Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Recharge was a luxury few could afford and fewer still could take advantage of in Iacon’s Dead End, especially with the constant threat of one desperate mech jumping another for even a drop of extra energon. Only a fool let his guard down without at least two other mecha to watch his back. 

The Functionists could preach all they wanted about equality through functionality, but—as far as Crucible was concerned—none of that mattered when energon rations ran thin and left mecha to starve on the streets.

Sure, every now and again, a brave (or particularly naïve) mech would venture into Iacon’s slums. Would try and offer ‘charity’ to the disadvantaged. The gangs and enforcers that prowled the streets chewed them up and spat them out like clockwork. It was almost comical, watching a new, bright-opticked mech with big dreams learn the hard way that life just didn’t care about them or their aspirations. Granted, there was—or so the rumors went—a pop-up clinic offering free aid to any mech who asked for it, but that too, Crucible knew, wouldn’t last long. Nothing like it ever did.

He should care a bit more, he knew too, but he couldn’t help but feel a touch blasé about it all. This was just how life worked. It was dirty and cruel and everyone did whatever they could to survive. Mecha had to get by somehow, after all, when their government abandoned them. 

Most joined one of the prominent gangs, others grouped up to prowl the streets after dark, stealing what they could, and some, like Crucible, made due by other means. One mech he knew (and worked with on occasion) made illegal upgrades from scrap he found, while he himself offered repairs for mecha and weapons alike—for a price of course. It didn’t make him much, but it was enough to keep a roof over his head and keep his tanks at least half-full. 

A true luxury, and one that he’d fought tooth and claw to hold onto.

Though… he had technically been offered a better living situation by a… hmm. He couldn’t quite call the mechling a friend. An ally, maybe. Maybe. 

Still, he knew Glitch had meant well when he’d offered him a place at Senator Shockwave’s school for mecha with outliers. Yes, in theory, he could make his way to the fabled safe-haven—he was one of those outliers after all—but that would mean putting his life in another mech’s servos, and that was a risk he couldn’t afford to take. 

“I promise, you’d like it there!” Glitch had begged. “C’mon, if they put up with my ugly mug, they’ll put up with you!”

“Are you implying that I’m uglier than you, you little scraplet?” he had jabbed back, giving the mechling’s helm a light cuff.

“Ugh, you know that’s not what I meant!”

Primus had the mechling tried his best, but he’d held firm. There wasn’t any reality where he could just waltz into Iacon proper and be taken in by some philanthropic senator with a spark of gold. There just wasn’t. 

That didn’t mean he didn’t let the little empurata (and honestly, what had the mechling even done to deserve it?) know that if he ever needed help, he could take shelter in Crucible’s shop. 

What that hadn’t meant, though, was that Glitch could comm him whenever he pleased, at any hour of the cycle. And yet, here he was, jolting awake while his HUD screamed at him with a priority comm.

:: CRUCIBLE??? CRUCIBLE, THEY TOOK SHOCKWAVE! THEY TOOK SHOCKWAVE! ::

Sparkpulse in his intake, Crucible shot off his threadbare berth, scrambling to find his bearings, weapons systems cycling online. Tired and half awake he commed back :: Whoa, whoa. Take a fragging vent. :: while rubbing at his temples, trying to soothe the helmache that had sprung up.

:: THE ENFORCERS! THEY TOOK SHOCKWAVE, CRUCIBLE, THEY TOOK HIM! :: The panic and terror indicators made the message scream at him again, forcing him fully awake as he gave up massaging his temples and grit his teeth.

:: For the last time, calm the frag down or I’m not listening to a damn thing you say. I don’t get much recharge, and right now you are wasting it. ::

:: THEY- please. Please, Crucible, they’ll kill him or- or- ::

For a moment, he considered just ignoring the mechling. Mecha went missing all the time, from hardened criminals to kind-sparked souls. Truly, he could blow Glitch off. Could just go back to recharge and forget the whole ordeal—there wouldn’t be a safe haven for outliers anyways in the aftermath. No reason to keep entertaining their little play-pretend at allies. 

Another comm ping chimed in his HUD.

:: He’s the only family I have. I’m just asking you to try and find him, please. ::

… Primus fragging damnit.  

:: What did the enforcers look like? ::

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I am never, EVER, doing ANYONE a favor EVER again!  

The thought looped through Crucible’s helm as he slammed a security guard into a wall with his shoulder. The servo that had been scrabbling for purchase on his faceplate abruptly fell away as the guard’s helm hit the durasteel wall with a sharp crack. The sound echoed in the empty alleyway; the mech slumping to the floor, energon beginning to pool at his pedes. 

Whether he was passed out or dead, Crucible didn’t wait around to find out. Wrenching the door to the frame-mod shop open, he slipped inside.

The Institute was an urban legend to most of Cybertron’s populus—a tale told to mechlings to get them to behave—but anyone who was anyone in the slums knew that it was very real and very, very dangerous. That the senate used their enforcers to bring mecha to it was well known too (especially given that it was the gangs who were in their pocket), but it also meant that just about any mech in the Dead End could identify any one of them, given the right… incentive.

Which led to the present.

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A fist slammed into the side of Crucible’s face, sending him stumbling sideways, the taste of energon bursting in his mouth as he lashed backwards with a super-heated servo, catching the second security guard in the visor. The mech howled in pain, but didn’t release his grip on the hood of his harvester alt, even as his other servo clutched his ruined face. As the guard tried to grapple for a hold on his helm,  he failed to notice one of his lower arms drawing back.

 One swift punch to the abdomen sent the guard stumbling back, doubling over as the mesh beneath his plating spasmed from the shock of the impact. It was all the space Crucible needed to regain his balance and lunge forwards, servos outstretched and reaching for the guard’s intake.

Before the mech was even aware of it, he’d melted through the guard’s plating, straight down to his spinal strut. He didn’t even have time to scream before he offlined.

Shoving off the rapidly graying corpse, Crucible staggered back to his pedes, Swallowing the bile rising in his intake. The Dead End hardened a mech to a great many things. Murder, death, violence. Each was as commonplace as the rising and setting of the sun, but… killing a mech in cold energon was different. Not that he had the time to dwell on it, though.

He’d come too far to even think about turning back, and not just because he’d made a promise to Glitch. No, he’d called in almost every favor he had and threatened mecha far more dangerous than himself to get this far. Turning back now would be a death sentence. 

To be fair, though, he had sent a ping with his coordinates to Glitch. Hopefully the mechling would be able to find what was left of his frame when he inevitably got himself offlined.

 Muffled voices grew louder as he half-jogged half-stumbled down the hallway, the sharp, acrid scent of cleaning agents stinging his nasal receptors. Other doors and hallways branched off around him, a few scattered spark signatures here and there, but the only group of them he could sense was at the end of this one. That has to be where Shockwave is.

Steeling his nerves, Crucible ducked his helm, dropped his shoulder and charged the door.

__________________________________

Pain radiated up his arm as he made contact, the door ripping free of its track with a screeching groan and crashing inwards with a deafening bang. 

