Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The city-state of Tarn had surely seen better days. Streets lay fractured and hollow, their once smooth plating cracked open like old wounds. Towers that had once pierced the skyline now sagged or lay toppled in heaps of girders and stone, their shadows broken and jagged. The scent of scorched energon clung to the air, acrid and suffocating, a warning no mech could afford to ignore. Tarn, once a place of music and industry, now breathed only silence and ruin.

It had not always been this way. Cybertron had endured countless ages of turmoil—Civil Wars that spanned continents, uprisings that toppled regimes, rogue factions that threatened to burn everything down. Through it all, the planet had endured, scarred but unbroken. But nothing in its long and bitter history had prepared its people for the Quintessons.

The five-faced tyrants had not arrived with weapons drawn. Instead, they came cloaked in a veneer of civility. Their ships hung in orbit like silent judges, and their emissaries descended bearing words of peace. They spoke with mechanical precision, their cold diplomacy calculated to disarm suspicion. At first, many had wanted to believe them.

That illusion shattered quickly. “Submit to us, or your world dies.” The declaration echoed in every hall of power, spoken in the overlapping tones of their shifting faces. It was a promise, not a negotiation. The council of High Command gathered beneath the golden spires of Iacon, a desperate chorus of voices clashing in anger and fear. Their optics burned with defiance, yet even in unity they understood the cost of refusal.

Surrender would mean slavery. Worse still, it would mean living as chattel beneath creatures who saw existence as data to be owned, cataloged, or erased. The Cybertronians had known tyrants before, but never ones who dismissed them as nothing more than tools. To yield would be to die slowly, stripped of will and meaning.

So they refused. Every leader, from the eldest councilor to the most untested governor, spoke the same answer. Cybertron would not kneel. The Quintessons’ faces twisted in response, expressions sliding like fractured masks. Some seemed amused, others enraged. None looked surprised. And then the war began.

From orbit, their ships released canisters that streaked across the sky like falling stars. Each container shattered upon impact, spilling black mist that seeped into the cracks of the world. This was no chemical weapon, no crude poison. It was a contagion built to target the very code of Cybertronian life. The virus infiltrated minds, scrambled logic circuits, and rewrote personality cores until nothing remained but the urge to hunt.

When the first victims awoke, they were no longer themselves. They were predators, driven by a single hunger—the spark. Their plating warped into unnatural shapes, claws formed where tools had once been, optics burned red with unreasoning fury. Survivors would call them feral bots, though the name scarcely conveyed the horror. They were kin twisted into monsters.

No walls could hold them. No science could cure them. The ferals spread like fire in dry grass, tearing through neighbors, allies, and even families without hesitation. Entire districts fell overnight. Laboratories became slaughterhouses. What was not consumed was left hollow, a lifeless husk staring sightlessly at the ruin around it.

Within cycles, cities crumbled. Streets became killing grounds, transit hubs turned into traps, and proud military complexes were overrun despite their fortifications. The Quintessons lingered above it all, their cold optics fixed on the devastation. To them, Cybertron was an experiment, its fall a calculation, its suffering a form of entertainment.

And so Cybertron burned. The survivors scattered, wandering the ash-laden plains, dodging ferals and the machines that watched them from above. The planet groaned under its own despair, every city-state reduced to echoing ruins. The dream of unity, of civilization, seemed like a cruel memory from another age.

Yet amid the wreckage, whispers began to spread. Word of Iacon, untouched and defiant, passed from one survivor to the next. Some swore it was protected by a barrier, others claimed the virus had failed to breach its walls. Few had seen it, fewer still could prove its existence. But for the desperate and the lost, the name alone became a lifeline—a fragile promise that hope had not yet been extinguished.

Rodimus had been just another bot among the lost, sprinting through the ruins with no sense of destination, only the primal urge to keep moving. His peds had carried him over fractured streets and hollow shells of buildings, across districts that no longer had names. Every step was survival; every breath, borrowed time.

He scavenged when he could, tearing through abandoned caches or ransacked storehouses, salvaging scraps of energon too thin to sustain but enough to keep his systems from crashing. The act felt more like theft from ghosts than scavenging, as though every morsel had belonged to someone who had not lived long enough to use it.

The invasion replayed itself in his mind with merciless precision. He remembered the shrieks of friends caught unprepared, their sparks extinguished by the feral monstrosities that now prowled the streets. The air had carried the sound of rending metal, the shrill cries of the dying, and then silence—a silence so complete it had become its own kind of terror.

Entire sectors had fallen that way. One after another, they had gone dark, until the map of Cybertron was more wound than whole. Each loss was a reminder of how quickly hope could vanish.

The Quintessons had not simply claimed Cybertron as a conquest. They had defiled it. They had twisted the very lifeblood of the planet, warping its children into predators that knew neither mercy nor memory. Ferals roamed as mockeries of what Cybertronians once were, their optics blank, their instincts sharpened only for the hunt.

Rodimus carried those images with him wherever he went. They lived in the corners of his processor, surfacing whenever the world grew too quiet. They reminded him that he was not simply running from danger; he was running from the weight of loss itself.

Now he crouched beneath the fractured shell of what had once been a Tarnian transit hub. Its grand arches lay broken, its platforms sagged, and its tracks vanished into rubble. It had once carried millions across the city, connecting lives. Now it was nothing but a grave.

The streets beyond twisted under heaps of collapsed towers, jagged spires of steel jutting skyward like the bones of the dead. Rust bled through cracks in the walls, and ash floated in the air, stirred by the occasional gust that howled through the wreckage.

Rodimus kept his optics wide, their glow cutting faintly through the gloom. Every shadow seemed to move, every echo felt like the padded tread of something stalking him. Survival meant vigilance. It meant never letting fear slow his reflexes.

But he also knew survival was more than running and hiding. A bot could not live forever by scavenging in ruins and waiting for the next ambush. Not here. Not when the world itself seemed eager to consume the last of its children.

Survival meant reaching Iacon. If there was any city left with structure, with light, with something resembling community, it was there. Rumors whispered that the heart of Cybertron still pulsed, however faintly. That faint promise had become his compass.

And so, as he pressed his back to cold stone, surveying the dead streets with fire in his optics, Rodimus made a silent vow: he would reach Iacon, or he would burn himself out trying.

Rodimus moved like someone who had always been chased. His stride was quick, sure-footed even across shattered ferrocrete, a rhythm drilled into his frame long before the Quintessons had arrived. He knew how to cut corners tight, how to shift his weight just enough to keep balance even when the ground collapsed beneath him. Every motion was sharpened by instinct, like muscle memory from another life.

The wasteland didn’t scare him the way it scared others. He wasn’t reckless—though some might call him that—but he thrived in the narrow spaces between danger and escape. He could hear ferals before they appeared, feel the vibration of their claws scraping the ground, and knew when to run and when to hold. There had been a time when his whole existence was about speed, about getting somewhere first, about daring anyone to try and catch him.

Now, speed meant survival. And he was very, very good at surviving.

As he crossed the remains of a bridge, Rodimus glanced down at the void beneath. His vents hitched at the memory of another bridge, another night, when the lights had been brighter and the crowds louder, when the sound of engines screaming through the dark had been something to live for, not something to run from. He forced the thought away. Those days were gone, buried under ash.

But the habits lingered. The way his optics tracked every line of sight, the way he felt the path of escape before he needed it. The way his spark thrummed harder at the idea of outrunning something instead of hiding from it. Even here, even now, in the ruins of Cybertron, that old spark of thrill still glowed in him. He hated it—and he needed it.

Rodimus crouched low as the guttural screech of ferals echoed from the streets below. Three of them, hunched and twitching, stalked the ruins of what had once been a supply depot. Their movements were jagged, unpredictable, like machinery run on corrupted code. He stayed perfectly still, waiting, his vents shallow. He knew how to wait out a pack. He knew patience didn’t mean slowing down—it meant striking only when the road opened up.

When the creatures moved on, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His hands twitched at his sides, itching with the urge to move, to bolt forward just to feel the rush of it. Instead, he pushed on quietly, his pace quick but measured, his mind always a few steps ahead.

Every survivor Rodimus had met seemed to carry themselves like ghosts—slow, wary, heads bent. He couldn’t. Even when he tried, his body rejected it. He had been forged for motion, for speed, for testing the limits of how fast a frame could go before it tore itself apart. Walking at a crawl through the ruins felt more dangerous than sprinting into the unknown.

And maybe that was his curse. Or maybe it was the only reason he was still alive.

As the first flickers of twilight bled across the dead skyline, Rodimus settled into the remains of an old maintenance bay. The walls bore scorch marks and gouges from long-forgotten battles, but they were intact enough to keep the wind and ash at bay. He slid down against the wall, clutching his spear close, his optics dimming to slits.

It was then, through the cracked entryway, that he caught sight of another figure moving silently across the ruins. Not a feral—the steps were too precise, too careful. A survivor.

Rodimus froze, his optics narrowing as the mech stepped into view. The frame was unmistakable: light armor, long limbs, plating built not for brute strength but for speed. A racing model. It struck Rodimus instantly, a gut-deep recognition that hummed through his spark. He’d seen hundreds like him in another life, on nights when the streets pulsed with light and everything was about the next corner, the next stretch, the next heartbeat.

The mech moved with caution, every step measured, his weight perfectly balanced as he tested the ground before committing. That told Rodimus something too: not just a racer, but one who had survived long enough to adapt. One who could keep up.

Rodimus’ mouth curved into a grin. He hadn’t expected this. In all the cycles of running alone, of cutting through ash and ruins with nothing but ghosts at his back, he hadn’t thought he’d see another frame like his again. Something restless surged inside him—something reckless.

He shifted deliberately, scraping his boot against the ferrocrete. The sound carried. The other mech’s head snapped up, optics flaring in alarm, then narrowing in calculation as they locked onto him. For a long moment, neither moved, tension stretching thin as wire.

Rodimus tilted his head, optics gleaming with challenge, and then darted up the side of the maintenance bay, scaling the wall with practiced ease. He paused at the rooftop edge, glancing back down just long enough to flash the kind of cocky half-smile that needed no words. The challenge was obvious: catch me if you can.

The mech hesitated. For a second Rodimus thought he’d miscalculated, that this survivor was too careful, too guarded, unwilling to waste energy on games. But then the stranger vaulted up the opposite wall, landing on the rooftop with a thud that carried more precision than weight. His optics burned with something sharp—acceptance.

Rodimus’ grin widened. Without another thought, he took off across the rooftop, pedes striking metal as he leapt the gap to the next building. The ash-choked wind tore past him, his systems thrumming as though he were back in a world where running meant more than survival. Behind him, the other mech followed, his movements tighter, smoother, each jump perfectly measured against the distance.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The rhythm of their strides said enough—the thunder of metal on metal, the scrape of servos on ledges, the burst of sparks as pedes hit unstable ground. Rodimus pushed harder, weaving across the ruins, deliberately picking paths that dared the other mech to keep up.

And to his surprise, the stranger did. More than that—he began closing the distance. Where Rodimus relied on raw momentum, wild leaps and reckless speed, the other raced with control, cutting every motion down to its most efficient form.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, Rodimus felt alive. Not just surviving—living.

Rodimus let the wind rush over his armor as he vaulted another gap, plating catching the last light of the dying sky. The city stretched beneath him like a dilapidated racetrack, jagged and treacherous, but he didn’t care. His spark spun faster, hotter, alive in a way it hadn’t been since the world fell apart. He wasn’t just moving—he was flying.

Every leap, every narrow landing felt like proof that he was still here, still faster than whatever haunted the streets below. He risked glances over his shoulder, half-expecting the stranger to falter, to fall behind. But no—he was right there, every motion taut and deliberate, a rival who matched his fire with ice. And that thrilled Rodimus.

For a moment, he let himself imagine they weren’t running through ruins. That the rooftops weren’t broken slabs but shining platforms, the wind not thick with ash but alive with cheering voices. The phantom memory of it swelled in his chest, almost painful. He pushed harder, daring the mech behind him to do the same.

He caught the stranger’s optics once in mid-jump, a spark of challenge flashing between them. That was enough. The race wasn’t about winning anymore—it was about proving they both still could.

Rodimus laughed, a sharp, reckless burst that echoed across the dead city. He hadn’t heard his own laughter in cycles. It startled even him, but he didn’t slow down. His vents roared, his legs burned, and he welcomed every bit of it. This was living, not hiding, not scraping by.

Then the sound changed. The rhythm of pursuit shifted. It wasn’t just the mech behind him anymore. There was another noise—scraping metal, jagged and raw, not the controlled precision of a survivor. Rodimus’ grin faltered as he heard the telltale screech of claws on metal.

He turned in mid-stride, optics widening. The stranger had landed on the next rooftop, but he wasn’t alone. Three ferals scrambled up from the streets, their twisted frames twitching as they surrounded him. Their optics burned with that hungry, corrupted light, their movements erratic but coordinated by instinct.

Rodimus cursed under his breath. He’d been so caught up in the rush, so focused on the race, that he hadn’t noticed the signs. The shadows had been too still. The air too thick. He should’ve known. Ferals hunted rooftops too—they always found the noise.

The other mech spun, unsheathing the blades at his hips with practiced ease. His stance was tight, controlled, but Rodimus saw the twitch in his armor: he hadn’t expected to fight. Racer frames weren't built for brawling.

Rodimus skidded to a stop on the rooftop edge, spark hammering. The thrill of the chase burned away, replaced with sharp, biting clarity. He could run—and leave the stranger to fend for himself. That would be smart. That would be safe.

Since when had Rodimus ever chosen the safe route?

Rodimus didn’t think—he jumped. His pedes slammed against the rooftop as he landed between the ferals and the stranger, his spear catching the dim light of Cybertron's star. The weapon felt like an extension of his arm, every movement honed from cycles of necessity. He swung in a wide arc, the blade catching one feral across the helm with a crack that sent it tumbling backward.

The stranger didn’t waste the opening. With a flick of his wrists, the two short blades gleamed in the twilight. He moved with surgical precision, each strike efficient, cutting deep into feral plating at the joints and vents. If Rodimus fought like wildfire, reckless and blazing, the stranger fought like a scalpel—sharp, controlled, every motion deliberate.

The ferals screeched, sparks flying as they lunged in jagged unison. Rodimus pivoted, driving his spear into the chest of one, twisting hard before kicking it away. He spun on instinct, parrying another swipe of claws that grazed dangerously close to his faceplate. His vents roared with exertion, but adrenaline made every strike sing.

The stranger ducked low, blades flashing as he severed a feral’s arm before stabbing upward into its throat. He rolled with the momentum, rising fluidly to meet another attacker. For a sparkbeat, Rodimus couldn’t help but stare—the mech moved like he’d done this a hundred times, every cut and dodge flowing into the next. It was artistry born from survival.

They fought back to back, an unspoken rhythm forming between them. Rodimus’ wild, sweeping strikes carved openings, and the stranger slipped into them with clean, finishing blows. The rooftop echoed with snarls, the clash of weapons, and the hiss of leaking energon. For a moment, it almost felt like they could win.

But ferals never came alone. More claws scraped against the walls, more twisted shapes hauling themselves up from the streets. Rodimus’ grin faltered as four more clambered onto the rooftop edge, their optics glowing like hungry embers. His spear whirled, striking one down before it could leap, but the numbers were against them.

One lunged faster than he anticipated, claws raking across his side as he twisted away. Pain flared hot, his plating splitting with a spark and spill of energon. Rodimus hissed but didn’t falter, shoving the feral back with a vicious jab of his spear. The wound throbbed, but he forced himself to keep moving—if he slowed, he was dead.

The stranger must have seen it too—the sheer number overwhelming them. He slashed another feral across the optics, driving it off balance before shouting over the chaos. “Retreat!” His voice was sharp, commanding, cutting through the noise. “Now!”

Rodimus tightened his grip on the spear, his vents heaving. His instinct screamed to keep fighting, to burn brighter, faster, harder—but he knew the call was right. They couldn’t win this. Not here. Not tonight. He met the stranger’s optics once, nodded sharply, and spun toward the next rooftop. The fight wasn’t over—but survival came first.

And the stranger hadn’t noticed the energon still dripping from Rodimus’ side as they leapt into the shadows.

The two of them tore across the rooftops, the ruined streets flashing by beneath their feet. Rodimus ignored the ache in his side, forcing himself to match the stranger’s pace. Every jump rattled his frame, every landing jarred his wound, but he refused to fall behind. He wasn’t about to let the mech think he couldn’t keep up.

The ferals followed for a stretch, their guttural screeches echoing in the air, but they weren’t built for the heights. One by one, they dropped away, scrambling back to the streets in search of easier prey. Still, neither Rodimus nor the stranger slowed until the glow of their optics vanished completely into the smog.

Rodimus spotted it first—a collapsed stairwell leading into the hollow shell of an old apartment complex. He didn’t hesitate, vaulting down into the yawning gap and sliding through the dust-choked window frame. The stranger followed close behind, blades snapping to the magnets on his hips with a click as they landed inside.

The silence was thick, broken only by the rasp of vents and the distant howl of the wind outside. The building smelled of rust and stale energon, but the walls were intact enough to hold for the night. Safe enough. For now.

Rodimus leaned his spear against the wall and dropped to the floor with a laugh, shaking his helm like he was trying to rattle the ash out of his vents. “Primus, that was incredible.” His optics flared with excitement, voice carrying too loud for the dead quiet. “The rooftops—the fight—you were right there the whole time! I haven’t—” He cut himself off, grinning wide, energy still buzzing through his frame. “Haven’t felt that alive in ages.”

The stranger didn’t share the excitement. He remained standing, arms crossed over his chest, optics sharp with disapproval. “You could’ve gotten both of us killed.” His tone was even, controlled, but it carried an edge that cut deeper than yelling. “Noise like that? Ferals would’ve heard us from half a district away. And they did.”

Rodimus shrugged, still grinning, like the scolding couldn’t stick. “Yeah, but we handled it. You saw us out there—we made a fragging good team.” He leaned forward, optics alight, like he was daring the mech to disagree. “Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it. That rush.”

The stranger’s optics narrowed. “What I felt was claws nearly tearing into my spark.” He moved toward the window, peering out at the night beyond, keeping his back to Rodimus. “Thrill doesn’t mean a thing if you don’t live to see the next cycle.”

Rodimus’ grin faltered just slightly, the weight of the words pressing against the leftover exhilaration. But he couldn’t help it—his spark still thrummed like an engine revving too high. He leaned back against the wall, optics dimming a fraction, though the smile never fully left his face. “Maybe,” he admitted softly. “But admit it—you felt it too.”

For a second, the stranger didn’t answer. Only the sound of the wind outside filled the hollow room. Then, finally, his shoulders shifted, the faintest acknowledgment. But his voice, when it came, was steady steel again: “Try a stunt like that again, and I leave you to the ferals.”

Rodimus stretched out his legs, finally letting his vents slow, and tilted his helm toward the stranger. “Guess we’re stuck together for the night. Name’s Rodimus.” He said it with a flourish, like he was still announcing himself to a crowd, not to a single mech in a crumbling apartment. “And before you ask—yeah, it’s my real designation. No aliases, no cover codes.”

The other mech gave him a long, steady look, as if weighing whether to answer. Then, after a beat, his tone softened just slightly. “Getaway.” It was simple, clipped, delivered without the theatrics Rodimus favored. But it was something.

“Getaway,” Rodimus repeated, rolling it around in his mouth as if testing the sound. He flashed a grin. “Fitting. You move like someone who knows the value of a clean exit.”

Getaway didn’t rise to the bait, though a flicker crossed his optics—acknowledgment, maybe even amusement, buried under that careful exterior. He shifted his weight, scanning the room, clearly more interested in the walls than in Rodimus’ banter.

As Getaway moved toward a set of shelves half-buried in dust, Rodimus noticed something jutting out beneath the rubble. He brushed it aside and pulled free a small case, its surface dulled with age. When he cracked it open, the light caught on a tiny figurine—paint chipped, base cracked, but still unmistakable.

Rodimus barked a laugh. “No fraggin’ way. Blurr merch?” He held it up like some ancient treasure, squinting at the bottom. His optics widened as he spotted the faint scribble across the stand. “Holy scrap, it’s signed. The mech who lived here was a fanboy.”

Getaway turned his helm, finally showing something other than guarded calculation. “Guess even the end of the world doesn’t kill bad taste.”

Rodimus chuckled, spinning the figurine in his hand. “You’re kidding me, right? Blurr was the fastest thing on wheels. Frag, he still might be out there somewhere. Bet he could outrun a whole swarm of ferals without needing coolant.”

For the first time since they’d met, Getaway’s voice carried a note of dry humor, subtle but sharp. “Or he’d get himself killed showing off, or recklessly challenging another bot to a race.” He didn’t look directly at Rodimus when he said it, but the jab was deliberate.

Rodimus smirked, pocketing the figurine into his subspace. Maybe once the apocalypse is over, it would hold more value. “Fair point. But you’ve gotta admit, the guy knew how to make an entrance.”

Getaway just shook his head, optics glinting faintly as he turned away, but the edge of his composure had cracked. Beneath the cool control, there was the faintest ghost of amusement—and Rodimus caught it.

The apartment was a hollow shell of a life long gone. Dust coated everything in a thick layer, and the walls bore cracks that looked ready to split at any moment. Still, it was shelter, and that counted for something. Rodimus followed Getaway deeper inside, optics scanning for anything worth keeping.

Getaway moved with practiced efficiency, pulling open drawers, prying open cabinets, checking every corner with the kind of focus that said he’d done this a hundred times before. His hands were steady, deliberate, as though he expected danger behind every hinge. Rodimus, in contrast, kicked his way through overturned furniture with less subtlety, poking through debris with the end of his spear.

“Someone left in a hurry,” Rodimus said, crouching beside a collapsed desk. He pried open a locked drawer, only to find it empty save for dust. “Guess Blurr merch wasn't a top priority. Bummer.”

Getaway didn’t answer, too busy digging through a storage bin. He came up with a ration cube, its casing scuffed but intact. “Still sealed,” he muttered, more to himself than to Rodimus. He set it on the counter like a prize, then continued his methodical sweep.

Rodimus’ vents hitched as a dull ache flared in his side. He pressed a hand casually against the plating, forcing his expression to stay bright. The slash wasn’t deep enough to cripple him, but every movement sent a spark of pain across his frame. He couldn’t let Getaway notice.

“Hey, uh—I’m gonna check the bathroom. See if the plumbing still works,” Rodimus said quickly, striding toward the narrow hallway before Getaway could question him. He shut the bathroom door behind him and locked it, sagging against the wall the moment he was alone.

He pulled his hand away from his side, wincing at the sight of energon staining his fingers. The slash ran jagged across his plating, deeper than he’d admitted to himself during the fight. He cursed under his breath, lowering himself to the floor with a shaky exhale.

From his subspace, he pulled out a small welder—something he’d carried ever since the Quintesson invasion turned survival into a daily gamble. The tool whined to life, its orange glow casting shadows across the cramped room. Rodimus braced himself, jaw clenched hard to keep himself from making a noise before pressing the heated edge to his torn armor.

The sizzle of metal meeting metal filled the bathroom, accompanied by the sharp scent of scorched plating. Rodimus held back a screech as pain lanced through him, raw and punishing. He forced the seam closed anyway, holding until the heat cauterized the wound. His vents came in ragged bursts, the sound muffled by the closed door.

When it was finally sealed, he returned the welder to his subspace, the hum fading into silence. His hands trembled as he checked the work—ugly, uneven, but it would hold. For now. He leaned his helm back against the wall, drawing a deep breath, before forcing himself to get up. The last thing he needed was Getaway asking questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

Rodimus leaned over the sink, catching his reflection in the cracked mirror. His side throbbed with every vent, the weld line raw and ugly. He muttered under his breath, dragging his servo across the plating again in a jagged pass, trying to make it look uneven—like something that had scarred over long ago. The result wasn’t convincing. The shine of fresh weld stood out too clearly against his older scuffs.

He grabbed a rag from the counter and scrubbed at the energon streaks running down his side, but the fabric came away soaked almost immediately, the dark stains refusing to lift. “Fraggin’ useless,” he hissed, tossing the rag into the corner. The smell of scorched metal clung to him, sharp and obvious. He splashed some stale solvent from the faucet over himself, but the pipes groaned and spat only a thin, rust-tinted trickle. It did little more than smear the mess.

He tried again, scrubbing harder, but all it did was spread the energon into dull streaks. He groaned in frustration, the sound echoing through the tiny space. Rodimus braced his hands against the sink, bowing his helm as he let out a long, ragged vent. “Get it together,” he muttered. “Can’t let him see.”

After a beat, he straightened, rolling his shoulders back as if nothing had happened. The wound screamed with the motion, but he forced a grin back onto his face, the kind of grin that had carried him through every bad decision in his life. He gave his reflection a mock salute before unlocking the door.

“Pro tip,” Rodimus announced as he stepped back into the room, voice pitched with forced cheer, “post-apocalyptic plumbing? Totally busted.” He strode out as if he’d just been testing the water pressure, ignoring the sticky drag beneath his armor.

Getaway was crouched near the front door, reinforcing it with a toppled shelving unit. His hands worked with steady precision, each motion meant to seal them in just a little tighter. He didn’t glance up when Rodimus spoke, but his helm tilted slightly, like he was listening anyway.

Rodimus kept talking, leaning against the wall as if exhaustion weren’t gnawing at his frame. “Also, feral energon? Disgusting. Stuff stains worse than jellied sweets. I swear it’s like it gets into your armor. I can’t get the smell out.” He made a show of clawing at his chest plating, wrinkling his nose dramatically.

Getaway shifted to the window next, sliding a heavy board across the broken pane. “You should be more careful,” he said evenly, his tone betraying nothing. “Last thing you want is their energon mixing with yours.”

Rodimus forced a laugh, waving a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. I know the stories. I’m fine. Just gross.” He let his optics wander to the barricade, nodding toward it. “You’ve done this before.”

Getaway’s hands didn’t pause. “Plenty of times.” The weight in his voice carried more than the words, a history Rodimus could only guess at. He hammered another board into place, sealing out the night.

Rodimus watched him for a moment, his grin faltering just slightly at the edges. Then he pushed himself off the wall, dragging his usual swagger back into place. “Well, I’ll give you this—if the ferals don’t get us, boredom might. You sure you don’t want to celebrate the fact that we outran an entire swarm?”

Getaway slid the final board into place over the window and straightened, dusting his hands off. His optics cut toward Rodimus, sharp and deliberate. “Don’t get comfortable. This isn’t a partnership. Just two mechs heading in the same direction for one night.” His tone was cool, matter-of-fact, like he’d given this speech before.

Rodimus leaned back on his elbows, grin still plastered across his face, but it faltered just slightly at the corners. “Temporary, huh? Could’ve fooled me with all that lecturing you were giving me.”

“Don’t read into it,” Getaway replied, already pulling the ration cube from the counter where he’d set it earlier. He cracked seal and pulled out two glasses from his subspace, dividing it perfectly in half and sliding one glass across the table without ceremony. “Drink. You’ll need the energy if you plan on staying alive tomorrow.”

Rodimus blinked at the gesture, caught off guard. For someone so determined to put up walls, Getaway was still willing to share hard-earned supplies. Rodimus accepted the glass, holding it in his hands a moment longer than he needed to, as though testing if the offer was real.

“Funny way of saying you’d miss me if I fell behind,” he said lightly, before tipping the glass against his lips. It tasted like chalk and rust, but it filled the emptiness in his tanks.

Getaway didn’t bite at the joke. He slipped a straw into his glass and lifted it to his intake, optics scanning the darkened corners of the room like danger might crawl from the walls at any moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was low but firm. “Get some recharge while you can. We leave at dawn. After that, we go our separate ways.”

The words landed heavier than Rodimus expected. He stared down at the half-empty glass in his hand, a flicker of something unsettled stirring in his spark. He wanted to laugh it off, to throw back another quip, but instead he just drank quietly, optics dimming.

For all his bravado, the thought of being alone again gnawed at him. The rooftop race, the fight, even the silent teamwork—it had been the first time in cycles he hadn’t felt like just another ghost moving through the ruins. And now Getaway was already planning to vanish come morning.

Rodimus shifted, trying to force the grin back onto his face. “Sure,” he said finally, voice lighter than he felt. “Dawn it is.”

But when Getaway settled near the barricade, posture steady, Rodimus couldn’t help glancing at him through the dim light. The mech was calm, collected, all edges and control. And Rodimus, restless and buzzing even as fatigue pulled at his frame, couldn’t decide if he hated him for it—or if he admired him.

Rodimus stretched out on the cold floor, plating pressed against cracked tiles. He shifted onto his side, then onto his back, trying to find a position that didn’t make the weld along his side scream. Every move sent a dull throb through his frame, a reminder of the feral’s claws and his sloppy patch job. He clenched his denta, forcing himself not to let a sound slip.

Across the room, Getaway sat with his back to the barricaded door, one knee drawn up, optics scanning the shadows beyond the boards. He hadn’t powered down, hadn’t even relaxed. His servos rested near the hilts of his blades, ready for anything. He looked carved from stone, calm and unmovable.

Rodimus envied it. He envied the stillness, the quiet vigilance. He tried to mimic it—shuttering his optics, slowing his vents—but the pain in his side and the buzzing under his plating refused to let him settle. His processor wouldn’t stop spinning, dragging him back through the rooftop chase, the way Getaway had kept pace stride for stride, the way their movements had synced like they’d been fighting together for vorns.

It had felt good. Too good. And that scared him almost as much as the ferals.

He cracked an optic open, glancing toward Getaway. The mech hadn’t moved. Distant light from the boarded window caught the angles of his armor, painting him in stark lines. Rodimus wondered what it would take to get him to laugh, to smile without that sharp edge. He wondered if Getaway had anyone left out there—or if he’d already chosen to be alone.

The thought twisted something deep inside him. Rodimus had spent cycles pretending to himself that he didn’t mind the silence, the empty stretches of road where only his own echo kept him company. But now, lying here with another presence in the room, he realized just how much he hated it. The loneliness gnawed worse than the wound.

He turned onto his side, wincing as the weld tugged, and forced himself to whisper, just loud enough to break the quiet. “Don’t think I snore, but, uh… let me know if I do.” It was a weak attempt at humor, something to pierce the stillness.

Getaway didn’t look at him. “Recharge. We move at dawn.” The words were flat, but not unkind.

Rodimus let out a shaky vent, optics dimming again. He wanted to push, to keep talking, to keep himself tethered to something real. But the pain dragged him down, heavy and relentless, until exhaustion finally forced his systems into a restless half-recharge.

And as the city groaned in the distance and shadows shifted beyond the barricade, Getaway remained sentinel, silent and unmoving, while Rodimus fought the ache in his body and the sharper ache in his spark.

Chapter Text

A firm servo shook Rodimus out of recharge. He jolted, optics snapping on, only to find Getaway crouched beside him, finger pressed to his faceplate— where his mouth would be, if he had one. The gesture was sharp, silent, and left no room for argument.

Rodimus froze, systems whirring low. The pain in his side flared as he shifted upright, but Getaway’s gaze pinned him in place before he could make a sound. His optics burned with urgency, and Rodimus knew better than to ask questions.

The room was quiet—too quiet. Even the wind outside seemed to have stilled. Then he heard it: the faint scrape of claws on concrete, a shuffle of plating against metal walls. Ferals.

Getaway moved like a shadow, slipping back toward the barricaded window. He tilted his helm, motioning for Rodimus to follow. Rodimus rose carefully, biting down the hiss that threatened to slip free as the weld in his side tugged. He hated how clumsy he felt next to Getaway’s fluid control.

At the window, Getaway pressed his helm close to the boards. Through the cracks, Rodimus caught sight of movement in the streets below—a cluster of ferals, their frames twitching and jerking as they prowled, optics glowing a sickly green. There weren’t many, maybe half a dozen, but one was too many this close.

Rodimus leaned in, whispering low. “How the frag’d they track us here?”

Getaway’s response was a soft growl. “Doesn’t matter. We move. Now.”

Rodimus blinked. “Move? As in… right this slagging second?”

