of the underground atrium, B-127 stops dead, optics becoming pinpricks and audibly squeaking.

Though the walls are dark and lined with oxidized metal, the room’s epicenter is cast in a steady turquoise glow, with pretty wreaths of light bouncing off of each other and causing B-1’s plating to shiver at the sight.

Just by looking at the cubes, B-1 knows it’s at least an orbital cycles worth. Cubes are stacked high enough to reach his pauldrons and he feels a little dazed as he skips closer into the space. The quiet magnetic pull of the Energon brushes against his plating in kind and inviting warmth.

By the Thirteen, B-127 hasn’t seen this much Energon in one place since he and Newdawn delivered it.

Why haven’t the Autobots come to retrieve this cache yet? Rations are low for everyone – Moonracer only had one given to her for her entire patrol shift.

That sours his joy a little. This really isn’t something he would feel bad about, but now that he’s met an Autobot – actually met one, not seen their corpses – his spark twists and turns in his chassis.

Because he knows he’ll have to tell the bandits about this. It would be crazy not to. He knows he should do whatever he can to make them like him, it’s wise. Lariat thinks him weak, over-emotional, only useful for his skills. They value what he is, not who he is.

If he comes back with a score like this… would that change?  Would he even come close to gaining their respect?

Maybe a better question is, does he want that?

Brushing a servo over a large cube, B-1 shakes his helm, willing himself not to take in any fuel just yet. As exhausted as he may be, he does have some restraint.

But… maybe it wouldn’t hurt. There’s so much here, they wouldn’t notice, would they?

Would they?

Dea-8 could plug in to his neural net and check his fuel percentage, but if he lies well enough, he would have no reason to.

That is, if he tells them at all.

The thought is stupid, dangerous, rebellious. B-1 stopped being rebellious when they took his puny little servos and made him a murderer. Stopped once he had ripped out a piece of himself to find some semblance of self again.

Because in the end, if he ran, or if he stayed, what does it really matter? He’s just one bot, a new spark in a world that doesn’t want him. Doesn’t want his warmth or his bright and hopeful paint. Lariat had been right, his kind are not meant for any of this.

… But is that true?

If he wasn’t meant for this, was not born for this, then why does he persist at all? A spark rejection in the stage his is in should have condemned him ages ago. His light should have snuffed out with that poor innocent bots – the stress, it had nearly broken him, shattered his mind into thousands of pieces. It was supposed to leave him empty, a not-spark, a cold chamber. The signs are all there, he doesn’t need to be a medical bot to know them.

He should have burnt up by now.

But he hasn’t, he continues to sit on the precipice of extinguished and yet.

His spark just can’t do it.

It just can’t seem to give up.

He just can’t seem to give up.

Why? By Primus why he of all bots?

“… You believe, you hope, even when perhaps you sh-sh-shouldn’t.”

The memory is visceral and serrated. He recoils and stumbles back a few feet. Newdawn’s wavering frame briefly eclipses his feed and B-1 brings his servos to his face to shield himself from it.

It’s still pristine, that portion of his memory data. It should be compressed by now but it hasn’t. He isn’t sure it ever will.

A core part of him was born that cycle, it was all so important. Birthed from his screaming and the event that first scorched his spark. What made him a murderer.

Does that make Newdawn’s declaration any less true?

Does it make it moot?

It was meant to be endearing when he’d said it, used the last of his energy to spur B-1 on. Is that line blurred now? Primus, B-1 is so confused. He’s weary and tired and so used up, but he pushes on anyway, every time.

Even at the cost of a life, even at the cost of himself.

Is that selfish, or is it brave? Is that arrogance, or strength?

He wonders what Moonracer would think. She seemed to have opinions on just about everything.

A small whimper leaves him, and it drives him mad. Stop breaking down and stop being so fragging emotional, get it together.

A bit difficult, when you are surrounded by reminders and inquisitive concepts and so much slagging Energon.

Tripping to his knees, B-1 decides he is too put out to try and stand.

So he sits, broken door wing clicking as he tries to make himself as little as possible. He was so much smaller, back then. Now what is he? Who is he? Would any of the ghosts recognize him now?

Does he?

***

… Moonracer would.

Maybe not as he was, but she never met that version of B-127.

She met him as he is. The horrified, fractured form he has become, and she saw his spark anyway. Even through the shroud of molten rock, and beyond the icy layers, she saw him.

Helped him.

Even though he does not deserve it, she didn’t care. He didn’t have to bargain, he barely had to speak at all.

He barely had to speak at all.

***

He doesn’t tell them.

Does not even bring up the hole.

It’s stupid, so incredibly stupid. They’ll find out. They’ll know he’s lying when he says he didn’t find anything.

They’ll hurt him, he should tell them, he should.

But he doesn’t.

His newer dents mean nothing to them and that’s his greatest advantage.

***

Lariat is convinced there is more to be found here – oh if he only knew – so they settle to search for a few more cycles. B-1 tries not to let the anxiety show.

While unlikely that they will find his little underground sanctuary, they’re too large and B-127 has taken the extra initiative to cover the entrance with nondescript sheet metal. The only marginally observant one is Dea-8 and he hardly ever bothers to search very hard in places like this. He much prefers to take action when live bots are involved.

He’s such a creep.

Trailrunner only offers him a small cube but B-1 hardly minds. They expect him to keep watch (again) and it is the first and only time B-1 is grateful for that.

Three cycles. That’s all he needs.

Three to recuperate some of his long-gone energy, and allow his various nodes and gears to heal.

Then he’ll leave.

Sneaking back down to the base is almost too easy. B-1 finds himself turning around to check if anyone is following several times. It all feels like a dream, like some elaborate joke to give him hope. That sounds like something the bandits would do.

Only, the punchline never comes. He finds no issue in moving the metal back and hunkering back to the depths. The Energon is waiting for him just as before, and nothing is amiss. He refuels to a percentage he has not reached in well over a stellar cycle and it nearly sends him down to the shame of tears.

But he’ll need the power, his nanites have grown lazy and comatose. Complacent with his treatment.

Not anymore. He bargained his way into this mess and he does not intend to repeat that performance.

No, he gave them the choice, back then. Gave his life into their hands willingly, like a child, like a weakling. Like a sparkling.

It’s his choice now.

***

If any of the bandits notice a little extra pep in his step, they don’t mention it. They probably don’t care. Trailrunner laments the time wasted here, Lariat scolds him for it but doesn’t hit him the same way he would hit B-127.

B-1 wants to cackle in their faces.

Faylever wouldn’t like the petty bitterness that lives in his spark now. It’s unbecoming and self-serving.

But B-1 certainly enjoys it.

Oh well. At least he isn’t killing them in their sleep.

***

Before heading to the tunnels for the night, B-1 takes some time to relax and enjoy the stars. His only friends in the world. Besides Moonracer, sort of. She had called herself his friend, and he’d be remiss to deny her even in absence.

They don’t give him a ration tonight, under the guise of lack of fuel. B-1 knows it’s just because Lariat is cranky. And he accuses him of being overemotional? Primus.

Orion the Hunter speckles the sky, forever chasing Lepus but never quite reaching.

Feels like an omen, but B-1 doesn’t know exactly of what.

***

“You’re awfully chipper this morning,” Dea-8 points out, and B-1 actively has to stop himself from freezing up.

He covers it up with a crackle of his vocoder. “Can’t I be in a good mood?” He asks, knowing full well that Dea-8 absolutely does not care.

Case in point, the medic narrows his optics, but shrugs. “Who could ever be in a good mood in a place like this?”

B-1 about scoffs right then and there. Dea-8 does that sometimes, pretends to have any sort of feelings for other beings. But B-1 knows better, knows the wretched hunger that the mech lives with. War or not, B-127 is convinced Dea-8 was always destined to be a monster.

B-1 may have been made one, but Dea-8 was born one.

Makes him wonder why he never bothered to join the Decepticons. He and Locke Up would have got along great.

Ha ha.

***

When he gets out of here, he’ll transform and race as fast as he wants to, redline until his right vent smokes, and then go again.

The plan for what he’ll do when he leaves is sort of up in the air. He ponders finding the Autobots but finds himself hesitating for the same reasons he always does.

If he stays alone, then he’ll just have to be sure he doesn’t ever get caught in a trap. Ever again. Easy. Fine. Lonely, but fine. If he risks getting caught then he risks repeating all of this, and he cannot – he just – can’t.

But first things first, he will race.

***

The third cycle rolls around, and B-1 can just taste the freedom, the wind whistling in his audials. The friction in his rims, the stress of his gears.

A part of him wants to stay. B-1 hates that part.

Hates it because he almost gets talked into it so many times. Hates it because while they are in this destroyed village, none of the voices speak so this part of him is solely and truly him.

He shouldn’t want to stay, he shouldn’t be afraid of the idea. But it’s that stupid sense of insecure security that keeps wedging inside his processor. He can’t be mindless out there, can’t just do whatever someone tells him to do. He’ll have to go back to that numb efficiency of surviving every day.

But then he remembers the bruised mesh and the cruel words and the way a part of him honestly and truly died with that mech and oh Primus the guilt—

Primus, he really does hate them. Hates them for making him this way. His field flushes red more and more often and he bathes in it.

Revenge isn’t something that feels right to him, he just wants to rest.

But vindication? He can handle that. Watch these malfunctions lose one of their assets they thought they had control over? That he can handle. He’ll laugh the entire way.

***

On the third night of the third cycle, B-1 sips his Energon and wonders if he’ll ever see Moonracer again. If he follows the coordinates, he certainly will, but he isn’t sure he can go through with it. It’s a puzzle he has not quite worked out yet.

He knows he’ll try to head for the hemisphere around Iacon – the Autobot population there might prevent any more run-ins with bandits, but nothing beyond that.

Honestly, anywhere away from these mechs would be okay. He leans back against the piled Energon cubes with a sigh.

It’s weird to yearn to be alone. Before, he had chosen to be alone because he didn’t want anyone to be hurt because of him, and that’s still true but… Now there are other things to be afraid of.

His processor is running smoother than it has in orbital cycles, but the sudden surge of Energon after being deprived of it for so long is its own kind of taxing. Programs that have been in deep sleep are awake and working overtime to make up for their lack of action, nanites are pouring over his chassis and abused plates. It takes a lot out of him, but it’s a good kind of tired.

Not so much draining as it is exhausting.

He needs to return before sunrise, but it’s nice to just… sit, here, alone.

Quiet, peaceful. There’s not much peace around anymore, so he takes in the feeling greedily.

Glitch-mice sometimes skitter across the floor, and B-1 will crack open a smaller cube for them to take in. They’re fine company, not nearly the pests the world makes them out to be. They’re just hungry, the same as everyone else.

A strange, organic moss grows in one of the corners of the atrium, B-1 doesn’t know what to make of it. Organic life is few and far between on Cybertron, to see it here, in the center of his old place, it’s interesting.

And he’s still only a sparkling, small, and tired little thing with too much living inside him. It’s been too long since he’s been surrounded by safety, by the warmth of a stronghold.

 So, it’s no surprise when, unbidden, he falls into a deep recharge.

***

Scrap, scrap, scrap.

What kind of moronic glitch lets themselves fall into recharge in a situation like this?

He awakes with a slow and rested buzz of his vocoder, but as his chronometer comes online, he bolts upright, calm wavelength turning tumultuous and frenzied. Slag, slag, he should have been up groons ago Lariat is going to kill him. Some renegade he is. Primus almighty what a mess.

He'll have to make a run for it for sure, they’ll be searching for him, and these bots are far more formidable when motivated. Especially by anger.

He had hoped for more of a grand exit. He’d planned to be sent out on a mission and never be seen again. He’d use some of the Energon cubes to set off a few dramatic explosions to draw their attention. And he’d be gone, driving off in the opposite direction.

And he’s got fuel, he’s so much faster than they are with fuel. Maybe that’s why they keep him so low. They know he’d beat them even in a pede race.

That all has to go out the proverbial window now and he tries not to shake with every step. He cannot afford to panic here, if he breaks down into shaking plates and blubbering bleeps, he’ll be a lost cause.

The area available in his subspace is smaller than he’d like, but B-1 uses every square inch to store Energon. With the driving he is about to do, he will need it. Besides, if Lariat somehow finds his way down here, he’d rather not leave much for him. Bastard.

***

Clambering up the hole’s slanted debris is easy enough; his gyros complain but he has long-mastered course-correction. He stalls just as he reaches the threshold of the opening, a bolt of fear rushing from his spark and settling in the small of his backstrut, leaving him tense and uneasy. He pushes his audial gain as high as he can, but hears nothing. His view is obscured from this angle, but nothing seems to be near. It’s prudent to keep his field snug against his armor, in case any of them catches wind of him.

On unsteady pedes, he crests the opening, optics dialed to their highest clarity and logic centers pulling large amounts of power in order to remain in control.

But there’s no one, his assessment had been correct. He is alone. Exventing in relief, B-1 slumps his helm into his hands for just a moment, utterly overwhelmed. This is not how this cycle was supposed to go.

Stealth will have to be his new plan, it’s luck that he happens to be very good at that.

Keeping his pede steps as light as can be, B-127 follows the route he’s studied hundreds of times in the past three cycles, hugging the walls of the decrepit buildings and avoiding the sickening sensation of stepping over the town’s corpses. He wishes they had known about the cache underground. Maybe that had, and that’s what killed them. He will never know.

A rumbling engine stops him in his tracks, and he ducks into an alleyway faster than his CPU can telegraph his movements. He stumbles to his knees but catches on his spikes, saving himself from collapsing completely.

Pulling himself into a tight little ball, B-1 watches from the shadows as Dea-8’s van alternate mode slowly drives past. It’s different from the cycles prior, where he would search in root mode for all of two groons before giving up. No, Dea-8 is searching, well and truly, for him.

Don’t be sick don’t be sick don’t be sick—

When he feels he has waited long enough, and then a little bit more, B-1’s antenna rise from their laid-back position, and he shakily stands to his pedes.

The morning continues in much the same manner. The mechs are canvasing the area diligently, and B-127 tries not to purge whenever any of them get too close. Lariat drives right by him, his rig radiating an unadulterated rage that makes B-1 very very nervous.

Why didn’t he just leave at night? Oh, he just had to be dramatic and go out with a bang! What a moron he is. Foolish will new spark with a flair for drama. Stupid.

This settlement is a lot larger than he recalls it being and it pisses him off. Of course it is, because he was worried that this was getting too easy.

Shuffling under the remains of a rusted and dented housing unit, B-1 crawls on his servos and knees to get to the other side, hoping for some sort of shortcut. He just needs to get to the other side. Though not the small infant frame he once was, he’s still small enough to crawl out without much trouble.

Until he stands.

And it’s not really his fault, after all, how is he supposed to control a broken door wing? Just as he stands to his full height, the glitched machinery twitches, banging against the debris loud enough to make him wince. Swiftly, he grips at it to still the spaztic movements, ventilations ceasing as a cold flush rushes through his lines.

Stillness follows, a thick and pungent silence. B-1 doesn’t dare even flinch.

The unmistakable growl of three, torturous engines.

Scrap, Primus above of course.

With no other way out, B-127 forgoes his attempt at stealth and begins full-tilt sprinting, once he reaches semi-solid ground, he transforms. It’s clunky in his panic but no less fast, and his wheels touch the ground before the command fully solidifies in his HUD array.

Energon gleams along his chassis through the grime, and B-1 follows his geo-cortex through the ghost town as far as he can.

Trailrunner finds him first, his smaller car form glaring menacing in his rearview.

“Kid, stop the damn joyride!” He calls, and Lariat and Dea-8 aren’t far behind him. “This doesn’t end well for you if you run.”

Well, screw them, he’s done taking orders, done being their little hellhound, and done being their slave.

Even if it horrifies him, B-127 takes a sharp turn. He’s faster, but this place is cramped. It helps that these bots are huge, if he’s struggling with the tight spaces, they’re tripping over each other.

But the stress is getting to him, and his geo-cortex gives him the wrong directions multiple times. When he finds himself at another dead end, he cries out in frustration, transforming back to root to just try climbing. There are several jagged outcroppings to grapple on to and B-1 has always been adept at this kind of movement.

Though slowed by his inhibited balance, he scales a majority of the wall quickly.

“So, this was your big plan, huh?” Resounds a slightly out of sorts Lariat. Freezing where he hangs, B-1 twists his helm and finds the three mechs staring up at him, all different levels of irate. Lariat pulls his large finials back, near level with his pauldrons. “Thought you could just walk out on us? After everything we’ve done for you?”

B-1 doesn’t bother to hide his scoff, turning his helm to continue his ascent.  He doesn’t owe them an explanation.

He hears the distinct wurr of a weapon being charged.

This feels very reminiscent of something he really doesn’t want to recall.

“Alright, kid, you fraggin’ asked for it.”

Lariat, as it turns out, has much better aim than Locke Up.

***

Metal burn scores his back in deep, bubbling craters. It’s all he can do to keep from crying out over each piece of metal he is dragged over. The pain is blinding to the point of blacking him out at certain points, he finds several dark spots in his memory banks.

Lariat has him by his pede, screaming something about being ‘ungrateful’ and ‘a siphoning little cyber-tick.’ B-1 is pretty sure the insults are being directed at him, but his helm is so foggy trying to make sense of his burns that he can’t know for certain.

They throw him rather unceremoniously against the ground in what was once the town’s center. Dea-8 pries his subspace open and they find his Energon.

“I knew he had more energy than usual,” Dea-8 mutters darkly, glaring down at the cubes as if they’ve slapped him. All too soon, they’ve taken everything he had stored. Primus, he can’t have anything.

B-1 tries to pull himself into a sitting position, but Lariat slams his pede against his chest, hard. His chassis creaks and the old scars from Locke Up’s clawed digits whine. The whiplash has his gyroscope in a tailspin and B-1 is dizzy all over again. His spark is so hot. Lariat doesn’t seem to care about the heat as he releases his pede, bringing his servos to grip at B-1’s shoulders so tightly the plating cracks. B-1 moans softly, the pain adding to the awful soup that is his sensornet.

“You grubby little pest! You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, couldja? Oh no, you had to grow yourself some fragging gumption, didn’t you?” Lariat scorns, making sure to punctuate his point by slamming B-127 into the ground a few times for good measure. Uhg, he does not feel good.

Trailrunner stands off to the side, B-1 lulls his helm, and they make contact. Trailrunner never does stuff like this, but he never helps, either. Now, he just looks resigned, disappointed.

B-1 looks away.

Lariat rants about ‘trust’ and other stupid things of that nature, demanding to know where he found the Energon but not really giving him a chance to respond.

Whatever, B-1 wouldn’t tell him anyway.

He’s found his own form of resignation. It’s ugly and raw and so very red with hatred. Just as a comet finds it’s orbit, B-1 has found his orbit in his silence. He came to know these bots in silence, and now it appears he will leave them in silence, too. There’s nothing more to say. Nothing he could say to make them understand. They’ve taken their piece of him, and won’t be giving it back, B-1 understands that now.

His world becomes a kaleidoscope of pain and verbal bashes, but it all melds together within his spark. He’s lucky he’s topped off on Energon – well, sort of, he’s bleeding a lot of it out, now – because he definitely would have gone offline by now otherwise.

He’s such an idiot for not going with Moonracer. Primus, he’s so stupid.

 Lariat lands a good hit to his bad leg and B-1 howls with pain. The internals there have been barely functional since the harpoon and with that punch, B-127 feels something pop out of place.

It goes on for so long B-1 is amazed he doesn’t bluescreen. His efficient specs become his bane and they keep him just on the edge of crashing out, but not quite there. By the time Lariat begins to slow in his assault, B-1 is more dented and bloodier than he has ever been. His sensornet is a fire of activity that has his vents and secondary fans working frantically.

There’s a gun in his face, he realizes lazily as he moves his shaking helm to spit out fuel running from his intake. Lariat must be giving him his last rites. Whatever, let him have his fun. He’ll never find that Energon.

Vaguely, B-1 ponders whether or not Lycan will be pleased, or disappointed. Will she be satisfied with his efforts, when he tells her he really did try? With all of his might, he did.

Will Faylever and Newdawn be understanding, or upset that he was not able to pay his debt?

He doesn’t know.

Even if what he has seen for stellar cycles are just messed up and corrupted versions of his loved ones, he feels so very indebted to them. He hears that familiar wirr, and a heat spreads over his face plate.

Then, something surprising. “Wait, hold on,” interjects Trailrunner, and B-1 registers him holding up a placating servo.

Pausing, Lariat pulls the barrel away from B-1’s helm. Phew. Though it’s difficult, B-127 inclines his helm to hear Trailrunner better. “… We could still have some use for him.”

Above him, Lariat barks a laugh, his vocoder tired from all the yelling, it comes out more of a squawk. “Oh spare me the empathy, Trail, he’s had his chance.” The barrel is back in his face again. Great. “I shoulda treated him like the Primus damned astro-turkey he is.”

Something passes over Trailrunner’s faceplate, but B-1 is far too delirious to decode the body language. “That’s not what I’m saying, I know he’s useless to us now,” ouch, harsh, much? “… But we could still, do something with him, get our Energon’s worth.”

“If you’re gonna say we take his parts, you shoulda said somethin’ before I made scrap outta him.” He says it with a laugh, B-1 feels very small.

But Trailrunner just shakes his helm. “No, that doesn’t matter,” he hesitates, B-1 struggles to focus his optics. “If we take him as out prisoner… Helex is just south of here.”

“That’s con territory, why would we go there? Are you trying to get us all killed?” Dea-8 reponds, sounding very adverse to the idea.

Trailrunner exvents, sounding rather tired. “We would go because they want new sparks. I’ve heard it all over. Rumors about reprogramming and data-washing.”

B-1, even in his state, feels the moment his spark goes cold.

Oh, Primus, no.

Oblivious – or just not caring – of B-127’s horror, Trailrunner continues. “If we turn him in, dented or not, he’s a warframe, they’ll want him. They’d pay us in truckloads of fuel.”

That’s when he begins thrashing. Primus, can’t they just kill him instead – anything but this – anything but that! “No!” He cries, finding his strength against all odds and thrashing away from Lariat’s gun and only making it a foot or so before servos are grappling him into submission. His vocoder is laced with static. “Please don’t, please don’t do that – I’ll be good, I won’t try anything ever again, I promise! Just don’t give me to them – I don’t want that oh god please Lariat, don’t do this.” He wails his pleas with such abandon that coolant leaks from his eyes, spark pulse violent in his chest.

“Don’t let them change me, please – You’ve seen what they could do, please I won’t even think about leaving or lying you don’t even have to give me fuel I’ll just –”

“—Oh god, does the entitlement never end with you?”

He’s grabbed by the helm, and slammed into the floor. Something cracks, and it finally stops. He crashes in rippling, prismatic pixels.

***

Dea-8 repurposes the chains from one of the town’s small smelting plants, and wraps them tightly around B-1’s frame. The colder metal stings along his injuries, and he sucks in a pathetic whimper when he is extra rough around his joints. “In case you get any ideas about transforming.”

In his state, B-127 doesn’t think transforming is even a concept, much less an idea, but doesn’t try to beg any further. He knows they’ve made up their minds. In his time in stasis, B-1 discovers they’ve siphoned his Energon, not as low as before but enough to make him feel horribly weak. They really, really don’t want him running.

Will he meet Blue Breeze? Will that still be his name? Will they give B-1 a new one? Will he like it?

When they’re done with him, B-127 knows he won’t like anything anymore. Won’t feel a thing, won’t even know what he once was.

Or maybe he will.

Somehow, that’s worse.

***

It’s slow going, since B-1 can’t change. Lariat hates this, and takes it out on him often.

Well, if he could move any faster than this pained trudging he’s managing, he would. Wonder whose fault that was, huh?

They pull him by the chains, his servos kept firmly tucked against his mid-section plating, tugging him to walk until her simply can’t anymore. Then, they just drag him. It would hurt, but B-1 honestly prefers it over having to take another step towards his death.

Not his death. Worse than his death.

He’s too afraid to look up at the stars at night, they’ve grown too bright for him.

And he’s tired, too tired to take the energy to say hello to them.

***

“What’s your percentage?” Trailrunner inquires curtly, shoving a cube down his throat after a stint of being passed out.

B-1 leans heavily against the metallic cliffside they’ve stopped by. “Thirteen,” he replies, barely above the threshold his vocoder can project. So very weak.

The mech nods, carefully tilting another cube into his intake, B-1 would be greedy about it if he had the strength. It’s his lifeblood, but it all settles like slag in his tanks.

***

It’s a few more cycles to helex.

Tears don’t come anymore; he’s gone back to the numbness he knows so intimately. It’s sort of nice. To let it go.

He did try, Lycan, he tried so very hard.

***

Dea-8 fishes through his data with the same level of intrusiveness as always. B-1 protects the coordinates even now, though he doesn’t have the mind to understand why.

Lariat’s vocoder blurbs, confused from the high grade running through his systems. “If you think he’s lying-g so bad, ju-just don’t give em’ any.”

Clawing open a subroutine, Dea-8 rolls his optics. “I just want to be sure he’s honest about his percentage. He can handle anything above ten. Fancy specs, as you say.”

It just so happens that he is at a nine. He gets half of a cube. Yay.

Satisfied, Dea-8 rips his plug out with a force that sparks the port and shakes B-1 from the shock. His helm spins. Ouch.

What could Moonracer be doing right now?

***

They leave him tied at night, and the bandits take turns watching each cycle, ensuring he doesn’t try anything. He won’t. There’s no point.

Tonight is Trailrunner’s turn. They’ll be in Helex by the afternoon of the next cycle. The sky is alight with constellations but still, B-1 can’t stand to see them any longer. Orian will still be chasing Lepus, and Canis Major will still be aiding him. At least they never change.

There’s no point in fearing the nightmares anymore, so B-1 allows himself to fall into a deathly still recharge.

***

Tink, tink, tink.

Running through his data stack, B-1 grumbles softly as his optics begrudgingly come online.

It’s still night – in fact, it’s only been a few groons.

Trailrunner is looking at him, faceplate horribly serious.

Helm still foggy with sleep, B-1 can only watch as Trailrunner begins undoing his bindings. He invents harshly at pressure release on his joints, relieved and pained all at once. His voice box mechanisms flutter to life. “… What?”

For a while, Trailrunner doesn’t respond, diligent in his work. It’s only after he has undone the last link around B-1’s wrists does he speak. “… That was stupid.”

B-1 looks down, annoyed by the shameful feeling that comes over him. “I couldn’t stay any longer,” he replies, so quiet.

Tutting his denta, Trailrunner’s field flushes with mild frustration. “You should have kept your helm down, done what they asked.”

His expression narrows, and B-1 is shocked to feel the anger he does. His optics shoot to Trailrunner’s. “What, like when he told me to kill that bot?”

Shrugging, Trailrunner nods. “You might’ve gained his respect. You would have been treated better.”

Turning his helm to glare at something unseen, B-127 steeps, simmering in the hurt. “I don’t want his respect. I thought I did, but I don’t,” he says, decisively. “I won’t destroy my spark just to survive another day. Not now,” he returns his gaze to Trailrunner, piercing. “… Not ever.”

That gives the other pause for a moment, then he scoffs. “So foolish. You are so foolish.” He brings a servo to his faceplate, pinching the bridge between his optics. “Valuing your morals over your life like that. You can’t live like that, you can’t sustain. That’s why your spark is rejecting.”

B-1 jerks back, obtical ridges narrowing down to slits. “My morals are my life. If I give those up, then I’m nothing. Just another husk walking around.”

Trailrunner replies with a huff. “A bot without morals is at least a living one.”

“What you and the others do is not living,” B-1 says forcefully. “I’ve lived. It was short, and maybe I wasn’t as wise as I should have been, but I was alive. This? This is barely survival, this is existence.” His finials drop, and he brings his knees to his chest, resting his chin against it. He peers at Trailrunner from between his knee spikes. “I don’t want to just exist, give up everything I was built for in order to survive… I thought I could, that I could let it go but… I want to live as myself, not just… something to be changed.”

Trailrunner must feel his inner conflict, bleeding through his EM in nauseating waves. His expression scrunches, and he looks away. “Kid… you understand that you’ve already been changed, right? Can you honestly say you’re the same bot you were when you first emerged?” He points a weary digit toward B-1’s forearms. “Would that fresh new spark mutilate himself the way you have?

B-1 recalls the little thing he was. The small one that apologized to corpses and laughed at data pads. The little thing that had never hurt a thing, who just wanted to enjoy the stars. The emptiness where two twin blades once lived ripple with phantom pain.

He responds with a withered look. “Maybe not, but he’s in there somewhere… and I’ve got to protect that piece of me, I made a promise that I would.”

In a way, Trailrunner looks amazed. In a sort of agitated, fatigued way. “… You are going to die, you know that? One way or another.”

Conceding with a nod, he shrugs. “Maybe, but I know I’ll die myself. Not as anyone’s puppet, but me.”

That ushers a laugh. “You know, you sound like an Autobot.”

A fizzling heat bursts across his plating, and B-1 realizes that he’s taken that as a compliment. Weird.

His optics find the recharging forms of Lariat and Dea-8. His observational subroutines note the steady twirl of their engines. They are recharging soundly. “What will you tell them, when they come online and realize I’m gone?”

Trailrunner shrugs. “You’re clever, they’ll believe you found a way to escape.”

B-1 raises an optical ridge. “… But I didn’t.”

At this, the bandit leans in close, close enough for B-1 to feel the heat of his spark chamber against him. Trailrunner whispers, like he is telling a well-hidden secret. “Only because you gave up. B, don’t give up again.” He pulls back, expression stern. “That’s your debt to me. I don’t understand it, I probably never will, but your spark burns bright even when it fragging shouldn’t. Don’t let go of that, no matter what I or anyone tells you, because it’s something, alright? A lot more than nothing. That’s why they—why we kept you so weak. Because you’re not, you’re not and you’re so young, and for bots like us – the worst kind – that’s fragging terrifying.”

The lack of weight against his wrists, the freedom to transform, it all feels like a dream. Like information creep, like he’s missing something. Dumbly, B-1 nods.

With a heavy exvent, Trailrunner seems satisfied, gesturing with his helm. “Good, now go, drive. Live, or whatever. And pray you never see us again.”

Suddenly a little antsy, B-1 stumbles to his pedes, swaying just so in a helm-rush. His pedes take him a couple steps back. “I… um… thanks, thanks for—”

“—Oh Primus, B, leave,” Trailrunner stresses, pushing a tone of irritation that B-1 can infer is mostly fake.

But he takes the hint, managing a small, haunted smile.

***

He drives rather aimlessly for a long while. His transformation seams are sore, and his processor is a mess of conflicting information.

His freedom has found him in the most unorthodox ways, and it has him reexamining everything that has happened. His chassis is dented and injured but he has no choice but to push through.

As he always does. As he always will.

It’s a lot, for a new spark.

But the stars are bright, and B-1 has found the courage to look at them again.

Chapter Text

The morning after he escapes, B-1 decides to set down some base principles. Ground rules.

He makes three at first, opening a document and placing down bullet points to fill in. He leaves room to add more in the future, but for now, he has three.

One: No stealing unless absolutely necessary, bar none. Even from Decepticons. He writes that bit with a disgusted grimace, but his spark flourishes at the boundary despite everything. He places a cap on his Energon percentage, and only if he dips below that, does he consider it. It’s a decision, it’s power, it’s a choice, his choice. A conviction in a world that seems to hold none. He survived long enough without having to stoop to that level, and he’s ashamed he let it become a habit.  He settles to remind himself that he isn’t like the bandits. He’s not.

He was their tool, their ace in the hole.

The wounds are still fresh, his HUD array briefly fizzles. Uhg.

Two: Find something to smile about once a cycle. That concept sounds unsurmountable, but even the smallest little blip of joy might be enough to keep his scarred spark alight. The viscous and poisoned part of his spark reels back at the idea, trying to bite down with its bloodied teeth and tell him to give up and keep quiet. B-1’s engines growl, and he underlines the rule out of spite.

Three: A lonesome cycle is a safe cycle. Stay hidden at all times. This isn’t a concession he has to make, so it’s an easy rule to cement. Before this nightmare, he’d been doing his best to keep to himself either way. But with the way things have gone… he can’t afford slip up.

It’s better this way, he reminds.

Moonracer’s coordinates are heavy where they rest in his databanks.

He consoles himself with the reminder that he’d be no more than a burden  to the Autobots. He’d be a weight across their backs to lug along with them while they fight for their supposed glorious purpose.

What can a broken sparkling do to aid in that?

His spark oscillates in its chamber, fighting against this rule but to beaten down to fight it. It’s hardened and burning at its center.

Though he knows he would be welcomed – however difficult that is to believe – but he just… doesn’t want to.

In some sort of way that’s raw and prickly; B-127 I’d afraid.

Afraid of what might happen once they find out what a waste of precious material he truly is.

His bruised mesh throbs.

And so it is.

With a heavy exvent, B-127 submits the data and integrates it, searing the code into his system. He bumps its permissions up several tiers, ensuring he doesn’t forget what he has put in place.

He can’t, not even for a moment.

***

The first few solar cycles are so much harder than he was expecting. He tries to fall back into the flow of things, how he lived before being forced into the bandit’s ‘care’, but more than anything he just stumbles.

Optics dig into the back of his helm like never before. It’s not the same as the phantoms, those he knows aren’t real. Just delusions of his fractured processor.

These optics  are different. Trailrunner isn’t dead, Dea-8 isn’t dead, Lariat isn’t dead. They are alive and with the exception of Trailrunner, likely beyond furious.

Lariat had nearly killed him for even trying to escape, what would he do now that he has succeeded?

Every nano-klik his spark spins a little faster than normal, his plating priceless and he turns his helm to check his surroundings even though he knows he’s alone, he knows, but like his quarantined programs, it’s like he’s stuck in an interloop.

The comfort of checking only lasts a moment before he cycles back around and has to check again.

It’s concerning the first few cycles, but by the fifth solar cycle it’s absolutely infuriating.

He stomps through an old mining ravine and grips at his processor casing, digging through his helm’s mesh with a frustrated growl.

“It’s okay to be afraid,” Newdawn states, somewhere behind him and gripping at his sensor nodes in the form of a cold wash.

“No its not, it’s inefficient and stupid. I’m being fragging stupid,” B-1 replies sharply, momentarily indulging in the madness to air out his sickened annoyance. He replays the last few solar cycles in a sped up showcase of his utter inability to calm the frag down.

“Language, B,” admonishes the spector. “You need to give yourself time.”

B-1 scoffs but stops from reminding the nothingness that this is a war torn world and there isn’t time, there’s never time. It’s always move, keep going, survive.

Newdawn responds anyway. “… Have you found your one thing to smile about yet?”

That gives B-1 pause, because he hasn’t. How can he even think about that when his processor is such a mess? How can it even be possible to feel happy enough to smile when he always feels like he’s about to die?

Already he’s failing himself, already he’s failing Lycan and Blue Breeze and everyone.

His ventilation stutters, and B-1 kneals in a rush, trying to get control over the components again.

Unhelpfully,  his HUD displays a few confused warnings of  unnecessary fan overwork and he can just feel the painful sensation of his Energon pumping far too fast. The ends of his appendages blur with static until he hardly feels anything beyond the numb panic in his spark.

Primus stay calm don’t do this stop stop stop—

But he can’t the fear just keeps coming—

Because failure comes with shame and guilt and so much pain and punishment and he doesn’t want it god they’ll destroy him –

In a horrified cry, B-1 slams his fist to the cold ground of the ravine, the burst of sensory input forcing him back to himself. His ventilation continues to come in quick and short. White hot shame runs down his backstrut and settles heavily in his midsection.

Stupid, so stupid. How could he lose himself so easily? This isn’t sustainable, he can’t continue on if he can’t handle this. He needs to handle this.

There’s a palm on his back – only there isn’t—but maybe there is? “Invent, exvent,” soothes the soft melody of Faylever’s voice. “You’re okay, little one.”

And of course he lets out a small sob at her calming ministrations because he doesn’t think he’s been the ‘little one’ she knew in a long, long time.

He thinks above all, her ghost hurts him the most.

But he follows her  instructions and at an alarmingly slow pace, he eventually manages to send the command to cease the unnecessary venting. It goes through and his frame shudders with a metallic jostle.

Weak little sparkling.

“There’s no one near, B, I promise.” She whispers, so very close.

Shaking his helm, B-1 stumbles back to his full height despite his gyro’s lagging complaints. There’s no response for Faylever because a promise from her is no more than a promise to himself. Her gentleness makes him sick because how self serving. To use her image to make himself feel better.

But… isn’t that part of his debt, too? To live on for her, for all of them?

Just as Moonracer had, Faylever and Newdawn had been kind to him, above all else. For all they knew, he could have crawled out of the Well bloodthirsty, in this war, in this world, it wouldn’t be unheard of.

But there had been no inquisition,  not prolonged examination of his spark. Just good intentions and more Energon than he deserved.

His door wings droop, the scarred and spastic one clicking uselessly. What did he have then that he doesn’t have now?

“A little faith can go a long way,” Faylever responds calmly. It sends a shiver throughout his protoform.

Faith, his infodex turns over the word like a missing puzzle piece. Is faith a close relative to belief? And what of hope? Are they synonymous? He doesn’t know, but the idea is terrifying and electric in the same space. They all blend together in some cosmic blood bond that B-1 feels so close to but never quite touching, wheels circling their core but always too hesitant to drive through it to the road of understanding.

Would faith solve his problem? Would he find solace in it? But what to put faith in?

To him, that sounds like something to discover, something to figure out. B-1 likes the idea, of having a goal in mind. It makes pushing through a little less like a chore. Is that faith?

Hm.

Opening his principles document, B-1 adds an indented bullet point to rule number two:

• -127 – Objective: (Define faith [~ Wherein: locate something to put faith in])

In terms of being sedentary, he has never been much good at that. He drove Newdawn crazy with how much he simply needed to move, act. Buzzing around incessantly is what landed him a little pseudo-job of being his toddling assistant, a form of constant movement around the settlement.

And that’s when B-1 finds this solar cycle’s smile. Despite the way his core spins too fast in the telltale sign of rampant spark pulsing, the surge of code trickling around his neural net is so much better than the paranoia and the panic.

The last of that fear doesn’t quite go away, it’s too soon for that. His hackles remain raised just a tad, and his finials swivel as his sensor nodes push themselves unbidden, searching for threats that aren’t there. This still drives him to near-outraged bleeps, but even still, his processor feels a little less jumbled; contented somewhat to focus on his identified task in some eager form of distraction.

Somehow, B-1 thinks he feels the pleased ebb and flow of Faylever and Newdawn’s fields. It’s all his imagination, but.

It’s... a nice memory, at least. Cause that’s what all of that is, phantom sensations of a bygone time.

Better to remember that then the pain of the last few orbital cycles.

***

B-1 doesn’t hear from Locke Up anymore.

While on one servo, B-127 is thankful for this, it no less leaves him perplexed.

Before and certainly during this fragging mess, he heard from the slain Decepticon most of all. His demeaning and imposing presence hung over him like a banner listing all of his wrongdoings, a scorn on his spark that just wouldn’t leave him be.

Now, all he hears is his absence.

In a sickening curiosity, B-1 wonders why.

Late one solar cycle, just as his recharge command is about to come up through his stack, he gets his answer.

“Oh, little bug, you don’t need my help to torment you anymore.”

“You handle that just fine all by yourself.”

***

He’s pulled from his recharge mid-data scrub and his ventilation locks up. It’s so entrapping he spends the remainder of the night on the ground, curled just enough to protect himself while still keeping his weapons drawn and pointed at every passing noise or wind.

When the frantic delirium subsides and the phantom pang of fists and angered words purges in his processor’s memory chrono-routines, B-1 finds himself frustrated with himself once again.

There’s no reason to try finding rest again, and he is a little sore to have proven Locke Up right. So he just stares at the bespeckled heavens as he always does, tracing the pretty shapes and making new ones.

He finds a cluster that he thinks looks a lot like Lycan.

He underlines rule number two three times, almost overwriting rule two with overlap.

Frag the bad dreams and frag the tremors wracking his frame. The stars are pretty, they’ve always been pretty. No one can take that from him even if they can take his rest. They don’t get to win.

They don’t get to plummet him back into misery.

Not without a fight.

***

Okay Rule Two and rule One are difficult and stupid.

What’s he supposed to do? Make a joke?

‘Define faith?’ What is he trying to do? Write a Primus damned poem? Stupid, all of it.

And he’s depleted of fuel and of course he comes across a little group of bots and of course he has to fragging ignore them. Even though their Energon security is laughable and he could be in and out within four nanokliks.

But he’s as stubborn as he is stupid.

So, he makes a joke mostly as a joke, but like an idiot, he laughs at it.

His life is not worth more than theirs. There’s always more fuel somewhere else.

***

There is, he finds some within the next joor in some old housing unit.

He’s so embarrassed he considered breaking his first rule in the first decacycle of putting it in place.

Thank god there’s no one around to laugh at his complete and utter lack of self-control.

Well – just to double check, he swivels his helm, functioning door wing and antennae working in tandem.

No one, obviously.

Stupid.

That makes him laugh too, in some pathetic way.

Oh well, he’ll take it.

***

His recharge schedule is no better than it was when he was with the bandits but B-1 takes some comfort in the fact that he even has the choice to try.

It’s difficult not to be bothered by the corrupted memory processing.

Faylever begs for her life through Energon-stained tears as his bright and pulsating blade presses through her delicate mesh, through her internals, shattering her spark.

A tower crashes to the ground, crushing him to the ground as Lycan takes a beating from a faceless bot. A beating that should have been his – he had been the one to cause the structure to fall, not her.

A maze of underground tunnels, frizz-rats skitter under-pede, hissing at him in taunting vents from their tiny bio-mechanisms. Blue Breeze? Where are you, I can’t find you. You always knew where to go. Where do I go?

Newdawn lays a servo on him, slamming him to the floor for his failure to deliver Energon. Newdawn would never do that, ever, why is he hurting me now?

Moonracer turns her back, disappointed and furious. She never should have given him that fuel, should have let stasis-lock set its greedy claws into his soft plating. Did she honestly believe he could be an Autobot? That he could be cared for by one? What a silly idea, an error in judgment.

…

…

But most of the time. It just hurts, Lariat cackles as he lays him out like the weak little thing he is. It’s violent and so very real, too tied to reality not to be.

Somehow, that feels selfish.

His spark grows brittle to near bursting.

Frag the bad dreams, too.

Out of spite – because while faith is still a mystery, spite, he has in spades – B-1 doesn’t let them bother him. At least not outwardly.

He recalls good memories and wills himself not to feel sad by them. He’s so sick of sad and knows he will always be a little sad, but it’s so boring and he’s tired of it. Surely, surely, a balance can be found. Right?

Faylever instructed him to give himself time, but how much time? How long does he have to feel like this? Just barely forcing along his daily smile with memory data? When is too little, when is too much?

He doesn’t know. There’s not much he does know.

But, well, if that’s all he has – stupid jokes or hopeful concepts or compressed memory files – then that will be enough. He will make it enough.

Because Lariat liked him miserable. And frag him, frag what they all did to him and made him into.

***

He makes a conscious effort to ignore the way his spark is still kind of sort of rejecting.

It’s not so serious now – not like, drop dead from a sudden supernova – but it is… hot.

 Wispy tendrils pull from the edges of his spark chamber and sometimes B-1 swears it tries to just climb out.

Recalling his three rules soothes it somewhat.

But the fact remains. Somewhere, someway, he remains burning.

***

In the event of accidentally spinning out and flipping a few times, landing on his cartop and reverting to root in a clumsy disoriented pile, B-1 screams with frustration.

Frustration for everything. His gyroscope, his broken door wing, his leg, all of his new and old welded scars that his nanites just can’t slagging paint over.

Frustration for that stupid rock he ran over that has his tire sore and sensitive.

Frustration that he’s so angry all the time. Why is he so angry?

The rage is better than the fear, he supposes, but in a way, he knows the fury is because of his fear. Somehow. He knows.

It’s unhealthy, it’s unsafe.

He’s not like Lariat.

He doesn’t get mad over stupid things.

He’s a patient spark. He is.

Things are just… complicated.

Is this who he is now? In his grave effort to remain himself, has he retroactively transformed anyway?

… No. No.

Lariat doesn’t get to win like that. Locke Up doesn’t get to win, like that. They aren’t here and even if they made him a murderer, they did not make him a monster. This, he is still trying to assert because it feels like a lie, but now even as his spark is unsure of this – he doesn’t want to give those bots that kind of power.

Not over him, not anymore.

If he believes he is disgusting behind closed doors? Well, that’s nobody's business. It doesn’t have to be a public affair.

He is going to find his stupid smile this cycle if it kills him and he isn’t going to get angry over stupid things and he isn’t going to look over his shoulder once.

Spite, baby.

***

After about a solid orbital cycle and a half, B-1 feels confident enough to return to the forgotten Autobot base.

For so long, he’s been terrified of returning solely because there was a chance that Lariat and his goons would be there searching for him or the Energon he’d found. None of them are smart enough to find it, B-1 is aware of this logically. None of them were stupid, per se, but particularly observant? Not really. If your form of searching for fuel is trapping astro-turkeys and mugging people, it’s hardly bound to be your strong suit.

That’s what B-1 was for. He could find and not be seen.

In a petty icy wash, B-127 hopes they are struggling without him. In a way, he pities Trailrunner, but he made his decision to join their world, even if he never fully embraced it.

He still stood by and watched as B-1’s dents grew numerous, and his spark burned hotter and hotter.

Watched as his spark rejected, making him so sick he could barely stand.

In a way, that’s what pisses him off the most.

It took his near-death for Trailrunner to remember his core, his empathy.

Whatever, the mech made it clear that they were never to meet again, and B-1 is absolutely fine with that.

The Energon is right where he had left it, with the exception of a few new gnaw marks on the cubes making up the base of the stack. B-127’s spark warms with a fond twirl, and he catalogs his smile of the cycle as he observes the glitch mice lapping up puddles of fuel, enjoying the fruits of their labor.

Refueling to an optimal level is heavenly and almost sends him into hysteria. He has grown so used to the empty dry state of his tanks that feeling them so full sort of confuses his processor. He has to deny several purging commands before his CPU seems to get the idea and settles down.

He still keeps his sensor nodes and audials dialed to their highest capacity—you know, just in case—but all they pick up is the pitter-patter of various cyber-vermin. Hardly a threat to the big bad new spark with guns in his arms.

Besides, he feels justified in his caution, after all, he did not come here without cause.

It had always been his plan to circle back around here, it would be moronic not to. Not that he doesn’t think the roboto-possums don’t deserve the fuel too, but as lifeforms go, he selfishly believes he’s a little higher in the ‘must intake Energon to survive’ hierarchy.

When a frame update schedules itself, B-1 figures he’s found his excuse to return.

Examining the data packet, he discovers it is rather small. He will probably gain an inch or two of height and a few other things he doesn’t quite have the expertise to understand without actually downloading the update.

It’s then that he realizes that he has been backlogging patches and updates to the point of corruption in certain places.

Oops.

That had not been on purpose.

Now that his Energon is up to a serviceable level, he notices the intense pressure just behind his optics with a sharp invent. During his little three-cycle plan to escape the bandits, B-1 had not paid that any mind, so consumed by his other aches and pains that he’d so graciously been given, that the cause of the weird feeling had not even crossed his processor.

But now with a sort of clear helm, he feels it, and Primus, ow.

While it’s not so terribly painful, it is so weirdly harsh against his various programs and subroutines that he wonders how he had not noticed it until now.

He’s so accustomed to ignoring the discomfort, he can hardly tell when something actually important is wrong. He makes a note to try not to dismiss so many of his HUD’s health warnings, even if they are really, really obnoxious.

As Toxrine once taught him, if he doesn’t want to risk messing up his frame and processor (more than it already is) he will have to do a batch upload of all of those backlogged packets.

Which will almost certainly give him an intense helmache for the ages.

Ugh. Oh well.

His fuel lines feel fat and happy to work at full capacity, and his processing speed is at its optimal speed of very fast, regardless of his numerous quarantined programs. It’s so weird to feel utterly exhausted and yet so energetic at the same time.

The tiredness is something he thinks goes deeper than his exertion, it’s strut-deep, old and festering, but ignorable for now. In the face of this blessing, the spark fatigue is hardly his focus point.

Settling down as comfortably as possible given the circumstances, B-1 psyches himself up for the complete slag-show he is about to put himself through.

It had hurt when he had to do this with Toxrine, and she was a professional with fancy technology and a sure and confident wavelength. B-1 has neither, just his own understanding of his hard-code which in its own way, is still limited.

Some painkillers would be great.

Though a bit of a loss that he has to quarantine the corrupted files, B-1 thinks it’s hardly the worst thing to happen. Toxrine warned of corrupted bio-mechanisms, and he’s got plenty, stuck in deep sleep and worsening his overall performance. Whatever.

His neural net is helpful enough to sort the updates by importance, linking together related files and trying to streamline the process before it begins. So, a helmache, but less of one.

Oh, glorious rapture.

Rolling his optics to nothing and no one, B-1 concedes and ceases his stalling.

***

Oh Primus it’s worse this time than it had been with Toxrine oh god ow—

So much data crashes into his information catalog that B-1 briefly blacks out completely from the overclock. His feed pixelates and his processing speed slows to an absolute crawl trying to put every new program and patch in its rightful place. Somewhere, in the deepest pocket of his waning awareness, he knows he’s writhing on the floour.

Programs optimize and the ones that can’t (thanks Interloop) sort of just race around his RAM with nowhere to go until they force themselves into stasis with the rest of his sleeping programs.

It hurts a lot, but it is mostly just overwhelming. His helm feels positively clogged and he cannot even fathom where he is supposed to fit all of this slag.

But, despite his roaring doubts, everything does eventually find its place, slotting in neatly with his older programs and integrating nearly seamlessly.

On one servo, he feels as if Lariat has run him over three times. On the other, his programs are running twenty percent faster than before and his helm feels so light it could give him whiplash.

His Energon efficiency has gone up, which is surprising. Even more so as B-1 investigates the freshly upgraded subroutines, he discovers that this addition is not a part of his scheduled update list, but an addition added out of necessity.

Even now, his body is doing its very best to keep him alive. Even with a burning spark, his chassis is trying so hard.

B-1 doesn’t cry because he’s sort of beyond his tears by now, but he does deeply mourn the fact that his protoform felt the need to do this in the first place. This isn’t normal, processors don’t just make up upgrades like this. They have to be uploaded from an outside source, a well-trained doctor or scientist. Not just… out of thin air.

It’s weird, he places a bracketed query near the data stack entry, keeping it near the top in case he decides to look at it further. How odd.

***

Huh.

As expected, the frame update is small. His finials grow a little longer and more pointed, his stabilizers grow a minute amount, and that’s about it.

Well.

Apparently, he has a battle mask.

Folding over his intake in some sort of protection, the action pulls up dormant and empty combat slots, sharpening his already keen optics and cataloging everything he sees in painful detail.

 If he pushes the transformation to its second tier, a visor pulls from his mandible and activates a highly attuned ‘Focus mode’ which pushes everything to the highest extreme without being overwhelming somehow. B-1 shutters his optics, he’s pretty sure he could hear the small fluttering whoosh of a glitch mouse spark if he really tried. The only caveat is that it takes an immense amount of processing power and brings down his fuel efficiency by forty-five percent. An emergency-only subroutine, to be sure.

He should be ashamed to be given more ways to be a danger to others.

But, well, he is still a new spark, despite everything, and he mostly thinks it’s sick as hell.

***

With some discipline, B-1 makes a schedule for periodic visits to the Energon reserves. While he certainly could stay here and gorge himself on fuel, the ephemeral nature of this arrangement is not lost on him, and he would be a fool to use this asset with reckless abandon.

Begrudgingly, he settles to return once every orbital cycle, just for a few solar cycles at a time. While he isn’t exactly proud to admit it, his time with the bandits did sharpen his skills, and even without resorting to thieving, he can manage Energon scavenging.

It’s all like one big puzzle, just follow the patterns of where he might find caches and go from there. Easy peasy. Sort of, as surviving goes. Maybe he’s just saying what he has to. Whatever.

Nearing the end of every orbital cycle, whether he has found luck in his searching or not, he can always make the drive back here and recuperate, at least until the Energon runs out. He tries not to think about what will happen when he runs out, and locks up the concept like every other unpleasant thought. It can’t bother him that way.

His smile of this cycle is sardonic and a tad bitter, but still. It counts.

***

Pushing his newly filled lines to their limits and stretching his pistons until taut, B-1 surges with bubbling Energon over a vast cavern, whooping from the pure joy of it.

He does it about ten times until his tires are pulsing from fatigue and his chassis is broiling, transforming back and falling on to his back with breathless laughter.

It’s been so long since he’s been able to drive just for fun. And fun it is.

In some way, B-1 wonders if his cohort would enjoy this the way he does.

He does a few more leaps despite the pain, in their honor.

It really is the least he can do.

Least, least, least.

***

A strangely vibrant lime organic moss covers the expanse of the dead mech’s form. B-1 observes him through weary optics. Organic life isn’t unheard of on Cybertron, but it definitely is a rarity. A leftover remnant of the Quintesson war.

What a strange pop of color to an otherwise dull and lifeless picture. How sad that this bot has been dead and gone long enough for starving and helpless lifeforms have grown to cling to him.

In a way, B-1 finds it all rather elegant. Sure, this poor transformer me some unseen fate, but even in his death, he continues to nourish the environment around him. He bears no insignia, no named faction, he was simply alive one moment, gone the next. The why and how are questions only Primus and Alpha Trion’s visions know the answers to now.

B-127 hopes that one cycle, vorns and mega-cycles after his spark has flicker out, that he too can continue to provide for the world around him. to be of some use.

As some sort of vigil, he leaves one of his few Energon cubes in the husk’s cold, rusted servos. Praying that perhaps beyond the veil of the Allspark, this mech knows the respect B-1 has for him, eons after his demise.

***

Hidden in a small alcove, B-1 finds a small pond of fallen acid rain. Its chemical components send ripples of pretty rainbow fractals throughout the enclosed space.

It doesn’t rain much out here, the high electrical current of the big cities of the planet tends to direct the more intense storms in their direction. It’s pretty, B-1 thinks, not quite pretty the way the stars are, but beautiful all the same.

While a solvent treatment would certainly do the job better, B-1 thinks the likelihood of ever having one again to be quite off, so he takes his chances in using the acid to wear away some of his ancient grime.

The harsher chemicals sting at his wounds, but his nanites don’t do more than complain. Aside from that, the moisture feels good on his joints despite being rather cold.

His smile of the cycle is cataloged when he steps out and realizes he can see his racing stripes again.

***

Sticking around the alcove for a couple of cycles isn’t the wisest decision. His Energon percentage is low and he has none saved at the moment. He should go find some.

He should.

Instead, he lays down, checks all the exits, and allows himself to catch up on recharge, silently praying to Primus to allow this session to be a peaceful one.

***

B-127 supposes that in a way, this situation was inevitable.

Rule number one blares in brittle crimson text in the corner of his HUD array.

[ENERGON % DIMINISHED]

[ENERGON LEVELS: 12%]

It’s a far enough drive that he would fall into stasis before making it back to his reserves.

And there are only two of them and they’ve completely walked away from their Energon carrying crate.

Primus he’s so stupid, what has he been doing? Playing around? Prioritizing his happiness and comfort over his literal lifeblood? Stupid, arrogant sparkling.

A whirlwind of self-directed animus torpedoes through his fuel lines and turns his tanks upside down. He clutches his mid-section plating, willing the rejection to stop there before it brings his spark to a boil.

At some point, he’d known he’d have to steal, he had even included it in the rule. Sometimes, in this world,  it’s simply unavoidable but even still, he feels so dirty.

All he needs is one cube, just one measly cube, and then he can try to find a source somewhere else. That isn’t so bad, is it? They won’t even notice.

Chromatic pixelation speckles over Rule One until a defeated black strike-through appears, sending the text away for defragmentation. With a heavy exvent, B-127 accepts his fate and files away his disgust.

Slinking over to the small crate housing the Energon is a breeze, and B-1 can’t stand every nano-klik. His servos quiver like his a will fall off at the shoulder. It’s stupid how good at this he is, even with a broken door wing, even with a fried gyroscope, he is good at this.

He is just reaching in when—

His accursed optics, too keen for his own good, spot something in his peripheral vision, and his joints lock up.

Just in front of him is a steep outcropping, the direction he had observed the two bots wandering. He had assumed they simply padded there to examine the area.

Only, that isn’t the case.

For the first time in a long while the abnormal spin of his sparkbeat slows to a near stop.

The two bots are indeed down there, laughing and smiling at each other.

… And in between them, cackling with her own shrill joyous giggles, is a sparkling.

Optics dilating, B-1 takes in her every detail as his ventilation and secondary fans shut off. She’s young, but she cannot be much younger than he is, maybe a few orbital cycles newer. Just one glance at her aerodynamic build and sleek rims, B-127 can tell she is a warframe like he is, but oddly enough, he doesn’t spot any transformation seams that harbor weaponry. Is she unarmed?

Why would Primus make an unarmed warframe? Is it just somewhere he can’t see it?

Strange frame aside, B-1 feels his helm list to the side as the shock briefly overwhelms him.

In theory, he should be relieved, overjoyed to see another of his Wave alive and well when the ones he once knew certainly are not. He’s not alone in his generation, even if it sometimes feels like he is.

… Instead, he just feels jealousy. Rife and red and so agonizing, B-1’s ventilation kicks back on, a bit too fast from the get-go and climbing.

The mech – who B-1 assumes to be one of this new sparks two, very living, caretakers – says something close to the adult femmes audials, and she breaks down into further hysterics, nearly doubling over with laughter.

The poor little new spark seems upset to be left out of the joke, so the mech leans down and tells her something too. She doesn’t really find it funny, just scrunches her face plate and rolls her optics.

A new spark and her caretakers. Alive, happy, healthy – from the looks of it, she doesn’t have a dent on her – traveling together, surviving together.

Dizziness overcomes him and he slumps, pushing aside the horrible emotions brewing in the cauldron space where his spark is. “Oh Primus,” he whispers to himself, hastily dropping the cube he’d thumbed into his palm and backing away in a less-than-dignified hustle.

The grace he had a moment ago is lost to him and he stumbles away, pieces of his optical feed drop off in hexagonal chunks until his geo-cortex pings his distance, and he sends the clunky command to transform.

***

After a few groons he has to revert, his tires burn and his struts feel so tight he worries some of them will snap inside his chassis.

The weird fluttering panic hasn’t subsided even for a moment, and his components are running far too hot and he is far too hot oh god –

Though his reserves and emergency programs will keep him online for a decent while, without refueling soon he will have to hoof it, walking on throbbing pedes. He wrings his servos and his engines hiss from strain, his HUD confused from the sudden panic the same way it always is when his sparkpulse is whirling too fast.

He needs to calm down this is so stupid uhg*#@&*$(**@&

A palm bangs into the side of his helm with perhaps too much force, and his brain module takes the abuse well enough to correct itself and fire his logic centers into some sort of half-functionality.

Putting off the complete breakdown of his inner self has to wait, he hasn’t even smiled yet today and he must find Energon first.

This little hiccup is harder to put in his nice wrapped mental boxes, but he manages for now.

***

B-1 really doesn’t enjoy hunting. The cold feeling of holding his will over another being is too reminiscent, too close.

But an astro-turkey isn’t a Cybertronian and needs must.

When he catches the poor creature and kills it, he avoids its spark chamber.

***

For a little while, B-1 considers deleting those memory files completely.

That’s a terrible idea. Overwriting data like that is a recipe for corrupted code and an unhealthy motherboard. He isn’t even sure he could get through his own firewalls.

But as he trudges back to the old and withered settlement, numbly following his tracks to the underground facility, B-1’s optics are unfocused.

And he’s burning. He knows if he ever actually did it, he would hate himself even more pungently than he already does. How dare he delete such a beautiful picture, but keep all of the ugliness? Why? Why?

He can’t do that to Newdawn, Faylevrr. Any of them.

So, instead, as he always does, he replays the feed on loop. Over, and over. and over.

They seemed so happy.

***

B-1 clutches his faceplate and tries not to be as pathetic as he feels. He needs to get up, needs to make a plan for the next orbital cycle now that he has fuel back in his lines.

But in all of this, he’s frozen. Rule number one continues to simmer, reminding him of what he almost did, the new spark he almost deprived. It takes everything in him not to purge even though the rejection of his core is a torrent now. Small, tired warnings blip in and out, uttering little pleas with nowhere to go. Something about his spark chamber feels wrong, and he whines, so annoyed with himself for letting it get this far.

He doesn’t whimper, but he does groan. “It hurts,” B-1 says, hushed and tight.

Through his shuttered optics, he feels Lycan sit next to him.

“B, what’s a meteor?”

That inquiry briefly gives him pause. “… It’s a space rock that burns up upon entering the atmosphere.”

She hums, something she always did when turning over new information. If he had the bravery to look, he might see her pretty optics shimmer with understanding. Or he wouldn’t. “B, you’re burning up.”

At her words, his spark fluctuates painfully, nearly arching from his chest and causing B-1 to invent harshly. He slams a servo to his chest, shaking his helm with all of his power. “I don’t want to.” He’s got too much to pay for, now, he can’t, he can’t burn out like this.

“Then don’t, B. Reel yourself back in, find somethin’ t’ hold on to.”

This nearly makes him squawk with anger, and he cackles a sharp and grating laugh. “I’ve been trying! Don’t you see that? All I’ve been doing is searching, that’s all I ever do!” He shrieks, a family of roboto-possums startle and flee from the room.

He can just picture her shrugging. “Yer looking for something that’s not there anymore,” she’s so near now, impossibly close. “It’s too heavy for you.”

“I’m trying to keep my promise,” he rebuts weakly, sinking further into himself.

Another shrug, she leans against his shoulder. “Are you sure?”

Scoffing, B-1 grips his mandible. “Of course, what else do you call all of this?”

“Atonement fer things you didn’t do. That’s what it’s always been, B.”

He whines, but doesn’t reply, he shouldn’t in the first place. He isn’t sure what any of that truly means.

***

For three cycles he fails to mark off rule number two, and it all only makes him feel worse. His spark rejection is paining him enough to snuff out his motivation to get up, but he does, anyway.

Because he has to, he just does.

That last little piece of his spark that still holds on says so.

***

It’s way past the time when he should leave, it’s been several cycles, and he has no reason to still be here. But he is.

He tells himself he isn’t hiding. He’s not.

It’s just… a little self-imposed exile until he can put his helm back together over the stupidest little breakdown ever. That’s all.

Just him and the ghosts to keep the place warm.

Yeah.

***

Really, he hopes they stay safe. Despite everything.

Despite his envy, despite his biting, covetous thirst, he hopes those three are safe.

He supposes that in a world like this, where not everyone gets to keep their caretakers, where not everyone gets to laugh the way she had…

That’s what matters most.

***

He’s organizing a few empty crates within the main underground atrium when a sudden crash sounds from the world above, the vibrations casting out and knocking B-1 right off of his pedes.  

“Oh slag!” He hisses, just before he slams against his door wings with a groan.

The discomfort is rather superficial besides the obvious blow to his pride, and he is just to his pedes again when another blow rings out and sends him back to them floor with a startled, “oof.”

He should probably be a but scared, but he is mostly annoyed that he can’t even manage standing up with all this quaking.

What the frag is happening up there?

Not that staying down here and waiting all of this slag out doesn’t appeal, he doesn’t really want to take the chance of being crushed under ten tons of rubble.

Besides, he’s a curious bot by nature, so, in between awful bangs and deafening blows from above, B-127 trudges to the underground’s entrance. Like an idiot, because he’s an idiot.

The rubble that makes up the hodgepodge staircase has shifted because of the constant motion, and B-1 has to brace a few times to make it up to the hole.

Upon reaching the opening, B-1 invents slowly, then exvents, steeling himself before peeking his helm out. This entrance is well hidden, but it pays to be cautious.

Always.

A part of him still fears its Lariat, returning with the knowledge of his presence and coming to reopen his wounds.

Very pointedly ignoring the way his spark lurches at that thought, and the way his plating crawls, B-1 casts his optic feed around him.

Nothing and no one, for now.

A resounding bang pierces B-1’s audials and he ducks down, slapping his servos to the sides of his helm to shield from the noise. A few pebbles of sheet metal clink on to the top of his helm, but otherwise, he’s unharmed. Great.

The next best thing to do would be to climb back under the surface and mind his own damn business because this is stupid and he is stupid.

Of course, as he crawls from the hole, he doesn’t do that. It’s times like this when he misses the grime, he chose now to clean most of it off? Really? The one time in the past several orbital cycles where the muted colors would be an asset.

Again, stupid.

“Stupid stupid stupid – “ he mutters, slightly panicked as he slinks across the abandoned buildings, closer and closer to the commotion, because he is a complete moron with too many glitches to count. What happened to rule number three?

Well, it’s not like he has been particularly good at keeping up with his principles as of late. B-1 rolls his optics at this because he’s tired and annoyed with everything and this is exhausting and annoying.

He trips on a piece of rubble and falls on his faceplate.

He sits there for a while.

Another blast rolls out.

Begrudgingly, he gets back up.

***

The conflict appears to be restricted to the outskirts of the town, where only a few lone structures still stand. B-127 has yet to spot anyone but by the distant echoes of grunting and not-so-safe-for-work cussing, he will soon.

Keeping himself low to the ground, B-1 shuffles to the edge of a crumbling wall, daring to peer his optics out just enough to see.

… Only to barely swerve out of the way when he catches a glimpse of a grey, red, and blue chassis soaring straight for him. “Oh frag—” he practically throws himself backward, just as the bot makes impact with the building’s corner, briefly crumpling there in a heap.

B-1 pulls his field as close to his protoform as he can and shuts off his ventilation and any other noisy bio-mechanism.

“Yeesh, brotha’s a heavy hitter, so not my vibe…” whispers the visored mech, pain lacing his vocoder but seeming no less deterred as he stands to his pedes with a swiftness B-1 had not been expecting. Just as the mech is preparing to charge back into the fray of what appears to be an intense two v. two battle, B-1’s observation programs zero in on the deep crimson Autobot insignia embossed on the very center of his door wings.

Okay, well that’s good at least. Sort of.

Once again, an Autobot is late to save a settlement, whoops.

He tries not to let that bitterness in, but it’s old and difficult.

Cautiously, very, very cautiously, B-127 pokes his head back out, thankful that the whole ‘having a transformer thrown at you’ is not a repeat performance. His optics narrow and zoom to pinpricks, subroutines firing up to take in information in ways they haven’t in a long time.

Two Autobots, two Decepticons, he had been correct. Next to the visored mech who had been tossed rather unceremoniously into the wall, is a much taller, bulkier bot, sporting a bright carmine paint job and huge twin blasters. Primus he’s huge, and B-1 is very very glad he also bears the Autobot sigil.

The two work together, side by side, creating a volley of blaster fire that colors the space an eerie Energon azure.

Crossing blows with them are the two cons, well-trained from the looks of it, one fighting with plasma spears materializing from his palms, and the other firing from an oversized Gatling gun welded to her shoulder.

All of these bots are at least double his size and definitely trying to kill each other.

B-1 thinks of his puny little guns and the empty space where he carved out his plasma blades.

He should absolutely run.

Totally, definitely, he has no chance here. Warframe or not, he’s got none of the combat protocols and half the weapons, his base code is corrupted and locked in some places.

It would be completely, and utterly asinine to try and get involved.

… Except, it sort of looks like the Autobots are losing.

Okay, they aren’t losing, they’re fine, but the smaller one looks hurt – he must’ve taken a bolt to the cadulen, ouch – and they are having to back up, rather than push forward.

B-1 wonders why, because the big red guy could totally crush these guys if he charged forward guerilla style, but instead, he has his larger frame slightly shielding his teammate. Protecting his weak link.

For some reason, that weakens his resolve, and a forgotten part of his spark unravels a few hardened strands.

… No! Absolutely not. He’s an idiot, a complete basket case who is stuck in the past and talks to people who aren’t there. He cannot help these people. He can barely help himself most of the time. Besides, where were these bots when he needed them, huh? Why should he help?

Well.

Because Moonracer helped you.

Because it’s the right thing to do.

Because you like doing the right thing.

That resonates within his spark so strongly he gasps, amazed that he hears no underlying voice of the dead to tell him these things.

No, the declarations all sound like him. Like his vocoder, from his voice box.

His helm swivels, and he finds the roof of a condemned building, the awning just barely holding on.

With an audible groan that scrapes his engines, B-1 pushes to his full height. “Oh, the slagging malfunctioning idiot that I am!” he exclaims, just quiet enough that only he hears.

By the Thirteen, that little new spark girl probably never has to do shit like this. But B-127? Oh, this is just another cycle!

Primus almighty.

He runs a few extra lines of power to his gyroscope to sort of safeguard it’s functionality, in about ten kliks (if he doesn’t die like the complete imbecile he is) then it can make him as dizzy and clumsy on his pedes as it wants, but for now he needs his lithe movements.

Sprinting away from the action, B-1 enters a larger building unite, bringing his night vision up to see through the darkness and scan the area. He hasn’t been in here too much, but he is fairly certain it was once a hardware shop, so hopefully it has what he needs.

A hexagon opens in his HUD, enclosing and highlighting a portion of his optic feed in outlined cyan lines. Bingo. Sitting rolled up in an old spool, rests a coil of degraded thick chain link. Thank god, at least his deductive reasoning isn’t completely shot.

A concussive shot rings out, and B-1 faintly hears a pained cry. Oops, hopefully that was the bad guys. With the severity of the situation hitting him like Lariat on a bad cycle, B-1 hastily takes the chain in his servos and wraps it around his waist.

And tries not to think of the bandits.

Ahg.

He is careful to keep the chain link in between where his transformation seams lay, so his ability to shift still remains. His plan would be slag if he gets stuck.

Okay, okay, awesome, part one of plan complete.

This plan is shit.

B-1 shakes off the doubt because oh well it’s too late for that now, and sprints back to his original position, optics casing out the scene once more. Not much has changed, but the femme Decepticon is gripping her mid-section with a pained grimace, B-127’s unused tactical programs note that her shot accuracy has gone down. Duh.

Optical feed finding the awning, he focuses on the one remaining support bar, then where the Decepticons are. This either works, or it doesn’t.

Typically, his plans fall into the ‘doesn’t’ category.

Whatever, oh well.

At least it’ll look cool. Maybe.

He’s stalling, you can’t stall in battle. Okay.

Backtracking as fast as he can, B-127 runs behind the buildings, doing his best to remain unseen and camouflaged with the battlefield’s backdrop. He does not think he has been noticed yet, but who knows honestly. He’s bright yellow, how good at stealth could he be?

The awning is a straight shot now. Sparkbeat racing in his audials, thrumming a loud and pulsating hum in his helm, B-1 pulls up his battle mask, taking some solace in the instant ease of focus the initiated program brings.

Conjuring his willpower, B-127 briefly takes a nano-klik to glance at the rustling Autobots. Regardless of who holds the winning stance, the Autobots definitely hold the award for their seamless teamwork. Though pushed back against an opposing building, with each weak opening created, the other bot makes an effort to fill it. B-1 vaguely ponders, how long have they been fighting together?

Well, now or never.

In the fray, B-1 is thankful for the noise and his natural agility, his transformation is neither loud nor slow, and he is in his alt mode within a nano-klik. Thank god he has enough fuel in his system. The chain around his mid-section makes its way to the back end of his fender, and with some fenagling and clicking of his plating, he can get it around his rear spoiler. He can’t reach around to his back to do this in root form, so it’s a miracle he can do it here. He isn’t built with a hitch, so this will have to do.

Revving his engines builds some confidence, reminding him that on a good cycle – and in better health – his motors are powerful, built for speed and horsepower.

What were that new spark’s specs? Too many questions.

Feeling the Energon speeding through his lines, tingling around his wheels and the strong pistons nearing his T-cog, B-1 burns rubber, launching himself towards the awning as fast as possible. He’s a good driver, despite his awful coordination, and just as he is reaching the threshold of the old building, he lurches left, angling his wheel vertically and sending himself airborne through the opening between the building and the canopy’s support bar.

There’s a small cry of alarm from his right where his cover has one hundred percent been blown, but that’s okay, the shock should suffice for this dumb-aft idea. Having somewhat effectively linked the chain and the awning, B-1 redirects his course and backtracks in a wide arc, praying to avoid weapon fire as he turns to barrel toward the cons. Predictably, they appear nearly too shocked to even move. That won’t last, don’t get cocky.

Forcing his wheels to take a sharp turn, he pushes his cylinders to piston, combusting the Energon within him and sending pure power scoring through his lines. His suspension groans but the over-exertion is rewarded with a sudden burst of speed, careening his vehicle mode in between the two battling parties.

“What the frag—” he thinks he hears one of the Autobots say.

Just as he makes it passed them, he turns again, this time to circle around the stunned Decepticons, who are only now clocking that he might be a threat, the mech raising his palm and forming a buzzing plasma spear in his servos.

Choosing to ignore the unpleasant memories that surface with that picture, B-1 makes a quick loop around the cons, smoke peeling off of his wheels as he makes one final turn, completing his arc and pushing his acceleration to the redline, zooming over the small clearing until he feels the chain pull tight.

Adjusting his left mirror, B-127 is pleased to see the chain pull tight around the Decepticon’s stabilizers. The sudden tension sends a shockwave through him as the weight of the bots connected to him gets very close to ripping his spoiler off entirely. He pushes through the discomfort, chassis alight with buzzing and bright fuel with too much energy to know what to do with. Perfect health or not, B-1 is pretty sure he could jump over a ravine right now.

On his own he wouldn’t be strong enough to knock cons like these off their pedes, a teenage new spark is hardly an even match with two hardened warriors. But it’s difficult to beat a stubborn spirit and a spunky eight-cylinder engine.

Following the chain reaction, the Decepticons are thrown to the ground, and given a moment of B-1’s whining chassis, dragged across the ground until the all but collide with the wall supporting the awning.

That’s all it takes, and the support bar keeping the canopy up shatters under the chain link’s tenuous grip and folds in on itself, fast enough to smash against the cons, pinning them under it.

The jerk of the chain against his chassis makes him gag, and all at once, he cuts his engines, releasing a hot burst of pressurized smoke through his vents.

For a time, everything is still, B-1 wakes his cog and clumsily transforms, nearly tripping over himself when returning to root just tangles the chain all over his various sharp edges and curves. Across the clearing, the two Autobots are staring. Just, staring.

Feeling a little foolish as he grips at the chain link in a fruitless effort to free himself, his pauldrons raise to his helm, slightly ashamed. “…Well? Aren’t you going to beat them?” He loudly inquires, wincing when his vocoder crackles on the last few words.

That breaks them from their trance, the smaller one loosening with a smile and the red one replying with a resolute nod.

And just as seamlessly as before, the two charge the downed bots.

In the back of his processor, the word faith lines itself in a deep indigo.

Chapter Text

All things considered; Jazz had been hoping for a much more boring mission.

It was supposed to be a short scouting venture, something to take he and Ironhide’s minds off of the absolute trainwreck their last joint Special Operations assignment went.

A trainwreck might be an understatement, actually, and Jazz is normally very careful with that kinda’ language. It was a bad judgment on both of their parts, equal blame, Optimus had trusted them to make the right call, and they hadn’t. Lots a’ casualties, lots a’ captured. Jazz hopes to rescue his people, but it’s not always a sure thing.

You’d think after doin’ this job for so long, they would have seen the holes in the plan. Maybe that’s what happens when you do this job for this long, you stop lookin’ for new ways to find victory.

But Special Operations is about innovation, doing things differently. Recently, Jazz has been pretty shit at that.

So, it is a time-wasting drive out to a western plateau.

Not that a scouting mission to a defunct, failed Neutral conversion Op is much better, but Jazz knows to take the little pieces of peace he can get.

While perhaps a little below both of their proverbial pay grades, visiting the sight of such tragedy keeps both of em’ humble, in his opinion. Working in a field like spec ops makes you cold, and that ain’t something Jazz ever really wants to be, not fully. Ironhide isn’t cold, just hardened, but recently… Eh.

They were just supposed to search for the supposed Energon cache that had been left here  -- not that Jazz believes it’s actually still intact after all these vorns – and perhaps pay their dues to the dead left here. If Optimus had his way, they’d transport all these poor husks to be given proper arrangements, but Jazz knows that with the way the war is going, that ain’t happening for a long-aft time.

So, just a short, reflective trip away from Iacon to get their helms back on straight, easy right? The two of em, high commanders in Optimus Prime’s close unit, how hard could this be?

Silly question, as it turns out, because of course, the Decepticons gotta have the same idea, at the same time. Ah well, Jazz knows how to roll with the punches, dance with em’ to get em’ to act right. Easy.

And the fight’s goin’ fine, he supposes, these cons are better trained than the typical vehicon he comes across, and a spy tries to avoid direct conflict anyway.

Which is why it comes as a surprise when he slips up in a charge attack and gets thrown into a wall. It’s a moment after he takes a plasma bolt to his leg, causing him to stumble, then there are servos wrapped around his door wings and he’s being tossed like a crumpled piece a’ metal.

Alright then, that settles it, he needs to spend more time in the training halls. That was a rookie mistake, and Jazz is a lotta things – cool, collected, upbeat – but he ain’t no rookie.

Running back to Ironhide, kneeling to take some pressure off of his slowly weeping wound, Jazz narrows his optics from behind his vizor, taking in the state of the two cons. Young, swift, and judging by the way they’re smirkin’, proud as hell.

“Cocky little kids,” he informs with a smirk, sending a stray beam of sonic fire from his emission ray.

In front of him, Ironhide grunts, briefly glancing back to glare down at him. There’s no real heat in it, Ironhide is just Ironhide. “I gathered that without having to be shot.”

Jazz only grins, waggling a digit. “Ah, but where’s the fun in that, brother?”

Ironhide scoffs, rolling his optics to return his attention to the fight.

This isn’t exactly the best position to be in, they need to take care of this. Two high-ranking generals caught in the middle of nowhere, with no backup? That’s a recipe for a little hello-goodbye visit from Megatron. Not that Jazz doesn’t enjoy a good meet n’ greet, but he’d prefer his spark stay inside his chest.

The issue here isn’t that they can’t just kick these bot’s tailpipes – because they certainly could – the issue is doing it without allowing them to call for help, and ever the scout, Jazz wants to know why they’re here. This particular set of ruins is vorns old by now and even Soundwave wouldn’t care to go that far back in their records. It takes a certain curiosity to do this job, and Jazz has always had that in spades.

Along with that, he’s learned to expect the unexpected, improvise, go with the flow. He’s good at that – despite how things have been goin’ lately – so things don’t typically surprise him anymore.

Well, they shouldn’t.

When a dented-up slim build comes barreling out of some back alley, Jazz considers reevaluating his optic ports.

They all collectively freeze – not a good look for two army generals – and gawk as the car – which is really small, why are they so small – rockets themselves on to a wall to thread the needle through an awning.

Jazz then notes the chain linking around their (sick as hell) rear spoiler. Huh.

What proceeds is the weirdest, most convoluted attack sequence he has seen in a long time. Well, it’s not really an attack, per se, but it is definitely something.

When the bot accomplishes whatever the hell that was, they transform, and Jazz immediately narrows his optics to analyze, and discovers two alarming things.

One: oh shit, that’s a whole-aft kid, like an entire teenager.

And two: He’s a warframe.

Which would be a bit more disconcerting if he wasn’t tripping over himself trying to free the chains from his protoform. Next to him, Ironhide’s field flares with shock and very real confusion. That normally amuses him, but Jazz finds he’s a little rattled too, because what. He wants to bust out laughing, this is the funniest thing ever.

Then the kid – looking as disheveled as ever, actually sasses them. Actually turns on his vocoder and yells at them. Primus, this is perfect.

His little encouragement is all Jazz and ‘Hide need, and they waste no time closing in on the cons. As skilled as they may be, the kid threw them for a loop, and they’ve yet to even get the awning off of them by the time the two Autobots rein them in.

The strange little mechling is forgotten for a moment, and Jazz switches to his investigative state of mind. It doesn’t take too much prodding to get the Decepticons to crack, apparently not as gung-ho about their precious cause as once believed.