Blinking rapidly to clear the coolant pricking at his optics, Crucible took stock of his surroundings: five mecha, two of whom looked like doctors, one with strange, over-elongated claws extending off his digits, and two enforcers—dead ringers for the ones who’d brought the good senator in—filled out the room. At the center of it all, unconscious on the medberth, was a mech who looked a lot like Shockwave, save the energon that stained his frame a bright pink.

The enforcers recovered first, much to Crucible’s dismay, their hulking frames dwarfing his as they rounded on him. Note to self: if you get asked to do slag like this again, just save everyone the trouble and offline yourself.

Adrenaline surged through his lines as his fans kicked up a gear, rising from a low drone to an incessant whine. In his peripheral, he could see the heat rising off his servos, his HUD informing him that the remaining magma had successfully diverted from his smelting chamber to his upper limbs. The enforcer closest to him took a wary step back at the sight, while the other’s plating flared in a threat display, his optics narrowing. Silently, the three combatants waited for one of them to make the first move.

Their stalemate was broken when the wiry mech with the weird claws shrieked, “GET HIM OUT, NOW!”

As the two enforcers got over their shock and charged, Crucible received a small, spark-warming pop-up in his helm: Upper Extremities At 1,200 ^oC.  

Rolling out the cabling in his shoulders, Crucible felt a wild grin spread across his face. Alright you maker-fraggers. Let’s fragging go.

The nearest enforcer reached him first, fist arcing down at an angle to try and hammer-strike Crucible’s helm, the other reaching for his lower arms to drag him in closer. With his options of escape quickly diminishing, he charged the mech, servos reached to grab and burn whatever he could find purchase on. 

Unfortunately, that seemed to be what the brute was counting on, the enforcer quickly pivoting to send his leg slamming into Crucible’s side, driving the air from his vents. Pain exploded as his plating crumpled under the force of the blow, knocking him to the side.

Using the momentum to propel himself, Crucible spun back forwards, using his upper servos as anchors while his lower ones grabbed onto the still-raised leg and yanked hard.

By sheer virtue of the enforcer’s off-center of balance, the mech came tumbling forwards, arms pinwheeling as he tried to stop from falling face-first onto the floor. As he came down, Crucible let go of the floor and reached out with his upper servos, catching the enforcer underneath his chestplate. The scent of burning metal filled his nose a split-second later, followed by screaming.

He couldn’t hold on for long, though, as the second enforcer came into view, raising a gigantic hammer above his shoulder and bringing it violently down at a sideways angle. At the last second, Crucible let go of his hold on the other enforcer’s frame and dove to the side. The hammer-wielding enforcer let out a panicked shout much too late, his aim striking and sending his cohort flying backwards, crushing one of the medic-looking mecha against the far wall.

“YOU’LL PAY FOR THAT, SLAGEATER!” the enforcer roared, already hefting the hammer up above his helm as Crucible stared up at him from the floor, frozen in place by fear.

The hammer seemed to swing down in slow motion as his processor scrambled to find a way out of this. And yet, the only thought he could hold on to was, This is how I die, isn’t it?

__________________________________

He didn’t even realize what he was doing until the heated magma contained within his palms noticeably grew to a noticeably uncomfortable temperature, his arms swinging up reflexively in front of his face. Dimly he was aware that additional battle-protocols had been activated, but all his processor could focus on was the morbid thought of, I don’t think that’ll stop a hammer.  

It wasn’t until a muffled clang reached his audials that he realized he’d done something.

Like a holovid returning to normal speed after being slowed down, everything around him abruptly sped up as his magma-coated servos grabbed onto the front-end of the enforcer’s hammer, or better put, the half-melted remnants of it—a testament to how fragging hot his outlier ability could get—as the mech wielding it dropped it with a pained shout.

Chestplate heaving as he staggered back to his pedes, Crucible spared a quick glance to the rest of the room. Shockwave remained unconscious on the berth while the medic and clawed mech huddled in the far corner. The enforcer who’d been thrown was leaking energon from his mangled chestplate. As it stood, the only real threat in the room, now, was the enforcer in front of him who was currently staring at him like he was a feral pneuma-lion.

Taking advantage of the lull, Crucible dragged the back of his servo across his face to wipe the energon off it, and took a steadying vent. A dark satisfaction curled in his chassis when he took a menacing step forwards, and the enforcer’s optics going wide as they darted between Crucible and the exit. I dare you to try, he thought at the mech, showing off his fangs in a sneering grin.

“What are you waiting for?!” the cowering medic screeched, optics white from fear, “KILL HIM!”

Groaning to himself as the enforcer’s optics narrowed again, the mech tensing up as he prepared to charge, Crucible mimicked the movement. His side screamed in agony as he lunged forwards, HUD informing him of several torn fuel lines, but he met the enforcer helm-on, locking servos with him.

It only took a moment for the brute to realize that his servos were being burned, but once he did, he let out a howling scream. Bloodlust seemingly completely abandoned, the mech tried desperately to yank his servos out of Crucible’s grasp, screams turning to audialsplitting shrieks as they began to melt off. 

Right before he lost his hold on the other mech, Crucible released his servos to grab the enforcer’s arms, tugging them towards him and—once the enforcer was in range—using his lower servos to yank the mech down to optic-level with him. 

Adrenaline surged through his lines, static thrumming in his audials, as, without a second thought, Crucible released his hold on the enforcer’s arms and slammed the palms of his servos against the mech’s faceplate

The shrieking cut off abruptly as steam, then smoke curled out from under Crucible’s digits, the acrid scent of melted metal and burning energon wafting through the confined space. Soon enough, the thrashing beneath his servos stilled to erratic twitching, and then to nothing. 

As the adrenaline wore off, and he slowly realized what he’d done, he took a half-step back, servos trembling as they left the enforcer’s disfigured frame. Stumbling away from the corpse, Crucible's intake squeezed shut, his vents faltering as he stared down at the mess at his pedes, the mech’s plating already starting to liquefy from the heat radiating off his frame. Pit, even the tile floor had begun to warp and melt around him.

All at once, things seemed to be moving both too fast and too slow around him; his vents rapid and shallow, the pool of burning energon leaking from beneath the slagged mess of the ex-enforcer slowly seeping towards him. The panicked fear that churned in his tank was likewise reflected in the fields of the two mecha still cowering on the far end of the surgical theater. The room felt increasingly small around him, burning metal filling his nasal receptors as he tried and failed to invent. Dimly, he was aware of what sounded like thunder growing louder behind him.

“Are you alright!?” called a deep baritone voice, snapping Crucible back to the present.

Reality slammed back into him like a freight train as he turned to see a tall red and grey mech slowing to a stop at the entrance to the room, taking in the scene before him. Reflexively following the mech’s line of sight, he turned again to see what he was looking at and quickly shut his optics to keep from purging. 

The enforcer who’d been thrown against the wall had slumped forwards, energon congealing at the pedes of his grayed frame. The medic behind him (if you could even call the aftermath a medic) was little more than smashed internals and energon against the wall. 

Opening his optics, gaze fixed on the floor, he saw that the enforcer at his pedes had cooled into an amalgamate that could barely be called a Cybertronian. A lone optic floated frozen next to the mech’s exposed fuel pump, struts sticking out of the melted plating like sticks in mud. He immediately yanked his gaze off the floor, fixing it on the far wall while the red mech stepped cautiously into the room.