Getaway’s optics narrowed. He pointed to the barricade, then mimed climbing. Rodimus followed the line of motion and realized he wasn’t pointing to the door—they’d be going up. The roof.

Adrenaline cut through the haze of half-recharge. Rodimus nodded once, finally catching the silent rhythm Getaway demanded. No more questions. Just follow.

Getaway pried the boards off the stairwell door one by one, every movement precise, deliberate. He didn’t waste effort, didn’t make a sound louder than the faint creak of old metal. Rodimus stayed close, spark pounding, gripping his spear tight in case the ferals decided to strike before they could slip away.

The stairwell reeked of rust and spilled energon, the walls damp where leaks had streaked through. Their footfalls echoed despite their best efforts, and Rodimus winced at every sound, certain it was loud enough to carry. But Getaway kept climbing, gaze flicking back every few steps to make sure Rodimus was following.

By the time they reached the roof access, faint thuds rattled the apartment below. The ferals had found the barricade. Rodimus swallowed hard, the memory of claws sinking into his side flashing hot in his processor. Getaway didn’t falter. He shoved the hatch open and slipped onto the rooftop like he’d done this a hundred times.

Rodimus followed, pulling the hatch shut behind them. The night air settled evenly over his plating—cool, sharp, alive. From here the city stretched out in fractured steel and broken towers, Tarn’s once-proud skyline now jagged against the starless sky.

Getaway crouched low, scanning. His optics flicked left, then right, then settled on the western horizon. He tapped Rodimus’s shoulder and pointed. Beyond the sprawl of ruins, the faint silhouette of the outer highways cut toward the open plains. Beyond those plains: Iacon.

Rodimus grinned despite himself. “Straight shot. Easy.”

Getaway gave him a flat look. “Nothing about this is easy.” He shifted, pointing out the danger zones: collapsed bridges, smoke columns where ferals likely clustered, areas where old defense turrets still sputtered to life unpredictably. His finger finally traced a jagged but navigable path that would take them around Tarn’s worst.

Rodimus leaned closer, optics bright. “So we’re really doing this. Out of Tarn, across the plains, all the way to Iacon.” His grin widened, reckless but genuine. “Almost sounds like a race.”

“Not a race,” Getaway said firmly, pulling back to study the skyline again. “A survival run. Keep that in your head, or you’ll end up as feral food before we clear the first mile.”

Rodimus’s grin didn’t fade. His spark pulsed harder, faster. The pain in his side was still there, sharp and unforgiving—but the thought of moving, of racing rooftops and highways again, drowned it out.

They moved like shadows, hopping from one rooftop to the next. The buildings were cracked and uneven, but Getaway landed every leap with silent precision. Rodimus tried to match him, keeping his vents low, but his spark still thrummed with the thrill of movement. Each landing sent a jolt through his wounded side, but he bit it down—he’d rather chew through steel than show weakness.

The city was alive with faint, sick noises: the guttural howls of ferals echoing in the distance, the creak of decayed structures shifting in the night air. Every sound felt amplified when they stopped moving, crouched against rooftop ledges, waiting for silence before crossing the next gap.

Getaway signaled for patience with a flat palm, then bolted across another divide, his armor flashing silver in the dim light. Rodimus followed, his grin barely contained. For all the danger, there was something intoxicating about flying through the ruins. 

They paused behind the shattered husk of a billboard. Getaway raised his hand again, but this time he didn’t move forward. He turned sharply, gripping Rodimus by the shoulder and pulling him into the shadow of a collapsed stairwell. Rodimus stumbled against him, muffling a hiss of pain as his side screamed.

“What—?” Rodimus began, voice too loud in the quiet. Getaway’s hand clamped over his mouth, optics blazing a warning. He tilted his head upward, motioning with just his gaze.

Rodimus followed the line of sight and froze.

Above the skyline, drifting slow and deliberate, were silhouettes that didn’t belong to any Cybertronian work. Massive, jagged shapes against the dim light of the moons—Quintesson patrol craft. Their lights swept in wide arcs, probing the streets below, searching.

Rodimus’s vents hitched. He’d seen them before, but never this close. Each shape was wrong, unnatural, as if their creators had built them to unsettle as much as destroy. The sight turned the air colder around him.

Getaway’s hand slid away from Rodimus’s mouth, but his optics never left the sky. He tapped Rodimus’s chest once, hard—an unspoken order: stay quiet, stay still.

Rodimus nodded, the earlier thrill draining into a heavy weight in his tanks. The rooftops no longer felt like freedom; they were exposed ground under the gaze of predators.

The patrol ship glided slowly across the broken skyline, its undercarriage bristling with jagged appendages that looked more like teeth than machinery. Spotlights cut through the ruins in cold sweeps, illuminating fractured towers and abandoned roadways below. Each pass came closer, too close.

Rodimus pressed himself back against the wall of the stairwell, vents shallow. He could feel Getaway’s armor brush his own where they crouched shoulder to shoulder, both of them rigid, waiting. He told himself the warmth wasn’t comforting—it was just survival.

A shriek cut through the night as the ship’s lights caught a feral in the streets. The corrupted mech howled once before the craft descended. Rodimus couldn’t see the details, but he could hear it: metal tearing, the sound of sparks being ripped free. The noise crawled along his protoform like acid.

Getaway didn’t flinch. He kept his gaze locked skyward, one hand hovering near his blades. Rodimus risked a glance at him, searching for even the smallest crack in his composure, but there was nothing. Just calm, just silence.

The patrol lingered, drifting between the buildings. For a moment the spotlight traced across the rooftop opposite theirs. Rodimus held his vents until his systems began to whine, praying the beam wouldn’t swing just a few meters more. His spark hammered so loud he was sure it would give them away.

Then, slowly, the light turned, sweeping further down the avenue. The ship ascended, engines thrumming low, and began to drift toward the far edge of Tarn. Its searchlights narrowed, shrinking against the distance.

Only when the sound faded did Rodimus let out the vent he’d been holding. His entire frame sagged, systems aching with the effort of staying still. “Frag,” he whispered, too quiet for anyone, anything, but Getaway to hear. “Every time I see those things, I swear my spark’s gonna burn right out of my chest.”

Getaway finally looked at him, optics narrowing. “Then don’t look.” His voice was quiet, steady. Not cruel, but firm. He shifted, testing the air, scanning the skyline again before moving toward the next rooftop.

Rodimus lingered a second longer, staring after the fading patrol. The night seemed darker now, emptier, like the shadow it left behind clung to everything. Then he pushed off the wall and followed Getaway, because the alternative—staying alone, staying still—was worse.

They hadn’t gone far before Getaway slowed and raised a hand. Rodimus followed his line of sight, crouching low beside him on the lip of a rooftop. Below, the street was alive with movement—ferals, dozens of them, swarming around what was left of the mech the Quintessons had dropped.

The creature had been shredded to pieces, armor twisted and half-melted, spark guttered out in a dull, broken glow. But the ferals didn’t care. They descended on the corpse with rabid hunger, claws tearing, jaws snapping. Sparks bled like mist into the air as they fought each other for scraps.

Rodimus’s vents stuttered. He’d seen ferals before—plenty of them—but watching them turn on one of their own was different. Wrong. He’d thought the virus left nothing but hunger, but this was more. It was ritual, frenzy, like they were feeding on the last traces of themselves.

One feral ripped a plating shard free from the chest cavity and shoved it into its mouth, chewing as energon leaked down its chin. Another lunged, tearing the piece away, and in an instant half the pack turned on each other. The air filled with screeches and grinding metal.

Rodimus fought the urge to look away. His hand tightened on his spear, the metal creaking. “Frag…” he breathed, just under his vents. “They don’t even stop. Not ever.”

Beside him, Getaway didn’t respond at first. His optics tracked every twitch, every movement, calculating. His silence made it worse, like he was used to seeing this, like he’d already accepted it. Finally, his voice came low. “That’s the point. Hunger without end. That’s what the Quintessons wanted.”

Rodimus swallowed, throat tight. He remembered the stories of the virus’s first days—how mechs tried to restrain their infected friends, tried to find cures. How entire sectors vanished overnight when those efforts failed. Seeing it now, up close, he realized how hopeless it must have been.

A feral suddenly threw back its helm and howled, optics glowing sickly green. The others froze, their faces smeared with energon, then scrambled in the same direction like they’d been given an order. Within moments the street was empty again, nothing left but the twisted, unrecognizable corpse.

Rodimus forced a laugh, brittle at the edges. “Guess dinner’s over.” But his hands still trembled as he pushed back from the ledge, the sound of their feeding echoing in his mind.

Rodimus lingered as they crossed the rooftop, his gaze drifting down to the weapon in his hand. The ferals’ frenzy still echoed in his mind, twisting into something personal. He hated how it made him think about the spear—what it was, where it came from.

It wasn’t forged in some noble forge, handed down like a knight’s blade. No. Every piece of it had been scavenged, ripped from the frames of mechs who hadn’t made it. A forearm joint from a bot who once carried a collapsible pike. A shattered grip plate from another who’d wielded an energon saber. Fragments of armor sharpened into a deadly point.

He’d told himself it was practical, nothing more. The dead didn’t need their weapons, and he did. But looking back down at the shaft, he couldn’t help but remember their faces—or what was left of them.

Some of those mechs had been strong. Frames built for combat or survival in ways Rodimus’s racing build couldn’t match. They should have lived. They had the means, the tools, the kind of spark that made survival seem possible. But the virus didn’t care. The Quintessons didn’t care.

Rodimus remembered prying one plating shard free from a frame still twitching, the light already gone from its optics. His vents hitched, guilt digging its claws in. He’d needed the weapon to keep going, to stay alive another day. But he’d also felt like a carrion-feeder, not so different from the ferals they’d just watched.

He gripped the spear tighter, until his servos ached. The edges gleamed faintly in the moonlight, each one a reminder that survival always came at someone else’s expense. Maybe that was why he fought so hard with it—because it wasn’t just his weapon. It carried the echoes of those who hadn’t survived long enough to wield it themselves.

Getaway glanced back, eyes narrowing as he caught Rodimus staring at the weapon. He didn’t ask, didn’t press, but something in his look said he noticed. Rodimus shrugged it off, forcing his grin back into place, like he hadn’t been caught staring at ghosts.

But the grin didn’t reach his spark. Not when every clang of his spear against his armor made him think of all the hands that had never been able to hold it.

Rodimus swallowed the heaviness down and followed Getaway across another rooftop, trying to remind himself that he was alive, that the dead would’ve wanted someone to keep going. Still, the memory lingered, sharp as the spear’s tip: those bots should have made it. They had the means. But they didn’t.

And for some reason, he did.

Rodimus twirled the spear in his hands as they crossed another gap, forcing a lopsided grin onto his face. The heaviness in his chest hadn’t gone anywhere, but he wasn’t about to let Getaway see it. “Y’know,” he whispered as they landed on the next rooftop, “we’re getting pretty good at this. Couple more nights and we’ll be winning medals for synchronized rooftop acrobatics.”

Getaway didn’t even look at him. He crouched low, scanning the shadows below. “Keep your voice down.”

Rodimus pressed on anyway, too restless, too wound up to let silence take him again. “What, no appreciation for style? I mean, sure, you’re precise, all controlled and careful, but me—” he spun the spear, catching it in one hand, “—I bring the flare.”

The spin caught the moonlight, sending a sharp glint across the street below. Rodimus froze, realizing too late how bright it must have looked against the dark skyline.

A sound answered from the alley: a low, guttural hiss, followed by claws scraping against stone. Then another. And another. Shadows shifted where there hadn’t been any before.

“Frag,” Rodimus muttered.

Getaway whipped around, optics burning into him. “Idiot.” He grabbed Rodimus by the arm and yanked him back from the edge just as a feral leapt, claws swiping through the space where his helm had been.

Rodimus’s spark lurched. The feral hit the rooftop hard, its frame twitching, optics glowing that sickly green. More shadows scrambled up after it, claws finding holds in the ruined walls. Within seconds, the quiet rooftop was alive with snarls.

Rodimus tightened his grip on the spear, his grin long gone. “Guess the medals are gonna have to wait.”

Getaway twirled his blades into his hands with a practiced momentum. “Shut up and fight.”

The first feral lunged, all claws and gnashing denta, but Getaway was faster. His twin blades slashed in clean arcs, severing a forearm before burying into its chest. Sparks sputtered as the creature collapsed, but more scrambled up behind it, their jerking limbs propelling them over the rooftop’s edge.

Rodimus spun his spear, driving the sharpened end through the optic of another. The force of the impact rattled his wounded side, but he gritted his denta and yanked it free, pivoting to knock another feral off balance before it could close. They were swarmed—every leap forward brought more of the creatures, climbing, shrieking, clawing at the ruined stone.

“Keep moving!” Getaway barked, vaulting across the next rooftop. His landing was perfect, but when he turned back, two ferals had already clambered up after him, forcing him into a tight defense. Rodimus charged forward, spear flashing, stabbing one clean through the spark chamber before vaulting after him.

The rooftops became a gauntlet of survival. For every feral they struck down, another rose to take its place, pulled by the scent of energon and the noise of the fight. Their snarls echoed through the ruins, rattling Rodimus’s spark until he thought it would tear out of his chest.

A clawed hand shot from below, seizing Getaway’s ankle mid-leap. The feral wrenched downward with unnatural strength, and Getaway slammed into the rooftop hard, one shoulder twisting in the wrong direction. Metal screamed as the joint ripped loose, and his blade skittered across the roof, out of reach.

“Getaway!” Rodimus shouted, vaulting down beside him. He drove his spear into the feral’s chest, wrenching it free, but three more closed in, their optics glowing like sickness in the dark. Getaway tried to rise, blades snapping back into his free hand, but his injured shoulder refused to lock into place.

Rodimus’s vents stuttered. His grip tightened on the spear. He could see the swarm surging, endless, unstoppable, and something in his spark snapped. He felt it burning there, an old secret, one he’d buried and sworn not to use again.

“Back off!” he roared, voice breaking with desperation. And then the fire came.

It erupted from his frame in a burst of orange and red, engulfing the rooftop in searing light. Flames licked outward in wild arcs, forcing the ferals to shriek and stumble back, their corrupted frames crackling and melting under the heat. The night filled with smoke and the acrid stench of burning metal.

Rodimus staggered, chest heaving, the fire still curling around his frame in uneven bursts. His optics burned bright, reflecting the blaze. He hadn’t meant to reveal it—not here, not now—but survival had left no choice.

And in the flickering glow, Getaway stared at him, wide-eyed, blades still poised but momentarily forgotten.

The flames sputtered out as quickly as they’d come, leaving only smoking metal and the screeches of ferals scattering into the distance. Rodimus staggered on his pedes, vents working overtime, every system screaming in protest. His frame felt hollowed, drained, but his optics still locked on Getaway.

Getaway was trying to push himself upright, his ruined shoulder sparking with every movement. He grit his denta, blades still clenched in his other hand, ready to fight again if he had to. But Rodimus didn’t give him the chance.

“Don’t even try,” Rodimus rasped, slinging his spear onto his back. He ducked low, got both arms under Getaway’s frame, and with a grunt, hauled him onto his shoulder. Pain flared through his own side where the weld had split again, but he powered through it. He wasn’t letting this mech get torn apart.

“Put me down,” Getaway growled, voice tight with pain but still full of command. “You’re in no shape—”

“Neither are you,” Rodimus shot back, jaw clenched. He leapt across the next rooftop, his struts aching as they barely cleared the gap. His knees nearly buckled under the weight when they landed, but he forced his legs to move, to keep running.

The city blurred past them in jagged shapes and broken towers. Rodimus didn’t stop until he found a collapsed structure with an open window, its interior dark and quiet. He shoved inside, lowering Getaway carefully onto the floor before collapsing against the opposite wall, vents still ragged.

For a long moment, the only sound was the faint hiss of Getaway’s damaged joint and Rodimus’s uneven venting. Then Getaway chuckled—low, bitter, but real. “So that’s it. That’s how you’ve lasted this long out here.” His optics flicked up, still sharp despite the pain. “You burn the monsters away.”

Rodimus shook his head, optics dim. “Doesn’t work like that. Not for long. Half the time it just leaves me running on fumes.” He glanced at Getaway, half-smiling despite the exhaustion. “You're lucky you’re so fraggin’ heavy, or I’d still be out there roasting ferals for fun.”

Getaway coughed a laugh. “You’re a lunatic.” His voice softened, though, almost grudgingly. “But a lunatic who just saved my life.”

“After putting it in danger in the first place.” Rodimus leaned his helm back against the wall, the fire in his spark finally dimming to embers. His whole body ached, but that was normal after using his outlier ability like that.

Getaway shifted with effort, hissing as his damaged shoulder protested. He braced his good arm against the floor and leaned toward Rodimus, optics scanning him with a sharp, clinical precision. For all the bravado he carried, there was a calculating edge beneath it, and right now it was focused entirely on checking for feral contamination.

“Hold still,” he ordered, voice clipped. His hand tugged at the seams of Rodimus’s plating, looking for the telltale tearing a feral’s claws could leave. Rodimus let out a grunt, too tired to protest, though his vents rasped louder with every touch that drew near the gash along his side.

“Relax, I’m not gonna fragging bite,” Getaway muttered, shifting Rodimus’s arm aside so he could peer at the wound. The welds had split open from the run, seeping energon sluggishly down the plating. Getaway scoffed. “Figures. You patched this yourself, didn’t you?”

Rodimus tried for a grin but it faltered. “Didn’t exactly have a medic on standby.” He shifted uncomfortably as Getaway pressed around the wound, optics narrowing against the sting. “What, you don’t like my handiwork?”

Getaway ignored the joke, prodding carefully at the edges, searching for any trace of the black corrosion that marked a feral scratch. Nothing yet—but the bleeding weld was bad enough. “If you’d been infected, you’d already feel it in your spark chamber. Burning, like static crawling through your lines. You’d know.”

Rodimus sagged further against the wall, optics dimming. “Good. Guess I just get to bleed out the old-fashioned way.” He tilted his helm back, smirking faintly despite the fatigue, though his vents still hitched with pain.

Getaway leaned back, finally giving him space. “Bleeding we can fix. Infection we can’t.” His tone softened almost imperceptibly, though he quickly masked it with brusque efficiency. “You’re lucky, Rodimus. You’ll live—assuming you sit fragging still long enough for that weld to hold.”

Rodimus huffed, chest rattling with the motion. “Not exactly my specialty.” He cracked his optics open again, studying Getaway through the haze of exhaustion. “You always this bossy, or is it just when I’m leaking all over the floor?”

Getaway snorted faintly, despite himself. “Trust me—you don’t want to see me when I’m not being nice.” He shifted back against the wall opposite Rodimus, blades still within reach, optics keeping watch on the dim window even as his frame sagged from strain.

The room fell quiet again, save for the faint hum of cooling metal and the distant screeches of ferals echoing from the ruined streets. Neither mech spoke. Words, right now, felt like luxuries they couldn’t afford.

Rodimus fumbled at his side, pulling out the compact welder he always carried. His servos shook slightly from exhaustion, but he forced them steady as he angled the nozzle toward the gash along his plating. The hiss of heat filled the room, and the sharp scent of scorched metal followed as he sealed the leaking seam.

He clenched his denta to stifle a groan. The weld burned, searing into raw struts and lines, but he worked quickly, sweeping the tool across the damaged ridge until the energon seep slowed to a sluggish drip. His vents stuttered, cycling shallowly as he pressed the torch tighter, just to be sure.

Across from him, Getaway braced both hands against the wall, optics narrowed at the mangled angle of his shoulder. Without hesitation, he hooked his fingers around the joint, took a steadying vent, and shoved. The crack rang through the abandoned room, sharp and ugly, followed by a hiss of static as he ground the strut back into place.

Rodimus glanced up, welding paused mid-seam. His optics caught Getaway’s frame tense, then slowly ease as the joint settled. He didn’t so much as wince. He just flexed the limb once, testing its stability, and reached for a strip of plating to brace it.

The welder sputtered out, leaving Rodimus in silence again. He pressed a hand against his patched side, feeling the heat radiating beneath his palm. It wasn’t perfect—he could still feel the ache in his lines—but it would hold for now. He slouched back, helm knocking against the wall, vents dragging rough.

Getaway tightened a makeshift band around his shoulder joint, twisting it until it locked into place. He gave it a short, practical glance, then leaned back with a quiet ex-vent. His frame sagged, shoulders sinking for the first time since they’d met.

Neither of them broke the silence. The city outside filled it well enough—distant crashes, metallic howls, the low rumble of something heavy moving far off in the ruins. It reminded them both why noise was a risk, why stillness was survival.

Rodimus turned his optics down to the welder in his hands, thumb brushing across the scarred metal surface. The tool was worn down, but still functional—like him. He flicked it off and slipped it back into subspace, fingers brushing absently at the still-warm seam along his side.

Getaway stretched his arms across his knees, blades glinting faintly in the low light beside him. He didn’t speak, didn’t even glance over. He just listened, frame coiled as if the silence itself was something that could break at any moment.

Rodimus shifted, uncomfortable in the stillness, but held his tongue. He’d wanted to fill the quiet with some smart remark, something to draw out a laugh or even just a glare—but the heaviness in Getaway’s posture stopped him. This wasn’t a time for jokes. Not yet.

The silence settled deeper, as if even the ruined city outside had gone still for a moment. The faint glow of their optics painted small reflections against the darkened walls, two dim sparks holding out against the night.

Rodimus let his head tip sideways, gaze landing briefly on Getaway’s silhouette. The mech sat statue-still, posture rigid, yet there was a weariness in the curve of his frame that no amount of discipline could hide. Rodimus found himself oddly comforted by the sight—proof that someone else was still here, still enduring.

He drew a long vent and let it out slow, forcing his frame to sag back against the wall. The ache in his side pulsed, but the weld held. He focused on that rhythm instead, letting it lull his racing thoughts into something closer to calm.

Getaway didn’t move, didn’t speak, but Rodimus didn’t need him to. It was enough that they shared the space, their silence saying what words couldn’t—that for one night, neither of them had to fight alone.

The city moaned faintly outside, the ever-present sound of decay, but the walls of the abandoned room held firm. For all its cracks and broken edges, it gave them shelter. A fragile pocket of safety in a world that had forgotten the meaning of the word.

Rodimus closed his optics, venting once more as exhaustion pulled at him. The weight of loneliness pressed lighter than it had in cycles. His spark still beat fast, but for once it wasn’t just from fear.

Across the room, Getaway remained still, optics steady on the shattered window. His frame shifted only slightly, a quiet acknowledgment of Rodimus’s surrender to sleep. He stayed awake because one of them had to.

The night stretched long, heavy, and unbroken. Two mechs, strangers bound only by circumstance, resting side by side while the world outside tore itself apart.

For the first time in too long, Rodimus dreamed. Not of fire, not of loss—just of movement, the clean hum of thrusters on an open track, and the faint, steady presence of someone else keeping pace beside him.

Chapter Text

The jagged towers of Tarn shrank behind them, swallowed up by a distant haze as they traversed the outskirts, almost free from the city. Getaway didn’t look back. He never did. Looking back was for mechs who thought there was still something worth remembering in the rubble. He kept his optics forward, scanning every shadow, every cracked rooftop, every glimmer in the ruined streets below. Rodimus trailed just behind him, light-footed despite the weld on his side, every movement radiating reckless energy.

Fragging reckless. Getaway tightened his jaw, leaping to the next rooftop with controlled precision. He’d seen mechs like Rodimus before—bright sparks, all fire and flash, who thought the world bent to their speed. Most of them were dead now. Still, the idiot had managed to last this long. Against all logic. Against all probability.

He couldn’t stop replaying the night before in his processor, though. The way Rodimus had lit up at the stupidest things—the race, the fight, even the broken apartment they’d holed up in. The way he’d laughed through energon soaked vents, like pain was just another thrill. Getaway told himself it was grating, but something in him lingered on it anyway.

Stupid. He should’ve kept the mech at arm’s length. Should’ve walked out when dawn hit, like he’d said he would. But here he was, still pacing rooftops with him. Still listening to his uneven vents. Still making sure Rodimus’s steps didn’t falter.

And then there was the glass. Atomizer’s glass. Getaway clenched his fists until in hurt. Fragging idiot move, letting Rodimus drink from it. That had been the one thing he’d kept safe all this time—untouched, unsullied, a relic of a mech who’d mattered. Atomizer had been steady. Sharp. Knew how to keep his cool, even when everything around him was burning.

Rodimus was nothing like him.

Atomizer would never have charged headlong into a pack of ferals for someone he didn’t know. He would’ve weighed the odds, cut his losses, and survived to fight another day. Smart. Practical. Exactly what Getaway kept telling himself he needed to be.

And yet—Rodimus had leapt without hesitation. Burned with that outlier fire like it was the easiest choice in the world. And it had worked. They were both alive because of it.

Getaway’s optics narrowed as he vaulted over a gap. Maybe that was why he couldn’t walk away. Rodimus was dangerous in every sense of the word—not just to himself, but to Getaway, too. Dangerous because he made Getaway remember what it was like to feel something other than cold calculation.

He shook the thought off, forcing his processor back to the present. The ruins of Tarn stretched wide beneath them, ferals still prowling far below. They were close to the edge now. A few more leaps and the city would be behind them, swallowed by dust and memory.

Rodimus landed beside him, grinning like a mech who hadn’t almost bled out the night before. Getaway scowled and pushed forward. He refused to think about Atomizer anymore. He refused to compare. One of them was gone. The other was here. That was all that mattered.

Still… he hated how often the comparison surfaced on its own.

The rooftops thinned as the jagged skyline gave way to broken industrial blocks. Ahead, the ground stretched wider, ruined highways spiderwebbing out from the city’s skeleton. Getaway felt a knot in his frame ease—barely. Ferals and patrols still prowled these outskirts, but at least the walls and shadows of Tarn weren’t pressing in on them anymore.

He slowed his pace, optics scanning the stretch of cracked roadway below. A clean enough drop, no movement in the near distance. He looked over his shoulder once. Rodimus was already bouncing on his heels like a turbofox itching to be let loose. Typical.

“Ground’s clear,” Getaway muttered. He dropped first, landing heavy, his damaged ankle grinding as it took the shock. Pain flared up his strut, but he bit it down and straightened, already scanning the horizon.

Rodimus leapt after him, hitting the ground with a sharp skid that kicked up dust. Before Getaway could say a word, his frame folded down into a gleaming racer alt mode, plating locking into sleek lines that screamed speed. His engine revved loud enough to make Getaway wince.

And then he was circling. Tight donuts on cracked concrete, trails of dust spinning up around him as his tires screeched. He cut arcs around Getaway like a living flame, taunting, daring, showing off with every turn.

“Fragging hell,” Getaway muttered under his vents, optics narrowing. But he didn’t move. Didn’t stop him. Just let him burn off the wild energy, even as it grated against every survival instinct he had. Noise meant attention. Attention meant death.

Rodimus’s voice came bright over comms, playful despite the rasp in it. “Hey! Just saying thanks for the rations! That was the best energon I’ve had in cycles. Even if it was half-stale.”

Getaway folded his arms, resisting the urge to roll his optics. “You’re gonna get us spotted before you even digest it.” His tone was sharp, but not quite as sharp as it should have been.

Rodimus spun once more before slamming into a drift and straightening out, tires screeching to a halt just a few feet in front of Getaway. His engine purred low, vibrating through the ground. “Worth it.”

Dust settled between them, a thin veil of gray hanging in the air. Getaway studied the gleaming frame in front of him, every line built for speed, for racing—not for war, not for survival. He should’ve been angry. Instead, all he felt was that same damn flicker of something he didn’t want to name.

With a sigh, he shifted into his own alt-mode. It was blockier, heavier, built for endurance, despite being modeled after a racing frame. His wheels bit into the cracked highway, and he rumbled forward without a word. Rodimus revved brightly, falling into pace beside him as though the world hadn’t ended, as though this was just a joyride down an endless road.

Getaway almost let himself imagine it could be.

The roads stretched on, cracked and broken but still navigable, a scarred ribbon winding through the wasteland. Getaway kept his speed steady, his engine low, conserving fuel the way he always did. Beside him, Rodimus surged and swerved like the road was a racetrack meant only for him, his engine growling and snarling with bursts of energy. It was infuriating—and weirdly reassuring. At least he hadn’t burned out completely after last night.

They traveled like that for a long while, the silence filled by the hum of their engines and the faint hiss of wind sweeping through the desolate plains. The ruins of Tarn grew smaller behind them, a jagged silhouette fading into the smoke-stained sky. Ahead, the land dipped and swelled, the scars of old city borders still faintly visible beneath the dust.

Getaway’s optics scanned constantly, taking in every broken sign, every collapsed overpass, every possible vantage point. City ferals rarely wandered this far, but Quintesson patrols didn’t respect city lines. Out here, the world belonged to no one—and everyone who dared to survive.

Rodimus broke the silence first, his voice bright over comms. “So what’s the next pit stop, huh? You’ve got a map in that head of yours, don’t you?”

Getaway grunted. “Kaon’s next. If we’re lucky, we skirt the worst of it. If we’re not…” He trailed off, the implication obvious. Kaon had been bad even before the invasion. What it looked like now, he didn’t want to imagine.

Rodimus let out a low whistle, tires kicking up dust as he swerved lazily across the road. “Figures. We’re trading one hellhole for another.” He revved louder, almost as if to taunt the silence again. “Guess it’s a good thing we make a decent team.”

Getaway didn’t answer. He didn’t want to encourage him. He didn’t want to admit the thought had crossed his own mind—that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t hate the company as much as he kept telling himself.

The horizon wavered with heat distortion, the air thick with the acrid tang of old fires. And then Getaway saw it. A thin coil of smoke rising from beyond a ridge, curling up into the polluted sky. That wasn’t the aftermath of some old blaze—that was fresh.

He braked sharply, skidding dust across the cracked pavement. “Rodimus. Stop.”

Rodimus drifted to a halt beside him, engine still purring restlessly. “What? What is it?” His optics followed Getaway’s line of sight. Then he saw it too—the smoke, dark and deliberate, clawing its way into the sky.

“A camp,” Getaway said flatly. His systems tightened. It could be survivors. It could be bait. It could be worse. Either way, it meant mechs—and mechs meant risk.

Rodimus’s engine revved high, eager. “Well, guess we just found our next pit stop.”

Getaway didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the smoke, every calculation in his processor weighing survival against curiosity, risk against need. And, frag it all, against Rodimus’s grin.

The two of them transformed back into root mode with the familiar whir of shifting plates and locking joints. Dust swirled up around Rodimus’s feet as he stretched his arms wide, like he’d just arrived at some party instead of the edge of a potentially hostile camp.

“Hey!” Rodimus called, voice ringing out across the flat stretch of road. He cupped a servo to his mouth as though he needed the extra volume. “Anyone alive in there?!”

Getaway’s head snapped toward him, optics wide. “Are you fragging kidding me?” He took a sharp step forward, gripping Rodimus’s shoulder hard enough to make the racer flinch. “Broadcasting our position like that? You want to paint a target on both our helms?”

Rodimus just grinned, unbothered. “Relax. If it’s survivors, we want them to know we’re not ferals. If it’s not—well, better to flush them out early than creep around like prey.”

“Or better to keep our sparks in our chests for another day,” Getaway snapped back, optics narrowing. He released Rodimus with a shove. “You don’t just—”

A sound cut him off. Metal clanking against metal, hesitant but deliberate. Both mechs turned toward the makeshift barricade where the smoke rose. A sheet of dented plating shifted, and a helm appeared above the wall.

Yellow optics blinked wearily down at them, their glow dulled by exhaustion but still alert. The mech’s armor was scuffed, cyan paint dulled by grime and ash, but his frame buzzed visibly, like his systems couldn’t decide whether to collapse or bolt.

“...Who the frag are you?” the stranger croaked, voice rough from disuse—or too much shouting. He squinted down at them as if trying to decide whether they were hallucinations or a genuine threat.

Rodimus waved, broad and cheerful, as if this was the most normal introduction in the world. “Name’s Rodimus! And the cranky one’s Getaway. We’re just passing through.”