They learn that they had been investigating the old ruin on orders ranking all the way up to Starscream. Next to him, Ironhide exvents, the heat from their intensity roiling in Jazz’s faceplate. “Of course,” the older bot whispers ruefully. Jazz smirks.

When pressed about how they exactly got the intel about this place, the two swear up and down they don’t know. Jazz believes them only because they seem too full of themselves to want to risk chipping their plating over a fodder mission like this one.

Deep down, Jazz prays that they didn’t get it through any of the bots captured in the last operation. His people are trained to withstand torture, but the Decepticons are creative with their cruelty, and Jazz would never blame anyone for giving in for a respite.

But he hopes it hasn’t come to that.

Jazz has his blades drawn to dispatch the bots – no witnesses – when Ironhide elbows him harshly. “Ay- what the hell man?” Hisses Jazz, glancing up at his comrade in question.

It’s sort of funny whenever Ironhide is uneasy. As emotions go, Ironhide tends to lean towards grumpy, grouchy, and generally unpleasant, but hardly ever uneasy. Except for now. “Not in front of the child,” he warns quietly, angling his helm in the direction the young bot had been standing. Understanding blooms in Jazz’s spark and his door wings sag just so.

Not because he doesn’t get to kill these guys, he doesn’t actually enjoy that despite what some may think, but because that means they’ll have to let them go or take them prisoner.

Given the whole ‘random sparkling’ situation, they decide to let them go. Ultra Magnus won’t be happy but Jazz isn’t sure that guy has ever smiled in his life, so a little backlash from him ain’t exactly a blue-moon occurrence. Ironhide gives both of them a good slap to the helm, and they bluescreen pretty much immediately. Jazz uses the chains to sort of secure them in place, so in the even that they come to, they’ll have a harder time getting back to whatever base they hail from.

Not the wisest move from two of the most influential members of their faction, but ay, roll with the punches, right?

Okay, so with that settled, there’s the kid to worry about…

… Who has disappeared from where he was standing earlier. Wait, what?

Slippery little thing, ain’t he?

“I thought you were watchin’ him?” Jazz remarks slowly, trotting up to the little alley while trying to avoid worsening the injury in his leg.

Under much heavier pedesteps, Ironhide follows. “I was glancing, it would be unwise to take my attention off of the enemy.”

Jazz tuts his denta, breaking into a slightly pained jog to follow the still-moving link of chain further into the expanse of broken-down buildings. “Right, and we barely made it out with our lives there,” he teases lightly, turning a corner sharply when he catches a glimpse of that vibrant sunlight yellow.

Not too far behind, Ironhide grumbles something about respect that Jazz very pointedly chooses not to hear.

“Ay!” Jazz calls, and because this kid can’t seem to keep out of trouble, startling him and causing him to over a craggy metal sheet and plummet to the ground in one grand crash. The two older bots skid to a halt a few feet from him. Jazz almost offers his servo to help the new spark get up, but before he can even think to extend his arm, the youngling is scrambling to his pedes at impressive speed.

Sagging a bit in apparent shame, the kid slowly – really, really slowly – directs his optics toward them, battle mask drawn to his face plate. Interesting.

For a time, Jazz is expecting Ironhide to say something, so he doesn’t speak. Then, he’s expecting the kid to say something, so he doesn’t speak.

But both of them are speechless, just staring, wide-opticed at each other. Yeesh, what a crowd. So, Jazz puts on his best grin, places a servo to his hip plate, and begins. “You’re pretty sha—“

“—Are you okay?” The kid finally inquires, jumping slightly and bringing his servos to his face plate once he realizes he interrupted. “Oh scrap, I’m sorry – go ahead.” He quickly adds, withdrawing his mask to show his nervous frown.

A nice, soft voice, and he’s got, Jazz notes. Young. Shaking his helm and holding a servo up, he steps forward. “It’s cool, black n’ yellow, I wuz just sayin’ you were pretty bad-aft out there,” Jazz explains, grinning as he points a digit behind him.

The new spark shutters his optics, intake opening and closing several times as if unsure what to do with the compliment. Briefly glancing back, Jazz and Ironhide share a look.

“Um, thanks,” he finally says, subdued and a bit anxious given the slight shake in his vocoder. Jazz has a million questions, but it is quickly becoming apparent that it wouldn’t be very wise to ask them, not to this kid.

Ironhide steps forward, and the kid takes a step back, alarmed. Ironhide either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, and despite the common belief amongst the lower ranks, Jazz knows ‘Hide to care very, very much. “Are you unharmed?” He inquires, the rough bass of his voice echoing in the cramped space.

It’s then that Jazz wonders if perhaps that was the wrong thing to ask, just looking at him, he can already tell the kid knows what the word pain really means. Jazz notes the way one of his door wing sags and clicks uselessly behind him, chain link still tangled around the joint. That must be a sensory nightmare. That’s nothing to say about the rest of the kid’s chassis.

Ratchet would have a field day with this mechling.

Briefly tensing, the sparkling looks to the floor, tapping a pede to the ground absently. Jazz catalogs the slight sway that doesn’t ever seem to stop. Weird. “… I’m okay,” he answers simply. The kid is keeping a tight hold over his field, because no matter how discreetly Jazz tries to reach for it – just to get some sorta’ feel for this mystery bot – he can’t find it. It’s then that the kid’s optics land on Jazz’s leg. “But you’re not.”

Awe, he’s sweet. Jazz creates a case folder and titles it “kid,” beginning to stockpile Intel. Absently, he chances a glance at his cadulen. “Ah, this little scab? Nanites ‘ll do their job, just a scratch.”

Something shifts in the youngling optics, and even Jazz’s sophisticated body language interpreters struggle to pick it apart. “Oh, right,” he whispers, nodding as if most of his attention is on something unseen. Jazz can practically hear the electrical fire of his processor cabling. Then, as if remembering himself, he straightens, slouches, then straightens again. Weird, times two. “Um, you’re Autobots,” he states, and his finials pull back as if he thinks he’s said something wrong.

Ironhide nods, and he and Jazz share another glance. “Does that trouble you?”

Feeling insecure in front of the little one, are we, ‘Hide?

The kid gapes, bringing his servos in front of his chassis, palms out. “What—oh, no, no, sorry, it’s just—” he waves his arms out around, gesturing seemingly to nothing. “… I uh, don’t get much company. Here.”

Now that’s interesting. “Ya live here?”

His door wing – singular, because the one trapped under the chains doesn’t seem functional, okay – raises, and a flush of Energon rushes brightly around the visible bio-lights around his face plate. “Oh ah no – yes, sort of. I’m ah, I was supposed to leave a few cycles ago. You don’t care about that, sorry – no, I don’t live here.” Jazz watches as the kid's expression morphs from something nervous and frantic to a more irritated grimace.

That’s interesting too.

“I’ve just been around to… refuel,” his expression pinches in contemplation, and he meets their optics. “That’s what you’re here for, right? The Energon cache left here?”

Intelligent. Able to put together a conclusion even without verbal confirmation. Nice.

A little shocked, Ironhide nods numbly. “Correct, I’m surprised you are aware of it.” His optics narrow in slight suspicion.

Jazz sends a warning ping.

[JZ#034~ :Careful.]

At this, Ironhide eases, and the kid who definitely noticed the shift in atmosphere, relaxes minutely. “Not on purpose,” he shrugs, and Jazz clocks the slight wince and flickering glance to his door wing. The chains must be bothering him. “I uh… fell down a hole,” Explains the new spark, a sheepishness washing over him.

Jazz is very graceful in holding back a laugh, because now isn’t the time even if that’s hilarious. “Sounds like a lucky break to me,” he replies easily, hoping to take away some of the kids oozing discomfort.

 But he only nods, slow and thoughtful. “I guess.” He brings a servo to tug lightly on the chain link, frowning when nothing happens. “I’m sorry if I got in the way,” he mutters lightly, inclined his helm to better see the messy tangle. “You probably didn’t need that distraction.”

And that’s true, sooner or later, he and Ironhide would’ve bested the cons easily. It was just a bit of a rough start, but Jazz isn’t going to actually say that because just look at this kid. “Ay, we’d be pretty shitty at this job if we denied ourselves a lil’ help every now n’ then,” Jazz replies with a grin, daring a wink under his vizor. “’Sides, seein’ you zip ‘round like that was way more entertaining.”

The kid scoffs out an awkward laugh, the bio-lights on his faceplate lighting up once more. As if to busy himself, he pays more attention to the chains. “Oh, that? That was just an… that was just a thing.”

“… A thing…?” Ironhide repeats, almost a perplexed whisper to himself. “You would call an impressive show of quick wit a ‘thing?’”

His optics roll. “Honestly I thought I was just gonna crash into a wall, so yeah, it was just a ‘thing.’” Then, as if realizing that he actually said that out loud, the kid wilts a little, casting a slightly wary glance, seemingly forcing himself to relax. “Sorry, that was rude. I promise I’m not rude.”

Not on the outside, maybe, Jazz thinks cheekily, just barely holding off his smirk. Ironhide is less impressed, but, well, par for the course.

Jazz throws up two digits. “Of course not, man, I can tell we’re a vibe already,” he tilts his helm, voice dropping an octave just so. “Though, not ‘xactly cool to shuffle off on us like that, what’s up with the ‘trip n’ dip?’”

For a moment, the youngling looks conflicted, dermas turning upwards at the title, while his shoulders rise in a protective gesture. He avoids meeting their optics, and Jazz can see the growing frustration in the remaining chains growing in the background of his mixed emotions. Finally, he clears his vocoder with a crackling pop. “… I didn’t want to be in your way,” he seems to settle on.

There’s more to that, Jazz knows, you don’t get to his rank without learning to read between the lines. Neither Ironhide nor Jazz point out that the kid absolutely was not in their way at all, he had to have been fifty feet from them. It’s not really the moment for semantics.

Ironhide releases a grumble from his engines, nodding his head respectively. “Regardless, your assistance was appreciated.” He offers the kid a rare, rare, smile. “Thank you.”

That seems to stun him, and the youngling whips his helm up to gawk, optics wide and zoomed to small dots. Yeesh, those things look upgraded as hell, Jazz wonders about his lens capability. “Sure, ah just—yeah, sure,” he says, awkward and timid. Then, something in his expression hardens. “I’d rather you guys find what’s here.” He rocks back and forth on his pedes, seemingly abandoning his attempt to free himself from the chains for the moment. “I can show you, by the way. If you want.”

“You’d give up yer fuel source?” Jazz queries, unable to decide if he thinks that’s selfless or dumb.

But he only shrugs. “It was yours first, wasn’t it?”

Technically, yes, but Jazz thinks that in a war like this one, abandoned Energon is sort of held to a statute of limitations. This kid seems to disagree.

[IH#035~ :Odd, this one.]

Jazz sends a small ding of agreement over their commlink.

Clearing his vocoder, Ironhide nods, stepping forward to enter the sparkling’s space. Jazz notes that he does not step back this time – does twitch though, around his servos and shoulders. “We would appreciate that, young one.”

That gets a weird look from him, but he hums his acknowledgment. Strange.

***

For a nano-klik, Jazz is expecting the kid to ask for help with getting the chain off. He tugs at it a few more times and audibly grumbles when it does not loosen. Jazz reaches a servo out. “I gotcha –”

“—I’m good, thanks,” he says abruptly, stepping away as if burned, and in an impressive show of transformation speed, the kid brings out one set of blasters from his forearm and shoots the chain free with great prejudice.

Wow, okay. So, he knows how to use them.

Ironhide is a bit stunned by that, but Jazz is busy scoping out his weapons. Small, sleek, precision blasters, good for short-range and aimed attacks.

The Well has been spitting out armed children, and this kid is no different.

Most of them don’t last as long as this one, though.

Jazz would like to find out why.

The chains clatter to the ground, and the kid exvents in relief, flexing his back strut and offering a small smile, nonchalant as if he didn’t just fire off a highly dangerous bio-mechanism. “Okay, this way.”

As they begin to follow, Jazz remembers his manners. “So, kid, what’s yer designation?”

Stepping over a jagged rock, the new spark pauses, finials shuddering. “B-127.”

Learning someone’s name is the first step to learning their spark, and Jazz already likes the puzzle that makes up this little mechling. A challenge, to be sure, but Jazz has always liked those.

***

Halfway through the ruins – God, Jazz didn’t realize how many husks still remained here—B stops in his tracks, inner pistons squealing slightly. He whirls around, looking rather alarmed. “Oh my god.”

“What, is something wrong?” Ironhide asks, instinctively scanning their surroundings.

B brings a palm to the side of his helm with an audible clank, grimacing. “I didn’t ask you your designations when you asked for mine.”

And that’s… Okay. Maybe this kid is more of a puzzle than he thought. A surprised laugh bubbles from Jazz’s vocoder and that just makes B look all the more affronted.

“Jazz,” he introduces in between snickers.

“I am Ironhide,” mirrors ‘Hide, who is possibly even more confused than B.

B nods emphatically, digesting the information and then turning on his heel struts to continue walking. “Okay, awesome.”

Primus, Jazz loves this kid.

***

As it turns out, Ironhide is much too big to fit through the underground entrance.

B-127 looks between it and the larger bot, perplexed and restless. “Uh.”

Ironhide just scowls at the hole, as if willing it to grow. “I will keep watch,” he finally concedes, not at all pleased with the concept.

Jazz gives the big guy a placating pat on the chest plates. “Don’t worry brother, we won’t have too much fun without ‘cha.” He waves a digit between himself and B, who seems to be doing his absolute best to fade from existence entirely.

His teammate only grunts, tilting his helm at an incline as he surveils the sun’s slow descent. It’ll be night within the next few groons.

[IH#036~: What is your plan here?]

The kid is already starting on the awkward descent underground, Jazz makes to follow.

[JZ#037~: Don’t worry about it, just wanna see what he’s been dealing with.]

At that, Ironhide softens, optics losing some of their war-hardened chisel to briefly examine the mechling.

[IH#038~: … He requires a medic.]

Just as he is crossing the threshold to the darkened hallways under the surface, Jazz shakes his helm, looking down at the kid crawling down the craggy metal.

[JZ#039~: I know.]

[IH#040~: He will not let us touch him.]

[JZ#041~: Small pedesteps, ‘hide, small pedesteps.]

The commander doesn’t send anything in reply to that, but the small apprehensive twist of his field is enough for Jazz to know how Ironhide feels about all of this. They’ve only got so much time until those cons wake and either fly away or call for help.

The signs are written on the wall.

If they want to get this kid out of here – which, it’s still a little insane that there is a kid here in the first place – they will need to do it soon.

***

“So, when ‘ja find this place?” he asks, audials dialed up to listen to the kid’s bio-mechanisms. Some of em’ sound a little odd, but that’s a doc’s place to judge, not his. He’s mostly trying to figure out which line of questioning stresses B out.

Evidently, this one does. Jazz catalogs the way his spark spins a little too fast. Well, faster than it was already spiraling.

Turning a corner, B lifts a servo to rub at the back of his neck cables. “… A stellar cycle ago, or so. My chronometer could be wrong.”

Digesting that particular remark, Jazz exvents a short sigh. “Ah, that’s barely anythin!” Jazz takes in the state of decay down here. It’s truly a shame they weren’t able to save this place, it would have been a nice, discreet base. Ah well.

The kid makes a face. “… It feels like a lifetime to me.”

Jazz sobers, letting a calm smile play on his derma. “It would, a kid like you? Yer spark is still learning how to pass the time.”

“Mm.”

***

It is very difficult not to just outright ask B how old he is. Jazz is a spy, top of his field and an expert in reading people. He knows when to interrogate, and when to improvise. When you’re stuck at the center of a millennia long civil war, such skills are a necessity.

But before all of that, he was a cultural analyst, master of getting to know people from all classes and builds. Though there of course is something to be said about having that job basically shoved at him, he can’t deny he enjoyed the work. As chill as he is, Jazz has always been an extrovert.

And the curiosity is seriously harshing his vibe.

While it may be true that not all of the Autobots are fond of Jazz’s general way of doing things and his personality, they are at least willing to speak about the civil, if not boring things. There is a war on, can’t exactly avoid him because of personal bias.

But B-127 is so tense Jazz thinks he might shatter his plating if he winds his gears any tighter.

How to crack the shell of a sparkling like that? So soon into their life and already so… guarded.

Jazz is glad Optimus isn’t here, witnessing this kid flounder, all alone. As stoic as his old friend tends to be these cycles, Jazz knows the Prime has been broken to bits about the slowing of new spark emergence, and even worse off about the ones that make it out and rejoin the AllSpark far too soon.

And while Jazz agrees that it’s a tragedy beyond any faction, he isn’t sure how he feels about the picture in front of him, either. It’s a puzzle.

***

Nearing the main corridor—or at least what is supposed to be the main corridor—Jazz sees a distinct upgrade in the place’s organization, crates stacked neatly on top of each other, dirt cleared from the ground. Its as if the kid has been… keeping up the place.

He even spots a few smaller Energon cubes, lined and open at the top. “What’s with the open buffet?” Jazz asks in passing, ensuring his tone is more jovial than pressing.

Pausing, B stops to examine the spread, clearing his vocoder. “… It’s for the glitch mice.”

Jazz could cackle loud enough to deafen Soundwave. Not because he finds that little ritual to be stupid, but because it is anything but. What a kind, wholesome thing to do when anyone else wouldn’t give a damn.

It's so good to meet someone who still does.

Still, for investigative purposes, he replies. “Ya feed the little rodents down here? Instead of keepin’ it for yourself?”

Optical ridges furrowing, Jazz thinks the kid is displeased. With what exactly, he isn’t sure. “They need it too.” B-127 says firmly, servos clenching. Then he softens, whatever conviction he had loosens to something weaker. “… I hunt sometimes. I feel bad. Feeding them… it helps, I guess.”

Yeah.

Optimus would hate this.

***

“—And so I had ta’ have the entire unit retreat, fer’ one roboto-possum! My boy Prowl was pissed, but the rest of us had a damn ball it was so funny.”

B giggles, running an absent servo along the hall’s dusty and corroded walls. Jazz makes sure to memorize the sound of that laugh because it feels like a rare thing. “You really had to give up an operation that large just for that?”

Jazz shrugs, vocoder clicking fondly at the memory. “Back then, Cybertron had way more things like that, nature conservations, reserves. Slag like that.” He clears his vocoder. “Most of it’s gone now.”

The kid’s door wings lower, and Jazz kicks himself for bringing it up. B can’t miss the time when their planet could still afford to care about their wildlife so fiercely. Still, B speaks up anyway. “Well… maybe once the war ends, someone could restart all of that,” he says, voice small and unsure. The quiet ‘if’ in that sentence goes unsaid, but Jazz hears it anyway.

But even still, Jazz’s spark likes the idea of a hope like that. It’s good to find little things to believe in like that.

“It’ll happen, kid, trust in it.”

B doesn’t respond, but Jazz swears the air feels a little lighter.

***

“So, why didn’t ya plan to stick around?” Jazz asks as they walk through the large entryway to the Energon reserves. Digits twitching, his optics roam over the sizeable pile of cubes. It’s a decent collection for one bot, but once they transport it, the fuel will go fast once rationed out to the soldiers. Once again, Jazz is curious as to why the kid is so willing to hand it over. Respecting their ownership of it hardly means anything anymore. If he didn’t have an entire army to think about, he’d just turn around and act as if he never saw this place.

“All this fuel, all to yerself? Why leave?”

Absently, B picks up a mid-size cube, playing it between his servos in small playful tosses. His antennae lower, contemplative. “I don’t know. I don’t want to rely on it, I guess. I know it’ll run out at some point. I shouldn’t get used to its luxury; you know?” The cube is put back down, and B avoids Jazz’s perceptive optics. “And I don’t want to get greedy. I… I know if I let myself, I’d hoard it.”

And as if burned, B takes a tentative step backward. “I wanted to run and hide at first. Wanted to make sure you wouldn’t find this… but I know you need it more than me. Selfish, I know.” The silence that follows is tense and hollow, and Jazz is just thinking of the perfect thing to say when B-127 visibly shakes himself free of whatever darkness is holding him. He forces his gaze to meet Jazz with a shaken smile. Small and strained, it doesn’t warm Jazz’s spark the way it should. “… I should go, I don’t want to…”

Jazz tilts his helm. “Don’t wanna what?”

The sparkling’s engines rumble through a shallow invent. Jazz wishes the kid would let him in on his field for just a nano-klik.  “It’s just, I’ve got—things.” B shrugs, shying away again.

And Jazz highly doubts that to be true, he can’t imagine having much to do as a lone new spark. Nothing other than surviving each cycle.

That’s not something Jazz wants to force this kid back into.

“Y’know, you could jus’ come with us back ta’ Iacon. I know you’d fit right in,” Jazz offers easily, finding a thread of hope and clenching onto it. “We could getcha fixed up, in good company. Shine that fancy paint, buff out those dents, the works. Promise there ain’t cons sniffin’ around there, we got safety.” He smiles, extending a servo. “What do ya’ say?”

…

…

…

“Oh, um. No thanks.”

Huh.

 Jazz’s fun-loving smirk grows a smidge more ridged. Okay, he was at least expecting a little deliberation, but looking into B’s optics, Jazz doesn’t see the hesitation he had predicted.

A little bit of pushback, sure, that he had called for. With the way B is two wire misfires away from shorting out, and does his best to stay just out of touching distance, of course, he would need some convincing. Jazz had foreseen that. But a complete shutdown? That had been lower on his probability list.

Okay, switching gears then.

Crossing his arms, Jazz find an easy smile. “Aw, alright, brother, if you gotta. Feel free ta’ take some cubes witcha’ for the road.” He folds his door wings to his back strut, shutting off the sensor nodes as he leans over to pick up a larger cube. Once he’s confident in his hold, he brings his wings back out to counterbalance. “This’ll probably be real boring, anyways, luggin' Energon over n’ over n’ over. No fun.”

That gets his attention, and some of his fidgeting ceases as his processor works over the words. “You… you don’t have a unit or something coming to help?”

Halle-fraggin’—lujah.

Jazz shakes his helm with defeated assurance and a bit too much drama. “Troops are a little light right now, fuel scoutin’ is mostly grab n’ go these cycles,” replies Jazz. It’s not exactly a lie, not really.  They are spread too thin, and the newest batch of Iacon academy students won’t be ready to graduate for another six orbital cycles, Kalis training camps are even further behind. They can’t be rushed, lest they start sending bots out to the field unprepared. It’s a close thing, but none of the commanders are quite that desperate yet.

But he could still radio for assistance if he wanted. It’s too short a distance to necessitate a ground bridge, but it wouldn’t be too long a drive or flight for any of the free soldiers. Some might even ask for a mission like this. Non-combatants or couriers, wary warriors in need of a break. No danger, just transport.

If they had killed those cons, of course. Ah well.

Interrogation 101: a lie is all the more believable with a little pebble of truth in it.

And his little fib pays off because B looks guilty pretty much immediately. Well, more guilty. Even in his passive stance, this kid seems like he’d tear his plating off his still-growing protoform if you asked nicely.

For a moment, Jazz thinks the mechling might just turn tailpipe and drive away. Uncomfortable is an understatement for how rigid his plating is, and in tuning his audials back up, his sparkpulse modulation is fast enough to power two big-rig engines.

But with an extremely measured invent, B worries his lower derma. “I can – I could uh—help – I guess try to help—you move it to the top? I’m not sure how much use I can be. I don’t exactly have the best wingspan.” B taps his digits together as if he is the one being unreasonable.

Bless his spark.

 In a way, Jazz feels bad, but if you ask him, he’s doing this new spark a favor with a little manipulation. Not the most ethical, but hey, he’s a spy, not a Prime.

His grin grows. “Yeah? You’re a real one, B,” Jazz cheers, only slightly falsifying his rave.

***

B wasn’t kidding about being unsure about his usefulness.

He’s a wreck.

Not because he isn’t useful, let it be known that this spark gives his all in trying to assist, it’s the follow-through that’s giving them trouble.

He's clumsy.

Really clumsy.

Like something is definitely wrong clumsy.

During their few trips to the surface to carry the Energon, B sways on his pedes from carrying the weight almost constantly. Not because it's heavy but because he just can’t seem to keep his balance.

He trips over a few times and sends the cubes scattering to the floor. None break, but it does slow things down a bit. Jazz is understanding because even though they’re on a bit of a deadline, the last thing this sparkling needs right now is pressure.

Not that his grace is doing much good, B-127 appears to have a natural talent for stressing himself to near overclock without any added help.

By the time they’ve taken the last of the Energon up, he is practically vibrating with anxiety, his engines are grinding to work his ventilation. Every few kliks Jazz hears a weird clank from the kid’s right side and he adds that weird thing to the growing list of concerning blurbs to tell Ratchet about.

To top it all off, B looks pissed about it. Jazz can just see the new spark attempting to calm himself down the entire time, only growing more irritated when he fails. His vocoder projects a seemingly endless stream of either apology or whispered cuss words that Jazz is amazed a sparkling even knows.

When Ironhide shoots him several slightly-pissed-off glances and even more alarming pings that sizzle across Jazz’s neural net, he admits that he made have fragged up.

[IH#072~: What happened to small pedesteps? I can hear his ventilations from here!]

[JZ#073~: To be fair, the kid worked himself up.]

[IH#074~: It is unlike you to make excuses.]

Jazz fondly rolls his optics.

[JZ#075~: I’m not, brother, just addin’ pieces to the puzzle.]

[IH#076~: You cannot force him to come with us, Jazz. If he wishes to go his own way, we must respect that.]

[JZ#077~: Ya, I know that, but idk about you, but I’ll feel real shitty if we just leave the emotionally compromised teenager to his own devices. I can feel OP’s disapprovin’ wavelength from here.]

With a spin of his spark, Jazz softens, allowing his field to flush something more solemn. He thinks of the hit his unit just took, the good bots they’ve lost and will continue to lose. Thinks of this kid who has helped them for no reason at all, to the detriment of his personal wellbeing. Jazz sometimes forgets he’s fighting for more than the symbol he wears.

[JZ#078~: … I know he deserves a choice, an’ we’ll give em’ one. Once we shove em’ in front of Ratch’ and FA, let the Big Man know, he can leave whenever he wants.]

[IH#079~: You are very conniving for someone of your nature.]

That makes Jazz chuckle out loud, and to mask it from a slightly (extremely) wary B, he shoves several cubes within his subspace.

[JZ#080~: Ay, you bring the big gun, I bring the big fun.]

[IH#081~: … Sometimes I wonder how your unit takes you seriously.]

And as he often does, Jazz chooses not to take offense to that.

[JZ#082~: Hide, are you in, or out?]

[IH#083~: That is a stupid question. Of course I am in.]

A grin spreads across his intake and for his giddiness, Ironhide rewards him with a withering look. Spurred on by the affectionate discomfort of his comrade, Jazz turns, loosening his stance and clapping his servos together. B-127 jumps at the sudden noise, but looks more perturbed than afraid, giving Jazz a slightly incredulous glance.

“So! Kid, I’ve got a little proposition—”

“I can’t go back with you,” interjects B, who smooths over his shock to something more benign. “I’m sorry. I already said no.”

The edges of Ironhide’s field sharpens around its fluctuating edges until near serration, and Jazz’s tanks turn a little as it clashes against his own softer field.

By his side, Ironhide releases a shuddering exvent. “Very well then, young one.”

What?

[JZ#084~: What?]

[JZ#085~: Two nano-kliks ago we were on the level.]

[IH#086~: We are, but you failed. Twice.]

[JZ#087~: Well if you would let a brother reevaluate then I won’t fail a third.]

Ironhide chuffs from his engines and B narrows his optics, and Jazz’s door wings jolt at the realization that B has figured out what’s going on. His investigative programs conclude by studying his body language and Jazz struggles to decide if he is impressed or disappointed in the kid’s observant nature, despite the strain he is obviously putting on his processor.

Jazz takes a few short steps into B’s little bubble. Outwardly, B doesn’t react to this and the spy can tell this is very much on purpose. “Don’t listen ta’ him, he don’t know how to talk to young cybercats like you.”

[IH#088~: Neither do you, spymaster.]

Shutting off his ping receiver, Jazz pushes on. “’Sides, you didn’t even let me finish.”

At this, a sort of conflict plays over B-127’s features, and he reopens the space between them a few paces. His gaze grows unfocused and he looks somewhere off to the side for several kliks, optical lenses reacting as if he sees something. Involuntary tick maybe? Hinging his mandible, then clinking his intake back shut, B replies quietly. “I would just…” he meets Jazz’s optics, the bright amber of his weary spark shining through them. It’s sad to see the color so vibrant in a spark so new.

“… You don’t want me to, I promise,” he finishes, gesturing lamely with his pauldrons. Jazz thinks he feels a sudden lance of something miserable, but the phantom emotion retreats so quickly he isn’t sure if he imagined it. B has kept a close hold on his field thus far and it’s odd he is slipping now.

Allowing a skeptical laugh, the spy shakes his helm pointedly. “No offense, kidda’, but you ain’t get to tell me what I do n’ don’t want,” Jazz asserts, daring to step forward again. “Jus’ like how I ain’t get ta’ tell ya whatcha do n’ don’t want. Ya don’t wanna come wit’ us, that’s fine.”

With that sort of constant suspicion, B lowers his optical ridges, hesitant to speak up. There’s something else in there too, surprise. B-127 is surprised to have his words respected.

He’ll have to observe that reaction later, for now, he’s got to pounce.

“… But I’ve just got one more favor ta’ ask, that’s all. Say no, and we’ll be outta’ yer mesh.”

That catches his attention, and he does that thing again, where he looks away, unfocused. Then, his optics zero back in, and his intake stretches to a thin line. “… Oh-kay?”

[IH#089~: You are about to do something cruel, aren’t you?]

A surge of red-hot Energon cycles through his fuel lines and Jazz feels the corners of his derma begin to ache, his grin growing rictus. “I’m just sayin’, with just tha’ two of us? We ain’t gonna be able ta’ carry all this in one trip.” He shrugs. “And by the time we come back, those cons will be long gone, callin’ the calvary.”

B’s finials rise to their full height, twisting that way and that, optics zooming to the minuscule dark dots. “Wait, what? You didn’t – I thought you—” A grimace settles in his expression, and he waves a servo in front of himself. “… You didn’t kill them?”

The inquiry is quiet and subdued, hopeful in the way only a sparkling’s vocoder can manage. Ironhide moves to Jazz’s left, trying for his most gentle demeanor. That’s a little difficult, but Jazz thinks it’s cute that he tries. “We believed it best to allow them their freedom. They were only scouts.”

Scoffing, B’s grimace morphs into a sneer. “Scouts that tried to kill you.”

“Eh, you get used to it,” Jazz adds smoothly.

“Would you have preferred we ended their lives?” Ironhide asks, inflection taking on a more careful resonance.

They allow B a few kliks to gather his thoughts. Jazz doesn’t think this kid is violent, not really. Back during the fight, if he wanted to, he could have just pulled his weapons and added his plasma fire to the fray. He’s proven that he knows how they function. But he didn’t. Instead, B found a more creative way to help that didn’t involve pulling out his guns.

In the same way, he doesn’t think the kid is exactly a pacifist, either. Regardless of his selfless little Energon sharing ways, there’s a hardness in his optics that might be hard to miss. Not to Jazz, though. No, he sees that little flash of determination – the way he doesn’t roll over to his anxiety in compliance. Where others might see anguish, Jazz sees raw and untamed fire.

So, there’s a clear conflict there, even if Jazz has no access to the kid’s field, he can see it, plain as the bucket on Megatron’s helm. This is why it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise when B replies. “I… I don’t know. I think it’s good you let them live,” he starts, and despite the shakiness, Jazz finds no doubt. “… But you put yourself at risk, right?”

Ironhide grunts, confirming B’s query, briefly turning his attention to the distance where B had originally led them from. “Every moment we remain here, there is a chance they have called for more comrades.”

Nodding his understanding, B looks away, following ‘Hide’s gaze with a little more scrutiny. “… I wonder if that’s what they wanted,” he says, quiet enough that the two commanders infer that he directs the words more to himself than anything. As if realizing what he’d done, he directs his optics back to them, a bit wistful. “To fight, I mean.”

Jazz wonders about that, too. “With the cons, ya never know.” These particular Decepticons had been pretty keen to draw their weaponry, but Jazz of all bots is aware of the nuances that could lay under the surface. Recentering himself, Jazz invents calmly. “It’s different, wit’ us, B. There’s always a choice.”

B seems to consider that for a time, allowing an acknowledging bleep to sound from his vocoder. Then, he turns, eyeing over the piles of unopened, florescent cubes beginning to light up the area as the sun sets. Something odd happens in that B’s pensive countenance abates, and a little smile spreads. “… You’re trying to manipulate me into going with you.”

Jazz isn’t stunned that he’s been found out, because it’s not like he was trying to be subtle, but he is surprised at B’s candid assertion. Several kliks ago, he seemed too apprehensive even to voice a full thought, now he’s gone out of his way to tell them he understands.  Ironhide stiffens, locking his armor to his protoform. Jazz can feel his uneasy glances.

The weapons specialist steps forward. “Well—”

“I can’t believe I want to let you.”

Ironhide shuts his intake with a clank, and Jazz’s optics widen from behind his visor. The two observe as B-127 loads his subspaces with Energon, cramming as much as he can fit. His helm turns, and he takes in the vibrant fuchsia of the sleepy sky, finials twitching up and down. Turning back to them, Jazz finds a certain conviction there. “I’ll help you transport, but if we get there and I decide to leave anyway… You’ll honor that?”

 And as if he’s a sparkling himself, still new and full of life, Jazz’s spark leaps in his chest.

Field leveling out to a muted navy, Ironhide gets on one knee, leveling himself with B’s optics. “We swear by Primus, that your wishes will be respected.”

If Jazz wasn’t so pleased, he’d roll his optics at his old friend’s overly formal declaration.

Though they can still sense the strange unease at his proximity, B meets Ironhide’s optics with a tired strength, studying them for a time before nodding to himself. “Okay then. You win, I forfeit.”

Thank Primus. Jazz was just getting to the point of hauling Optimus here to talk some sense in that magnetic way he always can. Weird Magic Prime juju, if you ask him.

Placing a cube within his subspace, Jazz floods his field with a secure assurance. “Trust in it, kid.”

B smiles.

***

Through a lot of shoving and an impressive understanding of puzzles, B and Jazz work together to fit all of the Energon in all three of their subspace cavities. Ironhide has the most so he takes the brunt of their brain module power, and is visibly displeased to be observed by both of them so closely.

Jazz is thoroughly impressed by B’s problem-solving abilities, but refrains from voicing this praise, since the last time Jazz complimented him he sort of locked up. They’ve only just gotten a small pede-hold on his spark, he doesn’t intend to revoke it so soon.

They walk to the edge of the decrepit settlement, and it’s then that Jazz notices the small limp B walks with. His leg drags just slightly behind the other, the difference so insignificant that most bots wouldn’t pay it any mind. But most bots aren’t Jazz. There’s a cratered scar along the mesh of his cadulen,  Jazz can fill in the dots. The kid does an excellent job of masking it, but along with the constant swaying, some things simply can’t be hidden.

Like when they step pede outside of the ruin – the remnant of a long gone tragedy—B turns, optics casting over the singed and dented buildings, over their pede-prints in the dust. Once more, Jazz feels a sudden gush of something biting and sorrowful, aching and eating at the tips of his digits. Before he can fully grasp the field’s EM, it’s gone again, leaving a simmering cave where it once was. When B turns to meet them, there’s no echo of whatever pain he just expressed.

Despite his age and the damage to his chassis, B transforms smoothly and swiftly, a skill no doubt fostered by the harsh lifestyle he lives.

That isn’t something he particularly enjoys ruminating, so he dismisses it from his mind.

***

They drive for several groons, making some distance before any Decepticons get any bright ideas about partying with them.

B is fast, but Jazz already knew that. His root form screamed it and his mobility in tripping up those cons couldn’t be done by a slower vehicle. Jazz wonders just how quick he could truly be, without all the scars holding him back.

About halfway through the night, Ironhide requests they stop until the morning. They pull off to the cover of a cyber-matter forest.

“We’re not going to travel until morning?” B asks, reverting to root and tilting his helm in question. He doesn’t even look tired. Jazz wonders about his fuel efficiency with a bit of envy, transforming easily but still feeling a little pull at his joints. He could go for several more cycles if he pushed it – he’s got his scouting subroutines to fall back on to keep his fuel gauge within optimal levels, but it ain’t healthy to abuse it.

Ironhide isn’t built for long-term travel, and the Energon rationing has certainly brought down his long-distance abilities. He doesn’t look exactly exhausted – well, being a commander in this era you sort of always do – but since their last mission ended so poorly, having two cycles of travel with minimal refuel, and having to carry all this weight, it’s safe to say they need the rest.

Jazz takes a seat, letting his back rest against a trunk of metal, allowing his door wings a moment to rest limply under him. “Ah, we ain’t in a hurry, kid. No reason ta’ overwork ourselves.”

That concept goes over about as well as everything else, even under the blanket of his optic’s night vision settings, Jazz can see B’s optical ridges narrow in clear confusion. “Oh, alright, sure,” he looks up, analyzing something in the sky before returning to himself. “I can keep watch while you guys rest, if you want. I’m not tired.”

Jazz raises an optical ridge. “What’s yer percentage?”

For some reason, the question has B tensing again, lenses spiraling and a visible discomfort creeps into his features. Jazz is about to apologize for asking – even though he doesn’t know why that’s an offensive question – when that same defiant anger slips through and B is shaking his helm, a frustrated growl billowing through his engines in a small puff of smoke. Through grit denta, B responds. “Sixty-three.”

That’s still lower than what he expected, but by the energetic bounce in B’s movements, Jazz can tell the kid is telling the truth. He isn’t tired.

But even still. “Nah, not necessary, kidda’.”

B’s finials rise to an acute point. “But what if we’re ambushed.” His helm swivels, examining the area. Jazz can bet that those fancy optics see a lot more than any of them. “There are bandits around here.”

He admits that part with a little shake in his vocoder, a bitterness mingling with fear creating the hyper-vigilance that Jazz sees before him.

Resting a short distance beside B-127 – who doesn’t hide his little jolt of surprise – Ironhide offers a kind brush from his field. “I assure you, B-127, we are far stronger than mere bandits.”

A weird starry-opticed look passes over B, and his neck cables creak from the number of times he switches between looking at Ironhide to Jazz.

“Right. Right, of course you are,” B mutters, bringing his spiked knees to his chest. “Of course you are.”

He is quiet for the remainder of the night, slow to fall into recharge as contemplation plays over his expression.

Ironhide gives him a tired look, with a weak smile, Jazz returns it.

***

Eventually, B falls into recharge. Jazz watches as his chassis relaxes a small amount, but a large chunk of that constant tension remains. Well, that’s disheartening.

His recharge is feather-light and a small breeze makes him stir, as if B-127 is making an unconscious effort to stay somewhat alert. Jazz sighs, leaning an elbow against his knee. Ironhide recharges soundly.

Jazz squints, looking up. For some reason, even under the cover of the cyber-matter branches, the night sky seems to shine a little brighter than usual.

Chapter Text

Okay.

Okay.

Be cool.

Do not freak out. Be normal, be normal and not weird.

Do and say normal, average teenager things.

…

What do normal average teenagers do or say?

Slag. Alright. Just be quiet then.

Because they totally think he’s weird. They think he’s really, really weird.

…

But they want him to go with them anyway.

… Still, he should make an effort not to freeze up anymore, because that’s weird and well-adjusted, cool new sparks don’t do that.

These are all things that B-1 repeats in his mind throughout the duration of the drive to Iacon.

And it’s weird he’s driving to Iacon. Why the hell is he driving to Iacon?

Like an idiot, he’s broken one of his rules again and has been slapping it in the face since he agreed to help with the slagging Energon transport.

He reminds himself that he hasn’t made a decision on staying yet.

It’s insane he’s even considering it. He knows he’s no good to the Autobots and eventually, they’ll realize that too – despite Jazz’s faithful assurances, he must understand that there’s no place for sparkling’s in war. Giving over that fuel so freely mostly came from a sense of justice. Many Autobots and neutrals alike died to protect it and while it was once a safe haven for B-127, it’s clear it can’t be now. It’s a war, B-1 won’t prioritize his selfish wants over the Autobot’s needs.

No matter how tempting it is.

And he isn’t sure about the duo escorting him. Someway, B-1 thinks he likes them – not trying to kill him immediately is a big plus – but he knows that the burning of his spark is getting in the way. He doesn’t know why it hurts so much right now, but as it feeds on the darkness it feeds on the kindness they’ve given him, in their strange and convoluted way.

B-1 tries not to look into it too deeply, for fear that if he does, he’ll plunge helm-first into something old and blistering. It pisses him off to no end. God just react to something normally for five kliks—

Jazz and Ironhide seem to find favor for him. Maybe. They cast strange glances at him a lot and Ironhide does a very bad job of hiding his EM field’s weirdly concerned waves, but B-1 doesn’t think they would push this hard to get him to follow if they didn’t find his presence tolerable.

Unless they really do just want his help with moving the fuel, which is stupid because B-1 knows that’s not what this is.

In trying to make sense of it, B-1 only gives himself an irritating helmache and a further warring spark, so for now he decides to put the topic of their true motives to rest for now. He can chock it up to irrational Autobot kindness, even though that doesn’t make much sense to him either.

 It’s when B-127 jerks awake the next morning and promptly recalls that he isn’t alone that it sinks in fully. His programs online one by one with sweet little pings, and the normal rapid spin of his spark is there with an electrifying jump, but it’s tamed somewhat by the strong cover of the two secure fields surrounding him.

It's a purposeful thing, to extend them this close. They don’t wrap around him as such, not the way Faylever and Newdawn used to, but it’s not overbearing, either. Not imprisoning, like the bandit’s.

They give him his space, allowing him room to ventilate.

As for him, he keeps his field pulled tight against his frame, locked near his spark. Keeping it closed even in his recharge is leaving him a little sore, but he can’t bring himself to open it up just yet. His vulnerability brought him pain once and though he logically knows he won’t be treated that way here, something in him sickens at the idea of letting these strangers in on his outer-layered emotions. What if it’s all a lie? What if they don’t like the waves he puts off, what if they feel the death he’s put into the world? What if they change their mind?

But he will admit it’s… something, to wake up with others around him and not be in fear. The nightmares purge themselves slowly and in broken clips as they always do, but the heaviness of Ironhide’s wavelength and the blue zigzag of Jazz’s distracts him enough that it doesn’t leave him shaking like it normally does. In rewinding his ambient sensor nodes, B-1 notes that he slept rather deeply, for the first time in a while. Out of habit, he tends to force himself to sleep with one audial online.

You know, just in case.

They’re staring at him as he stumbles to his pedes but he tries to ignore it, tries for a shaken smile even though his gears are weary to force the motion. “Uh, good morning,” he greets, keeping his vocoder low and mild. His chronometer informs him that it’s early, but not so early that the sun hasn’t said its hello yet. It peaks up from the horizon, illuminating the space in fractionated beams through the cybermatter branches.

Masking his observant gawking, Jazz pulls on a rather east smile. “Mornin’ bro, hungry?”

That question leaves him stunned no matter how hard he tries to pretend it doesn’t. It shouldn’t, of course, Jazz asks because Jazz is nice or at least doesn’t hate him. Jury’s still out and B-1’s trust isn’t so easily earned.

And it’s the servo being reached out to him, medium Energon cube in its grasp, that really throws his tanks over into a tizzy.

Because this is so silly. Why is Jazz offering him Energon when he knows B-1 has all of his subspace crammed with it? That’s such a pointless gesture, B-1 is perfectly capable of refueling himself.

So.

So, why does his spark feel so…

… Bright?

Curious, the glowing tendrils tickle along his scarred spark chamber, dancing underneath his chest plates, reaching out further than they have in a long time. It doesn’t burn, but it does. It doesn’t hurt, but it does. Both are true, at once.

“B, it can be both.”

Clinking his denta together, B-127 reaches out.

***

He reels his overzealous spark back in, reminding it of its place.

Begrudgingly, it obliges, settling back down.

Still, the fact remains, it has been so long since his core has even wanted to venture out like that. Yearned to breach its boiling tomb to touch the sky once more. To take in a gasping vent of survival.

Primus, this is shaping up to be a complete nightmare of emotional conflict. He supposes that’s not exactly a new experience, but it is a bit of a pain to know it so intimately.

They drive in silence for the most part. Well, Jazz talks well enough for both B-1 and Ironhide, sharing inconsequential anecdotes and pestering B-1 with questions he feels too nervous to really answer.

The sheer amount of Energon stored between the three of them is slowing their progress down. Or rather, it’s slowing Jazz and B-1 down. Ironhide’s engine is beefy enough to hardly be affected, but he’s not built for speed either. B-1 isn’t used to carrying this much weight and though his engine is powerful in its own way, it would be a bad idea to push it for such a long time.

To put it simply, they’re crawling.

Jazz doesn’t seem bothered by this at all, coasting alongside B-127 for a while and then circling Ironhide, seemingly with the sole purpose of annoying the larger build. Despite his clear irritation, Ironhide never retaliates beyond some verbal lashings and a growl from his engine.

B-1 observes and tries not to find it all odd because this is just normal.  They’re friends, it’s normal to be all… domestic, or whatever.

It's just not… his normal. Not anymore.

All in all, B-1 tries his very best to appear nonexistent. He’s honestly thankful this is taking forever because he honestly feels sick to his tanks at the idea of witnessing more of this.

Not because he finds anything about it at all disgusting – of course not.

But. Well.

B-1 is begrudgingly able to admit that he is a little jealous.

Only, is that it? Perhaps reminiscent is a better description. He watches the two bots – older and wiser and somehow so much happier – simply exist together despite the hell around them. B-1 feels dizzy at the sight not because he wishes he was them, but because he once was.

So long ago now.

Or was it?

His memory banks have all blended together into some toxic tar pit, bubbling up and popping in wicked bursts of painful recall and missing time.

Core pulsing, B-1 wonders whether Moonracer ever feels the complete heaviness of managing a smile in a world like this. Jazz certainly doesn’t seem to struggle.

What will they do, he puzzles, when they find out the absolute trials he forces himself through even to find a single one. Will they stare with those same pitying optics that Ironhide can’t seem to get a handle on? Will they whisper statements of forlorn?

They won’t hurt him, he knows. Hopes. Not the way he is used to. Moonracer promised understanding from them and even with the voices in his helm stating their hushed doubts, B-1’s trust in her remains. However shaky, it remains.

They won’t hurt him.

But with dawning horror, B-127 reconciles that perhaps, somehow, their smiles will.

His chassis shudders with a clanking vibration. The road stretches on ahead, another few groons to go, according to his geo-cortex.

As subtly as he can, B-1 slows further.

***

“It is handsome, your paint,” Ironhide compliments as they crest over a steep hill.

B-1 nearly locks a gear, stalling his engine for a moment and failing to mask it. “Wh—Oh, um, thanks.” Replies B-127, wracking his brain module for the context of the sudden praise but coming up empty. For the most part, Ironhide has gone above and beyond to keep out of his space, even if his EM field hasn’t been quite so successful.

A silence rings in the air between them, and B-1 mentally agrees with a twinge of awkward discomfort exuding from Jazz who does not comment.

After a time, “Some believe that yellow represents the mind and the intellect.” Ironhide provides, vocoder projecting an octave lower than before, almost… shy. “Hope, too, in some cases,” he adds quietly.

“—Oh, that’s where ya were going wit’ that, I was confused as slag,” Jazz interrupts, playfully revving his engine and pulling ahead, rocking his axle to curve his wheels and swing him around to face them, pulling into reverse to drive backward. Woah, cool. “Vosian’s say it means danger, like a warnin’ sign.”

Ironhide’s vocoder spits a gritty beep, and he rattles some of his kibble. “I only meant to pay the child a kind word,” he grows silent for a moment. “I have always been fond of yellow.”

Willing his bio-lights not to grow brighter in reaction to the unearned acclaim, B-1 clears his voice box mechanisms and refreshes his stack to try to clear his helm as best as he can. Ironhide does not seem like the type to give out random compliments, so B-1 tries to be grateful instead of horrified, which is his first instinct at this point. “I like yellow too,” he says, and what a stupid thing to say because of course he likes yellow. Is he serious? Say something better!

“… I saw the golden edges of a comet one night,” he almost whispers. There’s no need to mention that it was his first night, where the awe of a bespeckled heaven was all he needed. “… I liked it.”

And while in alt mode, B-1 can’t pick up on any of the typical Cybertronian body language quirks, but from the small turn of Ironhide’s mirrors, he can imagine the older man nodding. “A fine choice, young one. A fine choice.”

***

A groon later, B-1’s social protocols finally come online, and he nearly spins out in horror.

“Slag!”

The two older bots slow and their fields ping with query.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Inquires Jazz, hovering a little too close for his liking.

B-1 exvents, allowing the shame to cover him. “Yes.”

Ironhide swerves around a sharp rock. “What is troubling you?”

Allowing himself to drive over said rock – with an uncomfortable but deserving clunk of his components – B-127 shrivels. “… I forgot to compliment you back.”

***

When they at last draw near to Iacon – because despite the slowdowns it’s not nearly a long enough drive – a red frenzied border creeps in at the edges of B-127’s vision, and rule number three digs into his processor’s finer circuits and has B-1 fighting a raucous broil of nausea.

The wild and sharp edges of Cybertron’s vast untamed tundra slowly begin to populate. Jagged natural formations fall away, and the obvious signs of Cybertronian life fill in with tall towers and small, rural rest stops. If he stresses his optic feed, the sun's rays clear, and in the distance, B-1 observes the unmistakable silhouette of what was once one of the most powerful city-states comes into view. Though now a protected Autobot fortress, to put it lightly, B-127 is entranced by its glory even from here.

It'd be pretty if the sight of it didn’t have him tying his wires in knots.

Either oblivious to B-1’s plight or doing an incredible job of concealing it, Jazz pulls up to him with a small crunch under his wheels as if nothing is amiss. “We’ll hafta’ go through a security checkpoint here in a lil’ bit, nothin’ serious, they know we comin’, including you.”

Despite keeping his field to himself, Jazz must somehow sense his discomfort and offers a secure pulse through his own. “Just a routine checkup, they’ll plug in, check fer’ malevolent software, an’ it’ll be over. I promise.”

  “There will be another as we pull into Iacon,” Ironhide gently corrects. “But it will be a mere formality, they’ll simply double-check the data inputted at the checkpoint. No more after that, young one.”

While their vocoders project gentle warnings, the subtle pleading is there, underneath. He will have to stay calm. Don’t freak, this is normal. Granted, B-1 thinks he's done a pretty decent job of not completely losing his helm, but clearly despite his best efforts, the two older bots in his company have picked up on his tendency to do so.

He knew the stupid shaking would rat him out. Stupid irrational helm and involuntary slag – whatever. Whatever.

The thought of a bot plugging in and pouring over his sensitive data leaves his pistons and gears feeling tight and heavy, and B-127 can’t tell if he has slowed down or not.

His medical port still burns sometimes from Dea-8’s rough treatment of it, though for the most part B-1 is certain a lot of the pain is just psychosomatic. Regardless, it’s difficult to find solace in that when soon, someone else – a bot he doesn’t even know – will be scouring through his different information chambers, and B-1 has to let them.

Out of habit, B-1 pulls up his Energon percentage, and then immediately dismisses it when his mind catches up to the knee-jerk reaction. Stupid.

It’ll be fine, he reasons. He has no malevolent programs hiding in his subroutines – hell, half of them have been offline or quarantined for stellar cycles. The only thing to find in there is a messy quandary of convoluted and contradictory moral bull-slag.

He wonders if they’ll see any of the ghosts haunting him.

Hmm, and what would they do if they crawled all the way back through his memory banks? Would they pull up the feed of the cycle where his world ended? Would they feel guilty?

Would they turn him away, the very moment they felt the darkness invade his spark?

And he’s supposed to just… be okay?

If he’d known lending these bots a servo would be this much trouble, he would’ve driven away and minded his own damn business.

… After helping them beat the Decepticons. He wouldn’t leave then high and dry like that. Maybe.

Instead of voicing his discomfort- because why would he do that—B-1 gives a small rev of understanding. “Got it,” he replies, perhaps a bit too curtly. He doesn’t want to be mean in the grand scheme of things, but he’d rather they think him mean than a shaking mess to be baby-sat.

Toxrine was always gentle when searching through his processor, she never broke through any partitions to find any secret programs or to catch him in a lie.

It's not often that he thinks of her, but when he does it’s horribly sad. He hopes she’s alive out there somewhere, helping some other hopeless sparkling in a hopeless world. She was the first bot to show him warmth, and a part of him feels guilty for forgetting her so much.

But that’s the way of things, is it not? To move on from these things.

B-1 is no good at that, really. Though he tries, he’s always stuck. Replaying the same moments, over, and over, and over.

***

About thirty kliks pass by the time the trio comes upon the checkpoint. Well, B-127 can only assume that’s what it is. It’s more of a small cubic drive-through, a small break in what B-1 thinks is a pulsating energy field. If he really stresses his optics, he can see the waves bounce off the open air. He’s curious as to what happens if you try to drive through it.

They drive over a few rumble strips, signaling their need to slow, and B-1 feels a horrible buzzing underneath his plating, and he has to force himself not to shake. Stay calm stay calm stay calm.

“Easy,” Jazz quietly placates from his place behind him, and B-127 centers on the gentleness in those words like a lifeline. He wishes he was in root form, he’d tug on his antennae to distract from the whirling of his spark.

“I’m okay,” he states firmly, in a desperate hope to sound normal.

Three bots emerge from the inner quarters of the small building, standing to the side on a small platform. They are visibly armed with plasma weaponry welded to their arms and shoulders. Smaller, more agile bots, good for chasing down anyone who tries to skip the line, B-1 guesses.

One of the bots hops from her place on the platform, trotting up to them and placing herself between Ironhide and B-1. Her optics are a steely yellow as she gestures with her palm, indicating that they’ll have to wait their turn.

Feeling his spark pulse reverberating throughout his chassis, B-1 focuses on keeping his ventilations steady, growing a little frustrated. He can handle this; he can handle this. Ironhide pulls ahead into the covered drive-way, transforming and greeting the other two bots cooly. They salute him, and it’s then that B-1 realizes that these two bots he’s been hanging around might be a tad more important than previously thought.

Upon the first few clinks of metal, B-127 checks his mirrors and sees that Jazz has returned to his root mode as well. Not wanting to look like a complete idiot, B-1 transforms as well, a little clunkier than usual and he chooses to blame the strain of heavy Energon. The femme enforcer takes a step back, giving him some space with a non-committal nod. B-1 tries to return it without being weird but he can tell his helm jerks too quickly and his neck cables snap audibly. She raises an optical ridge.

“—Ramna, how are ya?” Asks Jazz, who interrupts B-1’s internal turmoil by stalking past him to meet the femme.

She gives a weak salute in return, rolling her optics to place her servos to her hip plates. “Just as well as when you asked me yesterday, sir.” Replies the femme, Ramna, apparently.

Jazz waves a dismissive servo, placing one on her shoulder. “Ay, in this business, you n’ I both know one cycle can make a hell of a difference.”

Ramna replies with a shrug, chancing a glance back to the drive-through, B-1 follows her. Just as they had said, Ironhide is plugged into what appears to be a mid-size monitor, with one bot scanning over the contents displayed, and the other chatting idly with the larger red bot. This must be incredibly boring for everyone if only one person is paying attention.

Jazz and Ramna make small talk for a few more kliks and B-1 takes great effort to ignore the stares being cast in his direction. His plating pulses with his spark and B-1 feels a little bitter that he’s the only one freaking out. Because of course he is because he’s a wreck and these people are not.

Uhg

And then all too soon, B-1 observes as Ironhide is accepted through the checkpoint, his heavy pedesteps clunking as he turns to face them, waiting for them to pass through.

He's so focused on the overwhelming sense of dread that he jumps a good foot backward when Jazz steps into the center of his vision. The older bot holds his servos up, a slightly strained smile stretched across his intake. “Woah there kidda’, take it easy,” he says, taking a step forward. B-1 locks up the pistons in his stabilizers, ensuring he doesn’t shy away again. “Lost ya fer’ a nano-klik. I was jus’ gonna say I can go next.”

B-127 frowns, considering Jazz’s words and feeling the darkness in him clench around them in sickly sweet mockery. He doesn’t want to go at all, but more than that he doesn’t want these bots' first impression to be of his weakness. Has he already failed to show his mettle? Is their view of him already shifting to the waste of materials he knows he is?

For some reason, that pisses him off.

They truly think him so fragile? Already? He’s a lot of undesirable things, but as he reminds himself of every little silver scar and dent and fragging corrupted program, B-1 thinks that fragile isn’t one of them.

The Autobots don’t have time to spend their time keeping their pede-steps featherlight for some sparkling who can’t handle even passing through a routine checkpoint. B-127 will not be the one to give them that burden. Rolling his shoulders and lowering his optical ridges, B-1 clenches his servos and shakes his helm, inventing harshly. “No, no, that’s alright,” he responds, forcing his legs to move despite how much his sensornet dances with static.

His steps are unnecessarily heavy and a bit poorly telegraphed, and B-1 admonishes himself for letting his emotions take control and reveal some of his dysfunctional clumsiness. Even so, he stomps briskly past Jazz and Ramna who both look a little shocked. Surprised he hasn’t fallen to the ground crying yet? Yeah, keep waiting. He may be useless to their cause but there’s no reason to really hammer that home.

“Oh-kay, I just—” Jazz starts, but B-1 redirects his audial sensors forward, purposefully drowning out whatever overly nice gesture the older bot was about to make.

If his functional door wing is raised to it’s highest point, and his gyroscope is feeding into his emotional centers and making him dizzy, well, no one needs to know that. Waltzing with a confidence he definitely does not feel, B-1 stops in front of the two bots, relishing in the shade from the beating sun as one small mercy from this experience. In his periphery, he spies Ironhide reaching out a servo before seemingly thinking better of whatever he wants to do, and lowering it once more.

The two mechs manning the checkpoint seem a lot less jovial then they were with Ironhide, but that doesn’t really surprise him. They know Ironhide and they know Jazz, it makes sense they’d be more comfortable. B-1 is a stranger, granted a teenage, dented up stranger, but B-127 knows better than most that danger can come from anywhere.

“Give yourself a little grace, B,” Newdawn quietly instructs from beyond the veil. B-1 grits his denta and demands he stay focused. Don’t space out to argue with a delusion. The voices have been somewhat quiet since they left the abandoned settlement, but B-1 thinks that is mostly because he’s been doing whatever he can to not act completely insane.

B-1 notes that the drive-through is blocked by a small fence gate that swings out of a chamber in the building, he hadn’t seen it before. It locks into place as seemingly a blockade to keep anyone from driving straight through. That sets him further on edge, but B-127 still insists on meeting the mech’s optics helm-on.

One of them gives him a nod of greeting, and upon examining B-1 a little further, spreads a smile across his face plate. “Hi, they let us know you were coming. We’ll be quick about it, promise!” He says, gesturing wildly around him to further push his point as his tough warrior demeanor all but melts away. “Can I ask your designation?”

Somewhat taken aback, B-1 clears his vocoder. “Oh, um, B-127,” he answers numbly, annoyed by the betraying shake in his voice.

The nicer guy shakes his head in understanding and turns to type something into the data console, and B-1 shivers at feeling his field open up to encroach on his space. The other bot doesn’t seem as willing to warm up, but his EM isn’t particularly harsh, either, he just stares at him, bright cyan optics taking in his every feature. A wrongness settles near B-1’s spark.

Clapping his servos together, then reaching for the dangling port plug, the nicer bot steps closer. “Okay, all we need is to look over a few things, then you’ll be right as acid-rain to pull through, little buddy,” he makes a swirling motion with his opposite digit. “Your helm-port would be most efficient."

And B-1 knew that was coming but it still brings a horrible nausea and a burning in his fuel lines. He knows they all notice the shaking in his servos but he is far too stubborn to beg for help now, nodding and reaching to take the plug from the bot with a little too much force. It’s barely anything in his grasp, but to B-1 it’s the heaviest thing he’s ever lifted, and he knows if he thinks about it too much he’ll freeze up, so with a harsh invent, he slams the plug into his port.

Perhaps he should have been a little gentler.

The sudden inflow of data crashes over him so fiercely his ventilation cuts off and he gags, suddenly unsteady on his pedes. The more stoic bot is suddenly by his side with a steadying servo cupping his elbow.

Splitting his attention between B-1 and the screen, which is now alight with data – B-1’s data – the nicer one gives him a slightly alarmed look. “Woah little buddy, be gentle with that – you could hurt yourself jacking in that rough,” he says, optics a little wide as if B-1 has grown a second helm.

That almost makes him laugh because oh, this guy has no idea. The only reason he doesn’t is because this isn’t exactly the same sensation as whenever Dea-8 combed through his processor, digging his coded claws through his firewalls and leering at information he wasn’t meant to see. No, this is still invasive – god, it doesn’t ever stop – and B-127’s body still goes completely still under the disconcerting feeling that there are hundreds of optics looking through him, but it is, noticeably, more careful with his stack and more delicate functions.

If he weren’t about to implode, he’d be relieved. They don’t break through any partitions and don’t try to pick apart his subroutines. It’s more of a passing-through than a heavy search.

Just as he thinks they’ve finished, and predictably found nothing besides a few dozen corrupted files, B-127 feels them freeze, and his spark chills. What, what’s happening?

The servo holding him up tenses, and B-1 looks up – not having realizes he’d been glaring daggers into the ground – and finds the two bots making optic contact with each other. B-1 can only assume they’re communicating, and they look… confused, more than anything. His port is beginning to burn and this time, B-1 knows it’s not just in his mind. The well-meaning Autobot turns to him, and in the corners of his vision, Jazz, Ramna, and Ironhide all take a step forward.

B-1 feels a lot like a cornered animal.

“I-Is something, uh, wrong?” B-1 shakily inquires, ashamed at his fear and beginning to quietly pray that Primus just make him disappear. He doesn’t have any evil code does he? Dea-8 didn’t sneak anything in there while he was recharging, right? No, he never slept heavily enough with them when – well, maybe when he was knocked out? Oh Primus.

“No, uh, just curious about something, buddy,” assures the nicer guy, and B-1 finds the smile he pulls on to be a lot less comforting than the first one. “It’s just, you’ve got some coordinates here, and we’d just like to know where you got them?”

Oh fragging Primus almighty.

The fragging coordinates.

How had he forgotten about them? Not a cycle goes by that he doesn’t look them over and quietly yearn, and yet now he actually follows them and he forgot them completely?

He’s so stupid of course that would be suspicious! Why would a random youngling have coordinates to several Autobot bases. Iacon is one thing, but some of these are definitely not supposed to be common knowledge.

He couldn’t look more like a spy than if he plastered the Decepticon insignia to his face plate.

By now, Jazz and Ironhide are right by him, eyeing him strangely. B-1 becomes very aware of his every movement, the sway of his body, the twitch of his finials, the quiet grinding of a mal-healed bio-mechanism. His optics feel too big and his chassis too small, and B-1 very much would like to shrivel up and die now please.

Opening his intake, B-1 starts. “Oh.” He stops. He opens his intake again. “I um. An Autobot gave them to me.” And that sounds like such a fragging lie even B-1 wouldn’t believe himself. To prove his point, Ramna’s optics narrow.

“… Gave them to you?” She repeats, baring her denta in a puzzled grimace.

He nods, nervously bringing his servos together to knead his digits together. “She wanted me to go to them,” he explains, subdued at the memory. “I um, didn’t.”

Oh Primus does he sound like a complete liar it isn’t even funny. What the hell. Scrambling for something to make his unbelievably far-fetched story believable, B-1 picks at a weld in the back of his servo, right across the ridge leading to a bio-light. “Moonracer, her name was Moonracer.” Her designation plays fondly across his glossa, and B-1 hopes that’s enough.

Surprisingly, it’s Ironhide who speaks up. “Moonracer… that is a familiar one…” he ponders for a moment longer before a small groan of recognition beeps through his vocoder. “Ah,” he turns to Jazz. “She is one of Chromia’s. A fine young warrior, according to her,” his optics return to B-1, who instinctively hikes his pauldrons to his helm, trying to appear as small as possible. “You have met her?”

Stunned, he shakes his helm. “Once,” he replies shortly. “She was nice,” he adds, when he thinks that’s not quite good enough.

No one responds to that, and by the odd stillness that settles around them, B-1 knows they’re communicating somehow. His gyroscope betrays him as his emotional centers leak into his logic centers and he tries to keep his ventilations steady. What to do if they don’t believe him? Before, B-1 had the assurance that they wouldn’t hurt him, but that was when he was just a useless sparkling. Now, he’s a potential spy and a detriment to their cause.

A random new spark who appears just in time during a Decepticon ambush to conveniently help save the cycle? God that’s like, textbook secret evil, right? Straight out of a cartoon.

Maybe he should just leave, they’d be okay with that right? What should he do if they try to detain him? Run, drive? He doesn’t want to fight them, they’ve been kind, and he can’t bring himself to disappoint Moonracer like that.

But what if they do hurt him? What if?

He is about to retreat into the opposing wall and maybe combust when Ramna interjects on the reigning silence.

“Let us in on your field,” she commands, assertive but with an oddly kind undertone.

Next to her, Jazz frowns, but says nothing.

Resetting his optics, B-1 tilts his helm. “Wh… What?”

She points a digit to her chest plates, just above her spark chamber. “Let us in on your EM field. That combined with the data sifter, we’ll know if you’re lying.”

“Probably,” adds the less happy guy.

There’s an awful jolt of his spark and B-1 does his best to dismiss the sudden worsening burning within his core’s chamber. Unbidden, his armor locks to his protoform, and the sickness tumbling in his tanks spreads like creeping miasma until his ever piston, gear, and fuel line feels off to a startling degree. Letting his field free is bad, bad, bad.

His optics fly between the various bots surrounding him at a speed that makes him even more queasy, and he takes a shaky step back before he can stop himself. He isn’t lying, he knows he’s not, but they don’t, and the rumbling distrust emanating from them has his composure crackling away like a broken window. He should just do, it, let them in, stop being so slagging sensitive it’s just one thing and they’d believe him but what if they don’t like what they feel oh Primus—

A steadying servo clamps over B-1’s shoulder and the contact is so shocking a burst of charge zaps between them and B-127 yelps. The servo releases him immediately, and B-1’s optics manage to spiral back to some semblance of control and he sees it’s Ironhide, looking down at him with a softness he wouldn’t have predicted. “Only for a moment, young one, we won’t intrude any more,” he promises and B-1’s audials pick up a loud wurr, and in looking past the larger bot to the console monitor, his displayed data is speeding by fast enough to be concerning.

Slag, get a fragging grip.

Angry to have lost himself so easily again, B-127 grits his denta, tight enough to have his mandible joints creaking. “Okay,” he manages, because he’s reasonable and well-adjusted dammit. Ironhide gives B-1 room and that helps a little bit. He really, really would rather just keep his emotions to himself – that had been the plan for as long as he could bear it, but the virtual broadcast of his panic is already on full display on that stupid console, so he supposes it’s a little late now.

It's as easy as exventing, and like a dumpster long overdue to be taken away, his raw and frazzled mentality comes spilling out of him all at once and B-1 finds it extremely annoying how much relief he finds in it. His spark chamber is aching from keeping everything so close for two cycles and in some way B-127 knows that’s probably unhealthy. Now as his field mingles with the others around him, it’s sensitive and has B-1 feeling oddly hollow, the feelings kept prisoner having carved out a space somewhere to nest.

While overwhelming, nothing is more so than the way the other bots tense around him, and B-1 feels so very watched, picked apart. He can’t bear to keep optic contact with any of them as they read him, so he looks off, imagining Faylever’s sad expression at his inability to open up. “I’m not lying,” he says, almost a whisper. “I promise.” His vocoder breaks into a small crackling one the last word, and a hot shame runs down his back strut.

He's been shot by Autobots before. Just a few times when the bandits made him infiltrate and steal. He’d rather not repeat that experience. A weld in his shoulder throbs.

Believe me, please believe me, please, please please.

His desperation must flood through his field because the nicer guy winces and Ironhide looks a tad owlish.

And Jazz holds a servo up, his easy-going smile gone. It’s deeply unsettling. “That’s enough,” he announces, authoritative and strong and very unlike whatever persona he’d been keeping up until now. The visored bot sends a rush of static that feels so much like it’s okay, you’re okay, and B-1’s sensor nodes buzz. “We believe ya, B.”

The quieter guy raises an optical ridge. “Wait, but—”

Both Ironhide and Jazz give him a look, and it chills B-1 to his core. The bot settles and steps back. Ramna crosses her arms. “Alright then, we’re gonna flag this, but you’ll be fine I’m sure, we’ll get in contact with this Moonracer’s commanding officer and confirm all of this.”

“Not necessary,” Ironhide interjects, raising a servo to brush along his helm. “I know her officer personally, I shall take care of it.”

That gives her pause, but she responds with a straightened backstrut and a salute. “Ah—very well, sir, just be sure to let the Iacon gate know the situation—”

The tall mech scoffs. “Yes, yes, soldier, there is no need for a lecture, I’ve known the protocols longer than you’ve been in your final frame.” Grumbles Ironhide, turning with a shake of his helm and a lasting glance in B-1’s direction, before he lumbers back off of the platform to await them.

Ramna is taken aback and if B-1 wasn’t so frazzled he’d pity the way a spike of embarrassed nervousness strikes through her field. Optics blinking rapidly, she swiftly finds her composure and zeroes back in on him, B-1 pulls his field back in as far as he can once more. “You can unplug now,” she instructs, somewhat weary.

“—Please don’t yank it, you’ll have a helm-ache for cycles,” warns the nicer guy. B-1 wonders if he should as his designation. He doesn’t.

No one is more well-acquainted with helm pain than he is, so his pride is no more wounded as he gently ushers the plug from his port. It still sizzles as it jacks free, but he imagines that has more to do with Dea-8’s careless touch than anything. Still, he exvents in relief when the sensation of prying optics fades from his helm.

Gesturing with her forehelm, Ramna ushers him to the other side of the checkpoint, and B-1 is very impressed with his ability to even walk right now. He finds himself staring off into space as he takes his place next to Ironhide, who is definitely looking at him a little differently.

What did he betray, in that single moment of cracking himself open? What did they say? What do they see now? Moonracer told him the Autobots wouldn’t care if he was crazy, just how true were those words?

He doesn’t really want to think about it.

It’s bad, but he allows some of himself to numb and he sways with the calm wind. If Ironhide speaks up, B-1 doesn’t register it.

When Jazz gets through the checkpoint – in like two kliks because of course his is fast and easy and not suspicious – he skips up to them grinning, all traces of that weird serious wavelength gone.

“See? What’d I tell ya? Nothin’ serious. Easy peasy!”

Feeling a bit brave—or perhaps masochistic, B-1 doesn’t hide it when he rolls his optics.

***

The remainder of the drive is awkward, it’s all awkward and now they’re upset and B-1 is upset and everyone’s upset and he should have minded his damn business this is so stupid.

Jazz chitters on about random things but B-127 honestly hears very little of it.

There’s this weird rift between the trio now and acting like it isn’t there feels counterproductive. Jazz can ignore it, but B-1 knows it’s there. It’s all rather silly because B-1 truly doesn’t know why he cares so much, he doesn’t know these bots very well. They’re virtually strangers to him.

Well, maybe acquaintances now, but semantics.

But even still, there is something old and overgrown in the depths of his burnt spark that yearns for it, for their approval. Different from how he at first wanted the bandit’s approval – that was a matter of survival, keeping his pedes light to survive another day in their fold. This is something else. A wanting that dates back to before his processor and spark alike were shattered and clumsily put back together.

Every attempt to put a name to it is like trying to bring Energon to his intake with his bare servos. Whenever he thinks he gets close, the definition dribbles through his digits and back to the inky darkness, where the beasts extend their slinky arms and devour every good thought he has. Even his tired infodex is unhelpful, lazily giving him defining potentials, but never quite landing on true meaning.

Whatever it may be, it’s placed a guilt on his shoulders that adds to the weight he drags along with his existence, and it feels like a punishment for some unseen sin. Guilt that these new bots had to feel even an ounce of the heaviness he does each cycle, when he knows they must already suffer so much, for what could be heavier than the weight of war?

How could the pain of a single sparkling even compare?

So, he keeps quiet, allowing the ambiance of his rumbling tires and the whistling breeze to keep him centered.

If it comes to it, he can always leave.

***

The darkened visage of Iacon’s skyscape grows closer and closer until it’s all B-1 can see. Tents grow denser and denser on either side of the old highways and B-1 deduces they must be different Autobot branches or maybe even civilian housing of some sort. Iacon is supposed to be huge, but there’s no telling how much of it is still livable.

Tall fences line certain blocks, and his curiosity has him swiveling his mirrors as curiosity nips at his plating. It’s a favorable distraction, so he spends the rest of the drive imagining rows and rows of weapons being developed, epic training halls, and warriors sparring and honing their skills. It’s a fun picture, and B-1 hasn’t indulged in that kind of play in a long time.

Blue Breeze would love it here, he imagines.

Eventually, more rumble strips skate below his tires, and B-1 follows Ironhide and Jazz’s lead to slow down for the final checkpoint leading to the city. The dusty cybermatter is replaced by smooth, polished metal, corroded in some places but surely more well-kept than the wilds outside. B-1 is reminded of the frequent acid rains here; he assumes there is a correlation.

Just as promised, this checkpoint is not nearly as stressful. Thank Primus for that. One lone fem-bot mans the station and greets them with a cheery smile. She seems to know Jazz and Ironhide too, though understandably Jazz is far keener to converse, while Ironhide only offers her a slightly less-than-angry grunt. There is no logic in plugging in twice, so they don’t, and the nice femme compliments B-127’s paint as she goes over the data the first checkpoint sent over. He remembers to say something nice back this time.

If she is perturbed by his dents or the contents of the data-packet, she doesn’t show it, smiling the whole way and even offering him a small Energon cube. “For the rest of your drive,” she explains calmly, holding it out to him. Her sweet demeanor is extremely jarring, and he declines the cube because he’s got plenty – and he imagines she needs it more.

He doesn’t wanna be greedy.

“All of it, child.”

It probably would rust his lines anyway.

As he trudges on dragging pedes, B-1 doesn’t realize he has crossed over into the city until he’s hit with the sheer intensity of it all. Backstrut straightening, his optics spiral, and his observational subroutines boot up to see and catalog information. Long sweeping highways dance above their helms, creating flowing ribbons as the living metal of their planet follows the flow of traffic, building more surface area as the car alt modes utilizing it twist and turn to their desired location. Similarly, B-127’s optics zoom to spy nearly invisible purple lines glistening high into the sky.

Some sort of flying guideline for airborne Transformers, perhaps?

Though, whether you can fly or not seems to be of little consequence here, some of the buildings cast in a beautiful multi-chrome stretch far past the heavens, so much so that B-1 nearly laughs at the image of one of them accidentally spearing one of their moons.

Despite supposedly being a shadow of it’s former brilliance, B-127 is still thoroughly impressed, though being the country astro-vulture he’s grown to be, maybe any city would be impressive.

He told himself he would never step a pede inside of a city, it’s dangerous, he can’t, and in many ways B-1 still believes that, but as he is overwhelmed with the whimsy of the utter life thrumming through this place, he finds that perhaps his spark burning discomfort was worth it. If they kick him out now, he won’t complain, because sure the beauty of the city is palpable.

But it’s the number of people that really sets him over the edge. So many different builds, mechs, and femmes alike, all flocking and running this way and that, living their lives with the freedom B-1 has always longed for. And he knows that he’s just building a narrative, but this is the most people he has ever seen in one place, and for the first time in stellar cycles B-1 really feels like the Well didn’t spit him out to an empty house. Didn’t throw him from the pits to be destroyed by those less gentle. No one here wants to hurt him – probably, his injured mind unhelpfully adds – but really, they’re too busy to hate him. Too busy with their lives to find something unpleasant about him to dislike. The thought shouldn’t be comforting, but it is.

There are just… so many.

…

…

Primus, there are so many.

He wants to hold onto the awe and wonder forever, but it’s already fading, he pockets what he can to analyze later, but now, sound begins to filter back through his audials as his earlier numb catharsis dissipates and he realizes just how utterly noisy Iacon is. His olfactory sensors pick up  the scent of oil, Energon, metallic corrosion, coolant and acid, and so much more. Dozens upon dozens of EM fields crash through him and then zip away, ripping something from him each time as he tries and fails to get used to the sensation.

Yes, he isn’t alone, not at all. His gyroscope miscalculates as it often does and the dizziness he normally has no problem fighting off has his helm spinning. Well, at least no one can say he’s a particularly good spy, were he actually lying about the coordinates. One step in this place and he’s already overwhelmed.

“Kid, ya alright?” Jazz queries, tilting his helm and waving a servo in front of B-1’s rapidly focusing and blurring optics to regain his attention.

B-1 jumps with a small yelp, gets annoyed, and furiously lowers his optical, olfactory, and audial input. He reasons he can slowly bring everything back up to a normal setting once he’s adjusted to the bustle of this place. “Buh—yes, I’m sorry. Just…” he gestures weakly, clinking his palms against his tibulens. “Never been to a city, before. Yeah.” The way he admits it makes him feel small, and B-1 sets an objective for himself to get used to all this slag as quickly as possible.

But not too used to it, yeah? He could still leave.

Avoiding B-127’s gaze, Ironhide grunts from his perch just at the edge of the checkpoint’s drop-off point, observing the city with well-seasoned wisdom. “It is quite something.”

For a moment, Jazz is by his side with an arm raised, as if to rest it on his shoulder. He seems to think better of it, allowing it to rest at his side. B-1 is grateful for it, casting an ever-so-slightly exhausted look his way. Jazz calks his helm fondly – wait, fondly? “Don’tcha worry kid, where we’re goin’ is a lot quieter.”

At that, Ironhide snorts, stepping to the level ground and transforming in one slick motion. “Old friend, quieter to you is only slightly below deafening.”

B-127 and Jazz walk in step, following Ironhide’s lead as they set off on the road. “Ay, someone’s gotta bring a little life ta’ the table. I’m jus’ doin’ my part to make sure we don’t lose our minds.”

They continue to bicker like that the entire drive, and B-127 has to rev his engine to hide his laughter. This is all so ridiculous. They’re acting like nothing happened and they all know something has, they know B-1 is an allegorical train-wreck waiting to happen and even he will admit that his existence is suspicious. They should be treating it with more care, really.

Didn’t they feel it? That dark part of his spark? Did they not feel the gritty texture of the lives he’s taken?

He’d hoped to find some sort of closure by coming here, but all he is finding is more questions and the clawed grip of fear around his thraceatic cables.

He supposes he should be glad that he at least has the privilege to be this disheveled, if Lariat were here he’d have knocked him senseless by now.

Though rather morbid, B-127 can’t lie that the image makes him chuckle.

***

“Now, don’t mind any of the hard-afts in there. They know yer comin’, they just ain’t relaxed in the last ten vorns,” Jazz warns, grinning as he ushers B-1 through the courtyard of a reinforced building that towers high into the sky, sleek metal bouncing off of the water in the sky and coloring everything around it like a soggy rainbow.

“We won’t let em’ give ya a hard time. Scout’s honor.”

Ironhide scoffs at his side. “Some of your scouts have very little.”

That has Jazz frowning and it’s the first time B-1 thinks he looks genuinely offended. “Ay man, not cool. Just because they gotta do some slag you might think undesirable don’t mean they ain’t some of our finest.” Jazz defends fiercely, a slight rasp in his tone that informs B-127 that this is far from the first time they have argued about this.

The taller bot rolls his optics and grumbles something surly about ‘real warriors’ and ‘regulating behavior,’ but doesn’t push the issue. B-1 tries to focus on putting one pede in front of the other.

This place is huge, and clearly important by the shining Autobot insignia embossed proudly on its front entrance. While his anxiety is spiking, he saves some room to ogle at the soldiers idling in the courtyard, mechs and femmes of all sizes. They all share that same sigil and seeing it so very present makes them all seem so… united.