The smell of curdled, burning energon abruptly reached his nasal receptors as he invented, and he almost gagged, bile rising in his intake. Shuttering his optics again, he took a deep vent through his mouth and counted to ten; a technique an old friend had taught him to help calm down. As his vents slowly evened out as his audials picked up on a screeching whine. 

For a brief moment, he wondered who the pit it was coming from, when his HUD called his attention to a flashing indicator: Magma Chamber Depleted: Cooling Protocol Initiated. Oh, right. Of course. Taking the time to collect himself, he was dimly aware of the tall red mech side-stepping around the melted mess of the second enforcer, followed soon after by two other mecha. It wasn’t until the taller of the two broke away and wrapped his arms around Crucible’s torso that he realized who it was.

“Thank you,” Glitch whispered against his plating before quickly releasing him, shaking out his smoking servos, tears visibly pooling in his optic.

“Oh- slag, sorry, Glitch…” he tried to apologize, stepping forwards before realizing that his plating was still scorching hot. “Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” waved off the smaller mech already having recovered himself, optic shrinking in an imitation of a smile. “Thank you, again, for finding him.”

“It was-” Crucible’s vocalizer fritzed out, himself both unaccustomed to receiving a genuine compliment, and overstressed from what had just happened. Swallowing and resetting it, he managed a weak, “It’s nothin’. Owed it to ya anyhow.”

“But you-” 

Glitch was cut off by a red-orange medic with a skeptical scowl. “So, you’re the ‘friend’ this one hasn’t stopped yapping about?”

Caught off guard, Crucible blinked dumbly at the medic. “I, uh… yeah, I suppose so,” he stammered, optics flickering between him and the mechling. “What’s it to ya?”

The medic gave him a look that seemed like a mix between reserved curiosity and pity, but before he could ask another question, the red mech called out, “Ratchet, a servo!?” Turning to look, he saw that the mech in question had gotten the senator into a sitting position, though he seemed to be struggling to hold the unconscious mech upright. Next to him sat the medic and the long-clawed mech in stasis cuffs.

“Coming Orion!” the medic called back, leaving Crucible alone with Glitch.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” the mechling said, hesitating before gingerly grabbing his lower arm and tugging on it. “This place is freaking me the pit out.”

“Yeah, uh… yeah. That,” Crucible murmured, processor everywhere and nowhere at once.

__________________________________

They made it halfway down the hall before Crucible’s legs gave out under him, upper arms just barely coming up in time to stop his frame from crashing into the ground. His vents came in short, shaky bursts as Glitched hovered over him, wringing his servos. 

“Do you, um… Do you need help?” the mechling asked, shifting his weight from pede to pede, optic darting between Crucible and the door to where Senator Shockwave was, presumably, being helped by the two mecha Glitch had brought with him, Orion and Ratchet.

“No, I’m-” he cut himself off, his spark spinning faster and faster in its casing as bile rose in his intake. “Just… Just give me a second or two…” he finally got out, letting his frame slump against the cool metal of the wall behind him.

“Oh, uh, okay then?” Glitch sounded even more confused and torn now, but eventually (and helped by the fact that Crucible had closed his optics and was ignoring him) left to rejoin the two mecha in the surgical theater.

Taking a deep invent, he tried to calm the anxious racing of his spark to little avail. Tremors shook his servos as images of mutilated frames flashed across his optics to the point where he pressed them against the sides of his helm as though the pressure might force his processor elsewhere.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” rasped a muffled voice behind him, jolting Crucible out of his spiral. 

“Hello!?” The voice took on a desperate pitch when he didn’t reply, and, just as he was about to call out for Glitch to confirm he wasn’t hallucinating, an electromagnetic pulse washed over his frame, plunging him into darkness. 

__________________________________

When he came back to his senses, Glitch was back in front of him with the medic, Ratchet, from before. To his still-ringing audials, the mechling’s babblings made no sense, but, much to his relief, the medic shushed him. Of course, that seemed to be predominantly because he was in the process of performing a frame check on Crucible, but given that he still couldn’t move his limbs, there wasn’t much he could do in the way of complaining. 

“It looks like stress-induced framelock. Nothing serious as long as his core temperature stays down,” Ratchet commented to Glitch, and finally took his servos off Crucible's frame. 

“He seemed fine when I left…” the mechling said nervously, worrying the plating of his wrists with his servos.

“Shock can take a while to set in,” the medic explained gently. “It isn’t your fault, so don’t go blaming yourself. Just keep it in processor for the future.”

“It was an EMP,” Crucible tried to clarify, though his fried vocalizer made it come across as “Wuz ‘n emm-p.”

“Take it easy, your frame’s trying to handle a lot of stress at the moment. No need to add to it by trying to talk right now,” the medic soothed, putting a servo on Crucible’s shoulder, slowly pushing back to rest against the wall again. He tried to shove the mech off him, but his slack limbs continued to betray him and refused to move.

As he sat there stewing and grumbling to himself, they were joined by three other mecha: the ‘Orion’ mech from before, and two forensic officers (one tan and lanky with pronounced helmfins, and the other a black-and-white Praxian with characteristically prominent doorwings). The two from inside the surgical theater were being dragged by Orion as he chatted with the tan mech, the Praxian trailing behind them. Primus, how long was I out for?

As they passed him, the lanky officer took notice of him, visor brightening in surprise. “Oh! You’re alive!”

Orion and the Praxian likewise turned, the latter drawing stasis cuffs and commenting, “I can bring him in once Rachel clears him to move,” as he broke away from Orion to stride towards them. Don’t you fragging touch me! Crucible wanted to growl, glaring icily at him as he approached.

“Hey! He got us here!” Glitch protested as Orion stepped forwards to place a servo on the Praxian’s shoulder, halting him. “He was our lead to this place, Prowl,” the mech explained in a low, tense tone. 

Great, so he’s probably a cop too, Crucible grumbled internally, embarrassed with himself for not noticing earlier. 

The Praxian bristled at the touch, whirling around to face Orion. “An inside source he may be, but he’s still a part of an illegal operation. He needs to be taken in and face justice!” Anger was replaced with fear pooling in the pit of Crucible’s tank as the implications of the detective’s words sunk in. He was aware of Glitch and Orion defending him, of the Praxian’s voice rising even higher, but none of it processed through.

“I don’t care if he’s a slagging sparkeater, stop terrorizing my patient!” Snapped Ratchet’s voice above it all, cutting through the mounting argument and the static in Crucible’s audials. “Primus, it’s like you’re all protoforms,” the medic growled as he turned his attention back to Crucible.

“Thanks,” he rasped, relief washing over him as his attempt to push himself into a more comfortable position succeeded.

“Serves ‘em right for harassing a patient of mine,” Ratchet grumbled, shooting the mecha behind him a sharp glance. “Good to see motor function is returning, though.”

Turning his attention to dragging himself upright, Crucible tuned out the now hushed conversation between the two detectives as Orion handed the cuffed mechs over to the other. The Praxian grabbed both of them, the low frequency buzz of comm chatter trailing after him as he and the lanky tan cop headed back topside. 