Getaway facepalmed. “You have no sense of subtlety, do you?” he muttered.

The mech above the barricade leaned on the plating, optics narrowing suspiciously. He looked half-dead on his feet, but there was a flicker of something restless behind his gaze—a spark not yet ready to gutter out.

“You’re either suicidally stupid,” the mech rasped, “or you really don’t care who hears you.”

Rodimus smirked. “Why can’t it be both?”

The stranger let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh, or just another weary ex-vent. Either way, the plating shifted again, and the faint sound of movement carried from inside the camp.

The mech’s optics flickered as if he were weighing whether to even bother talking to them. Finally, he pushed himself upright against the plating, swaying a little like his gyros were fried. “Name’s Brainstorm,” he said, his tone carrying more bravado than his frame looked capable of. “And before you get too excited—no, you’re not coming in.”

Rodimus tilted his helm, spoiler giving a twitch. “Brainstorm? That’s a name that screams ‘genius inventor.’”

“You’d be right,” Brainstorm replied with flourish that didn’t quite hide how worn down he was. “Still a genius, even at the end of the world. And in case you’re wondering, no—I don’t hand out autographs anymore.”

Getaway folded his arms, optics narrowing. “You’re keeping us out because…?”

Brainstorm’s gaze turned tight. “Because my partner and I decided so.” He leaned forward slightly over the plating, his yellow optics catching what little light there was. “Two strangers wandering out of Tarn? I don’t care how pretty your paintjobs are. I’m not throwing our door wide for you to waltz through.”

Rodimus spread his servos. “Come on, we’re not ferals. If we were, we’d be climbing your barricade already. You’ve got survivors in there, right? We just want to—”

“Yeah,” Brainstorm interrupted, voice sharp, though it cracked at the edges. “Me and my partner. That’s it. Just us. And that’s all you need to know.”

Getaway cocked a brow ridge. “So what, you’re playing house in the wasteland? Not sure keeping your numbers low is smart survival strategy.”

Brainstorm’s optics flashed, but instead of snapping back, he only gave a dry, thin chuckle. “Smart strategy? I designed half the weapons you're using to keep yourselves alive, pal. Trust me when I say, I’m smarter than both of you combined.”

Rodimus let out a chuckle, half-amused, half-disbelieving. “Confident guy. I like it. But why not let us in? We’ve got supplies. Strength in numbers, right?”

“Supplies don’t matter if you can’t trust who’s carrying them,” Brainstorm shot back. His voice softened after a pause, just barely. “Besides… we’ve got our reasons. You’ll just have to deal with that.”

Getaway angled his frame toward Rodimus, his voice a low mutter. “Something’s off. He’s hiding more than just paranoia.”

Rodimus, ever unbothered, cupped a servo to his mouth again and called up, “Fair enough! Guess we’ll camp out here, then. Unless you’ve got a better suggestion, Brainstorm?”

Brainstorm ex-vented sharply, dragging a servo over his faceplates like this was the last kind of interaction he wanted to be having. “You do what you want. But don’t blame me if my partner decides you’re trouble before I do.”

Rodimus transformed without warning, engine roaring to life as he tore a wide circle around the perimeter of the camp. Dust flew in clouds behind him, his wheels screeching with every sharp turn. Getaway groaned, rubbing a servo over his face as if secondhand embarrassment was physically painful.

“Rodimus,” he muttered under his vents, “you’re gonna get us slagged.”

The racing mech didn’t hear—or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He revved louder, back tires spitting gravel against the camp wall. The makeshift barricade rattled under the abuse, metal sheets clanging like an alarm.

A sharp voice rang out from above. “Do you have a death wish, or are you just naturally this loud?!” Brainstorm leaned over the wall again, optics wide with fury. His plating twitched like he was ready to fire something down at Rodimus if he had it.

Rodimus skidded to a stop, engine idling in a deep, growling purr. “What’s the matter, genius? Afraid I’ll disturb your partner's beauty sleep?” He flashed his headlights in a strobe-like blink, obnoxious and playful all at once.

Brainstorm pointed down at him with both servos, optics wide. “You’re gonna wake the ferals, you glitch. They follow noise, and guess who’s broadcasting like a fragging parade float right now?”

Getaway finally stepped forward, voice firm. “Rodimus. Enough.” But his tone lacked its usual steel; exhaustion was starting to chip away at him.

Rodimus revved once more, like a final word, before letting his frame settle into root mode again. He leaned on his spear, cocking his hip as he glanced up at Brainstorm. “Just thought I’d liven the place up. You’ve got all this space, but you’re acting like ghosts. You sure you’re not dead already?”

Brainstorm growled low, almost feral himself. “You think this is funny? I don’t care what kind of thrill junkie you are—if you stay out here another klik, you’re going to bring a pack right to my door.”

Rodimus tilted his helm, optics bright with that reckless glint. “Guess you’d better let us in, then.”

Brainstorm’s plating flared out like he was resisting the urge to throw something heavy at the mech. “No. Not happening. You’ve had your fun, racer-boy. Now do us both a favor and leave before I decide you’re more dangerous than the Quintessons.”

The words dropped like a hammer, final and sharp. Getaway placed a servo on Rodimus’s shoulder, pulling him back with a low murmur. “Come on, hotshot. Time to quit while we’re still in one piece.”

Rodimus plopped himself down in plain sight of the barricade, back against a pile of half-rusted scrap like he owned the place. He gave a theatrical sigh, stretched his legs out, and made sure his vents rattled loudly enough for whoever was behind the wall to hear. “Nice view you’ve got here, Brainstorm. Walls really add a certain ‘fortress brutalism’ to the end times.”

Getaway ex-vented loudly, ignoring him as he began laying out a rough map in the dirt. The lines weren’t elegant, just practical: Tarn fading behind them, Kaon stretching ahead, the jagged detour paths they’d need to avoid feral-heavy sectors. “We’ll push through Kaon’s borderlands by morning,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Two days if we don’t stop. Three if Rodimus starts trying to impress every survivor we meet.”

From the other side of the barricade, Brainstorm’s voice cut through the night. “Do you ever shut up?”

Rodimus grinned, leaning his helm back and calling, “Not unless I’m recharging. And even then, I snore.” He shifted, making the plates of his armor creak extra loudly.

Getaway shot him a sharp look. “You’re going to draw them in if you keep acting like a turbofox with a broken volume dial.”

Rodimus shrugged, twirling his spear loosely. “What’s the worst that happens? Brainstorm shoots me? At least then I’ll go out in style.” He gave a little whistle that echoed off the walls. “Bet his partner’s watching us right now, thinking I’m the highlight of their week.”

Brainstorm’s reply was dry enough to rust. “Regretting my life choices already.”

While Rodimus basked in his own obnoxiousness, Getaway kept scratching in the dirt, muttering calculations under his vents. “If we skirt the main causeways, we’ll cut the risk of Quintesson patrols by half. But we’ll lose time, and energon’s not infinite. We’ll need a restock before Iacon.” He paused, frowning at his rough map. “Assuming there’s anything left to restock from.”

Rodimus finally leaned over the dirt drawing, smearing part of it with the end of his spear just to be irritating. “Don’t sweat it. We’ll find something.” His grin was wide, reckless, but Getaway didn’t miss the faint tightness in it—the way bravado covered exhaustion.

The barricade scraped open with a grinding groan, and Brainstorm appeared, still looking sharp-tongued and smug but carrying an air of decision. He waved a servo lazily, like this was nothing. “Fine. You win. Come on in, both of you. Say hi to my partner—Perceptor. Don’t say I never did you a favor.”

Rodimus shot Getaway a triumphant grin. “Told you persistence pays off.”

Getaway didn’t share the excitement. His optics narrowed, distrust simmering. Still, he followed as Brainstorm ushered them through the gate and into the camp. The interior was quieter than he expected—too quiet. No sound of work, no signs of proper defenses. Just silence and a smell that made his plating prickle.

“Where is he?” Rodimus asked, looking around. “Your partner.”

Brainstorm gestured toward a structure at the center of the camp. A cage-like holding pen of welded bars and scavenged metal sheets. “Right where he always is.” His tone was flat, mechanical almost.

Rodimus hesitated as he and Getaway stepped inside. The door clanged shut behind them, the lock clicking too fast, too deliberate. Getaway spun on his heel, optics sharp. “What the frag do you think you’re—”

The smell hit them then. Stronger, sharper, so thick it clung to their vents. It was rot. Rotted energon, sour and cloying. Rodimus gagged, hand lifting instinctively to cover his mouth as his optics swept the ground.

Scattered parts lay everywhere. Not just junk—recognizable plating, servos, scraps of frames. The kind that once had owners. The kind scavengers didn’t leave behind unless they couldn’t touch them.

Then came the sound: a low, wet scrape, like claws dragging against the wall of the cage. Rodimus’s gaze followed it to the far corner, where a pair of optics glowed faintly. Not the bright blue of a Cybertronian in their right mind. Not the warm glow of someone who could be reasoned with. Sickly, pulsating green.

“Primus,” Rodimus whispered, his vents stuttering. His spark felt like it dropped straight into his fuel tank.

Getaway went rigid, one servo flexing over the hilt of his blade. He didn’t need to speak; the dread was written in his tense frame, the way his wings trembled slightly despite him forcing them still.

The figure stepped out of the shadows, slow and deliberate, revealing a once-pristine frame now ragged at the edges. Pitted armor, energon staining the seams, jaws twitching unnaturally as if fighting themselves. Perceptor. Or what had once been him.

Rodimus shook his helm, refusing to believe it, even as the truth clawed at him. “No… no, no, no. You said—we’d meet your partner.” His voice cracked.

Brainstorm’s voice came from behind the bars, too calm, too steady. “And you did. Perceptor. My partner. My responsibility. He’s… sick. And the only thing that keeps him from tearing apart everything I’ve built here… is feeding him.” His optics narrowed as he studied them like specimens. “Tarn sends me plenty of strays. And now…” His optics flashed. “…two more.”

Getaway’s blades were in his servos before Brainstorm could finish speaking. The metal caught the dim light, gleaming sharp and steady, the promise of violence if anyone moved closer. His stance shifted, protective, his body angled between Rodimus and the feral crouched in the corner. “Open this cage,” he barked, his voice cutting through the air like a blade itself. “Now. Before I turn both of you into spare parts.”

Brainstorm didn’t flinch. His optics gleamed with a detached, almost clinical interest. “You can wave those sticks all you want, cowboy. Won’t change the fact you’re locked in with him.” He jerked his helm toward Perceptor, who twitched, vents rasping, claws flexing against the floor plating. “And he’s hungry.”

Rodimus’s vents stuttered, the weight of the situation sinking deeper with every cycle. His servo twitched over his spear, but Getaway’s voice snapped him back.

“Rodimus,” Getaway growled, optics never leaving Brainstorm. “Now would be a good time to light the place up.”

Rodimus’s jaw clenched. “Can’t. Still on cooldown.” His vents whirred, frustration crackling in his voice. “You think I wouldn’t if I could?!”

Perceptor shifted again, his optics flaring brighter, his frame jerking with unnatural spasms. A wet, guttural snarl tore from his throat, half-mech, half-monster. The sound crawled across their plating, primal and hungry.

“Then keep him busy,” Getaway snapped, blades flicking outward into a ready stance. “I’ll carve us a way out, even if I have to go through Brainstorm to do it.”

Rodimus planted his spear against the ground, forcing himself into readiness despite the ache in his side. His mind screamed at him to run, to bolt, to escape—but the cage door was locked, and the only thing between them and being shredded was Getaway’s steady, unyielding stance.

Brainstorm leaned lazily against the bars, as if this was entertainment. “You’re not the first pair of strays I’ve thrown in here. Most of them don’t even last long enough for Perceptor to get interested.”

Getaway growled low. “You’re sick.” His blades twitched forward, his whole body a coil of controlled fury. “You’re worse than the Quintessons—you’re selling out your own to keep him alive.”

Brainstorm’s optics dimmed, just for a klik. “I’m keeping him with me. That’s all that matters.”

Behind them, Perceptor’s claws scraped the floor again. This time, he took a step forward, the green glow of his optics burning hotter as his vents hitched in ragged hunger.

Perceptor lunged. It was fast—unnaturally fast, faster than any feral Rodimus had seen before. The monster’s claws screeched against his spear as Rodimus barely managed to parry, sparks flying with the impact. The force rattled through his arms, knocking him back a step. “Frag—he’s strong!” Rodimus shouted, digging his feet into the metal floor.

Getaway didn’t hesitate. One blade slid into the lock of the cage, the other wedged between the bars. He twisted hard, trying to snap the mechanism, but the old steel groaned stubbornly against him. “Keep him busy!”

Rodimus shoved forward, twisting his spear to knock Perceptor’s swipe wide, then swung low. But the feral caught the shaft in his claws, jerking it aside with inhuman strength before slamming a knee into Rodimus’s midsection. He reeled back, vents hitching, side wound screaming in protest.

Brainstorm watched from outside, expression unreadable, optics narrowed as though observing an experiment. “He’s one of a kind,” he said softly, almost reverently. “A mind like his doesn’t just disappear. He remembers more than the others do.”

Rodimus gritted his denta, forcing himself upright again. “Yeah? Well, his aim’s still slag!” He jabbed forward, striking Perceptor’s shoulder plating, but the blow barely slowed him down. The feral snarled, energon frothing at his mouth, optics flaring brighter.

Getaway’s blade finally punched through the lock with a shower of sparks. The cage door buckled, but before he could kick it open, Perceptor slammed Rodimus hard against the wall, claws digging dangerously close to his spark casing. Rodimus groaned, forcing his spear up as a brace, optics wide with panic.

“Rodimus!” Getaway abandoned the door, blades flashing as he darted in. He slashed across Perceptor’s arm, forcing the feral to stagger back with a guttural roar. For an instant, Rodimus sucked in a grateful vent—but then Perceptor turned on them both, his movements erratic yet deliberate, like some part of him was still calculating angles.

The two mechs circled him in tandem—Rodimus with wild, desperate thrusts of his spear, Getaway with sharp, precise arcs of his blades. But every strike felt like it barely mattered. Perceptor’s strength wasn’t brute—it was adaptive. He anticipated them, shifted against them, pressed harder.

Rodimus panted, optics locked on the feral’s movements. “We’re not winning this!”

“Then we make an opening,” Getaway snapped back, blades carving sparks from Perceptor’s chest. “On my mark—”

Before he could finish, Perceptor caught his wrist mid-strike, twisting until the joint popped with a sickening crack. Getaway froze, a snarl caught in his throat. But it wasn’t the pain that locked him up.

It was the sound that came next. A voice—garbled, broken, but unmistakably words.

“G-Get…away…”

Getaway’s whole frame went rigid, blades slackening in his servos. His vents stuttered as his processor screamed in disbelief. He stared into those glowing green optics, horror flooding his spark as the realization hit. Perceptor was still in there.

The memory came like a blade to the spark, sharp and uninvited. Polyhex was burning behind them, the ferals swarming too close, and Atomizer had been slowing down. Not much—just a stumble here, a hitch in his vents there. But Getaway had seen it. He always saw it.

They’d ducked into an abandoned rail hub, doors sealed behind them. For a moment, it was quiet. Too quiet. Getaway had turned, ready to plan their next move. But Atomizer had been clutching his side, energon leaking thin and pale, not the clean pink it should have been.

“Hey,” Getaway had said, trying to keep his voice even. “Show me.”

Atomizer had tried to laugh it off. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.” But his optics had been flickering too fast, his plating twitching in small, jerky motions. The kind Getaway had seen before. The kind that meant the virus had already started.

“No,” Getaway had told him flatly. He stepped closer, blades at his sides but ready. “It’s not nothing.”

Atomizer’s optics had locked onto him then, a flash of fear breaking through the denial. “I’m still me, Get. You hear me? I’m still me.” His voice had cracked with desperation, but even as he spoke, his fingers had scraped against the wall, gouging metal like he couldn’t control his strength anymore.

Getaway had wanted to believe him. Primus, he’d wanted to. They’d run together for cycles, survived the worst stretches side by side. Atomizer had always been the one at his back, the one who made the silence bearable. But he couldn’t ignore the tremors, the glow in his optics shifting green at the edges, the hunger already creeping into his voice.

So Getaway had raised his blade. His hands had been steady, even though his spark screamed at him to stop. “I can’t let you turn. Not you. Not like this.”

Atomizer’s last words had been a broken plea. “Please. Don’t.” And then the sound of metal piercing plating. A clean, efficient strike through his spark. Quick. Because Getaway owed him at least that much.

Afterward, he’d stood there in the silence, Atomizer’s body cooling at his feet. His vents had rasped like they belonged to someone else. He hadn’t even wiped the energon off his blade. He couldn’t. All he could do was stare at the mech he’d once trusted more than anyone—and know that he’d killed him before he was truly gone.

Perceptor’s claws came down, swift and brutal. Getaway didn’t move. Couldn’t. His processor screamed with Atomizer’s last words, the memory of energon dripping off his blades. He stood rooted in place as the feral’s shadow fell over him.

Rodimus didn’t hesitate. With a snarl, he slammed into Getaway’s side, knocking them both out of the path of Perceptor’s swipe. The claws screeched against the floor instead of Getaway’s chest, sparks flying as they tore grooves in the plating.

“Frag, Getaway!” Rodimus barked, dragging him up by the arm. “You planning to just stand there and let him carve you open?!”

Getaway’s vents rattled, his frame trembling. But Rodimus’s words cut through the haze, grounding him. He blinked hard, forced his processor back into the present, and remembered the bent bars, the weak spot he’d carved into the cage.

“This way!” he shouted, shoving Rodimus toward the door. With a roar, he drove his good shoulder into the lock, his blade finishing what he’d started earlier. The mechanism shattered, and the door buckled open with a screech.

Perceptor roared behind them, throwing himself at the gap, claws swiping at empty air as the two mechs spilled out into the open. Rodimus didn’t waste a klik. He transformed mid-roll, engines screaming as he accelerated toward the gate.

Getaway transformed a second later, tearing up the ground as his tires caught. Dust and dirt exploded behind them as they barreled toward the camp’s outer barricade. The world blurred around them, every instinct screaming faster, faster.

Behind them, Perceptor’s feral shriek echoed across the camp, rattling through their sparks. For one terrifying instant, Getaway thought the monster would chase them—thought those sickly green optics would follow them forever.

But then Brainstorm’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. “Perceptor! Here! Now!” There was desperation in it, the kind of plea that sounded more like a command. The feral skidded to a halt, claws gouging deep ruts into the ground, and turned back toward the voice.

Rodimus dared to check his rear sensors. He saw Brainstorm standing just beyond the wrecked cage, arms spread wide like he was corralling a beast. His voice cracked as he coaxed, begged, ordered Perceptor back inside. Against all reason, the feral obeyed, lurching toward him with guttural snarls.

Getaway didn’t look back. Couldn’t. He poured on the speed, engine howling as the barricade loomed closer. “Don’t slow down!” he shouted. Rodimus whooped in wild agreement, pushing his own frame to its limits.

The barricade split as they smashed through it side by side, bolts and sheet metal exploding outward. They didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. The road stretched before them, open and endless, and all they could do was drive until the camp—and the nightmare inside it—was far behind.

Chapter Text

Hours passed in a blur of asphalt and dust. Rodimus’s engine rumbled low, steady, but every so often he caught himself revving harder than he meant to—burning nervous energy he didn’t want Getaway to notice. The camp was far behind them now, but the memory of those sickly green optics refused to fade.

The road stretched endless beneath them, the cracked Cybertronian landscape broken only by the shadows of collapsed structures and rusted-out wrecks of mechs who hadn’t made it this far. For once, Rodimus didn’t have the spark to crack jokes or fill the silence. The weight of it pressed on him until it hurt.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. His voice came over their shared comm, softer than usual. “So… uh… you wanna talk about it?”

Getaway didn’t respond right away. His headlights stayed locked forward, unwavering, like if he kept them on the road long enough he could outpace the question.

Rodimus pressed, though not as brashly as he usually might’ve. “I mean, back there—you froze up. I had to drag you outta the way or you’d be missing more than an ankle joint. I just… y’know. Thought maybe you’d wanna vent or something.”

Getaway’s comm clicked on, his tone bitter, almost sharp. “No.”

Rodimus blinked, startled by the bite in it. “No?”

“No,” Getaway repeated flatly. The single syllable carried the weight of a barricade slammed shut. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t soften it, just let the word hang like dead air between them.

Rodimus’s spoiler twitched. He wanted to argue, to say that bottling things up was how you got yourself fragged faster than the ferals ever could. But one glance in his rear sensors at Getaway’s headlights, cold and unblinking, was enough to shut him up.

The silence stretched, thicker than before. Rodimus’s vents hitched as he forced himself to keep rolling forward. He told himself he could wait. Maybe Getaway needed space. Maybe that was the smart move here, letting him stew until he was ready.

Still, as the empty miles dragged on, Rodimus couldn’t shake the nagging thought that silence was sometimes worse than shouting. Silence could cut deeper, and Getaway’s silence was cutting him now.

So he kept driving, the quiet gnawing at the edges of his spark, and tried to convince himself it was fine. That everything was fine.

The broken highway eventually led them past what looked like an old fuel station, its sign half-collapsed, rust streaking the once-bright paint. The forecourt was littered with debris, energon stains long dried into dark patches. Most travelers would’ve rolled right past, assuming it had already been raided, but Rodimus slowed, engine growling low.

“Station’s dead, but…” he began, stretching out as he transformed, trying to act casual. “Can’t hurt to check, right? Never know what’s left behind.”

Getaway rolled to a stop a few paces behind him. His transformation was slower, more deliberate, and when he straightened, he had his blades in his hands without needing to be asked. “Or it could hurt. Plenty of places like this turned into ambush zones.”

Rodimus smirked, though it was thinner than usual. “Yeah, well. I’m not exactly running at one hundred percent right now. Fire’s still on cooldown. If we’re gonna be cautious, might as well do it with full tanks.”

Getaway’s optics narrowed, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he scanned the building front—shattered glass, doors hanging crooked off their hinges. The wind whistled through the empty space, carrying the faint, metallic tang of oxidized energon.

Together, they approached. Rodimus had his spear in one hand, tapping the base of it against his palm like he was itching for something to hit. He tried not to let his limp show, not after the weld had reopened when he fought Perceptor. His systems ached, but he forced himself to look as careless as ever.

The interior was dark, shelves tipped over, counters coated in a fine layer of dust. Fuel pumps had long since been gutted, hoses coiled like discarded serpents. But the back—there, behind a locked cage door—sat a cluster of fuel drums. Whether they were full or not, neither could tell from here.

“Jackpot?” Rodimus whispered, his spoiler flicking high.

“Or bait,” Getaway replied coldly, moving closer to examine the cage. He tested the lock with his blade’s tip, then pulled back. “Looks like no one’s been here in a while. Dust hasn’t been disturbed.”

Rodimus leaned against the counter, letting out a low whistle. “You’re a real ray of sunshine, y’know that? But fine, cautious works. We’ll pop it open slow.”

Getaway finally looked at him, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “You don’t get it, do you? Your little fire trick isn’t ready. If this goes wrong, I can’t carry both you and the fuel out of here.”

Rodimus’s grin faltered for just a second, but then he forced it back, bright and sharp. “Good thing I’m not planning on making you carry me, huh?”

Getaway didn’t take his optics off the fuel drums. His optics narrowed with suspicion, blades still at the ready. “We’re not even a full day out from that camp,” he said, voice low and steady. “You think Brainstorm wouldn’t have cleared this place out already? He’s insane, not stupid.”

Rodimus tipped his helm, stepping away from the counter and casually dragging his spear along the floor. Sparks flickered as metal scraped against cracked tile. “Yeah, well, maybe Brainstorm skipped it. Or maybe he was too busy keeping his pet on a leash to bother with some out-of-the-way gas stop.”

Getaway’s optics flicked to him sharply. “Don’t assume. Assuming is how mechs end up gutted.”

Rodimus threw up his free servo. “Alright, alright, I hear you. Mister Paranoia.” His tone was flippant, but there was an edge there. “Still, you keep staring at those barrels like they’re about to bite. Maybe there’s something else worth grabbing.”

He ducked behind the wreckage of a counter, prying open old storage crates and cabinets with the tip of his spear. Most were empty—stripped long ago of anything remotely valuable. A few held only scraps: corroded energon lines, a shattered datapad, a half-empty med kit with dust clinging to the seal.

“Nothing exciting,” he muttered, though his spoiler perked when he found a pair of still-wrapped rust sticks. They were old, but still sealed. He held them up, shaking them a little. “Dinner, maybe?”

Getaway didn’t answer. He circled the fuel cage like a predator, optics narrowing. “The lock isn’t tampered with. No marks, no scratches. If Brainstorm came through here, he’d have broken it open or set something in place. This feels… wrong.”

Rodimus poked his helm up over the counter, rust sticks balanced in one hand. “Or maybe, and hear me out, it’s just a run-down station with a lucky stash. Not every creepy pitstop has to be some Quintesson death trap, y’know.”

Getaway shot him a withering look. “And when it is? When you’re wrong and we’re boxed in again? You gonna light yourself up and burn another building down just to get free?”

Rodimus froze for a second, his grin faltering, before shoving the sticks into a subspace compartment. He straightened and shrugged, pretending the sting didn’t land. “If it comes to that, yeah. Guess we’ll see.”

Getaway turned back to the cage. The silence stretched, heavy with suspicion. The only sound was the faint hiss of Rodimus opening yet another cabinet, deliberately too loud, as if trying to drown out the tension pressing down on them both.

Rodimus finally dropped the stale rust sticks back on the counter with a clatter and let out a groan that echoed in the empty station. “Alright, you know what? I’m hungry, I’m tired, and I am sick of standing here while you glare at barrels like they’re gonna sprout legs and bite.”

Getaway’s helm snapped toward him, optics narrowing into cold slits. “Rodimus—”

“No, no, don’t ‘Rodimus’ me.” He jabbed the air with his spear for emphasis, his spoiler twitching in irritation. “We’ve been running on fumes since Tarn, my systems are fried, your ankle and shoulder’s still glitching, and if there’s even a chance those things have fuel in them, I’m not about to let it sit here just because you’re stuck in doom-and-gloom mode.”

Before Getaway could snap back, Rodimus strode toward the cage, his gait uneven from his side wound but his posture brash as ever. He swung the spear up and slipped its tip between the bars, tapping the nearest fuel drum like he was knocking on a door.

The hollow metallic clonk echoed through the room, ringing sharp against the silence. Dust shook loose from the rafters, drifting in pale streams through the faint light.

Getaway took a step forward, voice tight. “Stop it.”

Rodimus ignored him and gave the barrel another jab. This time the sound was heavier, duller, like the drum wasn’t quite empty. His optics lit, and a grin broke across his face. “Ha! Hear that? That’s the sound of sweet, sweet energon just begging to be siphoned.”

Getaway’s blades flexed in his hands. “Or it’s the sound of you announcing our location to every feral in a five-mile radius. You want to get torn apart because you couldn’t wait until morning?”

Rodimus leaned his weight on the spear, chin tilting up defiantly. “What I want is to not run dry on the road to Iacon. You think we’re gonna get lucky again with another station? Not fragging likely.”

He gave the barrel one more solid shove. This time the drum scraped an inch across the floor, groaning against the cement. The sound reverberated all the way down the station halls.

Rodimus stepped back, folding his arms, as if daring Getaway to keep arguing. “See? Still standing. No Quintessons, no ferals, no traps. Just fuel.”

Getaway ex-vented shakily. He scanned the shadows again, unease prickling at every line of his frame. His optics caught on the darkness beyond the station door, where the chilling wind carried an all-too-familiar scent: sour, metallic, faintly rancid.

And just like that, his unease turned to certainty.

Getaway’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Rodimus. Enough.” He stepped forward, lowering his weapons but not the hard edge in his tone. “You wanna survive? Then you check every corner, every shadow, every fragging shack before you go bashing open barrels like it’s a festival.”

Rodimus bristled, his spoiler wings hiking up. For a second it looked like he might argue again, but then the ache in his side pulsed hard enough to make him wince. He dropped his optics, grumbling. “Fine. But if we come back and those drums are empty, I’m rubbing it in.”

“Deal,” Getaway muttered, though his expression didn’t soften. He turned toward the back of the station, scanning with a sweep of his blade tip. “Come on. Out back first. Smaller structures usually mean hiding spots.”

They slipped through the broken door frame, the night air meeting them like a cold wave. Behind the station sat a squat little shack, its metal walls stained with streaks of rainwater and energon both. The faint glow of the moon revealed what was painted on the side once: a wash rack logo, barely legible through years of grime.

Rodimus tilted his helm. “Guess mechs used to come out here to get polished up after fueling. Cute.”

“Cute isn’t the word I’d use,” Getaway said flatly. He moved first, stepping carefully over weeds growing up through cracked pavement. The shack’s door was already ajar, sagging on its hinges, inviting them in.

Rodimus swung his spear into a ready position as they approached. “Alright, bets on what’s inside? I’m thinking… one feral, drooling energon, waiting for a midnight snack.”

Getaway shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel, then nudged the door open with the tip of his bad pede. The hinges groaned. The smell hit them first—stale oil and something acrid, old but unmistakable.

Inside, the shack was small, just a single room. A wash rack stall stood crooked against the wall, long drained of fluid. And sprawled on the floor in front of it lay a mech, frame motionless, optics offline. He was face-up, his expression frozen in a grim kind of peace. A discarded laser gun rested by his side, and a neat hole punched through the plating just above his optics told the story clear enough.

Rodimus froze in the doorway, his grin dying instantly. His spoiler drooped, and his voice came out quieter than it had all night. “…Oh.”

Getaway’s optics narrowed as he stepped inside, careful not to disturb the scene. He crouched beside the mech, studying the stillness, the way time had already begun to claim him. “He did it himself.”

Rodimus shifted uneasily, staring at the weapon, at the wound. His tanks churned. “Guess… guess he decided being feral food wasn’t how he wanted to go.”

Getaway didn’t answer. He just looked at the still mech a moment longer, the silence pressing heavy between them.

Rodimus lingered near the doorway, one foot half turned like he was ready to bolt if the mech on the floor so much as twitched. His optics darted from the gun to the wound to Getaway crouched over the body. The silence weighed too heavy, so he cracked his vocalizer with a forced grin. “Well… at least he had good aim?”

Getaway didn’t even look at him. He reached for the weapon carefully, lifting it from the mech’s slack hand. The grip was worn smooth, like it had been carried for cycles. The chamber clicked when he checked it, and he found only a single shot had been fired.

Rodimus leaned on his spear, shifting from foot to foot. “Kinda poetic, though, right? One shot. Makes a statement. I mean—” he gestured vaguely at the mech on the floor “—not the kind I’d make, but still. Points for dramatic timing.”

Getaway’s optics flicked up at him, cold and sharp. “You think this is a joke?”

Rodimus’s grin faltered, his spoiler wings twitching downward before he forced them back up again. “I think it’s fragging depressing, and I’m trying not to let it sink into my tanks, thanks.”

Getaway turned his gaze back to the gun, ignoring him. He ran a thumb along the barrel, feeling the grime and the faint etchings of an old serial number. “Standard issue sidearm. Outdated. Not worth much anymore, but it fires.”

Rodimus stepped a little closer, peering over Getaway’s shoulder. “So what you’re saying is… it’s useful. Hey, maybe you can give it to me. Spears are flashy and all, but it’d be nice to have a backup.”

Getaway snapped the chamber shut and tucked the weapon into his subspace without hesitation. “You’d shoot your own foot before hitting anything.”

Rodimus threw up both servos, scandalized. “Wow. Rude. I’ll have you know I’ve got great aim when it counts. Ask anyone who’s ever raced me.”

Getaway rose to his full height, optics narrowing. “Racing isn’t shooting. And this isn’t a game.” His tone was flat, like he was shutting the conversation down before it could get further under his plating.

Rodimus opened his mouth for another quip but let it die halfway out, his grin twisting into something more fragile. He rocked back on his heels, staring past Getaway at the mech on the floor. “…Guess he thought it wasn’t a game either.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the air in the shack. Even Rodimus didn’t try to break it this time.