He’s reminded of that old Decepticon cartoon, the one he’s made great efforts to keep buried. Quotes of glory and purpose come to mind, all in hopes of spurring on the Decepticon cause. Yet, as he looks out at the warriors – who show no shame in staring right back – B-1 thinks they may have only aided the Autobots with those words.

Because Primus, don’t they all look glorious?

Seeing them all clustered here in this stronghold of a city is different from any of the outposts or settlements he’s stolen from. This place feels cut off from the tragedy outside, somehow, secure in the bubble they’ve created. Would Lariat ever be able to break through it? Would Locke Up?

Puzzling, puzzling.

***

They go through a few more security measures walking through the foyer, but nothing is so formal as before, most of the bots take one look at Jazz and Ironhide and let them through. B-1 keeps his helm ducked and manages to get out of it without having to talk to anyone, only getting stuck in an awkward smile-and-wave combo once.

Before long, they’ve descended to some sort of underground sub-level hangar, with ceilings high enough to make B-1 dizzy. Just how low have they gone? The elevator leading down definitely isn’t built for three bots, and B-127 nearly loses his composure over how close he must be to the two older warriors, who, annoyingly, don’t seem to care at all. Even Ironhide, who is large to begin with, only scowls in that way that B-1 is starting to recognize as a staple to his character.

It becomes pretty clear almost immediately that this is where this base stores their Energon cache. To begin with, there’s not much as he would expect from the main headquarters of the Autobots, but he supposes that they wouldn’t have gone hunting through a long abandoned ruin if their supply wasn’t low. There is a healthy mix of Transformers and worker drones pottering about, sorting and B-127 guesses counting as well.

They are stopped somewhere near a wall and told to unload all they can, and then told basically get out as soon as possible

“I got twelve malfunctioning drones and overworked Autobots. I ain’t need you loud-dermas getting on my fuel lines too,” sneers a deep purple femme. She must be old enough to garner some respect because even Ironhide doesn’t raise an optical ridge at her tone. B-1 is amazed she still has a helm on her shoulders.

Once they dump all of the cubes, he feels significantly lighter, and his engine gives a happy tumble at the lack of strain. He allows himself a little shake of his door wings, careful not to set his gyroscope off kilter. The pleasant buzz of his working one picking up the electrical current of the Energon brings a timid smile to his intake, one he keeps to himself to help ease some of his stress.

And with that they make their way out of the hangar. B-1 turns his helm to admire the small towers of fuel, and the cubes that only a few nights ago, only he was privy to. A certain greedy tingle singes under his mandible and down his neck cables, but B-1 dismisses the sensation as best he can, reminding himself with some spiteful pride that now, well and truly, Lariat and his merry men will never get their servos on these cubes.

That eases the tingle, somewhat, and he forces his helm away, balking with some alarm when the action has his spark pulse skyrocketing. That haze of needing to check his surroundings makes him queasy in the sea of bots around them, and he grimaces as they return to the elevator.

“You won’t be punished for thinking out of turn, B,” Newdawn reminds from some spot in the corner. It’s tight enough that if he stresses his optics enough, B-1 can just faintly see the outline of his bleeding and long-dead form.

He sets his jaw as tight as he can manage, praying that Primus chases away the awful phantom optics all around him. Keeping his helm down is easy, and ignoring the sheer proximity to Jazz and Ironhide isn’t as worrisome as the first time. Jazz hums a little tune B-1 doesn’t recognize. Clenching on to the noise helps, and by the time they’ve ascended twenty floors, the edges of himself don’t feel so rough, and he thinks he can ventilate without causing a ruckus.

With a clicking rest of his vocoder, Ironhide draws B-1’s attention, and looking up at his looming figure has gotten a little easier, too. “You should know, young one, that this is all quite unusual,” he starts, flickering his optics and then shaking his helm. “I’m afraid your… appearance, and subsequent aid to our fight has garnered more attention than we intended.”

The reaction is too quick to stop, and so B-1’s fuel lines flush hot when his armor forcibly locks itself to his protoform in shock. What the frag does that mean? Has he done something wrong? He hasn’t decided on staying yet—he can leave – what if they want him to leave? Was he too cold? It wasn’t on purpose.

Well, it may have been a little on purpose.

Was it his field?

Primus this is all too convoluted.

He can manage a, “Oh?” and mentally cheers that his vocoder doesn’t glitch at all. Ha, take that irrational insanity.

Jazz chuckles, waving a servo before he crosses his arms. “We got other kidda’s like ya around the city somewhere – protected, amnesty and slag like that.  Usually  we have scouts stationed near tha’ Well, an' a few a’ the other known openings. Negotiated wit’ the Decepticons and larger Neutrals for em’ an’ everythin’.” Something about him softens, and B-1’s finials twist, as his sensornet tries to compensate for his confusion. “Worked well the past thirty vorns. Sorta.”

The older, taller bot groans. “Hardly, the Decepticons honored the deal we struck for all of six stellar cycles before new sparks began going missing.”

A small hollow carves itself into his midsection plating, but he resists telling the bots that he really doesn’t want to know any of this. Doesn’t want to know why he didn’t get the mercy the others have. Why so many have met fates far more cruel still. All he really wants to know is if he is in trouble – and what that could mean.

That makes him feel so horribly selfish.

The two older warriors must sense his discomfort, sharing a look and noticeably softening their fields around him. “Point is—it’s not uh, common, ta’ meet kids like you out there,” Jazz says gently, his sardonic grin morphing to one much more sheepish. “And we’ve got a pretty tight knit group. Known each other for…”

“Eons,” Ironhide supplies.

Jazz nods. “Right, so, we’re friends, yeah – no matter what any of tha’ old fools say – so, ova’ the centuries, the reports we send each other for smaller missions like this have gotten a little… informal.”

Ironhide rolls his optics. “Speak for yourself. You’re a terrible example.”

Dismissively waving a servo, Jazz continues. “Whateva’ you say brother.” Through his visor, B-127 can see Jazz wink at him. The elevator shutters to a stop, and with some horror, B-1 realizes they’ve ascended to the very top floor of the tower. “What I’m tryna’ say is ah…”

The doors slide open with a metallic swish. B-1’s sparkpulse doubles. “We are all a bunch of ancient relics hoping to find something worth paying attention to,” Ironhide adds, wistfully, taking the first step out of the crowded space. Jazz soon follows, and with a buzzing in his pedes, B-1 shakily does too.

It’s a smaller space, data consoles line the walls, some awash with information B-1 is pretty sure he’s not nearly qualified enough to see. The rest are turned off, and B-1 wonders just what kind of intel is shared up here and why they would let B-1 anywhere close. The ceilings are high, and at the room’s center, a long table spans it, a few half-used Energon cubes scattered about with other data pads.

He tries not to look too starstruck, but the windows surround the room and shine in like show lights displaying the bots within as if they’re a god-given solace.

The elevator doors shut with a clunk, making B-1 jump out of his thoughts, and the encroaching fields rush to him like scraplets in need of a feed. It makes him shiver to have so many optics suddenly on him at once, and he resists the urge to jump out the window. There are seven of them, two femmes and five mechs – all wildly different and all staring at him oh god –

They’re all balking at him with various degrees of obviously staring, and B-1 wants to bang on the elevator to make it take him away.

… Is that Optimus Prime?

What the hell.

What the – what.

Why would a Prime give a damn about a new spark who only sort of helped these apparently very important men?

His plating completely clamps to his protoform and his mandible drops, and his processor slows to a crawl as it tries and fails to understand what’s going on here.

Crossing his arms and giving the bots a grimace, Ironhide gives B-1 a pitying look. “Some of the strongest and most skilled members of the Autobot cause, high commanders and generals. They’re all well regarded and for good reason.”

He sighs. “But as it stands, no one is perfect.” His helm turns to eye them all down with a frown. B-1’s optics are wide and barely taking in the words. He waits for the gavel to hammer down. Instead, Ironhide only growls, a little louder than necessary.

“It stands that they are all also horrible gossips.”

Chapter Text

Now, as far as groveling goes, B-1 has never really been the type. Even with Decepticon claws digging into his plating, he never gave Locke Up the satisfaction of making him beg. The idea sounds sort of undignified and most of the time B-127 is too wrapped up in a mixture of coursing anger and sickening fear.

Even when he made that deal with the bandits, he doesn’t think that was really groveling, it was more… bartering. For his life.  

But, perhaps, he might consider it with bots like these.

Only if that meant they would give him some fragging space.

Their fields aren’t oppressive per se, but they are very present and very intentional, some of them clawing at him to try and find something. While they aren’t necessarily aggressive or showing mal-intent, these people are clearly analyzing him.

There’s a taut silence as it seems no one quite knows what to do, but like the fragging hero he is, Jazz steps up, clapping his servos together and gesturing in B-1’s direction. “Alright ya sad sacks, lay off the oglin’ and start with a hello.” He moves his servo between B-1 and himself. “Brothers, sisters, B-127. B-127, the Autobot high command.”

A tad thrown off by the introduction, B-1’s vocoder only beeps a few times when he tries to speak. When that doesn’t work and he feels even more like an idiot, he forces his processor to command his arm to wave. It’s sort of jerky and B-127 immediately regrets even trying.

But the terrible display seems to knock them from their stupor and a few voices ring out in greeting, but all B-1 focuses on is the bright pink femme charging toward him.

There isn’t even a nano-klik to stumble backward or try and swerve out of the way. Charge bursts along his plating as his sparkbeat grows rapid. He’s about to protect his helm with his arms from the pain he expects to come, when he’s stunned into a frozen shock. Intake hanging open just so, B-1’s optic lenses shrink to specks in his optic ports and he releases a shuddering, loud vent.

Where he had prepared for a blow, he is met with secure, dainty arms wrapped around his middle. The sensation of the utter gentleness of the action has his finials standing on end and an endless electrical pulse rushing through him. It has been so long since anyone has hugged him, after all.

Her grip on him is tight but not at all imposing, and he’s so unsure of what to do he thinks he might purge, which would be awful because he’d hate to dirty her pretty paint.

The brush of her kind – but deceptively forceful – field nearly brings him to his knees, but he manages to reel back in the mystery emotion, grasping desperately for some semblance of understanding. Her delicate digits clench around his backstrut, briefly running along the grooves of his transformation seams. “Oh my god, you’re so sweet!” She exclaims, apparently finding the gall to squeeze him tighter.

It’s sort of obvious that he’s floundering, and he doesn’t try to hide it in the way his arms remain just raised above her, and the rigid state his body has put itself in. She’s just so close, and he doesn’t know her and why would she hug him? This feels weird, alien, untrustworthy.

“Uh—”

“Elita, perhaps a little space,” voices a deep, almost timid baritone, and it takes B-127 a solid four nano-kliks to recognize the voice’s owner as the Autobot’s one and only Optimus Prime. He shivers, he’s only heard that voice through the warbled and compressed speakers of holo-vids and old press speeches from eras long past, when the war was not such a bloodbath.

Instead of the blind obedience he is expecting – I mean, that is a Prime for fragging sake – B-127 senses a jolt of … fond annoyance? Maybe? There’s some embarrassment there too, but it is certainly overshadowed. She huffs through her vents and lets him go a moment later. B-1 steps back shakily, spark conflicted over whether he misses the closeness, or if he never wants anyone to do that again. There’s that weird fluttering again, but the moment he brings it to the forefront of his processor, the burning flares back up, and he decides he’d rather not think about it right now.

Bringing his optics back into focus, he takes in the femme in front of him. Her features around her faceplate are soft, sweet, with long hot pink finials along her helm to compliment the sky blue of her optics. B-1 doesn’t miss the distinct sharpness about her, either. While she almost looks… relaxed, B-1 can tell she remains guarded, holding tension in one stabilizer, as if ready to pounce at any moment. Predictably, she is armed, though not a warframe. He imagines everyone in here has a weapon of some kind. You don’t get to be in the Autobot’s high command without some military training.

Probably. He’s just guessing. Making up puzzles to solve as always.

The femme, Elita, he guesses, gives him a cheery smile. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

In the last two cycles? What on Primus’ metal aft is there to say about him?

Elita clasps her servos. “You sure are brave for getting in between these numb-helms in a fight. I hope they didn’t freak you out at all.”

Nope, it was probably the opposite. Like, definitely the opposite.

Seemingly uncaring about his deeply personal inner monologue, Elita continues. “Jazz told me your name was B-127? Is that right?” She asks, tilting her helm in question. A few of the bots draw nearer, and B-1 isn’t going to implode, he is not.

Still, he nods. “Yes,” he answers shyly, thinking about all the better ways to reply to that.

Her smile grows and something weirdly warm blossoms in B-127’s chest plates. “It’s a dignified designation, B-127. Hopefully you wear it with pride.” Elita places a closed servo over her spark chamber.

Of all of the things in his life, B-127 is pretty sure his name is perhaps the last thing he ever thinks about, but she looks so happy,  he doesn’t tell her that. Antagonizing a high commander would probably end very badly for him. Maybe. The hug has thrown him off.

“Forgive Elita-1, she has a soft spark for younglings,” announces the blue femme, a good bit taller than Elita with bulkier plating, still holding a certain femininity but definitely more imposing. A warframe, he notes, sleek transformation seems one can only be born with, not added. Her helm has many decorative curves and a crested processor casing which casts her optics in an eerie shadow. Still, as he examines, he sees a blue glow in her optics brighter even than Elita’s. She finds herself at Ironhide’s side, offering B-1 a curt nod. “Be still, child. I am Chromia, and I understand you have something of mine.”

The name rings around his helm a few times but it eventually arrives where it needs to and he visibly jolts from the recollection. A terribly pathetic laugh bubbles from him and he brings his servos up. “Oh – oh, yes yeah – sorry. I’m sorry. Is that what this is all about?” He asks, sort of faster than he intends to force the words out, but his voice box mechanisms practically shove them from his vocoder. “Moon… Moonracer lent them to me over a stellar cycle ago. I had no intention of using them, I promise. I promise.”

She holds a servo up, and B-1 clamps his intake shut. “Please, young one, promises will get you nowhere.” Chromia softens, even spreading a small smile across her face plate. “We Autobots can be terribly efficient when we wish to be. You have nothing to prove to us, anymore.” Then, she stops for a nano-klik, optics considerate before she rolls them fondly. “… Corporal Moonracer says hello, by the way, and ‘good job kicking con tailpipe, bad-aft.’” She says that last part with a sort of grimace on her face that says this is so beneath me.

Despite himself, the mention of Moonracer brings an unwitting smile to his intake and a lightness in his chest. Even from wherever she is stationed now, she’s still saving his aft. He wonders if he’ll ever see her again. Then, the reality of Chromia’s statement settles, and he raises a quizzical optical ridge. “Oh… okay. But um, if that’s not what this is about, why am I, ah, here?” inquires B-1, tapping his digits together.

Apparently having gained some confidence from Elita’s hug, Jazz tentatively places a servo across B-1’s shoulder. He tenses as that weird creeping feeling returns, but he hides his grimace because he really doesn’t want to look weak in front of these highly important bots. As if trying to compensate for invading his space, Jazz gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze and a warm encouraging shove with his field. “I told the big man ta’ mind his manners and thank ya’ personally.”

“Jazz, please,” groans an extremely put-off Ironhide.

And just when it appears like Jazz is going to say something in reply, the ‘big man’ himself steps forward, holding a servo up. The effect is instant, and all of the bots in the space still, even Jazz releases B-127 from his hold. It takes a solid nano-klik or two before B-1 can muster up the gumption to look up at him. The holo-vids or posters don’t do his visage justice and now that he’s up close, B-1 realizes just how large he is. B-1 isn’t in his full frame yet and has a few to go before he’s at his full height – if he ever gets there with the number of errors within his code – but it hardly makes a difference because Optimus towers over everyone.

He thought Ironhide was tall but Primus if he wanted to the Prime could crush B-127 under his pede. The bot standing next to him is similarly lofty, but he doesn’t quite have the imposing presence – though he definitely looks a bit more grumpy.  

Optimus doesn’t exactly smile at him, but he does give off a distinct warmth as their optics meet and just as B-127 is examining him, the Prime does the same.  “It’s alright, old friend, I do owe our guest a thanks for his show of bravery,” he starts, absently placating the rising tensions with only a few words. “I am Optimus Prime, and—”

“Oh, I’d have to have a glitch not to know who you are,” B-1 interrupts, and a nano-klik too late, he realizes he actually said that part out loud oh my god. His servos slam into his face and he looks down in horror. “Oh my god, I am so sorry I didn’t mean to say that.” Apologizes B-127, vocoder warbling has his shame putrefies. “Out loud,” he adds unhelpfully.

A small snicker breaks the silence and he’s pretty sure it’s either from Jazz or that Elita-1 lady, either way, he’s horrified. It hasn’t even been thirty nano-kliks and he’s already mocked a Prime, the Optimus Prime, who was trying to compliment him. Primus, just throw him helm-first out the window. Please, he’ll pay for it at this point.

Instead of doing what he should, i.e., having B-1 given fifty lashings or something scary like that, Optimus only raises his optical ridges. It’s got to be just a trick of the light, but B-1 thinks he sees the ghost of a smile grace his features for a nano-klik. “Well, regardless, I am thankful to meet you B-127.” And he does something even crazier, bending to a knee to meet B-1 optic-to-optic. Never in his life did he ever predict a Prime taking a knee for him. He tries not to shy away from him because that’s rude, and B-1 isn’t rude dammit. Just… freaked the hell out. Up close, B-1 notes the old and unbuffed scratches in the Prime’s face place. Huh, who would guess a Prime would ever be marred with a blemish?

Still, the scars do nothing to hinder the wise and long-lived wavelength pouring off of him. Vast and unending as it may be, it doesn’t feel like Optimus is looking down on him at all. B-1 wonders the face he’d make if he were to let his field back out. Would he be disgusted and stunned, like those people at the checkpoint? Would he dismiss whatever comes through the way Jazz and Ironhide seemed to? Or would it be something else entirely? Oh, another forbidden puzzle, he supposes.

Optimus continues. “It takes great courage to risk your life for those you do not know, and your generosity in offering up your Energon cannot be understated.”

The worst part about all of that is how painfully sincere he sounds, the deep smoothness of his vocoder reminding him too much of Newdawn, just the comparison makes him sick with old grief. Where is Newdawn, anyway? What would he have to say about all of this? B-1 fumbles for a response, barely stopping himself from drowning in Optimus’s field and equally pungent stare. He casts his optics around the group which has sort of surrounded him now, all searching. The guy behind Optimus looks at him with thinly veiled horror, red chevron hooding his wide optics, which even now scan over B-1’s frame as if it’s the worst thing he’s ever seen.

A wrongness settles in his spark, black and oozing and as always, burning. He turns to tell Optimus that of course he offered the Energon – it wasn’t actually his. If anything, he’s a thief for using it to refuel for so long. Never mind the fact that they could have gone searching for it vorns ago, that doesn’t feel like a good excuse to him anymore. He is about to voice all of this, but the words catch in his voice box mechanisms. Optimus looks at him – still somehow towering despite being at his level – and something in him weakens. Those optics are so tired, he notes, perhaps for the first time. Exhausted and weary with war in ways a high commander must hide.

It must be stressful. It must be awful.

Though not entirely placated, he decides to put away his corrections for the moment. Ironhide they needed something worth paying attention to, and while he knows that sooner or later, they’re bound to be bored of him, B-1 can grant them this small mercy for a moment. He musters a smile that he’s sure they all know is fake. “I, ah. It was nothing. Really. I was just giving back something that was not even mine.” He replies weakly, knowing how pitiful of a response that was. “Besides, I doubt any members of the… of the Autobot high command actually need my help with anything.”

Elita-1 snorts, placing a palm on Optimus’s shoulder and tilting her helm. “Oh, my new friend, you have no idea. You did us a huge favor in keeping them out of trouble. I don’t think Ironhide would survive another trip to the medical wing, Ratchet might just replace his helm with a leftover radiator and call it a cycle.”

The scary guy with the red chevron scoffs, narrowing his optics at the larger red bot. “Oh, I’d do much worse than that, Elita,” he growls, giving Ironhide a look. Ironhide doesn’t flinch, only grimacing at the thinly veiled threat as if he’s been afflicted.

But, just as Jazz and Ironhide have said, B-1 can tell there’s an old bond there keeping the grumbling engines from escalating.

His optics return to Optimus, who has somehow commanded attention without uttering a word. “While I have utmost faith in my comrades to return home safely, your show of kindness had nothing to do with how competent you believed them to be,” Optimus says, lifting his servo momentarily before seemingly thinking better of it. “You wanted to aid them for the sake of assisting, without asking for anything in return. That takes a kind spark that is not often given so freely. That is why we are grateful, B-127.”

There is an audible whirr as his processing fans kick on and his internals fire a tad too much charge to his helm, and B-1’s optics crash and reset a few times in quick succession. He doesn’t know what to say to that, where to even begin. A simple ‘you’re welcome’ seems a bit crass and he’s already tried the whole ‘don’t worry about it’ thing, what else is there to say? He should say something, at least, he was just complimented by a slagging Prime for Kaon’s sake. Even a Decepticon could manage a thank you for a bot second to heaven. Intake opening a few times – each time with an amazing, clever, and equally complimentary response on his glossa. Totally. Yet just as he’s about to find something, his emotional centers fizzle out the words like dust particles.

In the end, his vocoder just bleeps. Stupidly, childishly. Like a damn sparkling.

Elita-1 doesn’t hide her smile at the noise and B-1 wants to die a little.

“Oh god. I’m sorry. I meant to say something a lot cooler,” he tries, and instantly wishes he’d just allowed his processor to overheat.

Thank Primus, Optimus is understanding – and ok, he’s definitely got a small little baby of a smile underneath the stoicism. Can’t hide from these optics. “All is well, B-127, I imagine a lot of this is new to you?”

A bit shaky with the wind knocked out of him, B-1 nods numbly.

The Prime’s crowning finials drop minutely. “I see, and I understand you have not come to a decision as to whether you will remain here with us?”

Caught off guard by that question, he shakes his helm.

“You know you’re welcome here, right?” Elita-1 interjects, leaning in closer and nearly blinding him with the strength of her spark.

Taking a stumbling step back, B-1 invents harshly, unwilling to give the emotions rising up inside him room to blossom and grow. They’re so old, dusty relics of a time with shinier paint and newer, hopeful optics. He wants her to take it back. Please, take it back.

Optimus seems to soften, and B-1 releases a shuddering vent of relief as the Prime pulls back his gigantic field a few inches. “The Sanctuary is a well-maintained, ethical place. Many of the new sparks that are rescued to the facility find loving and equipped caretakers to guide them in this world.” Optimus says, the power in his voice resting behind the giant’s undeniable gentleness. “With a spark like yours, you’d find wonderful—”

“—No,” B-127 replies harshly, stern, cool.

At this, the room stills, optics widen, and B-1’s tanks turn violently. His logic centers skyline and he nearly winces as he feels them peak in his helm, broken social protocols advising him to keep quiet, but he is driven by something stronger.

The blue guy with the funny shoulders narrows his optics. “Now, young man, while in this space you should consider showing some—”

The Prime raises a servo. “Magnus my friend, it is alright. Your spark is as bright as always, but please, allow B-127 the dignity of speaking up.” Instructs Optimus, turning his help just slightly to eye the larger bot down.

His ventilation stalls, and his plating shakes for a nano-klik before settling. He finds his resolve, looking up to meet Optimus’s optics with fervor. He knows the power a Prime holds, read about it ad seen the holo-films, but hey what has all thst power ever done for him? “Thank you sir, honestly, you’re uh—kind, kind to offer.” He resets his vocoder. “… But I already hav—had caretakers, I’m not… I won’t replace them.” Shaking his helm, B-127 manages a weak laugh. The image of those lost weighs heavily, it hurts like new as he speaks the reality out loud. “Besides, there are new sparks who—“ He reconsiders using the word ‘deserve.’ “—Need caretakers more than me. I’m… I’m alright on my own. Really.”

There’s a quiet that’s all too stifling, it’s all but torture. B-1 wonders if a new spark has ever – ever – been stupid enough to talk back to a Prime like that. Probably not, the only bot he has ever known to be that unabashedly moronic is himself. Yay, gold medals to everyone else for having even a shred of common sense.

Even still, his spark is as steady as it can manage these poorly cycles.

The red and white scary guy speaks up first. His inflection is a deep, tired. Like driving over gravel. “How old did you say you were?” He asks, raising an optical ridge that hides under his chevron.

His servos clench and release. A pressure settles heavier over his boiling spark. “I didn’t,” he starts, through gritted denta. “Ah, I’ll be eleven stellar cycles in two orbital cycles.” Admitting it to a bunch of strangers is like acid on his glossa. A weakness. These bots are probably eons old by now, hundreds of thousands of vorns. Mere stellar cycles mean nothing to them.

Oh, but if only they what the finite moments of his life mean to him. If only.

There’s a collective clatter as armor snaps against protoflesh and now they stare at him as if he’s waltzed in with the Quintessons and Megatron himself in tow.

“Yeesh,” Jazz whispers, vocoder sizzling from the low output. B-1 wilts, feeling so very small. He shouldn’t have said a word.

Chromia places a palm on her hip plate. “Quite young to be on your own, child.”

Crossing his arms to put some space between himself and their opposing gazes, B-1 narrows his optics. “I’m a teenager, that’s old enough, isn’t it?” He replies, perhaps a tad indignant.

The Chevron guy scoffs. A sort of noise almost like a laugh. “Hardly, your development is barely within your first few software models it’s—” He cuts himself off, tapering go whispered mutterings when the younger-looking red and silver bot standing by him offers a tense glance. Commlink, probably.

The younger guy smiles shyly. “Dr. Ratchet only means that it’s in your best interest to stay where a doctor or medic with good knowledge of hard-code is. The Sanctuary can offer that.” He brings a digit to idly trace along his helm’s metal. “… As well as various repair,” he adds, now having trouble looking B-1 in the optic.

B-127 feels very aware of his every dent, scar, and blotchy paint spot.

The Prime nods, offering an appreciative glance to the bot. “Well said, First Aid.” His hypnotic optics recenter on B-1. He tries not to wince. “My comrade is correct, even if you choose to remain without caretakers, I believe you would find the resources available to be of great benefit.”

They must be joking. “Oh please, you and I both know you people don’t need another tank to fill,” he snaps, that darkness reaching out from his spark and growing teeth. A lash of horror scores through him at his rash outburst, but he doesn’t give in to the fear, there’s no time for that now. Not with all of these bots looking down on him like he’s this delicate little thing.

If they only knew. They will, sooner or later. He won’t waste their time. Even if he wanted new caretakers, no one wants rotten goods. His spark is rife with holes, regardless of what they say. Their generosity is wasted on him.

Besides, they should know what happened to the last group of people who dared to care for him so freely. Oh well, details, details.

That same thing happens, where it seems the room is lost for words, and B-1 hopes his bad attitude is enough to stave off their pleading.

If they start glaring at him, if their fields take on a sharper shape, maybe that pesky tendril of light sluggishly reaching out from his spark will get a clue and calcify the way it should. He’s expecting punishment any nano-klik, but for now they just… stare.

They’re all rough in a way, perhaps they expect him not to notice but he does. Hardened sparks that have seen the terrors of war for eons before B-1 was even a concept. How silly he is for trying to compare himself to them. The way they soften their fields,  try to downplay their experiences—their pain—for his benefit, it feels so much like his very first few cycles with Newdawn and Faylever.

So much.

It’s protective, it’s almost safe. He always gets so close. Almost.

And he knows that if he lets himself, he’ll give in. He’d let them treat him like the innocent he knows he is not. He’d let them believe he’s just some lost sparkling, and not a broken puzzle piece with no matching pieces.

What an awful, greedy creature he’s become. Even with his rules which have become his lifeline, he is easily swayed.

Unaware of his ensnaring reverie, Elita clinks the side of her helm against Optimus’s shoulder. “Well, Optimus? He’s got you there, doesn’t he?” She gently teases, breaking a bit of the ice and stunning B-127. Do all Autobot generals talk to their Primes like this? He can’t imagine Alpha Trion taking it very well.

Then again, since when is he ever right about anything?

“He makes a fair point, our reserves are –”

“—No one was askin’, Prowl,” Jazz grumbles, a little rumble of his engine cutting the other bot off. B-1 notates the slight exasperation in the typically nonchalant bot’s modulation. Not annoyance per se, but certainly something close. Odd, didn’t Jazz say they were all friends?

Optimus leans back, bringing a contemplative servo to his chin. “While you are correct that our fuel stores are currently below optimal levels, I promise you we spare no expense with our younglings. None go hungry under the nurse’s and sentry’s care.” He offers B-1 a small, imperceptible smile. “But, if you truly wish to go your own way, then so be it. Your life is under your control.”

B-127 nearly crumbles to pieces. Thank god. If anyone was gonna figure it all out, it would be a Prime.

“I only ask one thing, a favor as a new friend.”

A new friend? Seriously? Why in the pits of Kaon would a Prime ever want – or even slightly benefit—from having a sparkling as a friend?

Was his disrespect not enough of a sign?

He really wishes these bots would get a clue.

Begrudgingly – because he knows this will be some sort of mind game, because he is stupid but not an idiot– B-1 nods his okay. He observes Optimus’s appealing fan array of finials pull up slightly. “It is a harsh journey outside of Iacon, allow us three solar cycles to express our gratitude to you. It will give you ample time to rest and refuel.”

“And give me time to straighten out those dents,” Ratchet adds harshly, doing an extremely good job of making B-1 feel like some sort of prey animal.

Offering both bots a wary glance, B-1 invents a clipped laugh. “Oh, ah...” His processor fizzles. This is not how this is supposed to go. They’re all tense, and B-1’s tired analyzing programs do little to inform the reason why.

A servo slams against the small of his backstrut and B-1's vocoder shorts with a series of bleeps and grating clicks. Jazz leans in altogether too closely to B-1’s face and he can’t decipher if he’s about to be hit or not. “C’mon, kidda, you can’t possibly have an excuse this time.”

And that stuns him in a way that makes his antennae burn with a deeper embarrassment. Jazz’s optics shine bright even behind his visor and B-127 stares up at him like a cornered turbo-fox.

Plating thrumming with static from the contact and brain module spewing charge in between partitions, B-1 blanks for a moment. The pressure of a pede against your spark chamber is one thing, tangible, heavy, and painful. That B-127 can understand. He’s learned his lessons that way for stellar cycles. This pressure is different, this is an emotional expectation coming from a group of military titans. Monsters of war who know nothing about him besides his name and his tendency to give Optimus Prime lip.

Why fight so hard for him to stay? He knows that’s what they want, he’s foolish in many ways but he knows a ploy when he sees one. Hundreds of thousands of millions of Neutrals chose to abandon the aligned city-states, everyone with a halfway functional processor knows that. The exodus are all well documented, even when he was at the settlement. What makes him any different? Surely the war isn’t in such disarray that a single new spark’s poor combat strategy is enough to stir up attention.

It just does not make sense. They’ve all got better things to do than try to pay him back for a deed he only sort of succeeded at. He could make a list for them if they like. It would go on for groons.

… But he does have a point. Sensible or not, a few cycles to make a game plan would be wise. Perhaps a bit stupidly, he’s given up his emergency fuel source for the Autobot cause and the loss of that security is a pain in the back of his helm that he is doing his best to ignore. If need be, he could make it out of here alone, he’s got the road they traveled to get here somewhat memorized, and he listed every turn they took. That wouldn’t be hard. But therein lies the issue of what exactly he would do once he left. Three cycles of stability might give him a chance to rearrange his processor. He survived well enough without that backup, he can do so again.

He's a bit apprehensive about letting that scary guy mess doctor with him, though.  Even if the idea of finally finding some healing brings a light thrum throughout his spark, all he can think of is Dea-8 and his callous touch. His poor excuse for repairs and tendency to go further than necessary.

Toxrine would never, but he knew her. Ratchet’s angry optics confuse him with their glow, and B-1 no longer wants to ponder it. Studying his body language doesn’t rile his sense of curiosity like it tends to.

Regardless of whether he allows anyone to touch him—besides Jazz who really does not seem to care anymore – B-127 concludes that a stay of sentence can’t hurt.

Who knows, it may be the reality check these bots need. After all, the longer you sit in a dream, the more likely it is to turn into a nightmare.

Elita-1 tilts her helm into his optic feed, causing him to flicker them a few times. Her smile sends a flutter all the way to his door wings, the sensation pooling in his broken one. Her soft but firm wavelength wraps around him. “Please say you’ll stay my dear. I can’t stand another moment with these sour-bolts,” she pleads, pointing her digit behind her in Optimus’s direction. To B-1’s surprise, the Prime only smiles fondly. How odd.

B-1 can’t quite remember the last time anyone has ever called him dear, but he knows it was a very long time ago. Elita-1’s warmth is very persuasive and B-127 finds that so very dangerous.

And unfortunately, B-1 is forced to admit just how weak he is to that.

Yes, this pressure is different.

Exventing heavily and trying not to grovel in his defeat, B-1 shakes his helm. “Oh --fine, you win.”

Elita-1 cheers, a high and giddy noise that startles B-1 into smiling. Optimus offers a nod.

Elita-1 squeezes him in a surprisingly tight hug. His spark hammers inside of him, beating dents into his chest plates.

Oh, Primus. Give him strength.

***

Many things happen at once. Firstly, B-1 is properly introduced to everyone and it’s a bit horrifying. Jazz, to his credit, is a good usher and makes it quick once it’s apparent he’s getting a bit overwhelmed.

Ratchet is just as intense as he was expecting and gives B-1 strict instructions for a checkup in the morning and he’s pretty sure the man is holding himself back. B-1 refrains from telling the old medic he’s planning on missing his appointment. He is cordial besides that and even laughs at a terrible joke B-1 tells.

First Aid is a lot more pleasant in comparison. Probably the youngest in the room besides B-127 himself and altogether too nice. “I promise he’s a lot kinder than he seems, he’s just… well, he means well,” he explains, seemingly aware of B-1’s weariness. He supposes he appreciates the sentiment.

Although, if Ratchet is intense, Ultra Magnus and Prowl are an arctic tundra. Ultra Magnus is polite and a bit awkward, as if completely clueless about how to talk to him. Prowl offers him a nod, but has this sort of look about him that gives B-127 chills. It’s clear neither of them finds this presence particularly assuring and B-1 doesn’t blame them. They may be the only sensible ones here. They probably only tolerate his being here due to some loyalty to Optimus, he guesses.

How long until that loyalty isn’t enough?

***

Three cycles. They’ve got three cycles to convince B-1 to stay, and three cycles to convince everyone that this is a good idea.

Elita-1 is the doll she always is and takes Jazz’s place in showing B-127 to a serviceable berth-suite for the night, promising a tour in the morning. Though typically reserved for higher-ranking officers, Jazz is sure they’ve got an empty one around here somewhere, and if not then well, someone gets to hang out in the barracks for a few cycles.

The elevator doors slam shut light the twelfth chime of a clock and now Jazz truly has no choice but to face his executioners.

All in all, it’s a mixed bag of high ho’s and hell nos, and with Elita playing chauffeur to the poor kid, Jazz is down a crucial grin in a sea of glowers. At least First Aid is reasonably pacified, though Jazz knows that if Ratchet brings down his hammer of disapproval, the younger medic won’t go down with the ‘let B stay’ movement.

But given the slightly hilarious fact that the very sight of B has the chief medical officer nearly blowing a gasket, Jazz is fairly certain that he’s secured his vote for the moment. Ratchet does love a project, no matter what he says. The actual affection can come later – though Jazz bets it won’t take long at all – as long as the literal wreck of a kid can keep his attention, Ratchet’ll want B around.

Ironhide is already stuck on this sinking ship and Optimus would let Unicron himself keep a room if he pleaded with teary optics. Chromia typically follows Ironhide’s intuition and it helps that B-127 apparently has some rapport with a soldier of hers. Thank the Thirteen for that, because Chromia is a bull of a woman and Jazz does not deserve to face her horns.

Alright, maybe tha’ odds are in his favor. Perhaps.

Getting the last two oh-so-special generals to even slightly agree to this sounds insurmountable, considering Ultra Magnus looks about ready to have Jazz court-martialed.

“You are out of line, Jazz. This is no place for children,” the taller bot says, neutral frown deepening to clear disapproval. “That new spark requires repair and attention from nurse bots, not high command,” he sighs. “B-127 should have been dropped off at the Sanctuary the moment the Energon cache was deposited.”

Cheery as always, Jazz thinks with a non-committal smirk. “Well, he’s here now, and ya’ heard the kid, he ain’t interested in bunkin’ down there.” Jazz begins, walking to lean a palm against the conference table. “We gotta respect that,” he adds, perhaps too forcefully.

Ultra Magnus only scoffs. “While I am remiss to deny any being of their right to choose their own destiny, a new spark of barely eleven stellar cycles can hardly be trusted to make sound life decisions.”

Though a serene if not slightly standoffish rebuttal is hot on his glossa, Ironhide steps in before Jazz’s processor can send the command to his vocoder. “You speak in such binary, Magnus. B-127 is young, but his spark is mighty, and I think you will find he has had to endure much.” He steps back, optics cast downwards in thought. “… He is not like the sparklings our posted scouts have picked up from the Well. His time on our planet has been short yet, but he is no mere child wailing for his caretakers.”

Scraping a stool out, Ratchet plants himself on it and rests an elbow on the table. “You don’t get injuries like that without having to make a few grown-up decisions, Magnus,” adds the doctor, a sort of haunted look passing over him and infecting all present.

Jazz allows his door wings to sink. What a world they’ve helped create.

Optimus places a grounding servo on Ratchet’s shoulder. “I fear Ratchet and Ironhide are correct, Magnus. B-127 has endured much, and so his spark has taken liberties of protection. Wise or not, we must understand his hesitation.”

Thank Primus. Jazz could kiss the Prime’s pedes if Optimus would ever allow it.

Prowl – good ole’ Prowl – tilts his helm. “Optimus, I fail to see the logic in this. Do you intend to convince him to join our cause? I see no other reason to justify such favoritism.” He runs a palm across his neck cables. “I understand the child has suffered, but so have many of our own soldiers. We cannot give out our time for one bot. Sparkling or not.”

Jazz lets the bubbling indignation wash over him, because he’s not the type to snap, and Prowl is the type to say slag like that without actually meaning to come off as insensitive. He’s practical, logical. Some bots are just built that way, even if Jazz will never understand how anyone can just exist that way. He’s good at what he does, and Jazz can live with that.

Leaning her entire weight against Ironhide, Chromia rolls her optics as she scrolls through a miscellaneous data pad. “He is a warframe. He could be an asset, perhaps.”

Just then, Ratchet stands, field flaring hot and drawing the room’s attention. “You disappoint me, all of you. Have we truly fallen so far that we stoop to recruiting younglings to our ranks?” He sneers, releasing a bitter laugh. “An injured youngling at that. Optimus, you give me little time to work through the damage that poor thing has been put through.”

Optimus, having let go of Ratchet’s shoulder, raises a placating servo. “Easy, old friends. Jazz’s intentions were pure in escorting B-127 here, and my words to the young mech are candid. Far be it of us to forget the value in rewarding good deeds, and I feel in my spark that more than anything, this young acquaintance needs kindness more than ever. He has chosen not to receive that from the Sanctuary, and so we will give it to him here.”

Chromia chuckles, optical ridges risen in query. “… You truly have no ulterior motive for this, Optimus? We are members of the high command, not… bitty-sitters.”

Jazz allows himself to roll his optics. “Why not? Too good ta’ hang out with tha’ new wave, Chromie?”

Her optics narrow, but she doesn’t reply beyond giving him a certain unbecoming gesture.

The Prime turns, surveying the sky as it lazily settles into its sleepy purples and pinks of the oncoming dusk. Night will be upon them soon, Optimus looks on,  pensive as he often is. Jazz would give a lot to know exactly what goes on in that helm of his. Optimus exvents, smokestacks rattling from the force. “I understand what I am asking of you all, this war is unceasing, and I am remorseful to burden you further, but I believe this is right. My hope, in truth, is to sway B-127 into remaining within the sanctum of Iacon. Even without the security of the Sanctuary, he would be far safer here than alone. I am sure you all surmised the pain lurking within him, but I believe that if we can ease that hurt, even a small amount, he may be willing.” He turns, eyeing them down with that amazing, sort of creepy ‘Prime-stare’ way that makes Jazz’s chassis buzz.

“Above all, we must respect his autonomy, but even so, I ask you not as my generals, but as my friends, to assist B-127 in understanding his place here,” his optics settle on Prowl, Jazz pretends not to notice it. “We are not a people of mere numbers, measured by usefulness or age, but of content of character. The moment we begin dismissing our own people to service ourselves, that is when we have truly allied with our enemy.”

Prowl nods, as if the concept of compassion only makes sense when Optimus explains it. Jazz chooses not to simmer – tries to remind himself of the eons of friendship cultivated despite everything.

It’s just difficult to recall when he’s witnessed B fall into near hysterics over less. When after only a few cycles of knowing him – Jazz thinks that if B heard any of this, he’d tear his spark from his chest if it meant placating them, if it meant they’d be gentle.

Gentle, his infodex repeats. He wonders just how foreign that word is to B. Regrettably, Jazz is forced to confront just how foreign it is to himself, too.

“I apologize,” Prowl starts, optics downcast in genuine remorse. “I forget myself, Optimus.”

And the shame in his inflection makes Jazz feel like shit, so he tries to grin a little wider to make up for it. The losses they’ve suffered the last few solar cycles weigh heavy, and Jazz forces himself to see the way his comrades are weighed down by it. It may have been he and Ironhide’s mission to direct, but he sometimes forgets that a hit to one unit is a hit to all of them. The dip in their numbers is a knife tearing into soft proto-flesh where the wound now festers.

Optimus, ever overflowing with grace, waves off Prowl’s admission like acid rain streaming down the contours of plating. “Your spark is pure, old friend. We have suffered great trials this quarter, and I blame none of you for seeing futility where I do not.” Optimus steps forward, his considerable frame and magnetic field easing some of Jazz’s underlying nerves with a simple look. Again, weird Prime juju. “If you so choose, I will hold no ill-will if any of you would prefer to remain focused on your own tasks.”

Jazz chuckles. “Ay, he can hang out with me, Ops,  it ain’t no scrape off my paint,” he says quickly. This was his idea, and he’ll be damned if he let B slip through the cracks now. Besides, he’s itching to see more of the kid with the chops to square his shoulders against a Prime.

Ratchet narrows his optics and points an accusing digit at the spy. “Oh no, too much time with you and he’ll end up in the middle of Kaon in some depressing excuse for a – for a field trip.”

Wow, hurtful.

A field trip to Kaon would be fun though, three hundred vorns ago. The new Megatron statue the con’s put up a few stellar cycles ago is a real buzz kill.

Still, Ratchet’s precious for the concern. The medic shakes his helm. “He’ll need to see me before he gets to ‘hang out’ with any of you.” Announces Ratchet, searing them all with his predictably stern glare. Next to him, First Aid gives an apologetic smile. Bless him.

Prowl places his servos behind his back. “I shall defer to you, Optimus. I find I remain weary of this, but I trust the judgment of my brothers and sisters in arms.”

Ultra Magnus groans, bringing his servos up to scrub down his face-plate. His weary optics find Ironhide. “… Have you truly been swayed to this, Ironhide? After the losses we have braved these past cycles. The tower med-bay and many of our triage facilities are crammed with our warriors. You and Jazz took this mission to clear your helms, not add to your – and our – responsibilities.” He lets out a slightly bemused sigh. “I am shocked you of all bots would side with Jazz on this endeavor.”

Jazz just snickers.

Taking a moment to clear his engines with a purring rumble, Ironhide just shrugs. “I am reminded of what we are fighting for, meeting B-127. I find myself drawn to proving nothing is for naught. If I can achieve that in B-127’s optics, then perhaps it is possible to prove it to others as well.” Ironhide finishes, expression musing. His field blurs a greenish blue of old, broken hope that could bring tears to any weaker bot.

“Well said,” Chromia says, smiling in that soft way she only ever does for him.

For a time, Ultra Magnus seems to want to argue further. His mandible hinges several times, derma parted each time, a rebuttal standing keenly on the edge of being spoken before they seem to think better of it. Jazz cuts off his ventilation. Finally, Jazz can see the moment the Autobot’s second in command gives in. His shoulders slump just so as they typically do whenever anyone does anything outside of protocol.

 Though his optics dim, he is resolute. “… I still believe this is foolishness… but it would seem I am outvoted.” He briefly meets Jazz’s optics before settling on Optimus. Jazz does not miss the warning there. Don’t mess this up. “Until all are one, Optimus.”

At this, Optimus tips his helm. “Til’ all are one.”

***

Later, when the prattle has settled and the group has dispersed for the night, Elita-1 will come bursting through the elevator doors, grinning audial to audial and interrupting Optimus’s somewhat melancholy rumination.

He only has a moment to incline his helm to see her before her lively field bursts with a joyful cyan, and he allows it to overpower his own. There’s not much more he could give her than the complete surrender of himself.

Her pedesteps come in cheery chimes across the metallic floor panelling. A weight falls by the wayside at the sight of her, she hasn’t appeared this jubilant in vorns. Her voice is like the kiss of every star. “Oh my god, he’s so fragging cute!” she exclaims with a laugh, bringing a servo to her chest.

There’s no hiding from her, so Optimus doesn’t fight with his growing smile. The gesture sometimes feels foreign to his features, not as easy as it once was, but for Elita, these things become so effortless. She saddles up to his side with a bubbly hop, looking out at the vast multi-chrome that is a night in Iacon. “I want him.”

Finding his courage – because Optimus fears very little, but for his Conjux Endura, his tanks still flutter – he places a servo against the small of her back scapula, careful to mind her door wings. “How so?” He asks.

Her horn-like helm ornaments swivel, and she exvents. “Like here, in Iacon. I want him to stay.”

The smallest of laughs finds its way through his vocoder. “I take it you had good conversation, then.”

Leaning into his touch, Elita snorts, pursing her dermas and waving a servo. “Oh no, he barely said a word,” she replies quickly, expression softening to a muted point. “He’s sweet, smart too. Figured out the call system in the berth-suite before I gave him any instructions.”

Optimus nods, that isn’t too difficult to believe. Jazz was very willing to mention B-127’s intuitive nature. “Do you believe he can be convinced?” He inquires, optics taking in the constellations Iacon permits him to see. “Though his field was locked, I sense a stubborn and troubled spark, Elita.”

Her vocoder buzzes a quiet affirmative. “I’m not sure, I just know I don’t want him wandering the wilds anymore,” she hangs her helm, a clenching pull of shame seizing her field. “He’s so damaged, I don’t want to consider what would happen to him if the cons got their servos on him.” Elita whispers, laughing to herself a moment later. “Why is he different?”

That’s a question he has been pondering himself, but Optimus can find no wisdom within himself, nor the matrix. In the end, he settles for the difficult response. “It may very well be that he is not. Though his bravery is notable and his spark bright, I worry we may simply be using B-127 as a surrogate to ease our guilt, in the wake of our recent failings.” Optimus admits, sparkpulse slowing as he considers it.

Elita-1 takes her time to think, left pede tapping against the floor in some nonsensical tune. “Maybe,” she concedes quietly. Then, she is turning to him, standing on the tips of her pedes to close the distance between them. As femme’s go, Elita is average height, but she still hardly reaches his chest. Optimus meets her halfway. Her optics glimmer. “Then, Optimus, we’ll have to do something about that. We’re all relics compared to him, so bitter and distracted by our dying planet.”

Finials falling, Optimus doesn’t think her a relic at all. A precious heirloom of a bygone time, perhaps. A cache of every precious material. Never a relic.

She continues. “We fight because we’ve seen the beauty of our home, and we want it back and our freedom with it. B has seen none of it. None of the new wave has.” Elita drops her gaze, and Optimus can only picture her frown. “Only the destruction that we helped create.”

They sit in her declaration for a small eternity, only the whirr of their internal fans and the buzzing of the surrounding consoles punctuate the silence. Were he a millennia younger, Optimus would struggle to yield to Elita’s assertion, but as he is now, older, wiser, and wary of this war more than ever; Optimus can only nod. “We must show him more than our kindness, but what Cybertron is capable of, as well.”

She makes a noise of agreement. “There’s not much we can do to make up for our eons of mistakes, Optimus, but this, this we may be able to do right.”

It’s said with a countenance rivaling a Prime and it’s moments like these that Optimus is deeply grateful for her council. The matrix, for all of its gifts and power, sometimes fails to even come close to the perspective of his generals; of Elita-1. His digit traces the soft curve of her mandible. “Very well, Elita. Let this not be an act of penance, but one of devotion.”

Her grin takes on that confident sort of glean, and she snickers. “Hell fragging yeah.”

Optimus chuckles, because he has never been the type to express himself that way, at least not for a long, long time. But Elita-1 has known him long enough to witness comets burn out and planets fall together. But if he was still a sparkling of B-127’s age, he thinks it wouldn’t be too difficult to return the sentiment.

The femme commander gently takes his digit that rests along her jaw, and carefully directs his palm to rest over her spark chamber. Small, energetic bursts of warm charge dances under his servo. “Bet you I’ll get him to stay first.”

He allows an optic roll. “Elita, I will not make a bet with you over this matter,” he asserts, though he finds his smile growing a tad wider.

She only narrows her optics. “Spoken like a boring goody goody Prime.”

Leaning in closer, he tilts his intake towards her audial. “I am a Prime.”

Feigning a gasp, Elita-1 flutters her optics. “Oh, be still my spark,” she waggles a free digit in his face. “I am so impressed,” she mocks good-naturedly.

And as always, he relents to her like the sun does to the moons. “I imagine Jazz will make progress rather quickly. Perhaps Ratchet will bring him some relief.”

Pleased, she tuts her denta. “Ah-ah, you’ve gotta pick one.”

He considers for a moment. It’s difficult to truly put his friends against each other in his mind, they work as a well-oiled machine, despite their differences in philosophy and everything therein. That, and going up against Elita-1 in any form of sport – figurative or not – is a challenge few match up to. “I suppose Jazz has more rapport,” he answers finally.

She nods, content with that answer. “You don’t think you have a chance in the pool? Ultra Magnus probably won’t touch him with a ten-foot pole.”

While he does not tend to enjoy jokes at his comrade’s expense, he doesn’t stop the small chuckle at that. “I fear B-127 is apprehensive with my presence, though I admit I hope to be of aid myself.” Optimus accepts, ignoring the way that makes him a bit sad.

Under his palm, Elita’s spark jolts as she erupts into a small, controlled fit of laughter. “My special one, lots of bots fear you for who you are. That didn’t stop B from telling you ‘no’ to your face,” she hums, vocoder bursting with subtle pixelation as she overrides her giggles. “It was sort of hilarious.”

He concedes to that with a purr of his engines. “He certainly has spark.”

“—So, you’ve got a chance, then. If he can stand up to big scary Optimus Prime, surely he can handle a little bit of quality time with you,” her grin returns. “Winner gets… ahm… winner gets moral advantage,” Elita announces, door wings raising with self-actualized confidence.

He isn’t entirely sure how ethical it is to bet over such things, but Elita will have none of it if he refuses to indulge in a bit of her conniving. Now, Optimus is a lot of things and certainly not conniving, but the concept of fun is only an etching in the far corner of his infodex.

But perhaps a bit of that word is what they need right now. What better way to entice a new spark?

It’s a tactical, rational move, he tells himself.

Though with Elita-1, those words also tend to lose their meaning.

Oh well. He shakes his helm, not a bit annoyed when he knows he really should be.

“Very well, it’s a bet.”

Chapter Text

[CYCLE ONE]

The loud and consistent noise of something rapping against the door is what startles B-1 awake. He very nearly jumps out of his chassis and painfully becomes acquainted with the floor in his spazztic attempt to escape whatever unseen danger there is.

His weapons are drawn before his optics reset and his HUD array has booted. The sight of an enclosed room floods his vision and it takes a solid four nano-kliks before B-1 recalls where he is. Right, Iacon. Right, Optimus Prime. Right, berth suite.

It takes too fragging long for his sparkpulse to come down to a reasonable spiral rate, so B-127 simply chooses to pretend like he isn’t shaking and suppressing the urge to check behind his back. The room is secure, he reminds himself, he checked it over at least a dozen times before falling into recharge last night, and a dozen more when he woke up halfway through the lunar cycle, encased in fitful gasps and a burning spark.

Nothing injured beyond his own pride and a small ache in his skid plate, B-1 drags himself to his pedes and the door. That terrible sense of foreboding wracks his frame and mixed voices tell him to calm down, but he dismisses the delusion and growls at his fear. The doors here are more high-tech than the settlement, but he figures out the mechanism relatively easily.

With a wave of his servo against the stupid-but-sort-of-cool data panel, the door slides open with a swish. Looking down, B-1 takes in the form of a pleasant-looking femme, who smiles up at him, one servo half raised as if ready to continue banging on the door. Her pink and white paint is styled in a distinct cross-hatch, and B-1 deduces almost immediately that she must be some sort of medical personnel. She has some sort of symbol with numbers underlining it on her left chest plate, but B-1 finds he has nothing to compare it to. “Uh.” His vocoder locks up from there.

She doesn’t seem to care. “Good morning! I hope your recharge was sound, sweetspark! I’m Kadee, a nurse. I’ve been sent by Dr. Ratchet to come fetch you for… your…” she trails off, actually taking a moment to look at him for the first time. The back of his neck feels tight as she flinches. “… Uh, your check up…” Kadee finishes weakly.

Right, he had nearly forgotten about that. Dread flushes through his system like a batch of bad Energon, and B-1 honestly can’t think of anything he wants to do less right now. “Uh. Do I have to? Like, is it mandatory?” He queries, wondering if even asking this question will get him thrown out.

Kadee’s face plate contorts, confusion, he surmises as he reads her body language. She shifts from pede to pede, digits picking at each other and optics flickering in poor control. Her field is blocked, but so is his, and he can read her anyway. Kadee clears her vocoder. “Oh—well no, of course not! It’s just—”

Before he can think better of it – of the consequences – B-1 waves his servo, and the door slams in Kadee’s face. The poor lady who is just trying to do her job.

Great first start, moron.

***

He lays back on the berth – and wow, how long has it been since he’s slept on a berth – since in here, there isn’t much else to do.

The guilt sets in and the demons feast upon it and soon enough B-127 has half-talked himself into just sneaking out the window. The drop might kill him, but it also might not. He morbidly thinks either way is a win-win, but he then feels bad about that, too.

Eventually, though, he justifies the door slamming by reasoning that now that they won’t be wasting time on him, they’ll have more time to treat their soldiers. They are more important than some random mechling with a room key. So early in the cycle, too! What a waste of time.

Yeah. Totally justified. Totally.

***

There’s another knock against his door several groons later, three firm knocks and no more. By this point, B-1 has nearly bored himself to tears. The room isn’t very spacious and besides a few old holo-posters, there is nothing to occupy his time beyond staring out the tall floor length window. The sight of Iacon is striking,  sure, but B-1 can admit it gets old after the first groon. Making up stories about the bots soaring by on the highways becomes rather contrived too.

So, this time when the pounding starts, B-127 swallows back any doubt and marches to the door. At least whatever is behind the door will offer some sort of stimulation.

He tries not to let the darker thoughts of punishment have any purchase.

To his surprise, as the barrier slides away, it’s Chromia standing on the other side. She’s very tall for a femme, but he supposes being a warframe does help. Her expression is steely and field is a harsh whiplash of focus and I am better than you. B-1 squares his shoulders and opens his intake to speak but her servo is up almost immediately, silencing him.

“You missed your check-up,” she announces plainly.

Somewhat dumbly, he nods. “… Yes?”

“Why?” Chromia inquires, her voice deep and melodic but sharp along the edges.

Wilting a little, B-127 brings his servos together, tapping the digits intermittently. “Um, I didn’t want to go?” He answers honestly, unwilling to acknowledge his racing sparkbeat, instead honing in on the blooming confusion running through his processor.

Chromia seems to take a moment to consider this, looking B-1 up and down like some sort of specimen. Only a moment later she nods, apparently satisfied with that answer. She steps aside. “You will join me to refuel.”

That didn’t exactly sound like a request, and before his logic centers can make sense of what the hell is happening, she is walking away. Unsure of the consequences of just going back to the berth – and admittedly too bored to care, B-1 hastily shuffles after her. He scans over the room number as he passes, it’s no different than yesterday (820-67812) but the classification has changed to a series of glyphs he commits to memory. He makes a mental reminder to ask someone if the changes mean anything significant.

Chromia’s gait is swift and confident, and B-1 trails behind her with his helm low, fruitlessly hoping to remain unnoticed by the passersby. His programs catalog the way she’s a bit goofy in one pede. It’s nearly imperceptible, no one would or should notice it, but he does. Several explanations list in his HUD array, and he quickly settles on an old injury. Most warframes are built for either swift, fatal grace, or brutal fortitude. A wobbling step would serve neither of those builds very well.

It’s sort of funny. She likely doesn’t realize they have more in common than their frame type. He considers telling her this, but figures nobody particularly appreciates a bot who points out stuff like that. Personally, B-1 knows he’s not a fan. He nearly trips onto his aft when Chromia suddenly stops, harshly turning her helm to meet his questioning optics. “Keep up, you are not an astro-turkey going to slaughter. Walk with purpose,” she orders, some otherworldly vigor momentarily taking her over.

A bit gob-smacked by her, he complies, forcing himself to walk at her pace and willing his gyroscope to project swift, confident steps. His spark shrivels as he is forced to take in the gawking glances of various Autobot ranks going about the cycle. Is he walking too fast? He’s keeping with her pace. Is he dirty? No, he just scrubbed most of the grime off with acid rain. Do they know? Can they tell what he is? What he has done? Do they know, do they know?

In his quickly spiralling reverie, his processor miscalculates, and he wobbles into her stabilizer rather abruptly. “Shit,” he quietly exclaims, willing his grace back and putting some space back between them. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles.

She only scoffs, continuing her trek as if nothing has happened. “It takes more than an act of clumsiness to bring me down, young one,” says Chromia, a small smile playing on her derma, like all of this is amusing and not absolutely horrifying. He should have been paying attention, does she not see that?

Whatever.

***

B-127 discovers the stairwell towards a nondescript corner of the floor, and then discovers that the mess call is twelve levels below. “Is the elevator broken?” B-1 questions, antennae rising and lower as his sensor nodes take in the space.

The femme laughs, waggling her digit in his face. “I am a warrior, young one. Keeping my pistons calibrated and in shape is critical.” Her expression drops and she frowns. “And I have not been on a mission in orbital cycles, I am dreadfully bored.” Chromia admits this with a pout playing across her features, and B-1 wonders if he should have just gone back to sleep.

“Oh.”

He should probably tell her that he and stairs probably don’t get along very well. He should probably tell her that his processor is barely held together by wishful thinking and rueful spite. He should tell her and she would understand even though she’d think he’s weak and maybe he is weak—

…

He does not tell her.

By the time they’ve walked the rounds of steps down and further down to the floor with the mess hall, B-1 is so dizzy and sicky that his helm is swaying on his shoulders, and he could purge right here. To try and ease the horror, he counts each step (192) until they make it to the appropriate floor. Chromia hasn’t noticed or she simply doesn’t care to, because she continues to stalk with her full strides out of the stairwell and into the halls. Gripping onto the railing, B-127 tries to collect himself before finding his practiced balance again. His bad leg hurts.

Looking up or down at the endless rows of steps nearly sends him to the ground from vertigo, but he is able to swallow it down and stomp through the entrance. Chromia hasn’t stopped walking and B-127 mentally whines at having to jog to catch up to her. This floor is significantly more crowded than wherever he was before, and despite his tanks turning from the dizziness, B-127 is all but a slave to his curiosity as he looks around. The ceilings are high in this hall, blank holo-screens lining one wall while tinted windows line the other.

More bots walk through the hall, either chatting with each other jovially or running through the mess of people as if every nano klik counts. He finds some enjoyment from picturing them sprinting to some ever-important mission, preparing a task force with the skills to end the war once and for all. That’s a decent distraction from the nausea and the nosey bots who can’t stop staring.

“You were audacious to speak up opposing Optimus last night,” she says in passing, grinning in a way that has B-1 raising an optical ridge.

 Bewildered because he really should be reprimanded for that, his antennae lower to being near pinned against his helm. “Oh, yes, I’m, sorry about that.” B-1 mutely responds, unsure of what the correct thing to say here is.

Then, she stops, her kibble jolting with a chink. Still a bit dazed, B-127 is unsteady on his pedes as he forces his stabilizers to halt. Chromia tilts her helm, looking down at him with narrow optics, shadowed by her processor ornaments. “Do you stand by your words?” Asks Chromia, inflection cool and dripping with authority.

The darker demons would love to lap up the abuse of power and use it to kill him a little bit more.

B-1 doesn’t want to give them that luxury.

His stance hardens and he remembers exactly what a harsh blow feels like. There’s nothing easier to him than that. But he is, as always, his own punisher. “I do,” he says, thankful when his voice doesn’t shake.

Out of habit, he fists his servos and turns his helm, in case she goes for the face.

Which is stupid, because she isn’t going to hurt him, and he knows it. He drives himself to take in the facts. He notes the looseness in her shoulders, the subtle shift of her plating as she invents and exvents. She’s not waiting for an opportunity to hit him at all. Despite the steadfast way she carries herself, Chromia is relaxed.

His spark is imprudent as usual, leaving his helm to pick up the pieces.

Instead, Chromia studies his features, and B-127 feels her field shed some of its hard layers. With them goes some of the tension he had not realized was wracking him. She nods, then resumes walking without another word.

For some reason, she moves slower than before.

***

The mess hall is, coincidently, a mess. It’s a chaotic chorus of voices and stomping pedes as swarms of Autobots pick up what must be their fuel rations and find a place to sit. It’s a large atrium lined with tables and stools, in the far corners of the space random crates are used as chairs where bots who might want more peace have congregated. Unlike the halls, few bots spare B-1 a glance, seemingly too busy or absorbed by their hunger to pay him any mind.

It's crowded with warring fields and B-127 winces at the intensity.

They get in the fuel line which is sort of a disorganized clutter rather than a neat one-by-one system. It’s easy to get lost in the madness, and B-1 finds it equal parts comforting as he does disarming. Chromia gets several greetings in the form of respectful salutes or informal waves. She responds to both with a curt nod which must be normal for her.

The ‘line’ moves quick enough that it’s their turn soon enough. Two bots, one mech, and one femme, stand on the other side of a partition, whereupon tilting his helm to see passed them, B-1 sees rows and rows of neatly stacked Energon cubes of various sizes and medium of consumption. Interesting. The femme – a small petite thing with a scar along her face plate  -- greets them warmly. “Good morning commander, I hope you are feeling well,” she says cheerily, bringing up a small device and scanning the Autobot insignia embossed on Chromia’s chest plates. His finials twitch, maybe data is stored there somehow? How would that work? He files it away for consideration later.

Chromia responds with a hum. “Quite well, Helix. Though I admit I am not well suited to tower-dwelling,” she admits with a huff of her engines. B-1 makes a note to ponder why a warrior of her stature would be benched for so long.

The femme – Helix, apparently – hands her three mid-size cubes with the help of the mech at her side. “It isn’t so bad, commander, I’ve enjoyed my break,” she replies, encouraging and sweet.

Next to her, the mech scoffs. “It’s not a break, it’s medical imprisonment.” He laments, dropping his helm into his hands. B-1 notes a long silver weld across his arm, an injury that has yet to be filled with paint. His nanites must be sluggish.

Chromia rolls her optics. “Enough whining, soldier, you will be out in the field again soon enough. We all will,” she says, all business once again.

The two sober immediately, and B-127 catalogs that reaction too. Such loyalty. Not out of fear or domineering, they genuinely seem to respect her. Interesting. Are all generals treated this way?

He is forced to cut off his mental investigation when he spots the mech looking him up and down. It’s a different look than one of the usual ‘ew why is he so fragged up’ – though echoes of it are certainly there – it’s more of a searching survey. It clicks in just a moment what exactly he is looking for. His door wings perk up. “Oh, uh, I don’t have one,” he explains quickly, looking up at Chromia and her Autobot sigil. She raises an optical ridge, he turns back to the two bots. “Um, I don’t need a lot. Or any, really, I’m not very hungry.” And that’s true, he’s still sitting at a good sixty-three from what he had yesterday and that could last him at least four more cycles without needing to refuel.

They both look a bit befuddled at the statement, and B-1 is about to step out of line when Chromia brings up a servo. “Give him three, same as me,” she orders, and B-1 gapes.

Immediately he shakes his helm. “Oh no, I don’t need that much, really,” he brings a palm to his chest. “I’m built for efficiency; I don’t need a lot to function. It would be wasteful to give me that much.”

Narrowing her optics, she points an accusing digit at him. “You are a warframe, you require energy,” she says resolutely.

He nods, allowing that fact to pass over him. “Sure, but you’ve got soldiers to feed, and they use their weapon systems more often than me.” Her expression hardens, and he realizes he’ll have to compromise in order to please her. “Just… just give me two, I can have one now and the other tomorrow. There, saves time and space.”

Something weird passes over her countenance, like a mix of disbelief, sadness, and also anger, but she does relent with a nod. He does his best not to exvent with relief. The two bots – who are still looking at him oddly – hand him the cubes, and B-127 feels the comforting buzz of static across his servos as the power tries to transfer through the confines of the cube and into his porous metal. He doesn’t revel in it, because this is just a normal feeling for most people, but he does reserve a space to thank Primus for the warmth.

Of course, it’s not an uncommon experience to go hungry on Cybertron, at least, in B-1’s life, that’s what he has deduced. He’d be stupid to take it for granted.

He remembers his manners and thanks the two bots and despite their stupefied expressions, they each give him a kind smile.

Directing him to the farthest table, Chromia leads as they weave through the traffic to the only section with a few free seats. B-1 recognizes Jazz and Ironhide immediately, and he reasons they probably saved them seats. Elita-1, sitting across from them, all but lights up when her optics land on him. Standing from her place, she places her half-empty cube on the table’s surface and waves. “Morning!  We saved spots!” she greets cheerily, her voice sickeningly sweet. B-1 doesn’t know what to make of it.

His decrepit social protocols muster another smile for her, and he feels a bit better when that seems to bring her all the joy in the world. Chromia plops herself next to Ironhide, an so B-1 takes a hesitant seat next to Jazz, who wastes no time turning to offer him a grin. “Rest well, kidda’?”

Deciding he did, despite the circumstances, B-1 nods. “I guess so,” he replies. He subspaces one of his cubes and places the remaining one in front of him, staring at it in contemplative silence before meekly cracking it open. It feels wasteful, but he takes in a small amount to appease his greedy spark. He looks around. “Is it usually this crowded?” He asks, permitting himself one question.

Elita-1 shakes her helm. “Typically yes, things are a bit sporadic around here if you haven’t noticed,” she begins, and B-127 doesn’t tell her that he definitely has noticed. “… But morning debriefings happen here in a little while, I think most people like to begin the cycle refreshed, but smaller waves come and go. I know a few units that plan out their refuel times to have it together during the evening, when things are a lot slower.”

Humming, B-1 takes another sip of his Energon, gluttonously relishing in the cool fizzle that runs down his neck cables as the substance settles in his tanks for filtration. The picture she paints brings a real, honest smile to his derma and he chooses to use that to check it off for the cycle. With the bandits, B-1 almost never refueled with them, only given any when necessary and certainly not part of their snickering circle. To think that these warriors would block out time to simply be together for something as simple as intaking Energon – it’s… nice.

It's such a simple word, but he can’t think of a better one for it. They are warriors, scouts, couriers, and even data analysts. In practice, he thinks a squadron should be tight-knit to begin with, well-oiled and able to work together regardless of status or rank, but he wouldn’t expect such personal attachment.

After all, there is no telling who will be coming home in the next cycle. Making bonds beyond a working relationship sounds risky, reckless even, but the Autobots don’t seem to shy away from it at all. At least, not the ones he has met.

Jazz snickers. “It helps that Helix an’ Racket are a lot less grouchy than the afternoon tenders.” That gets a small chorus of agreeing hums and grunts. Shifting, B-1 gives Jazz a questioning glance, but Jazz only winces. “Trust me B, you don’t wanna know.”

B-1 figures he is right, if even Jazz – who seems to have good chemistry with everyone – says it’s bad. He pictures an old Autobot lady with horns and sharpened denta where Helix and Racket – he’s glad to know the name now – once stood. It’s enough to make himself giggle, though he hides it by downing half of his cube.

Chatter continues, though B-1 is mostly content to just listen. Jazz and Elita bring him into the conversation anyway, so it’s not like he has to try very hard. They don’t bring up the medical checkup, which is a relief even though he’s sure they’re all thinking about it. They ask him unobtrusive questions and after a little while B-1 decides he is comfortable enough to answer them. It’s harmless altogether and soon enough he hardly notices the clamor around them.

Ironhide says something and Chromia actually laughs at it, and it’s weird that B-1 laughs too. Elita-1 tells a story that has nothing to do with war or fighting or weapons or Energon or anything at all. It’s just a mundane anecdote that shouldn’t be as entertaining as it is.

It's fun. Not just fun he makes by driving very fast or doing a cool trick, but honest fun from being around others.

When was the last time he had that? He knows the answer, of course. He has such a hard time forgetting anything, after all. But facing that realization is almost enough to double him over.

For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t hear anyone. Enough living voices are filling his audials to drown them out.

***

After everyone has finished fueling, Jazz and Elita part ways, both with promises to see him later. B-1 has no idea what that means but does not have much time to puzzle over it before Ironhide and Chromia drag him down five more flights of stairs (80 steps, approximately) to what is plainly some sort of training floor.

While not nearly as teeming with transformers, something about the entire level is charged with something energetic and he supposes he can understand why. Rather than having walls separating each training space, this floor is only divided by oscillating energy fields of different colors. B-1 theorizes some sort of sorting system with each color representing different leagues of combat, judging by his passing glances.

There is also the fact that hovering holo-signs classify each segment, which, of course, helps too. It’s sort of cool to watch as a pair of mechs spar on some sort of elevated battleground simulation. From the looks of it, they must be practicing combat in some sort of forested terrain. B-127 watches them with awe, nearly laughing at their near-perfect grace. Lariat wouldn’t stand a chance against either of them.

The two older bots lead him to the sector placed dead center of the floor. It doesn’t take more than a glance to figure it’s a shooting range. B-1 has never seen a real one before; the bandits tended to practice on animals and innocent glass bottles. There seems to be some sign-in panel, but Ironhide and Chromia pass it by without so much as glancing at it. Sort of a funny example to set as two members high command, but B-127 reserves his judgment for his internals and a single raised optical ridge.

B-1 finds some candor within him. “So… why?”

Stopping, the couple – he’s pretty sure they are anyway- share a look. It’s too quick for him to decipher, which is a bit infuriating. Finally, Ironhide grants some mercy. “You are a warframe.”

Well, he already knew that. “… Uhuh?” he shrugs. “Unless someone swapped out my frame while I was recharging,” he says sardonically, only half a nano-klik late to realizing he said that bit out loud. Whoops.

Thankfully, Chromia smiles at the quip and Ironhide doesn’t even flinch. “So, how often do you exercise your weapons system?”

Well, he doesn’t feel too inclined to mention the bandits, and that was a while ago, so he figures it’s not pertinent information. “Besides a few cycles ago, not very often,” he replies, truthful for the most part. He wonders if there’s a statute of limitations for this query.

Chromia shakes her helm, disapproving. “Unacceptable. Your weapons are no mere addition or carry item like many of our soldiers.” In one sleek motion, her T-cog audibly clicks to life with a series of pulses and spins, and in a nano-klik, one of her forearms has been replaced with a three-barreled cannon. It’s heavy duty and strong, taking over her servo where B-1’s unsheathe. Slag, that’s so cool. “It is biology, child, and as you work your pistons to remain in shape you must also work your weapons.”

That gives him pause, not because it’s new information – Toxrine often warned him he would have to utilize his weapons in some way once his T-cog grew active. It is just weird that they would take him here on his first day. A room full of weapons, where they are encouraging him to bring his out. He knows he was cleared of any suspicions yesterday, but this feels a lot like zero to a hundred really quick.

Then, Chromia lines herself up to her designated shooting lane, and just as she scopes out her target – a mid-range semi-holographic target – her derma’s split into the widest grin he’s seen on her yet. For a moment, just a small, fleeting moment, B-1 swears he sees some hesitancy, but it is gone as fast as it came. A slight static fills the air, raw and powerful in a way that has B-1’s nanites buzzing, and then she fires. Her aim is near-perfect but her accuracy hardly matters when the blast she creates is large enough to shatter the hologram into thousands of pieces. The blast radius is huge for a single plasma shot and B-1 squints his optics as a flush of heat warms his faceplate and the feeling is all too familiar.

The femme explodes with an ecstatic cheering and B-127 actually jumps in place from the sudden noise. Her laugh is distinctly girly in a way he had absolutely never predicted and even less so is the way Ironhide sweeps her off her pedes and spins her around.

“Your aim is as true as it was before,” Ironhide says loudly, grinning at her like a sparkling given an enrichment item. His relief floods the space.

She brings her open servo to her face and giggles.

The bio-lights around his helm burn brightly and he feels the need to look away. He observes as mech completes a surprisingly agile series of flips in the athletics section and wonders what ‘before’ means.

When he finds the courage to look back, they’ve untangled and B-1 exvents harshly, the awkward pressure in his thoraxal cavity abates a bit. Faylever and Newdawn were affectionate, but it’s been a long time since he’s had to bear witness to it.

Gesturing with his helm, Ironhide takes a step back from one of the shooting terminals. “You will find it does wonders for stress and piston strain,” he declares, still graced with that peaceful smile. That he could find so much enjoyment on a training floor is beyond him.

Shuffling up to the marked space, B-1 wills his heated spark to cool, hoping to abate some of the anxiety brimming under the surface. Though most are focused on their specific tasks, B-127 can just feel the optics on him. Appraising, waiting to see what exactly he has to offer. He dreads the moment they realize the answer is nothing.

But conforming to his nature, he still wants to please them, even if his weapons have never been used for anything other than selfishness. Turning to Chromia, he nods his helm, and his T-cog sprightly responds to his silent request by clicking and pulling back the metal of his forearm, fuel lines extend, and gears turn as one of his twin blasters emerges. Chromia looks pleased at his side, pressing a button in between the holo-field separating them. In obedient compliance, several targets build themselves up out of nothing, ranging different distances.

B-1 glances down, hoping no one can see the shaking in his servos but him.

Something lands on his shoulder, and he turns, meeting Ironhide’s aged, wise optics. “You were not born with those by mistake, young one.”

A part of him wilts, wanting so desperately to feast upon those words and never let anything else in. Mutely, he nods, unsure if his burning spark even believes it. He has no hatred for his guns, no, they didn’t do anything he didn’t force them to do.

Because in the end, Chromia is right, they aren’t an extension of him, they are him. Just as his T-cog is, just as his field is.

Newdawn never feared his weapons. Neither did Lycan or Bluebreeze. It’s a question, some nights, as to whether that was a mistake on their part.

He supposes he’ll never know. Not really. The only answer he might get will come from broken delusions and shrieking dreams. He hopes they don’t ask him to use his blades. The cavity meant to house them feels emptier than ever.

Driving himself to see targets where he might see people, B-1 raises his weapon.

***

After the first five rounds, B-1 starts to have fun.

As it turns out, ignoring a crucial part of your frame save for when it’s most handy isn’t conducive to healthy blasters.

Chromia cheers for him even though his aim is god-awful. Though his guns are suited to mid-distance precision shots, his gyroscope makes accuracy nigh impossible, even with his practiced tactics to counteract it. His advanced optics work together with his combat-suited processor, HUD array pointing out several ways to hit the targets dead on. He wants to listen to them, truly, but even with his Focus mode initiated, he can barely catch the edges of his mark. Several quarantined programs may have been able to assist, but as things are, he has no access without spreading corruption all over his brain module.

His blasts are decently powerful, thanks to his green-lining Energon gauge and his natural agility. It is a challenge not to get frustrated, his closed EM field bubbling near his spark and trying to escape the confines he has put it in, but by the time his guns have grown hot with plasma, he’s enjoying himself too much to care.

He isn’t a good shot, but Ironhide tells him that with practice he could be. Decent, at least. He doesn’t think he’ll be coming for Moonracer's sharpshooting record any time soon.

Honestly, it’s more entertaining watching Chromia and Ironhide compete over who can get the biggest explosion. Well, they don’t exactly say it’s a competition, but it’s sort of obvious after the third crackling boom, and by then they are cackling at each other. Ironhide is winning, he thinks, which makes sense. Ironhide has larger weapons and is just bigger in general. Though there is something to be said about Chromia being in close second. They are loud and obnoxious, adjectives B-1 would never describe the two as. Strangely too, none of the bots around seem to bat an optic at them. This must happen a lot.

It should remind him of the bandits and their love for destruction, of the Decepticons that laughed and joked while his home burned. But this feels… different. Lighter, even. Like in the mess hall.

Weird.

***

His guns are sore. He didn’t even know he could use his blasters enough to do that. It makes sense, he supposes. Exhaustion pulls at him in a good way, not the mind-numbing weight that he normally drags along. It’s invigorating the same way racing is, and for a while, he forgets how useless his shooting ability actually is. As the night rolls around, he knows it’ll be all he can think about, and the clawing, ripping dread will return. But for now, as Chromia and Ironhide usher him out of the training hall, he allows the giddiness to sprint around his spark, like he once did stellar cycles ago.

Chromia stops before they reach the elevator – and thank Primus for an elevator – and smiles at him. Sweetly, gently. She bends her knees to meet his optics, a twinkle in her optics that reflects like stardust, grinding into his optic feed and staying there. “You are awful with your weaponry,” she states, soft expression not faltering even the slightest bit.

Uh. Okay…? His visage pinches, optical ridges rising. “Ah.”

She continues like he hadn’t spoken. “… But you have potential. A good helm on your shoulders and a firm spark.” Chromia says. Her servo points to his spark. “Don’t waste what Primus has given you, child. Go to Ratchet, let him fix you; don’t rot in what this world has done to you.” Her helm tilts, and she presses her palm against his chest. He doesn’t flinch, too transfixed by her to follow through with it. “You burn far too bright for that.”

His spark skips a beat, blazing and so, so painful while practically glowing at the same time. He wants to tell her all the horrors he has committed; to tell her she is wrong about him. He wants to thank her and beg her to like him and to tell him he matters, that he matters even a little bit.

In the end, he can only stare at her, optics wide and lenses pitiful specks. Terrified.

After a moment, her expression sobers again, cool elegance replaced. Ironhide places a servo on his shoulder, gently pulling him into the elevator. Chromia offers a salute in farewell, for both of them.

Ironhide salutes back, B-1 does not.

***

“… You are, fairing well, yes?” Ironhide inquires when the silence in the elevator becomes a bit too painful.

B-127 struggles to hide his cringe. This might be even more painful. “Um, yes. Yes sir,” he tries, wincing as his vocoder warbles near the end. The descending elevator rumbles beneath his pedes.

Ironhide swallows, nods, accepting the answer. “Good, good…”

B-1 sways back and forth on his pedes, wishing either of them was even a bit more skilled at conversation. His social protocols are essentially garbage, and his natural inclination for speaking is usually asking questions or disrespecting people who want to hurt him. So, he decides to go with the former. “So… where are we going now?”

That takes some of the tension out of Ironhide, and he looks thankful for the outreach. “I am not certain what Jazz and Elita have planned for you. I will be seeing you off once we arrive, I have a few things to attend to.”

Something in B-1 curdles and freezes. “Oh Primus, you could’ve just sent me in the right direction, sir. I could have found it on my own, you don’t have to waste time you don’t have on me, truly,” B-1 promises. Embarrassment climbs up his backstrut, mixing with the guilt in his spark. He was silly for forgetting just how busy these bots are, they’re commanders of an entire army for fragging sake.

Fooling around with the busted-up new spark at the shooting range is likely the lowest thing on their priority list. At least, it should be.

Instead of realizing the logic, Ironhide scoffs, setting on B-1 with a stern look. “Nonsense, leaving you to wander alone on your first cycle is irresponsible. You are not an Autobot and unfamiliar with the tower layout, were you to somehow end up in a restricted zone, it would mean great trouble for both of us.”