The moment they were out of sight, Glitch darted back to his side, grabbing his lower arms and helping haul him back to his pedes. The effort made his helm spin, his upper arms bracing against the wall to stop him from falling, but he remained upright, giving the mechling a tight smile. “Thanks for the help, kid.”

Glitch’s optic shrank, his field radiating relief, before tilting his helm to the side and asking, “What were you trying to say earlier?”

Earlier? Earlier… oh, scrap! Optics widening as he jerked his helm up, looking up and down the hallway and giving himself motion sickness in the process, Crucible searched for where the source of the mystery voice had come from.

“… Crucible?” Glitch sounded apprehensive.

“A voice. There was a voice before the EMP,” he rushed to explain, realizing that he looked more than a little mad at the moment. “I heard a voice and then the EMP went off and knocked me out.”

“There was no EMP, Crucible. We’d all be out cold if there had been.” Ratchet’s tone edged on trying to calm a psychotic patient and only served to fuel Crucible’s anxious frustration.

“No, it had to be an EMP. Trust me, I know what framelock feels like, and that was not it.”

“Then what are you trying to say?” Optimus asked, taking a step closer. “That someone tried to attack you?”

“No I-“ pausing his search, Crucible pondered the question. “I think it was a person. Another prisoner, maybe? Their voice sounded scared enough t’be the case at any rate.”

Ratchet opened his mouth to say something, skepticism palpable in his field, but Glitch cut him off. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Crucible shrugged, pushing off the wall and turning to fully face Orion. “I think whoever it is is in one of the cells nearby,” he jerked a thumb behind him.

The cop studied his face for a moment, before turning to Ratchet.

“Take…-” “Crucible,” he interjected with a tired huff. “My name’s Crucible.”

 “Yes, right. Ratchet, you and Crucible help get Shockwave out of here, Glitch, you and I can look for this… mystery person.” 

Before he even had a chance to protest, the medic grabbed him by one of his lower arms and started dragging him down the hallway. Glitch let out a small, panicked noise at the sight, only to relax when Crucible sent him a quick teek. Really, kid, I can take care of myself, he grumbled to himself, yanking his arms from Ratchet’s grasp. “I can walk on my own, y’know,” he snapped.

“Then keep up,” the medic snapped back, glaring at him.

__________________________________

Orion and Glitch were gone by the time he and Ratchet carried Shockwave out of the surgical theater. The senator was surprisingly heavy, even for a mech of Crucible’s frame type. Probably an artillery flight-frame, he mused to himself. 

Holding up the other side of the senator, Ratchet seemed to be barely struggling at all, though from the half-present look in his optics, he was talking to someone over comms. Suppressing a growl, Crucible rolled his optics and kept walking. So far, they hadn’t been hampered by the medic’s distraction. 

Trying to maneuver Shockwave up the stairwell, though, was a test of both his patience and his agility. As he almost lost his grip on the senator for the third time, the former began to fray. “Could you please try and hold on!?” he whisper-shouted in frustration.

The medic said nothing, but their journey upwards went much smoother (he swore he heard a muttered, “I’d like to see you coordinating with three different rapid-response teams while dragging a half-dead mech up stairs,” but ignored it for his own sanity).

__________________________________

Up on the streets, they found a team of medics waiting for them. 

Crucible’s first instinct was to bolt—few, if any, medics, police, pit, anyone connected to the senate could be trusted—but Ratchet seemed to trust them, and Glitch had trusted him and that Orion cop. All that to say, he might not’ve bolted immediately at the sight of the medics, but when a chattery little one (First Aid, he was pretty sure he’d introduced himself as) got too close, he bared his fangs at him.

Ratchet was quick to step between them. “He’s from the Dead End, ‘Aid. Give him some space.”

“Right, right, of course,” the little medic apologized, backing off as he went to join his fellows who were helping Shockwave onto a portable medberth.

Crucible watched him retreat before glaring at Ratchet again. “I’m not some charity case you get to pity,” he growled under his vents. “I can handle myself.”

“Oh, and I’m guessing you were going to just let First Aid perform a check up without trying to bite his helm off?” the medic hissed back, shooting him a sharp look.

Rolling his optics with a wordless grumble, Crucible crossed his upper arms. “Is there anything else I need to be present for, or can I go?” he asked pointedly, optics already scanning the streets around them for any gawking passersby—for anyone who might decide to report their activities as ‘suspicious’ to the wrong mech.

“Yes, yes, you’re relieved of your duties,” Ratchet sighed with a wave of his servo, and at the last minute added, “And thank you, for finding him.”

Stopping dead in his tracks, Crucible turned slightly towards the medic and awkwardly bowed his helm to him. “S’nothing. Favor for a friend s’all.” They stood there in awkward silence for a moment, before someone called to Ratchet, and the medic took off, leaving Crucible to slip into a nearby alleyway. 

He stayed just long enough to watch Glitch and Orion exit back onto the street, an unnoticed but held vent escaping him when the mechling seemed no worse for wear. I’m just making sure the cop didn’t do anything to him, he told himself when his processor began nagging about staying too long in ‘wrong-place-wrong-time’ spots. Glitch might not be from the Dead End, but the little outlier was in just as much danger of being rounded up by the enforcers as he was. Mecha had to look out for their own.

What held his attention, keeping him glued in place longer than he should’ve dared stay, though, was the limp frame of the red and gold colored mech being carried in the cop’s arms. Small, thin coils spiralled off his shoulders, tendrils of electricity flickered across their length at steady intervals. Was that who I heard back there? Crucible wondered, watching as the small Cybertronian was loaded into one of the medic’s ambulance alt and carried off into the night alongside the senator.

Wonder what’ll happen to him, his processor wondered before he hit the side of his helm with the palm of his servo. Probably be taken into that idiot’s little school if he survives. He isn’t your problem, but if you don’t get back home soon, you’ll have plenty more to worry about.

Without another look back, Crucible disappeared into the alleyway, ducking into a narrow side street as he wound his way back to his home. Night was the worst time to be out wandering the streets, especially if one’s income came from… non-senate-approved means. Enforcers took a special pleasure in catching any who strayed too far from their turf, and dammit if he wasn’t in the prime position to be one of those mecha. 

About a block from his home, the cloud cover finally broke loose overhelm. Acid rain, strengthened by the pollutants from the factories, bit at his plating as he dashed through the streets, ignoring the odd looks he garnered as he dipped under the patchwork overhang of what could liberally be called his ‘front porch’. 

The rain hissed against the cheap paneling, but it held enough to let him fumble his key out of his subspace and slot it into the door, the lock disengaging with a low hiss. Shouldering the ancient thing open, he only spared a moment to close and relatch the door before collapsing on the couch-turned-berth and slipping into recharge. Any of the fallout from what he’d done could wait until morning for him to deal with it.

Chapter Text

The next cycle’s sun brought with it an acute awareness of what had happened the previous night: specifically in the form of strut-deep soreness that permeated Crucible’s entire frame. 