They left the shack behind without another word. The image of the mech lying there, optics dark and weapon still warm with memory, clung to Rodimus as they crossed the cracked pavement back toward the station. He tried to shake it, to smother it under the old bravado, but every time his optics flicked to Getaway’s rigid back he felt the silence gnaw harder.

Back inside, the air felt heavier somehow, the dust thicker. The fuel drums waited where they’d been left, lined up behind the cage, silent and tempting. Rodimus twirled his spear in his hand before planting it into the lock. “Alright, let’s find out if these beauties are the real deal.”

Getaway stayed near the doorway, blades still loose in his hands, optics flicking back and forth between the shadows. He didn’t move to stop Rodimus this time, though his voice cut sharp. “You break it open and it’s contaminated? That’s not just wasted effort—it’s poison in your tank. You ready to gamble on that?”

Rodimus grunted as the spear pried against the brittle lock. “Every day’s a gamble. And my luck’s been holding out so far.” With a snap, the lock clattered to the ground, and the cage door groaned open.

The drums were dented and cold to the touch. Rodimus leaned in, set his grip on one, and popped the seal with a practiced twist of the spearhead. The sound was sharp, metallic—then nothing. No hiss of pressure, no release of safe storage gas. Just silence.

He frowned, optics narrowing. “That’s… not right.”

Getaway’s expression hardened, his suspicion confirmed. “If it isn’t sealed, it isn’t safe. Could’ve been sitting open for cycles. Quintesson rot, feral blood, rust virus—it only takes a drop.”

Rodimus hesitated, peering down into the narrow opening. The faint shimmer of liquid gleamed in the dark, but the color was murky, cloudy where it should have been clean and clear. His tanks growled at the sight anyway, and his mouth went dry.

“Could still be usable,” he muttered, though even he didn’t sound convinced. “Run it through a filter, maybe. Burn hotter, sure, but—”

“Or it could eat you alive from the inside out,” Getaway snapped, cutting him off. He took a step forward now, gesturing sharply toward the barrel. “Close it. Leave it. We’re not desperate enough to risk this.”

Rodimus let out a humorless laugh, pressing the broken seal back into place. “Funny. ‘Not desperate enough.’ You mean to tell me you’ve got a better plan? Because unless you’ve got a secret stash tucked into that subspace of yours, this might be all we’ve got.”

Getaway’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze drifted back toward the open door, the horizon beyond. “Then we keep moving. There’ll be another stop. Something cleaner. Something safer. But not this.”

Rodimus leaned his weight on the spear, staring at the sealed barrel like it had personally mocked him. His tanks howled for fuel, and yet his gut told him Getaway was right. Still, frag if admitting it didn’t sting.

Rodimus wasn’t ready to give up yet. His spear spun in his hand as he approached the second drum, his grin already creeping back into place. “One bad apple doesn’t spoil the bunch, right? Let’s see if your paranoia holds up, Mr. Sunshine.”

Getaway leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, blades still within easy reach. His optics tracked every twitch of Rodimus’s frame, but he didn’t step in. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but I’m entertaining.” Rodimus jammed the spear into the next seal and pried. It popped loose with the same hollow groan as the first. Again, no hiss, no pressure. When he peered inside, the liquid was worse this time—nearly sludge, shimmering with the sickly green tint of contamination. His faceplate wrinkled, and he quickly shoved the cap back on. “Okay, okay, maybe that one’s a no-go.”

Getaway said nothing, but the tilt of his helm carried an I told you so sharper than words.

Rodimus shot him a look, then stomped over to the third drum. “Third time’s the charm. C’mon, don’t make me look like a complete fool here.” He dug in his spearhead and twisted with a grunt. This time the seal snapped with a sharp hiss, a rush of clean, cold pressure spilling out in a satisfying puff.

Rodimus’s optics widened, and he barked out a laugh, bright and genuine. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!”

He crouched low, peering down into the drum. The surface gleamed pure, translucent, with no rot or haze. Clean. The real deal. His tanks growled, and his systems nearly sagged with relief. “Look at this beauty. You smell that? That’s days’ worth of food right here!”

Getaway finally pushed off the wall, stepping closer with measured steps. He inspected the barrel, optics scanning every inch, but even his skepticism softened a fraction at the sight of the untainted energon.

Rodimus was already bouncing on his heels, tapping the rim of the barrel like it was a trophy. “See? What’d I tell you? My luck always pulls through. We’re set for at least a few days, maybe longer if we ration. That’s fuel for Iacon in the tank, right there!”

Getaway’s vents hitched like he wanted to warn him not to celebrate too soon, but the raw joy in Rodimus’s field was so intense it nearly drowned the words before they could form. Instead, he muttered, “Days. If we’re careful.”

Rodimus spread his arms wide, laughing as if the dead mech in the wash shack and the sludge in the other drums were already forgotten. “Careful? Buddy, I’m gonna savor this. We just struck gold in the middle of a pit.”

Getaway watched him, optics narrowing again, but his own spark eased just a little. For the first time since Tarn, he didn’t feel like the world was seconds away from collapsing in on them.

Rodimus leaned on the barrel, grinning like a mech who’d won a race. “Told you I was lucky.”

Rodimus leaned back against the sealed drum, drumming his fingers against it like a percussionist testing a beat. His grin refused to leave. “Primus, I can’t stop staring at it. Clean energon. You have no idea how good that looks right now.”

“I have some idea,” Getaway muttered, though his tone indicated a faint hint of relief. His gaze flicked toward Rodimus’s chassis, catching the faint sputter in the other mech’s vents. “You’re running on fumes, aren’t you?”

“Fumes? Try running on spite,” Rodimus shot back, clutching his abdomen dramatically. “I’m starving. My tank’s screaming at me like a turbofox locked in a closet.”

Getaway rolled his optics, but the ease in Rodimus’s tone pulled something tight in his chest a little looser. For once, the horror wasn’t clawing at them from every shadow. Just silence, and the promise of fuel. He crouched by the drum, studying the seal again. “Alright. We’re not drinking straight from the barrel. That’s just begging for accidental contamination. We do this smart.”

Rodimus tilted his head, curious. “Smart? What’s that?”

“Frag off.” Getaway huffed a laugh despite himself, then reached into his subspace. There was a pause, just long enough for him to hesitate, before he pulled out the two battered but intact glasses they had drank from the previous night. He turned one over in his servo, thumb brushing the scratches along the rim. “Haven’t used these this much in a long time.”

Rodimus blinked at the offering, optics flicking between the glass and Getaway’s face. “You’re kidding me. You actually carry glasses around? Like some kind of fuel connoisseur? I thought you just found those!”

“Old habit,” Getaway said quickly, but his voice carried a thread of something heavier, quieter. He held out one glass toward Rodimus, the offer feeling almost ceremonial. “Figured if we’re gonna drink, might as well do it right.”

For once, Rodimus didn’t crack a joke. He accepted the glass with a small nod, digits brushing briefly against Getaway’s knuckles. “Guess you’re full of surprises.”

Getaway didn’t reply. He just turned back to the drum, readying to siphon the first clean pour. For a fleeting moment, their world narrowed to this—two mechs, two glasses, and the chance to drink without fear gnawing at their throats.

Rodimus’s grin softened into something smaller, almost shy. “Not gonna lie, I think this is the fanciest date I’ve been on in years.”

Getaway steadied his servo on the siphon line, glancing at Rodimus once more before puncturing the seal. A hiss escaped as the clean energon flowed, translucent and shimmering in the dim light. He poured slowly, carefully, into the waiting glass. The scent alone was sharper, sweeter than the usual rations—they both caught it, optics widening.

Rodimus leaned in, optics practically glowing. “You smell that? That’s not just clean fuel—that’s… something else.” He held out his glass like a kid waiting for candy. “C’mon, don’t be stingy, I’m dying here.”

With deliberate patience, Getaway filled both glasses halfway, as if overfilling might waste even a drop. He set the siphon aside and handed Rodimus his glass, keeping his own balanced in his servo as he inserted a straw. For a moment, he simply stared at the liquid, watching the way it caught the faint glow of their optics.

Rodimus raised his glass like it was some grand toast. “To not dying in Tarn. And to finding… well, this.” He smirked, the bravado clear but his vents shaky. “Drink with me, Getaway.”

Getaway hummed discontentedly, but he clinked his glass against Rodimus’s anyway. “Fine. But if this turns out to be tainted, I’m blaming you.”

They both drank. The instant the liquid hit their tanks, they froze. It wasn’t the flat, metallic tang of stale, low-grade energon, the kind that barely kept systems online. This was richer, almost electric, flooding through their lines with a buzz that made their plating prickle. High grade. Unmistakably so.

Rodimus broke into coughing laughter, clutching his chassis like the sensation bowled him over. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. High fragging grade? Out here?!” His voice hitched upward, half-shocked, half-ecstatic.

Getaway took another careful sip, optics narrowing as the warmth spread through his frame. The bite, the burn, the sweet afterglow—it had been years since he’d had anything like it. He shook his helm slowly, almost disbelieving. “This shouldn’t even be here. Nobody wastes high-grade on a fuel station drum.”

Rodimus tilted his head back, finishing the rest of his glass in a single swallow before slamming it down against the drum. He whooped, loud and unrestrained, startling the silence of the wasteland. “Oh, Primus, I forgot what it was like to feel alive! Forget ferals, forget Quintessons—this? This right here? Worth every slagging thing we’ve been through.”

Getaway, ever cautious, refilled only a quarter of his glass this time, pacing himself even as his frame thrummed with the pleasant hum. “Don’t get carried away, hotshot. It hits faster. Stronger. Last thing I need is you collapsing halfway down the road.”

“Please.” Rodimus grinned, sharp and reckless, his optics sparkling in the glow of the high-grade. “I’ve survived worse. And besides—” he tapped the rim of Getaway’s glass with a claw, “—you’re enjoying it too. Don’t deny it.”

Getaway allowed the faintest chuckle, sipping slowly. “Maybe I am. But only because it’s the first good surprise I’ve had in months.” His gaze softened just slightly, resting on Rodimus across the drum. “Don’t make me regret sharing it with you.”

Rodimus leaned back against the fuel drum, optics hazy but not out of focus, his grin lopsided. The high grade buzzed through his frame like fire in his veins, loosening his tension without fully knocking him down. His vents came in uneven bursts, and he kept laughing at nothing—just the absurdity of finding this treasure out here.

Getaway sat across from him, his own posture more rigid despite the warmth working through his lines. He wasn’t immune to the sway of the high grade, but discipline kept him measured. He nursed his glass rather than drained it, optics fixed on Rodimus in the dim light. Every twitch, every flinch, every hand pressed subtly to his side hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“You’re terrible at hiding it,” Getaway finally muttered, tipping his chin toward Rodimus’s chassis.

Rodimus blinked at him, optics flickering like he didn’t catch it at first. Then he smirked, half-hearted. “Hiding what? My dazzling personality?”

“Your wound,” Getaway said bluntly. He swirled what was left in his glass. “You’ve been hunched over, covering your side, ever since Tarn. Thought I’d let you keep your little secret until now, but—” he raised a browplate, “—you’re drunk enough to let me do something about it.”

Rodimus snorted, waving him off with exaggerated flair. “I’m not drunk. You’re drunk.” But his movements were slower, a slight lag in his gestures betraying him. “And besides, I already welded it. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” Getaway said dryly. He set his glass down and got to his pedes, walking toward Rodimus with a purposeful stride. “Let me see it. Properly, this time.”

Rodimus stiffened, optics narrowing. He wanted to make another joke, but the words faltered when Getaway crouched down in front of him, servo outstretched, steady and patient. Rodimus glanced at the hand, then back at Getaway, the bravado leaking out of him bit by bit.

“You don’t have to,” Rodimus muttered. The humor was gone from his tone now, replaced with something quieter, more vulnerable.

“I know,” Getaway said simply. “But if you tear that weld open again, you’ll bleed out before you even realize it. And I’m not hauling your sorry aft across the wasteland because you’re too proud to let someone help.”

Rodimus sighed, optics flickering toward the ceiling. For a long moment, he hesitated, then finally shifted his servo away from his side, revealing the messy, uneven seal of his self-weld. The faint glow of energon leaked through the cracks.

Getaway didn’t flinch. He only took the welder from Rodimus when he pulled it from his subspace, the flame sparking to life with practiced ease, and he noticed it was much hotter than a usual welder. “This is gonna sting like hell,” he warned, his voice calm, steady. “Try not to squirm.”

Rodimus chuckled weakly, leaning back against the drum, exposing the wound. “Yeah, well—guess I’ll just focus on how handsome my medic is.”

Getaway set the welder down for a moment, reaching for Rodimus’s shoulder, ignoring his comment. “Lie on your side,” he instructed, his tone firm but not unkind. “I need a clear angle, or this’ll get messy.”

Rodimus hesitated, his optics darting from Getaway’s hand to the dark ceiling above them. Something in his chest tightened. Letting someone else take over—it went against everything he’d built himself on, everything drilled into him back in Nyon. No one patched you up there. No one had time. You either learned to do it yourself or you didn’t survive.

Still, he slowly shifted, wincing as he eased down onto his side, one arm propping his helm up. The exposed plating along his flank throbbed, the faint hiss of leaking energon betraying how much the old weld had failed. He could feel Getaway’s optics on him, steady and unwavering, as though cataloguing every weak point.

The sensation made Rodimus twitch. “You’re staring,” he muttered, voice half-drawn into a laugh. “I know I'm hot, but it is kinda rude.”

“Better than looking away,” Getaway replied flatly, adjusting the focus of his welder. He crouched beside Rodimus, steadying the other mech’s frame with a hand to his shoulder strut. “Hold still. I don’t need you flinching and melting your own fuel line.”

Rodimus barked out a short laugh, but it died in his throat as the welder sparked to life. Heat seared across his plating, biting into the thin layers of metal as Getaway burned through the sloppy seal. Instinct screamed at him to jerk away, to grab the tool and finish the job himself, but he forced himself to stay put, vents cycling hard.

Every touch of the flame dragged him back—back to the alleys where he’d hidden from enforcement patrols, back to the nights he’d patched himself up with one optic on the door, waiting for trouble to find him. Nobody helped him then. Nobody cared if he leaked out on the floor. It was survival by his own hands, or not at all.

His servos flexed uselessly against the ground, claws scraping faint grooves into the floor. “Frag, you’re slow,” he hissed through clenched denta.

“I’m thorough,” Getaway corrected calmly, dragging a careful line of molten metal across the wound. “You want this thing to hold, or do you want to rip it open again the first time you decide to show off?”

Rodimus growled, optics squeezing shut. “You make it sound like I’m reckless.”

“You are reckless,” Getaway said, not even pausing in his work. “But you don’t have to be stupid on top of it.”

Rodimus wanted to shoot back, to jab at him with some clever retort, but the words withered against the heat coursing through his side. His vents stuttered, his whole frame trembling as he forced himself to endure the sensation of another mech mending him. It felt wrong—wrong because it wasn’t his hands doing it, wrong because it meant admitting he couldn’t always do it alone.

And yet, through the wrongness, there was something steady. Something anchoring. Getaway’s hand never left his shoulder strut, holding him firm, grounding him in the now. His voice, though sharp, didn’t waver.

Rodimus pushed himself up slowly, bracing with one hand against the fuel drum. His vents stuttered as the fresh weld stretched, but the pain didn’t flare like before—it held. He gingerly twisted his torso, leaning one way and then the other, as if daring the seam to split. For the first time since Tarn, it didn’t.

A small, surprised laugh bubbled out of him. “Huh,” he said, brushing his fingertips lightly across the sealed plating. “That’s… actually solid. Tight.” He blinked, optics narrowing like he didn’t want to believe it. Then, with a crooked grin, he added, “Might be the best weld that’s ever been on my plating.”

Getaway froze mid-motion, his optics narrowing with something between shock and disbelief. “What the hell do you mean, ‘best’?” he asked sharply. “You’re telling me—wait.” He straightened, arms folding over his chest. “You’re telling me this is the best weld you’ve ever had?”

Rodimus shrugged, the motion a little too casual to be genuine. “Yeah. I mean, usually it’s just me with a mirror and a bad angle.”

Getaway stared at him, incredulous. “You’ve never had a medic properly patch you up?”

Rodimus tilted his helm, as if searching through his memory banks. “Had one once,” he admitted after a beat. “Didn’t stick around. Didn’t matter. I got good enough at self-welding, even before then.” He tapped the side of his torso lightly, as if to punctuate the point. “Doesn’t need to look pretty, just needs to keep the energon in.”

“That’s not fragging good enough,” Getaway snapped, more sharply than he meant. His hands curled into fists, his own plating rattling as his vents cycled. “Primus, Rodimus. No wonder your welds look like scrap jobs.”

Rodimus frowned, his grin faltering. “What, you want me to apologize for surviving? For not having a medic in my pocket?” His tone was defensive, barbed, but there was a tremor under it.

Getaway shook his helm, running his servo over his faceplates. “That’s not what I’m saying. I just—” He ex-vented hard, forcing himself to calm. His optics flicked back to the weld, the clean line of metal cooling along Rodimus’s side. “It shouldn’t be normal for you to think this is the first decent fix you’ve ever had. That’s…” His voice dropped quieter. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

Rodimus leaned back against the drum again, crossing his arms. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, looking away. “Nyon didn’t exactly hand out health plans.”

The words hung heavy between them, an admission Rodimus hadn’t meant to make. Getaway’s optics softened for a moment, studying him in silence.

Finally, Rodimus looked back, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth as if to cover the slip. “So what, you gonna be my personal medic now?”

Getaway’s posture tightened, his vents sputtering like he wanted to argue—but he didn’t answer. Not yet.

Getaway stayed quiet longer than Rodimus expected, gaze lingering on the weld as though the neat seam might answer something for him. Finally, he ex-vented, low and sharp. “Even in Helex, where I was put together, cold constructs like me had access to better care than this.” His voice carried no pride, only bitterness, the words tasting like rust on his tongue.

Rodimus blinked, optics widening. He pushed off the drum a little, studying Getaway as if he’d just revealed a whole new layer. “Wait—you’re a cold construct?”

Getaway’s optics snapped toward him, narrowing. “Don’t say it like that.” His tone was sharper than a blade, the kind of snap meant to cut off further questions.

Rodimus held up his servos, half a grin tugging at his mouth despite the tension. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just didn’t peg you for one, is all. You’re… not what I expected.”

“That supposed to be a compliment?” Getaway shot back. He stood, pacing a few steps like the act of sitting still beside Rodimus was suddenly unbearable. His plating flared, rattling with restrained frustration.

Rodimus tilted his helm, watching him go back and forth. “Hey, I wasn’t slagging you. Just surprised. Most cold constructs I’ve met don’t—” He stopped himself, biting the inside of his cheek. But the silence was already too late.

“Don’t what?” Getaway turned on him, optics burning. “Don’t think for themselves? Don’t have personalities? Don’t deserve to be here at all?”

Rodimus flinched at the intensity, his grin faltering. “That’s not what I—”

“It’s exactly what you meant,” Getaway snapped. His hands curled into fists at his sides, voice trembling under the weight of old anger. “You don’t have to say it out loud, Rodimus. I’ve heard it all before. Constructed cold means disposable. Means replaceable. Means not worth the same as you forged mechs.”

Rodimus sat up straighter, the earlier ease gone from his frame. “That’s not what I see when I look at you,” he said, quieter now, a rare seriousness cutting through. “I see someone who’s kept me alive more times than I can count already. Someone who fights like hell to stay standing. That’s not disposable.”

Getaway shook his helm, optics darkening, though the words still seemed to catch him off guard. His vents stuttered, his whole frame tense like he couldn’t decide whether to keep fighting or let the weight of Rodimus’s words land.

“Doesn’t change what I am,” he muttered finally, quieter, bitter. “And it sure as hell doesn’t change what this world thinks of me.”

Rodimus leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. His grin was gone, replaced with something rougher, edged but genuine. “Maybe not. But frag the world, right? It’s just you and me out here now.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the hum of cooling welds and the distant creak of the building around them.

Rodimus leaned back against the wall, optics tracing the cracked ceiling as if it could give him the words he needed. “You think I don’t get it?” he asked, his voice softer than usual, stripped of its usual bravado. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be looked at sideways? To be treated like a freak?”

Getaway said nothing, but his silence was an invitation.

Rodimus let out a long vent. “I’m an outlier. You saw the flames. Couldn’t let anyone know, not if I wanted to survive in council ruled Nyon. Sure as hell not if I wanted to race.” His mouth twisted into a half-smile, bitter around the edges. “Was already running in illegal circuits. Showing off with an ability like mine? Would’ve gotten me blacklisted from every job available before I could even rev my engine.”

The memory pulled a snort out of him, unsteady and sharp. “Used to call myself Hot Rod back then. Thought it sounded flashy. Cool.” He dragged a servo down his faceplate, groaning at his own admission. “Primus, what a joke. I can’t believe I let anyone call me that.”

Getaway tilted his helm, optics narrowing. “And now?”

Rodimus shifted uncomfortably, one hand absently brushing at the fresh weld on his side. “Now I like Rodimus better. Fits. Cleaner. Feels more like me.” His voice faltered as if he hadn’t meant to admit that much, as if saying it aloud exposed something raw.

Getaway studied him closely. “Then how’d you get it?”

Rodimus went still. For a second, the fire dimmed in his optics. His mouth opened, then shut again, as if the weight of the answer was too much to bear.

The silence stretched long enough to hurt. Then Rodimus suddenly smirked, breaking it with a practiced deflection. “Oh, you know. Lost a bet. Figured if I was gonna sound ridiculous, might as well lean into it.”

Getaway didn’t buy it, not for a klik, but he didn’t push. He only leaned back, arms crossed, watching Rodimus hide behind his own grin like a shield.

Rodimus lifted his glass again, knocking back the last of the high grade with an exaggerated flourish. “Anyway, better than Hot Rod, right? At least Rodimus sounds like someone who could actually win a fight.”

Getaway ex-vented through his vents, low and humorless. “Sounds incomplete.”

Rodimus grinned wider, as though the sting of the words rolled right off him. “To you. I like it this way. I don’t need a fancy title like governor. Or, Primus forbid, Prime.”

The second ration of high grade went down faster than the first. Neither of them admitted it, but they both wanted the soft haze that dulled the edges of memory, of pain, of everything outside this abandoned fuel station. The glasses clinked faintly, their laughter too low, too tired, but real all the same.

Rodimus sprawled against the wall with his knees pulled up, optics dim but still sparking with mischief. “Not the worst night I’ve ever had,” he slurred lightly, swirling the last drop of energon in his glass. “Actually… probably one of the better ones.”

Getaway leaned back, arms folded, though his frame sagged against the drum like he was finally letting himself rest. “That’s a low bar,” he muttered, but there wasn’t much bite in his voice.

The wind outside howled suddenly, rattling the building’s thin metal walls. A shiver crept up Getaway’s frame, unbidden and unwelcome. The borderland between Tarn and Kaon was notorious for its bitter drafts, and tonight the cold seeped through every seam in their armor.

Rodimus noticed. He smirked lazily, optics half-lidded. “You shivering, or are you just that happy to be here with me?”

“Frag off,” Getaway shot back, but his vents fogged the air, betraying the chill creeping into his systems.

Rodimus huffed a laugh, set his glass down with a clumsy clink, and slid closer. “C’mon. You’re freezing. And lucky for you, I run hot.” He leaned back against the wall again, patting the space beside him. “Might as well get something out of all this fire nonsense.”

Getaway hesitated, staring at him like it was some kind of trap. But another sharp gust rattled the station, sending a jolt of cold through his struts, and his resolve wavered. With a resigned vent, he eased down beside Rodimus, closer than he’d normally dare.

The warmth hit him immediately. Rodimus radiated heat like a furnace, his frame almost buzzing with it. Without meaning to, Getaway let his shoulders relax, optics slipping shut for a moment as he leaned into it. It was… startlingly pleasant. Warmer than he remembered Atomizer being, back when the two of them had shared cramped hideouts. Warmer in a way that settled deeper than just his armor.

He shoved the thought away before it could take root, scowling faintly to himself. This wasn’t about comfort. This was survival. Nothing more.

Rodimus shifted, mumbling something half-coherent, and tilted his helm until it rested lightly against Getaway’s. The weight of it wasn’t heavy, wasn’t intrusive—it was just there. Solid.

And for the first time since the virus, since the invasion, since everything fell apart, Getaway let himself stop thinking. Just for a while. The cold dulled, the high grade softened the edges of his vigilance, and with Rodimus’s warmth pressed against him, he drifted into recharge.

Chapter Text

Rodimus woke with the heavy haze of high grade still clinging to his processor. The first thing he noticed was the absence of cold; the second was the faint scrape of metal on metal. He blinked groggily, vents cycling until his optics adjusted to the dim light spilling through cracks in the fuel station’s walls.

Getaway was crouched near the sealed drum, tools in hand, securing it to a makeshift sled rigged from scavenged plating and cable. His movements were sharp, efficient, almost mechanical in their precision—so different from the soft quiet of last night.

Rodimus shifted, his joints groaning in protest. The sound was enough. Getaway’s helm turned slightly, optics narrowing, and then softening just a fraction when he realized Rodimus was awake. “You’re up,” he said evenly. “Good. We’ve got a long journey ahead.”

“Morning to you too,” Rodimus muttered, rubbing his optics. His voice came out rasped, gravelly, still thick with recharge. “What’s with the rush?”

Getaway didn’t answer right away. He tightened one last knot of cable, gave the sled a sharp tug to test the weight, and only then glanced back. “Because we’ve got to cross into Kaon. And that means the mountains.”

Rodimus sat up straighter, his spoiler twitching with something between irritation and curiosity. “Mountains. Right. Should’ve known it wasn’t gonna be an easy stroll.”

“Nothing about this has been easy,” Getaway replied flatly, standing to his full height. He dusted his hands off, optics scanning the horizon through a crack in the wall. “The terrain’s brutal. Jagged cliffs, narrow passes. And worse—Kaon ferals don’t roam the same way Tarn’s do. They hunt in packs… from what I've heard.”

Rodimus groaned, dragging his servos down his face. “Perfect. Packs. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear after nearly getting torn up by just one.”

“You’ll live,” Getaway said, though his voice lacked its usual sting. He nodded toward the sealed drum. “And now, so will I. As long as we keep moving.”

Rodimus pushed himself to his feet, still sluggish but trying to shake off the weight of the night before. He looked at the sled, then back at Getaway. “You’ve really been up this whole time, haven’t you?”

“Someone had to prep,” Getaway replied. He didn’t add more, but the faint lines around his optics told Rodimus enough. The mech hadn’t recharged. Not properly, at least.

Rodimus opened his mouth, some half-joke ready, but stopped himself. The words stuck, and instead he just exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Alright. Mountains of Kaon. Lead the way.”

The road was almost kind to them at first. Smooth enough stretches of cracked metal and flattened dirt, the wind biting but steady. Rodimus and Getaway transformed, engines rumbling to life, and for a brief while it almost felt like normal travel — as if there were still safe highways, still destinations worth reaching.

Rodimus surged ahead, kicking up dust, letting his tires scream against the ground. He didn’t say anything, but Getaway could hear the unspoken relief in the roar of his engine. Driving always seemed to light a fire in him — and not just the literal kind.

Getaway kept his pace steady behind, more restrained. He had no patience for donuts or weaving, not today. He watched the horizon, counted the seconds between each plume of dust in the distance, every flicker of movement that might mean feral.

The plains bled into harder ground as they drove. Grass turned sparse, replaced by jagged rock formations that jutted up like broken teeth. The copper forest was already visible in the distance — sharp metallic spires glinting beneath a sky that promised no comfort.

Rodimus slowed, falling in line with Getaway as the ground grew rougher. His voice crackled through their comms, faint static on the line. “Guess that’s our cue, huh? End of the joyride.”

“Transform,” Getaway confirmed. His tone was clipped as he came to a halt and transformed back to root mode, stretching out his legs with a weary grunt. “We’ll wreck our undercarriages if we push it any farther.”

Rodimus transformed as well, staggering slightly when his pedes hit the ground. The abrupt loss of speed left him twitchy. He cast one last glance back at the plains, then forward at the copper forest yawning wide before them. “That thing looks like it’ll chew us alive.”

“Better than the ferals chewing us alive,” Getaway shot back. He adjusted the strap holding his blades, tested the weight of the sled carrying their sealed energon. Every sound in the stillness seemed magnified — the click of his joints, the scrape of metal on rock, even the low hum of energon inside the drum.

The copper forest loomed higher the closer they stepped. Towers of oxidized metal reached for the sky, their surfaces stained green with corrosion, like a petrified wasteland. The air carried a sharp tang, biting at their filters.

Rodimus tilted his helm up, optics squinting. “Looks more like a graveyard than a forest.”

“That’s Kaon,” Getaway replied without hesitation, already walking forward, steady and cautious. “Everything here is a graveyard. Keep your vents low.”

Rodimus followed, falling into step, his spear held loosely in his grip. He made a half-hearted attempt at humor, though it came out thin and jagged. “And here I thought Tarn was bad.”

“Wait until you see the mountain passes,” Getaway said, voice grim. He didn’t look back, just kept his optics fixed on the copper spires, as if daring them to move.

The beaten path through the copper forest wound like a scar, narrow and uneven, bordered on either side by towering metallic trees. Their oxidized branches stretched overhead, blotting out most of the dim sky, and the silence was nearly suffocating. Cybertronian nature didn’t buzz, didn’t chirp, didn’t whisper with wind through leaves — it simply existed in dead stillness, the only sounds their pedes scraping against the path and the occasional groan of old metal shifting in the cold.

Rodimus’s spoiler twitched at the oppressive quiet, his vents hissing louder than they should have. He finally broke, glancing sideways at Getaway with a crooked grin. “So… what’s after Kaon? Please tell me it’s not another pile of scrap like this.”

Getaway’s helm turned slowly, optics narrowing like he couldn’t quite believe the question. His look was sharp, almost incredulous, the kind that said Really? Don’t you have the map burned into your processor like the rest of us? But then something clicked, and his expression shifted — not softer, exactly, but less judgmental. He remembered.

“You’re from Nyon,” he said flatly, like that explained everything. “Education there wasn’t exactly… prioritized.”

Rodimus snorted, jabbing the end of his spear into the dirt path as they walked. “Yeah, well, we had better things to do. Like racing. And surviving. And racing while surviving.”

“I was constructed in Helex,” Getaway replied, ignoring the quip. His tone held a strange pride, almost defensive. “City-state of scholars. You had to know where you were going, and why. Maps weren’t optional.”

Rodimus tilted his helm back to glance up at the copper canopy, optics glowing faint in the gloom. “Guess that makes you the tour guide then. So where do we end up once we’re done climbing these death mountains?”

“Praxus,” Getaway answered without hesitation. “The spire city. Home of order, archives, and—” He cut himself off with a dismissive shrug. “At least, before.”

“I’ve been there once,” Rodimus admitted, surprising even himself as the memory tugged loose. His voice carried a strange fondness, like recalling something half-remembered and half-dreamt. “Long before the Quintessons. I was supposed to meet some big-shot religious leader. Ended up meeting a library clerk instead.”

Getaway blinked at him, clearly thrown by the turn in the story. “A clerk.”

“Yeah. Talked my audials off about catalog systems and record-keeping. I didn’t get half of it, but—” Rodimus laughed suddenly, though it sounded rough, like he was trying to keep it light. “The Crystal City wouldn’t shut up the whole time. Like, it kept screaming at me. Thought I was gonna fry my processor if I didn’t leave.”

That earned him an actual pause from Getaway. He stared at Rodimus, optics narrowing again, but this time in puzzlement rather than judgment. “The city… screamed at you?” His voice was slow, careful, like he wasn’t sure if Rodimus was joking, or confessing something dangerous.

Rodimus only grinned wider, forcing levity back into his words. “What can I say? Guess even architecture thinks I’m too loud.”