Hm, that makes sense too.

“Besides,” Ironhide adds. “Chromia and I have not had time to train together in many orbital cycles, your presence made it possible again.” While he does not smile again, he does soften his gaze. “… And for that, I thank you, B-127.”

Though B-1 wouldn’t venture to say he knows Ironhide well, per se, his short acquaintance with him tells if a sincere and pragmatic spark. His chest flushes with warmth, to think he is a bit like Newdawn in that respect.

Okay, he’ll admit it.

Being used as an excuse to get out if work is fragging hilarious.

Weakly gesturing at his sides in a half-shrug, B-1’s vocoder modulates a warbled snicker. “Sure, no problem.”

***

True to form, once they reach the desired level (no stairs to count, but the floor is near the bottom, 15) the lift slows to a shuddering stop, and the doors slide open with Elita-1 and Jazz waiting eagerly on the other side. Jazz clicks his denta in greeting and Elita smiles so wide he wonders if it hurts. Ironhide replies with a grunt. “Off you go then, young one.”

Something flutters in his midsection plating, and he dares to smile up at him sincerely. “That was… fun. Thanks – thank you,” he utters.

The bio-lights around Ironhide’s faceplate light up, and he clears his vocoder. “Yes, well. I will see you later.”

Awe.

The doors close as B-1 steps out of the door. He looks at it a moment longer even as his audials pick up the coils and steaming hiss of the lift starting up and ascending.

An arm wraps around his shoulders. B-1 jumps lightly, thankful to be acclimating to Jazz and Elita-1’s affinity for touching. His spark still crawls uncomfortably around the edges, but it eases when he reminds himself of their intentions.

Jazz hums. “Awkward as hell when he ain’t givin’ orders, ain’t he?” Jazz says lightly, giving him a playful squeeze. “Tough as nails, but old enough to ave’ forgotten his manners.” B-1 spots Jazz fondly rolling his optics through his visor.

Leaning into his view, Elita-1’s gentle countenance has his processor jittering. “I hope those two weren’t too hard on you. They mean well,” she says, gesturing with her servos.

For a moment he thinks of telling her what it means to truly be hard on someone, but that certain hardness remains around her pleasant field, a war-torn spark despite her smile. She knows. There's no need to Instead, he shakes his helm. “No, no. They were good. I had…” he shrugs. “… Fun.”

It's so odd to admit that and mean it. To go through a cycle where he didn’t have to make himself smile.

A wave of relief crashes over him so pungently that he coughs. Jazz lets him go and B-1 notes that the encroaching emotion comes from both Elita and Jazz. Why should it matter? He thinks. Clearly, to them, it does.

Elita claps her servos together. “Oh, awesome! That’s amazing, B, I’m so glad,” she announces, the bells in her voice a tinny. “Now, how about that tour I promised you?”

Honestly, he had forgotten about it. He’s been too wrapped up in missing his check-up and trying to appease Chromia to even think about it.

He hopes there are no more encounters with stairs.

***

No stairs.

But god.

So much walking.

***

There isn’t much point in counting the levels they visit since Jazz tells him how many there are (125), so he settles on counting every blue bot he sees.

(43, so far.)

***

“This floor is restricted, sorry B, we’ll have to skip it,” Elita-1 says calmly.

B-1 hears similar sentences for the majority of the afternoon. By the seventh time, B-127 thinks they’d be better off just putting him on a leash and clipping him to a corner. Most of the floors are used for storage, armories, or barracks for the soldiers to stay in, typically segregated by unit and purpose.

They escort him through one where Jazz parades him about to meet people, and B-1 starts keeping a list of names tabbed in the corner of his HUD array to ensure he doesn’t forget any of them. Many of the bits are quite nice but it’s clear they’d prefer to spend their free time doing other things than being introduced to some random new spark.

He doesn’t blame them. He wouldn’t want to meet himself either.

(60 even.)

***

Barracks.

Barracks.

Smaller mess hall only open during late groons, surrounded by offices.

Another training floor.

Barracks.

Restricted.

Restricted.

Berth suites for commanding officers.

Barracks.

Training hall.

Empty floor.

Medical floor. One of three in succession.

Wait.

“Uh, let’s skip these,” he grits out, spark stretching uncomfortably inside its chamber.

Of course, Jazz and Elita-1 share a glance. “Are you sure? It’s really cool!”

His antennae rise and fall. “I get squeamish around blood.” He excuses quickly. It’s a lie and they all know it. You don’t live the one he has without getting used to the sight of violence, but B-1 knows by now that they won’t call him on it.

Elita is disappointed, but the elevator doors close with a click of a button.

“Yeah, I don’t like it there either,” Jazz mutters, more haunted than B-127 has heard him yet.

(103.)

***

Elita crinkles her face plate. “Jazz, I don’t know if your unit would…” she trails off, nodding her helm a few times to make her unspoken point.

B-1 wants to fall over.

They’ve shown him a majority of the tower that is actually accessible to him, and nearing the end Elita gifts him with a low-security access pass in case he needs to get by any scanners without an escort. B-1 has no idea if that is an unspoken permission slip to wander around wherever he has time, but with all the walking they’ve been doing, he doesn’t really care. His bad leg is sore and though nothing is as egregious as the stairs, some of his nausea has definitely reappeared.

Now they stand in the doorway to one of two recreational floors. Apparently there is one in one of the sublevels with larger, more wide spaces, but B-1 doesn’t have the clearance for it.

This one is a lot more benign than that. Tables and chairs coast near the walls, the entire space lit with dim rim lights of funky, relaxing colors. It’s an entire floor, so on the very far side there’s a space for some sort of sporting activity, but B-127 can’t put a name to the gridlines outlined in the area.

At this point, the tour has taken the better half of a joor, and while that is a small eternity to him, it must feel like a blink to Elita-1 and Jazz because they aren’t tired at all. He wonders just how this picture makes sense. When he was younger, he always had so much energy.

Jazz scoffs, walking forward and waving dismissively. “Ah, nah, I got watch by tha’ east perimeter tonight, B can take my place,” he tilts his helm, looking behind to address B-1. “My guys don’t bite, honest,” he promises, grin wide and all denta.

B-1 isn’t sure how that sounds.

“I didn’t know you had patrol,” Elita conveys, following B-1’s sluggish pace. She sounds a bit… annoyed.

The mech’s doorwings flutter. “Had ta’ cover fer’ one of Prowl’s guys. Owed em’ a favor.”

She accepts that answer with a little grumble, biting her derma for a time. “But really Jazz… Poker?”

That’s a game. B-1 doesn’t know anything about it and his infodex is entirely unhelpful, but he does recognize it immediately. Newdawn enjoyed playing it with his coworkers, but B-127 tended to find his entertainment in other things at the time and never thought to ask about it, despite his curiosity.

Though he should probably side with Elita-1 on this, playing with members of the Autobot special operations unit sounds like so much fun he isn’t sure he can bring himself to make the mature decision.

“Ah, it’ll be fine. Sides, Cliff ain’t even special ops.”

Elita’s helm ornaments, swivel. “Semantics, J.”

They maneuver passed several groups occupying different tables or lounging bots enjoying a holo-film, many of which stop to wave at them. Rules regarding greeting a superior officer must be laxer in here. That or Jazz and Elita-1 don’t inspire that same fear Ironhide and Chromia do. Things to mull over to be sure.

He counts three more blue bots before they make it to the correct table, bringing his total for the night to one hundred and twelve. Useless information to catalog, but it helped keep him centered, he thinks. B-1 does his best not to be obvious as he scans over the table. Three bots sit there, one a mid-size flyer mech that appears to use propellors rather than typical wings, a purple and orange femme with pretty helm ornaments, and a mid-size bright red bot with silver horns protruding from his helm.

Holo-cards litter the table, it looks like they have already started. There’s a pool of Energon and – is that shanix or scrap metal? – crammed into the center of the table. Ah, his processor catches up. Gambling. Would Newdawn have gambled? He was a very logical man, the picture doesn’t quite fit, but he can admit his point of view is skewed.

The red dude with horns greets them with an informal two-digit salute. “Hiya fellas – and filly – come to join the fun?” He asks, leaning back to reach for another chair to pull in. The other seated soldiers look up, giving Jazz a nod in lieu of a tangible hello.

Jazz shakes his helm. “Sorry kidda’s, just came to drop off my substitute,” he starts, pulling a pointed servo in front of B-1. “B-127, some a’ my finest agents. Oh, and Cliffjumper.”

The red bot – Cliffjumper, apparently – raises an optic. “Ha and ha.” He replies sardonically. Then, as he looks over at B-1, he relaxes some. “Sup, kid? You played before?”

That gets the attention of the others. Floundering a bit, B-1 shakes his helm. “No, never.”

Cliffjumper snickers, fully pulling in a chair next to him. “Ha, good. Now I might actually win tonight.”

The other bots break out into teasing chuckles, alleviating some of the unspoken tension. “You playin’ too, ma’am?” Cliff inquires, turning his attention to Elita, who sours at the question as soon as it enters the open air.

“And add to my debt? I think not.”

B-1 stifles a giggle.

***

Soon after he is settled in at the table, both Elita and Jazz depart. B-127 swears to Elita three separate times that she needn’t force herself to stick around waiting. He has the route back somewhat plotted and knows he won’t need any help getting back to the berth suite. Though she is anxious about leaving him alone, she manages to let it go. They compromise with her promising to return in three groons if they haven’t yet finished. B-1 is glad he won’t be holding up her time a moment longer.

Before Jazz leaves, he tells the older bots to take it easy on B-1, and he narrows his optics. He doesn’t need anyone putting on the kid gloves for him.

By the time they are through, he’ll have won one game. He sets the goal and pins it to his HUD array.

***

Cliffjumper explains the rules three different ways, continuing on even though B-1 understood the instructions the first time.

Chatty, isn’t he?

Though B-1 has nothing of value to bet, Cliff sort of takes the unofficial knife to the leg and splits his with him, and that just motivates B-127 to win even more. These aren’t his to lose.

Jaada-35 (the femme) is rather monotone. Still, she informs B-1 that the special operations division is the smallest branch besides office workers and couriers. She does not tell him why, only that this table is where the unit meets every other night to play. However, it isn’t always the same people, just that it’s become sort of a landmark to blow off some steam somewhere else beyond the field or training halls.

Cliffjumper isn’t part of special operations but has gone on enough missions with them to be consider a sort of honorary member. B-1 shrinks into his chair, he hasn’t gone on a single mission, only finding a place at the table because the literal commander of the branch gave him one.

Though none of the table-mates seem bothered by it, B-1 can’t help but wonder if they are. It’s weird to hide your field from others but he does.

It’s special operations for Primus's sake.

***

He loses the first three hands. Badly. He doesn’t read the table right and calls when he should fold.

Guilt rips at him as Thunderstruck (the flying mech) collects his winnings with a rictus grin, pick between his denta. Cliffjumper doesn’t care whatsoever, sharing some story about getting lost near Helex. “My unit had to circle around three times lookin’ for me, honestly it was my fault for trusting those old tunnels, you know. Ah man, that reminds me of a scout mission to the ruins of Vos I collaborated on and man my partner completely got us lost around the west—”

It’s difficult to pay attention to him and the game at the same time.

He invents, exvents.

He’s good at puzzles, this is just a puzzle. That’s what all games like this are, puzzles involving luck and body language.

It’s not like he’s starving, he channels some energy to his processor partitions and feels his mind come alive a little more.

***

“I’ll raise,” Thunderstruck announces calmly, staring down at his holo-cards, keeping his expression cool. “I’ve got a good feeling about this hand.”

Jaada-35 squints, pinching the edge of one of her helm ornaments. “Too rich for me,” she sighs, placing her cards down in a huff. “Fold.”

Cliffjumper scoffs, narrowing his optics at her. “Big surprise, all you ever do is fold,” Cliff teases, turning his optics to his cards. “I’ll call, what do ya’ say to that, big shot?” He asks, tilting his helm towards B-1.

Inventing, B-1 looks down at his cards, then up at the table, scanning over each of them. “I’ll say…”

Thunderstruck twiddles his pick in his denta, eyeing B-127 down. “That last card didn’t make Thunderstruck’s flush…” He turns to Jaada, still finicking with her helm. “… Jaada was smart to fold because she missed her straight…” His optics finally cast over Cliffjumper, who rubs the edge of one of his cards over and over. “… And you Cliff… your cards just stink, you’re bluffing.” Cliff looks affronted. There’s a loud exciting thrum in his spark as B-1 puts in a few more coins of shanix into the pool, placing down his cards as he does. “Two pair, jacks and sevens,” he announces, unable to hold back his grin.

The table erupts with huffs of outrage, Thunderstruck throws his arms up in the air. Cliffjumper shakes his helm, leaning an elbow on the table in defeat. “Can’t believe I’m losin’ to my own money,” he says, running a servo over his face. He smiles at B-1, clearly not too put out about the loss. “Quick learner, huh?”

B-1 shrugs. “I’ll give it all back when we’re finished, I promise.”

Cliff raises an optical ridge. “You kiddin’ kid? With the turnaround you’ve had, I should just hand all I’ve got over.” His free servo lands on B-1’s shoulder, a small collection of charge transferring between the two of them. “You keep all you win, B.”

Optics blowing a bit wider at that, B-1 shakes his helm. “Oh, no, I don’t need any of this stuff, Cliff. It’s just for fun,” he admits, truthful because honestly, he feels a bit bad for winning.

For the fourth time.

Once he figures out how to count the cards and gets a read on everyone’s tells, this game gets very easy. It’s cheating, sure, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them, right?

Thunderstruck takes the pick from his intake. “Hell no, kid, I ain’t crawling back to my bunk tonight with pity wins.” He points a digit dangerously close to B-1’s face plate. “You’re keeping it, and then next time we play, I’m getting it all back,” he says, deathly serious tone muddled a bit by the amused smile playing his features.

He has to admit, winning is a bit addicting. B-1 can’t think of when he has ever won anything. His smile won’t fall, and his chest is light and giddy, similar to how he’d felt with Ironhide and Chromia.

For all his observational skills, he can’t find a name for what this all is.

There’s no choice but to give in, and B-1 realizes he’s letting go of something more than just his winnings.

***

“You won how many times?” Elita-1 asks loudly, looking a bit pale in the face plate and a tad horrified. It’s late, and B-127 is keen to look at the stars through the window of the berth suite.

B-1 scuffs his pedes against the floor. “Just five times, but I lost a lot before that.” He pauses. “I was gonna let them have all the winnings back. They wouldn’t let me.”

She hangs her helm in her servos. “Primus, your first night here and you’ve mastered gambling, I’m gonna kill Jazz.”

He doesn’t stop himself from laughing.

***

[CYCLE TWO]

Ratchet runs a strained servo over his face. “I need to see B-127 today,” he says forcefully, leaning against his medical terminal and exventing heavily. First Aid cringes in sympathy as the older medic works some of the sore pistons in his hexa-lateral scapula. Medics hardly rest and when they do, it’s to consider which patient to take care of next. In the wake of Ironhide and Jazz’s disastrous mission several cycles ago, none of the medics have had a moment of stillness. “He was supposed to see me first thing yesterday. Not off galivanting with Chromia and Ironhide at the range!”

And Ratchet, the craziest and hardest working of them all, has been about as uptight as a buzz fly over their visiting new spark. To be truthful, First Aid isn’t surprised the child missed the appointment, Ratchet is intense and lacking in candor. For all of his inner altruism, Ratchet startled the kid, and everyone knows it.

First Aid sighs, reaching into a cabinet to offer the older man a heated gel packet, which he takes, compressing it against the aching plates. “He’s afraid of me,” Ratchet says quietly.

With a pinch in his spark, First Aid shakes his helm. “This is all new to him, doctor, I’m sure he’s afraid of a lot right now,” he placates gently. “Jazz says he is intelligent, sir, he’ll come around.”

“It’s negligent, denying yourself treatment like he is,” Ratchet says scornfully. “Why would he do that?”

At this inquiry, First Aid just gives him a look. Something heavy weighs as it always does in the spark of a medic. “Ratchet, you and I have done this job for eons, treated countless patients of different builds and sparks. You know why.”

As it often does, Ratchet’s frown grows.

Exhausted and wistful, he relents. “Yes, yes I do.”

***

“… Gambling?” Optimus slowly asks.

Elita, who has been pacing the room for ten klik, throws her arms up in outrage. “—Yes! I mean I knew he was going to play but I didn’t think he’d be any good! Much less actually win!” She hangs her helm in her servos. “Oh god, he won a lot, Optimus. Like a lot.”

Optimus honestly isn’t sure what to make of that. “He enjoyed himself, did he not?”

Her frame wilts, and she gives him a defeated look. “I mean, yes, of course. He was the happiest I’ve seen him, but really, Optimus.” She waves her arms. “Gambling! We might as well just hand him a cube of high grade!” Elita yells, slumping over in disappointment.

Despite himself, Optimus huffs a small laugh. “Our friends are doing what they know in order to make B-127 feel welcome. While you or I may not understand their methods, or how ethical they may be, you cannot deny that B-127 felt more comfortable with them.”

She considers his words, curling her servos into fists after a moment and taking in a deep vent. She settles her palms on her hips, forcing a determined smile. “You’re right, it’s fine. It’s fine! B is a good kid, and he’s with me for the first half of the cycle anyway,” Elita allays herself, field evening out to a slightly anxious tumble. “The bet is still on, by the way. I haven’t seen you lifting a digit to win.”

He smiles. “I admit I enjoy watching you more than I enjoy competing,” Optimus confesses easily.

Her optics roll as they do whenever he says something overly sentimental like that, but her smile grows all the more, laughing a bashful laugh. “Well thank you. But you do have plans, yes?”

Optimus confirms. “If you haven’t won yet.”

“Oh, you’ll speak to him either way, you can’t resist a good pep talk,” she teases. After a moment, her frown returns. “Oh my god, what if he’s addicted to gambling now?”

Optimus can’t hold back a muted laugh. “Elita, please.”

***

Of all the things Ultra Magnus wanted to do this cycle, escorting a random – admittedly impressive – new spark around with Elita-1 is not on the list and he feels very stupid for being talked into it. He’s a general for Primus’ sake, does no one appreciate protocol?

If Elita-1 were not so effective at her job and an old friend, he wouldn’t have given in.

She is sweet but Primus almighty is she stubborn. It was helpful during the Quintesson war and in this one, but when used against him, Magnus finds it extremely exhaustive.

He towers over both her and B-127 as they walk through the ground-floor doors, steeping in the pointed annoyance thrumming through him. This is a waste of time, they all know it, even B-127, but still, they walk through the courtyard, ignoring the stares of the curious soldiers who will no doubt have a rampant rumor mill going by mid-cycle.

If he hears a single utterance of the word ‘favoritism,’ Ultra Magnus is putting the kybosh on this entire nightmare.

Besides, why the hell would B-127 care about visiting a public park? It’s a war, B-127 knows that more than most, this much is obvious. Pleasing him with pretty sights and a peaceful moment won’t erase that fact. Elita-1 isn’t foolish enough to believe that either. Just what is she hoping to prove?

Denial, he suspects.

How long will it take her – any of his fellow commanders, really – to understand that their kind sparks and fun play-dates with this child will not make the Autobots a safe place for him? Ultra Magnus has nothing but care and a bit of discomfort for B-127. Regardless of his lack of decorum, the child has done nothing wrong and doesn’t deserve to be led on like this.

Teenage and functional enough to make his own decisions, what will happen when they change his mind? If he changes his mind? What will happen when Optimus has to tell him he can’t stay at the tower and that he’ll have to go off and find a place in Iacon alone? They plan to hoist him up with false friendship and then throw him out, all because he refuses the Sanctuary. This place is a warzone, covered in red tape and moral ambiguity. Already, B-127 has seen too much of that.

None of this is fair to him, and no one else seems to see it.

But even still, even still, they march on. He surpasses B-127 in stride to take the lead. His spark lurches when B-127 looks up and offers him a nervous but sincere smile.

What a nightmare, Optimus. What do you have planned?

***

It’s irresponsible to leave the tower right now, Elita is aware. Things are tenuous in Kalis and she needs to be ready to roll out if need be, with Chromia still on leave, most field missions have gone to her, and Jazz doesn’t have enough soldiers to spare. With rescue missions underway and Ratchet drowning in injured, she really should do the responsible thing and just have B tag along for some of her… chores, as she’ll put it.

But it really is a lovely cycle, the multichrome atmosphere of the city is especially reflective today, overlaying the bright blue sky. The air is crisp going through her filters, and she thinks what better way to make B smile than to show him just what a peaceful cycle here can look like?

… And cashing in a favor with Ultra Magnus is always a hoot. She knows he’s angry with her for this, he wants nothing to do with B, but he’s lived in Iacon for ages and could offer good commentary. Could, if he’s not grumbling. He’s a big boy, he can handle a little play-date with her and B.

Besides, she hopes to tire B out enough to convince him to visit Ratchet. She doesn’t like focusing on those kinds of things, especially since she can tell B would prefer they all mind their business about it, but with all that damage… he’s gotta be in some pain, and Elita-1 won’t stand for it.

She offers polite waves to the passersby, a clean mix of off-duty Autobots and civilians. The city has been locked down for ages, and most of the non-combatants recognize her and Magnus easily. For all of his distaste for all of this, Ultra Magnus understands her silent quest and aids in shielding B with his body as several people stop to stare.

It’s difficult to know what the child is feeling since he seems determined to keep his field in a vice grip, but he is wracked with tension, and his fancy-shmancy optics skitter throughout the city skyline and at the people living in it. She wonders if he ever stops moving. He’s apprehensive, sticking closer to her than he would’ve yesterday which has her spark doing acrobatic leaps.

“I love coming here when there’s time to spare,” she starts, looking along the canals they walk beside. Once upon a time, this place flowed with Energon, glowing with vibrance and life. Now, the canals are empty, just remnants of the abundance they once had. B has no idea. That thought kills her. “It’s peaceful, you’ll see.”

In the very edges of her periphery, she sees him nod.

Magnus shoots her a look that says, ‘This is taking too long,’ but over the eons, Elita has become extremely adept at ignoring various degrees of Magnus side-eye, so she brushes it off without trouble. As much as Ultra Magnus always has the Autobot’s best interest in mind, he often loses sight of everything below him.

It’s then that they turn a corner of a large, ornamented perimeter wall that they see it. Elita-1’s grin grows and she exvents slowly. She hears B do the same. Standing tall at the center of the Nova Prime City park, as it has for eons is a large, crystalline trunk, branching out on all sides and blanketing the entire walled-off area. The structure creates a webbing of refracting shadows throughout the park, almost making it all glow with a multitude of colors. She knows there is a rich history to this place, not many crystal growth areas still exist, but Elita-1 has never tried to look too deeply into it.

She prefers to see things as they are.

And as she sees the chromatic light reflecting off of the metal plating of her people, all here to enjoy the tranquility of this place, Elita only sees beauty. Small pools of collected acid rain exist in small wells near the so-called ‘roots’ of the crystal, and she smiles as she observes a small cluster of new sparks playing in it. Friends and couples walk or drive the various walkways built around the natural artifact, all so different but able to unite to enjoy this give of Primus.

She turns, feeling her spark spiral happily. B is in awe, those special, observant optics spinning and struggling to take it all in. A ray of colorful light casts over him, and Elita thinks that despite the state of his frame, he looks rather lovely. “See? Told you.”

Numbly, still transfixed, B nods, intake slightly agape as he takes it in. Above his helm, Magnus wears a strange expression, but doesn’t open a commlink to her.

It’s been a while since he’s visited here, Elita imagines. She and Optimus normally only frequent at night, when the park is empty and the tower quiet. She likes to think it helps Optimus recharge. Maybe it can help B too.

***

There are sparklings all over the park, and yet B-127 does not even try to speak to any one of them. Instead, he watches them from afar, wandering the edges of the park along a slow trickling creak of acid rain, taking it all in. Ultra Magnus doesn’t know what to make of it. “He actively avoids looking at them,” he says aloud, narrowing his optics to see through the rainbow of sun rays penetrating the crystal roof.

“Maybe he sees something he doesn’t want to in them,” Elita-1 gently posits, rolling back and forth on the balls of her pedes.

There’s nothing that comes to mind in reply. He’s a curious thing, inspecting every square foot of the park like a detective might canvas a scene. No wonder Jazz is taken with him, were he thirty vorns older, he’d be a shoo-in for his branch. “Elita-1, this is not a good plan, you understand that, right?”

And Elita sighs, not at all receptive to his tone. “God, Magnus, there is no plan, okay? There isn’t some grand strategy. We just want to make him happy, alright? I want to show him what our world can offer in the quieter moments. That’s what we all want.”

He takes a moment to consider that. “Elita… you do not have time to be a caretaker, none of us do,” he says, softly but firm. “It is cruel to bombard him with affection when you will not be able to give him—”

Turning sharply, Elita’s kind field serrates around him and saws at him, her expression darkening. “I know that Magnus, dammit. You don’t think I haven’t considered that?” Elita snaps, voice a harsh whisper. “But you fail to consider one thing, B doesn’t need caretakers. Not in the sense that other members of his cohort do.”

“He is a child. Children need the guidance of caretakers, Elita-1, you delude yourself,” Ultra Magnus spits, not unkindly but sternly.

Her helm shakes in disagreement, and she steps away from him, crossing her arms and sulking petulantly. “You have no idea what he’s had to do to stay alive, Magnus. We will get nowhere tying him down to bots he doesn’t respect.” Her optics find his, amiable and kind features returning. “Just… take a moment, Magnus. Enjoy the cycle, the air, the company. B needs kindness, like so many others in this dying world. Help me give that to him.”

There is a pleading in her voice, and Ultra Magnus considers her for a moment, then the people around where they stand near the crystal. His kind, whom he adores so much, he’d do anything to ensure their safety.

Across the park, B-127 trips over a smaller femme sparkling. It wasn’t his fault; she stepped in front of him when she should not have. B-127 doesn’t even frown at her, helping her back up and saying something with a nervous smile.

Slag.

Shoulders slackening, Magnus grumbles quietly to himself. “Very well, Elita.”

***

Elita-1 saddles up to B, tilting her helm close to his audial. He jumps – yeesh, he does that a lot – but doesn’t recoil, instead turning with wide optics to observe her. “Y’know…” she starts, drawing out each syllable. “I know a spot where we could climb to the top,” she whispers, inflection dripping with impishness.

For a time he is still, helm surveying the park. They’ve been here long enough that the sun shines differently over the tempered, gorgeous space, and the number of bots has thinned. His antennae rise to their full height, and he looks back at her, derma a timid smile. “I like to climb,” he states simply.

Her grin grows.

***

It is a steep jaunt but they both make it up easily enough. B looks tired by the end of it, which is odd for a new spark, but Elita files it away to give to Ratchet later. Though it can be a bit tedious balancing on the various intertwining crystal branches, Elita shows B to the growth’s very center, where there is a small solid piece to sit without being seen by those below. She plops herself down, patting her servo to a spot next to her, prompting B to sit by her.

The silence is nice, comfortable. At least to Elita, it seems so. He must be sore having to keep his field pulled in like that, she would have given in by now. Let something slip. What could cause someone to always keep something so pungent as your EM field inside?

[UM#013~ :We will have to return to base soon.]

Uhg, captain protocol. She sends a ping of understanding. Optics casting upwards, she sighs quietly. The afternoon is clear, but she can tell it will rain soon, perhaps even tonight. There is electricity in the air, something palpable and thick. The acid rains will come.

How many times did B have to sit in it alone? As the harsh pellets cascaded down like fire from the heavens, leaving his plating streaky and processor lethargic. How many times?

“Why do you want me to stay?” B asks after a time, quiet enough that it doesn’t fully drown out the bustling cacophony of the city.

She looks at him. “Why do you think I do?”

He shrugs, about halfway as if something is stopping him from the full gesture. “Pity, mostly,” he says with a small, muted laugh.

Her spark hurts, and she wants to yell her feelings out all at once, to make him understand, but he’s only just spoken, and she fears if she moves too fast, he will clam up again. Instead, she asks, “What makes you think that, B?”

His focus is far from her, optic lenses dilated as he sees something beyond what she can. “Did Jazz tell you I fed glitch mice, at that old ruin?”

Elita shakes her helm no, though that is stupidly adorable.

“Well, I did it for a lot of reasons,” he stops, looking down at his palms from where they rest in his lap. “Compassion, solidarity, you know silly things nobody should care about. Most of all, I did it because I pitied them, and their suffering.” His fists clench. “I saw how they struggled the same way I did, guilty for the things I’d done.”

An awful pain erupts from Elita’s spark, growing and crawling under her plating in a pulsing ache across her chest. She hurts for him.

B continues. “I did something… I dunno, I guess something good for them in order to make myself feel better. I wanted to be kind, but really, I was just being selfish.”

The way he says it – so dead, so very believing, it kills her. “Oh B, my dear.” On her knees, she inches closer, placing a servo on his knee. “That’s what you think this is? Some sort of game to us you to make ourselves feel better?”

His mandible clicks weirdly as he opens his intake, a bit shocked. “No! I mean yes, but when you say it like that it’s like, an insult to you,” he replies, a bit out of breath as he works the words out. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Her optics narrow. “But you meant it as an insult to yourself, right?”

That stops him for a klik, and her audials dial in to the click of his secondary fans kicking on. When his helm catches up to everything, he shrivels a little, looking off into the crested distance. “I just meant I understand,” he finally says, tone light with a sad sort of pensiveness. He looks at her. “I hope I can make you feel better, Elita-1, I really do.”

Something breaks within her spark and she looks at him sadly, unable to do much more than smile sadly at him. There’s a wish so strongly in her, to wrap him up and help him unlearn whatever made him think this way. He’s so precious, and she only need know him for a moment to understand. What a travesty that he’s known himself his entire life, and still, he does not. “Oh B, please don’t put that on yourself,” she quietly begs, slowly, carefully, bringing a palm to his cheek. She feels him shiver, pulling his helm to face her. “Is it so hard to believe we are doing this because we like you?”

His optics – his big, pretty optics – flicker, and for a fraction of a nano-klik, he leans into her touch, exventing like it’s his last. Then, he pulls away, chuckling to himself. “Kinda,” he admits.

Frown deepening, she presses. “Why so?”

“Because I’ve done literally nothing to earn that – this,” he gestures wildly around him. “It doesn’t make sense to do all of this for me, we both know it. I’d be of better use to you driving off and returning to… to what I had before…” B rips his gaze from her, looking a bit stricken.

Feeling brave, she scoots closer once more, this time enough to clink her thighs against his. “Which is what?”

A laugh bubbles from him, and he grins to himself, looking so very tired. “Oh, just ghosts, I guess.”

And just when she thought her spark couldn’t weep for him any more. “You would go back to that solitude to better suit us?”

Finials falling to pin against his helm, B looks down, peaking over the edge of the crystal’s center. His optics zoom and spiral, observing every little detail Elita knows she can’t see. “They need you, down there. You protect them, you fight every day so they can have this.” His door wings – or, she guesses, the working one – sags, the edge of it tapping against his lower backstrut. “I can’t give them that, and I can’t distract you from it.” His face morphs into a sardonic smile. “I mean, you can’t honestly think that Optimus would have a use for me.”

At this, Elita rolls her optics and giggles fondly, hoping to break some of the thick tension. “Oh Primus, Optimus could find a use for a soggy piece of scrap metal.”

Aghast, B sits a little straighter, he looks around nervously. “Are you allowed to say that?” He asks, smile taking on a more strained quality.

Picturing her beloved, the tall, brave, and extremely awkward man he is, Elita shrugs with a little chuckle. “I can say whatever I want,” she says flippantly, wishing Ultra Magnus could hear this. She meets B’s optics, deep and intentional, searching for something. “That’s what being an Autobot is about, B.” she extends her field, hoping to convey the bursting affection she feels for him and every other person she holds dear. His breath catches. “It’s not about your use, or your build, or anything like that, B. Being an Autobot means having a choice, living your life without fear of someone forcing you to be someone you’re not.”

B invents harshly.

Elita presses on. “It’s about freedom, B. Maybe you’re right, maybe there are quote, unquote, more productive things I could be doing, but I don’t want to.” She leans in, smiling warmly. “I wanna be here with you, enjoying the lazy sun and getting to know you more. That’s how I’m choosing to spend my time.”

[UM#014~ : Is everything alright?]

[E1#015~ : Baby steps, my friend.]

Quiet blankets them and Elita-1 wonders if she’s pressed too far too quickly, but soon enough, his frame deflated, and he vents slowly, tiredly looking her over. “I don’t understand,” he begins, tracing a digit around some of the sharper edges of the crystal surface. “… But I think I believe you.”

Relief floods her like a fierce torrent, and she wills it not to show through her field, taking one of his servos in hers. “Will you believe me on one more thing, too?”

B mulls it over for a moment, servo shifting under her grip as if unsure of what to do. Slowly, he comes to grip her’s back. “Yes.”

She takes her free servo and places it just below his chin, cupping it as if he were made of glass. “Please believe we only want your happiness. Your health, and your happiness, that’s all we will ever ask of you, B,” she quietly declares, wondering how she could feel so certain about a spark she’s only known for two cycles.

And as the words spill from her, he freezes, optics briefly losing focus again as if he sees something that she can’t. There is a stretch of time where Elita-1 wonders if she truly has broken him. Said something beyond his comprehension and shattered his spark where it thrums inside of him. Then, as delicately as a calming breeze, his other servo presses against her chest. There’s a transference and for a pico-klik, she feels a fraction of him. What she feels breaks her a little more.

Even still, he relents, finally, finally, he relents. His helm lowers, and soon his forehelm lightly clinks against hers, his vocoder projecting barely above a whisper. “Okay. Okay. You win.”

Elita-1 smiles. She always does.

***

He agrees to see Ratchet the next morning. Really see him, not shakily nod, and then slam the door. To actually see and be seen.

Ultra Magnus rumbles his engine as they drive back, aware of the strange levity in the air.

B-127 allows a vehicle to overtake him in the flow of traffic even though it was his turn.

Against all odds, Magnus pulses with troublesome affection.

Alright, fine.

***

[CYCLE THREE]

It’s during his morning refuel that he spots him.

There was no one to greet him this morning, so B-1 assumes it’s silent permission to wander as he pleases for the moment. He makes it to the mess hall easily enough (without elevators this time) and ends up enjoying his cube with Cliffjumper, who spotted him in line and all but dragged him to sit with him.

The older mech is half-way through a story from his academy days – and how he apparently got high marks on his cognitive reasoning assessments when a flash of red and silver blips in his periphery. His cube is half full but he looks away from it, sifting through the mess of a crowd to see one First Aid staring at him from across the room. There’s a smile on his face, gentle and giving.

B-1 sighs. His last cycle here. There’s no avoiding it now.

“Hey, Cliff?” he interrupts.

Cliffjumper quiets immediately, though B-127 isn’t looking at him, he can tell he’s got his attention. “Yeah, what’s up kid?”

His spark flutters, but he readies himself easily enough. “Do you… like being an Autobot?”

Now a silence doesn’t exactly fall, the room is a roaring tumble and even if it wasn’t, B-1 knows by now that quiet isn’t exactly Cliffjumper’s default setting. He answers easily. “Like it? Ha! I love it, man. The best decision I ever made. Wouldn’t change a thing.”

He says it with all the resolve in the world.

Well, alright then.

***

“I suppose you had a change of spark?” First Aid asks as they idle in the elevator as it ascends to the main medical wing.

B-127 doesn’t really want to think about what comes next, in all of this, but he nods. “Something like that,” he replies, in place of an explanation.

The older bot hums, looking down on him kindly. “Well, just know Dr. Ratchet wants only the best. He’s… intense, but the best of the best. You have my word,” First Aid swears, placing his servo to his spark chamber. “I’ve worked with him for vorns, you’ll find no better care.”

There is no way to know just how much First Aid’s word is worth. Over the last two cycles, they haven’t spoken. Consider that B-1 spent most of his time avoiding anything related to medicine.

But even still, he’s been faced with the most joy he’s felt in stellar cycles, these past cycles. They’ve begged him, over and over, and the truth is he doesn’t even know why he’s so afraid.

Dea-8 couldn’t have had that much power over him. He doesn’t want to accept that.

“I’m scared of what he’ll find,” he blurts out, the realization hitting him hard enough to wind him. He wishes he hadn’t said it out loud, but he has, and First Aid looks at him sadly. He’s a little sick of that look.

First Aid clasps his servos. “There’s no shame in that fear, B. It’s hard, facing this sort of thing,” he pauses, looking to the door as it dings, slowing to a stop. The door opens and First Aid swiftly steps out, ushering B-1 to follow. They continue down a long hall. Peering into a few doors, B-1 spots rooms lined wall to wall with berths, most of them full with injured and exhausted-looking medics. Guilt crawls under his plating. First Aid continues. “But you must know that you are strong to do so. Truly, you are.”

He forces a smile, hoping it is half believable.

***

The smell is sterile and the lights are just bright enough to bother his sensitive optics. Unlike the wing holding numerous soldiers and scampering medics, this area is all but deserted. Their pedesteps echo as they walk. Soon enough, they come upon a large set of double doors, painted across them is a large Autobot medical symbol.

B-1 freezes, his chest clamping.

“Will you be alright in there on your own?” First Aid asks, servo ghosting over his back.

No, he wants to say, but he swallows that down. He’s done so much worse alone, he can handle a medical examination. No matter what his accelerated sparkpulse says. “I’ll be fine,” he says.

First Aid nods, drifting to a panel by the doors and pulling out a small card. “He’s gentle, despite it all.”

It’s with spiteful courage that B-1 chooses to believe him.

The doors slide open with a flourish and with the echo of Lariat’s laughing, B-1 steps inside.

***

“You’re late,” Ratchet says from his medical terminal, gruff but not unkind, more of a formality than real admonishment. He hears B-127 shuffle in, pedes clicking over the floor. Without turning, he gestures to the medical berth tucked near the side of the room. “Sit.”

There is a small squeak, and judging by the shuffling, B-1 follows his order without argument. “Yes sir- doctor- uh, I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

Ratchet sighs, willing the prickling under his collar to cease. “Just Ratchet is fine,” he replies without looking up. He’s done hundreds of exams, thousands even. The horror of battle has left him jaded and harrowed. He’s faced grim warriors plucked straight from battle, to patients practically dragged here against their will to receive treatment.

This is different. Deep and raw and emotional. All things a medic should avoid at all costs. Medicine should be given clinically and methodically. That’s how it has always been and how it always shall be.

So why is this ringing so loudly within him?

Willing his spark’s strength to return, he turns, facing B and giving him a quick glance. His plating looks haggard, and the trauma is extensive. Primus, how can anyone expect him to fix this in a single cycle? They should have let him drag B in here the first time he was supposed to show up. He’s known too many bots like this. Ones who carried too much weight for too long, so that their chassis bends and warps underneath it.

Pulling a smaller rolling console along with him, Ratchet slides it next to him and gives the shelf under the main screen one more check to ensure he has all the tools he may possibly need.  His optics meet B’s, and Ratchet doesn’t allow himself to be stricken by the exhaustion hidden in them. “You don’t want to be here,” he observes, unwilling to act the contrary.

“No,” B admits, so quiet Ratchet isn’t sure he’s heard correctly at first. “Elita said I should.”

Ratchet snorts, unable to help himself. “Unfortunately, Elita is typically right.”

His antennae rise. “Really?”

The medic nods. “After the first five thousand vorns, it becomes extremely grating.”

That gets a small, weak laugh from him. Ratchet can already see nanite decay and a mountain of other problems, but he really needs a full system scan before creating a care chart. “Are you familiar with a medical plug-in?” He asks, feeling much more comfortable in his medic vernacular.

There is a pico-klik where B stops, optics dilating slightly before focusing inconsistently. “Yes,” he manages to warble out.

Ratchet nods. “You must be, in order to get into the city. This will be similar, though this will not scan your files so intrusively. The goal is solely to isolate the problem areas and give me an idea of what I have to work with,” he explains, watching B zero back in on him to listen intently. “You can back out, and I can do a rudimentary pass over, but if I can’t see your system log, there’s a chance I could hurt you further.”

It’s clear he doesn’t like the sound of it, but with a shake of his helm, B agrees.

Pulling the cable from the console is all piston memory and he is half way to locate B’s medical terminal when B invents harshly. “Wait,” he says suddenly.

Ratchet huffs, raising an optical ridge, what now?

Timidly, B averts his gaze and fiddles with his digits, anxiety wracking him enough to shake his chassis. “Um… just, please, can you… go slowly?”

Curious. “Slowly?”

Raising his servos, B gestures around his helm. “When you’re looking through… everything… just, don’t move too fast.”

Scoffing, Ratchet’s expression widens to incredulousness. “Of course not, that would cause you unnecessary strain on your processor. That would be gravely irresponsible.”

B looks at Ratchet as if he were from another planet. “Right,” he mutters weakly.

A part of his spark twists, but Ratchet tamps it down before it can evolve into anything more. Satisfied that B likely won’t interrupt further, he presses on, taking a small step to survey the back of B’s helm.

His optics see it immediately. Grooved scar-mesh runs along the entrance to his medical port, ending in small, static-like edges. Upon closer inspection, the healed injury continues through the port and into his processor. His visual diagnostic estimates it’s been less than two stellar cycles since the damage occurred.  He invents slowly. “Do you get frequent helm-aches?” Ratchet inquires slowly.

After a moment, B squirms a bit where he sits. “Sometimes.”

That tells him what he needs to know, and he pulls back. “you’re certain you don’t want the non-invasive scan?” He asks, understanding the question is a sight of weakness that B won’t appreciate. You don’t survive this long with damage like that without learning how to cope.

Predictably, though it saddens Ratchet’s spark, B-127 briefly clamps his armor before releasing it a nano-klik later, a very deliberate movement. “I can handle it,” he responds firmly.

Replying with a grunt, Ratchet admonishes himself as he hesitates. He’s a professional. The damage here is sizeable but hardly the most gruesome he’s ever seen.

But as he jacks in the device, slow and carefully, B audibly shuts off his ventilation, and only the sound of his internals and the whirr of the med-bay's various terminals echoes throughout the room, Ratchet can admit it’s always a little harder when it’s a child.

A small electrical buzz reverberates from the port for a pico-klik, and Ratchet makes his first note to repair whatever damage is causing that. Ground loop, maybe.

Within an instant, his scanner is awash with information and Ratchet begins slowly looking through it. B-127’s damage log is extensive, to put it lightly. From minor dings to full-blown internal damage, some of which dates back to the very stellar cycle he sparked. “Primus almighty,” he whispers to himself, allowing this small bit of horror to seep through.

The youngling is tense, to put it lightly, though Ratchet can tell he tries to hide his apprehension, clasping his servos together and rubbing his digits in a self-soothing manner.

In slight disbelief, Ratchet shakes his helm. “Your balance systems are practically nonexistent,” he says, pointing to the highlighted log-data on the diagnostic screen. “Have you been compensating for this through brute force?”

Timidly, B confirms with a nod. “I learned how to work around it.”

“Work around it…” Ratchet mutters to himself, displeased. With the number of flagged and quarantined subroutines he sees and the number of dead sensor nodes in his left door wing, he’d have no choice. The door wing has been damaged for stellar cycles, long, poorly welded gashes run down the center and it hangs at an awkward angle. Joints strained from poor alignment, every now and then twitching as if trying to correct itself. There’s no doubt it’s uncomfortable.

He tuts his denta. “You’ve been holding in your EM field too much. It’s reckless to hold in your resonance to such a degree. You tired out your spark and your chassis,” he announces, eyeing down the numbers and reports with master perception. “Keeping it all inside will only hurt you in the long run.”

B doesn’t reply to that.

Moving on, Ratchet’s optics widen, and he has to read over the log several times. “Your Transformation cog,” he begins, turning to meet B’s optics. “It activated prematurely,” he says, less so as a question and more a statement.

B’s pedes tap idly against the floor. “I guess.”

“You guess?” he sighs, bringing his servo to pinch between his optics. “A premature T-cog activation can cause numerous errors and even death, and yours came online within your first stellar cycle?” B nods. Ratchet runs a stressed servo over his helm. “That is an extremely uncommon occurrence, B-127, I have only ever seen it done through outside interference. Mainly the Decepticons.”

“That’s not what happened,” B snaps quickly, posture going ramrod straight, optics almost fearful at the very notion. After a moment, he wilts, sensory antennae pinning back. “That’s not what happened…” He gently repeats.

Ratchet sighs, normally lacking in patience for this kind of circle talk. But for B, he supposes he can make an exception. “Then what did happen?” Ratchet inquires, looking away to mindlessly scan their sterile surroundings. “I understand that may be difficult for you to answer, but depending on the circumstances, I can rule out any potential errors in your software.”

It takes a few kliks for B to mull it over, but he eventually concedes with a small, shamed sigh. “I was scared,” he mutters, keeping his helm pointed to the ground as if he’d done something wrong.

Shock tickles underneath Ratchet’s plating as he takes in the words. His tanks turn in his midsection, and he’s surprised that this of all things makes him queasy. The absolute pungency of the fear felt to force a pre-mature upload as hefty as a slagging T-cog activation is overwhelming. For helm and spark to align so closely to forgo any input from your logic processes and risk your chassis crumpling in on itself.

No one should ever be that afraid, much less a child.

Flagging it to look at later, Ratchet presses on without pushing the issue further. There are hundreds of transformations logged here and beyond surface-level trauma, Ratchet sees no evidence of warped transformation seams consistent with pre-mature activation. There’s no need to upset B any more than he already has.

“You’re missing your plasma blades,” Ratchet notes numbly, slow in turning from the screen to examine the caved-in crevices near B-127’s wrists.  B twitches when Ratchet takes one of his arms in his servos, but doesn’t fully recoil. Crude weld beads line the edges where B’s poor nanites did their best to ease the hurt, but the damage is still as clear as ever. The price for bio-weaponry is high, especially now. gravely, he shakes his helm. “You were attacked?”

Keeping his helm firmly turned away, he weakly shakes it. “No.”

Ratchet scoffs, optical ridges rising. “Then what on Cybertron happened?”

Shyly, B pulls his arm from Ratchet’s hold, bringing it close to his chest. “I did what I had to,” he answers, tone all but empty, detached.

Primus almighty. What has their world become if new sparks feel the need to respond like that?

Soldiers it is expected, a coping mechanism to keep themselves sane in the face of all of the horrors they are forced to witness. Ratchet has seen it thousands of times in his lifetime and he’ll see it thousands more.

But even with all of his experience – all of this knowledge he’s amassed, there’s something about a sparkling’s aching frame that brings it all crashing down. The reality of everything is brought to light by one small bot.

Exventing harshly, Ratchet clears his vocoder, accepting that explanation though it does him no good as a doctor.

The examination continues down a similar juncture, and Ratchet sighs to himself as he catalogs the worst of the injuries:

Neurological and Gyroscopic Malfunctions: Significant damage localized to central processing units, primarily affecting gyroscopic stabilization and audio-visual sensory pathways. Patient reports persistent vertigo and nausea, indicative of impaired spatial calibration and feedback loops. Immediate recalibration and targeted repairs are a priority.

Quarantined Software Protocols: Several isolated and quarantined programs detected, likely resulting from system corruption or interloop errors. Detailed diagnostics and possible reinstatement or deletion are required to prevent further operational degradation. – Priority.

Ventilation Subsystem Failure: Severe burnout identified in the right primary ventilation partition, leading to overcompensation by auxiliary cooling systems. Replacement of the damaged partition is critical to avoid long-term stress on secondary systems.

Right Cadulen Damage: Extensive internal and external damage includes shrapnel embedded near primary actuators, hydraulic scarring, and pervasive stress fractures throughout structural armor. Patient's gait compensates for instability, suggesting significant strain on stabilizing mechanisms. Comprehensive reconstruction is recommended.

Processor Casing Abrasions: Multiple abrasions to cranial processor casing observed, most notably above the left optic. Some injuries appear chronic. Application of dermal putty and reinforcement are advised to mitigate further risk of exposure.

Bio-Mechanism Strain: Prolonged strain across various bio-mechanical systems indicates possible systemic degradation. Exploratory surgery is strongly recommended to assess and address structural and functional damage. – Priority.

Energon Deficiency: Widespread traces of deficiency across vital systems detected. Further examination is necessary to identify potential corrosion points or inefficiencies within energon distribution networks. Immediate replenishment required. – Priority.

Chassis Mesh Damage: Surface-level abrasions observed across external mesh layers. Thorough assessment of underlying proto-flesh is advised to determine whether damage extends to internal mechanisms. If no further compromise is found, a buffing and/or plating replacement is recommended.

Medical Port Vulnerability and Ground Loop Disruption: Evidence suggests potential damage to the helm’s medical interface port, potentially causing irregular data transfer or diagnostic errors. Additionally, improper grounding within the neural circuitry may result in signal interference, leading to instability in sensory and cognitive functions. Both issues may contribute to the semi-frequent helm-aches reported by the patient, indicative of further internal damage within the processor casing or adjacent neural pathways. A targeted diagnostic search is highly recommended to confirm and address these concerns.

Left Hip Plate and Lower Back Strut Damage: Superficial repairs appear rushed, providing only temporary stabilization. Further examination is recommended to prevent long-term structural weakening.

Delayed Healing Response: Nanite activity is insufficient for effective recovery. An immediate nanite infusion is strongly advised to accelerate cellular and structural repair processes.

The report is no different from any of the millions Ratchet has written before, just another mess of diagnostics on a data pad to send to the medical office for processing. But somehow, someway, this new spark has made this all personal to some of Ratchet’s oldest friends. He has spent the better part of two cycles listening to Jazz or Elita-1 or even Chromia for Primus's sake, exclaiming their fondness for him even though the time they’ve known him is virtually negligible. Don’t they live eons and more? Aren’t they beyond mere solar cycles?

Something about this sparkling has set some of the Autobot’s commanding officers back to appreciate such minute measurements of time, as if they want nothing more than to savor each moment. Ratchet doesn’t know B-127 well, but already he knows there is a strong magnetic resonance within him. He can count on two servos the number of bots he has met with such a spark.

So, even though it’s rather reckless on his part because he really does not need the added workload, Ratchet marks himself down for any of the priority diagnoses. This is important to Optimus, and so it’s important to him.

“The damage is extensive,” he says curtly, placing his datapad down and reaching back to gently remove the jack from B-127’s port. B jolts forward, as if expecting an eruption from the port. When it does not happen, he brings a tentative servo to the back of his helm. Ratchet notes the behavior for later.

Satisfied with his tactile search, B snorts. “Gee, you don’t say,” he snips, bringing a servo to his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he whispers sincerely.

Unable to stave off a fond optic roll, Ratchet grumbles, looking away. “I will give you a copy of my report to look over on your own, but B-127, some of these injuries cannot be ignored. You’ve survived off sheer will alone thus far, but it will not work forever.” He places his servos on his hip plates, inventing softly. “I understand that this is a lot for you, and this is supposed to be your last cycle here, but looking at this list… this is orbital cycles worth of work including physical therapy and trial runs on your quarantined programs. There are a few small corrections I can make today, but everything substantial will take time, B-127. What you’ve got on your side is your age, you young sparks can heal faster than what’s reasonable. I implore you to remain here until you can be repaired.”

B-127 looks up at Ratchet, optics widened with thought. “Doctor…”

Ratchet holds up a servo. “If you still wish to leave once you’ve recovered, you will be free to, but please, to leave now would be irresponsible, more than that, it would be downright suicidal!”

“Ratchet, sir,” B says, expression slightly imploring as he interrupts. He seems to gather himself for a moment, advanced optics seeing more than he is willing to tell. “I… I understand what you’re saying, I do. And thank you so much, really. You and everyone… you’ve been different, from people I’ve known. I’ve made up my mind.”

There’s a tension in the back of Ratchet’s neck, and he excuses the feeling away to simply be a result of sore pistons. “So… does that mean you intend to stay?”

Before answering, B stands, and Ratchet clocks the subtle wobble in his movement but pushes the instinct to correct away. He is only in his mid-frame, it will be several before he is of average mech height. Even still, B looks a little taller as he faces Ratchet, optics a determined steel. “It means I need to speak with Optimus.”

***

They had all hoped for the medical assessment to take longer, everyone involved crossing their digits that Ratchet would be able to get some work done in the little time he’s been given.

And while some is better than nothing, it’s B-127 asking for a moment with Optimus that really throws everything off. Two cycles ago he seemed rather out of sorts even talking to him, clearly wearied by all of them and Optimus especially. What’s changed?

While the Prime had been planning on seeing B-127 on his own anyway, he can admit he pushes a few things around to make time for him now.

Jazz escorts him to the conference floor, since he does not have the clearance to those upper levels on his own, but the special operations commander does little more than wave to Optimus before the doors to the elevator shut, and finally the two are alone. Optimus turns, optics catching the younger. He looks much the same as he did two cycles ago, though more showered and in much better spirits. “Greetings, my friend, how do you fair? I trust Ratchet treated you well?”

B-127’s optics spiral for a moment, as if taking in the information slower than usual. “Uh—oh, yes, yes sir. He gave me some things for pain,” he confirms, finding a tired smile within him as he modestly meets Optimus near the window he stands over.

Optimus tilts his helm. “But nothing more?”

Shaking his helm, B-127 sighs. “I needed to talk to you first, sir.”

For a moment, Optimus casts his gaze out to his home. A wondrous city of life and survival in the face of their peril. It is far from perfect, but it is theirs. What has B-127 come to see it as, so soon? “Very well, go on, B-127.”

Rocking back and forth on his pedes, and the subtle grating of his mandible tell Optimus he is more anxious than he is willing to let on. “Do you oversee colony merging?” he finally blurts, tilting his helm upwards to catch his optics.

“In part, yes. I try to be involved in all affairs regarding the safety of Neutrals, regardless of whether they ally with us,” Optimus replies honestly.

B-127 seems to tense at that. “Do you lose them a lot?” there is a certain quiver in his vocoder that weeps with thrashing memories. Optimus softens.

With a lament not all his own, Optimus lowers his helm. “There have been cases where settlements have been attacked before any Autobots could be deployed. It is a tragedy I consider often.” He admits, and it’s true. Even with all the Matrix’ wisdom, even it fails to account for the Decepticon’s cruelty sometimes.

There’s an audible whirl of B-127’s ventilation, and he looks away as if stricken. “Right,” he warbles out, hurting in a way Optimus only wishes to understand. The youngling then shakes himself off, willing himself into composure, setting his gaze back upwards. “It’s because you don’t have enough people.”

While that’s true – they never seem to have enough soldiers, while the Decepticons always seem to have so many – Optimus wonders why this would be something for a new spark to even consider. “Our numbers, while few, are more than made up for by the spark each and every Autobot holds,” he answers neatly.

B-127 nods, agreeing to that statement. Casting a glance out at the Iacon landscape, B-127 steps away, turning from Optimus to face the conference table.  “… I like it here,” he weakly admits. “You’re all so nice, and for some reason you actually like me – or at least, you don’t hate me. Which is, cool. Weird, but cool.”

Finials pulling back, Optimus opens his intake to reply.

“ – But you don’t have the resources for another sparkling. Much less another patient at your hospital. You need resources bad enough that you’re willing to scour through ugly and destroyed ruins to get it,” B-127 states, vocoder clearer than Optimus has ever heard it. He sees a fire where so many have seen weakness, and the realization makes his spark flicker in a way it hasn’t in vorns. Something deeper than ever begs him to pursue.

He raises a servo. “B-127, if you stay, I can promise you that none of that will—”

“I will stay,” B-127 says, servos clenching at his sides. “On one condition.”

Optimus tilts his helm. “And if I cannot agree?”

The younger points toward the elevator. “Then I’ll be out of your way by morning, you won’t have to send anyone out to bitty-sit me anymore,” he replies, a tad bitterly by Optimus’s standards. It reminds him of Ratchet in a way that pings his spark affectionately. “Call it a gamble,” he adds, and Optimus has to fight himself not to smile. Oh, if Elita-1 heard this.

Not wanting to argue further, Optimus relents. “Very well, young one, what must happen in order to keep you here?”

B-127 invents, then exvents, seemingly steeling himself and finding his resolve. It doesn’t take him long, and before the next klik rolls by, his optics are blazing up at him, brighter than a solar flare or comet in the sky. “I’ll stay, but not for free. I won’t be your burden sir. I won’t. If I stay there’s one thing you have to agree to.”

A small silence settles, and Optimus finds himself leaning in, wondering if he missed something.

…

…

“If I stay, you have to let me join the Autobots.”

Chapter Text

The meeting Optimus calls is extremely last klik and only a few can attend with some time to spare. He does get a strongly worded ping from Ultra Magnus, essentially disavowing this entire thing with promises to talk some sense into everyone later. Optimus lovingly takes the brunt of it. Prowl sends a shorter, more concise version of disapproval, but the bot is beyond busy and has done everything in his power to leave this situation in everyone else’s servos, so it’s not so harsh. Chromia is tied up with one of her units, and given her extensive medical leave and vocal boredom because of said leave, she is remiss to disregard whatever limited fieldwork she is allowed.

Supposedly, this is a good thing. After all, everyone else is plenty loud on their own, and Optimus doesn’t think he can warrant any further agitation.

“Optimus, you can’t be serious!” Ratchet exclaims, pacing up and down the conference room with enough weight to shake the data consoles scattered throughout the space. A hiss of air escapes through his ventilation and he throws his servos up. “I don’t even know where to begin on the list of reasons why we cannot agree to this!” Ratchet cuts himself off, so fuming he can’t form the words. “Gah, I tell him he needs time and rest, and he goes off and gives a Prime an ultimatum!”

The commanders with the time for this impromptu meeting stand in various degrees of disbelief. Jazz brings a servo to his intake to snicker. “He’s got bolts, I’ll give him that,” he says wryly, a fond smile taking over his expression.

The medic scowls, waving a dismissive servo as he walks. “What he’s got is destructive tendencies! That’s what this is!” He yells, vocoder cutting off into nonsensical crackling as he laments.

Though she seems tired – she rushed out of some sort of mission debrief to be here – Elita-1 smiles. “I think it’s a fine idea, Ratch. You said you could fix him up good as new, right,” she inquires, leaning from where she is seated to try and catch the doctor’s optic.

Metal creaks as Ratchet’s chassis forces to a stop and he turns, running a stressed servo over his face. “Of course I can! The issues are extensive but repairable. That does not mean I’m signing off on sending a teenager to be amongst our ranks! We are not that desperate.” Ratchet says this with enough emphasis to trick the audial into believing it. Shuttering his optics, his shoulders sink. “Optimus, we are not that desperate,” he says again, quieter. Pleading.

Elita stands suddenly, smile falling just so. “B knows what he is asking, guys. He’s not stupid. He will leave otherwise,” she adds, helm ornaments twisting sadly. “I know he will keep to that promise. I don’t want this any more than any of you, but I also want B around.”

A servo lands on her shoulder, and Elita allows Ironhide to push her back into a sitting position. “As do I, but are you willing to put him in harm’s way simply because he does not wish to be a burden?  Elita, you of all bots understand the risks of sending out a soldier unprepared,” he admonishes, countenance inattentive as if something heavy weighs on his mind. Elita’s resonance weakens, tempered for the moment.

Optimus brings his servos together, offering Ironhide an appreciative nod. Ratchet’s field is pendulous, hanging like loose scallops around them all. “Friends,” Optimus starts, smokestacks vibrating with his words as he invents. “I understand B-127 has put us in an otherwise unprecedented position.”

“Unprecedented,” Ratchet parrots venomously, resuming his pacing which reverberates about the room.

Moving to give the medic space to brood further, the Prime places himself behind Elita-1, placing a palm on the table beside her. “I admit, I am unsure of the best course of action,” Optimus says, chassis vibrating through his ventilations. He allows the show of weakness only for B-127’s sake.

“Where is he now?” Ironhide asks, taking a chair to pull out a small polishing kit from his subspace.

Jazz, who sits a small distance away with his pedes resting on the table, answers first. “His room, OP told em’ we needed time ta’ talk it over.” He grins, picking at a small chip in his visor. “Kidda’ was pissed we didn’t let him be here fer’ this. I could tell.”

“This room is no place for sparklings anyway,” Ratchet snaps without looking away from where he continues to seer holes in the floor. “This army isn’t,” he adds hotly.

The spy chuckles, door wings rising as he talks. “The kid might disagree wit’cha, doc.”

Ratchet stops, and they all know by the fuming scowl he shoots him that Jazz is about to get a lecture about how much he hates that monicker and to save everyone the grief, Optimus resets his vocoder, minding the tense draw in everyone’s frames. “Please, we must bear in mind B-127’s convictions in all of this. Despite his age, he has made it clear that he holds no regard for his experience, only our decision. We must weigh in our sparks what is best for him, before anything else.”

“I seem to be the only one capable of that, Optimus! All of you spend two cycles with him and suddenly he is a warrior to you all?” Ratchet scoffs, stopping a distance away to gesture to the table at large. “I seem to be the only one here who sees the disaster this is waiting to become.”

And Elita is on her pedes again, expressive field sharpening into one well-worn from battle and poisoned with death. Optimus watches her carefully. Her enchanting optics glow a dark violet. “How dare you, Ratchet. I know you speak from a place of concern but don’t you dare speak to me like that. I didn’t see you going out and looking for B the first time he blew you off. No, you waited for us to talk him into going!” She points a digit his way. “We did that because we care, doctor. We did. Not you.”

They’ve all known Ratchet long enough to clock the very moment his feelings are hurt. He doesn’t stagger back as such, but he does reel back as if he intends to, optics blowing wider than necessary and the anger in his features stalls. A part of Optimus’s spark spirals and then drops like lead into his tanks, empathy crawling back up. Ratchet is hurt.

There is no need to turn and correct his Conjux, though, as within the instant the atmosphere shifts, remorse floods Elita’s EM field like a dam broken, and her servos slam onto her intake. She is out of her chair and circles around the table in nano-kliks, planting herself in front of the medic with her servos pressing against his arms. “Oh, Ratchet I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be that harsh,” she pouts her dermas. “Alright, I did mean to be that harsh, but I’m not… I think you’re right, Ratchet, really.”

The medic scoffs, though Optimus notes the way his field is lighter than before. It’s difficult to stay upset at Elita. “Then why do you combat me so readily?” He replies.

Observing something unseen on the back of his servo, Jazz answers for her. “Because she wants him around,” he says easily, resting his arm down in his lap. “… And just because she wants ta’ keep him safe, doesn’t mean he can’t take what this war wants ta’ dish.” His pedes slide off of the table, and Jazz straightens himself out, leaning forward with a grin. “I’m inclined to agree.”

A small well is filled with silence between them, and Elita-1 doesn’t speak up to disagree. Optimus, watches her intently, seeing the conflict she is masking so well. To some, Elita-1 is over-emotional and so she is fit for battle. To others, she is complex and unnerving. After all, how could she love B-127 so much and yet encourage him to face the trials that haunt even warriors long-scorned?

Oh, but if only they knew of her unceasing compassion, of her ability to fight for someone without an inch of credit to her name. Finally, her plating shifts as she keeps her optics affixed to the floor. “I just…  I can’t let him go back to his ghosts, Ratchet,” she looks up, meeting the doctor’s own feed with wide, sad optics. “If he’s with us, maybe we can scare them away, maybe the hauntings won’t steal him anymore.” Her voice box crackles from within her thraceatic lines, and for a moment, Optimus thinks she may cry. “He may suffer with us, Ratchet, that’s true. But out there, he will die, I just know it. I can’t do that to him.”

Using a rag to wipe away new grime around his cannons, Ironhide places it down gently. “Chromia believes him to hold great potential, old friend,” he adds turning his helm an odd way to come into Ratchet’s view.

“And do you agree, Ironhide?” Optimus queries, turning over the conversation in his processor as he asks. His sparkpulse dances along his lines, and the Prime can just feel the Matrix working all of this over.

The weapons specialist narrows his optics, considering. Then, he nods. “Far be it from me to deny a bright spark like that a chance. I have seen his quick-thinking, young or not, he is clever.” But there’s something to his tone, and Ironhide seems to know he betrays it the moment he speaks. His helm hangs. “But I admit I am wary of even sending him to an academy for training. I fear how the other cadets would treat him.”

With a creak of his lowering door wings, Jazz retracts his visor, forgoing his metaphorical shield from emotion and vulnerability. Optimus thinks his optics have always been weary under that little piece of glass, forlorn. It’s a well-kept secret, that Jazz isn’t quite as nonchalant or impenetrable as he wants everyone to think. Pointer digits pressed together in front of his faceplate, Jazz rests his elbows on the table. “We already have younglings in trainin, y’all.” His digits part, and he pinches the bridge of his olfactory sensors. “B’s tough, and quick-witted as shit, intuitive even with a half-functional frame, but he’s stubborn n’ clumsy and fraggin’ lonely as they come. We let em’ loose in the wild again, we either get a dead kid or another damn Decepticon sparkling warrior with a processor so fried all he can do is follow orders.”

A heaviness blankets the room, sagging every frame, EM fields tangling together in a raw amalgam of hurt and bitter memories. It’s no secret that in the past few vorns, the Decepticons have taken to a new level of brutality. The truth of the matter is that there aren’t enough soldiers to go around, none old enough and few left with sparks with the gumption to fight.

Optimus has always believed in recruiting through honesty and harmless methods, stirring the sparks of those who need a cause to give them hope. Before combat and violence, hope is all Optimus has ever wanted to give.

Megatron has never been so forbearing. While Optimus has done his best to find a place for all even if they have no desire to join the fight, his warlord opposite seems to thrive in forcing sparks into places they don’t fit. From sparkless drones to prisoners of war, far be it from Megatron to waste a resource.

And as of most recently, new sparks are not exempt from his tyranny. Truly, it is a marvel of Decepticon engineering, to take a frame so new and shift it, to change it into whatever it must be with so little effort. Brain modules are shorted before fully formed, processors crammed with only pertinent information of hatred and obedience.

In a way Megatron does kill them, entrapping their sparks within their moving husks with no ability to think or feel on their own. It’s a sort of cruelty Optimus is haunted by.

The Well has slowed considerably in the last six vorns, and Optimus is wracked with guilt for being thankful for it. Their planet has been dying for eons, sick with war and this conflict, but more than ever, it’s no place for children. No one is free from the Decepticon’s torture, not even the young.

To even consider B-127 falling victim to a processor wipe causes a visceral reaction of disgust to well within the Prime, and not for the first time, Optimus wishes Megatron listened to reason.

“… But Jazz,” Ratchet starts quietly, looking all the exhausted chief medical officer that he is. “… Eleven stellar cycles,” he reminds, vocoder babbling a pained inflection. “That’s too young, Primus,” his palms cover his face, defeated. “That’s too young,” he repeats, miserable.

There is a silent murmur of agreement, only passing through their intertwined fields. No one moves to argue further, there’s no need. They all know Ratchet’s right. They also know that so are Elita and Jazz. There is no escaping these paradoxes when this high up in command, but no one has to particularly enjoy it.

And Optimus is about to be the one to make the tough call, one he is still mulling over, when Jazz suddenly stands, visor sliding back down into place as his digit presses to his audial. A sudden commlink. Attention falls on him in case of emergency.

“… No shit?” He says after a time, all moroseness evaporating from his inflection as his vocoder bubbles with laughter. He nods to whoever is on the receiving end, still chuckling. “That’s what he said, huh? He do anythin’?” Jazz inquires, and Optimus and Ironhide share a glance. Jazz brings a servo to his hip, giggles coming out in a consistent stream. “—No, nah, leave em’ be, we’ll handle it. Immediately, huh? Sly little thing, thanks, LN, we’ll be down in a klik.” Jazz lets go of his audial, sliding his palm over his jaw, grinning wide.

Elita-1 steps forward. “What’s got you so chipper?”

The spy just waves a servo, shaking his helm in tapered amazement. His optics meet Ratchets. “Looks like yer’ medics could do ta’ watch over their things a little better,” he says dismissively, looking as amused as a turbo-fox in a cold spell.

Ratchet splutters at that, crossing his arms and looking severe. “What is that supposed to mean?” Asks Ratchet, sounding affronted.

Turning to Optimus, Jazz steps away from the table, door wings higher than they’ve been in deca-cycles. “Seems like our mystery kid ain’t willin’ ta’ let the big kids talk it over,” he laughs again, as if the information given is the most interesting thing in the world. “Downstairs, we left a crafty lil’ brat in his room, thinkin’ he’d listen ta’ us like the sweet thing he is. But I seen em’ bite back against a Prime wit’ his knees shakin’.”

Ironhide’s engines growl, and he throws his arms up. “Oh for the love of—spit it out, man!”

Jazz snickers, hot air steaming from his vents as he casts a glance throughout the room. “He ain’t one ta’ be dismissed, that’s fer sure. Guess it’s time ta’ update security,” he says offhandedly, admiring  the city outside. “Kid broke into floor eighty-eight.”

***

Now, Blainey doesn’t find himself phased by much anymore. He’s been in the Autobots for a good hundred vorns now, and while that’s not a lot compared to some of his fellow bots, it’s sure as hell enough to tame his spark when it comes to odd sights.

But seeing five commanding officers – including Optimus Prime oh my god – all crammed into the main system elevator sort of throws him for a loop. He’s just on desk duty, having been injured in the raid a few orbital cycles back, but he might consider asking for a different position to waste time on soon. First, a kid somehow gets the clearance to get in here – who the hell gave him a security pass to this floor? Now, he has to witness Jazz, commander of special operations and all missions therein, tripping over chief medical officer Ratchet. How did they all fit in that thing?

Scratch that, fall over chief medical officer Ratchet. Blainey stands from his post, looking just over his desk to make sure the highly trained army general is okay. Primus, did he take a grenade to the helm again?

“Uh—” he starts helplessly. Should he salute?

Without so much as even glancing at Jazz, Ratchet steps over the spy and plants himself in front of Blainey. They are around the same height, but Blainey feels the need to shrink just a bit.

“Where is he?” Ratchet snaps, optics blindingly bright in their hue and teetering towards murderous.

He glances down, Optimus Prime helps commander Jazz to his pedes. He looks back up, shakily bringing an arm up to point at the currently closed security shields. “Um, in there, some of the… some of the techs are with him,” he answers, voice box locking up a few times and slowing down his delivery. Primus, he hopes this doesn’t interfere with that promotion he’s been vying for.

Commander’s Elita-1, Jazz, and Ironhide all say thank you at the same time, Ratchet joins them in all but stampeding through the shields which barely deactivate in time. God. His optics meet Optimus Prime’s, who seems to be the only one not in a hurry. A bit starstruck, Blainey barely remembers to straighten into a salute, almost using the wrong arm. “Sir,” he greets breathlessly, willing his components to cool down.

Optimus nods, not quite smiling but still warm nonetheless. He offers a salute in return which Blainey thinks he’ll have to have that snapshotted from his memory banks and put on the ceiling of his bunk. “Thank you for your assistance, soldier,” he credits kindly, countenance mellow like a hot cycle after an acid storm as he too walks through the shield.

Pits of Kaon, who’s gonna believe this?

***

It is only a turn of a corner before they see him. Jazz grins, absently rubbing the new bruise on his shoulder that still smarts. Just as they’d been told, B-127 sits with his legs crossed, surrounded by clearly stressed techs, some of whom converse with either each other or B himself.

The kid is projecting an air of relaxation, but Jazz can tell by the slight buzz in the room's waves that he is nervous. This sensation increases once his optics land on the rapidly approaching hoard of commanders. Jazz slows himself down on purpose, giving Elita-1 a slight ping to follow along. Ironhide and Ratchet are a lost cause, so he doesn’t bother.

Ratchet reaches him first, the technicians scattering out of his way in a slew of awkward salutes and clipped greetings. B’s shoulders hike up in a self-shielding act, but Jazz notes that his optics don’t waver in meeting the medic’s. Ratchet does not seem to care about this, field aflame and red with outrage. “I treat you with a courtesy, take time from my very busy schedule to examine your very fragile health, and you repay me by stealing First Aid’s security pass?” he yells, each accusation growing in volume as they pass.

B flinches, seemingly unappreciative of the verbiage used. “Technically, I didn’t steal it, I was going to give it back. I just… temporarily held it while no one knew,” his servos raise, palms out. “But you’re right, I did take it, I’m sorry.” His servo points to a tech standing to the side. “Liesle has it now.”

Jazz turns his helm, Liesle, a small accountant for the special operations division, squawks at being mentioned. Her plating locks up and she fumbles for her subspace to take out the small, nondescript key card.

He shouldn’t say it out loud, but Jazz is thoroughly impressed. Elita is kind enough to take it from her, rejoining the group with a knowing smile.

Floor eighty-eight is one of the restricted floors, but not the most securely locked down. Many soldiers with a higher rank than colonel have access to it. It’s a split floor housed mostly by desks, filled with documentation of various clearances and numerous branches. There is a small generator room near the center of the floor, with most of the techs eavesdropping being the workers for it. It supplies secondary power to the upper floors and many emergency reserves. If anyone had the know-how, they could shut down half the base.

While not the hardest to get to, B most definitely did not have access to this place, and he knew it.

“Why did you leave your room?” Ironhide asks, optical bridges pinched in poorly hidden frustration and suspicion. “Did you merely grow bored and decide to defy every rule we have given you?”

Jazz’s optics narrow, sending Ironhide a disapproving ping.

To his credit, the younger bot only wilts a little, functional door wing falling just so. Still, he shakes his helm. “No, but I knew you would spend forever debating whether to take my offer.” He looks down, finials swiveling as he considers. “I wanted to narrow down your choices a bit.”

In front, Ratchet scoffs, bringing his arms to his chest to cross them, shifting his weight from pede to pede. “Narrow our choices? And how exactly did you plan to do that?”

Shifting to stand before he replies, B’s vents sigh a long hiss, and he looks back up at them all, grinning. Cheekily. “Think about it, now you’ve got two options.”

“Two?” Elita inquires.

The younger nods, clearing his vocoder before he continues. “Yes. I mean, it would be irresponsible to let me go now, I’m a security risk. I stole from a high-ranking officer and deliberately defied orders to stay in my room, using the intel you gave me to access a restricted floor. I mean, I’m just screaming Decepticon spy right now, aren’t I?”

No one says a word to rebut him, so he pushes on. “So, you’ve got to keep an optic on me, right? You can accomplish that in two ways. Either you lock me up in a holding cell for observation, you can grill me for all of my secrets and dig around my helm for whatever information you want. You could do that, or…”

“—We make ya an Autobot,” Jazz finishes with a smirk wide enough to hurt.

Thankful for the participation, B smiles, nodding. “Your choice,” he finishes. Then, some of his confidence wanes, and his shoulders fall, and he chuckles, quieter. “It’s… okay, whatever you choose.”

That leaves the room silent, and no one quite knows what to do with the slight heaviness in the wake of his polarizing actions. Slowly, Optimus steps up. “While you have made valid and rational arguments, B-127, why do you feel the need to force our servo? Why do you fight so hard?”

The question inspires some more life in the mechling, and his optical ridges narrow, optics spiraling with renewed determination. He looks up to the Prime. “Because I needed to prove to you that I can do this. I know you think I’m this pitiful little thing that could break at any nano-klik, but I want you to know I can be more than that.” His fists clench at his sides, features setting. “I can be more than that,” he reiterates softly.

And of course, none of them think that. At least, Jazz hopes not. He’s known since the beginning the potential B has and has been one of the few people to fight for respect for him. A bit dystopian? Perhaps, yes, but never pitiful. That word doesn’t even come close to describing B and Jazz hates that B doesn’t see that.

But he is right about one thing, they can’t let this slide. Rumors spread like wildfire within the ranks and letting this kid get away with an extreme security breach is unheard of. Morale is already low, whispers of favoritism would sink everyone even lower.

His gaze travels to Optimus, who looks down at B with a searching glance. Jazz doesn’t always know what to think of Optimus, and especially now, he has no clue what his old friend is thinking. Does The Matrix offer some otherworldly, creepy magic wisdom?

“—Hold on a moment, Optimus,” interjects a voice. Jazz wills himself not to cringe, turning to see Ultra Magnus charging his way toward them, optics like daggers and intake set in a frown that could curdle Energon. Scrap, he must have bolted here from the perimeter camps. He creeps to a stop with a grating squeak of his stressed pistons, features severe as he and B share a glance. B looks nervous as he always does, but if he didn’t back down to Optimus Prime, he certainly won’t for Magnus. The anger seems to evaporate almost immediately, and Magnus looks almost put out about it as if he’s lost some kind of fight.

The second in command shifts his attention from the youngling, seemingly giving up on trying to understand his intentions, instead turning to Optimus, briefly sending a look to all of the surrounding techs which has them scattering like buzz flies in an instant. Satisfied, Ultra Magnus waves in B’s direction. “We can’t do this,” he says firmly, looking a bit displeased with his argument now that the wind has left his sails.

There’s a moment where they can all see Optimus opening his intake to respond, but B steps forward, more defiant then Jazz has ever seen him. “I’ve proven I can be a threat, you’d be foolish to let this go,” B declares firmly, the slight tremor in his digits telling Jazz all he needs to know. He’s terrified underneath all that grandeur.

Magnus only scoffs, keeping his tone stern but soft enough to be alarming. “You have only proven only your impatience and the apparent fact that you have a tendency to scheme to get what you want.”

“Oh, Magnus, come on,” Elita-1 interjects, afflicting him with a powerful scowl as she takes a pointed step between Ultra Magnus and B. Jazz grins at the way Magnus grimaces.

Finding a second wind, Magnus shakes his helm, all but ignoring the surrounding bots to give B a look. “B-127, while I am grateful for your kindness to my comrades, and I welcome you to Iacon with all the gusto I am able, this position you’ve put us in is drastic and hasty indeed,” he says, not unkind but certainly frustrated. “More than presenting demands to a Prime, you take juvenile and exceedingly reckless measures to ensure our compliance to what is essentially a death wish. Even if we allow this, and we put you within the safest branch with the easiest job, there is no way to guarantee your safety.”

Ultra Magnus exvents, bringing a digit to point at the Autobot sigil ornamented on his chest. “The Autobot name is a faction of honor and community, but it is also a target. The moment you enter your name into our ranks, the Decepticons will stop at nothing to harm you. How can we allow such a fate to befall you so young, B-127?”

That leaves a small, pregnant pause, and Jazz hates the way the thick air feels in his ventilation systems. Jazz looks around, and finds Ratchet looking rather sad. The expression fades as soon as he catches the spies’ optics, and Jazz acts like he hadn’t seen. B is contemplative, and the generals respectfully let him gather his thoughts. Finally, with clenched fists, his helm shoots up, looking around with those optics that never seem to stop moving.

His vocoder projects lowly, as if he has to feel the words out as he says them. “… I once had a friend. He was older than me, bigger too. He was loud, but nice and had twice the spark of anyone around,” B’s expression shifts to something sadder, melancholy, and old. “He used to daydream about joining the Autobots,” he says with a laugh, but it peters out almost immediately. The noise settles like lead in Jazz’s tanks. B’s optics settle, set and resolute. “He once asked me a question I didn’t know how to answer, and I think… I think I do now.”

Elita gently presses. “What was the question, B?”

He smiles, gaze falling to somewhere far off, where none of them can follow. “If you’re built with a certain set of skills, skills that some people might not have, isn’t it your responsibility to use them to help those people?” B looks up, inventing as if gathering courage. “I’ve let people use their skills on me my entire life. It hasn’t always ended well, but I’ve always taken it. That’s all I’ve ever done, take, take, take. Well, I don’t want to take any more. I can’t.” His voice box breaks. “I can’t. I want to give, I have to. I can’t continue on as someone who lives like that.” Tragically, B brings a palm to his spark. “My spark rejects it now more than it ever has.”

Next to him, Jazz hears Ratchet hiss harshly, and he feels his own fuel lines freeze over for a moment. Spark rejection is a horror amongst bots, the deepest sickness to yourself. The Slow Death, The Burnout, the Supernova of Self. There are many names for it. The war has taken so many, good bots who simply weren’t built for the bloodbath, and their very sparks begged to return to the Allspark.

But for B to experience it? So soon within his life cycle? The ripping and shredding of your own spark is a death not even a Decepticon deserves.