Just getting off his berth had required an effort and a half, to say nothing of managing to reach the section of his house that barely constituted a kitchen. Flicking the manual switch to the overhead light on, he fumbled around with the energon dispenser, retrieving a pathetically small cube and downing it in one gulp. Won’t even bring my tanks up two percent, he grumbled to himself, moving on autopilot and limping over to the wash basin. 

Servos coming to rest against the cracked metal of the rim of the sink, he peered into the small mirror he’d installed above it. The face that peered back barely resembled his own: bruises marred its mesh, his helm was littered with dents, and one finial had been snapped completely off. Primus I look like slag.  

Resetting his optic feed, his spark skipped a pulse when he finally noticed the deep gashes running down the right side of his face, splitting it open from audial to chin. Old first-aid protocols kicked in and he frantically twisted the faucet’s knob, letting the solvent run clear before splashing it on his face. His vents caught in his intake, the cold solvent shocking his system, but tried to focus on gently scrubbing at the wounds as best his clumsy digits could manage. 

Hopefully the medic from the night before (Ratchet, he vaguely recalled) had put something on them to prevent infection, but the paranoia that he hadn’t compelled Crucible to clean them himself. Rust infection killed just as quickly as (and much more graphically than) a blaster bolt.

After a few minutes of careful cleaning, he was finally satisfied that the wounds were sufficiently disinfected and began digging through his subspace for a nanite patch to put over it. A growl rumbled in the back of his intake when he came up empty, letting out a frustrated exvent as he pushed away from the sink. Aggravating as it was, the gashes weren’t deep enough to scar, and leaving them alone for a short while probably wouldn’t kill him. 

Rifling through the cabinet on the other side of the kitchen, he dug out a worn dent stylus and set about pulling the worst of the dents on his plating back into place. The smaller ones would fix themselves in due time, but leaving the larger ones alone—aside from them possibly becoming permanent—risked making him a target to any two-bit junkie looking for an easy mark. 

There was an odd culture amongst mecha at the bottom of the food chain; large, prominent, scars (especially when accentuated with paint) were just as much symbols of status as the sparkling plating and ostentatious jewelry of upper class mecha. The smaller dents would go completely unnoticed, and his facial scars would read as him having been in one pit of a fight—and more importantly, won—but the larger dents would be a clear tell that he was physically compromised from it. 

The metal of his shoulders and helm pinged sharply as he pulled the largest of the dents out one by one, not bothering to be overly gentle about it. He had places to be, and waiting too long to venture out could just as easily be a death sentence as rust infection. He’d called in too many favors the night before to not show his face outside. Refusing to do so would indicate that he hadn’t followed through with what he’d done, and it would give the mecha he’d threatened plenty of reasons to want him dead for it.

The last dent on his helm popped back into place with a painful ting , and he rolled out the cabling in his neck, sore from so long stuck in one position. Setting the stylus on the counter’s edge, he stretched his arms up and out, only to immediately let out a pained hiss as white-hot agony shot up his side. Crackling open one of his optics, he squinted down to see that the plating of his right side was horribly warped and mangled (worse than he’d assumed last night), bent inwards at an angle that looked far too close to puncturing into his internals for his comfort.

His itinerary of things to do quickly rearranged itself in his helm as he took this new factor into account. Thankfully, he knew enough mecha that would still do business with him (and, honestly, any mech with enough shanix). He didn’t even bother considering swinging by his shop to check for clients; too many optics would be watching to see what would happen to him before he’d be seeing any business. 

His plating creaked and groaned as he slowly made his way back to the front of his house, rummaging around in his subspace for the key. There was no point in trying to do damage control on the crumpled plating now, but it still ached fiercely. Trying not to wince as he ducked low and stepped out of the front door, Crucible scanned the street for any suspicious loiterers.

When all he saw were the standard panhandlers and vagrants, he let out a quiet sigh of relief. Still, he knew he was far from safe out in the open. Well-learned paranoia kept his helm on a swivel as he followed the cracked pavement towards the black markets that kept the Dead End afloat, careful to keep his upper right arm down by his side to cover the worst of the damage to his plating.

__________________________________

“You’ve certainly seen better cycles, no?” asked the vendor he’d stopped by, optics flickering over his frame, sizing him up.

“Don’t even think about it,” Crucible growled, shooting the flier a sharp glare. “I ain’t got nothing worth stealing.” The warehouse that worked as a market space for mecha looking for everything from gauze to dreamchips was packed, mecha shoving against one another as they tried to move from stall to stall. This particular vendor had grabbed his attention only because his wares looked relatively new, and while sterility was laughable in the Dead End, clean enough was rare to come by. Which was what had drawn him over in the first place, shouldering the previous customer out of the way in doing so.

 With a shaky laugh, the vendor held up his servos, wings dropping low and wide in a show of surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promised, a tremor of nervousness in his voice.

Letting a contemptuous snort escape his intake, Crucible returned to perusing his wares; mostly circuit speeders and syk chips, but he also had clearly stolen medical supplies as well. Grabbing a servofull of nanite patches, he glanced back up at the flier. “I’ll take these.”

“You sure that’s all you want?” the mech wheedled, optics darting between the patches in Crucible’s servos and the rest of his wares, “Your plating looks awfully unsightly, and that's me not even bringing up your face. Surely you could use something for the pain, no?” 

When Crucible didn’t respond, just glared at the flier expectantly, he threw in a sleazy, “I could even give you a discount on them, if shanix is an issue?”

Primus he must be desperate, Crucible thought venomously, gaze sharpening and pinning the vendor in place. “I said, I’ll take these.” He shoved the patches towards the mech with a growl. 

In his younger years, the allure of drugs like syk had called to him—a seductive promise to make him forget about all the pain and misery around him—but he’d seen one too many mecha overdose (and if they didn’t kill themselves outright, they became more and more desperate for their next hit until they’d just about kill for it). He’d come too far now to even entertain the idea of throwing it all away for a quick high that would only leave him more of a shell than he already was. 

Not to mention, he hated mecha who preyed on others like the flier clearly did.

Speaking of, the mech looked about ready to try and argue his point further, but the rumble of Crucible’s magma chamber coming online shut him up, wings hiking up in surprise. The flier screwed up his face—likely looking for a way to discreetly call in whatever security he had, before Crucible leaned forwards. Not enough to properly threaten, mind you, but juuust close enough that the vendor could feel the heat radiating off his frame. 

In a sparkpulse, he quickly agreed to a highly reduced price, a showy ‘happy-to-please-a-customer’ smile plastered across his face while his optics darted nervously between Crucible and anyone who passed them by, obviously desperate to be rid of the mech in front of him. Intimidation wasn’t typically his go-to bartering strategy—customers tended not to come back when threatened—but it had its advantages, and like pit if he wasn’t going to shamelessly use that to his own gain from time to time.

A frown still glued to his face, Crucible transferred the credits to the mech and bid him a clipped, “Pleasure doing business,” before turning on his heel and striding off to his next stop.

It took several hours to find the rest of what he needed, though that was in part due to the round-about route he’d had to take to avoid prominent gangs’ territories. His final stop, though, rested squarely in the middle of one such part of the slums. 