Getaway’s steps slowed, crunching over loose metal shards along the path. His optics flicked sideways to Rodimus again, voice low but edged with curiosity. “What were you even doing in Crystal City in the first place? Doesn’t sound like your scene.”

Rodimus dragged the tip of his spear along the dirt, letting sparks bite the ground before shrugging like it was no big deal. “It wasn’t my idea. One of my less than legal sponsors back in Nyon thought I ought to see ‘the rest of the world’ instead of running tracks around it.” His tone dipped briefly, bitter around the edges. “So I hopped a transport and ended up in the middle of a festival.”

“Festival?” Getaway pressed, his tone cautious but unmistakably interested now.

“Yeah,” Rodimus said, optics brightening at the memory despite himself. “Supposed to be the celebration where the next Prime got announced. The speeches, the glowing lights, the whole pit-shined spectacle. Crystal spires lit up like they’d swallowed half the stars in the sky.” He smirked crookedly, venting a short laugh. “Didn’t last long, though. I bolted the first chance I got. Didn't even get to see Sential before he became a Prime.”

Getaway’s expression stayed unreadable, but his attention didn’t waver. “So you ran away from history being made?”

Rodimus tilted his helm, optics catching faint reflections of copper branches. “Eh, history was boring. Speeches made me wanna jump off a balcony. But—” His grin widened suddenly, sharp and boyish. “I did get to see the Matrix up close. And that? That was cool.”

For the first time since they entered the forest, Getaway stumbled a half-step, optics snapping toward him. “You saw the Matrix.” His voice wasn’t skeptical, exactly—just stunned.

“Yep.” Rodimus tapped the haft of his spear against his shoulder plating. “Big ol’ glowing relic, humming like it had its own spark. Guards didn’t even notice me sneaking closer. Guess I’ve always had a talent for slipping past optics when I want to.”

“Rodimus,” Getaway muttered, venting a sharp sigh. “Most mechs would’ve given half their plating for that chance. And you—” He cut himself off, helm shaking in disbelief.

Rodimus leaned forward slightly, grin turning mischievous. “What? You jealous?”

Getaway’s silence lingered long enough that the copper trees seemed to close in tighter, amplifying it. His field was restrained, controlled as always, but there was a flicker beneath it—something unsettled.

Rodimus didn’t press further. Instead, he swung his spear lazily and added, almost to himself, “Coolest thing I’ve ever seen, though. It looked… alive. Like it was staring back at me. And for a moment, I thought maybe it saw something in me too. Dumb, right?”

Getaway’s field twisted into something ugly and sour. “Yeah. Dumb’s the word I’d use. The Matrix doesn’t just look back at nobodies. It’s a symbol, not some spark-miracle picking favorites.” His tone was clipped, dismissive, each word landing like a steel bolt.

Rodimus chuckled lightly, though the sound was brittle, more forced than amused. “Yeah, fair enough. Dumb thought. Guess I’m good at those.” He spun his spear once, the tip carving a lazy arc in the dirt path before resting it against his shoulder again.

The copper canopy rattled faintly overhead as if a wind had passed through, though there was no air. For a moment, neither spoke. Rodimus let the silence stretch until it felt like it might suffocate him, then broke it with practiced levity. “So… what about you? What’s Helex like? I bet they’ve got all the fancy stuff. Big, shiny spires? Libraries where the datapads walk up and introduce themselves?”

Getaway’s field tightened immediately, cool and restrained. “Helex was efficient.” He didn’t look at Rodimus when he spoke, his optics fixed straight ahead on the uneven path. “No wasted resources. No wasted time. We were built for what we were built for. Education was thorough. Direct.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Rodimus said, spoiler twitching in mock awe. “Bet you had a blast.”

Getaway ignored the jab. “At least it prepared us for the real world. Not like Nyon, where everyone thought ‘fun’ was a sustainable survival strategy.” His voice held a bite, sharper than usual, but steady.

Rodimus didn’t flinch, though he felt the sting. He tilted his helm instead, smirking just enough to disguise it. “So Helex is where they make mechs like you. Cold, calculating, always got a plan.”

Getaway’s lip curled faintly, but he kept walking. “Better than hot-headed fools who think running into danger makes them special.”

Rodimus barked a short laugh, though it echoed hollowly in the still forest. “Guess that makes us a great team, then. You plot, I run headfirst. Balance.”

Getaway didn’t respond right away. His steps crunched steady and precise, while Rodimus’s dragged and scuffed in restless contrast. Finally, Getaway muttered, “Don’t romanticize it. This—” he gestured faintly at the path ahead “—is temporary. Once we reach Iacon, you’re someone else’s problem.”

Rodimus’s grin faltered, but only for a breath. He tapped his spear against his shoulder and forced the smirk back into place. “Sure. Temporary.”

The copper forest swallowed them whole as they marched, their footfalls muffled against the dust and corroded leaves littering the beaten path. Neither spoke for a long while. The silence pressed down like a weight, the only sounds the faint groans of old metal trees shifting above them and the occasional clatter of loose debris underfoot.

Rodimus’s optics darted from branch to branch, half expecting a feral to lunge at any second. The stillness was almost worse than the attacks. He hated quiet—quiet gave his processor too much space to run. And right now, it kept circling back to Getaway’s words, the sting of dismissal, the reminder that this alliance was temporary.

Getaway, by contrast, walked with deliberate steadiness, his field tucked tight, unreadable. If the silence gnawed at him, he didn’t show it. He seemed focused on every contour of the land, every detail of the path, his processor calculating routes and risks while Rodimus’s own processor fought the creeping boredom.

The trees thinned slowly, the oppressive canopy breaking apart into ragged gaps where dim light filtered through. The ground sloped, the air shifting colder. Rodimus tilted his helm, realizing they were nearing the mountain pass.

Getaway finally slowed, lifting a servo to motion Rodimus closer. His optics narrowed as he stared ahead, cutting through the rust-red haze. Between the last of the copper trunks stood a jagged arch of stone and metal—the entrance to a tunnel carved into the mountain. Beyond it, faint glows flickered, signs of energy bleeding from deep within the valley.

“That’s it,” Getaway said, voice low and even. “The mouth of the valley. Kaon sits nestled just beyond.” He paused, vents releasing a measured hiss as though steadying himself. “Once we step through, things change.”

Rodimus followed his gaze, leaning on his spear as he tried to squint past the shadows. His spark gave an uneasy flicker. Kaon. Even in better times, its name had been said with a kind of reverence and fear, the city of gladiators and war-forged legends. Now, with the Quintessons holding dominion, who knew what was left behind those walls?

Getaway glanced back at him, optics sharp. “Don’t lose yourself to the sight.” His tone carried more weight than usual, almost a warning.

Rodimus tilted his helm, spoiler flicking up in mock offense. “Lose myself? Please. Takes more than some crumbling city to knock me off balance.” But the grin didn’t quite reach his optics.

The tunnel yawned like the maw of some great beast, swallowing light at its entrance. The copper forest ended in a ragged line, and beyond it, shadows stretched deep and dark, leading down into the valley where Kaon slumbered.

Rodimus spun his spear once, restless energy crackling in his field. “Guess this is it. Home of champions, home of nightmares. Can’t wait to see which one it is now.”

Getaway didn’t answer right away. He just fixed Rodimus with that cool, unreadable stare, then started toward the tunnel. His final words drifted back, sharp and cutting: “Keep up. And don’t get distracted.”

The tunnel spat them out into the valley after what felt like an eternity of walking in near-darkness. When they emerged, the sight that greeted them was both grand and haunting. The cliffs rose high on either side, jagged stone and twisted girders looming like broken teeth around a gaping maw. And nestled in the bowl of the valley lay Kaon.

Once, it had been proud. The spires of the gladiatorial arenas still stabbed skyward, though now they were bent, half-collapsed, rust bleeding down their lengths. The city spread outward from the largest arena like a spider’s web, but instead of glimmering with lights, it choked under smog and shadow. The air was heavy, smelling of burnt energon and corroded steel.

Rodimus leaned forward, optics narrowing as he spotted the faint glow of firelight scattered around the city outskirts. Not from the main streets, but from clusters—small camps, set up like islands in the dark. Some flickered bright, others barely smoldered, but all of them pulsed faint life against the backdrop of ruin.

“Camps,” he muttered, gripping his spear tighter. His vents cycled unevenly. “Guess that means survivors.”

Getaway didn’t answer right away. His optics tracked every flicker of light, processor calculating, but his field was tight and guarded. Finally, he spoke. “Or scavengers. Or worse.” His voice was cool, but beneath it lingered a tension Rodimus could feel pressing against his own spark.

Rodimus huffed. “You’re fun at parties, I bet.” He tried to keep his tone light, but it came out thin, lacking its usual spark.

Getaway’s optics slid to him, unreadable. “We’ve been to a camp, Rodimus. You remember how that ended.”

The weight of those words sank between them like lead. The memory of Brainstorm’s weary optics, the cage, and Perceptor’s green-glowing optics hovered at the edges of Rodimus’s processor. He tightened his grip on his spear until the metal groaned under his servos. “Yeah. I remember.”

Silence stretched. The camps below flickered faintly, some fires guttering as if they were struggling against the wind. From this distance, there was no telling who—or what—was huddled around those flames.

“Could be another trap,” Getaway said. His tone was steady, matter-of-fact, but his field betrayed the weariness beneath. “Could be more ferals, baiting. Could be mechs like us. Doesn’t matter. We treat them all the same until proven otherwise.”

Rodimus swallowed down the sour taste rising in his throat. His field flicked out nervously, betraying his unease even as he tried to keep his smirk in place. “Guess we’re sleeping under the stars tonight, then.”

Getaway’s optics flicked back to him. “Stars are safer than strangers.”

Rodimus snorted, trying to laugh, but it came out weak. He looked down at the camps again, the flickering glow painting the valley in faint orange. The firelight didn’t feel warm. It felt like teeth, waiting.

The slope into the valley was littered with the skeletons of buildings—half-collapsed shells of shops, fuel depots, and old apartments whose walls sagged inward like tired frames. As Rodimus and Getaway stepped carefully onto the cracked street, the city seemed to swallow them whole. The sound of the wind was muffled here, replaced by the occasional groan of stressed metal and the drip of stagnant condensation pooling in the gutters.

Kaon’s main arenas dominated the skyline, their towering walls ringed with jagged banners long since burned and shredded. But what struck Rodimus most wasn’t the arenas themselves—it was the ring of businesses surrounding them. Whole blocks were still marked by broken signs boasting “HOLOVIDS OF THE CHAMPIONSHIP,” “REPLICATED MERCH, CHEAP,” or “PLACE YOUR BETS.” Their paint was flaking, but the words still shouted, desperate for an audience that would never return.

Rodimus slowed, optics flicking nervously from one gutted storefront to another. His field was scattered, restless, pulling back from the walls as though the buildings themselves might lunge at him. “Primus,” he muttered, voice quiet. “It’s all still here. Just like… like the holovids.”

Getaway glanced at him, helm tilted. “Holovids?”

“Yeah.” Rodimus winced, half-embarrassed. “Back in Nyon, we had stores that sold arena feeds. I used to stand outside and watch, when I could sneak off. Couldn’t afford to get in, obviously. But I’d catch glimpses—gladiators tearing into each other, crowds screaming.” His tone was uneasy, caught somewhere between awe and shame.

They passed one storefront whose broken window still framed a dust-caked display of shattered holopads. Rodimus slowed, optics catching on the faint outlines of old advertising posters inside—bold mechs frozen mid-swing, mid-kill, their faces twisted in fury. He turned away quickly. “I used to think… I used to think that’d be me one day. Standing in the arena, beating everyone who came at me.”

Getaway’s optics narrowed. “And?”

Rodimus barked out a laugh, hollow. “And then I got into my first real fight. Not here. Just some illegal circuit race that went sideways. One of the racers thought I’d cheated, and—” He trailed off, ventilations hitching with the memory. “Let’s just say, being punched in the face doesn’t feel half as glamorous as it looks on the screen.”

Getaway huffed a half-laugh. “You don’t say.”

Rodimus kicked a chunk of rubble out of his path, the motion sharper than necessary. “That was the first time I realized how stupid I was. Thinking fighting made you special. All it did was prove you could survive five minutes longer than the other guy.”

The buildings loomed closer now, the narrow street funnelling them toward the largest arena. Its gates yawned open, a rusted maw rimmed with broken spikes. From within came the faint echo of wind funneling through hollow stands, carrying with it the ghost of a roar that wasn’t there.

Rodimus stopped walking for a moment, staring at it. His spoiler dipped low, shoulders tense. “Used to dream about walking through those gates.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Now I’m not sure if I should keep going.”

Getaway stepped past him, field carefully steady. “Dreams or not, Rodimus—we can't afford to turn back.”

Their pedesteps echoed sharply against the broken streets, the sound bouncing off the empty façades. The silence of Kaon felt heavier than any forest or plain they’d passed through—it was a silence steeped in history, in memory, and in the unshakable smell of old smoke.

Getaway’s optics swept the road ahead, his voice level when he finally spoke. “You know this place was the first city the Quintessons hit with the virus, right?”

Rodimus’s head snapped toward him, optics narrowing. “Yeah. I remember.” His tone was clipped, defensive, as though the fact itself scraped raw across his frame.

“They didn’t just pick it by chance,” Getaway continued, gaze flicking toward the arena looming behind them. “Kaon was a symbol. The so-called strongest mechs, the fiercest gladiators—gone in a matter of cycles. The Quintessons didn’t need to conquer. All they had to do was let the virus show that even Kaon could fall.”

Rodimus said nothing at first, his optics sliding reluctantly over a massive mural plastered on the side of a collapsed pub. It showed a triumphant champion, helm thrown back, energon dripping from a blade held aloft. Around the edges, smaller images depicted crowds cheering, faces blurred in ecstatic worship. Now the paint was flaking, the grin on the champion’s face half-erased, but it still made his tanks churn.

He muttered, almost to himself, “Marketing death. Selling it. Like it was the best thing you could be.” His shoulders tensed. “It will never sit right with me.”

Getaway gave a small shrug, though his optics were hard. “Kaon sold violence because it was the only thing people thought they had left worth buying. Power, spectacle, distraction. It was always hollow.”

Rodimus’s mouth twisted, but his gaze kept snagging on the images—posters still plastered in storefronts, etched trophies half-buried in rubble, the slogans peeling off from walls. Fight for Glory. Fight for Kaon. Each one was a needle in his plating, a reminder that once, he’d thought this was the dream worth chasing.

He kicked at a loose panel of flooring as they passed an old gambling den, its windows dark but Rodimus could still see that it was littered with chips and tokens. “Doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself I was just a dumb kid,” he muttered. “The truth is, I ate it up. Every bit of it. Even now, looking at it—I can’t stop my spark from remembering how badly I wanted to be in there. How badly I wanted… to matter.”

Getaway finally glanced at him, expression unreadable. “Wanting to matter doesn’t make you wrong. It just makes you… alive.”

Rodimus gave a sharp laugh, but it carried no humor. He forced his optics away from the walls, focusing on the road ahead, though his spoiler remained low and unsettled. “Yeah? Well, in Kaon, alive usually meant someone else wasn’t. Guess I never really got that until it was too late.”

The arena’s shadow stretched long down the street as they walked, swallowing them in a pool of rust-colored gloom. Rodimus tightened his grip on his spear without thinking, as though the city itself might lunge out from its hollowed bones.

Getaway’s optics flicked to a side street, narrower and half-hidden behind a collapsed holo-billboard. “There’s an old distillery nearby,” he said, his voice clipped but steady. “Back before the fall, Kaon brewed some of the strongest high-grade on Cybertron. If there’s anything left sealed…” He trailed off, the unspoken promise of fuel hanging in the air.

Rodimus turned his helm toward him, wings shifting. He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Yeah. Worth a look. Better than walking past another block of dead storefronts.” He tried to sound casual, but his steps quickened, eager at the thought of something useful.

The distillery loomed at the end of the street, its front doors torn clean off their hinges. A faded logo still stretched across the side, flaking into unreadable glyphs, but the massive brewing tanks behind it stood tall like silent sentinels.

Rodimus slowed first, his optics narrowing. Something about the air felt… wrong. He couldn’t place it until they stepped through the threshold and into the main hall.

He froze, tanks churning. The inside of the distillery wasn’t just wrecked—it had been arranged.

Mechs, or what remained of them, were strung up along the support beams and old brewing tanks. Their frames had been split apart, wires dangling like entrails, plating splayed outward as though some deranged hand had tried to create symmetry out of suffering.

Rodimus staggered back a step, his spoiler hiking high in alarm. “What the frag—” The words broke off as his vents seized, the rancid air threatening to force energon back up his throat.

Getaway’s optics hardened. He didn’t move closer, but he scanned every grisly angle. “Art,” he muttered, bitter. “Some mech thought this counted as art.”

Rodimus braced a servo on the wall, fighting the bile rising in his tanks. His optics darted from one grotesque display to the next, each arrangement worse than the last. He squeezed his optics shut, forcing the urge to purge back down. “Primus, I—” His vents rasped, catching. “I can’t—”

“Don’t look too long,” Getaway said sharply, stepping closer to him. His tone carried an edge of command, meant to keep Rodimus’s focus from breaking. “That’s what they’d want. Whoever did this, they wanted someone to stare. Don’t give it to them.”

Rodimus’s servos curled into fists against the wall. He opened his optics again, briefly—just enough to see a mech’s helm twisted sideways, face frozen in a rictus grin, energon trails painting the plating beneath. His tanks lurched violently, and he forced himself to look away, focusing on Getaway instead.

The copper tang of energon clung to the air, thick enough to taste. Rodimus wiped his mouth with the back of his servo, whispering, “This isn’t just murder. This is… this is performance.”

Getaway’s gaze lingered on the far wall, where glyphs had been scrawled in dried energon, written in an old Tetrahexian dialect, something he learned to read while cuddling up to a particularly bad serial killer in Upper Helex. He didn’t translate them aloud, but his optics dimmed, the glow heavy with unease. “Yeah,” he said at last, voice low. “And I don’t think it’s finished.”

Rodimus froze at those words, the weight of them settling in his spark chamber like a stone. His vents whined, and for a terrible second, the distillery seemed to breathe around them, alive with the echoes of what had been done here.

Rodimus tightened his grip on the spear, the haft creaking faintly under his fingers. His optics flicked constantly between the grotesque arrangements and the shadows pooling between the tanks. He hated every fragging second of it, but he stayed close behind Getaway, following the other mech’s steady pace. If there was sealed energon here, they couldn’t afford to leave it behind.

Getaway didn’t flinch as they moved deeper. He walked with a strange familiarity, almost like the scene wasn’t new to him at all. “You know,” he said, voice low, almost conversational, “this is what I was built for back in Helex.”

Rodimus frowned, spoiler twitching uneasily. “What, horror museums?”

Getaway cast him a sharp look over his shoulder. “No. Mechs like this. The kind that thought death was art, or that torment was philosophy. Helex had more than a few. My frame—my personality—was designed to bait them. Make them feel safe, make them confess, make them show their claws.” His voice was firm. “And then the enforcers closed in.”

Rodimus’s spark twisted at the tone, the flatness under the words. He shifted the spear in his grip. “So you were… what? A lure?”

“Exactly.” Getaway’s optics flicked to the far corner of the distillery, scanning for movement. “A trap. Cold construct, easy to program with a silver tongue. I’d cozy up to these monsters until they slipped. Then Helex’s officers dragged them away.”

Rodimus lagged a step, trying to reconcile the mech beside him with the role he described. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, realizing any joke would come out wrong in this place. Instead, he said quietly, “Guess you’d know better than me how to read this kind of scene.”

“Yeah.” Getaway’s tone was strained, as if he didn’t want the conversation to stretch further. He crouched near a row of half-collapsed crates, prying one open with a quick flick of his blade. The smell that escaped made Rodimus gag, but Getaway only shook his head. “Contaminated. Useless.”

Rodimus forced his vents to steady and angled his spear toward the shadows as Getaway moved to the next crate. “Still doesn’t sit right. Whoever did this… they didn’t just kill. They wanted to show it off.”

“Which means they’re proud of their work,” Getaway said grimly, digging into another crate. “And pride like that? They won’t stay hidden forever. They’ll want an audience.”

Rodimus shivered at the words, spoiler dipping low. He hated the truth in them, hated even more that Getaway spoke like it was routine. He stuck closer, spear tight in his grip. “Let’s just find the sealed stuff and get out before they decide we’re the encore.”

Getaway glanced at him, and for the first time since they’d stepped inside, his optics crinkled with the best attempt at a ‘smile’ he could give. “For once, Rodimus, I think we agree perfectly.”

The door to the storage room creaked as Getaway nudged it open with his pede. The hinges groaned, echoing through the distillery’s hollow bones, and for a moment Rodimus thought it was just another space filled with corpses. He was wrong.

The air inside was heavier, staler, saturated with the tang of rust and stale energon. At the far end of the room, illuminated by flickering emergency lights, a massive mech was pinned upright against the wall. Not just any mech—a gladiator frame, broad-chested and scarred even in death. His plating had been peeled open like petals, innards stretched and nailed across the wall in a grotesque display.

Around him, smaller trophies cluttered makeshift shelves: servos arranged in patterns, broken optics polished and set into rows, scraps of armor tagged with paint like labels. The shrine radiated something almost reverent, twisted admiration of strength now reduced to meat and metal.

Rodimus staggered back a step, his vents choking. His spear clattered lightly against the floor as his spoiler hiked up in instinctive revulsion. His tanks lurched, energon rising up, hot and bitter.

Getaway’s hand was on him in an instant, firm and deliberate. “Don’t,” he muttered, stepping close. He pressed his palm over Rodimus’s optics, blocking out the sight. “Breathe. Focus on me, not that.”

Rodimus’s vents stuttered. His spark hammered against its casing as bile burned his throat. He tried to push Getaway’s hand away but found himself leaning into it instead, trembling against the awful pull of the shrine.

“Breathe,” Getaway repeated, low and insistent. His thumb brushed the edge of Rodimus’s helm as he kept his optics covered. “You purge here, and you'll be losing precious fuel. We can't afford that.”

Rodimus’s frame shook, his vents pulling ragged air. He forced himself to match the rhythm of Getaway’s voice—inhale, exhale, again, again. Slowly, the urge to heave dulled, though the horror gnawed at the back of his processor.

When Getaway finally lifted his hand, Rodimus didn’t look toward the wall again. His optics stayed locked on Getaway’s faceplate, jaw tight. “That’s not just a shrine,” he rasped. “That’s… worship.”

Getaway’s gaze flicked past him, scanning the display with unsettling calm. “Yes. And whoever built it wanted us to see it.” His fist clenching. “Which means this room isn’t storage. It’s bait.”

Rodimus swore under his breath, his grip tightening on his spear again. His spoiler twitched nervously, body buzzing with the urge to run. “So what now?”

Getaway’s optics hardened, his blades gleaming faintly in the dim light. “Now we move fast. Before the artist decides the gallery needs fresh material.”

Getaway moved first, slipping back through the doorway with his blades drawn and posture taut. He didn’t need to tell Rodimus to follow; Rodimus was already half out the door, anything to get away from that shrine. His vents still hitched in his chest, but he kept the spear up, optics darting between every shadow.

The corridor outside was no safer, dim light falling in strips across the metal floor. Getaway raised a hand, signaling for silence, and started forward with careful steps. Rodimus forced his vents quieter, falling into the rhythm of Getaway’s movements.

Then the sound reached them. Soft at first, almost lost beneath the groan of the building’s frame. A voice, lilting and smooth, threading through the darkness like smoke.

“Little spark, little light,

Shine through the shadow, shine through the night.

Though the world may turn cold and gray,

Your fire will guide the lost on their way.”

Rodimus froze. His spark gave a painful jolt, recognition striking before logic could catch up. It wasn’t just singing. It was a lullaby. A Nyonian tale, sung to sparklings in old neighborhoods where no one had much but songs and stories to pass the night.

His knees almost buckled under him as memory surged. Curled corners of half-lit habs, his caretaker's voice trying to drown out hunger with melody, warmth pressed shoulder to shoulder with others like him. That lullaby belonged to safety. To childhood. Not here. Not now.

Getaway glanced back sharply, optics narrowing as he registered Rodimus’s reaction. “What is it?” He whispered.

Rodimus’s mouth opened, but the words caught in his throat. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t explain how wrong it felt to hear something so tender in a place steeped in cruelty.

“Through tangled streets and empty halls,

Your glow will answer the darkest calls.

Fear may circle, try to confine,

But even the smallest light will shine.”

The song grew clearer as they moved, the voice echoing through the corridors. It was sweet, unbroken, almost gentle enough to fool them into thinking they’d stumbled into some sanctuary. But Rodimus’s tanks churned—he knew better. That lullaby wasn’t comfort here. It was a hook.

Getaway’s optics narrowed as he caught the words. He didn’t recognize the language, but the melody was enough to make his plating prickle. He leaned closer to Rodimus, voice barely a whisper. “Whoever’s singing… they want us to follow.”

Rodimus tightened his grip on the spear until it hurt. His vents dragged rough air as he shook his head faintly. “That’s… that’s a Nyonian song. For sparklings. They—whoever it is—shouldn’t know that.”

The two of them exchanged a heavy look. The lullaby drifted on, patient and unhurried, waiting for them to choose whether to listen.

“Little spark, little light,

Carry your courage through the fight.

Though storms may rage and sparks may fade,

Your fire is brave, and your path is made.”

Rodimus’s vents were shaky as the lullaby carried down the hall, melody sweet and gentle. His spear trembled slightly in his grip before he muttered, almost to himself, “That accent. They’re from central Tetrahex. I’d bet my spark on it. Tetrahexians round their vowels weirdly.”

Getaway blinked, thrown by the certainty. “And how exactly would you know the accent of Tetrahex?” His voice was sharp, like he didn’t want the answer but couldn’t stop himself from asking.

Rodimus’s mouth thinned in discomfort. “Because—” He stopped, spark pounding, the words caught somewhere between shame and defiance. Then he forced them out, quick and quiet, like ripping off a weld. “Because one of the only mechs I ever trusted as a sparkling was from there. A buymech. She used to sing it to me when things got… bad.”

The silence that followed was worse than the singing. Getaway actually stopped moving, his blades dipping slightly as he stared at Rodimus. Horror flickered in his optics, not at the lullaby, but at what Rodimus had just admitted.

“You were a sparkling,” Getaway said, the words barely holding together under the weight of disgust. “And you were—what—hanging around buymechs?”

Rodimus’s plating bristled, spoiler high with a flare of defensive anger. “I didn’t exactly choose it, okay? Nyon wasn’t exactly handing out caretakers with full energon tanks and bedtime stories. She—she was just there. She didn’t hurt me, she helped. She sang when no one else did.”

Getaway’s optics fixed on him like he was staring at something broken. “That’s not—” He cut himself off, blade tapping against the wall, as if he couldn’t decide whether to scold or pity.

Rodimus shoved ahead, refusing to let the silence chew him apart. “So yeah. That’s how I know the accent. It’s hers. And hearing it here—” His voice cracked, raw, before he forced it back down. “Hearing it here makes me want to tear my own audials out.”

Getaway exhaled sharply, optics dragging back down the hall as though looking anywhere but at Rodimus. “Primus, Rodimus… you shouldn’t even know about things like that. Not back then. Not that young.”

Rodimus’s laugh came out thin, bitter, cutting at the edges. “Yeah, well. That was Nyon for you. You learned fast, or you didn’t make it.”

“Hold fast, little one, do not despair,

The world needs your glow everywhere.

Even when shadows press from all sides,

Your spark will burn where hope still hides.”

The lullaby continued, sweet and cruel all at once, threading through the silence that fell between them. Rodimus gripped his spear tighter, daring Getaway to say anything more, but he wisely kept his voice box muted.

The voice carried after them as they edged farther from the shrine, but it wasn’t the same soft lullaby anymore. The singer’s tone began to rise, words lilting faster, melody climbing with an almost giddy energy. 

“Little spark, little flame,

Carry your courage, play your game.

Even when darkness whispers low,

Your light will guide the way to go.”

Rodimus flinched at the shift. His vents dragged, harsh in his throat. He glanced at Getaway, spoiler low. “We need to leave,” he whispered. “Now. I don’t care what supplies are here.”

Getaway didn’t argue. His optics stayed fixed on the dark hallway ahead, every line of his frame coiled tight. “Agreed.”

They turned, pedes landing as quietly as they could manage. Rodimus kept his spear angled toward the shadows, while Getaway’s blades gleamed faintly in the thin light. For a moment, the singing dipped low again, like a lull, as though whoever it was had lost interest.

But then, suddenly, the voice rose—full-bodied, triumphant, practically shouting the next verse of the song. The walls vibrated faintly with the volume. Rodimus’s spark seized in panic.

“Step by step, your path will rise,

Through the shadows, through the lies.

Every flicker, every gleam,

Holds the power to light a dream.”

“He knows,” he rasped, dread sinking sharp and heavy. “He's found us.”

The melody swung high, sharp syllables echoing down the corridors, bouncing off metal walls until it felt like the singer was everywhere at once. Rodimus clamped his jaw shut, forcing himself not to cover his audials, not to run blindly.

“Brave little mech, do not fear,

Your spark will shine when none are near.

Though the world may try to bend and break,

Your courage burns for hope’s own sake.”

Getaway’s optics hardened. He grabbed Rodimus’s arm, yanking him forward, and hissed, “Move. Don’t look back.”

Rodimus stumbled into a run, his pedes clanging faintly despite his best efforts at silence. Behind them, the song grew louder, closer, the voice practically laughing through the verses now, as if savoring the hunt.

“Little spark, never dim,

Hold fast to the fire within.

Even when the night is long,

Your spark will carry the brightest song.” 

Every instinct screamed at Rodimus to bolt, to let the adrenaline take over. But Getaway’s grip on his arm was grounding, forcing him to match stride, forcing him to think. That touch kept him tethered to more than fear.

The melody twisted into a wordless hum, the notes vibrating with eerie joy. Rodimus’s plating crawled, and his spark hammered so hard it hurt. The lullaby that once belonged to safety now chased them like a predator, and no matter how fast they ran, it followed.

The voice cut sharper now, snapping through the distillery’s halls like a blade dragged across glass. Every note pressed against their audials, forcing Rodimus and Getaway deeper into the maze of rooms. The disembodied song never faltered, never wavered, always just behind them—too close, impossibly close.

Rodimus’s vents hitched. His caretaker in Nyon used to tell him stories, whispered warnings between her songs. Tales of a monster from central Tetrahex, a mech who sang as he tore his prey apart. A name long buried, half-remembered, never meant to be real.

They cut a sharp turn. The hallway opened into a wide chamber lined with vats, the stench of old energon hanging heavy. The song followed them in, echoing against the metal walls until it sounded like dozens of voices. Rodimus pressed close to Getaway, spear raised, optics darting wildly.

Then he saw him.

A mech stood in the open doorway across the room, tall and gangly, his plating too thin, too stretched. His face was half-hidden by a mask of wires and jagged scars, but his optics burned bright blue, and his mouth moved in a grotesque smile as he sang. His long needle-like claws flexed in time with the melody, pulling the air like a conductor leading an orchestra only he could hear.

Rodimus froze. His systems locked, his spark stuttering. He knew that face. Not from memory, but from description—every detail matched what his caretaker used to whisper in fear. The angular frame, the hollowed cheeks, the claws always slick with someone else’s energon.

“The Tetrahex Ripper,” Rodimus breathed, his voice little more than static. His grip on the spear nearly slipped. “Sunder.”

The name tasted foul in his mouth, like it dragged shadows up from his core. The stories weren’t stories. They had never been stories. The mech from his nightmares was real and standing ten paces away.

Sunder’s song broke into a chuckle, high-pitched and sharp. His optics narrowed, fixing directly on Rodimus, as if he had been singing to him this whole time. “Ah. A listener,” he crooned, voice syrup-thick. “I do so love when the little ones grow up and remember.”

Getaway shoved Rodimus back, putting himself squarely between him and the horror in the doorway. His blades held at the ready, his field sharp with a cold focus. “Run,” he hissed to Rodimus, never taking his gaze off Sunder.