Unphased by the wash of revulsion silently passing through them all, B has directed his attention away from them, and to Optimus, who stands sentry and silent before them. “There’s not a lot left on this planet, a peaceful night on Cybertron is a dream to me, a fantasy, but I believe in it,” his servo presses deeper against his spark chamber. “Even when I didn’t know I still could, I did. I believe it’s possible to find it again and I want to help make it happen. With whatever scraps of myself I have to offer. Please, sir, let me give.”

Jazz presses, pulling up a few programs and allowing them to rev into motion within his processor. As his audials increase in sensitivity, the investigation confirms what Jazz already knows. B’s spark is steady, pulse whirling within him and now that he really looks, he can hear a subtle sizzle of a burning star. But the fact remains. B means every word.

While it is true that Jazz liked B from the very beginning, loved his steadfast spirit despite his fear. Loved his awkward kindness and his keen deductive reasoning. His smart-aft attitude. There’s a lot to like if you know where to look. But when he looks back, he knows he’ll name this moment as what really cemented it all for Jazz. The sort of buzz about B that made him different from other new sparks.

The one that broke him out of his monotonous haze. The one who brought perspective.

Ultra Magnus, for all his military discipline, is stunned. Jazz would laugh, but he does have a bit more decorum than that, and he does feel bad for the guy. Ultra Magnus spends all his time meaning well, but so little time analyzing what the meaning of wellness truly is.

He supposes that struggle is a universal one. After all, how well can you truly be, with all the blood they have on their servos? You pool it all together, each of these commanders, his friends, and there would be an ocean.

Though he is young, B isn’t stupid. If he could learn the ins and outs of poker within a few rounds and beat some of his soldiers – the clever, conniving, observant backstrut of the war – then surely, the kid knows what he’s signing up for. The blood doesn’t wash off, not ever.

And still, B is determined. Hopeful.

Jazz thinks they need warriors like that more than ever.

“Optimus…” Ratchet utters, and in turning, he sees the sort of defeated pleading in his optics. Dear Ratch, so hard around the edges with a spark more bleeding than any of them. Jazz has seen some horrible, nightmarish things. His job is espionage and sometimes, when your job is to observe and quietly intervene, you find things you’d never hoped to.

But if you ask him, there is no job more haunting then the one of a healer.

Only, Optimus isn’t looking at Ratchet. No, his optics remain transfixed, warring and silently dueling with B’s. It’s a rare sight indeed that Jazz isn’t sure who is winning.

Bots are listening in all around, waiting to hear the conclusion to this odd invasion and subsequent recruiting. They hide well, but Jazz’s old and practiced skills hardly have to flex to know of their presence. He doesn’t blame them. While it is true that there are a few new sparks being trained at various academies and teaching camps, there are none quite as young or frankly, damaged, as B. The ones they do have are at a certain maturity and frame to qualify their decision to enlist.

B has at least three stellar cycles before he reaches that age. Not much for older Cybtertronians, but for a youngling? That’s a small eternity.

Finally, Optimus steps forward. Elita makes a small noise, a little misfire from her vocoder, and she steps out of the way. Tentatively, the Prime places a gentle, almost cautious servo on B’s shoulder. The kid tenses, optics narrowing to pinpricks. Optimis speaks, calmly like he always does for small children or hurt soldiers. Jazz can’t help but think B is a bit of both.

“B-127, you have shown your valor before and I have not doubted it since. While using deceit and trickery to further sway our decision was not the best course of action, I now believe I better understand your intentions,” and as he did on that very first cycle, Optimus crouches, meeting B where he is. “Your body is your own, and with it so is your spark. You have had every opportunity to leave us, to make your own way as you once did, but even still you do not. You follow your spark and trust it to lead you, there are many who no longer can. It is a virtuous trait to possess, young one.”

The bio-lights of B’s helm light up brightly, flushing at the praise and briefly breaking their staring contest. “I didn’t, for a long time, sir. Please don’t bless me more than I deserve.” His mandible sets, and he looks up. “I just want to make up for it all.”

No one quite has the courage to ask what ‘it all’ truly means. Though there is a comradery with the Autobots, there is also anonymity. The courage to change and pay penance, or to push past your hurt is part of what makes an Autobot and Autobot. No one needs to know what horrors brought you here, only what you’re going to do to make it better.

It’s what’s gotten them into this mess of security breaches and data-loss, but it’s a sacrifice that must be made.

Optimus nods, either choosing to shelf that conversation for a later date or deciding it’s not worth it to pursue. “As it stands, I cannot make you an Autobot at this time,” he says, giving B’s shoulder a small squeeze. B’s features fall immediately, disappointment etched on each feature. Optimus pulls the kid forward just a bit. “Not unless certain conditions are met.”

That gets the youngling’s attention back, antennae swiveled and directed to the ceiling. He tilts his helm. “Conditions?”

Optimus nods. “I believe it is only fair, you have presented yours, I have a right to present mine.”

Bingo, Jazz grins, and Elita-1’s field radiates a loving warmth that Jazz leans in to. Magnus and Ratchet look tense, but despite all of the hoopla, Jazz can tell they have begrudgingly been won over, too. Jazz feels for them, but in his opinion, if you’re gonna send a kid off to war, might as well do it with a smile, right?

Whether they weep or not, B-127 wants to be an Autobot. Their guilt won’t make him any safer. If Jazz has anything to offer, it’s support. It’s all he can ever offer to his troops. When you’ve got such a transient and hectic job like any in special operations, morale must remain constant.

Mandible setting, B nods, a small smile playing on his derma. “Okay then, I fold.”

And for the first time since the security checkpoint, B’s field flows from him, freely and without all of those kinks Jazz felt before. It’s a hurt, tormented thing, but just as Jazz has always known, one special word is abundant all over it. Such a pretty little word, one they all need more of and one often forgotten. It’s buried but so, so strong, if you know where to look. Why did the poor kid fight so hard to hide this? This special little word that separates the husk from the stars.

Hope.

***

The ground rules basically turn out to be a hard, ‘no, you can’t join yet,’ but honestly B-1 isn’t surprised at all. Though he had expected a lot more fallout for stealing from them after cycles of benefiting from their kindness. Shouldn’t he at least be sent to like, jail, for a little while?

His stack is a mess of commands and warnings that he has ignored all morning, and rule one burns through the partitions of his processor, subroutines fight to suppress the document but fail miserably. B-1 reasons that he didn’t technically break the rule, he didn’t steal the key card. It’s only stealing if you didn’t mean to give it back.

Elita hugs him for a bit too long but he lets her because B-1 finds himself having increasingly more trouble denying her anything she wants.

For the time being, he isn’t allowed to leave the tower, at least not without supervision. This is a concession easily made because of course there have to be some consequences for causing a low clearance security breach.

Ultra Magnus grills him for his recklessness and Ratchet grills him over the possibility of any of the guards to this floor being armed, which B-1 can admit he hadn’t considered that. Or perhaps he had, and decided he didn’t particularly care. B-1 thinks these two might be the only bots who make sense, because no one else seems to be mad. Even First Aid forgives him for the theft, though B-127 had taken advantage of his kindness on purpose in the first place. He apologizes about seven times before he feels satisfied and the medic seems out of kind assurances.

There is no physical counterblow or Energon withholding, which B-127 forces himself not to be surprised by. He’d known the risk he was taking by doing this, how quickly he could be ripping away whatever goodwill he’d fostered.

Even still, he knows, deep down, that they would never hurt him. In the moments where even B-1 can admit he deserves it, they won’t do it. It doesn’t quite sit right in his mind; he wonders if he’ll dream about it.

Optimus makes a deal. B-1 will join the Autobots, but not now. Firstly, while he is on ‘tower arrest’ as he is choosing to call it, B-127 is to focus on his recovery and physical therapy with Ratchet’s help and when he isn’t doing that, Chromia and Jazz are to help him sharpen his weapons and his mind.

Honestly, B-1 just thinks Optimus is giving those two an excuse to play around. Jazz volunteers himself and though Chromia isn’t present, they all seem to agree she’d be the best for the job.

It’s not exactly combat training or lessons on strategy, but B-1 supposes he’ll take the leg up. Ironhide must sense his blasé attitude because he makes a point of speaking up. “You will remain diligent, B-127. Chromia is not a kind teacher and you will either shatter like glass or allow yourself to be forged under the blaze.”

He says it with conviction and a subtle smile, surely picturing her as he speaks. It’s almost charming enough to settle the chill the warning blasts over him.

At some point, he’ll have to go through another rudimentary security interrogation, though even Optimus admits it is almost entirely for the sake of data-work and having it on file, in case anyone is displeased with the lack of discipline and collateral measures. Jazz promises it will all be verbal, with no need to use his medical port. Thank Primus.

Once his repairs are mostly through and he is released from the disciplinary action, Elita-1 is to escort him to spend a few groons at The Sanctuary ever few cycles. B-1 raises his hackles at this and tries to argue, but Optimus is firm he gets to know more bots his age. That idea brings an awful twist in his tanks, because B-1 honestly has no idea how bots his act and they’ll know he’s weird, they’ll know he’s done bad things they’ll know he’s killed they’ll know they’ll know they’ll—

Well. He isn’t thrilled with the idea, anyways.

But he agrees, there’s nothing for it. He has already shown his hand, and he’s got no more aces hidden in his plating. He’d managed to avoid seeing ghosts in the face plates in the sparklings at the park, but now he’ll have to see things as they are.

Once a full stellar cycle passes, they will allow him in. If they find him ready.

B-127 thinks he is ready now, but none of them seem to see it. Oh well.

For now, he can keep his birth suite but whenever the time does come for him to enlist, he’ll have to move to a bunk. B-1 doesn’t have a problem with this because he doesn’t see why he deserves a private suite even now. He’ll be allowed to do simple tasks around the tower but nothing involving anything actually important.

Chores. They want him to do chores. B-1 won’t complain, but he almost laughs in their faces, because why don’t they just call it what it is?

Morbidly, B-1 allows a little grim joy at the fact that at least he’ll be fed for his work this time.

It won’t last long, soon after he goes through the process, he’ll have to be shipped off to Iacon Training Academy. As Autobot recruiting zones go, Iacon’s school is the most pristine, as Elita-1 puts it. For the best of the best, the future generals with potential and bursting sparks.

B-1 refrains from asking them to send him somewhere else. Maybe that’s a later conversation. He reminds himself he’s still in trouble.

When no one is looking and he is escorted back to his berth suite – with a new code sequence programmed in, Elita-1 pulls out a small, multi-chrome Autobot decal, grinning and bursting at the seams. “Soon enough, it’ll be real,” she says quietly, looking around as if she is sharing a secret. Awe floods him, and B-1’s sparkbeat whirls too fast with a painful nostalgia that has him choking on it. He wills himself steady, but there’s no telling if it does any good. Elita always seems to know what people are thinking.

She takes his arm in her smaller servos, twisting it a few times to find an undented space. She stops a klik later, and her delicate digits tenderly press the small sticker on the spot just above his wrists, just over the casing where one of his plasma blades was once housed. B-1 stares at it for too long, taking in every line and the turn of one of the stubborn corners where the adhesive doesn’t quite want to stick.

Moved by her, B-1 finds something inside himself that he’d believed long frozen over. He leans down, extending his arms to initiate a hug all on his own. It’s not really a milestone, honestly, Elita has shown no hesitation to touch him since he got here, but as his servos press the small of her back, and hers around his midsection plating, B-127 thinks he’s found a piece of himself.

“Thank you.”

She’s so warm. “You haven’t met your zenith yet, and I already know you shine brighter than us all.”

Elita is blinded by her affection for him, but B-1 doesn’t tell her that, doesn’t even bother to entertain it long enough to let it spoil the levity in his spark. The gratitude he doesn’t truly know how to express. If he ever will.

They part, and where the berth suite brought comfort and solitude one his first cycle, now all B-1 can see is the emptiness within it.

Syncing his chronometer to count down the cycles, B-1 brings up his doc of rules. Firstly, he amends rule three: A lonesome cycle is just lonely, it’s okay talk to people but stay out of their way. If you’re being a nuisance, stay hidden. Seriously, don’t be annoying.

It feels weird to change it so drastically, like saying goodbye to someone who’s held protection over him for so long.

Only, was that ever true? Was the absence of experience a part of his misery? Do you truly live when all you have is yourself? Do you even exist at all? More puzzles and puzzles.

Then, he writes a new rule. Rule four is rather simple: Work hard. Rain, shine, work as hard as you can.

It’s a simple rule and not particularly difficult to follow. He’s spent the last few stellar cycles of his life scrounging to survive, whether that meant through servitude or constant wandering. It won’t be hard, but he knows the rule will keep him diligent.

After all, a sparkling is no good for a war, so he’ll have to work to be better than what he is. small, weak, and stupid. If he wants to make a difference, he will have to do better, be better.

Lastly, and this feels weird, light around his helm and leaves archs of power circling his spark. With some trepidation, B-1 crosses out his objective under rule two.

• -127 – Objective: (Define faith [~ Wherein: locate something to put faith in])

Despite himself, B-1 smiles, a weight falls from him like sleet crashing to the ground and shattering into millions of pieces. Understanding washes over him and B-127 thinks if he were any weaker, he could cry. Instead, he only leans against his door – that’s surely locked now – and exvents so heavily that smoke blooms from his right vent. The relief is palpable enough that he doesn’t even register the pain, even as his HUD pings with an old and well-read warning of the over-heated bio-mechanism.

Faith is a striving, it’s a servo on his shoulder and the idea of clear skies. Of stars shining over a peaceful planet.

Of the souls resting near him humming softly to him. So present as they always are, but finally quiet enough to offer him some rest, as if they truly have nothing to say for the first time. They whisper, but he can’t hear. They press on his spark, but they don’t shove.

It won’t last. The peace never does, but for now, for now, there is quiet.

***

“He won’t change his mind,” Ratchet says, voice strung high and tense. “A stellar cycle isn’t enough time, Optimus.”

Optimus holds up  servo, resting it on his forearm, placating. “We are not trying to change his mind, my friend. B-127 has made his intentions clear.”

Ratchet grumbles, optics far off as he mentally goes over the dozens of issues wracking B’s frame. “I know, but Optimus, what is the goal?”

He pauses, letting go to idly tidy some data-pads on the table. “As it stands, B-127 would make an excellent soldier. His mind is sharp and he is kind and teachable.”

“… But?”

“But he is also self-destructive. If we allow him even to attend training, I fear he will work himself too much, too quickly.” Optimus sighs, finials falling. “My hope is to minimize those tendencies before he takes on our cause. Altruism is a virtue to cherish, but I will not allow meaningless loss.”

The medic steeps in the words of his oldest friend. “You want him to value his life by the time he gets to the academy.”

Optimus nods. “I am aware that only so much can be done on a stellar cycle, but if we can sway B-127 into believing that he is worth more than the sum of his parts, then I believe all of our sparks will find some ease.”

Ratchet scoffs. “It’ll be enough strain to rehabilitate his body, Optimus. His mind will be an entirely different venture. He may not change at all.”

“I do not want to change him, old friend. B-127 is valued as he is, and if no progress is made by the end of the cycle, then so be it. B-127 is free to choose his destiny.” His helm swivels, and he sees the sadness in Ratchet’s optics. “But I have a feeling that will not be the case, friend. Faith is found in the strangest places, at times. Have faith in him as he does us. Do not forget, B-127 has put aside much of his pain for this, and so we owe him the same courtesy.”

Faith is believing without seeing. Faith is a step forward when you can’t see your pedes below you. Faith is hard and a concept that Ratchet has loathed since even before the wars took his youth and most of his life. He is pragmatic and factual. Perhaps less so than others, but enough that the word is consistently frustrating.

And yet, Ratchet knows he’s held on to faith like a lifeline for so long that his tussle with it has become an embrace. He’s old enough to watch for rust and to remember before the birth of Decepticon and Autobot. Old enough to recall the tyranny of the Quintessons before the tyranny of Megatron.

Ratchet loves Cybertron, truly. It’s his home and more than anything, he wants to see the beauty it once held again. He loves, and so he hopes, and because he hopes, he has faith.

B-127 hasn’t seen what Ratchet has, and yet he believes there can be a time that he will. How can Ratchet do anything other than hope for that too?

His shoulders slump in defeat.

“Alright, Optimus, faith it is.”

***

 The interrogation is predictably boring and grueling and B-1 hates every nano-klik of it. The questions aren’t particularly difficult to answer and one of the mechs conducting the session has a funny warble in his vocoder that he has yet to correct. That keeps him somewhat distracted from the hard questions.

They ask about his motivations, and he answers honestly, but he is hardly as eloquent as before. His social protocols break down under pressure and he stops himself from making some snarky remarks several times. That or his words are disjointed and awkward, like his infodex has flown out a window and with it so has B-1’s vocabulary.

“And why did you choose Lieutenant First Aid as the person you took from?”

B-1 shrugs. “He wasn’t paying attention.” He looks at the two sitting across the table from him. “Was I supposed to take from someone else?”

The funny-talking one snickers, masking it with a rattling reset of his voice box. B-1’s bio-lights brighten and he shields his face plate with his servo.

What kind of stupid thing to say is that?

He doesn’t hide his field the way he has been, and much to his horror and paradoxical relief, they don’t immediately pounce on him for the darkness swimming under the surface. They sense the beasts, but no one seems to care, or they simply do an excellent job hiding it. He doesn’t know how they don’t turn up their helms at him. B-1 felt the thick sludge of anger and bloodthirst and general hatred of Lariat and Dea-8 for cycles and along with his own anguish, it had him doubled over. Trailrunner was never so pungent, but the misery mixed with his own and made his plating heavy.

These warriors don’t even bat an optic, beyond the usual ogling. It’s no more severe than before.

Odd.

Regardless, the free flow of his resonance is relieving beyond measure, and Ratchet had been right about the strain, his chest is tight and sore from the exertion of keeping it in for four cycles. His field is a wild brush, and it frequently whips out clumsily and that only adds to B-1’s discomfort. Only new sparks fresh from the Well struggle with such control, moron.

They eventually let him go with similar warnings along the lines of, ‘That was weird, don’t do that again,’ and B-1 offers a horribly artless nod and a nervous laugh that makes everyone uncomfortable, and he is looking forward to shoving it far down in his annoyingly detailed memory banks.

Ironhide is kind and also a little awkward as he tends to be when talking to him. That strikes B-1 as weird since all of the soldiers hold a clear respect and reverence for the older bot. B-127 just chalks it up to him being unable to talk to bots with no clue how the world actually works.

Fair enough he supposes.

“Things will be smoother from here,” Ironhide says, marching B-1 to the mess hall for his Energon ration. B-1 wonders if Cliffjumper will be there. “Though you would benefit from keeping Ratchet in a good mood,” he adds, more goodnatured than in true warning.

B-1 laughs softly, feeling some weight fall from him. “I’ll do my best,” his finials fall. “I’m a lot better at making people mad.”

That gets him an odd look, and Ironhide scoffs. “You say the strangest things, sometimes,” he mutters, mostly to himself but not quite soft enough to hide from B-1’s audials.

All B-1 can think is that Trailrunner would say things like that all the time. He wishes he could break down why people look at him like that.

He creates a new objective as he walks.

•       -127 – Objective: (Define what it means to be understood.)

Setting the task down within his task feels insurmountable, for some reason. He supposes like everything else, he’ll have to work through it. If it means clawing his way through his own helm to find clarity on the other side, well. It would hardly be the first time, what is one more burden?

“There’s always room for more,” Ironhide says, louder this time, with that same knowing glimmer in his optics. He doesn’t elaborate further, yet B-1 somehow knows it’s not necessary.

His optics find the shiny decal on his wrist. A few bots have spared glances and B-1 ponders whether they find it’s presence on his person offensive, or simply juvenile. Of course, the new spark would have a decal of the Autobots! They’re the heroes, aren’t they? The good guys who stop the monsters in the night?

Oh, if only they knew. His spark oscillates violently, and he can’t tell which way it leans, only that it sways him greatly.

It’s quiet. For once. It is quiet.

…

He misses them.

…

Damn, he forgot to ask the two mech’s names.

Chapter Text

And so, there’s a stellar cycle to get through.

B-1’s spark throbs.       

***

“Oh Primus, nevermind, I’m not going I can’t do it,” he says, two steps onto the first medical floor.

One of the nurses awards him a nervous chuckle. He remembers her as Kadee, the poor bot he slammed a door on his first cycle here. “Oh, B, of course you can! It’s just an examination to complete your file!”

He feels sick. “It’s never just an examination,” he replies, and he realizes too late just how ominous that sounds.

Bless her spark, she tries to keep her expression gentle. “A-ah, well, if you like I can see if someone else could conduct it—”

Oh god, that’s even worse. Learning a new name and a new face sounds like absolute torture right now.

He straightens, forcing his wobbly pedes to move. “I was just kidding! This is so easy!”

***

“You don’t need to tell me why or who, I only need the how and the what,” Ratchet says, and though B-1 nods along, the words are like fog in his helm. It feels like scraplets are gnawing at his tanks. Ratchet pushes. “An accurate medical history is crucial to proper treatment, B-127.” The way he says it is curt, and though B-1 can read between the lines, his spark still thunders.

Though a hopeless venture, he tries anyway. “The scan wasn’t enough?” Asks B-1, the wreckage under his chest seeping with threats. This medbay is smaller than the first one First Aid had escorted him to. This is closed off to the halls, intimate.

Setting his data pad down, Ratchet shakes his helm no as he sets to fiddling with one of the creepy wires B-1 still refuses to let near. “A damage log only indicates the trauma, and the date and time, only sometimes providing more detail if the injury is severe enough. Like nanite death or various obstructions.” He lets go of the wire, and B-1 relaxes minutely. “Knowing the approximate cause will ensure I can provide the best care without harming you further. Depending on your answer, I can surmise whether there could be underlying issues that your diagnostic programs don’t pick up.”

His antennae rise. “That can happen?”

The medic nods, smiling a bit as if that’s a dumb question. It probably is. “Certainly, small fuel leaks, even corrosion of your internals, etcetera. Outside diagnosis is always recommended. Trusting solely on your subroutines, especially your medical ones, can be a death sentence.”

A bit disheartened, B-127 wilts a little, replying with a muted, “Oh.”

Perhaps feeling a little guilty, Ratchet’s form softens, and his smile falls. Using his heel strut, Ratchet pulls a stool closer to the examination table B-1 sits on. He knows he gives away a lot with the way he bounces his knee, but Ratchet says nothing of it as he brings the stool to a stop and sits on it. There’s an odd look that seems to follow the old medic around, and B-1 would find it funny if he didn’t find it much more disconcerting.

It’s a sort of bloodied and lost presence. Like he drags something along the way with every step. There’s a story to it, probably hundreds. B-1 might consider filling in the blanks, but the idea sounds hardly as fun as it normally does. Now as he looks down at him, optics puzzling and exhausted beyond the need for recharge, does Ratchet try to do the same? Does he see the something B-1 also drags, or is his chain too frail, his life too short-lived to even compare?

But Ratchet’s servos are steady, his ventilation leveled, and while there’s ice there that B-1 finds familiar, the older man holds a control that B-127 simply doesn’t have. So, at what point does the hurt forge into experience? When does that something  morph from filthy slag to a necessary burden?

As B-1 weaves through the nest of things past, will Ratchet see potential, or will he become another obstacle, another heaviness to add to that something?

Is a battle scar only one earned when you win? B-1 doesn’t win very often, unless it’s a card game in the dead of night. Regular scars hardly seem as glamorous, less glorified. Does Ratchet know how to quantify the difference? Surely a warrior like him would care for the distinction.

Would he care which damage was constructive, and which was destructive?

“You’re afraid of me,” Ratchet says, gently but not without a certain hardness, almost tense. His field is rigid, always, since the moment B-1 came to know him. Stark and strained, like a string bated to snap at any moment. Hostile, and tired as so many Autobots seem to be.

But not unkind, he doesn’t think.

B-1 knows what that feels like.

Oh, he knows.

So, avoiding a passive glance at the blinking monitors and the beeping indicators, B-127 meets Ratchet’s optics, willing it all away. “No,” he replies simply. “Not of you, sir – Ratchet,” he adds, because it’s true.

And he can tell that eases some nerves, because Ratchet’s shoulders fall the smallest amount. It’s a little, controlled movement, one that fits the poise of a doctor, but B-127 finds some solace in making Ratchet feel better. The older medic rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. His sharp edges are more benign up close. Nothing like Dea-8 who only seemed to find more ways to harm as time went on. B-1 hates to compare the two, but the something inside him demands it.

Ratchet invents, clasping his servos and watching B-1 like he is the strangest thing in the world. “Nothing will leave this room,” he finally says, once the silence has become deafening.

Commanding his knee to still, B-127’s optics find the floor, examining the blackened scuffs on the floor. “I know,” he mutters, unsure of why the words are so heavy on his glossa. Timidly, he pools his field between them, hoping to soften himself, to find what the correct response is. “I mean—I don’t know, but I know, y’know?”

It’s surprising, though perhaps it shouldn’t be, but still, B-1 jolts a little when Ratchet’s own rough wavelength clamps around the boundary of B-1’s, and once the initial shock dies B-127 finds himself trying not to laugh out of confusion. It’s oddly shy, as if hesitant to allow B-1 any purchase. “Yes, B, I do,” he replies, and B-1 notes the little chuckle in his voice.

They’re both a bit lost, they know. Ratchet doesn’t know what to say, and B-1 has nothing worthwhile to offer to the man just trying to do his job.

He tells himself he wants to be fixed, to be better, to do all he can. The sooner this is done, the sooner he can get to work being who they want him to be.

But where do you even start?

He tries, anyway. “I had a doctor once. I saw her all the time.”

“Once?” Ratchet responds, clipping his vocoder as if he wants to say more.

There’s a little dip in the ground right next to the examination table, no doubt from the long joors spent standing over someone. Healing them, saving them. “Once,” he parrots. “That was a long time ago.” Finding his courage, B-1 looks up, and is startled to see Ratchet’s optics narrowed, searching. He presses on. “You’re nothing like her.”

The tension returns, but B-127 can tell Ratchet is more perplexed than anything. His derma set in a thin line; B-1 can practically watch the cogs turn in the medic’s mind. “I can’t be her, B-127. I can only offer my word and suggest you trust in it,” Ratchet says, volume no louder than the whirr of B-1’s sparkpulse in his audials. “I can’t change what I’ve done, nor what’s been done to you.”

It is said with a tone of sad finality, the last rivet to their crypts. There’s nothing to be done about it, but underneath that decrepit weight is a clawing sense of understanding, or at least that’s what B-1 thinks. Of hearing what the other can’t bring themselves to say.

“I’ve killed before,” he blurts, and the confession is a sudden, knee-jerk reaction. His tanks slosh and B-1 nearly gags, wondering what’s possessed him to speak so freely about such things. The light of his spark retreats, pulling in on itself as it recalls the pieces it once had. As it mourns them. The raging inferno spirals, but B-1 keeps his optics heavy. Perhaps testing how far this will go before there are no more excuses to be made. For either of them.

Ratchet does not look particularly surprised by this, but he isn’t at peace with it either. There’s a quiver in his optics that goes beyond saccadic movement. Were they playing poker, B-127 would call it a tell. “So have I,’’ he replies easily, not particularly feeling the words out as much as he lugs them. There isn’t pride there, nor is there shame. Just acceptance, a statement of fact. “Did you enjoy it?”

There is a sharp burning pain in his spark. “No,” he says sharply, absently bringing a palm to his chest plates. Ratchet’s optics follow the movement. Has Ratchet ever come too close? Has he ever felt the very moment someone’s spark extinguished, so closely, so intimately, it feels as if a part of you died too?

Eons of war, perhaps only an idiot thinks to get that close. Though it hadn’t been his choice, B-1 often thinks he should have found the damned courage to shoot the bandits before they tainted his blades and his spark. Stopped their treachery and returned to what he had before.

But, the coward he is, that isn’t what he did. He barely fought at all. He could have, there were ways, but the terror blinded him.

How could he ever hope to be a warrior if such things destroy him so simply? How could Ratchet find an ounce of faith in him, knowing he loses himself in that something?

Worse off, what faith could be found in his spark if they knew of Locke Up? His death had been no accident. No, B-1 had wanted that, deeply. Looking back, he can admit that.

Autobots don’t lose to their rejecting sparks. Autobots don’t let their emotions sway them to murder. Autobots don’t steal from the innocent. Autobots don’t allow themselves to be tools for common bandits, useless bandits, mere bandits.

But Ratchet doesn’t hear any of that.

“Well, that’s it then,” he announces, leaning back and crossing his arms. B-1 finds he appreciates the space. “Reality doesn’t change to suit you, nor me. I will never be the doctor you once knew, but I will also never be the doctor I once was two thousand vorns ago. I can only be who I am now, and I expect you to be who you are now. When you give me an idea of what caused these,” he loosely gestures to B-1’s dented chassis. “… You tell me about someone who no longer is. I only know you, B-127, if you don’t want me to know that person who once was, then I won’t. You are present, you are my patient, here, and now.”

A small stream of hot air pulses through as Ratchet exvents harshly, looking off to somewhere beyond where B-1’s optics can follow. “People change. Those who say we don’t are blinded by hubris and a need for control.”

There is a lot of bitterness in those words, and B-127 wonders. Time passes and they simply stare at one another. Ratchet doesn’t reach for the wires, and B-1 doesn’t long for the door. “I knew another medic once,” he starts, slow and hurt. His field retreats, and B-1 winces, recalling how sore his spark remains from keeping it withheld. Willing the wash of instincts that tell him to flee, B-1 finds a smile. There’s a terrible pain inside him. It’s here now and it’s been for a long time, a part of his existence.

B-1 owes a lot of people a lot of things, and he has promises to keep. Protecting that part of himself that was once loved is one of them. If people really do change – and they must – then does that mean sacrificing that piece of himself? Is that what it takes to be an Autobot? Will his optics look like Ratchet’s one cycle? Do they already?

Does he have to let that piece of himself go to be what they need?

But.

No.

That’s not it. That isn’t it at all.

Maybe he isn’t deserving now, but that little new spark was. He was small and new and innocent. A nothing, sure, but a new nothing, a fresh nothing. Bursting with potential and starry optics.

The stars remain his most trusted companions, but they have never, and will never, shine for him the way they once did. The way they did for his spark that was a nothing with a smile.

Now he is just a nothing, carrying around something, hoping to become anything.

But Ratchet isn’t a nothing. Ratchet is a lot of things, some of which make him queasy. He is unhappy and snappy, grumpy and generally any word B-1 might use to describe Newdawn after a bad recharge. He is also selfless and perhaps a bit foolhardy. After all, what kind of medical officer puts in so much time for someone without a sigil? Without a shanix to their name. He is a busy man, and B-1 wouldn’t blame him for sectioning this meeting off to a nurse.

But he did not. He is here, optical ridges narrowed and as negative as they come. Yet still, he remains, though there is no personal benefit to him, he sits, waiting.

That’s a lot more than nothing.

B-1’s shame permeates, falling through the seams and creating heat throughout his protoform. He once tore himself apart to keep that part of him alive, though he hadn’t known at the time. He can do it again.

Ratchet doesn’t want to tear him apart.

“You’re nothing like him either.”

***

His compliance backfires, but only after a certain point.

They get through the stilted and vague explanations for his door wing and the shabby scar over his optic. B-1 doesn’t know what caused his right ventilation to burn out and admits that after a certain point, his memories of that cycle are corrupted enough to be grainy and pixelated.

He doesn’t tell him he fell from a communications tower, or that his last clear picture is of the man he’d murdered snickering in his last dying moments. Ratchet’s smart enough to fill in the blanks and explain away much of the damage to his processor, and B-1 is thankful for the winding and confusing jargon he uses because that at least is something to focus on. He’s not connected to any of Iacon’s networks but he’s able to use context and help of his logic centers to understand a little of it.

Thinking of it like a word puzzle makes it more fun.

They don’t get much farther than that.

The Energon deficiency doesn’t need much explanation and Ratchet doesn’t ask, but when the state of his hip plate or his dented chassis is called into question, B-1 can admit he loses his helm a bit. Ratchet is clinical with his questions and types on his datapad, neutral as they come. He can’t quite place every single dent to one specific time. Some came from falls or his clumsiness, some from a misplaced word or failed task. His HUD tries, but he is only met with a wide scrawl of data he doesn’t care to look at.

Still, it’s only when Ratchet’s servos clasp around his wrists, stilling him, does B-1 realizes he’s shaking. His vents work hard to cool his internals and in trying to recount where the dents came from, he seems to lose time in the present. When he tries, he can’t recall what he’d been doing in the last few kliks.

Ratchet’s data pad is set aside and he’s looking over B-127, assessing.

Frustrated and a bit distraught at his sudden loss of composure, B-1 sends command after command to slow his sparkpulse and stop his frame from quivering. Aside from Ratchet’s grounding touch, it doesn’t help.

The medic says nothing one way or the other, doesn’t offer soft words of comfort, because they both know that’s not what B-1 wants.

When the echoes of clenched fists and angry words stop reverberating about the room, and B-1 can at last get a grip on himself, Ratchet lets go. He invents, then exvents, midsection plating rumbling. He looks away, and B-1’s bleary optics can see he is unsure, outlining his pinched expression in bright blue in his HUD array. B-127 blinks it away.

“We… that’s enough for today.”

They both know it’s not, no progress can be made until this is done. But weakened by remembrance and too weary to fight it, B-1 only nods numbly. There’s a sense of defeat as he stumbles out of the office, instinct the only thing keeping his balance.

***

Jazz leans over the data console he has been pouring over for the last six doors. The documents recovered are bleak. If his Energon cube has a small mix of High Grade in it, then it’s really nobody’s business.

“It’s a solar cycles trip at most,”  Thunderstruck voices, looking over the spy’s shoulder. “They could yet still be alive, Jazz. Just say the word.” Jazz takes a sip from his fuel. It burns through his lines with enough pungency to ease the strain of his protoform.

They can’t lose more bots, but they need information. Special operations is an elite unit, built for secrecy and espionage. His scouts are trained to get in and out, and to do it fast. His warriors even more so. The best of the best in all things silent and deadly.

And they still are.

But they keep losing. They keep losing and Jazz doesn’t fraggin’ know why.

Sure, the training camps may have had a drop in teaching quality in the past fifty vorns, but Jazz prides himself on being a bit picky. Not every scout has the chops for the unit and only the ones that truly shine are selected.

But Primus, maybe he’s gone blind under this visor.

His spark rejects that idea, though, and Jazz has always been the type to heed what his spark tells him. And right now it smells a fragging rat, and he's gonna find it.

Giving his blessing, he steps back, nodding. “Take yer team.” The high grade mellows his spark, and he begs it to rush through him. “Take Cliff with ya.”

***

Sleeping through the rest of the cycle isn’t exactly a good sign, and B-1 knows he cannot do that every time he has to explain anything about his life.

He’ll have to do better.

For now, though, he falls into recharge easily, too tired to even tremble at the pictures that assault his mind. In recent cycles, this is his chance to see his ghosts again, anyway.

Yes, he’ll have to do a lot better.

***

“Are you alright, doctor?” First Aid inquires gently, just beyond the threshold of the room.

Ratchet sits, helm in his servos and data pad forgotten on his lap as he rests his elbows on his table. His experience in this field may be endless, but even now he fights against his spark which rams around his chest, pumping too much fuel much too quickly. He feels wired, tense.

But emotion is the death of proper medicine, and B-127 needs that more than ever. Though it is a struggle and it always shall be, he’s long since learned when to whip his spark into submission. Like a hellhound trained since forging, his pulse slows and while the strain remains, the flow of Energon recedes to a manageable pace.

Still work to be done, patients to see. “Begin preparing a schedule for B-127. I want him ready for surgery as soon as possible.”

First Aid doesn’t move. “He may need more time than that, Ratchet,” he replies, the light from the hall framing his body and glinting off of his visor.

His fists clench, joints drag across his face plate. “He needs to be repaired swiftly and effectively. As soon as I have this report finished—”

“—He’s not a soldier.”

Ratchet lifts his head, optics narrowing at the interruption. “Excuse me?”

Though a gentle spark, First Aid is firm despite his soft voice. “Yet, I mean. He’s not a soldier yet, doctor. You can’t put him through dozens of surgeries and physical therapy all for the sake of speed.”

Venom lines Ratchet’s glossa and he stands. “Perhaps, First Aid, but in case you haven’t noticed, I have a stellar cycle to get him back to pristine condition!” He exclaims, throwing his servos up and just barely stopping himself from thinking furiously of Optimus. Pacing a few steps, Ratchet growls. “The repairs can be done in a deca-cycle, perhaps two depending on recovery length, but the physical therapy alone could take orbital cycles!”

“So let it take orbital cycles,” the younger medic says with a shrug. He leans against the doorframe. “No one is telling you to do this with so much urgency, Ratchet.”

A scoff escapes Ratchet’s vocoder, and he stops, shooting First Aid a pointed look. “Oh really? B-127 certainly seems to expect it! B-127—”

“—Is a teenage boy with a hunger to please you all and prove himself. Don’t forget how hard he has to work too, Ratchet, but he’ll do it. The kid will do it,” he says, punctuating the last sentence by bringing a balled fist to his open palm like a gavel being hammered. “Optimus won’t send out an injured Autobot, but Ratchet, you’re a good doctor. It won’t come to that.”

And there are hundreds of rebuttals on his glossa, but the anger fizzles as it often does when talking to the younger medic. Ratchet sits back down. “How do you figure?”

First Aid hums, tilting his helm back as if searching for eavesdroppers. With the number of wounded struggling in the next wing, they both know there aren’t any. “I think B is a fast build. With a high RPK and an even faster processor. He’s built for speed and I think he’s spent his entire life living that. Running and fighting for his existence every nano-klik of every solar cycle.” He steps through the doorway, allowing the door to shut with a shwish. His steps are light, First Aid plants himself in front of the sitting medic, optics canvasing the room and examining the various medical holo-posters and vaguely threatening notes Ratchet has left everywhere, under his mask he smiles.

“The gladiators of the Pits often met their deaths by never knowing when to slow down,” says First Aid, servos planted on his hip plates. He meets Ratchet’s insipid gaze. “We need to teach B how to slow down, you need to teach him.”

Ratchet’s anger flares, not to the same degree but enough to burn through his lines and pistons. “Me? First Aid, he is terrified of this place! You should see the look in his optics, the tremble in his resonance. He can’t stand to be here.” Ratchet feels a pit of shame pool inside him, wondering why he cares so fragging much.

“This is hardly the first time we have dealt with a patient who has an aversion to doctors, Ratchet. Sure, you can’t strongarm him into treatment, but you don’t need to. B wants your help, doctor, he truly does. I can feel it in my spark and I know he’ll do anything to prove that to you even if his mind fractures because of it.” First Aid steps to the side, running a digit along a seam of the wall. “Time is a valuable thing, doctor, and we are creatures blessed with so much of it.” He turns, and Ratchet can’t bear to keep contact, looking to the floor. “Show him that, Ratchet.”

Disbelieving, Ratchet lets out a broken laugh. “How do you possibly expect me to do that?”

First Aid’s field is light and airy as always, and it swirls around Ratchet’s like a Technohawk in flight.

 “Because we are healers, doctor. Difficult or not, it’s what we do.”

***

Ratchet cancels their meeting the next morning, and B-1 hopes he hasn’t upset the older man with his stupid freakout. The doctor encourages him to stretch and walk around the tower – within reason since he’s still technically meant to be under supervision, but no one is available to watch him. He’s surprised they trust him to even wander, knowing that he could get into trouble if he really wanted to. Ratchet even tells him to visit the medical floors with permission to ask for pain relief if it’s too bothersome. It’s not, B-1 has lived with it for stellar cycles, but it’s still odd to be trusted that much.

He’s been given limited commlink access to selected closed channels, namely to the generals and an emergency line if it ever comes to it. B-1 settles not to use this too often. Considering all of the bots listed absolutely have better things to do than entertain a delinquent new spark.

Exploring is a decent enough distraction and far more compelling than loafing around his berth suite. The tower is daunting even with someone walking him around; the concept of exploring by himself feels like a training session in itself. He doesn’t fear solitude or the risk of walking into a restricted zone since he has them all memorized. No, the stares and whispers of others are truly what set his tanks off kilter.

But he supposes that gossip is a much easier fate to suffer when he was the victim of crueler, sharper words not too long ago. He wonders if victim is a strong word to use, considering he could have driven away at any time, and simply didn’t. Self-imposed punishment, perhaps? He trapped himself inside a tower of his own tower. Is that what Ratchet meant, about being unable to go back?

He knows if he could, he would.

Ah well, he’ll get nowhere this way, and regardless of whether the news has broken about the new spark who broke security protocol and glared at a prime, there is no time to waste. Even if no one can show him around or give him a task, there are always things to do, things to learn.

He won’t freeze up or be shaken again, and the best way to avoid that is to acclimate. B-1 is good at that, observing and melding with his surroundings. He did it with the settlement and he can do it here.

Jazz sent a ping of information a few solar cycles ago with basic access codes to download to his low clearance pass, along with the code to his room. It was meant to be locked, but they all seem to pick up on the fact that B-1 memorized the sequence anyway. There’s no point to change it.

People do stare and whisper as he walks and B-127 wishes someone was at his side to disperse the attention. Bitterly, he hopes the rumors are at least entertaining.

He finds his way to the mess hall easily enough. It’s early and crowded, and B-1 can admit he is disappointed not to see Cliffjumper sitting around anywhere. If anyone can see passed the dents, it’s Cliff. Still, Helix and Racket man the ration line as usual and B-1 has grown quite fond of them too. Helix pretends to scan the Autobot decal on his wrist, projecting a few playful bleeps from her vocoder to really sell the allusion. B-1 laughs despite finding the action a bit juvenile.

“Is it okay if I stay here for a while?” He asks, taking two cubes Racket hands him with a grateful nod. “I don’t have much to do so I thought I might just… watch.”

“Watch?” Racket repeats.

He’s already getting a few annoyed looks from the bots waiting for their rations, so he makes a small step backward, indicating he means to get out of the way. It seems he doesn’t quite have the intimidating presence Chromia has. “Observe, listen. Just for a while.”

Helix and Racket share a look, but the femme shrugs after only a nano-klik. “Knock yourself out, but you might have more fun in the training halls or rec rooms,” Helix replies, already getting her scanner ready for the next in line.

B-1 nods, accepting the recommendation but not following through. He finds a quiet corner, enough to ease the scuttling buzz around his back and neck but enough that as he raises his audial settings, he can hear clearly.

Recreation is fun and B-127 hopes to play with the special operations unit again soon. The training halls are invigorating and fascinating to observe. But that’s not what he’s after today. If there is no one around to teach him today, then B-1 will have to teach himself, and in a tower full of gossips – according to Ironhide – there is no better place to learn than the mess hall. When the stellar cycle is up, it will make no difference if he is not integrated in the ways of the average soldier.

And B-1 has come to know this; glossas are at their loosest at a table with friends, an Energon cube in servo.

***

By the time B-1 has finished his second cube – which he really should have just stored it for later – he learns several things.

For one: the tower is crowded right now, Iacon is crowded. More than usual. A group of three mechs and one femme spend a good majority of their refuel complaining about having no extra bunks and having to wait for deca-cycles for a simple tune-up.

He shrivels at that, hoping his time with Ratchet hasn’t interfered with anyone’s treatment.

That brings him to his second conclusion: there was some sort of battle several orbital cycles ago that ended badly, really badly. This isn’t expressly stated, but with the number of bots on medical leave,  the consistent crowding of all three medical floors, and the general lack of morale, B-1 can put this together.

This seems to be a consistent pattern, since he overhears another younger mech lamenting about the added workload since the ‘botched shit-hole of a mission,’ as he describes it. That shouldn’t make him laugh but it does, recalling his long-compressed memories of Briskcharge and the sisters, and where his vocabulary was ruined forever. Sorry, Newdawn. His peers seem to agree but talk about it like a recent loss, so he can only assume it isn’t the same battle. How often are the Autobots losing?

After a while he shivers, thinking of Faylever, then of his conversation with Optimus about the neutral conversion efforts. Did any of them talk about the loss of his home with the same sort of lamentation? Does the loss of his home, his everything, equate to the additional tasks or the limited space they endure now? Was the death of his youngest self just a tableside conversation? Do they even know what they failed to save? Do they even know?

Still, setting aside his uneasiness, B-127 makes a note to ask about it at some point. The logic doesn’t fit, this war has gone on for eons, so why the sudden, consistent losses now? Even though B-1 doesn’t have all the facts – because eavesdropping doesn’t really make the best data-collection technique – he can still say something doesn’t quite add up.

He adds it to the growing list of things to wonder about. A small thrum of guilt pulses through him and he lets it stew for a time. No one seems particularly happy about the current arrangement and B-1 doesn’t blame them. He can only guess there are hundreds injured and many dead, the whole city overrun with recovering warriors and refugees, it’s all a mess. B-127 feels like just another bead to add to the pile of issues the Autobots don’t need. These bots need leadership and half of their generals have committed to dedicating time to a worthless new spark who can’t even stand a medical questionnaire.

His optics fixate on the multi-chrome decal and his spark settles a little, bringing a digit down to smooth out an air bubble trapped under the sticker. Unwilling to fall back into the same hole he dug yesterday, B-1 briefly shutters his optics. He may be useless now, but he won’t be. He’s a nothing, but it won’t stay that way, it won’t.

Ratchet says people can change, and B-1 knows this to be true. He has changed, no matter how much he wishes it wasn’t so. Trailrunner was right, had always been right. But he can accept now that it is a necessary loss, even if it hurts his core deeply. He will change. He’ll right his wrongs even if it means ripping apart.

There’s a phantom servo resting on the back of his helm, and he shivers.

“This seat taken?” A voice asks, breaking through the film of static B-1 has encased himself in.

B-1 starts, nearly falling off his stool but barely catching himself. His optic feed fizzles, but not quite to the degree it normally would in order to make him sick. He finds a shaken smile despite the hammering of his spark. “Ah—no, it’s just me,” he answers, the tingle under his plating subsiding with a few controlled ventilations.

Cliffjumper grunts in response, rather unceremonious as he drops his three mid-size cubes on the table, seating himself across from him. B-1’s optics spiral. He looks tired with a slight droop in his frame and a distinct lack of his usual luster. His HUD pings with a few new scratches to his crimson finish, along with a long gash down his chest plates, tapering to an end near his mid-section plating. It’s been filled with dermal putty and some sort of reinforcing topcoat, but B-1 cringes anyway. He must have just come from the med-bay. “Uh, are you…” he brings a servo up, frustration bubbling when the question doesn’t fully form.

Halfway through his first cube already, Cliffjumper pauses, placing his cube down and wiping his intake with the back of his servo. “Okay? Oh yeah, it looks way worse than it is,” he starts, gesturing to the gash. “Blade barely grazed me. I made it worse by transforming.” He leans in, a grin spreading across his face plate. “You should see the other guy,” he says, voice low with pride and perhaps a little relief.

He doesn’t ask if he’s just returned from a mission of some kind, because they both know that’s obvious. Though curiosity over the outcome abounds, B-127 refrains, unsure if he and the older bot are bonded enough yet for such questioning. Newdawn would always entertain B-1’s endless queries, even when he was busy.

His door wing twitches, but Cliffjumper doesn’t seem to notice. “Are you in pain?” He settles on asking, since that seems like neutral territory. He's not quite brave enough to ask if the outcome of the mission was a positive one.

That gets a small optic roll from the soldier, and he downs the remainder of his first cube. “Medics are stingy with the pain meds, but not that stingy. The nurse takin’ care of me was a doll to set me up. Y’know she’s single? Former warrior! Changed stations after some battle eight vorns back, nasty stuff, but I’m telling you we had a connection, I might just have to—”

This continues for most of Cliffjumper’s refuel, and B-1 finds himself snickering more than once at Cliff’s hypothetical date ideas laced with the subtle complaints of scheduling errors. From what he can understand, Cliffjumper is a competent warrior with a lot of experience. Everyone seems to know him as he is greeted by passersby more than once. B-1 admires his free spirit.

“So, what branch are you thinkin’?” Cliff asks suddenly, pivoting from the pretty nurse to a completely different subject. B-1 blinks, stepping back into himself to try and catch up and find the context of the question. Cliff gestures with his helm, and B-127 follows and his gaze lands back on his Autobot decal.

A laugh of apprehension tears from his vocoder and his voice box warbles. B-1 clears it a few times, dismayed when he gets interference and annoying crackles. “Oh, I’m not like, actually in,” he says, splaying his digits out on the table. “Yet. Not in yet,” he adds, because that’s an important detail.

Cliffjumper nods, understanding. “Yeah, I figured, but it’s not always gonna be yet, is it? You’ve gotta have a preference on where you’re placed. There are dozens of em, ranks, jobs, whatever. What stands out?”

B-1 leans back, shrugging. “I don’t know, honestly. I just want to help in whatever way they see fit.” He drums his digits across the table, louder than necessary. He winces. “Uh, what do you do?”

That brings a wider smile and Cliffjumper runs a digit along one of his shiny horns. “Ah, this n’ that. I’m a warrior, but I’m sort of an in-between guy, y’know? Every warrior is trained in sneaky shit, but not all of them are good at it. That’s why spec ops is such a small branch, right?” He points a thumb to himself. “I ain’t the best at it either, but I happen to be good enough that if they need a little extra bang for their buck, they send me in.”

And B-1 mirrors Cliff’s smile pretty easily, because that makes sense. Cliff is jovial and easy to talk to, it would be a good idea to send him as an all-around man. Regardless of skill, it’s hard not to feel more at home with him around. “That’s cool,” he says in reply, and B-127 knows that’s a stupid thing to say, and he should say something more refined.

But Cliffjumper doesn’t seem to mind, and B-1 has begun to wonder if there is anything that gets on this guy’s nerves. “Sure is, I love it. Get all the action, meet new bots, and I know I’m making a difference.” Then, his helm tilts, and he brings a palm to his chin, looking B-1 over with a considerate expression. B-1 tries not to squirm. “Hey, I bet you’d be great at that too!”

B-1 lasts all of three nano-kliks before laughter bursts from him and he giggles unabashedly. That gets him a few looks but the sheer absurdity of that statement briefly shuts off his ability to care. Him? A go-between? The same bot who can barely walk straight? Who sounds like an idiot whenever he speaks? Who broke into a restricted floor simply to prove a point? Laughable. “Me? Oh no, Cliffjumper. I don’t think so,” he says in between giggles.

Cliff laughs with him, softer and more observant. It’s a bit unnerving, but the look is gone before he can parse the meaning behind it. “I dunno, Jazz seems to like ya,” he responds simply.

“Jazz likes everyone,” B-1 replies, recalling how the general can’t seem to walk into a room without a chorus of fond greetings.

But Cliff shakes his helm, taking his last cube in his servo. “Ah ah, Jazz is nice to everyone. He sure as hell doesn’t like everyone.” He pauses, taking a pointed gulp of his fuel. His dermas part with a satisfied noise. “Don’t forget B, he’s a spy. Lyin’ is his job.” Then a servo is pointed uncomfortably close to his face. B-1 leans back, optics wide. “Jazz brought you to poker night.”

B-1 can guess that’s a big deal. “It was fun,” he says absently instead of a serviceable reply. He feels he says it because it doesn’t feel real to admit it. To feel anything other than that awful something.

Cliff agrees with a hum, and the conversation veers off into some anecdote of an instance where Cliff brought someone unwelcome to the game and had to bet triple his normal amount to make up for the intrusion. B-1 allows himself to smile and the flicker of fondness is tight and clumsy in his chest. He likes Cliffjumper, and it feels apparent that Cliffjumper likes him. Optimus called him a friend, but how true could that possibly be? B-127 must be a millennia or two younger than the Prime and that fraction of existence is huge. B-1 is a blip whereas Optimus is a scrawling mass of code.

Calling Elita-1 or Jazz a friend feels right, but there is still something there that leaves B-1 trembling under the weight of their gazes. Ironhide is kind but intimidating and clearly unsure of how to treat him, friendship doesn’t feel like the right word. Chromia too, though he feels a comradery with her in their shared frame-type. Ultra Mangus doesn’t seem to hate him as such, but B-1 can tell he isn’t pleased with him being here.

Ratchet… B-1 doesn’t know. He simply doesn’t. It’s a puzzle within himself that he can’t seem to crack, every pin pulled is the wrong one, resetting the game back to zero. It’s not something he knows how to solve just yet.

With Cliff, B-127 doesn’t feel any of that. Cliff is easy to understand and B-1 never feels as if there’s something he isn’t saying. If anything, it would be a miracle to experience Cliff without his chatter.

B-1 doesn’t know if ‘friend’ is the appropriate word. It’s only been about a deca-cycle of being here and being the only bot without a job, it’s not like he sees him too regularly. Just enough to sit together to refuel.

But it’s close. Close enough that B-1 fears he'll catch fire.

… Moonracer only knew him an afternoon, and she risked so much simply because they shared a conversation. Does it truly have to be so complicated?

“Can I ask you something?” He suddenly says.

Cliff pauses, still all smiles as his helm turns. “Depends, is it deep?”

Leaning back a little, B-1 lets out a small laugh, biting his lower derma. “Uh… deep-ish?” He answers weakly, shrugging.

The bot snaps his digits with a metallic clang and points in his direction. “Alright, shoot,” he replies, mimicking a gun firing with his servo.

He can’t hide his smile at that, but it fades a moment later as he forces himself to sober. “Are you… the same? Since you joined the Autobots?” B-127 inquires, mid-section thrumming with nerves and he wonders if he should just abort the conversation.

But Cliff only considers for a klik. “Like the same person? Sure I am! Ain’t no one me, but me, right?”

That puzzles him. “Ah, sure, but… don’t you think you and him… don’t you think you’re different?”

Someone trips and drops their two Energon cubes on the floor in a loud clash, but Cliff doesn’t look away beyond a flickering glance. “Well, yeah, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing, B,” Cliffjumper replies, just above the clamor.

A desperate plea for mercy, a screeching cry for forgiveness. B-1’s chassis rattles for a moment. “You don’t miss him sometimes?”

Cliff raises an optical ridge. “Miss him? I can find him anytime I want, B. He lives in my spark. Just cause that version of me had to step out of the way doesn’t mean he’s gone. I’d be nowhere without who came before me. This me.” He gestures to himself.

The poor, clumsy bot, is helped to their pedes. B-1 counts the small scratches on his side of the table. “And you’re okay with that?”

“B,” Cliff addresses, and B-127’s fuel pulses faster than it should, but he returns his gaze to the warrior. “If I still was him, I woulda died today,” Cliff says, tone the steadiest B-1 has ever heard it. “I became who I am to protect people, and to do that I had to adapt. That’s a gift, B. If I were stagnant, a whole lotta people would be dead, including myself.”

Shocked, B-1 shudders, forcing his optics away. A servo lands on his shoulder, B-1 only twitches, but doesn’t pull away. “I could miss it, yeah, I think we all do sometimes, but more often than not I am thankful. I like to think I make a difference, and because of that I thank Primus that I could change, could adapt. B,” he calls again, and again, B-1 listens. Cliff’s optics shimmer with something pristine, and his energetic field is a wildfire on B-1’s plating. “Some people don’t want to change because they’re afraid of what they’re losing, they choose to stay still, stay miserable, stay whatever. But kid, it’s a choice, whatever you do. How you change? That’s up to you, all the pain in the world can’t take that from you.”

Someone comes and replaces the bot’s broken Energon cubes, the two bots chuckle about the whole thing.

Cliffjumper’s servo retreats, and he piles up B-1 and his own empty cubes, moving to stand. A distinct, rhythmic pulse reverbs around his chassis, and he numbly follows Cliffjumper’s movements. The older bot smiles, genuine and kind as if he hasn’t just thrown B-127 back down a hole.

“I gotta run, kid. Slagging debrief ain’t gonna write itself,” he laments, field flexing in a rather displeased manner. He leans forward, patting B-1 on the top of his helm. “I’m alive because of who I once was and who I am now. Remember this kid; what you put into this world is up to you. You can’t control how other people change, but yourself? That’s on you.”

Cliffjumper says his goodbye, hoping to see B-1 at poker soon. B-1 weakly returns the farewell and tells him to feel better, hoping it makes up for his weak glossa.

The crowd in the mess hall has thinned as the morning rush has tapered off, many bots remaining having long finished refueling and staying to converse with those around them. Some smile, some don’t. Some laugh, some don’t.

Setting his servos on the now empty table, B-1’s features set, and his fists clench tight enough to rattle his knuckles. Cliff’s words echo like a gong in his audials and a new fire ignites within his spark that burns like starlight.

The heat is strong, powerful, and motivating. It doesn’t hurt the same way it has for stellar cycles.

It’s terrifying.

***

The cycle continues and is largely uneventful. Optimus pings him only once, asking how he is feeling and if he requires anything.

Honestly, that just makes him laugh in the middle of the hallway he walks through.

He desperately prays that someone also asked Cliffjumper those very questions.

***

Ironhide frowns, optical ridges creased in obvious frustration.

Jazz sits across him, smiling, though everyone present know he is furious.

“You fought bravely, as true warriors, your efforts were not in vain,” Optimus days, sincere in every way but the weight still remains.

The team leader, Thunderstruck, holds a cold pack to his forehelm, a long, still-cooling weld around his optic. He, like everyone else, is distinctly unhappy. “With all due respect sir, that was a disaster.”

Cliffjumper sags in his seat, ready for his inevitably short-lived off-duty time. “Doc says he’s able to fix the damage, Tk.”

“Maybe,” Ratchet corrects, pressing a digit to his temple in hopes of stopping the helm-ache that must be plaguing him. “I am not as well versed in the cortical psychic patch as I would like. Shockwave keeps a tight handle on his experimental tech. If we had more data…”

“Doin’ my best here, doc,” Jazz mutters, clearly doing his best not to explode.

Ratchet says nothing about the annoying nickname. Jazz has lost a lot lately, and though he has a gift for ‘going with the flow,’ as he likes to say, the trauma and death of his soldiers is a heavy blow.

Ironhide considers him lucky. Fried neuralnet or not, at least some of his got to come home.

His were laid to slaughter the moment they were deemed without use. Some of them were rookies.

Elita holds her helm in her servos. Ironhide sends her a ping of encouragement despite the torrent of rage inside him. Some of those warriors were her own, on loan from one of her more renowned units. There had been some hope of their return, but evidently, only special operations hold enough value to be spared. If the breaking of their minds could be considered mercy. His spark fluctuates with guilt.

Optimus steps forward. “Have hope, friends, though they may not have returned as we remembered them, but we should be thankful we have gotten any back at all.”

Cliffjumper sits up, optics narrowed. “I don’t get it, boss- bosses. It’s like they knew we were coming. I’m telling ya, even with me in the group, our cover was flawless. We shouldn’t have been made.”

“—But we were,” laments one of Jazz’s agents. Ironhide has to look down at his data pad with the mission debrief to recall his name is Ryle. “We barely made it out.”

“The medical floors are over-crowded,” Ratchet says with a shake of his helm. “It will take time to even begin treatment.”

And ever graceful, Optimus raises a servo, palm outstretched. “I have utmost faith in you, Ratchet.” He turns. “I have faith in all of you, that is unchanged. Our recent losses, though many, has not shaken the balance of our cause. It is just.”

There’s a weak, but sincere chorus of agreement. Autobots aren’t quitters, even in times of pain like now.

“I don’t want anymore of my guys comin’ back like that, Prime,” Jazz says after a moment, in a rare show of grave weakness. “Rearranging their helms like that… it’s worse than death.”

A quiet blankets them, and no one speaks when Jazz’s smile has fallen, and it stays that way.

The spy leans in, optics set in anger as he speaks. “Someone is sabotaging my fragging branch, and I want ta’ know who.”

***

“Oh god, I can’t do it,” B-1 croaks, hunched with his palms on his knees. His ventilation works overtime even though his components are at optimal temperatures. He pivots to try and run back to the elevator.

A nurse gives him that same, weird look like he is a bit spooked.

He hates that look.

Groaning and cursing his damned spark, he turns back. “Never-fragging-mind, I can do it.” he stands to his full height, bypassing the nurse with fed-up, heavy stomping. “I can do it.”

… He’ll have to circle back around to learn his name later.

***

Walking through the medical floor the next morning, B-1 notices all the injured soldiers as if it’s the first time, and he keeps his helm down. There will be no time wasted today.

“Feeling alright?” First Aid asks, leading him though despite B-1 already knowing the way.

He nods absently, wondering about what it might take to convince them all to go through with the repairs as fast as possible. “Fine,” he quietly answers. First Aid hums, but doesn’t say more than that.

Ratchet looks haggard when he walks through the door to the small clinic, and B-127 wants to turn tailpipe and give him some space almost immediately. He only stays because his yearning to make a difference is stronger by the smallest margin.

Something must have happened last night. In his zeal, B-1 hadn’t recharged, though generally healthy practice, he finds it isn’t always necessary, and he needs no visits from his demons to put him on edge. B-1 nods the absence of any of the creepy wires and monitors immediately. They must have been wheeled out.

Before the doctor says a word, B-1 plants himself on the examination table. This time, his knee is still, and while his sparkbeat races, and tension lines his neck cables, his optics are steady. “Good morning,” he greets evenly.

Every time he shakes, the demons win a little more, and B-1 lets them. He’s let them his entire life.

If bravery can’t keep him still, then his spite certainly can.

Ratchet seems to notice the difference in his demeanor, straightening with a small audible crack in his backstrut. “… Good morning,” he replies slowly, maybe a bit disturbed by the look in B-1’s optic. Maybe he should tone it down a little.

“Let’s finish this,” says B-1, resting his palms on his knees in a way he hopes is convincing.

The doctor’s optics widen and he tentatively reaches for his data pad. His field is heavy, draping across the room. “It’s a lot of data to go through, B-127, there’s… no need to rush through it.”

There’s a certain uncertainty in his voice, as if unsure of what to say. B-127 shakes his helm. “I want to get this over with,” he starts, allowing his optics to roll as he speaks. “I don’t want to waste your or my time.”

“B-127—”

His field flares. “Look, I know you don’t think I can do this. I know that, but I want to show you that I can,” his optics narrow in some such way he hopes it’s even a smidge intimidating. “It’ll be different from last time.”

Ratchet’s tired features pinch, and B-1 wishes his optics could see inside that helm to pick apart what he is thinking. After a time, Ratchet exvents, shaking his helm and pulling up his stool as he did before. “Very well, but if I feel you can’t continue, I’m stopping you.”

Steeling himself, B-1 glances at the sticker on his wrist once more. The bright fluorescent lights of the examination room dance off of the metallic finish of it, making the finer details more difficult to see.

But it’s still there.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

***

“You were hit by a mid-rig?” Ratchet exclaims, optics wide with horror and a bit of amazement.

The shock sort of cushion the blow to his spark. B-1 smiles, almost touched by the anger under the surface.

It shouldn’t be comforting, it really shouldn’t, but each time Ratchet breaks from his perfect, methodical persona, B-1’s sparkbeat slows. It shouldn’t be calming to know someone beyond his ghosts care.

It shouldn’t be.

It is.

***

He only needs to pause once, but he wills himself not to shake and shudder. Not to lose time like he had.

“You removed your plasma blades,” Ratchet says, quieter than before. It’s not new information; Ratchet made a fuss of it the very moment he saw the medical log. But he says it like it’s the first time. Surely, a bot of his age has seen worse?

Hatred pulses through him, and it always feels so erroneous, like it’s not fit for him. Even so, it’s there. It’s there and he knows it’s one wound Ratchet can’t fix, a constant gash that weeps black.

He wonders if Dea-8 will ever understand what he has done. He hopes so, he hopes it consumes him. That the fear and the fractures gnaw and tear and destroy him.

But it won't. He knows it won’t.

He’ll never have justice for it, and that poor mech that took a piece of B-1’s spark never will either.

That cycle, two bots died, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

And so it is.

Their optics meet, and B-1 realizes he’s been avoiding them. His wrists sting, and his decal feels like poor consolation.

You destroyed yourself, Ratchet does not say, but B-1 hears the disgust in the air, feels the weight permeate him through the thick atmosphere.

But Ratchet doesn’t need to know everything B-1 can hear. Everything he can see. “Yes.”

For all the confidence and security he tries to inject into the confirmation, his voice still cracks.

***

“It’s not a waste,” Ratchet mutters, once they’ve gotten through the metaphorical mountain of injuries to catalog. He doesn’t look up from his data pad.

B-1, feeling far more weary and raw than he wants to admit, sends him a curious ping through his field. “What isn’t?” He prods, too exhausted to try and sound tough.

“This. It’s not a waste of my time.”

His finials swivel and then fall. “Oh.”

A firm, stern expression takes over Ratchet’s face plate, and his engine rumbles softly. “This is my job, B, and I will say it again, you are my patient. To say all this is a waste is an insult to my pride as a medic,” he says, finally looking up. The words are harsh, but B-1 notes the gentle curl of Ratchet’s dermas. “So, do not say that ever again, both now,” he pauses, considering. “… And when you return as a soldier.”

Through the haze of unpleasant memories and phantom aches, B-1’s spark soars. “I promise,” he says, so overcome with the relief to have Ratchet’s faith that he doesn’t think to question why. That can come later.

And as he realizes he’s truly done it, that brittle darkness curls into an insidious laugh, and B-1 hopes Lariat is screaming, wherever he is. He prays to Primus that the pain courses through him and he thinks of B-1 for every klik, wishing he’d killed him when he had the chance.

***

That nurse's name is Nightlight, B-1 learns later. It’s a funny name and they both laugh about it. He adds it to his rapidly growing list of names and faces.

Nightlight still looks a bit freaked out by him, but, well, maybe it’s fair. Freaking out near an elevator and then later demanding your designation is hardly the most charming meet cute.

Oh well. Lariat never asked for B’s name anyway.

***

First Aid crouches, tilting his helm. “Ratchet, he was fine, he was calm walking out,” he says, calm as he picks the older medic’s data pad up off of the floor.

Ratchet grumbles, collecting himself from where he leans against the examination table. “He’s seen too much,” he replies, pressing the heels of his palms into his optics. He tries not to picture the empty optics of Jazz’s agents. Tries not to think of the state of their processors.

“You worry he will make a poor soldier?”

That gets Ratchet chuckling, and he straightens himself, briefly examining the room now empty of plucky young new sparks. Shaking his helm, he takes the datapad from the younger medic, staring at the contents he is quickly learning to label as cursed.

“No, I worry he will make a great one.”

***

With the medical history complete, Ratchet and First Aid collaborate on creating a proper treatment plan. B-127’s medical log and Ratchet’s diagnostic data have been sitting in limbo in the medical office, awaiting the completion of B-127’s file, and now that it’s finished, Ratchet has to accept the sheer amount of responsibility he’s placed on himself, and the time he’ll have to take for proper care.

There are hundreds of warriors in the wings just as deserving as treatment, and though they have nurses and a few other medics, the number never seems to be sufficient. Adding another weight to his plate is foolish, but heavy with knowledge of things he wish weren’t true, he feels obligated. Both for his friends, and now to B-127 himself.

“His gyroscopic stabilization and audio-visual sensory pathways will need immediate repair. If we put him through any sort of surgery without those functions, we run the risk of tripling his recovery time,” Ratchet discloses.

While First Aid is not his assistant, the younger doctor makes no complaints as he types out the plan. “I’m sure he’s very grateful to you, doctor,” he encourages.

Ratchet scoffs, turning just enough to avoid the embarrassment of having his spark known. “Of course he is, anyone would be grateful to be relieved of such burdens. It’s only natural,” he explains away, stupidly aware of how poor of an excuse that was.

First Aid nods. “Of course.” Ratchet can tell by the happy waves in his field that he is grinning. “You’ve spaced out a lot of these treatments.”

The wall is very interesting. “Yes.”

“You listened to me.”

His arms cross, a shielding action, and his spark still jitters. “Though I am your senior, I do accept council, First Aid,” Ratchet responds pointedly.

The younger giggles. “Do you? Have I had my audials shut off the past three eons?”

Ratchet turns, glaring now. His plating feels hot and his traitorous ventilations ramp up. “It makes sense, I’m being logical. B-127 has no prior experience with major surgery, and he requires many of them. You are right, he is not a soldier yet and can’t take the strain of one. He needs time.” His expression wrinkles and he grumbles. “Time we don’t have.”

Unbothered as he annoyingly always is, First Aid waggles a servo. “We have time, doctor,” he says, completely serene. Then, as he types, he laughs. “Y’know, you two are sort of alike in that way.”

And Ratchet just wants to groan, but his curiosity grabs hold and he bites. “How so?”

First Aid finishes another report on B’s eventual exploratory workup, Ratchet will look at those notes later. The younger medic places his data pad on the desk he sits near. “You put yourself in boxes, tight, suffocating ones that are far too small for your frames.” He leans an elbow on one knee, gesturing vaguely in Ratchet’s direction. “I’ve seen others do it before, it’s just nature to some I suppose, but you two? Gee, I barely know B and I know. Primus, maybe you both need to learn to slow down.” He hums at that, fascinated by his own suggestion. “Now there’s an idea…”

A bit more infuriated at the psychoanalysis than necessary, Ratchet’s engines growl. “Slow down,” he repeats to himself, shooting First Aid a sneer that has him raising his servos in failed placation. Several arguments circle around in his processor, but none of them hold more weight than one of a schoolyard argument, and Ratchet isn’t quite mad enough to pull out the petty insults yet. “Slow down,” he says again, this time snatching the data pad from the table and going over the treatment plan with more vigor than the action calls for.

Annoyingly, First Aid’s notes are perfect, and he finds nothing to nitpick.

***

The solar cycle before his first treatment, Chromia absolutely kicks his aft.

Several times.

B-127 doesn’t exactly know what he was expecting, but he is bored enough to accept her offer to begin his lessons early. He can’t bear to spend another cycle wandering, either by himself or with whoever has a spare klik to talk. His fuel lines pulse and hunger for movement, action.

Chromia just so happens to relate to that.

It’s also a fair distraction from the surgery tomorrow.

Given her personality, B-1 supposes he should have predicted that her definition of movement is a lot different from his.

The training hall spins.

Her cackling bangs around inside his helm, leaving metaphorical dents with each pitchy ring. The ground of the sparring chamber isn’t exactly soft, but based on the number of times he’s been thrown on it, B-1 can tell it’s meant to cushion your fall more than anything.

Despite her frame – bulkier than many femmes – she is fast, deceptively so. Every time he gets to his pedes, it’s only a moment later he ends up on his back again, awkwardly shmushing his door wings. B-1 doesn’t know how to fight, though Chromia seems convinced that he does, deep down within the depths of his spark.

“You are a warframe! Such movements should come naturally to you!”

B-1 supposes that makes sense, but neglects to tell her that a lot of his programs – essential or not – are locked behind quarantine. Not that it matters, even with his senses dialed up and his focus is laser-like, he just isn’t fast enough to get a leg up on her.

After a while, he can recognize the patterns of her servo-to-servo techniques, but without his balance, he can’t do much for it beyond trying to dodge.

Despite the absolute beating he takes, Chromia never actually hurts him, as such. Her EM is a wild tumble and though her fists jab at him with a mild sting, he can tell she doesn’t actually mean to harm him. There’s ecstasy at the thrill of battle, or whatever the hell this is.

It's alarming at first, and his plating snaps to his frame more then once, and B-127 knows it’s because he is still raw. Still hurting from things he should be over by now.

But he could take it before and he can certainly take it now.

It helps that she helps him to his pedes after each loss. B-127 honestly doesn’t even know if he can consider them losses, it’s not really a fair… anything.

He's exhausted and a little sick to his tanks by the third round but Chromia is certain they can keep going. She’s having so much fun he doesn’t have the spark to tell her no.

“Endurance is key to a strong, imposing warrior.” She says as she takes him by both wrists and pulls him back up, she steadies him as he visibly wobbles. “You don’t need this lesson,” she adds after a moment.

Pressing a servo to the side of his helm, B-1 can’t stop himself from giving her a look. “Then why have you been tossing me around for half a groon?” He asks, gasping through vents and fighting the rot in his processor.

She scowls, and bops him on the crown of his helm. He squawks, rubbing the now lightly throbbing metal. “Because you need to remember that!” she exclaims, loud enough to make B-1 flinch. What the frag is wrong with everyone? He misses when people were normal.

But then Chromia softens, so much so that the disparity throws B-127 off. She rubs her thumb under his optic. “You must remember that.”

Chromia doesn’t give him much time to contemplate that, and before long he is on the floor again. The words don’t leave his helm, outlined in quotations in the corner of his HUD array, along with all of the other things that don’t quite make sense.

A few bots watch from the sidelines, he doesn’t know their names, but they still stay to cheer for him whenever he manages to jump out of the way of Chromia’s motivated attacks. He makes a note to thank them once Chromia deems it fit to let him go.

When Chromia was employed to help him with his physical wellness, he isn’t sure this is exactly what Optimus meant.

***

“She did what?” Elita-1 yells, optics wide enough he worries they’ll fall out of socket.

He shrugs, pretending not to be sore enough to fall over right this nano-klik.

Elita-1 groans, the most upset he’s seen her. She sets aside the stack of holo-forms she is looking over. The frustration seems to bother her only for a moment before she smooth’s out her expression, offering him a tired smile. That seems to be an expression he will see often.

He saw it a lot at the settlement too.

“I suppose you had fun?” she tries, flashing her denta.

B-1 squints, trying to decide. “Maybe?”

Her face falls, and her ventilation is a slightly exasperated spew.

***

Optimus drops by that night, sincerely apologizing for Chromia, though it sort of makes B-1 laugh. He should not make a habit of laughing at or near Primes, but he can’t seem to help it.

“Is Chromia going to say sorry?” He asks, mostly as a joke because at this point, he knows she won’t, and he really doesn’t want her to.

Still, it’s worth it to see a Prime squirm just a little bit.

Again, shouldn’t make a habit of it.

…

Primus, don’t make that face.

Newdawn used to make that face.

***

The nurses don’t touch him, but they don’t really have to. Their fields encroach on his space in a calm, but urging slosh, each mingling together to create an air of pressure. The smell of the medical floors is always the same. Sterile, cold, chemical, all words B-127 does not particularly enjoy.

A stronger bot could ignore it, push through and let it all go for the sake of progress, of change. Were he someone older, wiser, and made of less than what makes up himself, B-1 might not be frozen in place, just beyond the wing he needs to be at. The wing he should have been in three kliks ago.

Something lances through his spark in a rotating axle, a sharp and bleeding pain leaving festering, jagged edges in its wake. The doors are shut, but B-1’s optics stare at them with such ferocity a part of him ponders whether he can see through if he tries hard enough.

His spark pulse is a spiraling meteor in his chest, threatening to burn through his chassis and take off into the stars. The anxiety boils under his plating, leaving his fuel lines sizzling with enough intensity that the heat alone makes him dizzy. The nurses who quietly coax him, all equipped with their specialized medical programs and bits and bobs he will never understand, all know. He can tell they do.

They all think he’s rather fragile, and despite his toiling efforts, perhaps they are right. Perhaps it is true. Because in the face of all his spite, his anger for himself, and for the tar that lives inside him, he’s still scared.

“Dr Ratchet is a master of the craft, B,” Kadee says, smiling kindly over his shoulder, palm ghosting over his back. A subtle push, a shove, a kick. A quiet move move move—

There isn’t time for this, or maybe there is. He doesn’t know.

Because the thing about neural processor repair is that regardless of the partition, you have to be awake for it. Ratchet described it as a sort of half-way point between recharge, just to ensure he isn’t lobotomized on accident if they nick something. B-127 does not think they will. But.

It’s just. Closer to old times, than he wants.

And in keeping his silent oath, he doesn’t shake, his frame, though pulled taut under the surface, doesn’t move at all. His determination remains, untampered and raw, unkillable in ways B-127 sometimes wishes it was.

“I’m sorry,” he says, vocoder projecting steadily. By Primus he wants to say more than that, but he doesn’t. Social protocols feels like a fair excuse, still a rusted and disused portion of his processor, but the idea of truly trying to blame it on that is bitter.

What would Lycan say? What would Faylever? For once, he wishes they weren’t so silent as of late. Not for the first time, he wonders if this is all truly worth the trouble, if he is. There’s no room for giving up, no, he’ll walk into this slagging room and do this slagging surgery, and all the stupid things proceeding it. But, oh, a troublesome thought. If the Autobots spend their time, their resources which already sit stagnant and low, then he must produce results for them. He must and by Primus, he intends to try. He has been trying.

But trying isn’t always enough, and B-1 so often tends to fall short. He wants to change, for good as Cliffjumper says, and he wants to be who he is now as Ratchet says, wants to use all he has to become better, an asset. But what if all of the blood and bruises and useless damage, it still is for naught? What if his best is nothing more than that, a desperate, but altogether fruitless effort by a well-meaning but delusional sparkling. What if his best, is simply another nothing?

What if, after all of this trouble, he can give them nothing?

“You don’t even know what you have.”

 “That’s your debt to me… but your spark burns bright even when it fragging shouldn’t. Don’t let go of that, no matter what I or anyone tells you, because it’s something, alright? A lot more than nothing...”

“Don’t waste what Primus has given you, child… don’t rot in what this world has done to you.” 

“It’s not about your use, or your build, or anything like that, B. Being an Autobot means having a choice, living your life without fear of someone forcing you to be someone you’re not.”

“You must remember that.”

“It’s alright, B-127. You are welcome here.”

The words hit him hard, and his optic feed frays at the edges, the overhead lights buzz too loud, and the windows far too bright, this hall in the direct line of the new dawn. His hatred remains and B-1 doesn’t know if it will ever fade, and though it’s been given many faces, he may never know where the source truly resides. Maybe he found it the moment he looked away from the heavens and down to reality.

Regardless of what made it manifest, he lives with it now, a driving force but not quite the driving force. No, it’s always been something else, that something doesn’t have to be dark and bleary and mad. That isn’t what Moonracer saw, and it isn’t what Newdawn or Faylever saw either.

Though he’s had to let him go, he wants to hold on to what they saw. What the Autobots continue to see, even when B-1 is blind to it himself.

He smiles, despite himself, despite the ache that he knows Ratchet can’t fix. He will become an Autobot, he will do well, he will help, he will be useful. No matter what his mind says.

What is the opinion of one broken new spark?

***

“Oh Primus, can I do this?” He paces back and forth.

Nightlight and Kadee share a look.

Neither speak, by now, they know to give him a moment.

And it comes, sooner rather than later, the fear in B-127’s features freeze, along with his frame, and a familiar frustration takes him over, and the apathetic terror is gone in an instant.

He shakes it off, like any good warrior would. He stands tall, turning his back to them and waltzing to the door. Nevermind he’ll have to let one of them open it for him.

“—No, I will do this.” He utters to himself, quiet and mantra-like. He’s not the first bot they’ve seen with demons and ghosts behind his optics, but he does err on the more eccentric side of things, whether he means it or not. The nurse-staff has no idea if B believes a word he whispers to himself; he seems to enjoy going to war with his own spark.

Odd little thing, they all think. Quirky, fragged in the helm, young and curious, B-127 is the weirdest bot they’ve had on the patient list for vorns. A far cry from the blank stares or frustrated shrieks of their other patients.

It’s no wonder it’s a fight to be his chaperone around the med-floors.

***

"Yeesh, it’s really a mess in there, huh doc?” One of techs says wryly as Ratchet goes through a few preliminary checks.

He shoots the tech a small plate, briefly glancing down at B who, despite being high as a Decepticon seeker squad, sits rigid as sheet metal on the table. His processor casing has been removed in necessary places, and he is about as vulnerable as a bot can be without showing their spark.

And his techs are cracking-wise.

It’s one thing with soldiers who know how to take it. It’s another with sparklings. Frag, it’s another thing with B.

But this is their fifth major surgery in three solar cycles, and no one has enough charge. Ratchet spends a good portion of the morning praying for steady servos. He fuels up more than necessary just to ensure he can push more power to his hydraulics. B deserves him at his best, especially for his first operation. Guilt gnaws at his tanks for being unable to provide that.

For their trouble, he allows them this one slight.

B won’t remember it anyway, and this is one small mercy he can offer. He wishes he could give more, but in a world where B-1 needs mountains, Ratchet can only spare pebbles. For all of his patients, it’s all he has.