Bunsen, an old mech with a horrible, plate-rattling cough, happened to be one of the few mecha in the Dead End with any engineering experience, and also happened to be the only mech that Crucible was confident wouldn’t hand him over to any of the gangs that patrolled the area if he came asking for favors. After all, they were (in an incredibly loose sense of the word) business partners.

As such, he really, truly, hoped the old mech would hear him out before tossing his aft back into the street.

__________________________________

The mech’s shop—a converted detailing parlor that doubled as his home—blended in with the rest of the dingy, rust-coated buildings that flanked it; invisible, if not for the sign that hung off the front door: Mods and Upgrades; Available for Installment, scrawled in crisp Kaonite. The flaking black and blue paint that decorated the building’s walls felt oddly welcoming as Crucible crept out of his hiding place in the adjoining alleyway and towards the decrepit shop.

He rapped softly twice against the aging metal door and held his vents, optics darting left and right as though mecha would appear out of thin air to try and kill him if he vented wrong, which, to be fair, was a very real possibility. He almost jumped out of his plating when the door abruptly creaked open, helm snapping down to stare at the grey-plated engineer like a cornered turbofox. 

The mech just looked him up and down before dryly asking, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Crucible hesitated a moment, self-preservation instincts screaming that he was not, under any circumstances, to disclose such a damning vulnerability.

 “Time is money, Crucible. And you’re wasting mine,” Bunsen grumbled with a cough, taking a step back into his shop.

Panic eclipsed his processor, words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. “I need a favor!” he hissed, voice low and desperate.

That caught the old mech’s attention, Bunsen tilting his helm to one side, optics searching his face for any deceit or deception. “What kind of favor?” he asked after what seemed like an eternity.

“I think it’d be better if we discussed this… inside,” Crucible said quietly, helm swivelling slightly to check that the streets were still clear.

The old mechs optics flickered up and down the alleyway too, helm nodding in agreement. “Follow me.”

__________________________________

The area of Bunsen’s shop that he dubbed a ‘home’ was a four-by-four meter kitchen and berthroom rolled into one, with a small desk and chair squeezed into a windowed corner, the filtered light that streamed through it illuminating the dust particles in the air.

Crucible stood hunched in the doorway, unsure if he should go in or wait for the old mech to come back out while the engineer puttered around his kitchen, pulling odds and ends out of cabinets and drawers. He was tempted to ask what he should do, the twinges of pain emanating from his side growing more and more pronounced while he waited. Stooping slightly lower so he could get a better look at the room, he fought to keep a grimace of pain off his face at the movement.

In the end, he was saved by the old mech turning back to look at him like he’d been dropped on his helm as a sparkling and snapping, “Well don’t just stand there like a rotodeer in headlights!”

Stepping fully into the room as Bunsen turned his attention back to gathering up his equipment (or whatever it was he had stacked in his arms), Crucible winced as he straightened up, plates squealing as they scraped against each other. To his immense relief, though, the engineer didn’t so much as flinch at the noise—probably assuming that he’d taken a seat in one of the chairs that clearly wasn’t meant for a mech of his frame class. “So, what’s the big secret?” the mech asked over his shoulder, unbridled curiosity and suspicion in his voice. “Must be serious if you’re not willing to talk about it out of shop,” he added casually, grabbing a canvas-like bag out of a drawer.

“Yeah, something like that” 

He might trust the old mech to repair his plating, but it still went against all his instincts to share the extent of his injuries.

“And by ‘that’ you mean…?” Bunsen trailed off, disapproval dripping in his tone. “You want to give me more to go on, or are we playing twenty questions?”

Crucible sucked in a vent then blew it out in a long sigh. “It’s easier seen than explained,” he admitted after a few seconds, shifting his upper right arm out of the way to expose the mangled plating that crumpled painfully inwards.

“Uh-huh, sure. Let’s play charades with a mech who-” the old mech cut off with a sharp invent, engine stalling with a jarring sputter, when he turned around and caught sight of Crucible’s side, shock and horror whipping out from his field, optics blowing wide.

“Got into a scrap with a pack of junkies last night,” he lied, lower servos raised placatingly. “They got a couple good hits in before I sent ‘em packing.” 

No reason to let the old mech know exactly who had done this to him. At his age, Bunsen had far bigger things to worry himself over than his pseudo-business partner picking a fight with the Senate’s most notorious enforcers (and killing them both). A wave of nausea sent his tank spinning, and he blinked his optics rapidly as though that might clear the image of their mangled corpses from his processor. 

Quickly recovering from his shock, Bunsen shuffled over and set his supplies down on the corner desk. “Looks more like you got hit by a triple changer,” he barked between coughs, sooty exhaust flushing from the vents on his sides. Taking a closer look at the damage, the old mech let out a low whistle. “I take it this is the favor you’re calling in?”

Crucible nodded his helm in agreement. “So, can you fix it?” 

“Depends. How much time you got?” the mech asked, snapping him out of his processor.

“There’s nowhere I gotta be today, if that’s what you’re meaning,” he grunted back, settling into a sideways seated position across from the engineer.

“Good.” 

The faint sound of rummaging servos through fabric filled the silence before several small somethings were tossed towards Crucible, bouncing off his arm’s plating with a series of plinks. Looking down, his optics widened as he recognized the tapered shape of circuit suppressors—medical grade too by the look of them.

“Hey, whoa, I can’t take these!” he protested, shoving the anesthetics back towards the old mech. “I can handle the pain just fine, so don’t go wasting ‘em on me.”

“I wasn’t offering,” came the curt reply as Bunsen forcefully handed the circuit dampers back to Crucible. “Now, are you going to be difficult, or are you going to cooperate and stop wasting my precious time?”

Crucible floundered for a moment before begrudgingly taking the dampers and applying them to the exposed mesh of his side. Almost immediately after they absorbed, he let out a relieved sigh, the damage warnings that he’d been ignoring in his HUD quieting to almost nothing as the throbbing ache from his right side all but vanished. Across from him, Bunsen let out a quiet, ragged, laugh, amusement flickering through his field.

Rolling his optics, Crucible lifted his upper arm up and back to give the engineer room to work, grumbling, “C’mon, I ain’t got forever.”

His comment earned him a sharp tap to the crest of his helm from the old mech’s welding tool and a half-growled, “Shut your trap or I’ll shut it for you.”

Biting back a teasing barb, Crucible shut his mouth—though not before letting out a disbelieving snort.

“Oh, trust me, it’d be one pit of an improvement,” Bunsen promised, the faux threat pulling another coughing laugh from the mech’s intake. “Now, sit up for Solus’ sake! I can’t see scrap with you hunched over like that.”

Straightening his backstrut, Crucible let his processor wander as the engineer worked, only occasionally tuning in when he had to shift his stance so the old mech could access the finer wiring beneath his plating. The rest of the procedure, he spent tuned out and processor adrift. Eventually, his thoughts circled back to the previous night, and the strange red and gold mech who’d been carried out of the Institute by that cop (Orion, his memory banks recalled, pulling up a fuzzy, adrenaline-hazed memory of the mech staring at him, optics wide as the melted frame of the enforcer cooled at his pedes). 