But Rodimus couldn’t move. His pedes felt welded to the floor, terror gnawing at his spark. The lullaby still clung to his audials, twisting around him, and every word his caretaker had spoken came rushing back—never go to Tetrahex, never follow the singing, never, never, never.

Sunder tilted his head, smile stretching wider as he took a step forward. “Don’t you want to hear the ending, little spark?”

Getaway moved faster than Rodimus thought possible. In one smooth motion, he yanked the laser pistol from his subspace, the same battered weapon scavenged from the corpse at the fuel station. He didn’t hesitate—didn’t even aim properly—just lifted it and fired a bolt straight at Sunder’s optics.

The shot screamed across the chamber, burning white, and struck home. Sunder reeled back, clutching his face with a shriek that rattled the vats. The song dissolved into static, warping into a broken hum as his claws scraped at the walls.

“Frag!” Getaway cursed, voice razor sharp. “The Tetrahex Ripper was supposed to be on Luna Two! Imprisoned—without optics!” He fired again, each blast shoving Sunder back, but the mech didn’t fall. He writhed, stumbling, and kept singing through the pain, the melody fractured but relentless.

“Little spark, little light,

Shine through the shadow, burn through the night.

Though the world may scream and bleed,

Your fire will feed what I need.”

Rodimus didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. His processor was stuck on the words—supposed to be imprisoned, supposed to be sightless, supposed to be gone. The legends weren’t just real; they were loose. His vents stuttered, his spark sputtering like it couldn’t pump fast enough.

“Brave little mech, strong and small,

Stand when the giants around you fall.

Every flicker, every flame,

Is just a plaything for my game.”

“Rodimus!” Getaway shouted again, but before he could turn, Sunder lunged. His claws arced like sickles, catching Getaway across the helm with a crack that rang through the room. The gun fell from his grip, clattering across the metal floor.

“Through tangled streets and empty halls,

Your glow will answer my hungry calls.

Fear will circle, and I will find,

The spark that hides and locks behind.”

Rodimus’s vision tunneled. He saw Getaway stagger, optics flickering, then collapse with a sickening thud. For a second, everything froze. His mind screamed to run, but his frame moved on something deeper, hotter. He launched himself forward.

“Little spark, little light,

Carry your courage through the fight.

Though storms may rage and sparks may fade,

Your fire is mine, and your path is laid.”

His servos slammed against the floor, scraping as he slid into the fallen weapon. His fingers closed around it, cold metal digging into his palm. He rolled, brought it up, and fired without thinking.

“Hold fast, little one, do not despair,

Your glow will vanish into the snare.

Even when shadows press from all sides,

Your spark will burn where my hunger hides.”

The first blast tore into Sunder’s chest. The second ripped into his shoulder, sparks bursting. The third scorched across his neck, spraying the walls with shrapnel. Rodimus screamed as he pulled the trigger again and again, each shot a ragged tear from his vents.

Sunder staggered, twitching with every impact, but he kept singing. Even as energon sprayed and plating cracked, the lullaby poured out of his broken mouth, softer now, almost soothing, almost mocking.

“Step by step, your path will break,

Through the darkness, for me to take.

Every flicker, every gleam,

Feeds the nightmare that haunts your dream.”

Rodimus’s optics blurred with tears he didn’t remember forming. His finger squeezed until the weapon clicked empty, the last charge drained. Until Sunder crumpled to the floor, limp. The silence after was deafening, broken only by his own sobs.

His servos shook as the gun slipped from his grasp. He dropped to his knees, sparks from Sunder’s wounds flickering in the dim light, and crawled toward Getaway. His field pulsed with raw panic as he reached him, shaking his shoulder like the motion alone could force him back online.

Rodimus fell beside him, chest heaving, vents choking on smoke and terror. His helm pressed against Getaway’s shoulder, tears streaking his faceplates. He couldn’t tell if the lullaby still echoed through the distillery or just inside his head.

He whispered, barely audible, “Don’t leave me.”

Chapter Text

Rodimus’s servos trembled as he hooked his arms under Getaway’s frame, hauling him through the corridor with all the strength he could muster. Every drag left a smear of energon on the floor, a sickly trail marking their path deeper into the distillery. He didn’t care. He just needed to get him away from Sunder's corpse.

He found another storage room, its door half-torn from the hinges. With a heave, he shoved it open and pulled Getaway inside, kicking debris out of the way. The air smelled of dust and old fermenting residue, but at least it was quiet. For now.

“Stay with me,” Rodimus muttered, voice cracking. His vents wheezed as he lowered Getaway onto the ground, careful but desperate. The wound on his helm was bad—plating peeled back, energon seeping sluggishly, circuitry sparking beneath. It looked terminal if he didn’t act.

Rodimus’s processor raced. He didn’t have proper tools, no medics, no kits. Just himself, and Getaway’s life dripping out onto the floor. His optics darted to his own armor, to the jagged plating across his thigh where an old wound had never healed properly. His vents hitched. He knew what he had to do.

He pulled his welder from his subspace. The flame sputtered to life, its glow reflecting in his optics. He pressed it to his thigh, carving a chunk of armor loose. Pain screamed through his frame, but he barely heard it over the static in his head. He ripped the plating free, energon trickling from the fresh gap.

With shaking hands, he pressed the jagged scrap to Getaway’s helm wound. His grip faltered as energon stained his fingers, but he forced the piece down, lining it as best he could. It didn’t fit perfectly, but it was all he had.

He brought the welder up again. “Hold still,” he whispered, even though Getaway was limp. His optics blurred as he started to weld, sparks hissing as metal fused with metal. His own plating, becoming Getaway’s shield.

The smell of burning energon filled the room, sharp and nauseating. Rodimus’s vents stuttered as tears welled up again. Every burst of the welder felt like a scream, like he was branding his desperation into Getaway’s frame.

“Don’t you dare—” Rodimus’s voice broke. He steadied the welder, searing another seam shut. “Don’t you dare leave me too.”

The weld hissed, smoke curling into the air. He pressed the plating tighter, forcing it to seal against the sparking circuits beneath. His servos cramped from the pressure, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Minutes stretched like hours. Finally, the last seam fused, the makeshift patch glowing faintly with heat. Rodimus’s hands dropped away, charred from sparks, energon dripping down his wrists. He slumped beside Getaway, staring at the ugly, uneven weld.

His vents shook. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t proper, but it was holding. He prayed—begged—it would be enough.

Rodimus sat slumped against the wall for a long moment, vents dragging raggedly in and out, until his processor snapped back to a single, awful fact—fuel. They’d left the sealed drum by the entrance. He looked down at Getaway, at the flicker of movement in his vents that proved he was still functioning, and his tanks twisted. Getaway needed energon if he was going to recover from this. They both did.

Rodimus’s servo hovered above Getaway’s arm for a moment, wanting to stay, wanting to hold on to the fragile warmth of proof he was still here. But the longer he stayed, the more energon Getaway lost. “Slag,” he whispered, pushing himself up. “I’ll be back. Don’t—don’t go anywhere.”

The hallway outside was worse the second time. The stink of spilled energon hung heavy in the air, copper-sweet and rotted all at once. Rodimus swallowed hard, fighting the way his tanks rolled. He couldn’t afford to purge, not now, not with Getaway waiting.

His pedes squelched in still wet puddles of energon as he forced himself onward. He kept his optics fixed ahead, refusing to look at the bodies dangling like grotesque ornaments from the walls. He’d seen too much already. His processor screamed to remember every detail—the way plating was peeled, the way wires dangled out like organic guts—but he shut it out, forcing his optics to blur.

The entrance loomed ahead, faint light spilling through the broken doors. And there it was, sitting where they’d left it: the drum off high-grade. Untouched. Whole. Rodimus’s vents hitched with relief so sharp it nearly dropped him to his knees.

He bent, hooking his arms around the drum. It was heavier than he remembered, his shoulders straining as he lifted and dragged it upright. The scrape of it echoed too loud against the floor.

“Just… keep moving,” he muttered through grit denta. He turned, dragging the drum behind him, his pedes leaving streaks of energon smeared from the floor. Every pull sent the ache deeper into his struts, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

The smell was worse now, thicker, cloying. His vents faltered as bile rose again, sour in his tanks. He gagged once, staggered against the wall, but forced himself to swallow it back down. Purging would leave him weak, empty—he had to keep every scrap of strength. For Getaway.

He didn’t look at the bodies as he passed them again. He kept his optics low, locked on the bright blue paint of the drum as it scraped along beside him. His mind wanted to scream, to recall the lullaby, the sight of Sunder’s grin, the sound of tearing metal. He clamped down on it all, forcing the drum to be the only thing that existed.

By the time he reached the storage room again, his frame was shaking with exhaustion. He shoved the drum through the door with one last heave, collapsing to his knees beside it. The clang rang out too loud, but at least it was inside, safe with them.

Rodimus looked back at Getaway. Still unconscious, still faintly venting, but the patch was holding. His spark clenched tight. “Got it,” he rasped, more to himself than anything. “See? Didn’t let you down.”

He pressed his helm to the side of the drum, vents hitching. Just one more step in keeping them alive. But the silence around them suddenly felt heavier, as if the whole distillery was listening.

Rodimus knelt beside Getaway, hands shaking as he fumbled with the drum’s seal. The hiss of pressure escaping sounded too loud, echoing through the storage room like a beacon, but he forced it open anyway. The faint, sweet tang of energon filled the air, mercifully clean compared to the rotted stench outside.

He dipped his servo into the small cup he’d scavenged earlier, scooping a portion from the drum. Then he froze, staring at Getaway’s mouthless face, his vents barely pulling. He couldn't open his intake without prying plating off his face.

“Slag,” Rodimus muttered, optics darting over Getaway’s frame. His processor scrambled for every memory he had of medics, of back-alley repairs in Nyon. Somewhere, buried in the haze, he remembered seeing medics open their patients’ wrist ports for direct intake. Safer. Faster.

He grabbed Getaway’s left arm, pushing back the plating at the wrist joint. For a moment he panicked, unable to find it, his servos clumsy, slipping on energon. “Come on, come on, you’ve gotta have one. Everyone does.” His vents rasped. “Don’t be stubborn now, you cold-constructed glitch.”

Finally, his thumb brushed over the faint outline of the panel. Relief hit like a punch to the chest. He pried it open with the tip of his spear, wincing at the tiny snap as the latch gave way. A small intake funnel glinted beneath.

Rodimus stared at it like it was a lifeline. Carefully, he tipped the cup, letting the energon trickle into the port. The fluid disappeared fast, siphoned into Getaway’s system. Rodimus’s vents eased just a fraction. At least it wasn’t spilling out. At least it was going in.

“Good,” Rodimus whispered, wiping at his own face with the back of his servo. “Good. That’s working. You’re taking it in. See? Told you I wouldn’t let you down.” His voice cracked at the end, too thin to convince even himself.

Getaway didn’t stir, but his vents pulled deeper, steadier. A faint hum came from his spark casing. Rodimus sagged, relief mixing with exhaustion until it nearly dropped him flat. He had to brace his helm against Getaway’s shoulder just to stay upright.

He refilled the cup and repeated the process, slower this time, careful not to flood the intake. Each drop felt like he was bargaining with fate, hoping that the energon was clean enough, that it would be enough to stabilize him.

Rodimus couldn’t help it—his optics drifted to the gash across Getaway’s helm, the weld he’d slapped together with his own plating. The sight twisted his tanks. “You’d hate this, wouldn’t you?” he murmured. “Me patching you up with junk. Feeding you like you’re helpless. You’d have some slagging clever remark ready.”

His vents stuttered, a bitter laugh escaping before dying in his throat. He pressed the empty cup down against his knee, metal creaking. “Guess you’ll just have to save it for when you wake up, huh?”

For a moment, Rodimus just sat there, listening to the soft whirr of Getaway’s vents. The silence pressed in again, heavy and sharp, but this time it wasn’t just the distillery listening. It was his own spark, waiting for an answer it was terrified wouldn’t come.

The faintest sound cut through the silence, sharp and clean against the oppressive stillness: a ping. Rodimus froze, vents stalling as he listened. Another ping followed, soft, hollow, the sound he’d only ever heard when lurking in the alleys of Nyon, peeking into makeshift clinics where medics worked for shreds of pay. It was the signal that a mech’s tanks had reached capacity.

For a moment, disbelief clung to him. Then he let it sink in—Getaway’s tanks were full. Rodimus sat back on his heels, optics wide, the empty cup slipping from his trembling servo and clattering onto the floor.

He sucked in a too fast vent, coughing with disbelief. The relief hit too fast, too hard, his frame shuddering under the weight of it. He braced his hands on his knees, helm bowed, vents rasping as the dam inside him broke.

“No more,” he whispered, his voice thin, raw. His fingers curled into fists, scraping against his own armor. “I’m not letting another mech die. Not here. Not while I can do something.”

The words cracked into sobs before he could stop them. Hot energon-wet streaks rolled from his optics, trailing down the seams of his faceplates. His shoulders shook, every vent dragging air in shallow bursts. He hated the sound of it, hated how weak it made him feel, but he couldn’t stop.

The ghosts pressed close—the ferals gnashing their jaws, Dealer’s blank stare, the hollow silence of every mech who’d fallen while he kept running. They crowded in until all he could do was clutch at Getaway’s still frame like an anchor.

“I won’t let you go,” Rodimus choked, gripping tighter. “You hear me? You’re not going to die too. You’re not—” His voice cut off into another sob, his helm knocking against Getaway’s arm.

His thigh screamed at him for every movement, pain carried with every shake of his frame, but he didn’t care. The pain grounded him. It reminded him he was still here, still fighting, still stubborn enough to keep making promises even if he didn’t know how to keep them.

His vents stuttered again, the sobs easing into a ragged rhythm. He dragged one hand up, clutching at his helm like he could hold the pieces of himself together if he just pressed hard enough. “Not again,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Not again, not ever.”

The words echoed in the dark room, swallowed by the walls, but still he repeated them like a vow. Over and over, until they blurred with the sound of his vents and the faint hum of Getaway’s spark.

Only when exhaustion pulled at him—threatening to drop him flat against the cold floor—did he ease his grip, his optics burning faintly in the gloom. His vents came slower now, steadier, but the tears kept tracing silent lines down his face.

Rodimus leaned in close, resting his helm against Getaway’s chestplate, and whispered one last time, softer than a sigh: “Not you. I won’t lose you.”

A faint stir beneath his helm startled Rodimus out of his grief. At first he thought he’d imagined it—his mind too desperate, conjuring ghosts again. But then Getaway’s vents hitched, rattling in his frame, and his optics flickered faintly, weak light behind half-closed shutters.

“...A-Atomizer?” The name slipped out hoarse, broken, barely a whisper. Getaway’s hand twitched at his side, grasping at nothing.

Rodimus blinked, his whole frame stiffening. Atomizer? The name meant nothing to him, but it hit him sharp all the same—like walking in on a conversation he wasn’t supposed to hear. “No,” he said quickly, his voice cracking, but firm enough. “It’s me. Rodimus. You’re with me.”

Getaway’s optics dimmed, a dejected noise rasping from his voice box. It was the sound of someone slipping out of a dream and not liking what they woke to. His hand fell back limply, and he ex-vented with a shudder.

“Feels… heavy.” His words dragged, each syllable a struggle. His optics slid closed again, but his vocalizer carried the weight of confusion. “Why’s it so heavy? Why… are my tanks full?”

Rodimus swallowed, his own vents sputtering. He didn’t know how to answer without unraveling. “Because you needed it,” he said, his voice low, rough. “You were running empty. I—I fixed it. You’re safe now.”

But Getaway shook his helm faintly, as if even that felt too much. “No. Too heavy. Makes me… sink.” His vents stuttered, like he was fighting to stay awake through the fog.

Rodimus caught his hand, pressing it to the floor so he wouldn’t drift away. “Don’t,” he urged. “You won't sink. You’re here. You’re heavy because you’re alive, and I’ll take that over empty any day.”

A weak laugh rattled out of Getaway, but it broke halfway, dissolving into a pained groan. “Never thought… being full would feel this slagging awful.” His optics flickered again, dim and glassy.

Rodimus leaned closer, his grip firm but careful. “It’s not awful. It’s just… new. You’ll adjust. Just stay with me.”

“Mm.” The sound wasn’t agreement so much as a tired acknowledgement. His helm lolled against the wall, the words slipping slower now, fainter. “Full… too heavy. Like I’ll… drop right through the floor.”

Rodimus laughed softly, his spark twisting as he smoothed a hand over the weld on Getaway’s helm, trying to ground him. “Then I’ll hold you up,” he murmured. “I’m not letting you drop. Not ever.”

Rodimus stayed crouched by Getaway’s side, optics fixed on the jagged weld across his helm. Every flicker of his vents, every twitch of his hand made Rodimus tense, expecting the worst. The weld wasn’t pretty—nothing about it was—but it was holding. That had to be enough.

Getaway drifted in and out, mumbling words Rodimus couldn’t catch. Sometimes it was just static, other times half-formed names or curses that had no shape. Each time his optics fluttered open, Rodimus forced himself to meet them, to remind him silently that he wasn’t alone.

When Getaway’s vents finally evened out into something steadier, Rodimus let himself sag back against the wall, one servo pressed over his face. The tears from earlier had dried, but the ache behind his optics hadn’t. He hated how fragile everything felt—how one bad weld, one tainted drop of energon, could steal Getaway from him in a blink.

His gaze fell to the empty cup by the fuel drum. He should’ve been relieved that Getaway’s tanks were full, that the ping had come. But another thought gnawed at him, one that left his plating prickling with unease. Sunder had been here. Sunder had been feeding. The freak had energon here, somewhere. 

He clenched his jaw and glanced at Getaway again. The mech looked fragile in recharge, venting slow and shallow, armor slack. Rodimus couldn’t risk waking him—not when he needed every klik of rest to stabilize.

That meant one thing: Rodimus had to move. He had to figure out what the frag Sunder had been surviving on in this slaughterhouse. If there was a stash, if there was anything sealed and untouched, maybe they could salvage enough to keep them going. If not… they’d both starve long before reaching Praxus.

Rodimus’s fingers tightened around the haft of his spear. The idea of leaving Getaway alone made his tanks twist, but the alternative—waiting around for Sunder’s leftovers to rot—was worse. He pushed himself to his feet, joints creaking from exhaustion and strain.

He hovered at the doorway for a long moment, optics dragging back to Getaway’s still frame. “I’ll be back,” he whispered, voice low but steady, as though Getaway might hear him even through unconsciousness. “Don’t… don’t you dare die while I’m gone.”

The air was thick with iron and rust when he stepped into the hall, the scent of rot clinging to his vents like poison. He forced himself forward, every step loud in the silence, though he tried to tread lightly. The bodies strung up like grotesque banners loomed at the edges of his vision, but he didn’t let himself stop to look.

Sunder had to be getting his energon from somewhere. No mech, no matter how deranged, could survive this long without it. Rodimus’s processor spun through possibilities as he edged through the distillery: siphoning from passing mechs, hoarding sealed reserves, maybe even worse—something ferals left behind.

He checked corners carefully, fighting to keep his vents quiet. Every shadow felt like it could be Sunder, the echo of that lullaby still fresh in his audials. His grip on the spear tightened until it hurt, but he didn’t turn back. He couldn’t.

Finally, the faint glint of containers caught his optics near what used to be the distillery’s refining floor. Dozens of energon drums were stacked haphazardly, some cracked open, others sealed. The floor was sticky with residue, the smell rancid. Rodimus’s tanks lurched, but he forced himself closer.

His spark thudded painfully as he crouched by the nearest sealed drum. The seal looked intact. But after what he’d seen here—after what Sunder had done—he wasn’t sure if he trusted even the cleanest surface.

Rodimus set his spear down just long enough to run a trembling servo along the seal, venting slow. “Alright,” he muttered under his breath, his voice shaking despite himself. “Let’s see what you’ve been hiding, freak.”

Rodimus ran his servo slowly along the drum’s edge, optics narrowing as he checked the seal. Every dent, every scrape, every nick in the metal made his spark leap, but none looked like signs of tampering. No punctures, no weld marks, no forced seams. For once, something here looked… untouched.

His digits hovered just a moment longer, trembling with hesitation. Then, with a sharp intake, he cracked the seal. The hiss of pressure escaping made his vents stall—too loud in the silence, like a gunshot—but it was clean. No stench, no smoke. Just the faint, sterile bite of raw energon. Relief washed over him, heavy and dizzying.

Carefully, Rodimus re-secured the drum and levered it up against his shoulder. The weight dragged at his struts, but he managed, step by step, until he stumbled back into the storage room where Getaway lay. He set it down by the fuel drum they’d already drained and spared a quick glance at his companion. Still venting. Still alive. That had to be enough.

But Rodimus wasn’t done. He knew one sealed drum wouldn’t carry them through Kaon, not when the city was crawling with who-knew-what. Sunder had to have had more. That thought pushed him back into the halls, spear in hand once again, optics straining against the gloom.

The next room he pushed into was colder, darker. The air hung heavy with the tang of burnt energon and solvent. He stepped inside, one cautious footfall at a time, until the outline of a mech on a work table caught his optics.

Rodimus froze. His vents hitched. White and blue plating, stretched long over gangly limbs, was pinned in place with brutal precision. A mech—dead, very dead—yet arranged, displayed. The chest was opened, armor peeled back, wires tugged loose but not yet spread. Mid-process.

It took him a klik to realize what he was seeing. Sunder’s work. Sunder’s art. This room wasn’t just another chamber. This was where Sunder had played. Where he’d made his visions real. His workshop.

Rodimus’s servo clamped over his mouth. His tanks surged violently, demanding a purge, but he refused. Not here, not now. He squeezed his optics shut, choking it down until his vents whined.

Tears pressed through anyway, hot streaks cutting down his face as his grip on the spear faltered. He’d thought the massacre outside was the worst of it. That the gladiator shrine had been the pinnacle of horror. But this—this unfinished display—proved it hadn’t even been the beginning.

He braced against the doorway, shoulders shaking, and forced his optics open again. He had to look, even if it broke him. This wasn’t just death. This was desecration. This was joy taken in agony.

Rodimus staggered back, pulling himself away before his tanks won the fight. His back hit the hall wall, vents coming too fast, the taste of iron sour in his mouth. His spark ached for the nameless mech, for every mech Sunder had touched.

Rodimus pressed his servos into his face and dragged them down until his optics were bare again. He had to move. He had to keep moving. If he stopped now, he’d never start again. His grip tightened on the spear as he re-entered the workshop proper, forcing his optics to scan beyond the corpse displayed on the wall.

That’s when he noticed the shelves. Low, almost hidden, stacked with scattered containers. Not drums, but small rations—field packs, sealed tight, the kind issued to soldiers and miners alike. His spark thudded painfully as he lurched toward them.

One by one, he inspected them. Seal intact. No punctures. No foul play. Sunder had stockpiled them, likely from his prey. Rodimus’s vents hitched, but his servos moved fast. He didn’t bother tucking them carefully away—he smashed them down into his subspace, frantic, greedy in his desperation to secure them.

By the time the shelves were empty, his legs felt unsteady again, as if the rush of finding something pure and safe had drained him. He spun, not wanting to linger in the workshop another klik. His optics never dared back toward the long-limbed mech on the table. If he looked again, he’d break for good.

The hallway outside was no relief. The shadows clung to the walls, and every creak of the old distillery groaned like a voice. Still, he pushed forward. The next door yielded with a soft scrape, and what lay inside rooted him to the spot.

More bodies. Not mechs this time—ferals. Dozens of them. Strung up, gutted, arranged in a grotesque parody of reverence. Some were mounted like statues, others pulled apart in pieces and pinned. Every one of them displayed like they weren’t lives at all, but decorations.

Rodimus’s spark rattled against its casing. His vents choked. Suddenly, the silence of the distillery clicked into place—why no ferals had stormed them when the gunfire rang, why none prowled outside the massacre. They’d all been here, all collected.

He stepped further in without meaning to, optics catching the face of one feral. The plating torn open at the jaw, twisted permanently in a snarl of rage that would never end. He stumbled back a step. His tanks surged violently again.

“No,” he whispered, but the word was weak. Too thin. His tanks clenched, and this time he couldn’t fight it. His whole frame spasmed forward, vents tearing, as half-processed fuel purged up from his core. It splattered against the floor, bitter and humiliating.

Rodimus dropped to one knee, clutching his spear like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing completely. The tang of his own purge mixed with the stench of old death, making his tanks heave again. He spat hard, optics blurring with tears he couldn’t stop.

He gasped for air, vents rasping, spark racing so fast it felt like it might burst. His helm dropped forward until his chin hit his chest, shoulders trembling. He felt like a useless sparkling, purging at dead bodies like he hadn't survived the Quintesson invasion. He'd seen worse, surely, but everything here…

Beneath the shame, a thought burned. If this is what Sunder saw as art, if this is what he loved—then they hadn’t just survived him. They had to destroy every trace of him, too.

Rodimus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing purge from his lip cables, and staggered back toward the door. He couldn’t let Getaway see him like this. Couldn’t let him know how badly it rattled him.

Rodimus pushed the door shut behind him with a weak shove, leaning against it for a klik before forcing himself back toward the room where he’d left Getaway. His steps dragged, every joint stiff from tension, every vent cycle shallow as if he hadn’t fully caught his breath since purging. When he finally entered, the sight of Getaway sitting half-upright nearly made his spark crack open with relief.

Getaway’s optics were dim but open, blinking slowly as if he had just surfaced from recharge. His frame shifted against the wall, sluggish, but he was there. Present. Alive. Rodimus let his back slide against the opposite wall, crashing down to sit with a heavy thud. His head drooped forward, unable to hold itself steady.

For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint hiss of their vents. Then Getaway spoke, his voice rough, detached. “You look worse than me.” It was half a joke, half an observation, too tired to carry real bite. His optics flicked lazily over Rodimus, noting the dried tear stains and the sour reek of purged energon.

Rodimus barked a laugh that cracked apart before it could form properly. He scrubbed a hand over his face and winced. “Yeah. Guess I do.” His voice was raw, shredded thin, as if it hurt to push it out. He didn’t elaborate, and Getaway didn’t press.

Instead, Getaway shifted, trying to straighten further. “Eat. You need it.” His tone was flat, more instinct than command, the words of someone used to ordering another mech’s survival even when his own was hanging by a thread.

Rodimus shook his helm slowly, the motion heavy. “Can’t. Not yet.” His tanks still roiled, sour and unsettled, every thought of energon bringing the acid-burn sting back to his intake. His optics, dull and rimmed with exhaustion, settled on Getaway. “You… you should recharge more. I’ll keep watch.”

Getaway snorted, a short, bitter sound. “You look like The Pits warmed over, and you want me to sleep?” His tone wasn’t angry—just incredulous. He flexed a hand against the floor, testing strength he didn’t have.

Rodimus tipped his helm back against the wall with a dull clunk, optics shuttering briefly. “Yeah. Exactly. You need it more than me.” His words were sluggish but certain. He opened his optics again, staring through the gloom at his battered partner.

Getaway’s optics narrowed faintly, but his head sank back against the wall, too tired to argue further. “You’re a terrible liar.” His voice was softer now, almost drifting.

Rodimus let his mouth twitch, not quite a smile, more a grimace in disguise. “Not lying.” The words dropped low, quiet. “I’ve got nothing else to do but sit here. You—heal. Recharge.”

Getaway’s vents wheezed, his systems still struggling, but the faint stubborn set to his face finally softened. He let his optics dim halfway, his helm lolling against the wall again. “Fine. But if you keel over while I’m out, I’m dragging you out of The Well to beat you up.”

Rodimus’s laugh came quieter this time, but it held steady. He adjusted his grip on the spear lying across his lap, trying to straighten against the wall. His whole body sagged, but he kept his optics half open, staring at Getaway like a vow. He wouldn’t let anything get through. Not now. Not after all this.

Rodimus sat with his back pressed against the wall, vents dragging shallow, the spear heavy across his lap. He told himself he was keeping watch, but his optics drifted until the shadows in the corners of the room began to flicker and shift. His mind refused to stay put in the present. It dragged him backwards, down into streets he hadn’t walked in vorns.

Nyon. The air there had always been hot, too thick with smog, too loud with the roar of engines. He used to like that. Back then, it meant life. It meant the streets weren’t empty. It meant the next race was about to start. He remembered standing shoulder to shoulder with other mechs in the crowd, grease and ash staining their plating, optics burning with the same restless fire as his own.

Then his processor twisted the memory. The cheers cut off, replaced by the sound of metal screaming. Not from engines— from bodies tearing. He saw sparks flying, energon spilling, a racer crashing into a wall and folding in on himself. He remembered the way the crowd scattered, not because anyone wanted to help, but because no one wanted to be next.

Rodimus flinched where he sat, helm jerking up, optics darting around the empty storage room. For a klik he expected to see it—the wreck, the smell of scorched energon. Instead, it was just him and Getaway’s shallow vents. Still, his plating felt tight, clamped down too hard.

The flashes kept coming. He saw himself younger, smaller, fireless. Putting out his outlier fire from his frame as he crouched in the shadows, he'd gotten too excited again. He heard voices shouting, screaming as bots thought he'd combusted. He'd slipped up. A broken cog in the greater machine. He remembered forcing a grin, swallowing every insult that came his way, pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending he didn’t want to ignite and burn it all down.

Another flash. Nights lying awake in a half-collapsed shelter, staring at the holes in the ceiling where smoke drifted out. The lullabies bleeding through the streets, sung to sparklings that weren’t him. He remembered curling tighter around himself, pressing his servos to his chest as if that would muffle the pain, make it less clear that he’d never belonged to anyone.

His vents hitched. He blinked hard, but the shadows flickered again, and suddenly he was back at the track. An illegal race gone wrong. He saw energon streaking across the ground, his own servos trembling as enforcers approached him. He’d caused that. The warmth corpse of the other racer was already being dragged away. He ran.

“Stop,” he muttered under his vents, but the memories didn’t listen. He saw Nyon burning— not from Quintesson invasion, but from itself. Mechs tearing each other apart for scraps, for energon, for thrills. The fiery race for survival that had first earned him the name “Hot Rod” wasn’t the kind he wanted to remember. It was the kind that had made him an outcast.

Rodimus rubbed both servos down his faceplates, hard enough that the edges of his armor dug into them. He wanted to laugh it off, the way he always did, but the sound caught in his intake instead, leaving him shaking silently in the dark.

Getaway shifted faintly across from him, optics flickering without opening. Just the sound of another mech nearby pulled Rodimus out of the worst of it, grounding him back into the present. He ex-vented slow, forcing his frame still again.

But the ghosts of Nyon lingered. In every shadow, he could see the outlines of old racers, of jeering mechs, of the broken and the forgotten. He couldn’t tell himself it was over. Because Nyon wasn’t destroyed by the Quintessons—it had destroyed itself long before they ever came. And in his spark, Rodimus was terrified that he hadn’t really left it behind.

He reached for his spear, gripping it tighter, as if clinging to that single weapon could anchor him to the here and now. “Not there,” he whispered to himself, almost soundless. “Not anymore.” But the words felt thinner than smoke.

Rodimus’s optics dimmed, and the walls around him bled into smoke. Not the thin, greasy haze of Nyon’s streets, but the heavy, black clouds that had fallen from the sky the day the Quintessons came. He remembered the sound first—hollow thunks as canisters burst open midair, releasing tendrils of poison that slithered down like living things. He remembered standing in the open, staring upward, too stunned to run until it was too late.

The smoke had weight. It clung to plating, slid down vents, crawled into sparks. He’d closed his vents, but his friends hadn’t. They coughed once, twice, then optics burned neon green. He could still hear their voices breaking into static as their frames twitched and convulsed. In kliks, they weren’t friends anymore. They were ferals.

He remembered his first group—half a dozen racers, outcasts like him. They’d thought their speed could save them. They were wrong. One by one, they fell to the virus, until Rodimus was alone with his spear, trembling over a heap of corpses that used to laugh beside him.