Besides, they are right. He glances at the poor child, who sways just so as the mild sedative leaves him dazed. The damage is bad, but he already knew that. Living with damage an injury to the chassis is one thing, but to the processor? Ratchet is appalled to think he has lived with this so long.

His endurance is an admirable trait, and a terrifying one.

Jazz’s broken agents once possessed the same thing.

He really will make a wonderful soldier. Adaptable, intelligent, even a warframe to boot, despite having one of his major weapons systems gutted. Already tasted death so closely his first fell on the battlefield won’t break him.

Primus, what a nightmare.

Even still. B is his patient. Steeling himself, Ratchet allows the passing –slightly too rapid—spiral rate of B’s sparkpulse to wash over and integrate with his ambient audial intake, tuning into it and all of B’s other vitals.

He is a healer, and he is a good one.

… He must be. For B, he must be.

***

…

…

“Sit,” Faylever orders lightly, her tired posture a quiet lament as she taps the space beside her.

Grinning, B-1 races to obey, running fast enough that as he draws near, he drops to his knees, sliding several feet to reach her. Faylever’s chuckle is a warm trickle in his audials. Her face isn’t clear, but that’s okay. That’s okay.

Her palm rests on his face, over one of his optics, blocking out the constant inflow of datadatadata—

“Shh,” she coos, and it feels so terribly far away from him.  “Just listen with me, sit and listen,” Faylever whispers, so sincere it borders on pleading.

Warmth dances around her servo and blossoms in his chest. B-1 leans into the contact desperately, taking the leap to shutter his optics completely. He doesn’t remember her servos being so small. “What am I supposed to hear?”

The melody of her vocoder murmurs. Warbled and something he can’t quite comprehend. “Don’t open them,” she says urgently, when the curiosity begins to eat away at him and he queues a command to bring his optics back online.

Never one to upset her, B-1 complies. “I can’t hear you clearly like this,” he gently replies, hoping she might see reason.

Her other palm rests over his cheek, and it’s almost too painful to bear. “Don’t look at me,” she responds, crisper now but enough he has to push to understand.

A sharp pain erupts, so cold and aching he can’t quite find where he’s been hit. “Something hurts.”

“I know,” she mutters, agony laced in her words like she is the one scorned. “But it’s more than you can take alone.”

Though his HUD hasn’t pinged him of any damage, something bleeds. He feels it leaking, pooling underneath both of their frames. “You’re with me. You’re with me.”

Her palms press harder, not rough or painful or with any sort of malice, but gripping. “It’s more than you can take alone,” she repeats, and he wants to see so badly, Faylever must be crying. “Just sit and listen.”

Sit and listen.

His antennae rise. There’s nothing.

Nothing.

Not even the sound of his internals. Of Faylevers.

There is nothing.

Whatever struck him caves in, gaping wider than before, and with a sickly gasp, B-1 grips Faylever’s wrists tightly. “I…” he pulls her away, easily like she might weigh nothing. “I’m dreaming,” he surmises, still without seeing.

The dream of Faylever crackles like a blazing fire, but he hears her sigh. “Please, B, don’t do this,” she begs.

Do what?

“Do what?” He says out loud this time.

He wants to see her, but she wriggles her servos free, and he feels them placed back over his optics once more. The touch is like ice. He still bleeds. “Try to see patterns you know are not there,” she sobs now, and the dream wavers. He must be waking up. “You need to listen, now. Stay where you are, and listen.”

The pain surges and B-1 lurches to the side, hoping to avoid Faylever – not Faylever—as he coughs into his servos. The surge is raw and spiders all over his chassis, though he doesn’t try to see quite yet, terrified to break the train his dream tries to follow. “I’ve spent too much time – Ghohck—staying where I am!” He exclaims, horrified to ever find anger in himself for the closest femme to his spark. His palms feel wet.

Through his hacking, she draws nearer, and her touch soothes him as she rests her servo on his back. Though her anguish is evident, there’s still a laugh in her tone. “B, you haven’t stayed still a moment of your life.”

And that’s true, they both know it.

But still, he doesn’t feel she is right.

“You don't find treasure by filling holes,” Faylever adds. “And treasure isn’t made by shining pieces of copper.”

The coughing is escalating, and B-1 knows he must be leaking fuel from some cable in his neck. “What—Chgk—are you saying?”

She is impossibly close. “I’m saying it can be both, B.”

He chokes, and his ventilation locks up. Only, it doesn’t, because why would it? It isn’t real.

Faylever presses a kiss to his temple. “Your mind is so wonderful, and your memory so sharp.” She leans in, forehelm clinking against the side of his face plate. “My precious little genius, you are… but yet so forgetful.”

And a tear rolls down his face. “I haven’t forgotten! I haven’t forgotten my debt to you, Primus, I promise I haven’t!” He gags, leaning into Faylever’s touch now. The only solace he has.

“Oh B. There was never a debt.”

He screams now. “Yes there was! Yes there is!” he pounds a fist to the ground and he wishes he could see. “There has to be! Because if there’s not – if there’s not—” His voice breaks, and he can’t seem to find it again.

You aren’t real.

It’s not real, none of it. It’s all nothing, nothingnothingnothing

…

“… Who made your world so loud? For all the love in the world, I wish you hadn’t learned how to do that. To scream without screaming.”

“I wonder when you’ll believe what’s been screaming at you? Right in front of you.”

“It won’t be now. It’s all too loud.”

“Who can solve anything wit’ so much noise?”

“It’s more than you can take alone. You see things that aren’t there. Purest of sparks, does your penance serve anyone? Have you earned your—”

“No, it’s too soon. You’re too raw, too much, too determined. To be—”

“Too defeated.”

“—Not so defeated, though. He’s got some fight in him yet. Not just angry, nah, everyone’s got a bit a that. You’ve got fight.”

“Of course. It’s always been there, even when it shouldn’t be. That hasn’t changed.”

…

“No, that hasn’t changed at all.”

…

…

[INITIALIZING]

Chapter Text

Just as Ratchet had promised, B-1 doesn’t remember a thing from the surgery beyond a vague humming noise. So, if anyone accidentally broke his brain module halfway through, he’d never know.

It’s sort of disconcerting not to recall it, B-1 normally has no issue remembering things, but in this instance, he eventually decides it is for the best.

He also decides he doesn’t like coming off general anesthesia. He’d known it would happen, he would be put into stasis upon the operation’s completion, and then given medicinal Energon to keep him under long enough for test results and beta-testing. It only takes a few joors.

But when he wakes up, he’s crying.

Rather hard.

He doesn’t know why. Whatever had plagued his rest is a sweet oblivion and he can’t even try to reach it. Like dust under his pedes, it scatters away with each conscious effort.

Still, he sobs for ten entire kliks, so delirious and broken by whatever he can’t remember. The nice nurse – Kadee, dammit – warns him that she can’t let him leave until he calms down. Somewhere in his rational mind, he knows she’s just doing her job, and it makes complete sense. His vitals are completely normal beyond an elevated sparkpulse, his crying serves no one.

It’s mostly just humiliating. No one but her is there to witness it, but B-1 hasn’t cried – sobbed, with full-blown coolant leakage – in stellar cycles. It’s childish, and for so long, he’s been beyond such lamentations.

But Kadee holds his servo after a while, sighing from somewhere behind him, walking to help him regain his composure.

“Why… why am I crying?” He thinks he asks once.

Kadee lets go, turning her attention to the small wall of monitors. “Just delirium from the sedative. You probably just had a bad dream,” she explains calmly, offering him another comforting smile. “If it eases your spark, the operation went well!” Kadee adds, perking up a bit as she grabs a spare holo-form that B-1 can only assume holds notes on his surgery.

Perhaps it is a bit bratty of him, but for the hole that weeps within him, B-1 finds the success of all of this to be a poor consolation. Though the reason why eludes him.

The sorrow that clenches tightly around him slowly wanes, and Kadee’s reassurances help to bring reality back into focus at the very least. Where they don’t free his mind, they do allow him to find rational thought once more. Annoyance ebbs under the surface, and he vows not to make an idiot of himself like this again. If he could trigger a premature T-cog activation, he can fragging keep himself from crying.

He isn’t some weak sparkling with no handle on their emotional processes. B-1 wobbles a bit as he sits up, helm feeling predictably light and foggy. Bringing a palm to wipe his face is like lifting a planet and B-127’s chest burns with shame for struggling so much to even do that. Static buzzes throughout his weak protoform and he can only guess it’s some sort of painkiller.

That’s one plus about all these, he guesses. He may be the idiot who wakes up sniffling, but at least there is no pain.

Ha, what a concept. No pain.

A broken chuckle crackles from his vocoder, and in the corner of his optic he can see Kadee giving him an odd look. She probably wouldn’t find what he has to say very funny. Everyone here is so uptight about that sort of stuff.

Well, not really. They laugh when someone else says it. But when it’s him, oh, Primus’ beating spark, what a crime.

He laughs again, this time about something else.

That’s better than crying, isn’t it?

***

When the time comes, Ratchet waltzes in, his attention split between a tech talking in his audial and the datapad resting tediously in the crook of his elbow. B-1 thinks he looks exhausted, the way his plating sags and the slight, imperceptible flickering of his optic LEDs. A pit forms in the cavity of his midsection plating, and B-127 wonders if he’s been too demanding. This has cost people precious recharge, fixing him.

For now, he can give them nothing but thanks for their efforts. He’s not like their soldiers, who can get up and go out and repay them by fighting another cycle.

How selfish he is.

“Have you tried to stand yet?” Ratchet asks instead of a greeting. He sounds gruffer than he did before the surgery. Like something with claws crawls under his armor, leaving a pain with every little step.

Absently sipping on a small Energon cube Kadee has given him, B-127 places it on the side table pulled up to the exam table. “No,” he quietly replies, looking down to twiddle his digits.

Ratchet responds with a grumpy noise of acknowledgment, walking up to one of the consoles and ferociously typing something B-1 doesn’t have the energy to spy on. “That’s probably for the best, trying to calibrate your gyros while still under the effects of sedation could create a disparity and a large margin for miscalculations.”

B-1 nods, that makes sense, though when he finds the courage to straighten back up, Ratchet’s attention is solely focused on the screen he observes. The tech stands with Kadee in the corner. They don’t speak, but B-127 can tell they’re communicating. He shouldn’t be, but it would be a lie to say he isn’t disappointed to be unable to eavesdrop.

“Now,” Ratchet starts with, taking some steps backward until he arrives at the opposing wall. He turns around, popping open some unseen cabinet within the space and fishing through it. With a satisfied noise, Ratchet pulls out a metal bar, hovering on two sizeable hover wheels.

“Your primary challenge will be intermittent vestibular instability—short-lived vertigo episodes as your gyroscopic subsystems reorient. The recalibration process requires time for full system integration, and while the core stabilization algorithms were straightforward to restore, the finer mechanical corrections necessitated greater precision.” He guides the hovering support bar to the side of B-127’s berth. His expression tightens, a subtle flicker of dissatisfaction passing across his features.

“Until the left dorsal kinetic strut undergoes complete structural reinforcement and sensor node restoration, your gyroscopic stabilization will remain suboptimal. However, you will no longer be forced to manually compensate for systemic drift. That, I can promise you,” finishes the medic, gesturing with a wave of his servo that B-1 should be trying to get up.  

B-1 complies, sliding his legs out in a moment of forced enthusiasm. The bar is a bit patronizing. At least, it is until he shoves himself to his pedes and immediately sways with enough force to nearly have him careening to the ground. The dizziness that follows isn’t the same as his usual bout of the horrible kaleidoscopic tumble of shapes and sounds. It’s more of a tug on his processor, like the module is working too hard and requires time to adjust.

He can feel everyone’s optics on him. It’s sickening.

Trying to translate the doctor-speak Ratchet spits at him is a bit of a nightmare, but B-1 thinks he gets the gist after the wheels turn in his mind for a little too long.

He stops himself from laughing again because if Kadee –sweet, forgiving Kadee—found him odd for it, Ratchet might just throw him back under to hunt around his helm to find some unseen mistake he’d made.

Balance is fixed, but not really, but it is, but it’s not.

B-1 is really sick of having to live his life by a comma.

***

Ratchet scrutinizes for a good few kliks before deeming his work adequate. B-1 gets the sense that the doctor could perform an operation with servos and a mind gifted by Primus himself and still find issues with his work.

But by the end of it all B-1 can walk across the room without stumbling at all. For the first time since his first stellar cycle, he doesn’t feel sick when turning a corner. He doesn’t exhaust himself by walking twenty feet.

Were he a weaker spark, he could cry again. The relief, once it sinks in, is palpable and he fights not to be emotional because these are highly trained medical personnel and this isn’t that big of a deal and they are busy—

Ah, slag it.

Momentarily forgoing his fear of displeasing others, B-127 ends up sweeping Ratchet into a brief, but tight hug. It’s a spur-of-the-moment decision and he’ll probably regret it later, but for now he relishes in the surprising warmth of Ratchet’s chassis.

“Thank you,” he says, unwilling to admit just how choked his vocoder is. He knows he should say more, elaborate, and praise Ratchet for his altruism in helping a useless sparkling, but all his social protocols can muster is a shudder. “… So much.”

Frozen in his hold, Ratchet doesn’t return the embrace, shock lacing his field. That’s alright, B-1 doesn’t expect it anyway. “Nonsense,” Ratchet starts with a bit of a laugh. “It’s…” He pauses, cutting himself off with a slow exvent. “… You’re welcome, B,” he finally says, that same fatigued drawl infecting the tone.

Even still, B-1 can feel the smile in his words, as small as it is.

***

It’s weird to walk without a tilting jumble of data, and it’s weird to view his helm without the gash over his left optic.

No one would ever know. Just looking at his helm, no one would know.

B-1 thinks that should bring him some comfort. He hates drawing attention.

But it makes him terribly sick anyway.

***

The remaining observation is dreadfully boring but thank Primus some of the nurses and techs seem to sort of take pity on him. Eventually, someone hands him a random data pad with permission to explore whatever is on it until he is discharged. The other berths surrounding him are empty, which helps him ease up a bit.

The data stored is mostly old medical logs for various patients. It apparently belongs to one of the doctors B-1 hasn’t met and probably never will. She was transferred to Kalis ages ago. The logs are detailed, and a lot of the linguistics fly over B-1’s helm even with the help of his infodex. Even still, it is fascinating to look over the strange and gory injuries some of the listed patients suffered.

Soon enough it becomes apparent that whoever wrote these logs has a strong aversion to any surgeries involving cadulens and below, going as far as to break out of her professional prose to express her disgust for operating on the area. The strange hangup has him chuckling more than a few times.

A knock resounds from somewhere near the room’s entrance and B-1 thinks his spark actually tries to explode for a nano-klik, he jumps so violently.

“I apologize,” says the intruder, deep baritone resounding like a gong in B-1’s already frazzled helm. “Startling you was not my intention,” Optimus Prime adds, barely too tall to enter the space without hunching.

Finding a smile from the ether, B-1 shoots upright with all the grace of a dying astro-turkey. Ignoring the slight pang in his helm from the sudden movement, B-127 hastily places the data pad to the side. “Oh no, no – it’s fine – I was just—yeah, it’s. It’s fine.”

Optimus nods, accepting that horrible reply as he steps further into the room. “Ratchet informs me that your operation was a success.”

His nod is far too enthusiastic, and he feels like an idiot almost immediately. “Yep! Yes, absolutely, sir.” He playfully knocks a few times on his helm, and does his best to ignore the sore sting that spreads around his processor and the weird itch in his medical port. Stupid. “Better than new.”

But Optimus is merciful and he smiles at the information. That small, tired one he gives when he’s got something twisting behind his optics. At least, that’s what B-1 thinks is happening. “I am thankful he could bring you relief, B-127,” he admits, sitting across from him in an empty berth. His optics search him for a small while, and B-1 thinks that they should just pin him to the wall like a bug at this point. The older bot’s gaze lands at the discarded data pad. “I suppose you’ve found a way to entertain yourself?”

A bit sheepish, B-1 nods, delicate servos retrieving the device to settle it in his lap. “Ah, yes. A tech gave it to me I – “ He probably shouldn’t admit this. “—I get, ahm. Fidgety. Sometimes.” He cringes. “A lot. I get fidgety a lot.”

And while Optimus doesn’t really laugh – because it’s not really funny – he does make a certain… chirping, with his vocoder, as if he isn’t quite sure what to do with B-1’s answer. “An understandable trait, B-127… I often seek out some form of mental stimulus when in recovery as well.”

B-1 can’t hold back a snort. “No shit?” A servo slams over his intake, and he wishes someone had shaky digits during his surgery. “Oh slag – uh – Primus – I’m sorry, I uh. I’m still coming off of the magic stasis stuff.” Primus almighty he knows what it is called, why didn’t he just say what it was called? His finials pin to his helm. “I am so bad at, talking, I am so sorry,” he admonishes sincerely, wishing Newdawn were here to chide him for his poor verbal skills.

Language, he thinks to himself. This does not feel quite as authoritative, coming from him. He never could kick the habit.

Optimus shakes his helm, his smile a bit more genuine now, and B-1 can only guess it’s because he is a mess. “There is a reason Jazz has the burden of handling our stealth operations, and not I.”

Honestly, B-1 has a hard time picturing a Prime being remotely bad at anything. Isn’t it their job to be better than everyone else? Maybe there’s a ‘What to Expect From a Prime,’ handbook somewhere along with all the other mountains of lost literature. “Well, honestly, I can’t make helms or tailpipes of half the stuff written here, but it’s interesting to read anyway.”

Gesturing with his helm, Optimus reaches out. “May I?”

Obliging with embarrassing speed, B-1 hands the Prime the data pad. He looks over it for a few kliks and B-1 struggles to keep his staring subtle. B-127 would never call himself an expert, but he has gotten pretty good at reading people over the stellar cycles. Body language, speech, field, whatever. A necessity when constantly walking on glass, trying to ensure he doesn’t do or say the wrong thing. Anything to avoid another hit.

Optimus hums, looking over the data with a feather-light touch. B-1 can’t help but think he looks serene. “There is a certain artistry to the medical field,” he states, quiet like someone who isn’t a Prime. “Reading these is like stepping into another life.”

“You… you like to read, I guess?” B-1 asks, feeling a touch of intrigue burst near the epicenter of his spark.

The Prime exvents. It’s not dramatic like Ratchet or anyone else, just a small release. “Once.”

Twiddling his thumbs, B-1 finds he doesn’t quite know what to do with an answer that oblique. “Well, I guess I like to learn,” he replies carefully, hoping that’s a serviceable reply. “My – uh. I used to study the stars. My caretaker worked hard to find me stuff.”

It’s weird to see Optimus genuinely engrossed in anything he has to say. Someone should tell him that conversing with a dented new spark could be a bit unbecoming. “Astronomy is a fine course of study, B-127.”

Fondly, B-1 directs his attention to the wall of windows. It’s only morning, so all of his stars are asleep, but knowing they are there, a constant, is enough to bring a small smile to his derma. “We’re not so different from them, I’ve always thought.”

That makes Optimus chuckle. It’s weird. “Yes. Yes, I suppose we are not.”

His knee starts bouncing and B-1 physically places a palm to it to stop. “I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time—” he cuts himself off, processor recycling. “Wait, no, you came to see me. That’s weird.” He grips one of his sensory antenna, the uncomfortable buzz a well enough admonishment. “Not weird, but, y’know. You must be busy, and all I can tell you is I like stars.”

Optimus doesn’t outwardly react to his useless babbling, but it seems to be par for the course for him. Mindlessly, Optimus reaches forward and gently rests the datapad at B-1’s side. “Your company is not a waste of my time, B-127. How I choose to conduct myself cycle-by-cycle is my own decision,” Optimus says, calm and serene with that slight rasp in his voice. “I do not want you to feel forgotten, it can sometimes be overwhelming. This place.”

B-1 scoffs, too shocked to mask his reaction. “Since when does a Prime get overwhelmed?”

Optimus smiles. “Even I am not exempt from life’s troubles, young one. Though I strive to lead with diligence and strength, I have weaknesses as we all do. That is why we cover each other as comrades in arms. This life is not a game to be played alone.” He leans back, optics examining the room with keen precision. “The stars that guide you have guided me as well, B-127. We are alike in this way, in spark.”

Something whirls in B-1’s chest and it dances along his fuel lines all the way to his pedes. It feels wrong to be compared with a Prime. A Prime, second to heaven and servants of Primus himself. But even still, he sighs, hearing echoes and echoes. “I guess… even Orion has his dogs.”

For some reason, that makes Optimus smile a bit wider, and some of the ever-constant tension in his frame recedes to a more… vigilant state. “Canis Major, and Canis Minor.”

B-1 can’t help the way his spark soars. “They’ve always been some of my favorites to find.”

Optimus laughs – again, weird. “Mine as well, B. Mine as well.”

***

From then on, Optimus offers up a few databooks and datapads from his personal stash, in case B-1 ever finds himself hungry for something new to read. B-127 is very weak in containing his excitement, but he doesn’t go as far as to embrace him.

It’s weird to think of Optimus Prime as a… well. As a dork who loves to read. This is Optimus Prime we are talking about, right? Warrior blessed by Primus with wisdom and strength!

Not Optimus the bookreader who knows more about the stars than B-127 does and proceeds to ramble on about it for a few more groons than necessary.

B-1 thinks he actually misses a few meetings to hang out with him.

Him, the useless new spark with the inability to shut up. The new spark who disobeys and quips and steals and cheats and murders—

Him, B-127.

He spends the rest of the cycle wondering why that is.

***

Jazz bites down on his glossa with enough force to cut through the thin metallic modules, his sensors catalog the chemical makeup of filtered Energon, a sour taste. “These documents were never supposed ta’ be sent out,” he grits out leaning over one of his analysts. “What the frag happened?” He inquires, sharper than he ever means to be.

The analyst – Evel-9 – bites her lower derma, winglet’s shuddering on her back in her poor attempt to appear calm. “Uhm – well, Jazz—sir, I—” she brings a servo to pull on one of her sensory antennae. A soothing action that Jazz clocks immediately. The guilt for that is what makes him back off a bit. Evel-9 clears her vocoder, though her voice box continues to barely scuttle through the sentence. “It appears to have been accessed shortly before the Operations Order was released…”

The air in this damn space is stale and clammy on his finish. “This was orbital cycles ago, how are we only finding this breach now?” He hates to doubt his team, hates it. Spec Ops ain’t the same as a typical unit. Discretion and trust go servo-in-servo, if even the commander of the branch has his doubts, then they may as well dissolve the whole thing.

Finding some of her professionalism, Evel-9 straightens, pointing to a line of data. “Well sir, we didn’t catch it because it isn’t –wasn’t, a breach.”

Jazz shutters his optics. Don’t be exasperated, don’t be exasperated. “You called me over here ta’ tell me our security wasn’t broken though?”

She shakes her helm, her resolve weakening a bit under his – apparent – exasperation. “No sir, I called you here to tell you I found an anomaly,” she corrects, moving her digit to another place on the screen. “You see here?”

Willing himself to find a better attitude, Jazz nods. “Log ID’s,” he answers.

Smiling and accepting the reply with a small affirming noise, Evel-9 goes down the list. “These are all of the bots given access to the order before and after the mission,” she moves something on the console, isolating a certain chunk of information. “This is the list of people who actually opened it. Not all of the bots deployed for the Op read it, or they did not end up going.”

Jazz accepts the explanation, crossing his arms and wishing he hadn’t bitten his glossa.

Evel-9 continues. “The odd thing about this specific list is that almost all of the ID’s are incorrect.”

“Incorrect how? I know for a fact alla’ those soldiers were at the op.” Some of them didn’t make it home. Chromia still hurts over that, and Jazz can’t blame her.

Pausing to type a few commands, the long, long scrolling list of Autobot profiles present for the mission appears on Evel-9’s second monitor. Satisfied, she brings her attention back to the log ID page. “They were, yes, but see?” She brings up a specific profile, one of Chromia’s, and points at his ID sequence. “You see there? There is a discrepancy in the data. Three extra numbers, just tacked onto the end. No one noticed because it shouldn’t matter. The system would recognize the normal sequence and void the extra figures automatically. On their own, three random digits would be finite and meaningless.”

Something slots into place. “… But nearly all these ID’s have them.”

She nods once more, pulling up a page she had minimized, containing the collective ghost numbers all together. Something within Jazz’s spark tumbles into his tanks and his frame suddenly feels very heavy. “Commander Jazz, when I isolate the piggy-backing data and put it together, it creates its own log ID.”

Slag. Fragging malfunction of the slagging Pits.

He stares at the screens, taking in the information at a turbo-snail’s pace. He tries to shake out of it. He’s a commander, a highly trained scout and spy with eons of experience. He is Jazz for Primus’ sake!

Despite this, despite all of that experience, Jazz swears quietly to himself, fists clenching at his sides. “There’s a fragging Trojan in our systems?”

Gravely, Evel-9 nods, nervous optics clouded as she desperately reviews her findings. “I checked other mission logs too. It’s everywhere, for the past twelve stellar cycles.”

Selfishly, a part of Jazz is relieved. B hasn’t even been alive that long, exonerating him from any suspicion that may be thrown at him in later, dumbaft meetings.

“Any way to trace it?” Jazz queries, tanks yearning for some high grade, because he already knows the answer.

“No, I’m sorry sir. Maybe I’m just missing it but… by all accounts, the numbers are local, from inside our own ranks. But without a profile to match it to…”

A few things crack around the seams, and Jazz hates it when he’s right sometimes. He always is, but this time, this time, as his worst fears are confirmed, he wishes he was not. “No profile, no trail, got it.” He takes a step back, growling, too frustrated to care about his cool, sardonic reputation. “Slagging hell, anyone with any technical know-how and the damn clearance could upload somethin’ like that.” Jazz briefly retracts his visor, cupping his servo to shield himself as he massages the crooks of his optics. “Whose got access to all this?”

Evel-9 coughs, apprehension infecting her field like a virus. “With the right expertise? Anyone promoted above private rank, sir.”

Primus almighty. “Outside or inside the branch?”

The subtle buzzing of electricity is interrupted by Evel-9 hissing through her vents. “Outside, sir. Any soldier in his building can get access to low-security Spec Ops logs. Not to mention sending in critical data, if you knew what you were doing – which, evidently this person, uh, does – it wouldn’t be difficult. Gosh, it could be me for all anyone knows!” When he looks up, her helm hangs down, one servo clenching her sensory antennae once more, shameful. “Not with them using our own system against us.”

Jazz already knows this, hell he helped plan how much clearance each soldier is awarded, he knows it wouldn’t be difficult.

Too trusting, too easy. He’s gotten too soft, believing in their outside countermeasures and neglecting the inside.

Fragging hell, the inside is his job.

He looks around, seeing his colleagues, most younger, and seeking his guidance as the guy who knows what to do. They’ve sworn their sparks away with the hope that he does, that he and his fellow commanders can get them through to the other side, to a new, better Cybertron.

He wonders if any of them yet know his negligence could have cost them all that.

Steeling himself with a long, anguished sigh, Jazz locks away the stoicism and nihilistic thoughts. There are plenty of other bots more well-suited for thoughts like that, and Jazz is more than willing to allow them that space. B does not need that kind of negativity around.

His servos clap together, and just like that, the ogling optics throughout the floor all return to their respective work, once again passing him the torch and believing in his judgment. “Good job kidda’, you’ve got keen optics,” he compliments, hoping it makes up for his poor behavior. “Don’t stress yerself out over it, yeah?” Opening his subspace with a hissing click, Jazz pulls out his personal datapad. “Do me a favor; transfer yer finds directly ta’ this pad. Use a chip, then wipe all the info from yer’ console. If this bastard can get into our Op logs then they can get into this,” Jazz instructs, handing her the device with a flick of his wrist, she barely catches it.

Still somewhat fumbling with the pad, she nods, bringing a servo up to salute. It’s a poor attempt but Jazz is hardly the type to mind the formalities. “Of course, sir. May I ask exactly what the game plan is here…? I can only assume that this is – obviously – uh, confidential, and I’ll uhm, treat it as such, but if this means what I think it means – and I think it does – then—”

“Easy now, agent. One sinkhole at a time, yeah?” He says, summoning a smile that feels wiry on his face. “We’ll get em,” he promises, with all the gusto he doesn’t really feel. “We’ll get em.”

***

“I’m sorry B,” Ramna says one particular morning. “You don’t have the clearance for this floor.”

B-1 gives her a look, squinting his optics and trying not to zero in on every micro-expression she makes. “It’s a training floor,” he explains, gesticulating to the rest of the halls beyond the elevator. “I was just gonna practice dexterity and my balance.” He shrugs. “This floor is quieter than the others.”

To her credit, she is apologetic. Over the deca-cycles, a lot of the scarier bots have stopped being so scary. None quite come close to the same aura of hatred and aggression that the bandits or Decepticons  could manage with ease. “There’s nothing I can do, kiddo, I’m sorry,” she apologizes, placing a servo to the side of her face plate and whispering. “New security measures. I’d let you in if I could. Though judging by the current rumor mill, you might not need my help.”

He smiles, assuming she tells the truth. He figures the added security isn’t exactly because of him – though he probably gave them a lot to think about – B-1 doesn’t plan to get into too much trouble if he can help it.

A stellar cycle is long enough, were his sentence to be lengthened? Oh, torture.

The elevator closes on her face, and B-127 concedes he’ll have to work with distractions today. He supposes there are worse ways to learn.

New security measures, huh?

***

Never mind, it’s too loud in here.

The main training floor, while sometimes a stimulating and fascinating place, continues to be a terrible area to learn how to walk properly.

The medical floors have small sections designated for rehab, but B-1 hates the idea of comparing a simple helm injury to any of the hundreds of recovering warriors. Besides, even a newborn sparkling knows how to walk. He knows how to fragging walk.

It’s just a straight line that gives him trouble.

After a few solar cycles of trying and failing and begging Chromia to go easy on him, B-1 settles on wandering the halls as easy practice. He still has a small limp but at least it has nothing to do with his broken processor. It’s a good thing, really, he can work on recalling faces and names all while recalibrating a part of his processor that should have been calibrated stellar cycles ago!

The last part is thought with more bitterness than intended, but he doesn’t try to amend the tone, even to himself.

That’s how he ends up in the memorial hall.

B-1 of course knows of it, though during his initial tour of the tower Elita and Jazz seemed keen to avoid the floor’s true purpose.

But B-1 knows a graveyard when he sees one. This just happens to be prettier than any of the resting places he has wandered. The air is stagnant, but tranquil, B-127 can tell few enjoy braving this place. Long, stretching and intersecting hallways take up the floor, walls lined with names, ranks, and sometimes a brief eulogy of the one lost.

It’s quiet here. B-1 feels oddly at home, like if he listens well enough, the dead might speak.

Only a few other Autobots stroll through the crypt, all in some silent agreement to allow space. B-1 wonders if any of his ghosts walk along with them. Though none of them bore a sigil, don’t they deserve the same courtesy?

Like so many on this planet, their bodies weren’t given the luxury of final rest.

Of course, B-1 doesn’t recognize any of the designations listed, of course, some are dated to have passed thousands of stellar cycles ago, before he was even a concept. Like he often does, B-1 feels like a blip, just a single file of data where all those around hold entire caches.

Still, along the way, his spark grows soft and malleable, reading some of the memorials. Some are short, to the point, as if whoever wrote them couldn’t stand to dwell on the loss. Some are just the opposite, thick, drawling lines of poetry where the bot felled is described in such high regard, B-1 wonders how the author survived the loss.

“Y’know, Optimus used to write em all himself,” sounds a voice.

B-1 jumps back several feet, nearly slamming into the opposing wall with a flourish. He manages to right himself in time, which is new. Ratchet would be furious were he to damage himself further right before his next operation. Bringing a palm to his spark, B-1 invents harshly, trying to cool his rapidly hated internals.

Jazz lifts a placating servo, offering a consoling smile. “My bad, thought you’d hear me walk up.”

Resisting an optic-roll, B-127 refrains from reminding Jazz that he is a spy. “It’s – ah – it’s fine, I was just—” He pauses, processor cycling through information. “What do you mean?”

The commander laughs, and B-1 doesn’t miss the way his door wings sag. “Was a long time ago. When our cause was still young, back when we could remember every name,” somewhat solemnly, Jazz runs a hand along the wall of plaques. “… Know every face.”

Casting his gaze throughout the seemingly never-ending maze of names, B-1 suddenly feels very, very small. “I uh, I guess that’s not possible anymore.”

The older bot chuckles, a sound deep from his vocoder. There’s a terrible sadness to it, when he listens close. “We try. Hope to delegate enough leadership that if Op can’t know everyone, ‘least we can,” he explains, running his thumb along the ridge of a particular plaque. “… Well, we try to, lately, I dunno. I do my damnedest ta’ live up to that expectation. Trust me, we wish it was different.”

B-1 hums. They all do. He wonders just how far back he would have to go before he found the first few Autobots lost to this world’s darkness. What would Optimus have to say about them? He can’t imagine a Prime sitting down and taking time to do something like that, it’s such an irrational act. Who would step so far down from grace to remember one simple bot?

“I guess it was simpler back then,” he replies quietly.

And when he looks, Jazz is frowning. A small, timid thing that tells B-1 that the older man isn’t fond of showing it often. He doesn’t mean to stare, but well. What is he if not an observer?

“Simple times are fer simple people,” Jazz begins, inventing slowly as he shakes his helm, defeated. “Some of us ain’t built for that.”

B-1 thinks of the settlement, and then the screams that scrape along his back, of the mercies none of them were granted.

Of the dead surrounding them.

And he wonders if that’s true.

***

Jazz takes him for poker again that night, promising to do a better job of stimulating his mind beyond table-top games at some point. It’s fun.

But it’s tense.

A few of the bots are ones he hasn’t met, though Thunderstruck and Cliff are there to ease the awkward air.

He doesn’t have much to bet with – besides his previous winnings that he really has nothing to use on – so he just uses that. He wins three rounds and loses the fourth. Even counting the cards can’t account for a game where your draw means everything.

They seem to enjoy the night, but they’re all tired. Jazz, the head of an entire branch dedicated to surveillance and recon, is distracted the whole time.

B-1 wants to know why.

***

A few cycles later, Elita has to give him an entirely new security pass but is utterly defiant in answering his probing questions about why.

Her helm ornaments are low, and door wings are nearly pressed to her backstrut. Elita doesn’t think he is stupid, does she?

Something is happening, and B-127 has to try very hard not to feel like just another routine to get through.

***

When they get around to fixing his door wing – or his left dorsal whatever – B-127 does not cry this time, and he also doesn’t hug Ratchet. Whether that’s a good or bad thing, he isn’t sure.

But for each operation, B-1 is sure to thank Ratchet at least. Faylever and Newdawn would have appreciated his manners, they always had.

It gets a bit easier to process the grating under his plating whenever he is on any of the medical floors. It never quite disappears. No, he doesn’t think it ever really will, he can’t ever run to an exam table with the excitement of a child. The way he once did when seeing the doctor simply meant Toxrine rambling to him for a groon.

He wishes he could give Ratchet some of that enthusiasm. Some of that innocent joy.

But it’s simply not there to be spared. Not anymore.

Still, he smiles with the nurses and jokes with the techs, hoping to ease their heavy sparks. Bring a levity to their spirits the way he knows he can never quite find again.

***

When his door wing is fixed, it’s strangely emotional.

It’s a simple repair and he doesn’t even need to be in stasis for it, a routine fix that should never have been left untreated for so long, according to First Aid.

But it did.

Now, like his gyros and his processor casing, it looks as good as new, his nanites well-fed and filling in the missing paint at a rate he hasn’t seen since his emergence. The pretty canary yellow is punctuated by his familiar ebony racing stripes. His wings match once more, rising and falling in unison with his antennae in ways they haven’t in so, so long. Optimus visits him after the operation, though it’s brief. He seems pleased.

Soon enough, his chassis won’t rise and fall in unattractive, interrupting ridges. Silver weld marks will be buffed and filled. The pain will be released, parts replaced, and programs retro-fitted.

He will be brand new.

He will be new.

…

Will he still be the one who took those hits? Will his new plating, parts, and programs recall the torment? The physical reminders are what kept him alive – a sign of what to do, of what drives him.

He stares, looking in the mirror in his berth suite as best he can.

It’s melancholy, seeing the damage go.

And that in itself breaks his spark even more.

***

Optimus lets him shadow him for a little while, it’s fun. They discuss the stars and some of the things B-1 has read. The Prime is a busy man, and B-127 can’t quite find a rational reason for why he is allowed to hang around him when he has been locked out of nearly half of the tower’s floors.

Though he is a rather gentle spark, Optimus walks with purpose and thank Primus B-1 can sort of walk straight now without getting dizzy. He’d never be able to keep up otherwise. Bots flit about him, offering respectful greeting or running up and informing him of one situation or another. Clearly not too important if B-127 isn’t a security risk in hearing it. A few of the bots he recognizes in passing, but many of them look rough, like Cliffjumper did.

B-1 is nearly brave enough to voice his frustration about his progress, but all too soon, Optimus freezes abruptly, bringing two digits to his right audial. A secure commlink, surely.

He looks grave. Instinctively, B-1 takes a few micro-steps back.

Optimus turns to him a moment later, either not noticing or ignoring his attempt at making space. “I am sorry, B-127, there is something I must attend to. A tech will show you back to a secure floor.”

And like a meteor crashing at lightspeed, the Prime is off, steps controlled but distinctly more hurried than before. Looking around, B-1 wonders if anyone else notices.

He wonders if anyone notices the way B-1’s antennae fall.

***

“I can’t fix them,” Ratchet murmurs, hunching over his desk. His vocoder is hoarse, exhausted. It always is, now. “I’ve tried – we all have—written dozens of code sequences –I’ve tried everything. Memory banks scattered, hundreds of corrupted subroutines – it would take a miracle and equipment and eons of time and I have no—no-“ His denta grind together as his mandible sets. “I can’t fix them.”

Jazz stands with his helms down, praying his arms don’t shake as his fists clench with enough force to wear the joints of his digits. “Hide n’ I never shoulda’ sent them out fer’ that op.”

A larger servo rests on his shoulder, and an all-encompassing field wraps around him like a trauma blanket from the golden age. “There was no way of knowing our information had been leaked, my friend. There is no one to blame for this, none but those who chose to violate our trust,” Optimus soothes. Ever the encouragers. Jazz thinks that it all sounds rather flat, lately.

There’s nothing to say about that. Nothing that Jazz can even think of without screaming.

Optimus turns to Ratchet, the picture of misery. “You have done your best, Ratchet. There is not a moment where you have wavered in your devotion to the healing of others, but there are some things we cannot control. Primus has gifted you in many ways, but miracles, I fear, are beyond our scope of possibility.”

The air feels thin, and stinging.

No one speaks when Ratchet’s form begins to shake.

***

He rebuttals one of Chromia’s jabs for the first time, the morning after his leg is fixed.

It’s fast -- he’s fast – so much so that he does not realize what he’s done for a solid klik, and confusion abounds in his thrumming spark when a few of the nosey soldiers on the sidelines ring out in cheers. He doesn’t clumsily throw himself out of the way – not like usual. No, he sees her coming, and his HUD calculates, and his body listens.

She does not stumble – “A warrior never stumbles, B, they merely lose direction,” – but she does fail to tip him over like she enjoys doing. The new hydraulics in his cadulen still need some calibration as his gyroscope did, but the limp is gone. Though he has the instinct to mimic it, it’s only a refraction. It’s gone.

The look she gives him, you’d think he’d ended the war. As the cycle progresses, Ironhide will come to him, and thank him for pleasing her, tone as sweet as Energon wine.

B-127 has no idea what to say to that, what to think.

There are no phantoms ringing in his audials to tell him.

But he does know that it feels good to make others happy. About this, his spark holds no contention.

Perhaps it’s not so bad, he thinks, looking in that same mirror later.

On the shelf nearest to his berth is a small stack of data-books gifted by Optimus whenever he has time, by now he has read through half of them. The one he reads now tells the story about a murderer, a slaughterer of those he does not agree with. A divine force stops him and brings him to his knees, breaking his spirit and gifting him with vision, an understanding of what he has done.

Henceforth he must atone for his actions, though as the cast populates, his more desirable traits develop further, and it becomes apparent that the characters love him, regardless of his sins. B-1 is pretty sure he’s gonna die at the end, the perfect penance for the lives lost, despite the amends he makes.

Honestly, B-1 thinks it’s a little contrived. Predictable and relying on emotional beats instead of a cohesive plot.

But it’s… nice, anyway. To think someone would care to write about forgiveness like that.

B-1 wonders if it’s possible.

Perhaps it is.

…

Perhaps it’s not.

***

“Energon inventory?”

Grinning, Jazz nods, walking with a long stride as he ushers B-1 down to one of the sub-levels. “Yeah! I’ve been thinkin’, it’s the perfect job fer ya! Yer smart, good with the details, n’ it’ll keep you occupied for a while before poker tonight, yeah?” Jazz says, sounding more and more sure of this as he says it out loud.

It is a pleasant thing to keep up with Jazz with ease now and that on its own wipes away the complaints he might have for the work. When helping Newdawn out with his courier duties, he didn’t really have much to do with the whole counting thing. His HUD array would automatically ping and sort the data, but being so young, the numbers weren’t as fascinating as they are now.

A lot of the bots stationed in the tower know him by now, but with the war so active a lot of the staff is transient. As they wander further from the elevators, and the large warehouse populates with assorted Energon cubes of various sizes and grades, B-1 looks around and sees faces he does not recognize. His spark withers a bit. “You’d trust me with this kind of work? This all seems… sensitive,” he says carefully. Every Autobot seems on edge lately, having a youngling assisting in counting their fuel source is a bit… audacious.

But to his surprise, Jazz lets out a rather strangled chuckle. “B, you’re one a’ the few bots I do trust with this.” There is a venom in his tone, a quiet hissing in his vocoder. It takes B-127 a nano-klik to distinguish that the disgust isn’t directed towards him.

Though he knows it’s none of his business – and Primus you’d think by now he’d learn to keep his optics out of where they don’t belong – but it’s only his nature. He speculates and pictures the fight behind Jazz’s words, the suspicion. If not for him then for some, unseen force.

He’s peddled off to the nearest supervisor who, bless her spark, clearly wants nothing to do with directing the random dumb teenager who broke into one of the analyst floors. While a lot of Autobots are plenty social, the people down here seem to enjoy the quiet and the solitude, the echo of pedes and the space’s filtration system is often the only sound.

It’s rather eerie, but it’s familiar, in a way. B-1 almost likes it. No one cares to see his smile.

***

He misses racing, he realizes.

The thought comes to him as he’s leaving the Energon store floors. He finishes several piles before the boss person of the sector tells him he has done well enough for the cycle and can go. He’s so distracted he forgets to ask her designation, but he reasons he’ll be doing this chore quite a lot, so he’ll have a chance to inquire on it later.

It’s such a large space, free of walls and cramped furniture, it all reminds him of things past. There is no transforming in the tower besides practicing aerial agility in the training halls. B-1 isn’t allowed to practice aerial agility. Autobots get to do that, and he isn’t one.

Yet. He reminds.

When he is finally graced with insignia – because he will prove himself worthy of it if it kills him – will there be time for racing then? He does all the chores they make him do diligently – “Clean the grates B. Help disperse the rations, B. Replace the toner, B.” – so surely, he’s due some credit. Right?

The bandits had no taste for fun that didn’t benefit them, but here, he has a place at the poker table. That has to mean something. Cliffjumper said so.

No one is around to see him flinch.

Racing is fun, is there a place for fun like that with the Autobots?

Does he deserve it?

…

He misses racing.

***

She’d hoped to see him smile more.

Ratchet’s repairs are steady and masterful, but no one ever doubted they would be. Even with the weight he carries and all the injured, Ratchet’s servos are steady.

If he tries a little extra hard for B, well, Elita won’t tell anyone.

And it pays off because little by little, in two orbital cycles, B looks and sounds like a brand-new bot. He laughs more freely as the tower becomes more of a home, but that spirit-crushing something persists. He tries to hide it, and for that, Elita-1 mournfully admits that he fits right in.

He is curious and smart as can be, and Chromia boasts of his athletic improvements after every session with him. Though Ratchet complains of this method of physical therapy, even he can begrudgingly say her… lessons, do help.

All of this is good, so good. Elita could leap from the tower’s roof and her spark would carry her to the stars. There’s still work to be done before B is restored to pristine health, but the moment will come.

Constantly surrounded by death, it’s so wonderful to finally have some life in the tower. To have a reminder that healing is possible, for B and their home.

Elita only wishes B would echo the sentiment. If not verbally when maybe with his demeanor.

She knows he’s not stupid. Young and… precocious, to an inordinate degree, but not stupid. He can sense the unease throughout the tower and Iacon, even without the context as to why. Catching him staring at passing bots or zoning out to cycle through information isn’t an uncommon occurrence.

B knows something is up, and he knows no one is telling him anything.

It must be frustrating.

So, she plants herself in front of Optimus one solar cycle, palms to her hips. Optimus doesn’t break his gaze, poor weary optics still shimmering with that unyielding hope he always seems to find. Her resolve settles like steel in her tanks. “We should let B leave the tower,” she says, as assertive as she can manage without bothering to turn on her ‘commander voice’ as she chooses to label it.

Optimus, sweet, kind Optimus, only softens. “Some might say it is too soon, my conjux,” he gently counters.

Her finials drop a finite degree. “He needs space. He’s dying being cooped up in here!” She raises her voice, and with the way his vents rumble, the guilt hits her immediately. She reels it in with a physical struggle, her arms spazztic at her sides. “B knows something is happening, B, but no one will tell him a thing – can’t tell him a thing,” her spark cracks like glass under her pede, and she brings a palm to its chamber, hanging her helm. “That must be so confusing, Optimus. We’re trying to bring clarity, and I’m scared he—” Elita cuts herself off, voice box projecting a low bleep.

Two strong digits gently pinch along her mandible, and with careful ease, Optimus brings her optics back up to his. He doesn’t speak, but well, he doesn’t have to.

Swallowing, she crumples, leaning forward into the touch. “Primus, Optimus, he punishes himself for everything. I don’t even think he realizes he does it.” Her plating rattles as she exvents. “The tower is haunted right now, Optimus. With the investigations, and the tension, he’ll spiral. You know how quickly healing can become festering. Everyone loves B, but they can’t understand him.” Her spark is an abusive force in her chest. “… And he needs that so badly.” She finishes with a pleading, doe-opticed glance.

It's not a matter of if he will fold, it’s a matter of when.

But Optimus has never kept her waiting for very long, and he doesn’t start now. Elita watches him turn over the information in his helm for only a few kliks before his frame relaxes with a hiss from his smokestacks. He’s gentle with her as always, moving to palm her cheek, a small smile playing his stoic features. She knows that despite the time constraints, and the depression that has fallen over their troops, Optimus has grown fond of B.

Joy erupts from her spark and settles behind her optics and in her mid-section, and Elita-1 squeals before he can properly get a word in, but he doesn’t really need to speak. Not with her. Tugging him down is easy, like putty, as she shoves her face on his in a grateful, and heavily relieved kiss.

***

Speed limits are stupid and B-1 has decided he hates them.

The drive to the Sanctuary isn’t exactly slow per se, but it is slow enough that B-127 – a fast car with newly repaired specs -- is grinding his gears by the time they actually arrive. Ultra Magnus isn’t built for speed and Elita-1 is more of a leisurely pace sort of person. B-1 doesn’t really do leisurely pace, even when he was pathetic and limping everywhere, but of course he doesn’t have the spark to complain. On the outside.

But it feels good to drive, and his T-cog aches a refreshing fatigue as he uses it after orbital cycles of remaining in root form. The tower was growing stuffy Besides engaging and disengaging his weapons, he doesn’t have the clearance to ride about the tower. It’s lame, but consequences, consequences.

For all of his heeing and hawing to avoid this place, B-127 has to admit he is impressed when they pull up to the large structure. It’s a large dome-like building unlike B-1 has ever seen before. The siding is near opalescent, making the surrounding buildings and the gated courtyard surrounding it almost glow with an array of colors. It’s beautiful. The courtyard is populated by several jumbles of playing sparklings, laughter fills B-1’s audials before they even pull through the entrance gate.

A few smaller structures litter the open plain and his infodex recognizes them as playgrounds, varying in play difficulty. B-1 guesses those allowed to play on each depends on age and build, though he can’t make a concrete theory, he has never played on one. He, Lycan, and Blue Breeze always made their own fun around the settlement, often climbing or crawling into places they really did not belong.

It’s a fond memory, but a dark one too. B-1 tries not to ruin his own mood, but even catching a glimpse of the residents – so young, kids, teens – he finds himself feeling rather sick rather quickly. Even as Elita-1 ecstatically introduces him to one of the Sanctuary’s directors – Stratta-13 he thinks is his name – the sound of keening laughter is all he can process. He knows he spaces out, staring.

“B-127?” Ultra Magnus says, tone a slight whisper to spare him some embarrassment.

And because he’s mostly humoring Elita and Optimus with all of this, B-1 shakes himself free of the dark claws slicing into him, forcing a quick, reassuring smile. “Fine, just thinking,” he answers, a half-truth easily formed.

They get a quick tour and Stratta-13 stares at him a lot and so does everyone else. Though he doesn’t really look like some undead corpse anymore, the dented damage to his chassis remains so he still… he’s still…

Broken, to everyone else.

Will that go away once Ratchet makes the final repairs? Will it?

“We’ve got a pretty decent group as of late…” Stratta-13 explains as they tour. The building is one large atrium with high vaulted ceilings and a large, star-cut skylight. B-1 stares at it for a while as they walk; he hopes the sparklings appreciate the freedom to look up at it. "Bots come and adopt somewhat often, but, well, there’s a war on, and unfortunately, not everyone has the… the time to…” B-127 chooses not to listen further. A sinking feeling threatens to drag him down.

A long sweeping balcony lines the dome's edge, creating a loft-like second floor that appears to branch off into dozens of smaller rooms. It’s not as pretty as the park Elita took him to some orbital cycles back, but B-1 is still impressed by the architecture.

“—Oh! That could be so fun!” Elita-1 says, tone bordering on ecstatic as her wings give an energetic jitter. B-127 is torn from his musing when she turns to him. “Wouldn’t that be so fun, B?” She earnestly asks, grinning like a fool Lariat would love to vilify.

Panic strikes across his chest and B-1 forces his optics to remain neutral instead of the owlish focus he wants to take. It’s a mental effort, but he’s able to access his memory banks to find the context of the question. Ratchet hasn’t fixed all of the issues of his processor yet, his quarantined programs and the reactions therein, but it’s enough that it’s a quick search. “Meeting sparklings, exciting,” he replies, trying very hard to inject some somewhat believable passion into his voice.

In any case, Stratta-13 seems thrilled to hear it and whisks them away to a part of the dome with a sign labeled, ‘littles.’ Cute.

A few of the nurses greet them and B-127 does his absolute best to be a good sport when they fuss over him. Faylever was clingy and protective, but the act was always affectionate and endearing when it was her… with these strangers, B-1 finds his tanks turning uncomfortably at the unnecessary hovering.

“They’re just this way! They truly love older bots!” One of the nurses says, with a grin plastered across her faceplate, that does not do nearly a good enough job of masking the exhaustion projected through her voice box.

B-1 realizes he does not remember a time where anyone he has known was well rested. Unbidden, he stiffens, and wonders if the stars will be dimmer tonight.

Ultra Magnus hangs back to confer with Stratta-13 some more, presumably about Sanctuary and similarly, B-127. There’s a prickle at the back of his neck at that thought, but B-1 is quickly distracted as they walk through one of the halls into a smaller, and far more crowded space.

The walls are lined with berths, and the walls are painted with pretty, somewhat discordant colors and shapes. A few bins full of enrichment items line the room, but most of the bin’s contents have been scattered throughout the floor by the dozens of new sparks running rampant throughout the space.

And the first thing he notices is that they are small.

Really small.

…

Had he ever been so delicate? It doesn’t feel like it.

He isn’t full framed yet, that’s a small ways away, but he stands tall enough to tower over the little ones. B-1 has never really been intimidated by size, Optimus perhaps being an exception upon their first meeting, but B-1’s spark has always felt a bit bigger than the frame he resides inside.

But it’s no wonder he received the beatings he did. How could a being so small act with so much gall?

The concept should make him laugh, the image of one of these little creatures defying a Decepticon or mounting an escape against bandits or scrounging for fuel. It should, because it’s a ludicrous picture. It shouldn’t happen, couldn’t happen.

Only, it can, and it did.

An anguish washes through him, and it takes an effort to keep it to himself. To keep his EM pure and ambivalent. It’s not as easy as he would like.

He tries not to see the transformation seams in some of them, most of them without the use of their T-cogs. His own seem to ache at the sight of them. Most, but not all, have weapons compartments and either bulky, warrior-like builds, or slim, swift builds. Primus continues to form his progeny in the shape of a sword.

None of the children really look like Lycan or Blue Breeze, but despite this fact, B-1 sees them in every single one.

“We had more, it’s just…” Stratta-13 whispers to Ultra Magnus. “It’s like their sparks can’t--”

Elita-1 barrels passed, skipping like she fits right in with the small ones. “Hi guys!” she shrieks, louder than necessary but with no lack of enthusiasm. Fondness trickles across his back, Chromia had mentioned Elita’s love of sparklings. He supposes it makes sense, why else would she fight so hard for him?

It’s not really a surprise that the kids know her. Some cheer her name like it is their favorite word in the world, and for all the kindness Elita has gifted him, B-1 does not blame them one bit. She kneels, and several sparklings wrap her in an embrace, one even climbing on her back to gain access to her neck. A few chirp and squawk at her, too emotional at her arrival to properly calibrate their vocoders. B-127 finds it immensely charming. Enough that he feels brave enough to further step into the space, finding some zeal to see past the bad memories.

***

He can’t use sparkling speak anymore.

The realization is abrupt and jarring and B-1 knows he makes a face.

Despite being so young, most of the new sparks are rather chatty and B-127 gets a little overwhelmed trying to hear all of them.

“You look funny!” One says at a certain point.

“Thanks, so do you,” B-1 replies sarcastically, leaning down to flick the offending sparkling femme in the forehelm. She squeals, trying for a frown but soon rolling in a fit of giggles.

“Are you gonna stay with the older kids?” Another inquires, wobbling back and forth on his pedes like he simply cannot handle the energy coursing through him.

B-1 rolls his optics. “Nope.”

A pink Mechling leans in a bit too close. “Why not?”

Geez, was he always this nosey?

Hm, next question.

“Because my optics are too close together and I intake my Energon too early in the morning,” he lies easily, a snide smile affixed.

A few of them laugh, appalled. “Who cares about that?” One asks.

He shrugs. “You’ll get it when you’re older.”

A few of them don’t seem too amused at that, and B-1 finds a certain kinship in their dissatisfaction.

It’s when they really start to like him that their speech transitions.

The pink one snickers, then speaks, his vocoder a mix of warbling bleeps and high-pitched whines. “Is yellow your favorite color?” he asks.

B-1 thinks, turning his optics to the ceiling to consider. It’s when he returns his attention to the waiting children does he pause, a small pit forming within him. His vocoder crackles several times, as if trying to respond in kind, but it simply doesn’t come.

He doesn’t remember how.

His plating freezes up and his mandible creaks as his intake hangs slightly ajar.

He doesn’t remember how.

Speaking in this code was one of the ways B-127 loved to communicate, because though all can understand it, the connection between sparklings who could speak it back is strong and soothing.

But he can’t do that anymore.

It’s a natural thing, just a form of communication that gets relegated to deep code over time to make more room for incoming data and processes. It happens to every transformer, just another sign of growing up.

He just. Hadn’t expected it to happen to him.

So soon anyway.

Something inside him rips, harshly, and in that moment, B-1 feels farther from Lycan and Blue Breeze than he ever has. A hiss vibrates through his ventilation, and before he knows it, he’s shoved the children off of him in one swift motion, standing abruptly. Elita has her optics on him, wide and surprised. “B—” she starts.

He’s stumbled out of the space before she can continue.

***

The courtyard of the dome isn’t exactly the solace he was seeking, but it does the job of being a decent place to clamber and huddle to his knees, unwilling to admit he is shaking. His HUD pings the usual warnings over overheat and his optics feel clouded, but there is no phantasmic mirage of Faylever to talk him through the ordeal. He tries to remember what she tells him anyway, but it feels off in his voice.

Calming down is a battle as it always is, but soon enough the familiar shame pounces and B-1 is slumping against the dome under a shaded area, exhausted and scowling to no one in particular, frustrated by his own outburst.

“They had just begun knowing you.”

It’s stupid, because he had heard Ultra Magnus coming, but still the sound of his voice makes him jump with a small yelp. Ultra Magnus doesn’t apologize but there is an apologetic twinge to his field that B-127 accepts despite the sudden increase in his sparkpulse. He forces himself to uncurl, letting his legs rest flat on the ground, his helm thunking against the wall. “This was a bad idea,” B-1 says honestly, hazily watching some older new sparks toss some sort of metal ball around further out in the courtyard.

Ultra Magnus hums, standing still for a moment as if unsure of the best course of action. Eventually, he exvents heavily, his frame shaking with the release, and he takes a few steps before plopping himself down at his side with a heavy drop. “Perhaps, but sometimes a bad idea can result in a positive outcome,” he replies, tone a bit absent as he’s caught in some reverie.

B-1 thinks of his life and tries to find a good example, he cringes. “So you follow through with every bad idea you have, just hoping to find the one good one?”

That actually makes Ultra Magnus chuckle, which is weird. “Primus, no. I am the last bot to accept a bad idea.” He turns his attention to B-1, optics honest. “I could hardly believe any of my colleagues would consider allowing you to stay.”

There’s a slight twinge of hurt and annoyance, but B-1 appreciates his honesty and nods. “Do you still think I’m a bad idea?”

Magnus softens, as if realizing what he has said, and shakes his helm. “I think I hate the idea of putting you at risk, which is horribly unprofessional of me to admit,” he says, resting his helm in his palm. “But I can see your determination, and bound by my Primus given dogmas, I have no choice but to respect that. Though the way you sometimes choose to use the spark you’ve been given can sometimes create… scruples.”

The statement makes B-127 laugh despite it being a softly put insult. “Glad I could make an impression,” he replies with no lack of sarcasm.

The wind whistles, tickling B-1’s finials and setting the fresh sensor nodes in his door wing alight with activity. It tickles. Children – and teenagers, god, does he look like them? – run across the courtyard. There are many, but not enough. He doesn’t know why he thinks that, but looking at the crowd – his cohort – B-1 knows there aren’t enough.

“Why did you run?” Ultra Magnus asks, optics examining something in the distance.

B-1 wonders how long it would take to truly answer that.

“I realized something,” he replies, tone heavy and wistful. “I wouldn’t recognize myself.”

Perplexed, Ultra Magnus tilts his helm, turning his attention to him. “In what way?”

A heavy invent. “If I went back, I wouldn’t recognize myself.” His fists clench, the force enough to creak along his joints. “I don’t know if anyone else would either.” Plating quivering slightly, B-1 shakes off the tingling horror, forcing himself to sit up straighter, grimacing. “I hate that. I know I can’t change it, but I hate it. I want to do something good for this world, but how can I if the people I loved – who loved me – don’t even recognize me?”

It takes some time as Ultra Magnus seems to mull over the question, and for a moment B-1 selfishly wishes Cliffjumper were here instead to impart more of his weird wisdom. B-1 always seems to understand what he says no matter how strange. Finally, Ultra Magnust sighs, curling a digit around one of his many helm ornaments. “Your past is your own, B-127, I will not trouble you with incessant inquiry, but I can tell you this, you cannot chase it forever. You must move forward, you must. Even if it is by the finish of your denta, you must.” He points to his own spark chamber. “You will grow cold before you find that time again. Trust me,” he responds, a certain bleed in his voice that tells B-1 something inside him has hurt for a long, long time.

And that… well, perspective often slams into him in cruel and unusual ways, but this time, B-1 only places a tentative servo across Ultra Magnus’s vastly larger forearm. “I’m sorry if I brought up bad memories,” he says softly, looking away, entranced by the near silent whir of his spark in his audials. “I just thought I would have more time.”

“We all do,” Ultra Magnus responds softly, the least professional B-1 has ever seen him. “We all want more time to be… young.” They both look out, haunted.

“I’ll never be like them.”

Ultra Magnus nods. “Perhaps, but I don’t think anyone expects that of you. Not anymore.”

B-1 shudders, two emotions colliding within himself and making him sick. Relief, that he seems to have gained some respect, and terror. Terror slick enough to clog his internals.

“In a way, I am almost… envious of you.” Magnus says after a time, B-1’s finials swivel quizzically. The older bot exvents as he elaborates. “I have found in the most recent vorns, that I struggle to… connect, with my soldiers. I am respected and revered, but not known.” He shakes his helm. “Most cycles, I am okay with that. The grief of losing a friend is great, and I have lost many. I mourn each of my fallen, each and every one, but I admit it is easier to continue this work when I have no fond memories to reminisce.”

“But you still… want it,” B-127 posits, speaking before he can stop himself.

Making a small noise of agreement, Ultra Magnus continues. “General Jazz knows the name of every agent he recruits, and even the ones he has not. General Elita-1 and Commander Chromia train their soldiers straight from the academy, nurturing their skills. For their affections, they have faced great agonies as of late.” A bit childishly, Magnus splays his long stabilizers out, perfectly still. “Rationally, I hold the superior strategy in my position. My comrades are the strongest I know, but their sparks… they suffer for it, truly.”

And with a tired groan, Ultra Magnus musters a small, rusted smile. A teenage new spark cackles at something unseen in the distance. “But even so, I can admit jealousy over their ability to muster rapport even from the scrappiest of Cybertronians.” His optics meet B-1’s. “A gift you wildly seem to share with them. You have this… magnetism, that draws others to you even when you are trying to remain unnoticed. It’s a rare quality.”

B-127 doesn’t stop himself from shivering. “It’s an obnoxious quality.”

The kind smile adorning Ultra Magnus’s features morph into an appraising frown. “Young man, you would do well not to mock Primus’s gifts,” he gently but firmly scolds, and B-127 can see the moment he chooses to restrain some of his typical military General correction. “Your spark has something many can only dream of. I have one of the strongest branches in our forces but lack camaraderie with my lower soldiers. I win battles, but I receive no passing greetings within the tower. I stand the same height as Optimus Prime, and yet others can look him in the optic, when they cannot look in mine.”

A bit stupefied, B-1 shuffles his pedes, clinking them against each other. “That sounds lonely,” he quietly comments.

Magnus huffs, field a dismal field of brittle acceptance. “Perhaps, but it is the way of things. I have adjusted.”

Yeah, the way of things.

A cold wind blows past the two of them, B-1 shivers, Magnus does not.

“I don’t know why,” B-1 quietly admits, pressing his palms flat to the ground and reveling in the sensory data that showers around his processor. “I think people think I’m better than I am.” The words are sharp across his glossa but no less true, and the dents in his body ache in unison as if to remind him. “I don’t mean to lie, but I…” He brings a servo to his face plate, scrubbing across it as if that’ll ease the torrent. “At least you don’t have to be haunted,” he says when nothing else comes to mind, a horrible flush of grief welling. He misses speaking like a child, misses playing like one, messing up like one.

But now. Well, now.

A calm settles over the two and B-1 wonders if the conversation is over. After all, what kind of General cares for the woes of one teenager? He is heavy with old, blistering mourning, and now the luster of the Sanctuary and the outside of the tower shines too brightly in his optics, and he longs for his berth. He knows he is being weak, glancing to his Autobot decal. Stupid. No soldier pays mind to the loss of a language only the infantile can speak.

There’s a small change in Ultra Magnus’s large field. Slight, but sad, festering. B-127 glances, and sees a deep frown and near horror etched in the features of his face plate. “I often dream of faces that I know, and though I try greatly, I can never find a name for a single one.”

It is said coldly, detached in that way one speaks when too terrified to face something. Remorse comes crashing, and B-1 thinks of his now-neverending list of names he keeps stored in his databanks, and suddenly, he feels very selfish.

He thinks, then, that despite the way his loss rips through him with deep, penetrating claws, it’s a mercy to know why, and who.

To know the name of those he has lost, he now realizes, is a privilege.

The ghost of Faylever – though mere delusion – once asked if it was a gift to love enough to mourn. At the time, he had answered the nothing, the hurt, with a resounding no. Even now, he is not quite sure of his answer, but his spark trills at the idea of hoarding his phantoms and having no fond memories to make the pain worth it.

To give it all reason.

Ultra Magnus, older, wiser, stronger, seems to have none of that. Perhaps B-127 went a little mad in the process, but he had something to hold on to, to keep with him as a reminder of those who kept him afloat and continue to do so, even in death.

B-1 knows loneliness, but he thinks, perhaps, that there is none so resounding as the true isolation enacted with intention.

No living experience is just one thing. Faylever had said. He knows now that she was right.

She often was. Even his broken, deluded hallucinations can never truly cast fault on her.

She was compassionate, and though she may not recognize him now, B-1 strives to find a fraction of her goodness within himself. His engines rumble quietly, and he slides to his knees, now facing Ultra Magnus, mustering a smile he doesn’t quite feel.

“Ultra Magnus, sir, have you ever played poker?”

Chapter Text

“Oh please, B, I’m begging here,” Elita passionately whines, servos clasped together like she’s declaring to their very creator. B-1’s pauldrons are tense enough as he walks, so much so that he fears the struts underneath his delicate protoflesh might snap from the pressure. Jazz has promised to go through a few exercises, and B-127 has been an absolute champ in avoiding Elita-1 since he emerged from his berth suite to attend. He supposes the relief was short-lived.

He's gentle in his protests, unsure if it’s even possible to truly be harsh with her. “I know, I’m just… the last time went so… poorly,” he responds carefully, wading through the minefield of curious and eavesdropping Autobots as he tries to get to Jazz’s personal office space. It’s a lot easier to weave the traffic now that his helm is screwed on straight. Ratchet hopes to implement a processor sweep to solve some, if not all, of the quarantined, interlooping subsystems stuck in limbo throughout his helm. Supposedly it’ll help. “The little ones didn’t seem to like me.”

At this, Elita stops cold, and so the action shocks B-127 enough that he halts only a few steps ahead, door wings fluttering quizzically as he turns to face her. Her optics shimmer with a certain mirth before she places a palm on her mid-section plating and giggles. “Oh my god, is that what you thought?” She asks, in between airy snickers.

A bit affronted, B-1 ignores the glow of his face-plate bio-lights. “Uh… yeah?” He replies. There’s no need to bring up the incident with Ultra Magnus, or the metaphorical death to his child self. That would be terribly drab and Elita has been in a good mood lately. Less… gloomy, unlike the rest of the tower. B-1 has found that if he acts a little chipper, those around him are put at ease by it, even if a lot of the joy serves strictly to placate.

The femme’s features take on a softer look, then, and she steps forward, pinching his mandible gently. “Oh B, they loved you.”

Her touch always has a weird tingly effect on him, and B-1 has to stop himself from leaning into it. “… Excuse me?”

Her helm ornaments bob and a small crinkle forms in the metal of her face plate, just between her optical ridges. That same, starry-opticed look she always gets when something is particularly pressing. “I mean, did you see the way they latched onto you, B?” Elita asks, an easy smile forming and B thinks that when she smiles like that she may as well glow. “They don’t do that with just anyone, B, not even the teens your age. They connected with you.” Her thumb drags across his cheek in emphasis, and a shiver crawls up his backstrut.

An argument is hot on his glossa, something cynical to get her to back off and drop the entire thing, but truly, B-1 knows she’s right. It’s a difficult truth to swallow, but B-1 can acknowledge his tendency to see malice where there isn’t any. He supposes he comes by the trait honestly, but trying to blame infant sparklings for keeping him away from Sanctuary sounds awfully crass. His idea of right and wrong might have a few frays in the line, but he wouldn’t try to do such a thing simply because kids his age make him uncomfortable.

The sparklings had liked him, as much as they’d also found him odd, but B-127 finds things odd too, so he considers it a fair exchange. Lycan and Blue Breeze teased him the same way he had the littles, and in a way, B-1 feels he knows his lost friends a little bit better. Understands them, even if he can never see them again.

Ultra Magnus plays poker now. At least, he has the last few deca-cycles since the little disaster visit. Just two or three games, but he seems happier. The table group varies and a few weren’t too happy to have him as a game-mate, but being the youngest in the tower has its advantages. No one makes a fuss when B-1 brings him along to “chaperone.”

It’s a little tense, seeing as Ultra Magnus has absolutely no ability to relax and is a terrible stickler for the rules. B-1, who often cheats for fun, has to find creative ways to mask it. Blue Breeze would appreciate his ingenuity, though perhaps the cheating would get him a lecture on how “True Autobots don’t need to cheat to win,” or something of that nature. Still, he would smile while doing it, and B-1 knows deep down he’d be impressed. Lycan would chide them both for caring too much either way, but she’d cheer their names, were it a competition.

There was an understanding between the three of them. The memories are old, but not as hazy as they probably should be. His files take so long to compress, held longer by the analyst mind he’s been built with. The recollections are grainy, but when he listens, he can hear them all laughing together about something or the other. His spark twinges, longing for that connection.

Blue Breeze would want him to meet other teens their age. The older new spark often lamented knowing no others and while at this point, B-1 is older than Blue Breeze or Lycan ever were all those stellar cycles ago, B-127 can understand the frustration. It’s not that B-127 wasn’t good enough to sate Blue Breeze’s longing, he still has enough sense to understand that isn’t what the older Mechling meant, but rather it was a lament of wishing for more, period.

Personally, B-1 had always been content with the little bubble that made up the settlement. B-127 is social by nature, but he finds new things to be fascinated by all the time, and older bots often have much more exciting stories to tell, anyways. What good does making new connections with bots his age do? Nothing will be what he had with those two.

Elita-1 sighs, evidently reading the mental turmoil on his face and returning unsatisfied. Her field is gentle, but pressing. “Some of the older ones have even asked about you,” she starts, vocoder a high and smooth song. “In a manner of speaking, anyway. It would be just a few of them, in a room, nothing crazy like last time.” The femme promises with a flourish, bringing her palm to her chest, a tell she often enlists when she is truly sincere. “Meet them, B. Don’t cut off connections out of fear, please. It never ends well.”

And while the word “no” has slowly but surely reentered his vocabulary, B-1 knows with a sinking spark that there really is no saying such a word to Elita. It’s a harsh and curt noise that should never come anywhere near her. Not that his wishes wouldn’t be respected – no, B-127, despite his psyches tendency to scramble, knows that if he truly denied her, Elita would back off. But it’d be an awful and scorching thing, to bring down her spark like that. B-1 doesn’t like upsetting anyone – well, anyone he likes – but Elita-1 holds his spark in her servos. He’d return to Locke Up or Lariat before being the reason Elita frowns.

She is no Faylever – no one ever will be, but Primus, if she doesn’t come close sometimes.

The battle was lost before it even began, and suddenly making it to Jazz’s office doesn’t quite feel like the finish line he’d intended it to be. But as he has sworn not to take anymore, he gives instead, returning his attention to the older femme and exventing with great exaggeration that he knows she finds amusing.

Her grin is wide before he even utters a slightly defiant, “Fine.”

***

Jazz ends up showing him a few different puzzle items, and B-1 feels distinctly nostalgic as he messes with them. The agent watches with an appraising glean, but with his visor up, B-1 can’t tell what he's thinking. None are quite as frustrating as the puzzle box Newdawn gifted him, but B-127 chocks that up to Jazz thinking B-1 has never seen stuff like this before.

“It’s good fer’ mental development, sharpenin’ your reflexes as well as yer mind,” he supplies with a grin. B-1 nods along despite not really needing to be told this. There’s a nagging feeling that Jazz is supposed to be teaching him more practical things, but truthfully, B-1 enjoys keeping his studies to himself, whether through the library or whatever morsels of knowledge Optimus is willing to share.

Besides, though he volunteered for the job himself – B-1 hates to think of himself as a job but it’s true – B-1 can’t imagine the spy being a very effective history teacher or economics instructor.

To be honest, B-1 thinks Jazz just likes to hang out.

With the tension hanging around lately, he doesn’t mind being used as a stress reliever. He’s thankful to be useful at all.

With a rewarding ding that evolves into a pretty tune, the rectangular item he has been messing with glows around the edges, accepting his last little fidget and unfolding to a flat. A holographic image of a pretty purple gemstone projects, followed by the music cutting to a monotone noise that B-1 can tell grates on the audials after a while.

“Impressive,” Jazz mutters to himself, more of an assessment than a compliment.

B-127 smiles, allowing the satisfaction to idle pleadingly through his chassis. “It’s pretty,” he comments.

Jazz scoffs at the comment, covering the show of emotion with a slightly strained smile as he nurses a half-finished glass of high grade. “Trust me, if you knew what that was, you wouldn’t be so starstruck.”

B-1 doesn’t know what that means, though he longs to. Jazz doesn’t elaborate and B-127 knows him well enough by now to understand that it’s not the time to share. He forces the pride emanating from Jazz to be enough to sate his curiosity. Jazz does explain that a lot of these are defunct forms of espionage communication, which helps B-1 feel a bit better because that is insanely cool. It makes sense, only one of Jazz’s clever agents would be able to solve one of these in the heat of battle or hidden away in the middle of nowhere. That bolsters his confidence more than it should.

Ha, Lariat would never be able to figure any of this stuff out. Blockhelm that he was.

There’s an insignia on the back of some of the puzzle items, an Autobot sigil with ornate, glimmering wings. Jazz sees him eyeing the logo. “Autobot Elite Guard,” he offers, a bit muted in the delivery which makes the explanation blander. “Once a sign of the best of the best. Magnus trained em’ fer a long time.”

He looks up. “Not so impressive anymore?” B-1 inquires, finials swiveling in question.

Though the agent only shrugs, taking one of the items in his servos and solving the thing faster than B-127 can even decipher what he’s done. “Still is, considered a badge of honor to graduate from the ranks, and a symbol of hope, but it ain’t what it used to be. Iacon Academy is no different in quality, with tha’ drop in our ranks, the wings have lost their luster.”

That’s a shame, B-1 thinks. More and more of their history and tradition dies a little more each solar cycle, gone before he ever had a chance to understand the beauty of it. The greats of old rust and fall to dust, and what are they left with? A pack of restless new sparks? B-1, who knows more of the stars then he does his own planet.

“Do you hang out with any others my age?” He asks, pivoting away from the depressing nosedive the conversation has taken. “I mean, Elita-1 is at Sanctuary all the time, I figure you would like it too.”

The older man ushers a smile and B-1 feels relieved. It isn’t the same as Elita, but a dismal Jazz is a sore sight. “Sometimes, like ta’ size up which ones might want to enlist,” he admits, and with a contained fidget, B-1 can tell he isn’t the proudest of that. His expression smooths. “Had a handful actually make it to the Elite Guard a couple a’ stellar cycles ago, now thatcha’ mention it. Cute bunch, peppy. Ironhide thought they were a mess, but he swore em’ in any way. Softy, he is. But, hey, why hang with them when I could be kickin’ it with you?”

Less mental turmoil, his mind unhelpfully supplies. That brings an honest laugh, and several more arguments arise in organized lists within his HUD array. Jazz can fool a lot of people, but not B-127. That’s one of B-1’s curses, he thinks. Discernment. “I’m meeting some later.”

“Ah, Elita?” Jazz replies easily, setting aside his puzzle item to putz with another.

B-127 nods, grinning at the deep flush of understanding that pulses through Jazz’s jovial, but controlled, field. “I was just gonna ask if you knew any of their names.” He’d ask Elita-1, but she’d probably go off on a tangent about ‘being in the moment,’ and ‘meeting people where they are.’ The thought makes him shiver.

But Jazz only sighs, his vents rustling a little, showing his age more than ever. “Too many, B. Too many.” His gaze settles on the now-clipped wings of the Elite Guard logo. Somewhere, Jazz has gotten lost in the Athens of his mind. B-1 would feel ignored, if he didn’t know exactly what that is like.

A silence falls, and B-1 doesn’t ask again.

***

There was once a time when B-1 was rather good at nagging. Well, as good as a small child can be at that sort of thing. His fear of anger had all but diminished and while he would never consider himself snotty, he knows he was rather spoiled at the settlement. The lifestyle was humble, of course, but his tanks were never depleted and his sadness never all-encompassing. Things changed, of course, but for a time, B-1 was a child, who complained, whined, and held all the general unpleasantness of a little thing without a care beyond the next solar cycle.

Is it selfish to long for that short-lived time? To when he had the bravery to complain?

Because now that Prowl ends up being his chaperone to meet the new sparks, B-127 really wishes he didn’t have that chip on his shoulder. The words he’d have for Elita-1 or Optimus or whoever had the bright idea to have Prowl drive with him, oh, they’d make Newdawn blush.

For the entirety of B-1’s stay, before and after his little security breach, Prowl has done absolutely everything in his power to avoid him. Now, B-127 doesn’t blame him whatsoever because, well, it wouldn’t be a hard sell to say the strategist has better things to do. He’s a busy bot as they all are. B-1 knows he’s a burden. A burden with a purpose, but a burden all the same. Prowl just understands that better than everyone else.

All in all, B-1’s probably seen two glimpses of Prowl since they met that first time all those orbital cycles ago, and in a way, that’s comforting.

Prowl is cold. Not on purpose, according to Jazz, but enough that it makes B-1 shiver. It’s an odd thing, that sort of unease that tends to wash over him when the bot is around. Were they to see each other more often, perhaps B-1 could define where it all comes from. The icy wash in his chest, the prickle down his back, the heaviness of his plating. But it’s infrequent, and so, the mystery remains.

Cliffjumper would say something about how some things can’t be labeled, shouldn’t be. Some things just are, and that’s that.

He’d probably say it in a way that would warrant a good belly-laugh, but the meaning would still be there.

Being built with a similar, sleek vehicle mode, B-1 keeps up with Prowl’s increasing speeds with relative ease, though the steady build in velocity isn’t quite as freeing as it usually is. The swift pace has everything to do with arriving quickly, less so to enjoy the wind on the plating. There’s that awful sinking feeling again, but the whispers that come with don’t speak anything but the truth; Prowl can’t wait to be rid of him.

In some twisted way, B-1 finds it refreshing. He’s not sure why. Perhaps it’s reassuring to know that some people can still see him for who he truly is.

The city is quiet today and lacks the normally bustling traffic and busy ambiance. Sleepy and somber, B-127 can’t take it for anything other than an omen. Autobot flyers pepper the skies, moving in sync, in perfect harmony as they circle the city, keeping a quiet but assuring vigil.

Once the silence begins to creep in, and B-1’s brain module begins to see things grinning in the shadows, he tries for conversation. “Um, so. Do I call you sir or Prowl?”

It takes a solid few nano-kliks for Prowl to respond and B-1 is honestly surprised to receive a reply at all. “You may call me Prowl,” he answers, voice low but sure. “Soldiers call me sir, civilians do not.”

B-1 can hear the subtle deride in those words and he very pointedly chooses to ignore it. “Right, okay, Prowl.” Observing a long stretch of unobstructed traffic, B-1 pulls up alongside Prowl with a small purr of his engine. “Do you visit Sanctuary a lot?” He inquires, praying he’s not incurring any wrath by daring to speak. He doesn’t think Prowl is like that. Optimus wouldn’t have sent them out together if he was a danger.

He's touched by the trust he’s found, and for a moment that puts him at ease.

But Prowl is nothing if not blunt. “No,” is all he says, sounding about as enthralled in the conversation as wet paint.

“Oh,” B-1 manages. With a bit of shame, he pulls back as an oncoming car comes into view.

***

To her credit, Elita-1 hadn’t lied to him. The little ‘play-date’ as Cliffjumper affectionately labeled this, is held at a small park near Sanctuary, just kliks away. B-127 likes being outside and the natural cyber-matter formations peppering the area help chase the chill riding his back away just a bit.

Time in the acidic weather zone surrounding the city of Iacon has given the formations a rounded, sloped shape. It’s a nice separation from the forests in the Cyberton wilds and keeps his mind a bit more distanced from bandits and Decepticons. He tries to dwell on Elita-1’s good intentions with all this, instead of the panic that slowly invades him, starting at this pedes and settling like tungsten in his tanks. He refuses to be a wobbly mess when there is no real danger present. He wills it to be so. He is powering through his medical treatments and he can power through this.