Blinking his optics quickly to disperse the image, he felt his plating rattle reflexively in response to his revulsion and suffered another hit from Bunsen for almost messing up his weld lines. He apologized profusely for it, but his train of thought quickly diverted straight back to watching the odd little mech be carried away in a medic’s altmode as he watched from the alleyway. Who was he? What was he doing in the Institute, much less alive in it? What had happened to him?

These questions plagued his processor even as Bunsen proclaimed him fit to leave (and refused to accept proper payment for his services, insisting that Crucible simply owed him a favor in exchange), curiosity and concern chasing each other in circles in his helm until he was exhausted from trying to unravel a mystery that didn’t even belong to him. You did your job and found Shockwave, that was all you had to do, he reminded himself as he took the long route back to his home, the late afternoon sun casting the air around him in a bright yellow glow, that was all you had to do, and it just so happened that you accidentally rescued another mech in the process. Whatever happens to him now is his problem, not mine.

Even in his own helm, the words sounded weak, and it only added to his frustrated annoyance. He’s literally just some mech! he shouted into the silent expanse of his processor. We owe him absolutely nothing! He’s not our problem!

And yet, concern still coiled around his spark like a razor snake and chewed holes in his tank. But what if something happened to him after we left? A quiet part of his processor asked. He sounded terrified and desperate back in the Institute. What if he just ended up back there?

As he turned down the street to his house, his frustrations and concerns set about waging war against each other once more, running round and round in his helm until he felt his patience physically snap. Without a second thought, he pulled up his comm channels and scrolled until he saw Glitch’s name. :: Hey kid, how about I take you up on that offer of a tour you keep talkin’ about? ::

Shoulders sagging with a groan, he immediately regretted giving in to the temptation as within a split second, a reply pinged in his HUD. :: Of course!!! I’ll let Shockwave know you’re coming over immediately! You’ll love it, Crucible, I promise! :: Primus was the kid loud when he got fired up.

He almost wanted to respond back, to tell the mechling that he wasn’t actually considering moving to that blasted academy, but if he did, then he might not get a chance to weasel his way inside it again. If there was any place that the red and gold mech might’ve ended up at, it had to be at Shockwave’s little experiment-turned-charity school. And if not, well… 

Blowing out a harsh exvent, he shook his helm and squared his shoulders as he stepped out into the sun’s light. If the little mech wasn’t there, then he was gone; plain and simple. Still, a part of him hoped that the senator had taken him in. Loathe as he was to admit it, the silver-spooned mecha that made up Iacon’s upper crust would probably be best equipped to deal with whatever fragged up slag was inevitably going on in that mech’s helm. Didn’t mean he liked going topside any more than he usually did—which was to say; never.

***

The gates that formed a perimeter around Shockwave’s academy were pathetically decorative, especially to Crucible’s optics. Plain gilded steel with the symbols of Solus and Micronus Prime etched into them (no doubt to invoke the ingenuitive advancements both Primes were known for) arched up only about 20 meters, and even then they would still be painfully easy to wrench out of shape with bare servos alone. Still, he had to admire the craftsmanship that had painstakingly gone into its creation (and rebuilding if the shinier sections were to be believed).

Was Shockwave taken straight from his own academy? He wondered offhandedly as he flashed his ID to the scanner and waited for the gates to part. Misgivings churned in his tank as he walked down the smooth path towards the academy’s entrance, noting the hastily smoothed-over divots that littered the courtyard. 

Knew this place wasn’t worth its shanix, he snorted to himself, his decision to keep himself as removed as possible from any of the senator’s projects firmly solidified in his helm.

When he reached the entrance to the academy, he hesitated, unsure of whether to knock or try and find a scanner that would let him in. C’mon, I already made it past the gates! his processor cried in frustrated despair, Don’t make me fragging break in on my first time coming here!

After a few more moments of hesitation, he let out a tired sigh and reached out with a balled up servo. Ah, to pit with it. It only took one knock to send the door swinging freely open, much to Crucible’s dismay.

Tentatively setting pede inside the fabled academy for outliers, his optics were immediately drawn to the gigantic mural that made up the back wall of the room’s foyer. The Thirteen Primes were depicted in all their glory against a newly forged Cybertron, the planet’s two moons flanking either corner of the upper frame while Caminus and Eukaris, the first Colonies, flanked the corners of the lower frame. Though, at the bottom, it discolored slightly, as though it’d been stained and hastily cleaned.

“Ah, you must be Crucible!” a warm, inviting voice called out, snapping Crucible’s attention to the hallway at his right. “Glitch has told us quite a bit about you and what you did for our academy! He was quite excited to hear you’d be visiting.” 

The senator slowly limped forwards, a cane grasped tightly in his left servo, but despite his less than sightly appearance, a friendly smile lit up his face, wings held high. If he hadn’t already promised the mechling that he’d come, Crucible had half a processor to turn on his heel strut and book it back to his shop. At least in the Dead End, he wouldn’t have to deal with any of this… weirdness.

“Don’t be such a stranger, come in, come in!” Shockwave called, beckoning him forwards and snapping him out of his helm. 

Carefully stepping over the threshold, Crucible’s optics darted side to side, watching for any unseen dangers that might lurk in the long hallways or vaulted ceiling. To the senator’s credit, though, he waited patiently until Crucible was confident in the safety of his surroundings before ushering him towards the large double doors at the end of the room. “I’m glad you’ve decided to make the journey here,” he said into the silence, that warm tone still in his voice, “I know that there are many risks involved with uprooting one’s life, but-”

“I ain’t here to stay,” Crucible cut across, not wanting the senator to think he was throwing in with their lot (and wanting to nip any offers to stay in the bud), “I’m just here to take a look around, see what all the hype’s about. It ain’t gonna become a habit.”

“Ah, I see.” Shockwave fell silent after that, wings tilting down before righting themselves, but he neither recoiled his frame or field from Crucible’s presence.

Maybe he thinks I’ll crack and stay the longer I’m here? he wondered to himself as they finally reached the double doors. It was only then that Shockwave broke away from him, hobbling over to a touchpad and inputting a series of codes.

A pressurized hiss drew his optics back forwards as the doors slid open, the senator announcing, “Welcome to my Academy for the Exceptionally Gifted!”

He certainly knows how to sell this shindig, Crucible grumbled to himself, casting a sidelong glance at Shockwave. 

The dull roar of multiple voice talking at once drew his optics back forwards, and he almost reset them once he did. The sheer number of outliers moving about what looked to be a reconstructed training arena floored him, his processor going completely blank as he took the scene before him in. I knew they had numbers, but nothing like this!

Optics skimming over the crowd, he watched in awe as one mech levitated himself and the platform he was standing on into the air and out of the reach of another who appeared to be able to phase through objects and mecha. Another spread her servos apart, ice crystals forming in the air between them before dropping into the energon cubes she and her friends held. There was no sign of Glitch or the distinctive red and gold mech from the night before, though. 

A loud bang abruptly sounded off to his left, Crucible’s helm snapping towards it just in time to see a mech laughing maniacally, as another put their servos on a steel barrel. The metal beneath their servos glowed as they closed their optics before- bang! In an explosive flash, the barrel was vaporized into fine ash.

“LIGHTWAVE!” Shockwave shouted, almost making Crucible jump in surprise, having completely forgotten about the senator’s presence at his side.