The second group had been different—miners and welders. Practical mechs, strong, not built for racing but built for surviving. They took him in. He almost believed in it, in them. But the ferals didn’t care about belief. They ripped that group apart in the middle of a collapsed energon mine they had been taking shelter in, and Rodimus still remembered their sparks going out, the sound of tearing metal echoing like thunder.

The third group—he’d promised himself it would be different. He’d promised he wouldn’t let them die. They didn’t even last a full lunar cycle. Ferals had swarmed them outside the walls of Tarn, and he hadn’t even been able to recover their bodies. He’d run, spear dripping, vents screaming, until his systems almost shut down from the strain.

The memory pressed in so hard he felt like he was choking on the smoke all over again. His vents rasped, his chestplate trembled, energon pounded hot and wild through his lines. He saw their faces, optics burning green, jaws snapping, sparks devoured. Over and over and over again.

Rodimus clutched at his helm, pressing his palms in until it hurt. “Stop,” he choked wetly. The flashes didn’t stop. His first group, his second, his third—their screams blended until it was just a single, endless sound tearing through his processor.

Then—contact. A solid weight pressing against his side, steady, real. Warm enough to be alive. For a split second, he thought it was another hallucination. But then he heard the soft hitch of vents beside him, felt the faint pressure of armor leaning into his, grounding him. Getaway.

The flood of memories stuttered, breaking apart. His optics snapped back online, the storage room coming into focus again—the cracked walls, the half empty fuel drum, the faint glow of energon spattered across Getaway’s armor. Rodimus sagged into the touch, vents shuddering, a sound too close to a sob escaping before he could swallow it.

“I can’t,” he choked, static scraping his voice. His servos shook where they clutched his spear, useless. His optics blurred, and for once he didn’t try to hide it. “I can’t even take care of one mech without fragging it up. First—and now—now you. I can’t—”

The words dissolved into sobs. He pressed his face into his hands, armor rattling with each hitch of his vents. The memories of Nyon, of the invasion, of the groups he lost—all of it collapsed into the raw, simple truth that broke out of him now. Failure. Over and over, until he couldn’t see himself as anything else.

Getaway didn’t say anything, didn’t move away. He only leaned closer, solid and quiet, the weight of his presence enough to tether Rodimus to the here and now.

Getaway’s optics fluttered again, weak but stubborn. The world blurred at the edges, a heavy static buzzing through his helm, but shapes began to sharpen one by one. Rodimus’s outline was first—hunched and trembling, a spear clutched too tight, his armor scored and smeared with old and new energon alike.

It took Getaway longer to notice his thigh plating. Or rather, the absence of it. A section was gone, stripped down to raw protoform, welding slag burned unevenly around the edges. He blinked, processor catching up slow, until realization hit him. Rodimus had torn it off himself. For him. To patch the wound on his helm.

Through the haze, a bitter laugh caught in Getaway’s intake. Stupid mech. Stupid, reckless, bright-burning mech. Even now, half-broken himself, Rodimus had carved pieces out of his own frame to keep someone else intact. Getaway wanted to scold him, to snap the way he usually did—but the weight of exhaustion dragged every word down.

His optics slipped sideways, catching the corner of the room. There—just at the edge—he saw the faint gleam of sealed energon canisters. His tanks turned at the thought, too heavy and too full, but his processor worked enough to recognize what that meant. Rodimus had gone out there. Past the bodies. Past Sunder’s… art. He’d done it alone. And he’d come back with energon anyway.

The thought made his chest ache worse than his helm wound. Frag, he wanted to yell at him. He wanted to call him insane, reckless, suicidal. But when he tried to use his voice box, all that came out was a wheezing ex-vent and the faintest rasp of words.

“You… self-sacrificial fool,” he muttered.

Rodimus twitched at the sound, helm snapping toward him, optics wide and still shimmering faintly with unshed tears. He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, to explain, but Getaway didn’t give him the chance.

“Always running into the fire,” Getaway slurred, vents hitching as his body sagged heavier against Rodimus’s side. “Even when you are the fragging fire…”

Rodimus made a noise—half laugh, half sob—that broke in the middle. He shook his head, optics squeezing shut, as if the words cut and comforted in equal measure.

Getaway wanted to say more, to tell him to stop, to tell him he didn’t need another Atomizer on his hands. But the concussion tugged hard at the edges of his consciousness, pulling him under despite every stubborn instinct to keep fighting.

His last clear thought was the weight of Rodimus’s frame—too warm, too alive—against his. Not a dream, not a flashback, but real. That was enough, for now.

Getaway’s optics dimmed fully, his systems sliding into recharge. But even in unconsciousness, his armor stayed leaned against Rodimus’s, like his frame itself refused to pull away from the mech he’d just called a fool.

Rodimus sat there long after Getaway’s frame went slack, vents evened into the rhythm of recharge. The room was too quiet, too still, and the shadows stretched like claws on the walls. His spear rested across his lap, forgotten, but his optics stayed fixed on the jagged seam of the door as though Sunder might still slip through, no matter that he’d killed him.

The words echoed in his processor. Self-sacrificial fool. Not angry, not sharp like Getaway usually made them. Just… soft, heavy, true. And Rodimus had no defense. Because he knew it. He was a fool. A mech who carved away his own armor to save another. A mech who purged his tanks dry at the sight of corpses yet forced himself to drag energon back through it anyway.

His vents rattled, sharp and shallow. He pressed his helm back against the cold wall and stared at the ceiling, at nothing. He wanted to keep watching the door. He wanted to stay awake, to keep his promise, to not let this one die, not like the others. But his frame was unraveling, twitching with exhaustion in every seam.

Optics burned, cycling dimmer. His whole chassis trembled as the backlog of adrenaline drained out of him, leaving nothing but the ache of too many old memories clawing at his spark. He wanted to curse Nyon, curse the Quintessons, curse fate for making him live through all of it only to end up here.

Getaway shifted against him in recharge, just slightly, his helm leaning harder against Rodimus’s shoulder. The contact startled him out of the spiral. It wasn’t some memory from the past. It was now. It was someone still alive. Still depending on him.

Rodimus ex-vented, long and shaky. His optics dropped to the faint glow of Getaway’s optics through shuttered optics. The steady pulse of life. Frag, he didn’t even realize how badly he needed to see that until right now.

His hands fidgeted against the spear, then went slack. The weapon slid to the floor with a dull clatter, and Rodimus didn’t even flinch. His shoulders sagged, spoiler drooping like it’d finally given up on pretending to be proud.

He looked down at Getaway’s helm wound one more time, checking the weld, checking for leaks. It was holding. Somehow, against all odds, it was holding. His optics blurred with relief, and this time he didn’t bother to wipe the tears away.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he whispered, more to himself than to Getaway. His voice cracked. “You’re… you’re gonna be fine.”

The sound of his own words, shaky but steady, lulled him. His vents slowed. The tight knot in his chest eased just a little. The exhaustion he’d been holding at bay finally seeped into his joints, heavy and insistent.

His helm tipped forward, resting lightly against Getaway’s. It wasn’t intentional, but when he felt the faint buzz of energy through the contact, he didn’t move.

Rodimus’s optics shuttered. His vents hitched once more, then steadied into the slow rhythm of recharge.

The distillery remained silent, shadows stretching and shifting around them. But for now, there were no screams, no claws, no ripper lurking in the dark. Just two mechs leaning against each other, alive. For now, alive was enough.

Chapter Text

Rodimus’s optics flickered online to dim gray light filtering through cracks in the distillery walls. It took him a moment to remember where he was, why the air smelled like rust and old oil, why his shoulder felt warm with another mech’s weight pressed against it.

For a fleeting, fragile instant, he thought he was back in Nyon, curled up in one of the abandoned loading bays where he used to hide with his first group. Then the smell hit him again—feral blood, oxidizing energon, charred armor—and the illusion shattered. He was still here. With Getaway. In Kaon.

He sat very still, vents held shallow. Getaway’s helm rested against his shoulder, his weight dragging slightly forward. He was still alive, his spark spinning, faint and uneven, but steady enough that Rodimus dared not disturb him. The welded plate on his helm glinted in the faint light, holding. Against all odds, it was still holding.

Rodimus lowered his optics, staring at the floor. A thin line of dried energon stained the plating near his thigh—his thigh, where he’d carved away armor to save Getaway. He should’ve purged again just at the sight of it, but his tanks were too empty, too wrung out. All he managed was a grimace before looking away.

The silence pressed down on him. He wanted to believe it was safety, but after Sunder, silence only made his spark skip. Quiet could mean ambush. Quiet could mean something worse waiting. His servos twitched toward the spear he’d dropped last night, lying against the wall within reach. He picked it up, letting the shaft ground him.

His optics swept the room. Nothing had shifted in the night. The corpses in Sunder’s “art” chamber were thankfully sealed away by a closed door. But the memory of them still clawed at the back of his mind, a parade of broken shapes and mocking poses. He pushed it down, forced himself to focus.

Getaway stirred faintly against him, a vent hitching. Rodimus froze, worried he’d wake him too soon. But Getaway only mumbled something unintelligible before slipping back into recharge. Relief eased the knot in Rodimus’s chest. At least one thing wasn’t falling apart this morning.

Rodimus leaned his helm back against the wall. His optics traced the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the plating, the rust stains, anything to keep his processor from circling the drain of memory. He needed to keep sharp. They weren’t out of Kaon yet.

But his spark throbbed with an ache that went deeper than fatigue. Too many faces from Nyon had haunted him last night. Too many voices. And now, sitting in the half-light, he realized just how close he’d come to losing Getaway too. His servos tightened around the spear until it creaked.

“I won’t,” he whispered under his vents, quiet enough that even if Getaway woke, he wouldn’t hear. “I won’t let it happen again.” His voice rasped, like the promise was tearing itself out of his throat.

A faint draft cut through the room, cold against his armor seams. He shivered, curling inward slightly, as though it could keep the ghosts out. But the ghosts never listened. They pressed in anyway, reminding him of the lullaby, the purges, the screams that no amount of silence could bury.

Rodimus ex-vented, forcing himself to move. Carefully, so as not to disturb Getaway, he shifted his weight and stretched his stiff joints. His legs prickled with pain from sitting in the same spot for too long, spoiler twitching restlessly. His body wanted movement. His spark wanted escape.

But his optics returned to Getaway again, still slumped against him, alive but fragile. Escape wasn’t an option. Not yet. Not until Getaway could walk on his own. And so Rodimus sat back down, shoulders squaring as if settling into armor heavier than any he’d ever worn.

He tightened his grip on the spear again and listened. Listened for the quiet beyond the distillery walls, for any sign of the city waking. Kaon was still out there, and Kaon didn’t forgive weakness.

Rodimus’s tanks growled loud enough to make him wince. He pressed a servo against his midsection as if that might quiet them, but it only reminded him how long it had been since he’d actually fueled. The purge last night had left him running on fumes. He eyed the drum he’d dragged in, still sitting near the wall.

For a long moment, he debated leaving it untouched. The thought of fueling in a place that smelled so strongly of death turned his tanks again. But if he collapsed here, if he grew too weak to carry Getaway when it mattered, then none of this would matter anyway. With a resigned vent, he pried open the seal.

The hiss was crisp, almost clean. Back in Nyon, high-grade like this was meant for special occasions. The kind meant for feasts, ceremonies, moments of honor. He felt no honor here.

Still, his hands trembled when he poured some into a cup. He brought it to his lips carefully, almost reverently. The first sip was a shock—rich, bright, almost effervescent, a sweetness that lit up every circuit in his body. His optics dimmed halfway in reluctant pleasure.

He let himself savor it, just for a moment. The warmth spread through his frame, easing tension. For a fleeting instant, he felt almost relaxed. He lowered the cup, staring at the glow inside, wondering how the pit high-grade had survived this nightmare.

Rodimus tipped the cup again, slower this time, savoring the way the taste lingered. He thought about the ridiculousness of it—sharing drinks with Getaway in the ruins of a fuel station, finding high-grade where there should’ve been nothing but rot. Almost funny, if he hadn’t been so worn down.

“You fueling without me?”

Rodimus choked, energon going down the wrong intake. He coughed violently, sputtering as the sweetness turned acrid in his throat. The cup slipped from his hand and clattered against the floor, spilling a glowing puddle.

Getaway’s optics were half-open, hazy and unfocused, but his tone carried enough smug satisfaction to make Rodimus flustered. “Figures,” Getaway muttered, his voice rough. “The moment I’m not watching, you start indulging.”

Rodimus coughed again, wiping his mouth with the back of his servo. “You—fragging—scared me.” His voice was hoarse, caught between indignation and relief. He stared at Getaway like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or shake him.

“Not my fault you drink like you’re guilty about it,” Getaway said, his optics flickering before dimming. He adjusted slightly against the wall but quickly stilled, wincing as his helm shifted against the welded plate.

Rodimus forced his vents steady, reaching down to pick up the now empty cup. The spill on the floor made him wince—every drop wasted was a loss—but Getaway being awake again outweighed it. He shook his helm, optics softening despite himself. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“And you’re supposed to be better at keeping watch,” Getaway countered, optics sliding half-shut again, though his tone was less sharp than usual, more like instinct carrying him through. “Lucky for you, I woke up.”

Rodimus let out a shaky laugh despite the knot in his throat, setting the cup aside. He leaned back, still recovering from the surprise, and muttered, “Yeah. Lucky.”

Rodimus picked up the cup again, staring down at the glowing high-grade. His tanks had stopped growling for the moment, but Getaway’s optics were still half-shuttered, his frame trembling faintly with each vent cycle. Rodimus’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t let him starve, not after everything.

“Don’t even think about it,” Getaway rasped, noticing the way Rodimus was angling the cup toward him. His servo twitched weakly in protest, but that was all the strength he could muster. “I’m not fragging helpless.”

Rodimus ignored the words, already shifting closer. “You’re not helping yourself either,” he muttered, grabbing Getaway’s wrist and finding the medical intake port. His hands shook slightly as he fumbled with the latch.

Getaway tried to pull his arm back, but it was a pathetic effort. His resistance dissolved almost immediately when Rodimus tilted the cup and poured carefully into the intake. The high-grade hissed faintly as it entered his systems.

“Rodimus—” Getaway tried again, but the energon hit his tanks, and he cut off with a startled groan, vents flaring. His optics flickered, tension loosening against the wall. He sagged under the force of it, forced to accept the flow.

Rodimus focused on the steady pour, not looking at his face. He didn’t stop until he judged Getaway had taken enough. Then he snapped the latch shut and set the cup aside, leaning back with a heavy vent. “There. Done. Now quit being difficult.”

For a long beat, Getaway was quiet. Then, in a voice rough but too amused for Rodimus’s liking, he said, “You know being cared for turns me on, right?”

Rodimus froze. Every line of his frame locked up, his optics widening. He stared at Getaway like he’d just confessed to being a Quintesson sympathizer. His jaw worked, but no sound came out.

Getaway’s optics glittered despite their exhaustion. “Relax. I’m just kidding.” His words were thin, worn, but clearly amused.

Rodimus blinked once. Twice. Then scrubbed his servo down his face like he could erase the entire moment. “You can’t—You can’t just—say stuff like that.” His voice cracked between horror and flustered disbelief.

“Why not?” Getaway asked, leaning his helm back against the wall. “You’re a terrible caretaker, but at least you’re enthusiastic.”

Rodimus groaned, optics snapping shut. “You’re unbelievable.” He pushed himself back until his shoulders hit the opposite wall, dragging his vents slow to get the heat out of his systems.

Getaway chuckled weakly, the sound fading as exhaustion reclaimed him. “And you’re too easy.” His voice slurred slightly now, but softened into something palatable. “But… thanks. Really.”

Rodimus risked a glance at him, optics lingering on the cracked plate, the faint glow of energon pulsing steady beneath the weld. He swallowed hard, muttering more to himself than to Getaway, “Don’t thank me. Just… survive.”

Getaway shifted suddenly, pushing his palms against the ground. His frame trembled as he forced himself up an inch, then sagged back with a hiss. “Frag it—Rodimus. Help me up.”

Rodimus, sitting with his back against the opposite wall, raised an optic ridge. “Oh, now you want my help?” He tapped his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Funny. I thought me caring for you was supposed to turn you on.”

Getaway froze mid-struggle, optics narrowing at him. “Really? You’re going to throw that back at me now?” His vents rasped with both pain and exasperation.

“Hey, you’re the one who said it,” Rodimus replied, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. A smirk tugged at his mouth despite the exhaustion in his lines. “I’m just doing my part to not stimulate you. Can't afford to frag in the apocalypse.”

Getaway gave him a flat, unimpressed look and rolled his optics skyward. “You are insufferable.” His voice carried a rasp, but the old sharpness was creeping back into it, like a blade regaining its edge. “Now quit running your mouth and get over here.”

Rodimus didn’t move right away, watching Getaway struggle upright again. The mech’s frame swayed, unsteady. It made something in Rodimus tighten in his chest. “You’re going to rip yourself open again,” he muttered.

“That’s why I need your fragging help,” Getaway snapped, frustration lacing his tone. He swayed again, one leg bracing awkwardly against the floor, but his servo missed the wall and he nearly pitched forward.

Rodimus sighed theatrically, pushing to his feet. “Fine, fine. Can’t let my patient collapse just because he’s stubborn.” He crossed the small space, crouching low to get his arms under Getaway’s.

The taller mech leaned into him reluctantly, frame heavy and unsteady. “Don’t make this a thing,” he grumbled, clutching Rodimus’s shoulder for balance as he tried to straighten.

Rodimus’s grin was immediate, sharp-edged. “Oh, it’s already a thing. You’re practically clinging to me. Should I be flattered?”

Getaway grumbled softly. “You should be quiet.” His legs finally locked, though his weight was still half on Rodimus. The tension in his vents betrayed just how hard he was fighting to stay upright.

“Don’t worry,” Rodimus said, steadying him with a firmer grip than expected. His voice softened, despite the grin still plastered on his face. “I’ve got you.”

For a flicker of a moment, Getaway’s optics searched his, something unspoken passing there before he looked away. “Just… don’t let go.”

Rodimus kept one arm looped firmly under Getaway’s, guiding him step by step. At first, Getaway leaned heavily into him, his weight dragging with each uneven stride, but after a dozen shuffling steps his own balance started to return. His vents hitched with every move, but there was a grim determination in his optics—he wasn’t going to let fragging weakness pin him down.

“See?” Rodimus muttered, half-distracted with making sure Getaway’s feet didn’t tangle under him. “You’re walking. Sort of. Progress.”

“Progress would be not needing your scrawny aft propping me up,” Getaway rasped, though there was no real venom in it. He nearly rolled forward on his ankle when his helm wound began to throb.

“Careful,” Rodimus said quickly, steadying him again. “Don’t make me weld you to the wall just to keep you still.”

Getaway huffed out a noise that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so short of air. He flexed his ankle carefully, finding the rhythm of his stride again. “Alright. I’ve got it. Mostly.” He shifted more weight onto his own frame, and Rodimus loosened his hold slightly but stayed close enough to catch him if he faltered.

Together, they crept toward the doorway. Getaway pressed one hand against the wall as he leaned forward and peered cautiously into the hall. His optics swept over the wreck of the distillery’s interior, their glow sharp even through the haze of his concussion.

That was when he saw it. Just a few meters down, half in shadow, his discarded laser gun lay on the ground. The sight of it should’ve been reassuring. Instead, unease prickled along his plating.

Rodimus followed his line of sight and spotted it too. “Hey. That’s your—”

“I see it,” Getaway cut him off, voice low, brittle. He didn’t take another step. His optics darted down the corridor, across every darkened corner, every shadow that could hold movement. The air felt too still.

Rodimus tilted his helm, studying him. “What’s wrong? You found your gun. Good thing, right?”

Getaway’s optic twitched. “If my gun’s still here…” His words trailed into silence, heavy and sharp. His grip on the wall tightened until his servos squealed against the metal.

Rodimus’s grin faltered. He caught it then—the detail that twisted Getaway’s spark tight. The gun was there. But Sunder wasn’t.

Rodimus’s vents hitched as he scanned the dark corners himself, his spear felt suddenly far too light in his hand.

Rodimus’s spoiler twitched like it was trying to run away. His optics wouldn’t stop darting between the gun and the shadows. “Frag this,” he hissed, shoving the spear into its clamp and grabbing Getaway by the arm again. “We’re not staying another klik.”

Getaway didn’t resist. He let Rodimus tug him back into the storage room, his weight dragging, but his optics never left the hallway until the door shut between them. “He’s not gone,” Getaway said flatly. “He’s not dead.”

Rodimus slammed the lock into place with shaking servos. “Yeah, no slagging kidding! That’s why we’re leaving before he decides to finish what he started.”

Getaway swayed, helm still pounding, but his voice was steady. “Leaving’s not simple. He’s probably waiting.”

“Then we don’t give him the chance,” Rodimus shot back. He was already hauling their salvaged energon together, cramming ration flasks into his subspace in quick, jittery movements. His vents rattled like he couldn’t draw enough air.

Getaway made a move to help, but Rodimus spun and shoved him back down. “No. Sit. You’re half a click from offline. You’re not slowing me down when we bolt.”

“Rodimus—”

“Don’t fragging argue!” Rodimus’s voice cracked, louder than he wanted, panic sharpening every edge. He forced it lower, but the wildness was still there. “You’ve got a head wound. I’m not watching you collapse in the middle of a fight. You’re riding the slagging sled.”

Getaway blinked at him. “That’s—”

“Not negotiable.” Rodimus snapped the last flask shut and dragged the makeshift sled out of the corner. It wasn’t pretty—scrap metal bolted together with straps Getaway had welded into place mornings ago—but it was sturdy. He dragged it across the floor with a screech that made both of them wince.

Getaway readied a retort, but his knees buckled before the words came out. Rodimus was there instantly, catching him by the shoulders. The look on Rodimus’s face shut Getaway up. Pure, raw fear.

“Get on,” Rodimus said again, softer this time. Pleading, not commanding.

Getaway stared at the sled, then at Rodimus. His pride screamed against it, but his body was trembling too much to ignore. “You realize,” he muttered as Rodimus helped him onto it, “if we make it out of this alive, I’m never forgiving you for this.”

Rodimus smirked faintly, though his optics were still wild. “If we make it out alive, you can hate me all you want.”

He strapped Getaway in with rough efficiency, tightening makeshift belts until the mech couldn’t fall even if he passed out. Getaway grimaced but said nothing. The strain was too much for him to fight anyway.

Rodimus grabbed his spear again, vented once, then hauled the sled handle into his grip. His engine growled, ready to drag as fast as he could. “Alright,” he whispered. “We’re getting the hell out. Hold on.”

The door lock groaned as he released it, every creak in the distillery echoing like a scream. The hallway stretched out in front of them, too dark, too still. Rodimus’s plating bristled as he leaned forward, muscles coiled tight.

Behind him, Getaway muttered, “You’re insane.”

Rodimus bared his denta in a grin that wasn’t entirely sane. “Yeah. But I’m the only insane mech you’ve got.”

The sled lurched forward, scraping against the floor until Rodimus found his stride. Step after step, he pulled them into the dark corridor, optics flicking between shadows. Getaway managed to snag his gun off the ground as they passed it.

He didn’t stop moving. Not until they were clear of the storage wing. Not until they were closer to the doors leading outside. Not until every instinct screamed that Sunder was still watching.

And then, faintly, from somewhere behind them, footsteps sounded.

Rodimus burst through the distillery doors with a force that rattled their hinges, sled scraping hard against the ground as Getaway jolted back with the motion. Cold Kaon air hit them like a wall, dust and ash spiraling in from the collapsed skyline.

Getaway swayed but forced his hands to move. Getaway’s fingers fumbled with the charge port, dribbling precious energon down into the magazine to refuel it. He nearly dropped the thing twice before the pack finally clicked into place, humming faintly as it powered on.

Behind them, a door shrieked against its hinges.

“Run faster,” Getaway muttered, optics darting toward the sound.

Rodimus didn’t answer. He was already running, his thrusters firing in short bursts to keep the sled skimming along instead of digging into the rubble. His vents whined with the strain, sparks skittering from the metal runners against uneven concrete.

A screech split the air, sharp enough to rattle their plating. Rodimus risked a glance back—Sunder was there, staggering into the street, his optics sockets nothing but empty black caverns dripping energon.

“Fragging Primus,” Rodimus hissed.

“Left!” Getaway shouted, pointing down a side street.

Rodimus skidded into the turn, nearly toppling the sled as debris scattered under his pedes. Getaway grunted, grabbing the sled rail with one hand and raising the gun with the other.

The first blast scorched past Sunder’s shoulder. The second caught him square in the chest, knocking him back half a step but not down. He kept coming, long limbs jerking like marionette strings, head lolling to one side.

“Keep shooting!” Rodimus barked.

“I fragging am!” Getaway squeezed the trigger again. The laser whined, another bolt of energy sparking off Sunder’s plating. He staggered but still moved, faster now, the unnatural smoothness of his stride wrong, too wrong.

“Right!” Getaway yelled, helm swimming, concussion haze making his vision double as he tries to read his inner map. “No—no frag, left—no right!”

Rodimus growled, swerving hard right on instinct. The sled slammed into a half-collapsed kiosk, sparks flying as it scraped along. Getaway’s shot went wide, tearing a hole through a gutted tower wall.

Sunder’s screech echoed again, closer now, impossibly fast.

Rodimus forced his vents to steady, vision tunneling on the fractured road ahead. He shoved more fuel into his thrusters, the heat rippling across the street as the sled finally lifted clear of the ground for a few precious seconds.

“Straight!” Getaway shouted, voice cracking. “Don’t turn, just go!”

Rodimus pushed harder, engine keening in protest. The sled slammed back to the ground but he didn’t let it slow him. His optics watered from the speed, his spark hammering against his struts.

Getaway fired again, and this time the bolt punched through one of Sunder’s arms, tearing it free at the elbow. The limb dangled uselessly, wires sparking. But Sunder didn’t falter. He shrieked, head snapping in their direction with uncanny precision, charging forward like he could smell their fear.

“Doesn’t—doesn’t even need optics!” Getaway shouted, venting raggedly.

“Yeah, I noticed!” Rodimus snarled back, dodging around a collapsed overpass. “Keep him back or we’re fragged!”

The gun whined dangerously—overheating. Getaway forced another shot. The barrel hissed, glowing red, and the blast went wide again.

Rodimus yanked the sled around another corner, metal screaming as it ground along a wall. He didn’t care. His pedes slammed against the ground, every part of him burning from the effort.

“Where the frag are we going?!” Rodimus demanded between gasps.

Getaway’s words slurred, but he pointed shakily down the next road. “Old transit tunnels… two klicks… maybe… cover…”

Rodimus didn’t hesitate. He barreled forward, the street narrowing, buildings leaning inward like teeth. The shadows swallowed them, but behind, Sunder’s heavy pedesteps sounded faster, echoing through Kaon’s hollowed bones.

“Not fast enough,” Rodimus muttered. “Not nearly fragging fast enough.”

The tunnel entrance yawned ahead like a broken maw, half-collapsed stone and steel curling inward. Rodimus didn’t hesitate. He tightened his grip on the sled rail, shoving Getaway onto it more securely before transforming mid-stride. Plates twisted, locking into place, his frame reconfiguring with a familiar sound of transformation.

In vehicle mode, he slammed forward with renewed speed, tires screaming against the cracked floor. The sled locked into his trailer hitch with a heavy clunk, dragging Getaway after him as sparks spat from the friction.

The air inside the tunnel was thick, heavy with dust and the stench of rust. Every sound carried, amplified—the grinding of his wheels, the groan of old steel, and behind them, the shrill scrape of Sunder’s limbs clawing against stone.

Getaway braced himself on the sled, teeth clenched against the swaying motion. His free hand clenched around the laser gun, optics darting wildly at the arching supports above.

“Rodimus—brace!” he shouted, firing upward.

The bolt cracked through a girder, sending shards of metal cascading down. Dust rained, pebbles bouncing off the sled, but the tunnel held.

“Again!” Rodimus growled through his comms, tires screeching as he swerved around a fallen beam.

Getaway lifted the gun, vision doubling, head ringing, and fired again. The next blast ripped a jagged scar into a ceiling strut. The groan of shifting weight followed, stone cracking under its own pressure.

Behind them, Sunder shrieked, the sound rattling the very walls. He was closing in, relentless even in darkness.

“Rodimus—your fire!” Getaway barked, coughing through the haze. “Light it up—trust me!”

Rodimus’s spark lurched. He almost argued, almost said no, but the sheer certainty in Getaway’s strained voice broke through. Without another word, he revved deep, engines flaring bright.

Flames licked from his exhausts, spilling orange light down the tunnel. Shadows leapt wildly across the walls, their pursuer’s silhouette stretching long and terrible against the glow.

Sunder shrieked again, undeterred, leaping closer, claws scraping sparks from the floor. His frame seemed to twist unnaturally in the flicker of firelight, a horror born of Tetrahex’s deepest nightmares.

Getaway aimed higher. Another bolt tore into a brace, molten slag dripping down. The ceiling cracked louder this time, showering them both in fragments of stone.

“More, Rodimus!” Getaway yelled, firing again, then again, the weapon’s barrel glowing white-hot in his grip.

Rodimus gunned his engine, fire roaring brighter, painting the whole tunnel in searing light. Heat blistered the walls, smoke curling up to mix with the dust, choking the air.

The tunnel groaned like a dying giant. Cracks spider-webbed across the ceiling, chunks of concrete plummeting in slabs as the supports buckled.

Sunder roared this time, his clawed limbs scrambling to push through the falling wreckage.

“Frag, he’s still moving!” Rodimus shouted, swerving as a beam crashed down in front of him. He blasted fire hard, burning the fallen rubble enough to melt through gaps and shove himself forward.

Getaway coughed hard, energon flecking his vents, but his hand didn’t falter. He fired again, and again, until the magazine sputtered dry with a sharp hiss. The gun smoked, whining in protest, but the ceiling finally gave way.

The collapse came all at once—a thunderous cascade of stone and steel, the world shaking around them as if the planet itself was trying to bury its monster.

Rodimus swerved hard, pushing every ounce of fuel into speed, fire searing a path forward as debris thundered down behind them.

“Hold on!” he shouted.

The sled bucked wildly as the tunnel floor cracked. Getaway gripped hard, body thrown about as the weight of the collapsing city bore down. Dust and stone hammered against the sled and Rodimus’s frame alike.

Behind, Sunder screamed, not in fear but in rage, his voice strangled by the crash of falling rubble. His silhouette vanished into a cloud of fire and dust.

Rodimus burst through the last stretch of the tunnel, flames roaring from his vents. The exit opened in a wash of dust and dim, polluted starlight as the ground shook one final time, sealing the monster inside.

He skidded to a stop outside, transformation sequence rattling back into place, stumbling forward on pedes with his plating puffed up wide open. His plating smoked, edges scorched by his own fire, and his spark screamed at him, that he'd used too much, but he didn't care. 

The tunnel behind them was gone, nothing but a mountain of shattered steel and rubble. Silence pressed in, so heavy it rang in his audials.

Getaway slumped on the sled, gun falling loose from his grip. Then, hoarse and quiet, he rasped, “Told you… trust me.”

Rodimus stared at him, chest heaving, energon streaking down the side of his mouth from biting down too hard. His vents stuttered, and then finally—finally—he let himself sag down beside the sled.

The silence of Kaon stretched around them, but Rodimus didn’t trust it. Not yet. He kept his optics locked on the rubble, on the smoke curling faintly into the sky, waiting for a sound he prayed would never come.

Rodimus’s vents rattled unevenly, each intake scraping the back of his throat. He dragged a hand down his faceplate, smearing the soot and dust caked there, before glancing at Getaway’s slumped form. He didn’t even know if they’d survived by skill or sheer luck—maybe both, maybe neither.

The silence broke with the hard click of a safety being switched off. Then another. And another.

Rodimus froze, fire guttering low in his vents as he lifted his helm. Shapes emerged from the haze of smoke and settling dust, silhouettes backlit by the dim city-glow of Kaon.