If it goes badly, Prowl can just drag him back to the tower by his antennae. B-1 wouldn’t even complain.

There’s a small group of new sparks across the way, teenaged, just as Elita had said. A few of them eye him curiously the moment he and Prowl pull in. It takes him embarrassingly long to find the courage to revert to root form.

They don’t look entirely impressed, but Ironhide says teenagers tend to just be that way. He supposes he’s right, though everyone is staring at each other with a sickening level of probing.

He half expects Prowl to turn tailpipe and drive back to the tower right then and there, his unfortunate chore fulfilled. Ever the subverter, Prowl does not, instead transforming with impressive speed and standing eerily close behind B-1. B-1’s HUD pings and Stratta-13 comes into focus, outlined in bright blue as a subroutine picks him out of the group. A big smile paints his face plate and B-127 finds it incredibly goofy.

Sparing a glance behind him, B-127 doesn’t try to hide his quizzical expression. “So… What are you doing?” He asks, forcing away the discomfort that comes with addressing Prowl with a snarky smile. He doesn’t seem like the guy to show weakness around.

Prowl doesn’t miss a beat. “Watching you.”

Stratta-13 yells a few ecstatic greetings, B-127 returns it with a wave as his expression pinches a bit, keeping most of his attention on the strategist eyeing him and the surrounding area. “Ah. Hoping to find something interesting?” He tries; a bit pleased by the thrum of tease in his voice. He should probably tone it down, but his voice has always been his one and only defense. He’s been hanging around Jazz and Cliffjumper too much, his cheekiness is evolving into something that would certainly get him beat were he in different company.

But Prowl only nods. “Yes, carry on.”

Not so good for banter, is he?

Nonetheless, some of the coldness washes away.

B-1 is a bit horrified to find himself endeared to the older man.

***

Ryle, one of Jazz’s guys, happens to volunteer at the Sanctuary whenever he has time. B-127 doesn’t know him too well but they’ve played poker a few times, and he’s made a few good jokes. His plating is sleek and attractive, with sparkly burnt umber paint, with long thin wings cresting his back. A precision flyer. B-1 thinks it’s cool as hell.

 So, the relief he feels when he gently – but forcefully – shoves a rambling Stratta-13 away is palpable. He instantly feels some comfort with a familiar face and it helps that Ryle seems just to know everyone.

Prowl follows close behind. Like, way too close.

“I normally work with the kids your age, but they move me around depending,” he explains in passing as they walk the short distance to the small group of younglings. B-1 counts about five at first but ups it to six when one – a tall construction frame – turns to reveal a much more petite femme cradled in his arms. That gives him pause and in an instant B-1 is noticing new things as his inquisitive nature grows hungry under his chest.

Of the six in company, only three of them look healthy.

One femme – Primus, she can’t be much younger than he is – stands not on her pedes, but on two silver wheels that rest in some geometrical slope just where her knees are meant to be. The surgery is professional, and no one would notice since her baby blue paint blends so well, but B-1 can tell they aren’t original.

A million questions arise, but mostly, the augmentation makes him a little sick.

A taller red and black mechling stands by her side, grinning audial to audial as they converse, the joy bursting from him a stark contrast to the giant scars running down his back strut and the poorly healed crater dented in his mid-section plating, just over the typical terminal where a Transformer’s T-cog is housed.

Oh Primus.

And of course there is the little femme being held by one of the healthier younglings. As he gets closer, B-127 makes a deductive leap and decides the two must be siblings. He’s only read about split sparks and his memories of the husks of the two sisters is hazy, but he can tell. More than having similar plating, there is something about their fields that just… weaves together. Differently from a Conjux Endura, where two sparks come together in a dance of eternal harmony. No, this is like their sparks are in perfect sync, with no start and no end. B-1 ponders what it must be like to be so united.

It must hurt, in this case. In the little femmling’s case, there’s a subtle tremor in her resonance, a natural weakness that can’t quite be hidden. Her face plate, a pretty, effeminate build, has been marred with a strange blue rust. It spreads throughout most of her plating, blotting out in certain areas and clearly obstructing her ability to do much of anything but smile sweetly at him as they approach. The purple finish around her spark chamber has faded and peeled away completely, giving way to more of that foreboding rust.

He's seen sickness before, but only after it has taken its toll and left only emptiness behind. Now that he sees this girl, weak and broken down by her own body, B-1 isn’t sure he can reconcile the pictures that flash across his memory banks.

The three other younglings look fine. The kind brother holding his sister looks strong enough to enlist right at this very moment. The purple and light yellow paint he sports sort of gives him a more benign appearance, but considering Chromia is bright blue, paint clearly isn’t everything. A bright hot-rod red femme stands at his side, chittering with the sick girl with a scowl, her optics flittering back to him every few nano-kliks. A sinewy ball of wrongness sloths through his tanks at that. Finally, a black and green Mechling with sleek and striking door wings stands at the ready, centered in the group with an inquisitive look on his face. He looks about B-1’s age and they stand at the same height, and B-127 grasps tightly to the comfort of their similarity.

 There isn’t a single dent on him, but all of a sudden, B-1’s fear of being ostracized for the ones adorning him feels entirely selfish and stupid.

The black and green mech crosses his arms, speaking up before Ryle or Stratta-13 can offer introductions. “So, you’re the special little bot who’s too good to meet us at home.”

B-1 halts, his knees creaking just a bit as the wind bursts past him from the force of his stop. A horrible twisting ensues and knots form in his tanks, settling around his spark chamber like a mess of chains and black goop. “Uh.”

“—Blitz, enough,” Stratta-13 admonishes, vents whistling a bit as he catches up with his much younger protégé. There’s a harsh strike in the small pool of fields, and B-1’s finials fall as he glances backward to see Prowl’s mandible tighten. It’s a subtle movement, but his optics highlight it for further examination.

The little silent burst of comradery B-127 felt gets tangled up and swallowed pretty quickly.

Stratta-13 huffs, placing his palms to his hips in a way that reminds B-1 of Newdawn whenever B-127 did something grossly negligent and dumb. He latches onto that and forces a smile, letting that be his smile of the cycle. “Younglings, this is B-127. He is presently staying at the Autobot central tower.”

That gets him a few nods and questioning looks, and B-1 figures if he wants to get anywhere with these guys, he’ll have to sweeten the deal. He can’t fake strength, but he can certainly fake confidence. “On probation,” he adds cheekily.

He gets a few harsh looks from the adults and B-1 lets himself grin. He wasn’t supposed to admit that, but it feels good to even if it hurts his chances of bonding. Besides, he didn’t really want to be here in the first place, sorry Elita. Blitz’s protected aloofness crumples a bit and his optics widen. His spark jolts with a satisfying hum that feels similar to when he caused the little security fiasco, or whenever he successfully dupes the table at poker.

Ryle steps out, grabbing Blitz by the elbow and pulling him closer, gesturing to B-127 a bit flippantly. “Make nice before I have Mallory put you on detailing duty.”

That gets a reasonable shudder from the Mechling and, after a quick up-and-down glance, Blitz holds out his servo. Begrudgingly, B-1 takes it, unable to decide if he is disappointed or angry to have been verbally attacked so quickly. Par for the course, right? “My bad, criminal,” Blitz says, tone as teasing as much as it is searching. “What’s the B stand for?”

Huh? B-1 tilts his helm. “What?”

Releasing his hold on him, Blitz uses his thumb to gesture to the angry red girl. “That’s ZB-12. The Z stands for Zeta and the B stands for Break. What’s the B stand for?”

It’s a very personal question at a very inopportune time. B-127 nearly laughs in his face. Instead, he settles for a smirk, knowing neither Elita-1 nor Optimus would approve. “Well, since you’re the master of making assumptions, I suppose you’ll just have to guess.”

Stratta-13 slaps a palm to his face, exhausted. A bit of guilt washes through him like a trickling stream, and B-127 concedes to trying to keep his social protocols in line a little better. If only to keep Stratta-13’s fuel pressure down.

The response seems to throw Blitz, and he blinks a few times as his processor works over the reply. Then, a long grin spreads across his intake and his optics sparkle with amusement.

***

Ryle and Stratta-13 tag team a rapid-fire name game that B-1 frantically tries to keep up with.

He already knows Blitz and ZB-12 who have literally no problem sharing their opinions on him from the get-go. He still can’t decide if he’s impressed by their gumption to say it to his face.

Wheely girl is Tick-Tock and she’s too shy to do more than wave at him. Her wavelength is nice if not a little thready whenever they make optic contact. She can barely stand to look at him for more than a few nano-kliks. B-1 wonders why.

Battle Scars is Rusters Fate, and he might actually be the nicest kid he’s ever met. Granted, the list is rather short, but he holds no reservations about crushing B-1 in a warm embrace that leaves him all tingly. He tries to see the kindness in the action and not the gross intrusion of his precious personal space.  

His guess about the siblings turns out to be correct and the Mechling introduces himself as Flor Del and the sickly little femme as Wy-Red.

Everyone is a little wary of Prowl and it takes some serious finagling for Stratta-13 and B-1 to convince him to, politely, back the hell off. Ryle is entirely useless on this front. “I already have to hear General Ironhide bitch about my team, I sure as Pits don’t want this guy on my case.”

B-1 understands that completely, but still finds it within himself to be rather bitter about the whole thing.

Rusters Fate is talkative, and thank Primus for that because just as soon as his snarky remarks come, they vanish just as swiftly. The attention of so many unknowns is daunting, and just as he’d predicted, it is even more slimy under the scrutiny of these particular optics.

None of them look anything like Lycan or Blue Breeze. Not at all.

But as he does his best not to stare, he feels their resonance in every one. Like his own personal poltergeists have branched out and infected anyone who dared to be born close to him.

And in a sickening, clawing sort of way, B-1 looks at their scars – looks at his scars – and can only feel the deep despair that comes with knowing that you truly do not get a say in who survives, and who does not.

***

He doesn’t ask anyone what happened to them, though there’s burning curiosity. He’s smart enough to know that it’s horribly rude to ask something like that, and he knows if any of them asked him the same question, he wouldn’t answer. Optimus once said that a man’s past is his own, and B-127 takes some solace in that because it gives him an excuse not to share his demons.

But in the pursuit of not being a hypocrite, it means he can’t really ask anyone in return.

It’s kinda funny, but just by the way they cast him long looks in between conversations, B-1 can tell they’re all thinking the same thing. He’s glad for the silent barrier.

“Do you fight?” ZB-12 inquires, orbital ridges narrowed as her HUD probably gives her some approximation of his specifications. “You’re a warframe.”

The little huddle they’ve made stills a bit, and B-1 refrains from pointing out that she is one too, so is Blitz, and though she probably can’t do much damage anymore, Tick-Tock. The warframe build isn’t exactly a hot commodity amongst his cohort. He gives the query some thought, trying to decide if any of the underservoed, terrible things he’s done can be classified as fighting. Eventually, he settles on a shrug, hoping they don’t ask about his weapons. “Not really, but I’ve been known to be defiant.”

Wy-Red – the sweet thing B-1 already knows she is – giggles softly. Her vocoder can barely project the noise. “Z, I don’t think he has secret Autobot techniques to show you,” she says gently, all sweet smiles and shivering pauldrons. Her brother tightens his hold on her.

B-1 realizes pretty quickly that Blitz doesn’t hold any real animosity towards him, just a sort of morbid, blunt interest. Which is nice, but his intake still tastes bitter from their first exchange. Even still, the bot rams a palm against his back, grin growing. “Ah hell, no Autobot technique means slag unless you’ve got defiance.”

Flor Del chuckles, his voice deep despite his age. “As if ZB needs to be taught that,” he teases, his voice terrible calm just like his weak sister. It reminds him of Optimus and Newdawn in all in one young, selfless package.

Thankful to have somewhat deflected the question, B-1 allows himself a small giggle as ZB-12 suddenly fumes, crossing her arms and tapping her pede against the ground incessantly. “Oh, frag you all,” she hisses, swiftly shoving an accusing digit a little too close to B-1’s face plate. “You don’t fight, fine. Lame, but fine. Do you race?”

Something pressurized releases, so relieving he nearly shakes from it, and casts a plaintive glance towards the three adults. When no one raises their hackles at the thinly veiled challenge, B-1 turns back and grins.

***

ZB-12 slaps Blitz across his back. A loud metallic clang echoes. “I can’t believe you told him my name,” she berates in a hushed tone, having momentarily dragged the Mechling away. B-127 chooses not to inform anyone about his adjustable audial input. She has just landed in third place in their race of four for the sixth time in a row, and during that time, B-127 has discovered several things.

 One: Tick-Tock is faster than she looks, beating him, Blitz, and ZB-12 by a long shot in the first race. She slows after that, and B-1 can’t figure out if one set of laps around the park is all it takes to tire her, or if she’s just been letting everyone else win since then.

She’s a sweet spark, quiet as a cyber-mite but sweet. B-1 decides then that she’s just an incredible sport. Her two-wheel vehicle mode lends itself to speed but not so much to endurance.

Two: ZB-12 is a sore loser despite not really having the speed that B-1 and Blitz have. She is aerodynamic and has good control of her T-cog, but not her temper.

And Three: Blitz is really fun to race with.

The sharp wind glides around him, whistling through his rear spoiler and filling his chassis with a burst of electricity, Energon coursing through him with harsh vehemence that leaves his wheels buzzing.

It’s not the same as completing a trick for no one but his ghosts to see. No, he receives a round of excited cheering once he manages a particularly tight turn and the chorus of accolades leaves him near levitating. His spark burns bright despite the fact that in all honesty, the move hadn’t been that impressive.

He feels a bit tired and he knows he isn’t in the same shape he was before he got put into house arrest. Before, when he was on his own, he’d work his cog and his pistons to their limits to ensure his survival. Though riddled with pain and broken parts, he was able.

Setting a reminder for himself within the back of his processor, B-1 settles to quietly beg Chromia to be a bit harsher in her training, he doesn’t like the idea of not being the best he can be. Not if he wants to be a serviceable Autobot.

B-127 figures later on that this is the first time he’s ever actually raced with anyone, like, for fun. He didn’t have access to his cog with Lycan and Blue Breeze, and consequently ended up as the referee to whatever games they played whilst transformed. There weren’t many, at least not while he was around. And unless he was trying his absolute best to enjoy himself despite the circumstances, his speed has mostly been used to run for his life or be a really good thief.

His spark clenches a bit at that realization, but for Elita’s sake, he tries not to let it ruin the moment, instead allowing himself to be endeared to ZB-12’s grasp on Blitz, who is still twice her size, despite neither of them being fully framed yet.

Her seething shouldn’t be amusing but it is. Normally, anger sets him on edge, but ZB-12 is a lot smaller than he is and B-1 doesn’t see her actually lashing out at him. Her anger is more of a placeholder, a wild grasp to regain some control.

He knows anger that bites back, and this girl doesn’t have it.

***

Taking a little break to stretch, B-1 makes the mistake of asking why Ruster’s Fate hasn’t joined in the fun. While he probably isn’t very fast, B-127 doesn’t see a reason for him to exclude himself.

He quickly regrets even mentioning it.

It’s a quick, guarded reaction, but B-1 recognizes the tell-tale rigidness that comes with a deep, festering anguish. He hides it well, and in a way, B-1 knows what that’s like.

Rusters Fate can’t use his T-cog. Not for lack of enthusiasm.

He just doesn’t have one.

B-1 tries not to stare at the scar along his mid-section, trying to focus on the mechling’s kind and joyful field despite everything.

“You’re all fun to watch, I don’t mind,” he says softly, achingly understanding in a way that sends a physical chill down B-127’s back.

He doesn’t have a T-cog.

He looks at the scar.

Think of piles of bodies and burning pyres.

Of murders, choking on their own fuel, optics set in firm pride, even in death.

He doesn’t have a T-cog.

They took it.

***

Feeling a bit guilty, for something, for everything, B-1 offers to sit with Wy-Red and give Flor Del a chance to race with his friends. The brother, to his credit, tries not to seem too excited, not wanting to hurt his sister’s feelings. But his frame practically buzzes with charge as he gently sets her down to lean against a cyber-matter formation, optics glistening with a childlike jubilance that B-1 sometimes forgets exists.

“I’m okay here, you can race with them, I like to watch.” Wy-Red quietly goads. A small pit forms in his tanks at the subtle creak of her mandible, the grain in her voice box mechanism.

With a practiced ease, he forces a kind smile, sitting cross-legged beside her. “That’s okay, I don’t mind. Doc says I shouldn’t work too hard anyway,” he replies easily, the half-truth flowing through him like him like the admittance will make it a reality.

Her vocoder crackles with a little laugh. “Really? Mine too.”

That gets a real chuckle from him, a bit shocked at her nonchalance. Ryle slams his servo to the ground, indicating the beginning of the race. B-1 watches with amusement as Tick-Tock pulls an easy lead before seemingly finding herself and slowing down, giving ZB-12 a momentary lead. His helm tilts, optics taking in each shift of movement, every rev of an engine.

Wy-Red taps him on the shoulder, the touch so light he nearly misses it, his antennae twisting in silent question. She simply smiles, the blue rust obstructing would surely be a stunning display otherwise. “Thanks. My brother works himself to stripped gears for me,” she turns, and B-1 sees her deflate a bit. “It’s good to give him a break. He holds on too tightly to things sometimes, y’know?”

A ghostly servo clamps over his throat. He can only nod.

“Not what you expected?” Wy-Red inquires after a time, and B-1 averts his gaze from the spectacle, finding her attention set squarely on him. He tries not to squirm.

With Lycan and Blue Breeze pressing harshly on his back, his shrug feels as heavy as a mountain. “I don’t know,” he answers, honest in his aspect. “I guess I expected you all to hate me.” He says it with a smile, hoping to defuse the dismal incertitude behind those words.

There’s a look that passes over her features, but B-1’s subroutines struggle to provide meaning. “What an odd way to think.”

A sardonic chuckle bursts forth and B-1 doesn’t have the strength to fight off the sickening crawl of bitterness in his spark. “Yeah, well. In my experience, it’s practical.”

Though her optics don’t deviate from him, still canvasing his every move, every ventilation, B-1 can tell she’s thinking, a far-off sheen taking over her countenance. “I’m sorry,” she finally offers, and B-127 suddenly feels like the worst bot alive next to Megatron himself. Her field isn’t hidden, she’s too weak to even try such a thing, and B-1 struggles not to shrink away from the pure, unfettered empathy that is rolling off of her. Her hurt raw enough to scrape through his marred plating and whip at his spark.

“It’s okay,” he says, quiet and distant, a bit unsure of where the response has even come from. “I’m stronger for it.”

She nods, seemingly accepting that answer, though a small frown rests like a crown of thorns on her head. Wy-Red turns, and now she follows the epic trill of her brother as he whoops with triumph, overtaking Blitz. “We all are. I think.” She curls, resting her helm on her knees. B-1 realizes she’s shaking, however subtly. “I hope,” she adds, voice just above audible.

Stunned, B-1 finds he can’t think of a single thing to say. Typical, he’s not the best with words unless they’re a bit snippy, and Wy-Red doesn’t really need snippy. He can talk out of situations and make bold statements, but comfort has always been a struggle. With how many mistakes he makes, his life has mostly been receiving advice, not so much giving it. He’s always shown his kindness through action, but now, there’s nothing to do. Nothing a silly creature like him can fix.

“Tick-Tock’s favorite color is yellow,” Wy-Red says all of a sudden, her solemn features schooling and turning a bit… aloof.

B-1 feels his face-plate’s bio-lights glow a bit brighter. “… Oh.”

That was such a stupid response, he nearly slaps himself for it.

But Wy-Red is gracious of her new companion, reaching out with a quivering servo to pat him on the shoulder. “Relax. She won’t say a word to you unless you say something first.” Her helm leans against the cyber-matter, B-1 can tell by the warble in her wavelength that the simple act of speaking to him is draining. She places a palm to her chest, clenching her fist weakly. Her optics flutter shut. “… But it would make her very, very happy.”

The sentence is so weak her vocoder cuts out a bit, and B-1 tries not to see a bleeding Newdawn begging him to run or a blinded girl with only him to lean on.

Him of all bots. Filthy, him.

But who is he, if not someone who wants to make others happy?

***

Tick-Tock runs a digit along his mandible all the way up to his finials, her bio-lights near blazing in a clear fluster. The contact makes him a bit dizzy and B-127 wonders why the hell he’s let this happen. Touching doesn’t make him queasy the way it used to – all the medical shit non-withstanding – but this is still weird. He hadn’t meant for a simple compliment of her specifications to lead to this.

But her joy is a well enough reward, even if he barely knows her. He thinks Faylever would appreciate it. She took him into her home without ever having meeting him, he can handle a little weird magic touchy-touchy.

Her optics spiral a nice lilac, shifting from their normal azure. "Reinforced carbonite cyber-matter, optimized for high-impact resilience and thermodynamic stability. Combat-grade configuration, integrated with level-six sensor node arrays—real-time environmental mapping and enhanced threat-detection protocols," she recites automatically, her gaze locked onto the streaming diagnostics on her HUD. She pulls her servo away shyly, breaking from her trance-like state, quickly hiding her palms behind her back, optics returning to normal. “Or something,” she quickly mutters, covering her bases in case she’s said something wrong.

He shakes his head, knowing she’s not. Amazement settles in his mid-section plating and he knows Jazz would have a field day with this girl. “You can get all that just from one cursory touch?” He asks, genuinely wondering.

Her bio-lights brighten in a clear display of modest embarrassment, and she looks to the ground, taking a micro-step away from him. “I usually try to… not. Use it, I mean.” She shrugs, and B-1 is surprised by her candor. It’s impossible to get an Autobot to open up this easy. “It freaks people out, it freaks me out,” she adds, honesty leeching through her like a slime.

He doesn’t tell her about his optics because while she seems to be in the sharing mood, he isn’t. Though, unlike her admittedly freaky sensitive servos, his optics aren’t exactly subtle, even a group of bandits could glean their quality. He wonders if that’s why she’s opened up to him about it, she can tell he understands. He glances down, finding the seam where her original legs used to be. It’s so minute no one should see it. He’s spent his entire life like that, seeing things he shouldn’t. “It’s freaky,” he quietly concedes. Her frame tenses, and for a moment he can tell she’s hurt by the words, and guilt stabs at him.

“Not bad freaky though,” B-1 adds, quickly bringing a palm to her shoulder like Optimus or Jazz might. She looks up, optics that purple again. He tries for a smile, unsure if it’s real. “I’m more used to freaky than anything else.” He says it with a shrug, content that at the very least, he hasn’t lied to her.

Her spirits seem to lift a bit and B-1 feels a bit less like a jack-aft. Not for the first time, he wishes his social protocols weren’t so slagging fragged. Excuse his language, sorry Newdawn. Her silence returns, but she doesn’t quite have that anxious tremor in her field anymore, seemingly bolstered either by the racing or his idiotic idea at affirmation. “Blitz doesn’t mean anything he says,” she says, a bit hushed as she glances to the offending bot, who is currently arguing with Ryle about the rules and penalties of a false start.

He had false started, B-1 has the crystal clear memory files to prove it. But, well, Cliffjumper would say something about picking your battles, and B-1 is inclined to agree. “I know, I guessed.”

With a nod, she invents, then exvents, seemingly letting go of a weight she’d been carrying. B-127 returns a glance, a bit surprised to discover how torn up she is about his treatment. She meets his gaze, barely, not turning her helm but keeping her optics on him steadily. “He’s just bitter. Like everyone is, a little.” She clasps her servos, then unclasps them, then once more until she just returns them to their fiddling position behind her back. ZB exclaims in frustration when Blitz brings up a random rule he clearly just made up.

B-1 smiles. “Bitter?”

She nods, but doesn’t elaborate, clearly less forthcoming about others than she is about herself. B-1 can respect that immensely. “I try not to be,” she adds, voice a soft little tinny. “Bitter, I mean.”

“I do too,” B-1 responds, his door wings twitching in some strange reaction to the reply. Shame patrols the very edge of his spark, nipping at him with sharp, fanged teeth. He knows he’s let the bitterness win more often than not. He isn’t sure that’s about to change. “It’s hard,” he allows.

“Always,” is all she says. Ryle finally gives up with a huff, walking off from the starting line to stand with a rather ladened Stratta-13. Prowl watches from a distance. B-1 wonders if he is bored, if he even gets bored.

Blitz cuts through the heavy atmosphere the two have created with a loud screech of his vocoder, causing everyone with even slightly sensitive audials to wince and gag. “Okay! Frag it let's go one more! All or nothing!”

Lining up next to him, ZB scoffs. “You said all or nothing three games ago.”

Transforming – a bit sloppily if you ask B-1 – Blitz just growls through his engine. “Hey, this was your idea, don’t forget that! With your losing streak, you should be frothing at the intake to get at this.”

The two dissolve into harmless bickering and B-1 realizes with a bit of fear that he is terribly charmed by this group of kids. His spark feels light despite it all and though the abandonment of Lycan and Blue Breeze is never far from his mind, he doesn’t hesitate to gravitate towards the next round of play. He stops, gesturing to Tick-Tock in a quiet invitation to go first to their pretend starting line. “You gonna let him win again?”

Tick-Tock flushes, walking past him with her helm low so he can’t see her expression. She whispers as he walks just behind her. “Well, are you?”

He laughs, thinking Blue Breeze would too.

***

It’s about a joor by the time Stratta-13 whistles, his older vocoder not quite managing to keep the pitch, and everyone deflates a little. It’s time to say goodbyes for the cycle.

B-1 feels like an idiot and a bit embarrassed to admit that Elita-1 had been right.

But, well, she often is, isn’t she?

Ryle begins to wrangle the kids into a huddle, and with a little bit of well-timed eavesdropping, B-127 overhears him giving specific riding instructions on where to go to get ‘home.’ B-1’s spark pangs, and the question is, do any of them truly consider Sanctuary home? Does he consider the tower home?

That is the question.

His peers each come up and say their farewells in their own way. The earlier tension is forgotten, but in this world, this reality, none of them have completely dropped their guard, not just yet. Still, B-1’s shoulders don’t droop to the floor, and his smiles are genuine; his strained giggle truthful when Rusters Fate pulls him into another tight embrace.

“Next time, we can play something else,” B-1 assures, slightly amazed that he of all bots is bringing up the possibility of a next time. The intent, while unspoken, is understood, and Rusters beams, and B-1 wonders if he’s got room in his spark for another smile so jubilant.

ZB-12 doesn’t say anything to him, just holds out her fist, not quite able to meet his optic. It takes him a nano-klik to realize what she wants and he scrambles to bump her outstretched servo with his. Flor Del and Wy-Red both offer polite words and B-127 feels a warmth at their natural gentleness. They’re an interesting pair, certainly. Tick-Tock stands about thirty feet away, and B-1 raises a questioning optical ridge. She only waves, rather harshly, turning away from him bodily as if looking at him leaves her at risk of combustion.

He and Blitz smack palms and Blitz pulls him into a quick half-hug. He’s a bit rough, but B-1 likes him already. “Beretta.”

Huh.

“What?” He asks, pulling away.

Blitz grins. “I bet that’s what the B stands for.”

They stare for a time before B-1 erupts with a chortling laugh, shaking his helm frantically, his door wings raising far above his helm. He manages to find his composure, and Blitz’s proud smile has fallen just a bit. “Keep guessing, detective.”

His smile widens again. “I will, criminal.”

***

“Thank you,” Stratta-13 whispers, somewhat sneaking up on B-1 just as they are all about to leave.

There’s no point in hiding his confusion, it’s written all over his face. “Ah, for what?”

The older man just smiles, casting his gaze over to the kids where an ever-tiring Ryle tries to keep them in line. “For spending time with them. The littles have gossiped, the silly things.” He sighs, his ventilation rattling, the noise nearly getting lost with the breeze. “They will never admit it, but they’re in awe of the new spark who has managed to survive without caretakers.”

A little pit forms in his mid-section, a sharp pull from the back of his neck threatening to throw him into it. B-1 schools his expression, and holds back the screeching memories with all the force he has. “The bar must be on the floor if they’re in awe of me,” he replies, injecting a small chuckle into his words to steer the conversation's tone.

But Stratta-13 doesn’t take the bait, leaving B-1 feeling like a husk strung up to bleed out. “Your generation has many names. The Lost, The Hope, everyone’s got their own idea of what Primus has produced you all for.”

His weapons systems sink like stones, weighing him down, and B-1 thinks he’s got a pretty good idea.

The mech continues, hooking his thumbs under the seams of his hip plates. “I call you The Cursed.”

A thousand things come to mind at that, and B-1 is unnerved when all he can do is nod. What is there to say? A debate is only a debate if there is something to argue.

“Our world is dying, but you’ve been born anyway. Fresh and full-faced and valuable,” Stratta-13’s field fluctuates, and B-1 can feel him physically trying to reel it in. The edges of it claw at his own, a desperate plea to be heard, felt. B-1 holds on, though he wishes he wouldn’t. “The early phase sparklings will be adopted, most caretakers don’t have the sparks to take care of the… baggage, that comes with an older spark.”

B-1 nods again, wishing the word burden wasn’t such a comforting word.

Stratta-13 shudders, and his plating locks to his protoform, his helm hung low. “But young or old, many of your generation will not last.”

It’s like a punch to the chest, and B-127 is winded enough to stumble a bit. His spark oscillates inside him in a wild tumble, heating to the point of pain, sorrowful over the information Stratta-13 has imparted to him.

“What’s wrong with them?” B-1 asks, only feeling a little guilty over the verbiage he uses. His voice croaks a bit, shaking with each syllable.

Stratta-13 exvents, his older engines hissing where some internal component is loose. For a moment, it looks like the mech has no intention of answering, but he must sense B-127’s stubborn spark, or at least feel some pity in the face of a curious child. Soon enough, his vocoder crackles as it micro-boots and some tension fills his frame. “Oh, a myriad of things,” he begins, shaking his helm in poorly hidden misery. “Some are fine, like you, bio-mechanisms and spark intact. Others find other issues. Wy-Red, for example, suffers from Acute Spark Rejection.”

The title sends a cold wash through B-1’s fuel lines and he feels a few pistons lock up. His servo ghosts over his spark chamber, recalling the disgusting sensation of his spark pulling away from its chamber. No wonder her frame was so hot. B-1’s condition never progressed to the extreme, not like hers has. No blue rust muddles his chassis, but he wonders if Ratchet has ever seen any near his core’s chamber. The pain and sickness had been blinding then, he can’t imagine the agony she must be in every solar cycle.

Unaware of his musings, Stratta-13 pushes forward. “There isn’t much to be done for it, some sparks simply can’t take the pain of our world, the intensity. Many of our young ones have burnt up, the story of our people and the reality of this planet too much to take.”

B-1 nods, though his sparkpulse is elevated and he feels tenuous static under his plating. “Some might call it a mercy,” he posits quietly, thinking of the lectures Lariat gave him on the subject. “Is there a cure?”

Stratta-13 shakes his helm. “The only cure for spark rejection is a change of spark, or the will to live.” His voice trembles with deep sadness, and B-1 knows then that this isn’t new to him at all. The older man’s voice sounds like a death gong, speaking low and agonized. “Dear Wy-Red won’t make it through the stellar cycle.”

There’s a pinch just behind his optics, and B-1 looks down, clenching his fists and exventing harshly. It is not a surprising revelation, anyone with decent optics and wavelength compression could tell you the girl is dying.

He doesn’t know her very well, and now, B-1 knows, he never really will.

“And the others?” He queries, trying to save the scraps of his spark from the pain of loss begging to remind him of cycles long past.

Stratta-13 shrugs, and his optics canvas over B-1, landing on his forearms. “Decepticons and other insurgents need parts and are willing to pay to get them. Primus built many of you to be valuable.”

Dea-8’s predatory optics seer into him, and a ghastly sensation creeps around his chassis, B-1 wishes it wasn’t his. Being ‘valuable’ has never done him any favors, and clearly, the sentiment is shared. “And they know that.”

A silence settles, and they both focus on the ensuing chaos. “They know they won’t be taken in, Santuary is their home,” Stratta-13 finally utters, his face-plate a mask of tired resignation. Yet, as he turns to meet B-1’s optics, a true, contented smile stretches, and the twinkle in his optics nearly sends B-1 to the ground. “You give them hope that there is more to life than trying to be quote, unquote, valuable. B, you inspired them, before they even knew you.”

Intake agape, B-1 digests the words like corrupted Energon, and his fuel lines flush cold. The concept nearly makes him bark with laughter. What a silly concept. Him, of all people, inspiring others like that? Clearly the stories the little sparklings told were greatly exaggerated, maybe Elita’s to blame.

Don’t they know?

Don’t they know the reason he is doing all of this in the first place?

The training, the healing – the stupid surgeries – don’t they understand?

Being ‘valuable’ is all that matters.

There is no more to hope for. Not for him. Maybe for them, it’s true, but they haven’t seen what he’s seen, done what he’s done.

A horrible feeling settles in his spark, worse than the teeth and the biting voices, it’s pure understanding of his selfishness.

Having been so blinded by his own codes and ethics and rules, he’s completely forgotten that he isn’t the only one to suffer. His pain is nothing compared to theirs. Almost all of his components are intact and the only reason his blades aren’t is because he made the choice to gouge them out on his own.

Many of his generation didn’t get that choice.

Tick-Tock can never walk on her own two pedes again, Rusters Fate will never experience the joy and freedom of transformation. Not unless a new cog can be made, and B-1 knows that the Autobot medical engineers are spread far too thin in terms of supplies.

He has received surgery after surgery and active help for each and every one of his ailments, all while Wy-Red rests in her brother’s arms, dying as her core slowly burns her alive.

What right does he have to be inspiring?

All he lives for is making a dent in this war, in making the Decepticons know that the little sparkling from that weak little settlement didn’t die when he was supposed to.

On making up for all of the evils he’s committed in the name of what? His survival? Autobots die honorably every day, the scent of demise so thick in the air it’s near-constant. What resources were wasted on him while a soldier was dying in the dirt?

The least he can do is die fighting, die giving something instead of getting something.

His debt to the dead is a heavy one, and it’s all he lives for. He has his specifications, and now there is nothing left in him but to make them useful, to help end this war even if it means he ends up dead too.

He wants to see Cybertron on a clear night, see what the constellations say when the smog of violence doesn’t hang over the world.

But he knows that if he can at least help in making it happen, push them a little closer, that’ll be good enough. He’s made enough demands.

And now, this misguided little group of teens sees in him something that isn’t there.

“B? Are you alright?” he thinks Stratta-13 asks.

He’s dizzy, but he forces a thumbs up, turning abruptly to hobble out of the park, Prowl close behind.

He ignores the weight of everyone’s optics on him, shame swallowing him whole.

***

He makes it halfway back to the tower before he can’t take it anymore, his T-cog clumsy and sluggish as he transforms, stumbling off of the road and into an alley.

Prowl doesn’t say a word as he purges everything he’s got.

***

If he’s a bit unsteady on his pedes for the remainder of the cycle, he can just blame it on the rigorous racing he’s endured. Yeah.

His percentage is lower than what he’s grown used to since he lost all of his reserves, but deeply settled instinct keeps him from complaining about it. The subtle twinge of weakness is an oddly satisfying one, a safe mindset to fall back into.

No one is there to greet him when they arrive at the tower and B-1 finds it all rather fitting. Even Sweet Elita-1 is too crowded with work to entertain him, but truthfully B-127 doesn’t think he could stand her presence right now anyway. She’d ask for details of his wonderful meeting, and he’d have to force his smile and recount the admittedly nice outing, all while struggling to control the sickness in his tanks.

Prowl is practically dragging him by the time they make it to his berth suite, not at all harsh but certainly not gentle the way the others might be with him. B-1 can admit he appreciates not being treated as fragile.

“Thank you,” he quietly utters, dialing in the code to his room while staring blankly into the metallic, lightly aged door.

The older mech’s resonance shifts, and in his periphery B-1 sees Prowl nod. Were he in a better mood, B-1 would ask why Prowl had been shackled with the task of escorting him, but he isn’t, and he probably wouldn’t get a straight answer anyway. His door shinks open, obedient to the access code. “I’ve added a refuel token to your profile, it expires by the end of the cycle,” Prowl says, just as B-1 is about to walk into his room to mope.

It’s a quiet kindness, and not one he’d ever expect from Prowl, and it nearly sends him shivering, suddenly that broken little sparkling again, unsure of what to do with such compassion. A tight smile stretches, and he nods. “Okay,” he turns, forcing himself to meet Prowl’s steely optics. “Thanks, again. I mean it.”

And then Prowl gives him this… this strange look. One B-1 isn’t quite sure he can dissect even with a clearer mind. It’s like a greatly masked uncertainty, hesitance even. The moment ends too soon and the expression gone, and B-127 is left to add that to the list of weird aft things to ponder.

The door shudders closed, and B-1 thinks a part of his spark follows. Wirey and tense and conflicted with the positive interactions and negative connotations, B-1 all but collapses on his berth. Face-first with the metal, he groans, frustrated and angry with himself.

Blue Breeze believed in honesty, in being true to who you are and using what Primus built you with.

B-1 wonders if honesty fits him at all, if Blue Breeze would still want to be his friend, now.

He doesn’t cry – he’s not that far gone yet – but he does allow a pained whimper, door wings pinning to his back.

***

Elita-1 frowns, willing her exhaustion away. Prowl towers over her, idly working on a data-pad, probably conjuring up some new insane but brilliant idea to win this horrible war. If winning can even be achieved. She pushes that from her mind, too, thinks of the laughter of children and Optimus’s rare but radiant smile.

“I had asked Cliffjumper to go with B,” she says, pointedly lowering an optical ridge at him. Prowl’s office is a sort of muted chaos. One wouldn’t expect someone so meticulous to work in such a sty, but Elita’s always found his closeted sloppiness charming. Now, as she glances at the books and pads strewn about the small cubic area, the stacks of empty Energon cubes and one suspicious cube of High Grade, Elita finds it a bit stifling.

She’s tired and her girls are hurting with physical and emotional wounds, and this solar cycle’s mission didn’t offer the respite she’d hoped. Her servo traces over the slowly patching metal burn on her thigh, thankful for First Aid’s gentle cooling gel.

Prowl doesn’t react as if he’s heard her, but she knows he has, with the way his intake squirms just a bit. A small tell she’s come to know only from vorns and vorns of knowing him. “I stepped in so he could fulfill a role for my unit,” he explains, a bit curt. Whatever he’s typing must be awfully interesting.

Not really the type to be deterred by that sort of tone, she nods, accepting the information she’d already been privy to. “And he’ll be gone for the next five solar cycles, I realized.” She takes a step forward, bringing a digit up to ply his datapad down and out of his face plate. He’s not pleased with the movement, but doesn’t stop her. “What I wanna know is why you’ve suddenly decided to butt your mandible into all of this.”

“Surveillance,” he replies, meeting her optics with that slightly unsettling focus of his.

She only laughs, an easy grin gracing her derma as a trickle of understanding drips through her. “Feeling a bit left out of the party, are we Prowl?” She teases, her suspicion morphing into a fond exasperation.

He stills, and she can tell he’s grown a bit uncomfortable. Elita-1 doesn’t like making people uncomfortable, but she can never be called a liar. “I only wanted to see if he had the potential, you all seem adamant he possesses.”

Her optics roll and she snickers. “And? Find the answers you needed, counselor?”

It takes longer than it should for him to respond. Prowl is methodical, but not slow-witted, he’s smarter than she is in many ways, and that’s how she knows he holds something back when he replies. “The intel I gathered was satisfactory,” he tries, but the look she gives pushes him to elaborate. “He is emotional.”

“So am I,” Elita argues.

He nods, conceding her point. “He tends to back-talk.”

“It’s endearing,” she says with a smile.

But Prowl shakes his helm. “It’s dangerous. His spirit is strong, lively, and angry.” He fixes her with a look. “To give a warframe with that spark the education and training of a soldier would require extreme caution.”

She doesn’t make a point to argue, after all, there is no perfect spark. “You’re right, we have to be careful of every cadet we take in. He isn’t the only one with a chip on his shoulder, Prowl.”

“But he is the only one receiving special treatment from the highest-ranking members of our cause,” he replies, a bit sharper than Elita is used to. It’s difficult to make Prowl mad, and her spark warms a bit at his passion. “It is very possible he will not be well-liked at the academy simply because of that.”

“You worry he’ll lash out,” Elita supplies.

“I do not worry,” he says firmly, and Elita nearly giggles at his childish need to correct. Gingerly, he places his forgotten datapad down on a rather tumultuous-looking pile of slag. “I am concerned about the possibility of dissension, and whether B-127 could handle the betrayal.”

A horrible sliver of annoyance plunges through her normally amiable spark, and she finds herself angry on B-1’s behalf. She doesn’t fight it. “B would never side with the cons, Prowl, it’s not in his nature.” She softens, allowing a few deep ventilations to cycle through as she collects herself. Recentered, she meets Prowl’s optics fiercely, just as she would on the battlefield. “He is lively and overambitious and has issues following rules.”

He raises an optical bridge, an uncharacteristic show of what’s going on inside his helm. “You make my point for me.”

“I wasn’t finished,” she says quiet, yet assertive. Her memory banks recall the shimmer of sunrise yellow and the smile of a wounded but determined spark. The tightness within her eases and she feels her plating warm with fondness. “B is all of those things, sure, but he’s also zealous and intelligent. He listens to people and learns quickly. He is gentle and quick-witted despite the hell he’s been born into.” She smiles, and brings a servo to her chest, feeling her spark as it silently spins. “He’s kind, Prowl, honest to Primus. He had no idea how he would be treated if he helped Jazz and Ironhide when they first met in that firefight, but he did it anyway.”

She can see Prowl considering this, brain module probably connecting and tearing apart connections faster than her own could comprehend. That’s the trouble of being advanced like that, in your helm. The mind of a genius leaves no room for easy friendship. Elita knows many of the commanders struggle with their long-developed affections and Prowl’s consistent calculating demeanor. Her spark slows and she finds her anger diminishing. Prowl is a good one, she reminds herself. Just different, the way B is. The way she is.

Eventually, he leans back, exventing harshly in a subtle show of defeat, and he concedes with a shake of his helm. “Optimus sees that, it is why he has agreed, but Elita, you must know that compassion gets you killed, out here,” Prowl says, vocoder just above a whisper. The words are cold, but with eons of hurt and millions of dead, Elita knows she has no rebuttal. “He was… jovial, with the new sparks. Despite their dappled reception of him.”

Pistons lock up and she stands up straighter, a wild shock of excitement rocking her. She’d nearly forgotten why she came here in the first place. “Oh! Of course he was, he’s the sweetest thing. How’d they like him? They loved him right? Tell me everything!” She squeals, picturing B and the kids bonding and healing each other.

Prowl gives her a certain look, but takes the out she has offered, neither wanting to pursue this conversation further, at least for now. His recount is detailed and clinical, as if he is giving a debrief. Elita-1 nods along happily even though she knows Cliffjumper would definitely have more entertaining commentary.

By the end, though, he’s got this far-off look in his optics, and Elita finds an easy smile spreading as he talks.

“He won you over,” she interrupts.

To his credit, he does look affronted to have been talked over, and she nearly cackles as he actually pauses to think. It takes him too long to deny it, and she snickers. “I only understand you all a little better,” he amends, shaking his helm and apparently feeling free enough to look a bit sheepish. “I tend to avoid Jazz’s favorites.”

She laughs at that, accepting the answer for what it is. “If he’s snarky then that means he’s comfortable.”

“In this world, comfort is a dangerous thing.”

Elita-1 tilts her helm, leaning an elbow on his endless mess. “Yes, but it’s for fighting for.”

“All good things are.”

Touched by his openly emotional statement, she brings a palm to his arm, squeezing it lightly. “B knows that, too.”

He seems to consider her for a moment, stepping back to briefly glance out the large window on his office’s back wall, momentarily transfixed on the busy Iacon cityscape. “I think his knowledge of that is what I fear most.”

She walks up beside him, a few feet away to give him the space he needs. She can tell he’s holding something back, but she doesn’t push him to reveal what, she knows he’s too stubborn for that, even with her talent for getting through to people. Instead, she clasps her servos together, allowing the sensory data picked up from her digits to wash over her. Her smile falls, and her injury burns. “Me too, Prowl, me too.”

***

To his relief, Prowl never spills about his little episode. Elita-1 is nothing but the picture of elation when she needs sees him, and though she looks tired, it doesn’t seem to be out of worry for him.

The despair he feels doesn’t quite fade, but he does allow it to fall to the back of his mind as other things take up greater importance. Only a few solar cycles pass after the meetup and Optimus makes release from his metaphorical house arrest official with a new key card that allows him to leave the tower any time he pleases.

Ratchet gives him a warning to take it easy and B-1 does an amazing job of promising not to do anything stupid, knowing he probably still will. After all, Iacon is filled with different roads and racing rinks, and as much as he’s come to enjoy the company of others, it’s been orbital cycles since he’s had a moment to himself beyond his berth suite, and he can’t transform and speed away fast enough.

It takes a few deca-cycles to get back to his previous transformation speed and regain some of his agility, but with Chromia’s ‘work out’ routines and his protoform’s stored memory, he’s back in shape quickly. He feels better than he has in stellar cycles and he realizes just how weak he had been before, always hungry and in pain, he had underestimated his potential and when he isn’t playing poker or doing chores, he’s out on some road or another.

He begins seeing the other new sparks more frequently, since no one has to chaperone him anymore and Stratta-13 keens at the idea of having him around. B-1 has no idea why.

It’s difficult not to feel guilty when he’s around them, especially when ZB comes up and asks him questions about the tower and what he’s learning there. He tries to answer honestly, but his intake feels a lot like a maw and his denta a lot like fangs as he feeds her tales of battle and war.

Rusters Fate teaches him Lobbing, supposedly a game created by an Autobot group called the Wreckers. B-127 has no idea if that’s true but he does know it’s a fun game, with no transformation required. He tries not to let Blitz or ZB talk him into racing when Rusters is around. He tries to hide it with his endlessly peaceful personality, but B-1 can tell he’s still in mourning over the loss. He can’t imagine losing such a large part of who you are like that, it would be agony, and B-1 isn’t sure he could live with it. He admires Rusters for taking it in stride.

Tick-Tock remains shy around him, but he starts bringing her data-books he’s finished and that helps to give them something to talk about. He’s charmed by the tangents she takes when they discuss the plot or a character, it’s the most he ever hears her speak.

Soon enough, Ratchet has somehow managed to meld metal into the proper shape for his chassis and coded the proper programs for his processor, and he goes under for an entire solar cycle for the surgery.  

Replacing plating isn’t a large procedure, but B-1’s damage is extensive, and coupled with the installation of new programs, it takes a long time. He tries not to think about the layers of himself that are literally stripped away.

The plating that Faylever held in her sweet arms taken away, melted to be used for something else. The plating that Newdawn patted when proud, that Lycan and Blue Breeze bumped when they rough housed. The plating that colored the stars the moment he saw them. Gone.

The plating he’d been beaten in, burned and battered and starved. Gone too.

It’s difficult to reconcile, but he doesn’t cry when he wakes up. He doesn’t feel much of anything as Nightlight gives him care instructions. He smiles and thanks Ratchet sincerely as they run through a few exercises. Ratchet is always exhausted lately, but he manages a smile, and B-1 knows it’s only for his benefit. The guilt settles, and he wonders how many hurting soldiers have been made to wait so his care could be prioritized.

His helm is clearer, and Ratchet seems abundantly relieved when they find that his quarantined programs have been repaired and all is working as it should. B-1 can tell, too. He feels sharper, more alert, full of energy that hasn’t come so freely in a long, long time.

By all accounts, he is good as new.

It’s cathartic, and he stares out the window of his berth suite for several groons, stock still.

***

“Ballistic,” Blitz says out of nowhere, pulling his half-full Energon cube from his dermas.

B-1 scoffs. “Do I look like a Ballistic to you?”

His friend frowns, taking in B-1’s shiny new armor. “Meh, you’re right, you’d be way more bad-aft.”

B-127 shoves him off the roof.

***

“I didn’t think she could be more in love with you,” Wy-Red says, teasing heavy in her weak voice.

B-1 scrambles, feeling his bio-lights light up. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She giggles, adjusting herself on the berth she’s resting on. “Tocks, she can barely look at you now that you’re all cute and new.”

His brain module blanks, and he stands, crossing his arms as his door wings rise to the skies. “She can barely talk to anyone, Wy. Don’t be weird,” he points at her, willing his mind to work properly. “You’re weird.”

But Wy-Red only giggles, shuttering her optics as she leans back. “B and Tocks sitting in a tree…”

***

Jazz pours over his notes, willing the words to mean something. He’d permitted Prowl to help him with the internal investigation, but even with his mind, they’ve mostly come up empty. Just dead end leads and turbo-rabbit trails that fizzle out. He doesn’t want to be frustrated, it’s an emotion he finds endlessly tiring and he’s felt more than his fair share this stellar cycle.

The cons have them on the ropes, and this fragging mole is digging through his department like a drill to cyber-matter. He’s revoked clearances and moved staff around, and he still can’t find the outflow. Whoever it is has flown under his radar, and Jazz doesn’t like being hustled. He much prefers being the hustler. He supposes this is divine retribution for the unethical way the Special Operations unit sometimes has to do things, but Jazz can’t believe any of his people deserve the slag done to them.

Ironhide and Elita are still in pain over their lost ones, and he knows the feeling. He makes himself feel better with a swig of High Grade and the reality that at least their soldiers didn’t suffer, while his lay in the infirmary, brain-dead and tortured, broken for the information in their helms.

Such is the way of the agent. Jazz finds he does not like being on the receiving end.

“Jazz? You okay?”

It’s been a long time since anything has surprised him, but nonetheless he is not impervious, and he nearly tumbles from his chair when B-127 seemingly appears out of nowhere. He lets out a decidedly not-cool yelp and forces himself to still. “Shit!”

While he’s clearly apologetic, B-1 doesn’t hide his amused smile. “Sorry, J, I thought you heard me come in,” B explains, keeping his voice quiet while Jazz regains his composure. One digit picking at his little Autobot decal, B’s antenna rises and falls, and he gestures back with his helm. “Thought you might wanna join us for game night. Cliff wants to teach me Baccarat.”

He hadn’t even seen him enter. Jazz smiles fondly, taking in the teen before him, standing with his hip cocked and expectant, polite but firm. He’s a far cry from the bundle of nerves he was when they first met, though that version still rears its ugly helm sometimes. Though looking back, Jazz thinks that this fearless and witty self was always there, just hidden under the piles of slag that come with being born on this planet.

He’ll be a good one, Jazz knows. That’s one of the few comforts he finds lately, knowing that at the very least, this is a bot he can trust, even if he’s barely on the cusp of adulthood. Just a kid, and B already has his respect.

Primus, please keep him alive. Please.

“Ah hell, why not?”

“Make sure you bet high tonight, I need shanix for books,” he says with a wink, pleased to be accepted.

He stands, automatically scanning the room as he walks around his desk, clapping B on the back as they move to walk out together. B smiles brightly, and for a moment Jazz doesn’t even remember why he’s so despondent, and allows himself to be swallowed by the magnetism of B-127 and his smart-aft remarks.

***

Wy-Red passes during recharge.

It’s a quiet affair, B-1 hears. Flor Del doesn’t even scream when he finds her in the morning. They all knew it was coming.

It’s weird, to lose someone again.

He hasn’t known her long, but really, how long did he know Lycan and Blue Breeze? Besides, it doesn’t ever take long for B-1 to like someone, and he certainly liked her.

Tick-Tock cries into his shoulder at her memorial, and B-1 lets her, feeling the wash of pain and loss present in everyone’s fields. Wy-Red’s body is still, and clean for the first time since he met her. The coroner having cleaned away the treacherous azure rust, exposing her beautifully sculpted plating and elegant features. Her paint has been touched up and her expression is nothing but peaceful.

 Flor Del kneels by her pedestal, taking in every nano-klik before they have to take her away. Like his plating, she will be melted down. Brought back to her original state, all of their original states.

Blitz is a wreck, standing next to him and leaking coolant all over his palms as he weeps. B-1 reaches and places a servo on his shoulder, hoping it’s enough.

He hopes she wasn’t in pain, though in his spark he knows she was. She took medical Energon for the pain, but B-1 knows from experience that the very searing of your spark can’t be covered by mere medicine, not completely. He wonders what made them different, what made him heal where she couldn’t.

By all accounts, she was better off than he ever was. Never alone, since she had her brother, and rescued not far from the Well, they grew up in Iacon.

She was kind and good, not someone who deserved to be tortured by her own spark. Anger wells in his chest, and he holds Tock tighter, wrought by the injustice of it all. What makes his life worth saving, but hers not? Wy-Red saw things clearly even through the haze of her sickness, but it wasn’t meant to last.

Spark rejection has no cure, none that any outsider can offer at least. It comes from within, and where B-1 somehow found his cure, she never located hers.

His field swells with hurt and a horrible sympathy, and he wishes things were different.

If he had to be an example to them, as Stratta-13 claims he is, he wishes he was an example of that, of searching for your cure. In his spark, he knows he was not. Is not.

He can only hope that the Allspark has welcomed her and offered her the relief this world never could.

***

“I think, when you do, I’m gonna join the Autobots,” Blitz quietly announces, resting on his back as they look up. He’s only been half-listening as B-1 explains each constellation, now he knows why.

ZB sits up, looking at the two of them. Her face is stained with tears an awful lot lately. “Me too.”

Numbly, B-1 nods. “We’ll do it together,” he hears himself say.

When he returns to his berth suite later that night, he falls to his knees and sobs.

The Cursed, indeed.

Chapter Text

“Stunted?”

Ratchet’s heavy exvent doesn’t inspire much confidence, and B-1 tries not to let the dread pooling in his tanks affect him. His knee bounces a bit too fast and he grits his denta, forcing his chassis to still, leaving only the annoyingly familiar thrum of anxiety dancing under his plating.

The medic seems to think for a moment, his optics casing over his data-pad a few times before he seemingly finds his words. “In a manner of speaking, I had to lock down your final frame.” He says it a bit flippantly, but B-1 can tell he’s upset beyond the professional demeanor.

B-1 brings a shaky servo to his forearm, his digits causing shivers as he runs it across the newly repaired surfaces. It’s too sensitive, he thinks. Ratchet promises it’s normal, that the output his sensor nodes has been putting out is far too low, and the near-constant barrage of data he now experiences is what it should be. B-127 wants to be thankful for it, but it has admittedly taken a long time to get used to. “What, like quarantine it?”

A grimace passes over Ratchet’s features, and he seems to abandon the professional approach just to shake his helm and frown. He’s earnest, almost… contrite. B-1 tries not to shudder. “You’ve got two frames to go before you reach your full frame, but from here on out, the updates will be spread out; they could be stellar cycles apart before they schedule themselves in your stack list.”

B-1 nods, privy to this without having to be told. An update came through a few solar cycles ago, and B-1 is enjoying being a bit taller. The growth must be what has spurred this meeting on.

Ratchet continues. “For the most part, your growth has been normal. Your first initial frames took longer to integrate due to your persistent Energon Deficiency, but you’ve had no major complications, which is strange.”

Snorting, B-1 rests his chin in his palm, raising an optical ridge. “You saying I should be a metal-warped freak?”

But he only rolls his optics, and B-1 feels a burst of joy to spy the subtle twitch of the older mech’s dermas. “’Freak’ is not a medical term, B,” he gruffly corrects, before sobering and running an apprehensive servo over his audial ornaments. “You’re aware that premature T-cog activation typically results in catastrophic systemic failure. Statistically speaking, it should have destabilized your core within nano-kliks,” he says, his optics briefly flicking over B-1 with a mix of concern and curiosity. “And yet… You stabilized. Your neural-net adapted under high-stress compression. Growth rate has been irregular—slower than projected—but within acceptable parameters. In fact… it’s nearly optimal.”

He knows how to pick up on subtext. A hollow feeling swallows his little bout of pride. “So far,” he posits.

With his understanding, Ratchet stands to his pedes, walking with the gait of a man with too little recharge, stopping at a nearby console with one large screen attached at the top. Ratchet types for a nano-klik or two before the screen flickers, and B-1 cringes as his medical records and chassis scans broadcast on the display.

Though B-1 loves Ratchet with a fierce loyalty he rarely admits aloud, he hates—truly hates—being reduced to a checklist of components. All his mechanisms, systems, structural flaws. All the little glittering pieces that would make a Decepticon warlord or back-alley parts scavenger practically salivate. He shoves down the old, acidic bitterness that threatens to resurface every time his body becomes a medical chart instead of his own.

Ratchet’s vocoder clicks softly before he speaks. “Your frame has endured an extraordinary degree of mechanical stress over the last two stellar cycles alone,” he begins, his voice heavy with clinical restraint. “On top of that, you sustained substantial trauma before that period. Compounded with chronic Energon deprivation and severe nanite attrition… the injuries didn’t heal, B. They metastasized.”

He pauses, and B-1 diverts his gaze, focusing intently on the floor—specifically on the faint scoring left behind by hurried pedes, scraping wheels, lives rushing past in organized chaos. Anything to avoid looking up and seeing the storm of guilt and helplessness swirling in Ratchet’s optics.

“Your exostructure is durable, designed for high-impact tolerance—that much is true. But it’s still juvenile in architecture. It was never meant to carry this kind of load, not without proper development. Your body has been operating with unresolved system errors for most of its operational lifespan. What recovery we’ve forced it into? It’s been borderline traumatic in itself.”

Ratchet scrubs a servo across his helm, his frame sagging slightly under the weight of what he has to say next. “And that’s after I slowed everything down, gave it time to adapt. Even so… I had to make a judgment call, B. One that you weren’t conscious to approve.”

B-1 stills, feeling cold despite the typically tepid ambient temperature of the exam room. His fists clench and he does his best to reel in the old and crying sensation of control slipping through his digits.

But Ratchet looks exhausted, optics half-shuttered as he leans against the edge of the console, the worn plating of his frame creaking ever so slightly. There's an unmistakable slump in his posture—shame, regret, and something heavier hanging in the folds of his chassis. “All of this… all this rush to accelerate your recovery—it’s because of that bargain you and Optimus struck,” he mutters, and though his vocoder carries the words clearly, they land with a grainy, frayed edge—worn from overuse, from resignation.

It is no secret Ratchet disapproves of B-1’s enlistment. Whether it is due to his condition, his history, or something deeper, the medic has made his position clear in every strained diagnostic and every quiet sigh.

“I won’t send an unstable frame into the field,” he says, his voice suddenly firmer beneath the fatigue. “Not when I know what could happen if you lock up mid-mission, or worse—if your systems cascade under the weight of unresolved trauma.”

He drags both servos across his faceplates, leaving faint smudges on the white enamel, then draws in a heavy, static-laced ventilation. His frame lifts, straightening with forced precision, and when he finally locks optics with B-1 again, there’s no softness left—just grim resolve.

“Your nanites,” Ratchet continues, tone adopting a clinical sharpness, “are currently operating at their highest sensitivity threshold. During regenerative processing, they're tasked with recycling inert materials from your fuel lines, breaking them down into base elements to synthesize new cyber matter. That process is sustained by energy siphoned directly from your spark chamber. If the energy supply falters, or if your injuries surpass your spark’s throughput, the system begins to triage.”

B-1 nods slowly, staying still even as his EM field starts to flicker with unstable pulses—warm with understanding, but heavy with unease. He tries to still it, pressing it down behind his chestplates.

Ratchet gestures to the holo-display beside them, where scan data jitters across the screen—fractured silhouettes of B-1’s internals stuttering under old tech. “In extreme cases, smaller injuries are offloaded into your neuro-cache. Temporary storage. Prioritized processing. But your nanites are limited, and if that cache reaches capacity—” He trails off for a moment, the unspoken conclusion as clear as a shot to the spark. “—the nanites collapse. They die. And with them, your frame’s adaptive immune response disintegrates.”

The console’s glow flickers across Ratchet’s tired faceplates as he adds, “You wouldn’t just be vulnerable. You’d be breaking down on a molecular level.”

“I thought you’d fixed all that—with the new plating, upgraded alloys, all the slag,” B-1 mutters, letting his helm angle down slightly, finials drooping just enough to betray the tension in his frame. His instincts coil beneath his plating like a drawn spring, his subroutines whispering combat reflexes—cornered prey logic. Ratchet isn’t the enemy. He never has been. But the old fear of vulnerability clings, flaring like static across his EM field.

Ratchet exhales through his vents, the sound gritty and low, but his voice stays steady. “I did stabilize you, B. Reinforced your dermal plating with shock-dampening alloys, rerouted your cortical node interfaces, optimized your structural lattice.” A pause, a glance over his shoulder, optics narrowing with reluctant honesty. “But I had to make a choice: strength now, or resilience later. If I had full control, you'd never see a battlefield, not until your final frame was matured. But we don’t have the luxury of waiting.”

He keys in a command, dismissing the display of B-1’s fluctuating vitals with a flick of one servo. “Allowing you to heal organically would’ve left you critically exposed. I replaced over fifty percent of your native nanite colony with transgenic subroutines—preloaded, hybrid-coded repair units that could jumpstart systemic regeneration and override your failing bio-forge protocols.”

“So letting me recover at my own pace would've just made me fragile,” B-1 says quietly, fighting off the internal churn in his fuel tanks.

Ratchet nods grimly. “You’re not fragile, B. You’re efficient, but barely operating above minimum viable thresholds. As you were before, simply maintaining structural integrity while upright drains over 60% of your current Energon throughput per deca-cycle. And as your attending medic, I cannot authorize combat deployment under those parameters.”

His servos lock together as he turns away, exventing slowly. B-1 watches the subtle tremor ripple through his back struts. Not weakness—exhaustion. Old, bitter exhaustion from centuries of frontline triage and impossible choices.

Ratchet’s voice turns quieter, but no less serious. “Your next two frame upgrades are relatively standard—secondary reinforcement plating, height augmentation, denser alloy composites. Final-stage growth. But your last frame—your final protocol—is something else entirely. The schematics show a complete shift in density ratios, autonomous cyber matter synthesis... and enhanced integration of your T-cog fusion core.”

There’s a beat of silence. B-1, ever tactful, seizes it with the sharpest edge of his words. “And judging by your sudden pause, that’s bad.”

The old medic huffs a worn laugh, and B-1 softens slightly. Getting Ratchet to laugh—especially during doomsday prognosis—always feels like a small victory in the face of war.

When Ratchet turns back around, there’s a tired half-smile on his faceplates. His servos still carry that surgeon’s steadiness, but when one settles on B-1’s shoulder joint, the weight of it feels seismic.

“I’m concerned,” he admits, voice low, “that your transplanted nanites will misclassify the final growth stage as an invasive anomaly. Their heuristic subroutines are still calibrating to your unique signature. If the growth begins and they interpret the transformation as a threat… they may launch an immune response.”

B-1’s spark pulses once, hard, against his struts.

“They won’t just reject the changes,” Ratchet says, voice nearly a whisper. “They could begin isolating the new growth—treating it like viral code. That kind of internal conflict could cripple your frame from the inside out. Neural degradation. Spark interface destabilization. Systemic collapse.”

The silence after feels as clinical and cold as a morgue slab.

B-1 swallows dryly, digits flexing in his lap. “And what happens if that kicks off during combat?”

Ratchet doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t have to.

A chill sends him shuddering with a great force, and he holds back a gasp as he tears his optics away, allowing his subroutines to idly catalog information about the room. A fine distraction from the pooling dread. There are fine, spidering fractures in the windows, he should tell someone. “So you locked down the growth,” he thinks he adds, but his voice feels so very foreign.

Ratchet’s servo squeezes, a grounding gesture that does not quite work. “I didn’t tell you, I should have.”

B-127 nods, counting the tiles in the ceiling. He should have.

“… But I imagine you would have told me to do it anyway.”

He nods once more, because that’s true too. “I want to fight.”

“And this has made it possible. If we had proceeded with natural treatment, it would be at least a vorn before you could handle combat.”

It’s a scary thing, but B-1 doesn’t hesitate to reply. “Okay.”

He shouldn’t feel betrayed, Ratchet’s just looking out for his best interest. He always does. Organic mold grows under an exam table. How’d that get here?

“B.”

B-1 wonders how tall he’d be if he ever made it to his final frame. Guess he won’t find out. Someone needs to wipe down that counter, it’s filthy. He feels filthy. He pulls away, Ratchet lets go.

“Please, look at me,” the older man pleads, and B-127’s audials burn with shame as they pick up the desperation in his tone.

He complies, trying to find the correct way to feel about all of this. Grateful? Upset? Frustration builds behind his optics and B-1 wants to groan, praying to Primus for some clarity. His final frame has been stolen from him. All in the name of fighting this war.

Does that make it all worth it?

But Ratchet is upset, and it’s a rare thing, to see him so openly sad. Anger is a common occurrence, but very seldom does he allow the wounds of his work to bleed through. B-1 decides then that he’s grateful for all the trouble the doctor has gone through on his behalf. That isn’t an easy decision to make. Ratchet doesn’t move to touch him again, and B-1 is grateful for that, too.

“It can be reversed, by me,” he says quietly, almost shy. “Maybe once the war is over, in a more controlled place, I can make it right.”

Make it right.

What’s right about being told you’ll probably never be full-framed? What’s right about dying before you ever get to see it, feel it? What’s right about that?

But, then, what’s right about any of it, really?

B-1 finds one of his wider smiles, all denta and gleaming optics. He hopes it reaches beyond his face. “It’ll be my prize for once we win,” he says, breathing some life into his still chassis and pumping his fist like he’s seen Cliffjumper do when excited.

Ratchet smiles, and relief colors his field a calming aqua, and B-1 knows he’s made the right decision, had the correct reaction. He doesn’t like the loss of his complete frame, but he hates upsetting Ratchet more. There is enough to be upset about, already.

And so it is.

***

“Brigade,” Blitz exclaims, nearly dropping his Energon cube.

B-1 snorts, storing his extra for later. “That’s a stupid name.”

“It’s a kick-aft name,” Blitz argues, using his thumb to clear the dribble of fuel on his dermas.

Giving his friend a playful shove, B-1 trots ahead, turning around to jog backwards as he makes his way to the racing rink. “Well, it’s not mine.”

Blitz rolls his optics, morphing his face plate into a poorly conceived scowl. “I bet it’s something embarrassing, and that’s why you won’t tell me.”

“Do you want me to tell you?” B-1 counters, allowing a shiver to run through him as his audials pick up the first vestiges of screeching wheels and cheering onlookers.

A brief panic covers his friend’s features, and he waves his servos in front of himself. “Hell no! I can figure it out on my own… Blaze.”

B-1 scans his membership card, greeting the lady at the front entrance kindly. “The only blaze you’re about to see is the one from my tailpipe when I flame you.”

Scanning his own card, Blitz lets out a string of faux gagging sounds. “That was the lamest slag you’ve ever said,” he says in between playful heaves. B-1 snickers, feeling the prickle of optics scoring the back of his neck.

It doesn’t bother him the way it used to, since his dents are nothing more than old medical scans and memories now, but even still, he stifles a harsh exvent. He finds a wry grin, offering a wink. “Trust me, I can do so much worse.”

Seemingly more concerned with his reputation than with their banter, Blitz waves a placating servo. “Please don’t, I at least want to pretend people respect us when we get to the academy.”

The reminder is a bit sobering, and he has trouble looking at Blitz for the remainder of the outing.

He keeps forgetting they will be enlisting together.

He wonders if they’ll die together too.

***

Ratchet gives him probably the longest lecture yet when he comes home with a sizeable scrape that spans all the way from his hip up to just under his left Restarlueus socket. It hurts more than he’d like to admit, a side effect of having fully functioning sensor nodes, but B-1 still struggles not to grin throughout the entire thing.

It’s hard not to when you’ve spent the night winning, though B-1 will admit that getting slammed into the race track median isn’t exactly the best way to end he and Blitz’s competitive joust. Blitz doesn’t look better, his paint is scraped up his right thigh, and his olfactory sensors bleed from his impact with the ground when, out of instinct to protect himself, he reverted to root form.

They both reek of motor oil and no one is all that impressed with their display.

Blitz isn’t technically allowed in the tower – which B-1 is given a ludicrous amount of grief for – but Ratchet is so irate with both of them that when the two teens pull up to the gate, he gets one look at them and is dragging them by their helms to the nearest med bay, muttering harsh expletives the whole way.

“Immature, reckless nature of younglings…” Ratchet hisses as he violently rips open a pack of some weird metallic ointment.

Idly kicking his pedes, Blitz sits next to him, a cooling pack pressed firmly against his face. He leans over, close enough to B-1’s audials that the cold from the compress permeates his mesh. “My doctor is nicer than yours,” he whispers, not quite able to hide his teasing grin.

B-1 rolls his optics, giving his friend a playful shove. “My place was closer.” He doesn’t point out that Ratchet easily could have asked a nurse to handle this, or even made them treat themselves. It would have been perfectly reasonable and B-1 wouldn’t have complained at all. Blitz might, but he’s a bit of a brat.

Ratchet doesn’t like his good deeds pointed out, and B-1 can respect that.

“I heard that,” Ratchet snipes, turning to pierce them both with a withering glare as he uses some sort of eye-dropper to dilute the ointment with some creepy liquid B-1 doesn’t remember the name of. he stomps over to the two of them and Blitz recoils a bit, B-127 can only meekly lift his arm as Ratchet applies the mixture. “You two had better get used to it. You won’t get a gentle kiss for your checkups on the battlefield,” he sneers, and B-1 looks away, tanks churning at the sight of Ratchet’s optics darkening.

Blitz just splutters. “I do not get a kiss at my checkups,” he weakly argues, voice somewhat muffled by the cold compress.

The medic only scoffs. B-1 tries for a happy medium. “What if First Aid is my doctor? He’s a lot nicer than you,” he asks, knowing Ratchet might appreciate the levity.

Scoffing, Ratchet smooths out the weird filler he’s covered the scrape with, effectively hiding most of the damage. It has a weird, tingly effect on his mesh, almost hot. “First Aid knows when to point out idiocy like any good medic should. Racing, for instance.” Ratchet pulls away, glancing between the two teens. “I should lock you both in the brig to stop you from fragging up any more of my hard work.”

That inspires some guilt, and honest remorse quickly settles in, and B-1 doesn’t try to conceal the sudden shame. Blitz isn’t quite as repentant, but he seems to pick up on B-1’s change in demeanor and mirrors it reluctantly.

The pain in his side is almost entirely gone, muted by the pleasant burning left by the filling ointment. Instinctually, B-1 wishes it lasted a bit longer.

Once he’s repeated the process with Blitz’s thigh, Ratchet’s posture softens, and he places the packet on a nearby table, giving the teens a quick once-over to examine his handiwork. Pinching his optical bridge, Ratchet invents, slow and crackling as it ruts through his older components, then exvents, the whirr of compressed air filling the space. Catching them both with a stern look, Ratchet crosses his arms. “Boys, do you understand what you are signing up for?”

His optics pin B-1 in place, and his mandible unhinges weakly, a ghost of a reply on his glossa, but for all his quick thinking, his vocoder refuses to come online. They look at each other for a long time, it feels like. Blue Breeze would know what to say, but all B-1 can do is stare, Ratchet’s weathered optics boring into him, the subtle pleading found in them not lost on him.

He nearly forgets Blitz is there, but finds himself utterly grateful for him when he apparently finds his voice first. “Of course we do, doc. We’re fighting for our right to enjoy our lives,” he replies resolutely. It’s a simple statement, but Blitz isn’t really the type for long, impassioned soliloquy.

B-1 can’t tell if he agrees with the sentiment or not.

Ratchet bristles at the nickname, but it breaks him from the trance he entrapped he and B-127 in, and releases another hard breath. He shakes his helm, either in disappointment or begrudging acceptance. B-1 isn’t sure he wants to know. Ratchet starts slowly, mulling over what to say for a short while. “Just…” He turns his attention to B-1, and he feels his sparkpulse quicken, a painful spin of pressure. “Be careful, boys,” Ratchet orders quietly, saying so much without uttering another word.

They are sent away shortly after, fixed up and slightly grounded for the next few solar cycles. B-127 accompanies Blitz back to Sanctuary, who doesn’t seem nearly as shaken as he is as he weaves through the nightly traffic, unburdened by the things said by their older counsel. It’s odd to consider that not everyone thinks quite as much as B-1 does.

***

B-1 shows his friends how to play poker one night, having smuggled out the necessary holo-decks. Tick-Tock is predictably terrible, and B-127 feels immensely guilty for even bringing the prospect of a poker-face into her world, because she may be the worst liar he’s ever seen. It’s amusing enough that everyone can take it in jest, but by her third blundered bluff, everyone makes a unanimous decision to let her win at least one round.

She knows they’ve shown her pity, but B-127’s spark soars to see her happy about it at least. They have nothing to bet, so they just pretend with nuts and bolts.

Rusters Fate surprises him by winning several hands without so much as twitching. B-127 suspects it is not his first time playing, but he doesn’t push for an explanation; there’s a lot about the past that should be left there and B-1 is the last bot to ignore that. ZB-12 is a decent player, cutthroat in a way that surprises no one, and she wins a few hands without much trouble, but the hot rod she is, the ones she loses are taken with extreme prejudice.

Now, Flor Del isn’t much of a game player, even now that he no longer has to care for his ailing sister. He’s an observant one, watching over the group and, in B-1’s opinion, a bit of a worrier. He asks Tocks if her legs are in any pain and fiddles with B-1 and Blitz’s healing injuries more than once. No one says anything, not when he shares his extra Energon and not when he gives Tocks and Blitz his feeble winnings at the end of the night. It’s his nature to care, to watch over, and now the person he’s always had to watch is gone, one with the Allspark.

He's hurting, they all know, but what can anyone say? They’ve all lost people. It is the way of things.

Blitz spends his time trying to cheer him up with poorly conceived wit and bad words, which B-1 adds on to every now and then. Blitz isn’t the best strategist, so he sabotages his own hand more than once, and after a while, Rusters takes up the torch to coach him, and after that he manages to secure some solid wins, downright giddy when he lays down a flush.

B-127 doesn’t cheat tonight, but that doesn't mean he loses any less. he and Rusters are neck and neck, and while it shouldn’t, it feels good to show off.

The stellar cycle is coming to a close soon, and they can all feel it. While they help each other clean up once everything is said and done, B-1 finds himself slack-jawed when Flor Del bursts into tears for the first time since his sister’s death.

“Oh Primus, what will I do with half of you gone?” He whimpers, frantically wiping the coolant from his spilling optics. “What will I do?” He asks again, helplessly. There’s a surge in B-1’s sparkbeat and soon enough the group are stuck in a little huddle around Flor, Tick-Tock holding him close around his waist.

He sobs for a long while, and B-127’s spark is so heavy he could drop, the noise is so haunting.

It’s odd, he never considered just who he would be leaving behind.

Tick-Tock and Rusters can’t enlist with their physical disabilities. They can’t follow and B-1 hates to admit that he is glad for it. He never wanted to be the harbinger of war, the one to raise his fist and have his friends mirror it. But now he’s come and torn this group in half.

He doesn’t expect to live very long. He expects to try, because that is what he does best, but B-1 is nothing if not realistic.

Judging by the quivering state of those staying home, they aren’t expecting them to return, either.

Smart, his friends.

***

“Only a few deca-cycles left, Optimus,” Ultra Magnus says, voice rather grave. The wash of wavelengths echoes the sentiment, bleeding into each other and leaving the group melancholy. “Are you sure this is wise?”

Optimus nods, resting his servo on Magnus’s arm, hoping to quell his unease. “B-127 has more than earned his chance to join our ranks,” he says, gently and mild as he ushers a small smile as he pictures the bright young spark.

But Ironhide exvents harshly, resting an elbow on the conference table and picking at an old wound where the welding has begun to separate. “He is chomping at the bit, Magnus, if we do not allow him this chance, he’ll go off on his own to prove he can.”

“And he’ll mock us the entire time he does it,” Jazz adds with a fond smile. Optimus settles, pleased to see some of the tension leave his commander’s shoulders. Jazz and B have gotten close over the stellar cycle, and Optimus knows the new spark’s company has been a great relief to the spy. Optimus will always be grateful for the unsaid kindness, even if B isn’t even aware he’s bestowed it. That’s a talent of his, and it’s what their ranks need.

A gun or a punch can certainly make a difference, but unsaid kindness will always leave the room speechless.

Barely holding onto consciousness, Ratchet lifts himself from his resting position in his chair, shaking his helm. Optimus frowns, feeling the familiar claws of a tortured spark clenching around the flooded mess of fields. His comrades tense, and Optimus knows they can feel it too. “He’s more zealous than ever,” he utters, and Optimus offers a tendril of comfort through his resonance, but Ratchet steadfastly refuses it. “He pretended to be okay with the locking of his frame. For my benefit.”

Wrapping her arms around Ratchet’s neck, Elita-1 tuts softly. “That’s just how he is, Ratch, you’ve gotta give him space to mourn in private. He would never allow himself to lash out at you.” Giving him a squeeze, she pulls away, walking around the table to stand by Optimus’s side. “He feels indebted to you.” She looks around, and Optimus’s chest tingles at the sensation of her compassion. “To all of you.”

Bolstered by her gentle but righteous spark, Optimus steps forward. This meeting isn’t strictly meant to revolve around B, it’s more of an annual debrief of the commanders and generals. The meeting has run long and everyone is more discouraged than when they arrived. Kalis has faced another attack, and though his soldiers reigned victorious once again, the battle was unsettlingly close.

 B just seems to come up whenever they need something else to think about. Ironhide, Chromia, and Ratchet all lean or sit on the far end of the conference table, while Prowl and Ultra Magnus stand by the sprawling wall of windows, showcasing a gloomy, cloudy cycle on Iacon. First Aid sits by the elevator; much like his superior, he’s half asleep.

“My friends, we cannot lose sight of what all of this is for,” Optimus starts, drawing the attention of his weary commanders. “A stellar cycle will come and pass as they always do; we cannot change that. B-127 has been more than accommodating to our demands and has shown he is more than capable of adapting to our ways. Though young, he has come a long way in this short time we’ve known him, it would be a betrayal to delay granting his wishes now.” He turns, meeting Chromia’s gaze with an ushering stare. “Chromia, do you believe he is physically able?”

The blue femme seems to consider the query for a moment, before a small smile finds its way across her features. Optimus has seen it many times when she speaks of her warriors. “His balance is lacking, but you’ll find no more determined a spark than him,” she answers decisively, standing a bit straighter as she considers her young pupil.

Ratchet drags a palm across his face, huffing softly. “His gyroscope needs time to fully calibrate, even orbital cycles after the operation.”

“But he can work through it, yes?” Ironhide inquires.

The medic slowly stands, and Optimus’s spirit mourns the way his friend’s pistons crackle under the strain. “Know this, everyone; he will have to work harder than every one of his fellow cadets.” He says it with a twinge of derision.

“But he will do it,” says Ultra Magnus, stepping away from the window to flank Optimus. He’s glad to have the commander’s support. “By Primus, he will.”

***

She finds him on a restricted portion of the roof, hunched over his knees as his neck cranes to examine the dreary night sky. Elita-1 shakes her helm sadly, he won’t find his precious stars tonight. She doesn’t announce her arrival, but she knows he’s aware of her by the swivel of his antennae. It’s a little victory that he does not tense up at being walked up on anymore. Well, he doesn’t tense for her, at least.

“You know you’re not supposed to be up here,” she gently chides, plopping herself down beside him. Her spark flutters, and she stops herself from pulling him into a hug. He went through a frame update a few deca-cycles ago, and it’s odd to see B get taller. He’d been taller than her when they’d first met, but it was a near thing. Wilting a little, she tries not to think of Ratchet’s agonized shivers when he’d confided in her. She can’t imagine taking away someone’s chance to experience their full self, but she supposes that’s why she isn’t a doctor.

At the time, Elita hadn’t said anything, despite the gut reaction of anger that had shot through her. She knows no harsh invectives she might have spewed would equal what Ratchet already feels.

Still, she knows B is upset too.