The noise echoing off the walls of the arena quickly abated, silence falling over the crowd of mechlings as they all turned to stare in both curiosity and confusion towards Shockwave—and, subsequently, Crucible. Off to his left, the cackling mechling abruptly sobered, embarrassment bleeding from his posture as he ducked his helm while the silver-plated mech (Lightwave, he assumed) clasped their servos behind them, rocking back on their heel struts.

Casting a quick glance down, Crucible watched with bated vents as the senator pinched his nasal ridge, wings drooping and flicking back in annoyance. “What have I said about using your outlier unsupervised?!” he asked in a voice that made it sound like this wasn’t the first time he’d said it.

“Don’t use your outlier without a medic’s supervision,” the assorted mecha chanted back, though, judging by the snickering faces of a majority of them, it wasn’t a rule they kept in processor often.

“I swear, sometimes it feels like I’m teaching newly emerged mechlings instead of grown mecha who know better,” Shockwave grumbled to Crucible with a sigh, inclining his helm forwards. “Care for a tour now?”

The abrupt pivot threw Crucible for a loop, but he felt he hid his surprise well enough, nodding mutely back as he cast his gave back out into the crowd. Glitch was still nowhere to be found, and like pit was he going to give the little scraplet the satisfaction of comming him for help. If he took this stupid tour, maybe the mechling would make an appearance along the way anyways.

Granted, they hadn’t even made it halfway across the arena floor yet, and he was already regretting showing up.

They actually made it almost all the way around the compound, Crucible growing more and more bored by the minute,  before he completely stopped listening to Shockwave prattle on about this, that, and the other. It wasn’t until they looped back to the foyer, coming out right next to the mural, that he realized the senator had asked him something.

“Uh… what was that?” he asked dumbly, already kicking himself to the Inferno and back in his helm for zoning out.

“I asked if you wanted to say hello to Glitch,” Shockwave repeated calmly. “He was ecstatic that you were coming to visit, after all.”

Talk about guilt tripping, Crucible grumbled in his helm, though he had to respect the senator’s grit to make such a blatant play. “Sure,” he agreed after a moment, “S’not like I’ve got anywhere to be today anyways.”

A grin lit up Shockwave’s face as he beckoned Crucible to follow him down a side hall. “Right this way, then!”

Primus, do NOT make me regret this, he groused silently, making a silent prayer-threat to a deity he held no faith in.

__________________________________

As it was, they ran into Glitch long before they reached his room; both Crucible and Shockwave having noticed the mechling’s distinctive glitchy laugh from an adjoining room that (according to the senator) served as something of a training room. Not that Crucible had really been paying attention to his words.

No, when they’d stepped into sight of the room, the first thing his optics had locked onto was the bright red and gold-accented plating of the shorter mech seated across from Glitch, spiralling coils protruding off each shoulder. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the mech turned to look towards him, light glinting off the crest of his helm in a dazzling display backlit by the pale purple glow of the biolights in his arms and shoulders. The bright yellow visor covering his optics flashed in what looked like recognition as he tilted his helm to the side.

“-is Crucible!” 

The senator’s voice abruptly brought Crucible back into the moment, time snapping back into place like an overstretched rubber band.

“Oh, uh… hi.” He waved one of his lower servos, praying again to Primus—or any god that happened to be listening—that he hadn’t just made a fool of himself.

Glitch clearly seemed to think so, the little scraplet’s plating shaking like it might fall off as he held back laughter. The red and gold mech just straightened his helm out, naked curiosity in his field. “Do I… know you?” he asked with the naïve sincerity of a newly emerged mechling.

“You, uh… I think you dropped an EMP on me,” Crucible admitted, “Not that I’m holding it against you or anything!” he quickly added, servos up in surrender.

“Oh…” the mech said, helm drooping slightly, his line of sight falling to the floor. “So that was you who I sensed.” He sounded almost… apologetic for it, and Crucible felt an awkward unease settle in his spark.

“Amp’s outlier allows him to build up and store an electrical charge in his frame that he can release on command,” Shockwave explained from his side, startling Crucible for the second time that cycle. “He doesn’t have the best control over it when he becomes extremely stressed, though, so we’re working to help him gain better control over it.”

The senator turned his attention to the two mecha in front of him, beaming as he said, “And from the looks of it, you’re making excellent progress Amp!”

The red and gold mech, Amp, wore an expression of consternation while Glitch (who Crucible guessed was helping teach the mech) preened at the praise. Then the mechling gave Amp’s shoulder a friendly shove, helm nodding towards Shockwave.

“thank you…” he whispered, not once lifting his visor from the floor as he said it.

“He has a hard time accepting praise or compliments,” the senator admitted to Crucible as they bid the pair goodbye and headed back towards the foyer, “Any positive reinforcement gets met with mistrust and fear, and I’m honestly-”

All of whatever the senator had been saying washed over Crucible’s audials, his processor solely focused on the expression on Amp’s face when he’d placed where he knew him from. It had been a mix of awe and… something Crucible couldn’t quite place. Contentment? Relief? He wasn’t really sure, but he did know that seeing the mech safe and whole had undone the knot of worry he hadn’t realized had formed around his spark.

And then, suddenly, they were standing outside the academy, Shockwave shaking Crucible’s upper servo. “So, not to presume, but I do hope you’ll be back to visit sometime. Some of the younger mechlings could truly do with seeing an older outlier who lives outside this place; give them a bit of hope that they can make it out in the world too?”

***

Back in his house, laying on his back, staring up at his ceiling as recharge failed to find him, Crucible wasn’t sure what it’d been in the senator’s voice that had made him say what he’d said. Maybe it’d been the unabashed hope or the unshakable confidence that he would agree to come back. Maybe it was because he found the whole shtick of teaching outliers—of fostering an ersatz safe-haven—fascinating and worth a revisit. Pit, maybe he’d finally reached a level of loneliness that compelled him to reach out to the scant few mecha who would entertain his company.

Either way, the scene kept replaying in his helm on loop. 

__________________________________

he hummed in thought before tipping his helm towards the senator in something of a half-nod. “How about I’ll think on it, first?” he offered, feeling the edges of a tiny smile cracking through the gruff, neutral expression he wore on his face.

Shockwave’s optics gleamed like a vendor who’d haggled a price in his favor and bid Crucible a good evening with little more fanfare.

__________________________________

Letting out a groan, he let his upper arm reach up and fall over his optics; as though the pressure might coax his obstinate processor into falling into recharge. What have I gotten myself into? He wondered, vents finally starting to fall into a slower and slower pace.

Even as recharge finally wrapped around his processor, bogging his thoughts down as though they were stuck in tar, he still managed to wonder about Amp, the image of the small mech’s plating shining like a small star under the training room’s light bubbling back up to the surface of his processor. 

He wasn’t quite sure what made it feel like the mech exerted some kind of magnetic pull on him, but he couldn’t dwell on it long as recharge protocols began executing themselves through his HUD, his consciousness slowly receding to the back of his processor. Maybe I can ask tomorrow? he wondered nonsensically as he drifted into recharge flux, confusion and curiosity painting the fluxes in shades of red and gold.