But he’s good at hiding it, or, has gotten good at hiding it. It’s a bad habit in the making, but Elita-1 doesn’t have the spark to stop him, not when she’s about to help send him off to a life of horror and violence. Hiding your feelings can sometimes be an asset, and Elita-1 doesn’t think B is willing to show himself to just anyone.

Case in point, his face is a blank mask, until it isn’t, morphing into a wry grin. He doesn’t look away from the multi-colored clouds as he replies. “I should tell Jazz there’s a weak spot in the security here, but then I’d have to give this place up.” His voice is a deeper tenor than what she’s used to. She hates to admit he’s getting older. She would’ve liked to know him during the grace period where sparklings are stagnant in their growth.

Too late, she knows.

One stellar cycle isn’t anything at all to her, she’s only just met B, but to him, it must feel like an eternity.

“What makes you think I won’t rat you out?” She asks, already feeling lighter as a grin finds its way to her face plate. Elita isn’t like the others, she’s got no reason to fight the joy B brings her.

At that, B only offers her an unstirred glance, optical ridge raised. He looks back to the heavens, his optic lenses dilating as an impish look takes over his features. “Because if you do, I’ll tell Jazz you hustled him playing dice last deca-cycle.”

A bemused laugh bubbles forth and Elita-1 feels the tension in her pauldrons drain away. “Blackmail, huh? Sneaky little turbo-fox,” she responds, unable to keep the amusement from her voice. While B has always had a certain gall – even around people he doesn’t know—it’s weird to see him so willing to challenge her. Just a stellar cycle ago he would admonish himself for even speaking out of turn.

B shrugs, seemingly pleased to have made her smile, confident she won’t through with her threat. “Cliff says I’m conniving.”

That ushers another snicker, but she shakes her helm, resting a servo on the small of his backstrut, just before the joints of his door wings begins. He stills for only a moment before relaxing into it. That’s a work in progress, too. “Cliff is a wonderful Autobot, and I love him to death, but sometimes he borders on loquacious,” she supplies, trying not to let the floodgates open to drown her in one of Cliffjumper’s endless ramblings.

Unfurling his legs, his knees hang off the edge of the tower’s roof, dangling as he absently kicks his cadulens back and forth. “So, I’m not conniving,” he probes.

She offers him a kind pat on the back. “Well, I would’ve used a prettier word.”

Chuckling, he gifts her with a snide click of his vocoder. “What makes a word ‘pretty?’” He asks, leaning back against his servos, eyeing her quizzically. Piercing, those optics, she stifles a shudder.

Gesticulating with her servo, Elita-1 diverts her gaze to the skyline, watching the thinly veiled formation of an Autobot air patrol. Prowl has them working harder than ever, she hopes they are making time to rest. The city smells of ozone. “It has to remind me of the color pink, or sound funny to say. Ugly words are more Jazz’s speed.”

He snorts at the jab, though judging by the levity ghosting around him, B doesn’t have any argument for her. “Duplicitous,” he replies after a while, playing the word over his glossa a few times.

Within a moment her infodex pings her HUD with an unnecessary definition, and she blinks it away, pursing her derma to consider. “Hm, I was thinking more along the lines of guileful.”

His cute, telling antennae rise at that, turning a few times, and Elita-1 is dazzled by the way his bio-lights run up it in sequence. “Giving me a lot of credit, don’t you think?” He questions honestly, looking her up and down as if she’s about to burst out laughing.

But she only smiles, reaching a tentative arm up to softly rest her palm against his cheek. He’s running hot tonight, she notes, something troubling him down to the spark. “Tell me, how does a teenager with no caretakers sneak out into a restricted area of our heavily fortified tower, twice?” The question transitions from her voice box smoothly, quiet enough that the passing wind could carry the inquiry away with it.

The questioning takes him back a bit, and for a moment, she sees a glimpse of that kid from so many cycles ago, the one who couldn’t even handle her touch. The fear is like a strike to her spark, traveling from his own through their shared space and cutting her down. But B is nothing if not tenacious, and she sees the moment he reels himself back in, schooling his features and exventing slowly. As if he has to remind himself that there is no risk in her presence. No glass to walk over, no tightrope to balance on.

It breaks her spark to hear the nearly imperceptible warble in his voice. “Just practice, ma’am. I’ll always know the best hiding places.” His voice is timid, resigned. “I’ve been up here many times, Commander.”

The overly formal reply sets her on edge, but after a period, B leans into her touch, his optics shuttering for a few nano-kliks, before the flicker to life, and he simply looks at her, dissecting her every thought. Oh, to know what goes on inside his processor, if only. “Ratchet would scold you for being so reckless,” she teases, hoping to bring back some of that jovial spunk he’d had in spades just kliks ago. “But I suppose you get enough of that for the racing.”

A little smile forms, and she can only guess he’s thinking of an army of stressed-out nurses and one irate doctor. It’s gone too soon, and Elita-1 prays for the stars to appear tonight. “He should know I’m not stupid enough to bust up all his hard work.” With a little creak, his shoulders hunch, and as Elita retracts her servo, he stares down at his legs, shielding himself from her. “I’m not that selfish.”

She frowns. “You’re not selfish at all, sweetie,” she argues tenderly, leaning in to touch him again. He fully pulls away from her then, and she sighs. “B, they’ll let you join. You’ve earned it.”

Scoffing, B straightens, bringing his arms to his lap. “I’ve forced it. None of you would have allowed it if I hadn’t made myself a security risk. I counted the cards and rigged the deck in my favor.” His Autobot decal glimmers in the faded moonlight. The sticker is a bit wrinkled and faded now, B had to remove it from his old plating, and the adhesive has weakened. He picks at it mindlessly.

“Primus, I’ve got to get you away from the rec room,” she replies, and B’s optics blow wide as he observes her easy smile. “… Do you still believe this is all out of pity?” Elita blows out a vent at the tail-end of her sentence, hoping to ease the building heat in her spark. They no longer sit on a long throne of crystal, and next to her no longer rests a broken and timid bot. Somewhere in this stellar cycle, they’ve managed to give him back some of his vibrance, in the most physical sense.

She can only hope it goes beyond the clever comments and shiny new finish.

A silence stretches between them for a while, B taking his time to consider her question, the breeze whistling between them in some approximation of a harmony. She observes a new scratch on his hip plate, and immediately she knows it’s from one of his many racing outings. The thought makes her smile, because it feels right, that his first injury in his new armor would be from something fun. Not from running or hiding, not from some unknown threat, just an inconsequential mark that comes with all good things.

“Not anymore,” he finally replies, his tone even and sure despite the quiet nature of it. “I feel better knowing I’ll be useful, that I can pay it all back.”

There’s a trill in her spark that nearly sends her jolting, but she coaxes the reaction to a finer twitch. “You have no debts to pay here, B, I wish you’d accept that,” Elita says, unable to keep the tired vexation from her inflection.

The younger mech only chuckles, distant as he glares off in the distance, lenses barely swelling to take in the cityscape. He leaves her a lot, goes somewhere else. Elita desperately wishes he would let her know where. “I knew you’d say that,” he responds tiredly, a resigned smile gracing his derma. Eventually, his helm tilts, and he looks down at her, and she can’t bear how somber he appears. “But my debts go back further than this tower.”

He's never spoken about the past, and no one has ever pried. It’s not the way Autobots work, at least, not the way Optimus wants it to. A person’s life is their own, and whether they choose to share it is up to them. Elita-1 has always respected that, she knows there are plenty of things from her life she would rather remain buried. Despite this truth she holds to so dearly, she finds herself nearly desperate to know who could sink their claws so deeply into B’s spark, to make him see the world this way.

But she doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t tell, and in her spark, Elita knows it’ll stay that way for eons to come. The past has a way of chaining you to the ground and clouding your every thought, and the truth of the matter is that no one can unlock your manacles except yourself. The key is always within reach, but it takes time and strength to allow yourself that freedom.

Elita isn’t sure B has even noticed his key yet.

She doesn’t go on scouting missions very often anymore. There are better operatives with the skills and drive to do it. But you never forget the patience learned through every long surveillance op, and as much as Elita hates having to wait, she knows this will be a long, laborious one.

B shifts, door wings falling to a near pinned position on his back. It’s cute, though it’s not an uncommon sight amongst her kind, but B has always found a way to stand out, even when he isn’t trying to. Sucking in a harsh ventilation, he shakes his helm. “Is Optimus going to hold me back?”

The query startles her, and her optics widen at the sudden change of topic. Absently, she shakes her helm. “No, sweetie, of course not.” She places a grounding servo on his arm, masking his peeling decal. “What makes you think he will?” It’s an honest question, and her helm ornaments twist a bit in curious puzzlement. Optimus loves B, even if they don’t get to spend as much time together as the Prime would like. They enjoy discussing more academic matters, and Elita knows Optimus thrives on conversations like that, forever her silly archivist.

Tightening his posture a little bit, B shuffles self-consciously, tearing his gaze away to huddle against his knees again as he brings them close to his chest, somewhat pinning her servo between them. “Prowl and Ultra Magnus doubt me. Ratchet too.”

Understanding dawns and Elita purses her dermas, eliciting a small ‘oh’ from her vocoder. “I see, you think their doubt will convince Optimus to hold you here longer.” She hates the way she says that, ‘hold you here,’ uhg. Gives her the chills, thinking of B as any sort of prisoner. He should never be anywhere near a prison; he’s got his own chains already. “B,” she starts, his moniker rolling through her thraceatic cables like sweet Energon. “Of any of your peers, we all know you deserve your chance the most.”

It's such an overt display of favoritism and Elita knows most of the commanders wouldn’t appreciate her admitting that out loud, but she doesn’t give a damn. It’s true, and she’s never had the spark for strong lies, which has always been Jazz’s area. She loves new sparks, adores them with all her being, and relishes any chance she gets to visit with them, but she knows if she had to choose between any of them, B would come first. Though she’s never taken on the task of full-time caretaker – and he probably never will, with the way the war is going – Elita isn’t stupid enough to ignore the pull of her resonance whenever he’s around.

Despite the troubled pull of his body language, Elita can tell her reassurances have broken through some of his gloom, and he nods a few times as if to further convince himself of her credibility. “I won't let anyone down, I promise. I’ll prove I didn’t waste your time,” he pledges resolutely, some life returning to his frame. That familiar fire blazes in his optics, and Elita wants to smile at his unyielding determination, even in the face of his self-doubt. If she pushes her audials, she can pick up on the steady pulse of B’s spark-beat. It’s a little fast, according to Ratchet, but oh, is it strong.

There’s a lot of anger there, old and wretched, but Elita holds little hope of unpacking the sheer well of it without causing him to pull away. She won’t break his trust now that she’s earned it. “Well, personally, you’ve got nothing to prove to me,” Elita corrects, holding up a digit and pointing to herself. “Jazz already thinks you’re awesome. Ironhide and Chromia both brag about your agility, and Optimus might get in trouble if he likes you any more.” Admitting it with a smile keeps B from bristling, and she’s satisfied to hear him giggle.

Exaggerating her pout, she waves a servo by her helm. “The rest just haven’t come to understand your spark just yet.”

That gets her a little burst of indignant laughter, and he rolls his optics. “Yeah, get in line.”

“It takes time, B. Knowing yourself is an exhausting and long venture, but you’ll get there, sweetie, I promise.” Giving up any pretense of subtlety, Elita rests her helm against his shoulder with a clink, wrapping an arm around his neck as best she can from this angle. “My spark surprises me sometimes even now. I’ve done things I never thought myself capable of, good and bad. We aren’t just the strings of code wired into us, B, we aren’t just one thing, one experience.”

Something about what she says makes him tense up, and she can feel him fighting to keep the reaction minimal. Unsure if she’s upset him further, she offers an affectionate squeeze.

His vocoder crackles a little, breaking between each word, and with it her spark. “Tell me I’m going to do well. Tell me and maybe I’ll believe it,” he quietly begs, and Elita doesn’t care to look up to see if coolant leaks from his optics, sparing him the indignity.

“B-127, soon enough, the world will know your name.”

Surprisingly, that makes him laugh. It’s a small burst, but it rejuvenates Elita in ways she didn’t realize she needed.

“Don’t let Blitz hear you say that.”

***

The room spins, and B-1 feels like he’s falling through the floor. The ceiling of his berth suite has never been so dizzying, and he fights violently not to be sick.

An audience with Optimus has never been so fragging stressful.

Rationally, B-127 knows that it’s supposed to be rather casual. Optimus will tell him if he is or is not allowed on the bus leaving for Iacon Academy, and they’ll sign some documents to make it all official. Tie it up in a bow, as Cliffjumper says. Supposedly, the academy isn’t too far from the city, but it’s a hidden camp, secluded to ensure the cadets’ safety so they can focus on training and whatnot.

Everyone seems to know the stellar cycle is up, and his verdict will be read, so he’s been pestered with endless encouragement for the past orbital cycle and B-1 feels rather guilty for being sick of it. True or not, the endless platitudes from Elita or Jazz have felt rather hollow, empty promises of his potential. Blitz and ZB-12 are practically buzzing with trepidation, just waiting for his okay so they can enlist too.

Prowl and Ultra Magnus have been shadows of doubt, even if they’ve both warmed up to him in different ways, he knows they still don’t really think he can do this.

And maybe he can’t.

It’s self-fulfilling prophecy, he’s noticed. For him to try so hard and then fail, just an endless repetition of his foolhardy spark begging for greatness, only to fall straight on his aft like an idiot.

Primus, he doesn’t want to do that this time.

A knock resounds throughout the small space, and he barely has time to scramble to his pedes before Optimus’s stoic features appear through the door. B-1 stifles a laugh as he has to duck to fight through the entrance. His presence is usually calming, but with B-1’s fate in the palm of his servos, B-127 has to stop himself from puking.

“Morning, Optimus,” he greets kindly, only half sincere as he grins up at the older man.

Optimus responds in kind, resting the two data-pads in his grip under his arm so he can place a fond servo on his helm. “It is indeed, B.”

He’s tired, like everyone else. B-1 forces his stabilizers to work, and the is proud he doesn’t shake as he sits on the edge of his berth, with Optimus soon following.

Neither of them speak, which is nice. B-1 likes being able to be silent with Optimus, when they aren’t discussing a book, or he isn’t asking silly war-related questions. It’s nice to be around someone who doesn’t mind simply being around him, no talking required. Newdawn was never one for conversation, and while the quiet has sort of become a harbinger for his phantoms, B-1 also often feels Newdawn would appreciate him taking a moment to steep.

Of course, all good things come to an end, and B-1 isn’t going to keep hiding when he knows he shouldn’t. Autobots don’t do that. “Well, what’ll it be, boss bot?”

Optimus seems pleasantly occupied by the playful sobriquet, though he only replies with one of his softer smiles. It’s difficult to get a laugh out of him, too serious a Prime to chortle the way Elita-1 might, but a smile will do. B-1 knows what a feat it can be even to achieve that. “Tell me, have you finished the last book I gave you?” Optimus asks, pointedly not answering his question.

But it’s not a bad topic to divert to, and B-1 replies with a good-natured nod of his helm, briefly glancing to the shelf where he keeps his data-books. It’s a tad overflowing, but it’s not a complete mess. Besides, if he’s shipping out to the academy, he won’t be allowed to take more than a few personal items, and beyond the reading material, B-1 finds himself borderline nomadic.

Owning a lot doesn’t feel like such a good idea, in this world.

“Yeah,” he responds, returning to himself with a small sigh. “I had no idea the Quintessons were so brutal,” he adds with a self-effacing chuckle, reaching to rub the back of his neck in a self-soothing gesture. His latest read had been an old memoir from some long-extinguished veteran of the Quintesson war. Some General Montain with a bunch of numbers at the end. It was long and diverting, and extremely, extremely violent. By the end of the book, the poor warrior had none but one of his friends left, and a raptured planet to repair, infected with organic matter and nearly nothing to show for his kind’s grueling battle.

Cybertron can’t seem to catch a fragging break.

The Prime replies with a quiet grunt of agreement, cocking his helm to view the city through the window. “It was, we lost many dear friends to their treachery.” It’s said with that sort of lilt Optimus always gets when recalling something, and B-1’s optics zoom and capture every little twitch of his dermas, the worry line in between optical ridges. It’s weird to think that this isn’t the first war Optimus has lived through.

B-1 isn’t sure he would have the strength to go through this twice. “I’m sorry you have to fight again,” he admits, honest as his spark spins softly in a sudden whirl of tenderness.

It takes a moment for Optimus to look at him again, and B-127 feels a tremor of shame when his observant subroutines offer him no help in discerning the older bot’s facial expression. Optimus is tough like that. At least with Prowl you know he’s just like that, with Optimus, it’s like walking into a cave without knowing if it’ll collapse on top of you. “Your compassion is admirable, B-127, however, I’m afraid I can’t empathize with General Montaine,” his optics take on that glazed affect again, and B-1 finds himself a little unnerved. “In the times of the Quintesson war, I never stepped a pede on the battlefield.”

The admission rocks through B-1 like a punch to the face, and his vocoder makes a choked bleeping noise. “What? But you… you’re, y’know, you.”

That gets a small laugh, and despite the weird twisting inside him, B-1 knows he’s done well to help make Optimus happy. That feels like something to be celebrated. “I did not have the title of Prime at the time. Far from it,” he begins, his countenance taking on a lighter visage. “I was a mere clerk, an archivist. I had no weapons and little desire to harm anyone, I was still young and wary of the idea of violence.”

B-1 stops himself from snorting. A pang of envy colors his spark a darker blue, and he does his best to will it away. He wonders what that kind of ignorance is like.

Optimus continues with a little rumble of his smokestacks. “In the throes of our battle, I assisted in organizing assignments for commanders, writing out protocols, and summarizing debrief reports. I admit that in my youth, even the reports of the soldiers weakened my spirit to know they were suffering for the sake of our very chance to live in peace. Even still, I could not bring myself to pick up a weapon.”

It feels almost impossible to consider, the idea of Optimus not being… well, Optimus. The steadfast and unceasingly strong leader of their little revolution. A mech who’s seen more battle than B-1 will probably ever know. The same bot who has fought for B-1’s right to be here every step of the way.

But then, he thinks that maybe it isn’t such a stretch. Glancing at the pile of books, and recalling Optimus’s willingness to give them away, the endless conversations spent talking about nothing.

He thinks of the names in the memorial hall, and the fact that once upon a time, Optimus wrote each and every eulogy. That sort of patience and compassion can only come from a gentle spark.

Cliffjumper believes that the version of himself from the past is within arm's reach, just sitting in the backseat, waiting for his chance to remind the world he remains despite it all. B-1 wonders if Optimus feels the same way about the archive clerk he once was.

Standing, B-127 takes a few steps, shaking his helm as he stands in front of the sitting Prime. “So, what changed?” He asks, itching to know what it takes to push aside what you know and pick up a sword. He knows what it took for him, and the cost was great.

But Optimus just smiles, and B-1 can tell it’s a story for another time. “I did,” he replies, his deep baritone soothing B-1’s ruffled plating. “A need was there, and regardless of my fear, I stepped in to fill that need.”

“I can do that too,” B-1 says quickly, feeling his resolve solidify in his chest. “I can fill a need too, Optimus,” he promises urgently, taking a step forward into his space, feeling his floaty, weirdly ethereal field close in on him in some comforting gesture.

Holding up a servo, Optimus rests it against B-127’s chest plates, and B-1 doesn’t think his spark could spiral any louder; it is honestly obnoxious. “I know you can, B, I have never doubted that. My point is that there are many things to do in the face of war that do not include having to harm another person.”

Taking a harsh step back, B-1 reels, sucking in a disjointed ventilation as a ripple of betrayal slides down his throat. “You don’t want me to go.” He forces it out like it is poison. “But Optimus, you said – I thought I did everything right – you promised me—”

Two servos clamp down around his shoulders, and B-1 freezes, and he hates the flicker of fear that comes through because it’s been orbital cycles since that’s happened, but here he is, flinching at Optimus of all bots. His protests die in his voice box, and he prays his plating stays still as Optimus looks down on him. There’s something in his optics, a lack of sheen that leaves B-1 feeling very weak all of a sudden.

Optimus takes a knee, and one of his servos moves to gently clasp the back of his neck. It’s a strong, placating gesture, but B-1 can only meet his sure gaze with an unsure one. “B-127, know this, I will never force you to do something you do not want to do,” he begins, sounding so sincere it rips through B-1’s spark. “I apologize for being ambiguous, it was not my intention.”

“Then what else were you trying to say, Optimus? What the hell else?” B-1 whispers, his vocoder rasping in places it shouldn’t.

Sometimes, it’s hard to read the Prime, but now, as his optical ridges crease, B-1 knows exactly what he’s thinking. “I believe I was trying to admit that I will worry about you,” he says, and B-1 is a bit amazed to hear a twinge of sheepishness. “… And you would be no less a soldier if you chose to pursue a non-combatant role.”

A warm, ooey gooey fuzzy feeling fills B-1’s chest, slowly falling down to his pedes and making him shiver. Optimus isn’t exactly shy with his affection, but he is reserved and a very busy man. Never in a million vorns would he ever consider receiving such a declaration from a Prime, such an open admittance of fondness, it’s weird, and unsettling. There’s a pleasantness to it, like when Elita kisses his temple or when Jazz pats his back, but still, he isn’t sure what to do with the kindness.

But it’s there, and he’s got no choice but to accept it, now. A sad smile graces, and B-127 rests his palm against Optimus’s hulking forearm. “You know I can’t do that, Optimus,” he says, voice near a harmless murmur. “You know I’m built for this.”

Optimus isn’t surprised by that answer, he can tell, and a grim acceptance roils in the coils of his EM. “Very well, B.” Letting go, the Prime turns, taking both data-pads in his grasp and setting them up to be filled out. B-127’s metal surges charge where he’s been touched, and it takes a nano-klik to return to himself.

Acid rain begins to pellet against the window as they fill out the forms of enlistment, working together to make sure everything is put in appropriately. It’s a rather quiet afternoon, considering. Honestly, B-1 had expected far more spectacle on his joining the ranks. He is glad that isn’t how it happens, but it’s weird to experience such a milestone without anyone but Optimus. The end of his first stellar cycle, his anniversary of whatever the hell this all is.

The thought makes him chuckle, and Optimus sends a fond ping through his field, and B-1 reciprocates, and ponders if he does that for anyone else.

***

“Fragging finally! How long does it take to pack up that fancy berth suite?” ZB moans, her noticeably bigger travel pack dangling off her hip. B-1 replies by sticking out his glossa and using a rather rude gesture.

His pack is smaller than both ZB's and Blitz’s, which isn’t a surprise since he’s seen both of their bunks in Sanctuary. They could both be classified as hoarders if they were allowed to keep more. “You know they’re gonna make you dump half of that,” he warns, stepping up to them and examining the bus and the waiting line of future cadets.

Bus might be a poor term, B-127 thinks. It’s more of a train, guided by an armed escort and fortified against aerial attacks. It’s cool as hell. The future cadets are cool too. Most of the bots he sees are older than the trio, but he also spies a few new sparks there. Among them is Flor Del, a surprising addition. He wanders to them with that same quiet gentleness.

“Didn’t know he was comin’ too,” Blitz whispers, not bothering to mask his shock. Flor Del is a big guy, but not a violent one.

Recalling Optimus’s words, B-1 gives Blitz a little nudge. “He’s not joining as a soldier, Blitz.” And with that statement, B-1 can only picture Wy-red, and Flor Del’s abiding care for her, sacrificing his own time to ensure her happiness, however fleeting. B-127 can’t help but well up with a strange pride he did not expect. “He’s joining as a medic.”

It’s a healthy mixture, he thinks. Everyone looks equally apprehensive.

ZB is busy whispering about how ‘unfair’ it is that she has to give up her things, B-1 diverts his attention away to the distant, tall shadow of the Autobot’s tower. For security reasons, cadets are shuttled away from the city before they leave, passing through several checkpoints before they are allowed passage to the school. B-1 doesn’t mind them much anymore, but the medical port will always be an invasive feeling for him.

He feels a pang of sadness, seeing it so far away. It’s become his home so quickly, saying goodbye to it now is more painful than he’d like to admit. He tries to remind himself that it isn’t the same as the settlement, that everyone inside is still alive, and he’ll have a place to return to.

Not every goodbye is forever, and that’s something he still has to learn.

Most of the commanders couldn’t follow him through to the bus stop, and B-127 is obliged to keep his somewhat teary farewells to himself, within the comfort of the tower’s courtyard. Ratchet had hugged him, and that still has him reeling. Ratchet’s never been the one to initiate that kind of contact, so it has him all weepy that the medic would show that kind of care.

Prowl and Ultra Magnus weren’t much for sending him off, but he hadn’t really expected a grand gesture from either of them. Ultra Magnus did offer him a straight-backed salute, which B-1 returned very badly.

Ironhide, Chromia, and First Aid all give similar speeches about ‘doing his best,’ and ‘honoring his sigil.’ B-127 finds it all rather touching, and promises to do his best for each of them. Chromia sheds a few tears for her little student, and he challenges her to spar the next time they meet. That helps perk her up a bit, and Ironhide thanks him for being understanding of her. B-1 grants the older man mercy and doesn’t mention the way he chokes back a few little hiccups too.

The nurses he’s come to love all pitch in to put together a small first aid kit for him, small enough to keep in his sub-space and not be commandeered by the MP’s upon arrival.

He and Optimus don’t have much to say to each other, nothing they don’t already understand, but they share a meaningful look, and more than ever, B-1 feels Newdawn’s approval, and that in itself winds him. Optimus isn’t Newdawn, B-127 isn’t sure the Prime will ever even know his name, but he knows the two would get along, and that sentiment is enough to strangle his spark in warmth.

And, well, no one was going to keep Jazz and Elita away.

A few chosen people have made the short journey to say their farewells, a femme and a mech embrace near the end of the docking bay, and B-1 can only assume they are Conjux or something like it. Still, none are quite as animated as Elita-1 when she charges up the steps, her heel-struts clinking against the metallic floor material. She very nearly pushes both of them off the dock and into the track, but B-1 has just enough grace to secure her.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re leaving already,” she wails against his chest, her arms secured around his torso with a strength he didn’t know she had. “I’m not ready to give you up,” she says resolutely, looking up to narrow her optics. “I lied, I’m going to go back home and tell Optimus to make you stay.”

“And let my boy miss out on the highs n’ lows a’ dorm life? Don’t think so, Lita,” Jazz scolds, grinning wide, pulling a slightly miffed Elita-1 out of their embrace only to entrap B-1 in another one. It’s an intimate hold, with Jazz’s palm pressing his helm into the crook of his shoulder. It’s still so weird to him, but B-1 won’t say he isn’t completely moved by it all. He truly is.

A stellar cycle ago, he’d nearly forgotten what this warmth felt like. He promises every cycle not to take it for granted.

“Okay, okay,” B-1 replies with a sheepish laugh, relishing in the hug for only a moment more before pulling away. “You two could have stayed at the tower, I knew the way.”

Elita gives him a little poke on the very center of his face plate. The gesture makes him a bit dizzy. “Someone had to see you off.”

Jazz nods, his vizor glinting in the mid-morning light. “Yeah, I’m gonna miss having such a loyal gopher,” he jokes, the teasing edge making B-127 chuckle.

Pointing a slightly accusing digit in Jazz’s direction, B-1’s dermas split wider into a rather devious grin. “You joke, but you still owe your ‘gopher’ fifty shanix and an Energon token.” B-1 pretends to count off on his digits, his door wings rising in jest when Jazz’s bliss fizzles a bit at the mention of his debts.

The spy raises his palms up in faux surrender. “Alright, alright, little card scraplet, I’ll have it for ya next time I see ya,” he promises, and B-1 rolls his optics.

They both know there’s no telling when that might be.

That thought seems to sober them both, and Jazz rests his servos on his hip, appraising him under the visor. B-1 fidgets, feeling a lot like a specimen under a microscope, but there’s nothing to be done when an observant bot like Jazz has you within his scope.

A whistle blows, indicating to all present that it really is time to leave.

Elita-1 enters his space again, reaching up to grasp the sides of his helm, pecking him lightly on the forehelm. It reminds him so much of Faylever it physically hurts. But Elita is kind, so much so. “Don’t let them forget you, B. I know I won’t.”

“I promise,” he utters, barely a whisper, sealing the vow between them.

Her touch is gone a moment later, and she backs away with the sweet countenance infecting her every move.

“C’mon, criminal, or I’m not saving you a seat!” Blitz calls, already halfway up the walk to the bus entrance.

“Who’d wanna sit next to you anyway?” B-1 swiftly calls back, earning him a small slew of bad words and frustrated laughter.

Jazz, while clearly amused, only nods, his door wings raised high with promise. “Don’t get too drunk, do the work, you’ll be fine,” he finally says, stepping forward and taking his forearm in his servos. Turning it over, they both survey the peeling decal. With dexterous skill, Jazz peels the thing off with a flourish, letting it rest in his palm. “You ain’t need this anymore. Does he, Lita?”

Elita-1 shakes her helm, taking the sticker from him, pressing it firmly next to her official insignia.

“You’ll wear it well, B, I know it,” Jazz says, gently shoving him away towards the awaiting bus. Blitz and Flor Del both wait for him at the door. Jazz retracts his visor, fixing B-1 with a steely and commanding gaze. It’s moments like these that B-1 truly remembers that Jazz isn’t just some fun-loving guy with a tendency to bet beyond his means. He’s a commander of the Autobot resistance, and he’s fragging earned it. “Trust in it, kid. I meant it then, and I mean it now.”

B-127 is still trying to understand what that order truly means, but he knows it’s crucial to Jazz, so it’s crucial to him. “Yes, sir.”

Jazz scoffs, they both know he isn’t particularly fond of the whole ‘sir’ thing, and it’s funny to push his buttons with it.

It’s a fitting way to say goodbye. It’s an unfinished goodbye, one that doesn’t add ghosts to his back or voices to his helm. It’s just a stay, a waiting period until he draws a new card, a good kind of tension. “Get outta here, cadet,” Jazz directs, all snickers and helm shakes.

B-1 turns, following his first official order, giving the tower one last look as he boards. Dark thunderous clouds sully the skies a long distance away. Soon enough, within the next few solar cycles, Iacon will be shrouded in shadows and vibrant acid, and for the first time in an entire stellar cycle, B-1 won’t be there to see it.

Pray, can you see the stars at the academy?

Chapter Text

Reception Battalion, or ‘Deca-cycle Zero,’ is a flurry of activity, and B-1 is glad for it. In between division assignments, documentation, fitness tests, and medical exams, he’s had no time whatsoever to miss anyone from the tower. With an efficient processor like his, you’d think it wouldn’t be an issue, but B-1 doesn’t know if he’s ever cataloged this much data this quickly in his entire life.

Just as predicted, a lot of personal items get thrown away by the instructors, preceded by a long, and very loud explanation of contraband. B-1 gets to keep his meagre stash, but ZB-12 has to throw out a lot of her junk, along with a few older trainees who thought they might get away with it for posterity. It’d be funny if the verbal lashing the bots got didn’t leave him slightly winded, even without being on the receiving end.

Maybe it’s just his competitive streak, but he feels a bit of pride to be the first to finish all his documentation, handing it in to a nice secretary named Blank Page, though judging by the weird look the mech gives him, his short time has everything to do with having little to fill out. His medical records have been sent over along with all the preliminary slag he went over with Optimus, the rest is all personal history, and almost none of B-1’s applies to the supplied blocks, so he leaves almost half of them empty.

Yeah, he can picture the Staff Sergeant now, “wow, you have no caretakers and no hometown, no personal data, and two friends, I’m so impressed.”

Everyone gets to choose where the techs apply their official Autobot training brand, and B-1 ends up asking them to paint it on either shoulder. It’s a simple Autobot stamp with a circle surrounding it, a distinct separation from the official sigil. He thinks of replacing the space where his decal once was, but the point of the insignia is to show his cadet status, and hiding the logo on his wrist is a recipe for getting yelled at. It’s only a layer of black paint sprayed through a stencil, nothing a little stripper couldn’t remove if any of his fellow cadets get squeamish and back out.

Iacon Academy is larger than he expected, all things considered. It’s a wrap-around campus with a large central courtyard and covered walkways surrounding it, leading inside to training facilities and classrooms. Larger buildings frame the central yard, and many other squads are either huddled in some sort of study group or working through some sort of exercise. It appears that beyond the obviously semi-new construction, this place used to be a somewhat large settlement of some kind, B-1 having observed some more defunct buildings just outside the large, imposing wall that protects the school. For the most part, it must be abandoned, but B-127 saw what appeared to be some sort of raceway or road structure, so they must use the ruins for more immersive simulations.

His group probably won’t be allowed out of the school walls for a while yet; that stuff surely secured for more advanced training. Still, B-1 struggles to tamp down his curiosity. He pictures secret ops and dramatic shows of athletic prowess, a specialized team sneaking to acquire much-needed intel. It sets his sensor nodes alight.

Femme bots have their own section of campus, so once she is finished smarting from her loss of worldly possessions, ZB-12 and the other group of new femme cadets are separated for the moment to be assigned barracks. Flor Del is placed with a different class, so the four of them offer each other encouraging waves before being sent on their way.

His barracks are a bit cramped, with previously arrived cadets having already claimed the more desirable bunks and crowding the place with their equipment, the supplied lockers seemingly not enough to contain everything. Blitz ends up a few bunks down from him, since it’s apparently normal to behave like wild animals in here. When a sergeant isn’t around, of course.

Blitz gets along with people easily enough, enjoying their respite from screaming instructors in order to complain about whatever he can think of. The seasoned cadets find it wildly amusing, though Blitz doesn’t seem to realize they’re mocking him as he whines. B-1 stifles his snickering, only because he knows he’ll probably be a victim to the same hazing one way or another. He records everyone’s name as he always does, but doesn’t make an effort to know people more personally just yet, his mind is already frazzled enough.

B-1 gravely misses his personal berth suite when it comes time for recharge and many of the mechs in attendance have serious cases of Gear grind. It is loud and obnoxious and grating. B-127 admonishes himself for being so spoiled, he can recharge anywhere. He’s just used to being alone. Blitz isn’t bothered by it, and B-127 can only guess it is because of growing up in Sanctuary. Communal sleeping quarters isn’t a new concept to him. Immensely jealous, B-1 finds himself fuming at his friend and sleeps very poorly because of it. The berth is thin and B-127’s wider door wings barely balance on it, and after several bad nights, B-1 resigns himself to mostly recharging on his front.

It’s hardly the worst way he’s had to sleep, and upon spying several tangling limbs from various other bunks, he’s not the only one to deal with a craggy berth and unfortunate appendages.

The fitness evaluations are easy enough, lots of running, climbing, and driving. His balance isn’t quite up to par yet, causing him to trip more than once during the sprinting portion and once during the obstacle course, so his assessment results are mostly within the fair category. He does well enough that he does not have to be placed in the fitness training company. Thank Primus. Despite the lack of grace, he’s fast, and that covers a multitude of sins. According to the testing officer, anyway.

He's given instructions on what to work on in addition to his training regime, and B-127 takes it all in stride, a bit glad to have the extra work. He likes being busy and it’s a privilege to even be given a chance to improve, so he aims to do the best he can, as quickly as possible.

Blitz is less experienced in the art of running for your life or discreetly stealing from innocent people, so his agility doesn’t match up in the same way as him, but he does score better overall in terms of getting through the exercises. This is a bit annoying, given that B-1 is objectively in far better shape than Blitz. It’s true that his friend is certainly not the sedentary type, but B-127 has no hangups over stressing his chassis, where Blitz tends to flag and give up when he doesn’t want to deal with the strain anymore. Primus knows that won’t fly anymore. Not with the hard-aft senior drill sergeant – Hound, his name document reminds – constantly kicking their tailpipes.

B-1’s already learned to tame his glossa around the instructors, none of them all that impressed by his silver glossa and knee-jerk instinct to talk back. One wrong word and he ends up having to sweep shadows until they’ve reached the other side of the campus courtyard. It’s different from the tower, where Ultra Magnus would scowl at his fowl dermas, but let it lie. Not here, oh no.

You wouldn’t know Blitz is doing well, given he finds something to complain about every morning. B-1 brims with affection whenever his stupid best friend somehow finds a way to taste something sour in the perfectly fine cube of Energon he is served.

Really, B-1 knows all the dramatics are just a way of covering how homesick he is. Blitz isn’t used to being away from loved ones, and has a tendency to lash out whenever he thinks someone doesn’t want him around, so he compensates for it with snide comments and weak whines. B-127 doesn’t mind, he knows this isn’t easy, and while after a time, B-1 admits to wishing for more familiar company, he knows he isn’t struggling the way Blitz is. Communication is heavily secured out here, so once a deca-cycle B-127 gets a chance to send out a few long-distance updates to those at the tower. Sometimes he has the time to write long, slightly embellished recounts of what he is doing. Other times, he only has a few kliks or so to tell Elita he misses her, or offer Jazz or Cliffjumper a few cunning remarks.

Oddly enough, Optimus always replies the fastest, though B-1 doesn’t get to read it until the next deca-cycle, it still makes him smile.

ZB-12 isn’t exactly brimming with charisma. She’s awkward and irritable, but she does well in the first orbital cycle on campus anyway. For her lack of social graces, she has a natural affinity for being hilarious. None of it is on purpose, Blitz describes her ability to attract people as a crowd watching a burning train, and while B-127 would probably use kinder language, he sees what he means. By the first two deca-cycles, ZB-12 is surrounded by femme cadets from her assigned training unit, already fast friends. It helps that she scores high in weapons training, enough to end up on the slightly concerning leaderboard posted in one of the halls. In her first semester, that’s impressive. She may not be able to win a race to save her life, but she can certainly shoot a gun.

Apparently, the leaderboards are there to inspire healthy competition and to motivate those less than adequate cadets to try a little harder to beat their recorded scores. B-127 likes the idea, but isn’t sure if pitting cadets against each other is indicative of a cohesive unit.

He doesn’t like to brag, but he does pretty well with his blasters, too. He isn’t as ferocious as ZB, and so his name isn’t quite up to being posted on one of the boards, but it does redeem his poor physical scores just a bit. Thank Primus for Chromia and her unorthodox method of physical therapy.

It’s difficult to read Flor Del, given they only get to see each other during mess and BMT, or Basic Medical Training. It’s an introductory course that all new cadets have to take, otherwise pretty much all of them are assigned to different units, though B-1, Blitz, and ZB share a number of classes involving numerous topics, ranging from ballistics, military history, basic combat strategy, and so on.

In this area, B-127 really does come out on top. There’s a learning curve with getting his gyroscope on par with his peers, but his mind is as sharp as ever, and he’s never been more hungry to prove himself. Within the first orbital cycle, his written grades are all ranked higher than almost everyone in his classes, which is some consolation for his practical struggle.

His assigned squad don’t particularly like him, which is a bit discouraging. While B-1 doesn’t expect anyone to care about him, he does wish he could make a better impression. He learns their names, but a few of them still haven’t cared to call him by his, though he is sure they know it. He writes them down anyway. It’s a group of six, not including himself, with two femmes and four mechs, all of various builds, some warframes, some retrofitted with their weapons. In the end, the lives they’ll end with them won’t care about the difference.

They don’t talk outside of training, at least, they don’t talk to him. Really, B-1 doesn’t blame them. It becomes blatantly obvious within the first few deca-cycles that he’s the weakest link in the group, and it is a painful burden on his spark to admit it is true.

Though he’s repaired, he continues to struggle with frequent dizziness and tripping over himself when there is nothing to fall on. It’s stupid, it’s a liability. His racing habit has helped even everything out, but it’s clear that now he is focusing on honing his dexterity, his gyroscope continues to be confused. In the corner of his HUD array, B-127 gets used to seeing the little spinning dial indicating calibration. Training is rigorous and somehow, even more brutal than anything he did with Chromia, and he soon realizes just how much she pulled her punches with him.

During a simulation exercise, each team is tasked with running through an obstacle course in relay with other squads, and B-127 falls on his aft more than once despite being the fastest bot in the group.

“Hurry the hell up, hop along!” Hollers Novaris, one of the mechs on his squad. A slim two-wheeler with a slag ton of spunk to make up for it. They’ve all just scaled a high wall, and as soon as B-1 hits the floor, the impact forces his gyroscope to reorient, but it only succeeds in disorienting. Given that the group has to finish together, B-1’s momentary pause, while short, costs them precious time and consequently, their grade suffers.

That starts the annoyingly common trend of vaguely hidden glares and a consistently racing sparkbeat. It doesn’t help that the rumors of where he’s been for the past stellar cycle begin to circulate pretty quickly once classes and training begin.

The consensus is clear: no one thinks he really deserves to be here. The words ‘clumsy’ and ‘distracted’ get thrown around when they think he can’t hear, and B-1 tries desperately to prove them wrong, and even harder to keep his resolve from cracking. The worst part of it all is the fact that it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it probably should. For just a nano-klik, he wishes he could be as vindictive as Blitz or ZB tend to be, prays to harness the same hatred he has for Lariat or Locke Up, but the anger just doesn’t come.

After all, he would be upset too if someone gave a bot a position to enlist simply because he is buddy-buddy with Optimus Prime.

While B-1 doesn’t think that is exactly accurate, his spark simply doesn’t spiral the way it might if his friends were being treated this way. Then again, none of his friends have blood on their servos, not like he does. That isn’t to say B-1 is expressly disliked, not really. While he’s certainly surrounded by murmurs, most of his peers beyond his squad are jovial enough, and he enjoys assisting people with their homework when they get the gumption to ask.

It's not exactly friendship, per se, but B-127 knows that at the very least, some bots respect his devotion to his work.

Nonetheless, despite the less-than-stellar beginnings, B-127 does his best for as long as he can, trying to ignore the harsh reality that this is not the tower, and he won’t be leaving with a gaggle of new friends like Elita-1 or Jazz promised he would. Maybe he’s getting ahead of himself, after all, it’s only the second orbital cycle.

On the bright side, the subtle burn in his pistons and weariness in his struts feels good, a pleasant soreness that reminds him that, at the very least, he has some evidence to prove how hard he is trying.

***

The top of his class is an absolute aft. B-1 discovers this quickly, and while he isn’t the best at avoiding conflict, it’s extra difficult with Corvus, a young seafoam green mech not much older than he is. He’s the complete package, smart, fast, and very good at pretty much everything. He’s on just about every leaderboard, if not at the top, then very close.

He is stupidly respectful to every instructor and highly admired by their peers.

He also doesn’t like B-127 at all.

It’s not so much what he says, because if he says anything too damning, B-1 could always report it – not that he would – but Corvus is crafty and knows exactly how to make a jab without actually pointing his spear. It’s B-1’s running theory that the abject dislike has more to do with his current physical prowess and less to do with any real competition.

“Word on the line is you come with Optimus Prime’s seal of approval,” Corvus voices when they first meet, doing a poor job of concealing the twitch in his optic when the word ‘approval’ leaves his dermas. They’re shaking servos, and at the time, B-1 had cataloged the movement as just a tic, just an involuntary malfunction so negligible there’s no need to have it fixed.

How silly, as if anything could ever be wrong with the perfect prodigy, Corvus.

But B-1 does his best to be polite, scrubbing his palms against his thighs in something he knows to be a nervous tic of his own. “Ah, I don’t know about that, but I’m doing my best to live up to expectations,” had been the simple non-answer he’d given, just evasive enough to give a nonverbal indication that he really doesn’t want to discuss it.

Chrovus, of course, had been cordial, because of course he was, well read on every protocol and etiquette necessary to make a proper soldier. “Oh, I’ve no doubt you are exactly who he thinks you are,” Corvus assures, smiling a bit too wide to be entirely sincere. Everyone is a bit cagier with their fields here, which B-1 doesn’t mind, but it does make reading body language a bit of a challenge.

That sort of sums up the majority of their interactions. With B-1 trying to be nice and not overly brazen, and Corvus somehow managing to insult him without saying anything overtly mean.

Blitz isn’t much help in terms of comfort, but bless his spark, he tries. “C’mon B, he’s a jack-aft anyway. Anyone who’s anyone knows it,” he promises, waving a servo around the somewhat deserted state of their barracks.

B-1 rolls his optics, returning to his half-finished homework. Well, it’s actually Blitz’s homework, but he doesn’t mind helping his friend out, especially since war economics isn’t exactly a page-turner topic for a non-academic like Blitz. “Dude, literally everyone else on the entire campus grounds loves him. If you’re gonna lie for my benefit, at least lie well.” He’s being snappy, he knows, but the mistreatment from his squad, and the disapproving remarks from Corvus and his less than subtle lackeys are starting to take a toll.

Blitz is understanding, thank Primus, and only shrugs, hauling himself to his pedes to stalk around him and peer over B-1’s shoulder. “Fine, he’s the war’s God-given solace. What do you want me to say?” He replies, and B-127 feels a bit of tension fall, glad to have a friend willing to hold him accountable. “Primus knows I’m not making it to special operations, if I can’t even lie to the academy’s problem child.”

The jab ushers a snort of real amusement, and B-1 lets it wash over him in a comforting embrace of normalcy. Blitz is one of the few people to believe B-1 has any chance of improving, so the little insult doesn’t snap with the usual barbs of his squad or the well-intentioned instructors telling him to get it together. He returns in kind. “Let’s see if you can make it through the academy first, all-star. This essay is a fragging mess.”

For his cheek, he is rewarded with a slight–but very present–blow to the shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, but he still winces, sore from weight training this morning. “So I’m not a poet, what in the pits of Kaon am I gonna do with this slag anyway?” Blitz retorts, sounding rather perturbed. “Hey, mister Decepticon! I know you’ve got guns and swords and horrifying weapons of destruction, but I’m armed with the intimate knowledge of the Siege of Praxus!”

Blitz stomps about behind him for a time, distracted by his own outrage. “There are lots of benefits to knowing about our past wins and losses. You can observe what works and what doesn’t. Apply it and let it help you be a better soldier.” B-1 explains it with a light but detached air, repeating what he’d been told in the first cycle of classes.

Seemingly not very moved by his platitudes, Blitz rounds his bunk and sinks into the space next to him, scowling as he rests his mandible in his palms. “Right, and knowing how a fight affected the stock market is going to grant me the wisdom of Alpha Trion.”

The sarcasm bleeding through his inflection makes him chuckle, and he allows himself to revel in the levity of his friendship. They both have a short period before they have to be in class, and technically, they aren’t allowed in barracks right now, but B-127 has never quite been wonderful at following the rules, and it isn’t easy to get Blitz to sit down to work on his assignments.

“… Bet Corvus takes all his Cons out to dinner before he kicks their aft. The charmer that he is,” Blitz mumbles after a while. “A pleasant refuel with the golden boy before he extinguishes your spark,” he mocks, vocoder projecting a star-struck, dreamy tone.

It’s so outrageous B-1 is irrevocably torn from his – Blitz’s – essay and soon he is peeling with laughter, mid-section plating aching as the picture forms in his mind.

They both end up on the floor, utterly captive to their giddiness and B-127 feels a lot better than he did a few groons ago. They run out of time and have to haul themselves up and to class, leaving B-127 with no time to conclude his edit of Blitz’s work.

 He gets a poor grade, whoops.

***

Gaurza, one of the resident medics and his BMT instructor, explains it to him one cycle after botching an acrobatics exam. He’d been doing well, but where everyone else somehow manages to handle a triple handspring, he gets dizzy by the second turn. “You’re overcorrecting,” she explains, organizing her medical kit, having already patched the stupid hairline fracture in his helm, just above his forehelm.

She’s a tough lady, petite but striking with her black and blue paint job. She’s patient with B-1 and willing to answer his questions, whether they be about his schoolwork or other pressing matters. She’s a seasoned medic and B-127 is certain she and Ratchet must be close friends, though he has nothing to base the assumption on.

“Overcorrecting?” He prods.

Her medkit clicks closed, and she stores it underneath her desk, clasping her servos together as she takes a seat. B-1 sits on the edge of her desk. That’s another thing he likes about her; Gaurza does not care about the tight discipline of seniority. While B-1 perhaps has a bit more respect for it, he appreciates the reprieve from being at attention. “Your sensor nodes and gyros are working too hard, you’ve worked them too hard.”

Squinting, B-1 doesn’t stop the defensive scoff from escaping. “I’m sorry, you’re saying this is my fault?” He blusters, not hiding the incredulous mask that takes over his features. “I’ve done literally everything Dr. Ratchet asked me to, how is that my fault?”

Gaurza shrugs, the no-nonsense type she is. “Your body needs time to naturally adjust, you spent a long time manually keeping yourself standing,” she begins, pawing at a data-pad that must contain his medical records. “That instinct you self-implemented isn’t going to go away just because a medic fixes the physical issue. Your body may be able to self-calibrate again, but consciously or not, the rigorous training is making you self-correct when you don’t need to.”

The explanation is short and to the point, lacking the usual finesse that Ratchet likes to use to convey stuff like this. While B-1 loves Ratchet dearly, he appreciates not having to sift through medico-babble. His digit taps against the desk. “… Oh.”

Taking a few notes on her pad, Guarza shoots him a pointed look. “Did you experience this sort of lack of grace before training began?” She inquires, her swooping, half-moon helm ornaments framing her face plate.

“I guess I’ve had a few close calls during racing, but nothing like…” Like falling on his face and ruining everything for everyone. He doesn’t say the last bit; she likely would not appreciate it.

She hums, accepting that answer with another series of tapping sounds as she concludes her incident report. “Your gyros aren’t used to handling that kind of stress properly.” She sets her pad aside, meeting his optics confidently. “You’re strong and fast, with a dexterous frame. You’ve just got to train yourself to trust your gyroscope again; that’s what’s holding you back, cadet. Stop trying to control every movement and trust your body. You are not malfunctioning anymore, stop acting like it.”

It’s a dressing down that Ratchet would approve of, without the usual volume. Her instructions are serene but firm, and B-1 doesn’t question her assessment. No fool could speak with such assurance without even raising an optical ridge.

He accepts the advice for what it is and bids her goodbye.

“Stop turning in cadet ZB-12’s work,” she calls as he is halfway out the door. “She’s a big girl, she can either bring it to me on time or take her failing grade with dignity.”

B-127 replies with a sheepish grin and a hasty nod, dreading the moment when he has to tell ZB she’s a slacker who needs to try a little harder.

***

It’s capture the flag, in a maze, with traps.

It’s capture the flag.

In a maze.

With traps.

B-127 supposes it’s rather fitting. It’s their third orbital cycle in, and it’s as good a time as any to test everyone’s skills and abilities to work as a team. B-1 has his doubts about the effectiveness of his. The others jive well enough, but he, being the odd man out, has everything a bit… strained. He’s gotten better, really, since taking Gaurza’s advice.

He trips less during drills and that in turn keeps him from falling victim to his dizziness, but his squad has yet to show any appreciation for his efforts.

Staff Sergeant Hound barks out instructions with all the gusto he always does, his distinct drawl putting him at ease despite the way he’s being spoken to. He’s a nice guy, just… hard, if people can be described as such. His darkened green and black paint pattern is scattered with old battle wounds, and though he’s still in pristine repair, B-1 has noticed a subtle limp in his step more than once.

Hound’s voice roars over the ambient bustle of cadets. “You will, as a team, work through obstacles beyond what you’ve seen before. You will, as a team, navigate the maze structure! You will, as a team, retrieve your designated flag. You will defend your own flag…”

“… As a team,” the thrall of cadets finish, standing at attention, segregated by their assigned squads.

This is a private exercise for new cadets, using the stupidly large gymnasium to house the activity. The walls of the maze are tall enough to be impossible to climb, leaving B-1 with no possible way to deduce what traps may lie within. There’s a long row of bleachers on either side of the perimeter, with many second-term cadets watching the elevated hover screens, broadcasting various angles of the maze halls. He can’t distinguish anything from the display, which is certainly a purposeful action.

He imagines they all know what is coming anyway, probably having gone through this experiment before.

Each group is marked with different colored tape around their thighs and wrists, differentiating the teams further to ensure no one deceives anyone. Though B-1 can’t picture that working well, since by now each team should know each other somewhat intimately. He hasn’t quite got that far.

Their color is purple, the flag they must retrieve is from the red team.

Though he isn’t expressly optimistic about this exercise, he is glad he won’t have to compete against Blitz. This assignment requires only two squads to participate at a time. They may spar and race all the time, but that’s typically for fun or mutual benefit; this will affect their grades, and he’d rather not mess with Blitz’s success.

A cadet liaison escorts his team to one side of the maze, while another separates them from the other squad. Their ‘base of operations,’ so to speak, is a three-walled hut, with a slightly domed roof made of dense sheet metal. Their holo-flag is posted in the center of the space, and the liaison encourages them to hide it somewhere less visible. The roof of their little base is punctuated with small turrets, perfect perches for keeping a lookout or long-range fire.

A small clearing offers them a little break between the hut and the thick, tall walls of the maze. Currently, it just looks like a closed hallway, but B-1’s HUD array outlines three distinct breaks in the metallic pattern, and he concludes that they must be openings that won’t open until the exercise begins.

Their weapons have been augmented to stun, a small device hooked under each bioweapon. It’s easily removable, but B-1 still finds the attachment a bit invasive and itchy. Anxiety sizzles like static under his mid-section plating and up his spine to his neck. Their quarterly assessments are coming up, and their squad has to do well on this, or else risk having to take remedial action.

Novaris paces, a servo clasped around his chin while he thinks. “B-1 and Raincatcher, you two guard the flag,” he orders absently. B-1 nods, turning to share a glance with Raincatcher, a shorter brown mech who can’t be more than three stellar cycles older than him. He’s a quiet dude, and B-127 sometimes wonders what he thinks of him. He never speaks up to defend him, but he’s really never said anything nice to him either. It’s a toss-up.

Bisca-424, one of the femmes on the team, objects immediately. “No way, no way you’re gonna leave them two alone to defend the flag alone. Sirenae, you stay wit Rain,” her helm swivels to B-127. “You can come as backup.”

He resists the urge to roll his optics. He’s a good sport, so he does his absolute best to suppress the indignant remarks and the aging hurt inside his spark. There’s just enough self-control left in him to manage it. “Got it,” he affirms, nodding like the good little soldier he is.

Sirenae, the other femme in the squad, switches places with him. She’s a bit showy-showy, if that makes sense. Lots of shiny bibs and bobs added to her plating, sleek, attractive weapons, and a shimmering orange paint job. She’s pretty, and lots of the bots around campus try to catch her attention – just what she wants, B-1 supposes. She’s also a huge snob with terrible trigger discipline. He’s seen her ballistic scores, she’s a decent shot but horrible discernment when it comes to knowing when to pull the trigger.

Well, being as popular as she is, she probably doesn’t care. How does that help in a warzone? He has no idea, but it certainly seems to help her here.

Novaris huffs, turning to surveil their surroundings. “Surprised you’re comfortable having him covering our backs,” he mutters, not at all trying to hide what he says.

B-1 frowns, frustrated now. “Hi, right here,” he snaps, not harsh but curt enough to alert them of his vexation. It’s so stupid to be arguing about this right now, this is meant to show their unity as a team. He doesn’t care whether they like him or not; it’s fine if they don’t, but surely they’re all professional enough to let personal bias go to work together. Primus knows he does, every single time they’re together. They know that despite his struggles to find his footing, he is a trustworthy teammate.

“Whatever,” Novaris responds, not bothered in the slightest. “Just stay behind us and pay attention.”

Begrudgingly, B-1 nods, exventing slightly in an attempt to expel his anger. He’s got the best optics on the team. Pay attention. Pah. He’d like to see Novaris or any of them do better in long-range surveillance, but oh wait, he can’t because none of them come close to even his lowest score.

The telltale crackle of the gymnasium’s PA system diverts their attention, and B-1 takes a moment to collect himself. They don’t even have to win this game, it’s not about winning, it’s about showcasing teamwork. Their grade may suffer, but at this point he can live with that.

Staff Sergeant Hound’s voice echoes throughout the space. “Hope you sissies have a plan, because you’ve got one klik to get into position, starting… now!”

A vocalized countdown begins, a robotic femme voice counting loudly over the PA.

The last two members of the squad walk just ahead of him, Conveerto and Razorsync. Conveerto – who everyone addresses as Connie – is as dumb as a bag of rocks, but he’s well suited to combat, slim in the right places while still holding significant strength. Razorsync and Novaris tend to butt helms, but B-127 can tell they’ve been friends for a long time, because the conflicts never end in bloody scrutiny, not the way his do. Razor is the only person in the group who doesn’t seem to mind him, he’s hardly ever present for the ridicule, and while they aren’t chummy, he doesn’t shy away from engaging him in conversation.

Accepting his somewhat segregated duty of guarding the rear, B-1 readies himself with a few deep cycles of ventilation. Jazz taught him a few centering techniques, and he uses them during training like a lifeline. As the countdown dwindles ever lower, B-1 fights to dismiss the roaring of restlessness that’s come upon him, his audials so dialed he can hear the swift flow of his Energon.

The comforting spin of his T-cog has one of his twin blasters clicking into place just above his arms, the familiar whirl a welcome feeling that he uses to ground himself. Bouncing his weight between his pedes, B-127 takes in everyone’s position, steeling himself as the countdown reaches the single digits. If he’s to do the shitty job, he’s going to do it well. He’ll have everyone’s back and ensure they get that stupid flag to win this stupid exercise.

Distantly, he can hear the excited trill of bots just beyond the walls. If he pushes further, he can feel the electric dance of elation thick in the air. This must be entertaining. A mess of terrified cadets scrambling inside a maze with no idea what to do? No wonder so many second terms are here.

The countdown continues, and B-1’s spark chamber aches lightly with the force of his resonance, spiraling wicker and quicker despite his efforts to slow it.

His teammates ready themselves just ahead of him, and he hears those staying behind falling into defensive positions, too.

Now or never, he supposes. It’s just one big puzzle, right?

“Stay sharp,” Novaris commands, B-127 stops himself from mocking him.

Three.

Two.

One.

***

The chaos they experience is near immediate, and it doesn’t take much longer for agitation to set in. The tension could be cut with a knife as Novaris releases a shrill and frustrated cry as yet another wall of the maze slams in front of them, forcing them to an abrupt halt.

It becomes clear that trying to memorize the maze is an act of folly, since every thirty-two nano-kliks (B-1 counted), something about the structure shifts, making backtracking nigh impossible. It’s been twenty kliks, and they haven’t even seen the other squad yet. B-1 supposes that’s a good thing, they're just as lost as his team is.

Traps spring and further hinder their path. Electrified holo-fields, tripwires sending heavy bludgeoning hammers above their helms, sinkholes.

They find out about the sinkholes the hard way.

Regardless of whatever the hell Nova says, it’s not actually B-1’s fault. They’d all slowed to a slightly discouraged walk, each of them looking around hopelessly, willing some sort of landmark to appear, when B-1’s HUD highlights something his conscious mind hadn’t flagged. It’s a moment too late for him to call out in warning, now fully aware of the motion sensors lining the walls, too small to be seen without looking for them.

B-1’s mind is always looking, though.

The separation between the normal pathway and the hidden trap is so minimal that even B-1 is impressed with himself for noticing it; the spacing between the metal floorboards is just different enough to discern what they mean.

This hole is stupid, and B-1 wonders just how many litter the gymnasium floor without anyone ever knowing until this very moment.

Novaris is the one to trip it, being in front, and B-1 only has nano-kliks to stop him before he and Bisca both go plummeting into the unnecessarily deep trap. “Wait!” He shrieks, shoving Connie and Razor way and into the solid walls, sprinting as fast as he’s able with the microscopic amount of time permitted.

The two bots are barely able to turn their helms in query before the floor is receding, folding in on itself, and dooming them to fall. B-1 doesn’t hesitate, taking hold of both of their wrists and twisting them out of the way.

In his haste, he overcorrects. He knows he does because since he met with Gaurza, he has paid extra attention to his movements, and found the patterns of motion that tend to awaken the instinct to balance on his own. His hips twist, and though he is successful in effectively throwing Novaris and Bisca-424 out of the danger zone, he figures within moments that he won’t be able to save himself, feeling the very pico-klik his heel-strut slips from the ledge.

“Frag!” He yells, flailing as he falls helm-first into the well-hidden pit.

Not as helpless as he once was, he finds his composure quickly, practicing the maneuvers he’s learned since being here, and narrowly succeeds in landing on his pedes. Gravity pushes him to his knees, but at least he hasn’t fallen on his face like an idiot.

Cliffjumper would probably laugh off the stumble, say something witty, and move on. B-1 tries to emulate that with a huff of a laugh, but it sounds and feels forced enough that he feels stupid for even trying. With a quick canvas of his surroundings, B-127 brushes off phantom debris from his thighs and stands to his full height. He is down deeper than he initially thought, even on the very tips of his pedes, he doesn’t even reach the halfway point of the hole.

His bio-lights glow along with the aqua blue LEDs running flush with the floor, providing just enough light to keep things visible. The joints of his stabilizers vaguely ache where his pedes begin, jostled from the sudden impact with the ground.

He makes a note to build a tolerance to that in endurance training.

Looking up, B-127 is unsurprised to observe his teammates leaning over the edge, assessing his condition with various levels of concern. They may not like him or value him as a team member, but they aren’t so sparkless as to dismiss his well-being. He tries to keep that in mind when Conveerto speaks up.

“Holy slag, that was fraggin’ crazy!” He exclaims, orange optics wide as if the sight of him falling down a hole is the wildest sight he’s ever had to bear witness to. Bless his spark.

“Are you alright, B-1?” Bisca inquires, her antlerlike helm ornaments glowing at the tips, assisting him in making out her silhouette.

Gruffly, he nods, shaking off the last of his shock. “Fine, wasn’t expecting it to throw me so far below. You two alright?”

Novaris, frowning, offers him a begrudging thumbs-up. “Why didn’t you tell us something was there?” He asks, tone taking on a grating edge of accusation.

That’s a bit surprising of an ask, his optical ridges furrow. “Didn’t tell – I did, what are you talking about?” Gesticulating wildly to his current predicament, B-1 freely broadcasts his befuddlement. “You can’t possibly blame me for not noticing it sooner,” he challenges, feeling a lot like he’s having to defend himself to Lariat even though he knows the man is nowhere near. “I’m covering the rear, you’re lucky I spotted it at all! You didn’t even fall!” He’s surprised by the fire in his spark, but he doesn’t try to tame his glossa, his pent-up frustration threatening to boil over from where it simmers under the skin of his spark.

Ever the graceful and kind team leader, Novaris scoffs. “No, you did. Of course you did…” Though he mutters the last part, B-1’s audials pick up the utterance, and he glowers, finding his calming techniques slipping away from him.

It isn’t like he expects a thank you, but holy Primus, is now really the time for this?

The thought has him sobering, reminding him of their mission and the numerous surveillance apparatuses throughout this complex. He really, really does not want this disagreement, argument, or whatever caught on camera to be analyzed by any instructor or TA. 

Newdawn would enjoy the poetic irony of B-1 having to take the higher ground while being several yards below everyone else, but he isn’t here to enjoy it, and B-1 can’t muster the nostalgic whimsy to enjoy such a musing. Clenching his fists, B-1 thinks of why he is here, of the debts he has. “Look,” he starts, the word more clipped through his vocoder than he normally allows. “… We need to keep moving, Bisca, if you and Razor can help me back up, we might not lose as many points.”

That gets him a few weird looks, as they all share a look that his processor worryingly classifies as guilt. Razorsync is mad, B-1 wonders why. Shifting a bit, Bisca speaks up first, facing him with one of her fake-nice smiles. “Ah, well, B-127, here’s what we—” She waves her servo in a circling motion, indicating to her teammates. “—Think that maybe, it’s better if you… stay where you are,” she finishes, smile a rictus grimace now. She annunciates slowly, clearly playing the statement over again in her helm before she continues, regaining some of her confidence. “You’ll be safe down there and uhm, we’ll be able to get the flag without…”

Having to bitty-sit him, she doesn’t say. The message is clear without her having to vocalize it.

Mandible unhinging, B-127 gapes, appalled by the callous nature of this. He shouldn’t be, he chides himself. He shouldn’t be surprised at all. The tower has made him soft, weak in the spark in certain places, and he knows he’ll have to fix that soon. But Primus almighty, what the hell? “You can’t possibly think that’s a good idea,” B-1 splutters, craning his neck to glare at them with all the ferocity he can manage from this demeaning angle. “We’re supposed to finish this together, you can’t just leave me here!”

“—We’ll come back for you,” Novaris assures, sounding a bit bored with it all now. Ironhide would have a few choice words for a soldier this okay with abandoning a fellow warrior.

His door wings are raised so high his joints grate, clicking in quiet protest. “You do realize you’d be down here without my insight, right? You realize that.”

Bisca huffs a slightly exasperated ventilation. “And we are thankful for your observation, but really, we’ve got it from here.” She’s got that stupid, fake-aft smile again. Makes her look like a moron. She’s a moron. They’re all morons. “We know what to look for now, thanks to you. We just think it’s best for the mission – for the team – if you waited here, okay?” Bisca says, her stupid feminine voice three octaves higher than it normally is, to try and be comforting, placating.

His anger is painful now, pressing at his chestplates and buzzing around his plating like rabid scraplets. “This is fragging stupid,” he yells, forgetting his attempt to be the better person here, kicking at the wall of his apparent prison in complete defiance.

But their minds won’t be changed, he’s already aware of this, and that pisses him off more. Already, Novaris has leaped over the opening, not even bothering to meet his optics as he is passed over. Bisca follows, and her apologetic look is almost worse than the neglect. Connie grins at him, snide and amused because though he doesn’t know much, he knows B-1’s feelings are hurt, and that’s enough to make him giggle.

He and Razor share a long moment, something traveling between them through their fields. Razor can’t keep his gaze, and he at least has the decency to appear genuinely ashamed. “Sorry,” he whispers, hardly audible.

It’s a genuine apology, but the guilt clearly isn’t enough to make him defy his orders, and he soon hops over the hole, following the team, leaving B-1 alone to fester. He thinks the pity is the worst betrayal.

It takes a moment, a solid few kliks really, for the shock the cycle through his systems. Pits, B-1 hopes Blitz and ZB aren’t watching. He has no idea what is being broadcast to the spectators, the maze covered by a soundproof force field, keeping them in and everything out. There’s no way to tell if this humiliating display has been seen by all of his peers and respected instructors.

There’s a brief flush of misery as the reality of the whole thing settles in, and he grapples with the reality of probably losing the respect of just about every person he knows. How helpless do you have to be for your team to leave to stranded in a hole?

He’s almost grateful when the rage returns, this time with a vicious vengeance. A ragged cry rips through him, and he doesn’t even try to stop it, his vocoder cutting in and out at the edges as he bangs his fists against the wall as hard as he possibly can. His screeches are raw with so much resentment it takes a physical toll, leaving his chest and mid-section feeling tight and pained, restrained by the horrible turmoil.

Dents soon muddle the pristine walls and B-1 realizes with muddled horror that he feels like a caged animal. Like a little new spark with chains around his every joint, beaten down and exhausted all over again. The very idea of being contained like that again has his ire reaching a peak, and he fires off a few stunning shots at the four horrible walls. He doesn’t manage much beyond destroying a small section of LED lights.

By the time he comes out of his torrid rage, he has backed himself against the abused surface, ventilating jagged and rough vents. His components are hot enough to simmer lightly inside him, making his internals tingle. He grasps his helm, gripping it tightly in some sort of grounding measure, unwilling to lose himself further to his complicated distress. Now is not the time.

His HUD is a bit of a mess, his bout of hysteria making things blip in and out in hexagonal clumps, but it all settles after a few kliks, and all that’s left of his outburst is his shuddering bio-components and his complete wash of betrayal.

They think he can’t do it.

The reflection isn’t exactly news, but it has him pausing either way.

They think he can’t do it.

That’s a common theme in his life, is it not?

Still cooling off, B-1 finds a tired smile stretching across his dermas.

Of course they don’t think he can, he hasn’t proven otherwise thus far, but just like everyone else, just like everyone fragging else, B-1 will prove them wrong.

He’ll prove them all wrong.

He was stealing harder slagging things than a dumb-aft flag by the time he was two stellar cycles old. Alone. A team was never there, and he never needed it. Even the bandits saw his worth beyond his organs; they kept him, and though he knows he was a fool to stay as long as he did, there’s no denying that they recognized his skills.

And he’d been injured during all of it. Horribly broken and mutilated, and he’d still done all of that. Who broke into a highly restricted floor of Iacon Tower? Not Novaris, that’s for sure.

Blue Breeze wouldn’t approve of his bitterness, but he also wouldn’t be too happy with the way his team has acted, so B-1 is willing to accept the phantom shame with some justification.

A laugh falls from his derma. He’d been the one memorizing all the patterns of this place and broadcasting it to the team, explaining things he’d noticed in passing to help aid their navigation. Connie was no help, and Bisca’s observations were surface-level at best.

But B-1 knows a puzzle when he sees it, and though he may have tor retry once or twice, he never fails for long when a puzzle is involved.

Pushing off the wall, B-127 braces himself, his resolve settling just between his shoulder blades, the sensor nodes in the tips of his door wings alight with activity. He looks up, turning around in full a few times to take in his prison with clearer, less irate optics. He smiles.

It’s no communications tower, but that’s neither here nor there.

Chapter Text

As far as assignments go, Windbreaker supposes this is the easier one to be given. He’s not much for puzzles, and having to wade through a vast and ever-changing maze just for the sake of a grade does not rank highly on his list of desired skills. It’s a blessing when his team lead assigns him and two others to guard their flag. Tilla – one of the femmes on the squad – has it hidden closely by her, tucked in a crevice on one of the turrets of their base. Better her than him, he thinks.

His wings flutter impatiently on his back, and he curbs the old instinct to take off. No flying is permitted in the gym and certainly not for this exam, much to his chagrin. The flying program is for second-term cadets, and if he wants a chance at earning rank, he’ll have to make nice with the grounders, like every other flyer enlisted. Tilla is fine company at least, though Brutus – the third mech in their little protection detail – harshes the good time they could be having. He’s a bit of a bore, but then again, so is standing around for a groon waiting for something to happen.

There are only so many flirtatious looks they can give each other before even that becomes stale, and Brutus’s stoic and cold demeanor keeps Windbreaker and Tilla from becoming too entranced by each other. He supposes that’s why Corvus shoved them together. They’ve been subtle, but the guy is smart enough to see what their drill instructors haven’t.

At least Brutus isn’t a complete waste of company; he can be convinced to speak if pressed, and once he starts on a certain subject of passion, it can be difficult to get him to stop. It’s an odd sight, but one more welcome than the dull silence of waiting for their lesser opponents to arrive. If they ever do, that is. Corvus isn’t convinced they’ll even break through half of the maze.

Tilla currently has Brutus yammering on about some sort of ancient battle, educating them on the odds of said battle and how it can be used and applied to their current circumstances. It’s horribly long-winded drivel, but it’s fun to catch Tilla’s optics as they silently judge their oxymoronic teammate. Surely, the instructors will eventually deem this a lost cause, right?

A cacophonous shrill of gunfire has all three of them jolting with dizzying surprise, and Windbreaker nearly loses his balance on his perch. They’ve trained well, being part of Corvus’s squad, so each of them recovers quickly. Hopefully, Corvus never sees that particular footage, they’ll never hear the end of it.

The tell-tale flashes of luminous plasma fire catch his attention on the left-most opening to the maze, a small distance away from their hut. There are three hallway openings, so to speak, and Windbreaker knows for a fact that his team left through the right-most entrance. There’s a clattering of metal against metal and a few grunts that spell combat. He and Brutus share a look, nodding. Tilla readies her weapons behind them, keeping her post guarding the flag.

He smiles at her, looking back with a wink. “Be right back.”

She smirks, nodding to them, her posture straight with confidence.

There are plenty of ways to defend a post, but Corvus has always been partial to the offensive defense, so that is the way Windbreaker and Brutus will play this.

Technically, he and Brutus are equals, but Brutus is, by definition, far better at covert work, so he takes point as they both equip their weapons. Though far from perfect, for first-term cadets, they are near it as they both creep across the short clearing leading to the maze openings, crouched and in sync as Brutus reaches the very edge of the hallway, where a volley of plasma fire and unintelligible scraping sounds echoes throughout the chamber. Windbreaker taps twice on Brutus’s shoulder once he’s sighted the area, and Brutus returns the gesture a moment later.

They move in, quickly, efficiently, if not a little clumsily. They’re only cadets, after all, and Windbreaker’s wings don’t lend themselves to the most subtle of movement. Breaching the threshold, Windbreaker narrows his optics, and he and Brutus share a glance. The firefight is further down the hall, just around a corner. His nerves flutter, and Windbreaker is man enough to admit he’s a bit scared. He’s never seen real combat before, and this feels a lot more authentic than their other training simulations.

He looks back, meeting Tilla’s optics in the short distance. Comms aren’t allowed for this assignment, since they’re supposed to be able to communicate effectively without them. When all he can offer her is a shrug, she shakes her helm, waving her free servo in silent permission to continue. He turns, and Brutus is looking too, so with some trepidation, they pad along.

As the soundtrack of violence grows ever louder, so does the roaring of Windbreaker’s Energon in his audials. Since enlistment, they’ve been advised to study many calming techniques to find the best way to remain focused during missions. He regrets skipping study hall to be with Tilla now, Corvus will lynch him for the way his servos are shaking. It’s silly, he knows the fight isn’t real, but his spark betrays him.

Brutus braces the wall once more, bringing one servo up to count down from three. They catch each other’s optics, and with a grounding exvent, Windbreaker nods. Three, two, one.

They round the corner, guns blazing with false confidence and all the inflated ego that comes with being on Corvus’s squad.

He freezes, Brutus does too.

“What the frag,” Brutus whispers, not quite lowering his blaster.

Instead of bursting into battle in a rush of glory, Brutus and Windbreaker stare wide-opticed at the sight in front of them. The blaster fire they’d heard is just that, but it comes from no bio-weapon. Rather, the disturbance emanates from two rows of stun blasters mounted to the maze’s gunmetal grey walls on opposing sides, aimlessly firing at each other, unable to change their trajectory due to a long wiry string pulled taut around their joints. Windbreaker squints at it. Are those… LED strips? The weapons strain against the bindings, clearly programmed to fire somewhat randomly and slowly shorting in the stagnant position they’ve been forced into.

The wall panels that aren’t charred from the blasts are slowly growing bright from the endless assault of heat, already nearing molten. The blasters aren’t meant to harm a bot, but the materials that make up this maze are not meant to withstand the constant barrage.

What the hell kinda ploy is this? It’s a shitty trap if that’s what it’s supposed to be. Tentatively, Brutus takes a step forward to investigate, and Windbreaker follows close behind. “This is fragging freaky,” Windbreaker whispers, screwing his face up in slight disgust.

When they reach the edge of the space just before the gunfire begins, Brutus lowers his weapon, visibly perplexed. He turns, shaking his helm. “I don’t understand.”

“Thirty-two nano-kliks.”

The voice startles both of them so much that Windbreaker nearly topples over, briefly losing control of his balance and slipping on his heel struts. “Frag!”

Whirling around, the two take aim as best they can with shaky chassis’s, and Windbreaker’s optics widen. Standing exactly where they had been not ten nano-kliks ago, is a member of the opposing team. He can’t be more than four stellar cycles younger than Windbreaker is, though he carries himself as if older. To the audience, he’s just a part of the purple squad, an obstacle for them to overcome. To Windbreaker, he is Cadet B-127, the supposed golden child of Iacon Tower, a resounding clutz in the field, and an insufferable know-it-all in the classroom.

Well, according to Corvus, that is, and anyone who’s anyone agrees with Corvus.

He’s a slim build, attractive with golden-yellow paint punctuated by dangerous black stripes. All smoke and mirrors, according to Corvus. Just hot air built up from too much attention from the Commanders.

Normally, Windbreaker wouldn’t doubt his squad leader’s judgement, because while the guy can be a bit of an egomaniac, it’s not exactly unfounded. The guy is a prodigy.

Now, though, he isn’t quite so sure. From all he’s observed during training, B-127 is fast and agile, but not quite up to par dexterity-wise, something that could cost him and many others their lives. It’s clear it bothers him and anyone with working optics can see his frustrations, his doubts.

But, he doesn’t see that now.

Not with that freaky smile on his face.

“… What?” Brutus asks, clearly as dumbstruck as he is.

That just makes the younger bot chuckle. For some reason, it’s chilling.

He doesn’t even have his weapons drawn, like he knows he won’t need them. Windbreaker hates how intimidating that is. B-127 takes a step backwards, closer to their base, to the flag. How the hell did he get past them, anyway?

Gesturing around them to the maze at large, his helm tilts. “It takes thirty-two nano-kliks for the maze to rearrange.” His grin grows wider, and Windbreaker’s spark jolts uncomfortably. Why does he have the sinking feeling he’s just lost a game? “I won’t ask if you know how to count, I’ve seen your test scores. Let’s do it together, shall we?”

“Frag,” Brutus mutters harshly, trying to launch into a mad dash before they make royal afts of themselves.

Windbreaker, however, simply stands, intake slightly agape. His HUD unhelpfully generates a timer, beginning from the very moment they stepped pede into the maze proper.

There’s no time, no way in the Pits of Kaon.

B-127 is already mouthing the last syllable of thirty-two, and Windbreaker’s audials are already logging the subtle clicks and whirs sounding just behind the surface of the maze. The walls begin to shift barely a moment later.

It’s so fast, they have no chance to bridge the distance and reach through the gap.

The hall that once led to their base swishes closed with distinct finality, slamming hard enough to rattle the floor. With B-127 on the other side.

Corvus is going to kill them.

***

Tilla tilts her helm, watching the opening her two friends (or whatever she and Breaker are) have disappeared through, weapons drawn. She’s steely-opticed, straight-backed. Flawlessly focused.

So, why the hell is the flag gone when she glances down next?

She nearly falls off the base.

***

“He’s fragging crazy,” Blitz whispers, optics blown wide enough to almost hurt. The cameras split their attention somewhat equally, but judging by the tension in the air, it’s clear who everyone wants to watch.

Next to him, ZB cackles, leaning so far forward she risks bonking into the cadets sitting below her. “He’s fragging insane,” she says, far too excited. Blitz worries B is giving her too many ideas. She’s not the maverick she thinks she is.

B, though, oh, apparently he certainly is.

***

“We’re lost, Corvus,” Beemer wails, scraping at his peeling paint in clear frustration.

Corvus, forcing calm, turns back to the much older bot, smile placating and even. “We aren’t lost, we just haven’t found the pattern yet. Once we do, we’ll be finished in no time,” he promises, casting an assured glance over his somewhat despondent team.

They are roused by his confidence. Good, they should know not to doubt him by now.

This all has something to do with the number thirty-two, but he has no fragging clue what that means. It’s a stupid puzzle, as most are, but Corvus has never backed down from a challenge.

“—If I could fragging fly this would never happen—”

They all stop, and he hears Cassius-5 unsheathe his swords from his wrists behind him. Corvus doesn’t bother, feeling his spark sink and his fuel grow cold in his lines.

In several quick steps, Corvus crosses the hall they’d been loitering in, willing his anger to remain dormant as his fears are confirmed when he rounds the corner.

Looking disheveled and altogether adrift, Brutus and Windbreaker cease whatever bickering they had indulged in, tensing as they take in his visage and the quiet pull of his commanding field. Neither of them dare to meet his optics.

***

“How the hell did you fall for that?” Corvus grits out, pinching his optical bridge and trying not to yell. That won’t help the team; he needs them to be pliable.

Windbreaker exvents, holding himself loosely as he weakly defends. “We thought you guys needed help! It sounded authentic, alright?” He shakes his helm. “The guy outsmarted us, it happens, Cor.”

No one speaks, and Corvus shakes the tension from his shoulders, releasing himself and letting his arms rest limply at his sides. His protoform is a blaze of heat under his protective armor, but that anger won’t inspire anyone. “Fine, I understand.” He feels like a complete bleeding-spark saying that. “Who is this guy?”

Brutus and Windbreaker share a look.

“Uh…” Brutus starts.

“Okay, so, you see…”

Corvus stomps his pede, patients failing him. “I’m not a new build, Breaker, spit it out!”

The duo glance at one another once more, and Brutus visibly steels himself as he steps forward.

“B-127.”

Corvus almost wishes he hadn’t even asked.

***