There were at least six of them, maybe more, their armor patched with scavenged plates, optics glowing sharp and suspicious. Each one leveled a weapon squarely at him and Getaway.

One stepped forward, voice sharp as a blade. “What the frag was all that noise? You trying to bring the whole city down on us?”

Rodimus instinctively shifted half a step in front of Getaway, his hand twitching toward the haft of his spear. But with his vents burning, his frame trembling, and his spark still racing from the collapse, he knew he wasn’t in any state to fight.

The group tightened their circle, guns never wavering.

The mech at the front sneered, tilting his rifle. “Start talking. Now.”

Chapter Text

Rodimus sat slumped against the back wall of the cramped cell, optics never leaving Getaway across from him. The other mech looked worse for wear—movements still sluggish from his concussion, and now even more so that adrenaline no longer aids him—but Rodimus kept his gaze fixed, refusing to let the other drift out of sight. He cursed their captors under his vents for keeping them apart, for throwing them into rusting cages like ferals.

Every clang of a pede in the hall had him tensing, flaring his vents as if ready to spring, but all he could do was stare across the dim-lit hallway at Getaway and hope he stayed awake. The silence pressed in, broken only by the occasional drip of leaking pipes and the soft groan of Kaon’s ancient metal structures.

Rodimus shifted, the bench under him screaming in protest. His fire still hadn’t recovered, recharge cooldown leaving him useless if they were attacked again. Not to mention his spear being confiscated. The thought of being defenseless here, now, ate at him.

Getaway’s optics flicked open, dull but aware. He gave the smallest tilt of his helm, an unspoken I’m still here. Rodimus clenched his jaw.

“Slagging cowards,” he muttered low, optics sweeping the bars, “locking us up instead of facing us straight. Not like we meant to collapse the tunnels... no, wait. That exactly what we did. Slag."

The words barely left his lips when the sound of approaching steps cut through the air. Confident, steady, almost cocky—the kind of stride that belonged to someone who’d been down here too long but made it theirs.

From the gloom emerged a mech in red plating dulled with dust, scuffed to bare metal in some places, but carried like a badge of honor. His helm cocked with a swagger that made the small cellblock feel like it belonged to him.

He stopped in front of Rodimus’s bars, crossing his arms loosely. His grin was sharp enough to cut. “Name’s Sideswipe.” His voice was rough but carried that unmistakable air of someone who thrived in places like this. “And you—what are you doing in Kaon?”

Rodimus’s lip plates curled into a grimace. He didn’t look away, didn’t bow, didn’t flinch. “We’re just passing through,” he spat. “Trying to get to Iacon.”

For a moment, silence hung, heavy and waiting. Then Sideswipe barked out a laugh—loud, bitter, with no trace of joy. The sound bounced off the walls like a cruel echo.

“Iacon?” he repeated, mocking. He leaned against the bars, shaking his head. “You’ve slagging lost your processor if you think you’ll ever see Iacon again.”

Rodimus straightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sideswipe’s grin only widened, sharp optics gleaming under the dust. “Means it’s gone, hotshot. Flattened. Erased. Like it never even existed. You can give up whatever scrap of hope you’ve got rattling around in there—because there’s no Iacon waiting for you on the other side of this pit.”

Getaway stirred across the hall, his optics narrowing, but he stayed quiet. His gaze flicked between Rodimus and Sideswipe, measuring, calculating.

Rodimus’s vents hitched, dread sparking faintly in his chest. The thought of Iacon being gone felt like the floor had dropped out beneath him. He forced a sharp laugh, trying to bury the weight of it. “Yeah, right. You expect me to just take your word for it?”

Sideswipe leaned closer to the bars, voice dropping to a rasp. “You’ll take it, because it’s the truth. Iacon’s a grave, and the rest of Cybertron’s just the dirt piled on top.”

The words hit like a gut punch. Rodimus swallowed hard, trying not to let it show, his optics flicking to Getaway again. He saw the concentration in his optics, the steady calculation in his gaze, and it steadied him—barely.

“Then I’ll dig,” Rodimus muttered, defiant.

Sideswipe’s smirk twitched, not quite amusement, not quite scorn. “We’ll see if you’re still saying that when Kaon eats you alive.”

Sideswipe shifted back from the bars, casual in a way that made Rodimus grind his denta. “Relax, hotshot. You’ll get looked at soon enough. Got a medic here who’ll patch you up, if you’re lucky.”

Rodimus’s plating bristled at the word medic. He still remembered the sharp sting of welds gone wrong, the ache of his thigh still bothering him. The idea of some stranger poking at his frame in this pit made his tanks lurch.

Sideswipe’s optics caught the discomfort, and he smirked like he’d tasted it. “Should probably thank your lucky stars Kup’s the one who found you when he did. Another klick out there and you’d be another disappearance chalked up on the wall.”

Getaway’s helm jerked at that, his optics narrowing through the haze of his injury. “Disappearances?” he rasped, voice still weak but cutting.

Sideswipe just shrugged, a lazy roll of his shoulders. “Yeah. Happens. Mechs go out, don’t come back. Sometimes whole scouting groups. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out this planet chews up the weak.”

Rodimus’s fists tightened against his shackles, but he bit down on his words. The image of the distillery clawed back into his processor—the strung-up frames, the ferals nailed into grotesque shapes, the reek of old energon curdled to rot. His vents hissed shallow, and he decided right then not to say a fragging word about it.

Instead, he forced his voice steady and asked, “Who’s Kup?”

That earned another laugh from Sideswipe, sharp and incredulous. “Seriously? You don’t know Kup?” He tilted his helm, red optics gleaming faintly through the dust. “One of Cybertron’s top generals? A war hero? Old soldier, been leading mechs longer than you’ve been online.”

Rodimus’s lipplates curled in a sneer. “No use knowing a famous general when the world’s dead.”

The words dropped like a weight between them. Sideswipe’s grin faltered—not fully gone, but edged with something darker.

Across the hall, Getaway’s optics flickered, tilting his head back against the wall. Even half-conscious, he looked like he agreed with Rodimus’s bluntness.

Sideswipe leaned closer to the bars, his grin sharpening again. “That’s a cute philosophy. Bet it’s kept you alive this long. But generals—Kup especially—are the reason any of us are still standing. World might be dying, but some of us are fighting to slow it down.”

Rodimus’s spoiler twitched against the wall. “Slowing it down’s not the same as stopping it.”

Sideswipe chuckled, low this time, less mockery and more like he was entertaining the thought. “Maybe not. But Kup’s the closest thing you’ll get to someone who still believes in order. Even if it’s a lost cause.”

Getaway stirred, pushing weakly at the bars of his own cell. “Belief doesn’t patch holes or fill tanks.”

“That’s what the medic’s for,” Sideswipe shot back easily, but his optics lingered on Getaway longer than before, as though measuring him.

Rodimus felt the faint flicker of fire in his chest, dim but present, the kindling spark of his outlier gift answering his tension. He swallowed it down, keeping his expression tight. “Doesn’t matter who he is,” Rodimus said. “We didn’t come here to kneel to generals. We’re just passing through.”

Sideswipe leaned away finally, chuckling like he’d already won the argument. “You’ll learn fast, hotshot. In Kaon, nobody’s just passing through.”

Rodimus’s spark pulsed harder in his chest at the words, dread mixing with fire, but he didn’t look away. He kept his optics locked steady, if only for Getaway’s sake.

Rodimus tilted his helm back against the wall, optics narrowed. “So what, you’ve got a habit of locking up every mech wandering through Kaon?”

Sideswipe’s easy smirk returned, sharp as broken glass. “When the alternative’s letting strangers waltz in and frag us all over? Yeah, hotshot, I do.”

Rodimus arched a brow ridge. “That what you tell yourself? Sounds more like paranoia to me.”

That struck a chord. Sideswipe’s smirk vanished into a hard line, his voice snapping louder than before. “Better paranoid than dead. Mechs aren’t what they used to be. You can’t trust anyone—not when half the population’s gone feral, and the other half’s desperate enough to gut you for a half-processed cube.”

Rodimus leaned forward in his chains, ready with a retort, when the creak of heavy doors split the tension. Both of them turned as a tall, shadowy frame stepped into the corridor, carrying himself with the calm arrogance of someone who thought the world owed him reverence.

The mech’s plating was a dull gray, his optics cold red behind a clear visor. A grin tugged the edge of his mouth like he’d already found something amusing about them. “Well, well,” he drawled. “Kup’s latest strays.”

Sideswipe’s shoulders eased just slightly. “Flatline,” he greeted.

The name made Rodimus bristle. Something about it carried the weight of a threat all on its own.

Flatline came closer, optics flicking first to Rodimus, then Getaway. His grin widened as he took in their battered state. “So these are the ones who collapsed our tunnels.”

“I don’t need a medic,” Rodimus snapped before the mech could get another word in. “I’m fine.”

Flatline barked a cruel, humorless laugh that echoed off the cell walls. “Fine? You’re bleeding in places you think I can’t see. I’ve seen lesser injuries after a good round in the pits.”

Rodimus’s spark tightened at the word pits, images of Kaon’s gladiatorial holovids flashing unbidden. He didn’t let the shiver show.

Flatline turned his gaze to Getaway, who was still sitting slumped against the bars, optics dim. “And this one—Primus, what a travesty. Who welded your helm back together? A sparkling with a torch?”

Getaway’s optics flickered, but he said nothing. Rodimus’s jaw locked tight, shame bleeding hot into his fuel lines.

“Don’t worry,” Flatline continued, clearly savoring the discomfort. “Since you’re new here, you’ll get the pleasure of seeing my nicer side. I’ll patch you both up.”

Rodimus bristled. “And what happens when we’re not ‘new’ anymore?”

Flatline’s grin turned sharp, cruel. “Then you’ll learn what it really costs to survive in Kaon.”

The silence that followed weighed heavy, broken only by the faint hum of Flatline powering up his surgical tools.

Rodimus’s spark kicked hard in his chest, warning him of fire he couldn’t risk yet. He kept his optics steady, but his processor was already racing, calculating every possible way this so-called medic could cut them apart.

And across the hall, Getaway’s optics finally met his, faint but steady, like a silent reminder: don’t lose your cool. Not yet.

Flatline didn’t even glance back as he spoke. “Sideswipe. Open the cell and pin him down. I don’t have the patience for a squirming patient today.”

Rodimus’s optics flared. “Like hell you’re touching me.” He braced himself, thinking he could shake the red mech’s grip and make some kind of stand.

The door groaned open, Sideswipe stepping inside with the same swagger he’d carried since the first moment they saw him. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Rodimus bared his denta, ready for the fight. “You’ll find out real fast I don’t play—”

His words cut short as Sideswipe moved faster than he could track. A blur of plating, a twist of motion—Rodimus found himself slammed against the cold floor plating, the impact knocking the air from his vents.

“Slag—!” he choked, thrashing, trying to twist out of the mech’s ironclad grip.

Sideswipe chuckled, low and unbothered. “Oh, you’re spirited. I’ll give you that.” He leaned closer, pressing his weight down with casual ease. “But you’re not going anywhere.”

Rodimus snarled, straining against the hands locking him down. He could feel the servos digging into his shoulders, the strength behind them unyielding.

“You thought you’d shake me off?” Sideswipe barked a laugh. “Cute. Newsflash, hotshot—I was a gladiator. I survived the pits long enough to walk out free. Holding down a scrappy little bot like you? Easy.”

Rodimus’s spark pounded with humiliation as Flatline crouched down beside him, claws gleaming in the dim light. “Much better,” the medic purred. “Now, let’s have a look at what’s hiding under all that bravado.”

Sharp fingers traced along Rodimus’s scorched welds, tugging at panels with careless force. He hissed in pain as plating shifted under the medic’s probing.

Flatline clicked in disapproval. “This isn’t fresh damage. No… this has been festering for a long time. Well before the Quintessons even touched this planet. You’ve been walking around like this for cycles, haven’t you?”

Rodimus clenched his denta and said nothing, though his vents hitched when Flatline pried harder at a seam that burned.

Then Flatline’s claws tapped at something else, lingering. His tone sharpened. “And what’s this?”

Rodimus stiffened, optics darting away.

Flatline dragged a talon across the welds sealing his medical port. “You welded it shut?” His laugh was mocking, sharp as glass. “Primus above, you’re stupider than I thought. That’s your lifeline, and you sealed it shut. You think pain makes you strong? It just makes you fragile.”

Before Rodimus could snarl back, Flatline’s palm cracked against his aft with a sharp smack.

A pathetic yelp slipped free of Rodimus before he could choke it down, his whole frame jerking at the sudden, humiliating sting.

Across the hall, Getaway shifted weakly against his cell bars, but no sound came out. He was too drained to even protest, his optics dimming as he watched helplessly.

Rodimus’s faceplates burned hot with embarrassment. He couldn’t even bring himself to meet Getaway’s gaze. The shame was heavier than the mech pinning him to the floor.

And Flatline, crouched over him, only grinned wider. “Pathetic.”

Flatline didn’t hesitate. His claws dug into the welded seam, prying ruthlessly until sparks showered from the forced breach. Metal screeched under the pressure, the seal giving way in jagged shreds.

Rodimus arched against the floor, a ragged scream tearing from his vocalizer as the agony ripped through him. His servos flailed, but Sideswipe’s grip was iron, shoving him down harder until his face was pressed against the cold floor.

“Stay still,” Sideswipe drawled, grinning like this was a performance. “You’re cute when you squirm. Frag, you’re cute like a buymech.”

Rodimus thrashed harder, vents stuttering, rage and humiliation burning through him even as pain blurred the edges of his thoughts. “Shut—shut up—!”

Sideswipe only chuckled, his weight grinding Rodimus into the floor. “Hey, no need to be shy. You’d be down to frag if I asked nicely, yeah?”

Flatline’s head snapped up, optics narrowing. “Sideswipe.” His tone was a scold, sharp as his tools. “Focus. I need him alive, not distracted by your gutter processor.”

Rodimus barely had time to gasp before Flatline shoved a cable into the freshly torn port. The connection slammed through his systems like lightning. He screamed again, the sound muffled against the floor.

The medic’s optics lit with scrolling data as his diagnostics flooded in. “Well, well,” Flatline murmured darkly. “What do we have here?”

Rodimus whimpered low in his vents, pressing his face harder into the floor, as if he could disappear inside it.

Flatline’s voice cut like a blade. “These welds are old. These injuries… they go back far before the invasion. This isn’t battlefield wear. This is neglect. Willful neglect.”

Rodimus shut his optics tight, his frame trembling under the weight of both the data being ripped from him and the shame of hearing it voiced aloud.

Flatline’s clawed hand came down again, another sharp smack against his aft. The sound cracked in the cell, echoing obscenely.

“You’re a fool,” Flatline snarled. “You thought sealing yourself off would make you stronger? All it’s done is rot you from the inside out.”

Rodimus made a broken sound, a half-choked sob muffled by the floor. He couldn’t even look up, couldn’t bear the sight of Getaway across from him or the gleam of satisfaction in Sideswipe’s grin.

Flatline scrolled further, muttering curses under his breath at the endless catalog of old fractures, patched welds, untreated systems. “You’re a walking catastrophe. And you think you can take care of anyone else in this state?”

The words gutted him worse than any blade ever could. His vents hitched, trying to pull circulation into a frame that felt too tight.

He buried his face harder against the floor, wishing it would swallow him whole, wishing anything could erase the way he was pinned, exposed, and shamed.

And still Flatline’s voice went on, merciless. “Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.”

Rodimus didn’t fight anymore. He just lay there, burning with pain and humiliation, every sharp word and cruel smack driving him further into silence.

Flatline’s optics brightened as new readings scrolled across his visor. “Well, isn’t this interesting,” he drawled, voice low and mocking. “Our little stray here isn’t just a half-slagged frame thrown together. He’s an outlier.”

Rodimus jerked against Sideswipe’s grip, optics going wide despite the pain burning through his port. “Shut up,” he rasped, vents catching.

Flatline tilted his head, amusement dripping from his tone. “Did you know, mech? That your so-called gift runs off your spark power itself?”

Rodimus’s vents whined, throat clicking before he forced the words out. “...I knew.” The confession was thin, shaking.

Another swat cracked across his aft, cruel and deliberate. “Then you’re more reckless than I thought,” Flatline snapped. “You think a frame like yours can afford to waste spark energy like that? You’re lucky you’re not buried under that tunnel you destroyed."

Rodimus bit back another cry, shoulders trembling as shame and fury warred in his tank. “Frag you,” he spat, his voice ragged.

“Oh, don’t pout,” Sideswipe crooned above him, shifting his weight just enough to drag his servo along one of Rodimus’s spoilers, rubbing slow circles into the sensitive metal. “Cute little thing, all dangerous secrets and pretty plating—don’t you just want someone to take care of you?”

Rodimus’s vents stuttered violently, humiliation prickling through him as his spoiler twitched against the touch. “Don’t—!”

A sharp smack resounded, not against Rodimus this time, but against Sideswipe’s servo. Flatline snarled. “Keep your filthy servos off my patient unless I explicitly say otherwise.”

Sideswipe only laughed, not even pretending to be offended. “Fine, doc. Just trying to keep him calm.”

Flatline ignored him, turning his focus back to the diagnostic feed. “Whatever stunt you pulled in those tunnels—whatever drained you—it pulled too deep on your spark energy reserves. Your frame isn’t conditioned for repeated use. If you keep this up, you’ll burn yourself out completely.”

Rodimus’s helm turned slowly, shame written into every angle of his face. His optics found Getaway’s across the cell—Getaway, slumped but awake, staring straight at him. Those optics were overbright, boring into Rodimus with a weight that was worse than Flatline’s smacks, worse than Sideswipe’s jeering touch. Worry? Yes, but something else, too.

Flatline’s voice droned on, cutting into the moment. “You’ll need to slow down. Train it properly. Or stop using it altogether, if you want to live longer than a few more cycles.”

Rodimus couldn’t answer. He could only hold Getaway’s gaze, seeing all the questions, the silent horror staring back at him. Rodimus wished more than anything that he wasn’t pinned to the floor. That he could hide. That Getaway hadn’t seen any of this.

Flatline tapped his claws against his datapad, almost casually. “Do you understand me, outlier? Spark energy is not a toy. Use too much again, and you’ll leave a pretty corpse for scavengers.”

Rodimus’s frame shook, the shame curling deep into his spark chamber, but he forced his gaze to stay on Getaway’s. Forced himself not to look away. Getaway didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Only stared, optics glowing too bright, like he was seeing Rodimus for the first time.

And Rodimus hated every fragging second of it.

Flatline’s cable stayed locked in Rodimus’s port, diagnostic feed scrolling as the medic’s claws clicked in preparation. “You’ve been patching yourself with scrap welds and desperation,” he sneered, his tone both clinical and cruel. “Sloppy work. I’m going to strip these and set them flat before you tear your own frame apart.”

Rodimus’s vents flared, panic creeping in. “Don’t you fragging touch me!” he snarled, thrashing under Sideswipe’s crushing weight.

“Quiet,” Flatline snapped, already igniting a tool. A harsh spark filled the air as he cut into one of the ugly welded plates across Rodimus’s thigh. The heat seared through the joint, and Rodimus howled, legs jerking violently until Sideswipe slammed him harder to the ground.

“Easy there, pretty bot,” Sideswipe chuckled, tightening his grip until Rodimus’s arms were pinned behind his back. “Gladiator servos don’t let go easy.”

Rodimus spat curses, voice breaking as the first plate was torn free. He heard it clatter to the floor before Flatline’s claws pressed the raw metal beneath, tugging and scraping to prepare the surface.

“Pathetic,” Flatline muttered, bending closer. “Do you even know how many infections you’ve invited with these sloppy welds? You’re lucky you didn’t rot from the inside out.”

Rodimus choked on a scream, optics squeezed shut, feeling every pulse of heat as another plate was pried away. The sound of tearing welds echoed like ripping sinew. “Frag—frag you!”

From across the cell, Getaway stirred weakly, optics narrowing as he watched. He tried to move, to sit up, but his helm wound made his balance collapse. He could only watch as pieces of Rodimus were peeled away and replaced.

Flatline hummed, unbothered by Rodimus’s thrashing. “Hold him steady, Sideswipe. This one’s half feral with adrenaline.”

“Already on it,” Sideswipe said with amusement, one knee digging between Rodimus’s shoulder struts to pin him harder. “Squirmy little thing, though. Heh—reminds me of arena nights.”

Rodimus’s vents screeched with pain as the next weld was ripped free. Sparks scattered across his plating, biting into his frame as Flatline replaced the jagged edge with a cleaner strip of alloy. The sting of the torch made him writhe helplessly.

“You’ll thank me later,” Flatline said, his voice like oil. “Or maybe you won’t. Doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care about your gratitude, just that your frame stops looking like a patchwork mess. Medic coding, you know?”

Rodimus screamed again, the sound raw and hoarse, forcing through clenched denta. His body jerked under every cut, every flare of fire against his plating.

Getaway’s optics were wide, locked on Rodimus. Every shout cut through his haze, twisting like a knife in his tanks. He whispered something—Rodimus’s name—but it was lost beneath the medic’s tools.

Flatline peeled away another plate with deliberate slowness, as if savoring Rodimus’s reactions. “You’ve been hiding this damage a long time. Why? Pride? Shame?” He scoffed. “Ridiculous reasons to let yourself fall apart.”

“Shut—up—!” Rodimus spat, though his voice broke, more ragged plea than defiance. His servos clawed uselessly at the floor under Sideswipe’s iron grip.

Sideswipe leaned down, lips near Rodimus’s audio. “Relax, firebrand. He’s fixing you up nice. You’ll be prettier than before.”

Rodimus growled through his pain, twisting violently, but the motion only earned another searing burn across his frame as Flatline fused a fresh plate flush against his frame. His scream ripped free, bouncing off the cell walls.

Getaway shook his helm weakly, vision swimming, but he refused to look away. He forced himself to watch every movement, every cruel cut, his fists curling tight in his lap.

Rodimus was trembling uncontrollably now, optics squeezed tight, jaw locked as curses spilled out between sobbing breaths. He could feel himself unraveling under every strike of Flatline’s tools.

Flatline exhaled like he was working on nothing more than a piece of broken machinery. “There. One side’s almost done. Try not to pass out before I finish, outlier.”

Rodimus’s whole frame shook under Sideswipe’s hold. His vents dragged sharp and shallow, his voice broken as he rasped, “Frag you… both of you…”

And still, Getaway stared, silent, haunted, powerless to do anything but witness as Rodimus was stripped down and rebuilt, plate by plate, scream by scream.

Flatline’s tools hissed as he shifted his focus lower, claws scraping the edge of another shoddy weld. “Racers,” he muttered with disdain. “All the same. Reckless. Dumb. No sense of their own fragging limits. Run until their frames fall apart, then wonder why they can’t keep going.”

Rodimus flinched at the bitter cut of the tool, another molten sting racing through his side. His fingers clawed at the floor plating beneath him, desperate for something to anchor him as pain cracked through his frame.

Sideswipe only laughed, voice warm in mockery. “Aw, don’t be so harsh, doc. He’s trying. Look at him squirm. He’s cute.” He bent closer, brushing his hand over the edge of Rodimus’s spoiler, coaxing it into twitching responses. “Hey, firebrand. My brother’s a good painter—you’d like him. He could fix you up shiny again, no trace of this mess.”

Flatline clicked in annoyance, irritation sparking in his tone. “No paint until the welds have had time to settle. If you cover this too early, you’ll be sealing in heat stress. Idiot.”

Sideswipe grinned wider, clearly not offended. “Fine, fine. No paint yet. Guess you’ll just have to stay ugly for a little while, Roddy.”

Rodimus jerked at that, rage and humiliation twisting together. The movement was too sharp, and Flatline snapped, delivering a hard smack to his aft. “Still, you brat! You want this all to be for nothing? Keep moving like that, and I’ll have to restart.”

Rodimus yelped at the sting, biting down on another curse. His vents heaved, optics burning as he tried to force himself into stillness, but the tremors in his frame betrayed him.

Sideswipe hummed low, leaning over him, pressing the heel of his palm against the sensitive base of Rodimus’s spoiler. “Easy, pretty thing. Don’t fight it. Let him work. You’ll feel better after.”

Rodimus’s plating rattled with restrained fury, his jaw clenched until it ached. “Frag you,” he rasped, though it came out strained, half a sob.

Flatline worked unbothered, sparks snapping as another plate was peeled away. “You’re fortunate I’m here at all. Without me, your idiotic patch jobs would’ve failed within cycles. I don’t care about your whining. You’ll live, whether you like it or not.”

Sideswipe traced along the seams of Rodimus’s arms, fingers drifting to the exhaust pipes that lined them. With a mischievous grin, he prodded a digit into one, testing, watching Rodimus’s whole frame flinch violently.

Rodimus’s strangled cry echoed against the walls, shame burning hotter than the pain. He tried to twist away, but Sideswipe only pushed him flatter, grip like steel.

Flatline didn’t look up, but his clawed servo lashed out, landing another sharp smack against Rodimus’s aft. “I said still!” The blow rang out, cruel and precise.

Rodimus groaned into the floor, optics squeezed shut. Every humiliation piled on top of the searing repairs until he could barely separate the two. His vents stuttered, ragged, as though every intake might shatter him further.

Sideswipe leaned closer, voice pitched low, almost gentle in its mockery. “Frag, you really do react to everything, don’t you? Spoiler twitches, vents racing, even your pipes are sensitive. You’re a bundle of nerves, firebrand.”

Rodimus shook his helm desperately, fighting against the flush of heat creeping through his frame. “Stop… just stop…”

Flatline sighed, almost bored, dragging another fresh alloy plate into place. “If you can’t handle a little discipline, you never should’ve raced in the first place. Racer frames are weak. I’m fixing yours so it doesn’t fall apart in the next fight you’re stupid enough to pick.”

The torch hissed again, welding the plate flat, forcing another strangled scream from Rodimus’s throat. His fists hammered uselessly against the floor, trying to vent pain he couldn’t hold back anymore.

Sideswipe kept his grip steady, cooing mockingly into Rodimus’s audio. “Don’t break yet. You’re tougher than that, right? You wanted to play the hero with that partner of yours—heroes don’t quit.”

Flatline pressed a fresh weld flat with clinical precision. “Two more to go,” he said coldly. “Stay still, and maybe I won’t have to smack you again.”

Rodimus whimpered into the floor beneath him, his pride shredded thin as paper, but his body obeyed, trembling and weak beneath their hands.

Flatline set down his torch at last, the final weld cooling against Rodimus’s frame. His claws hovered a moment, pressing along the fresh seams, checking their flatness, their integrity. Satisfied, he gave a curt nod, muttering under his vents, “At least you won’t fall apart in the next cycle. Waste of good alloy, though.”

Rodimus barely stirred, vents hitching as he lay pinned beneath Sideswipe’s weight. His whole frame trembled, the fury and humiliation spent. The fight had bled out of him, leaving only raw sobs muffled into the cold floor.

Flatline leaned down, detaching the diagnostic cable with a sharp tug. The line of Rodimus’s medical port sparked at the disconnection, a sting that made him whimper. “Pathetic,” Flatline muttered, coiling the cable back around his arm with mechanical precision.

He gathered his tools, the click of metal against metal deliberate, almost ceremonial. Every motion said the procedure was done, the patient no longer worth attention.

“Release him,” Flatline ordered without even glancing up. “We’re finished.”

Sideswipe snorted but obeyed, lifting his weight from Rodimus’s back. For a second, Rodimus didn’t move. He simply collapsed to the floor, plating heaving with soft sobs, limp as though his frame no longer belonged to him.

Flatline’s optics narrowed. “He’ll undo all my work at this rate. Take him for a medical bath, wash the filth and coolant off before it festers.”

Rodimus’s head jerked up weakly, optics wide with alarm. “No—don’t—” His voice cracked, hoarse from screaming, words breaking apart into pitiful noise.

Sideswipe bent down without hesitation, slipping his arms beneath Rodimus. He lifted him bridal style as though Rodimus weighed nothing at all. Rodimus squirmed feebly, weak protests spilling from his vocalizer.

“Put me down! I can walk—” His thrashing was useless. Sideswipe only chuckled, holding him tighter, one broad servo hooked under his backstruts, the other beneath his knees.

Flatline waved a claw dismissively. “If he collapses again, it’s on you. Don’t drop him.”

Rodimus’s optics darted to Getaway as he was carried past, the last shred of his pride sparking in his desperate expression. “Don’t—” he croaked again, but the words died in his throat, drowned by humiliation.

Sideswipe shoved the cell door closed with his foot, carrying Rodimus out of sight. His mocking laughter echoed down the hall, mingling with Rodimus’s weak protests.

The quiet that followed pressed in heavy, suffocating.

Getaway’s vents rasped as he finally drew in air. His helm throbbed with the steady ache of concussion, but none of it compared to the tight knot of fury coiled in his chest.

He had watched every moment—every weld ripped open, every scream torn out of Rodimus’s vocalizer, every cruel touch and every dismissive word.

And now, as silence settled, the only thing Getaway could hear was the ghost of Rodimus’s sobbing, looping endlessly in his audials.

He curled his fists weakly in his lap, nails digging against his palms. His frame still ached too much to rise, too much to act. But in his spark, a promise burned: Flatline and Sideswipe would regret this.

Getaway leaned forward as far as his restraints would allow, optics locked on the corridor where Rodimus had been taken. “Frag,” he whispered, voice low, raw. “Frag, Rodimus…”

The sound of approaching pedesteps broke through Getaway’s rattled thoughts. A shadow fell across the doorway, and then Flatline slipped inside, his posture leisurely, his optics sharp and cold.

Getaway lifted his helm sluggishly, forcing his optics to focus. His voice was rough when he asked, “What—no heavy handling for me? Don’t I get the same treatment?”

Flatline’s mouth curved into something unpleasantly close to a grin. “You?” He let out a low, humorless laugh. “Look at the state of you. You couldn’t fight your way out of a bag right now.”

Getaway bristled despite himself, plating twitching along his shoulders. “Funny. Rodimus looked bad enough to need the rough treatment, didn’t he?” His words were sharp, barbed, even if they came out weaker than he wanted.

Flatline tilted his helm, unbothered. “Rodimus... yes. Stubborn. Reckless. Dangerous to me, a poor, poor medic, in his own way. That one doesn’t know when to stop pushing.”

Getaway’s optics narrowed. “And you think that justifies slamming him into the floor? Forcing ports open? Fragging humiliating him?”

Flatline raised his clawed servo slowly, diagnostic cord uncoiling from a hidden slot. The thin cable gleamed faintly in the dim light. “I think it justifies keeping him alive, however I see fit. And I’ll do the same for you. Now—” he let the cord dangle, swaying gently “—we can do this the easy way, or the medic way.”

The unspoken threat hung heavy. Getaway’s vents hitched, but he didn’t let Flatline see the hesitation. He reached to the side of his chassis, fingers fumbling only slightly, and with a click, his medical port slid open.

“Good mech,” Flatline said, though the praise was laced with mockery. He knelt smoothly, plugging the cable into the exposed port with a practiced jab.

A faint static hum ran through Getaway’s frame as the connection synced. His optics flickered, a wash of raw data crawling across his processors.

Flatline leaned over the cable, muttering to himself as streams of diagnostics scrolled into his internal HUD. “Neat data. Well-structured. No surprises yet.” He tapped his claws against his thigh idly.

“Cold construct,” Flatline remarked aloud, as if he were talking about the weather. “Batch-made. If I had to guess—Helex origin.”

Getaway stiffened. His vents caught. “And what of it?”

Flatline’s optics flicked down at him, gleaming with disinterest. “Nothing of it. Just an observation. You’re not like the Kaon models—those poor bastards were built with one purpose. Fight until they break. No, you’re… cleaner. Structured differently. You were not a cheap product.”

The words slithered through Getaway’s mind, unbidden thoughts surfacing—imagining being sparked in Kaon’s pits instead of Helex’s halls. Raised for nothing but blood and violence. No chance to talk, to think, to scheme.

He swallowed hard, his plating rattling faintly as the weight of it settled in. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Could’ve been worse.”

Flatline returned his attention to the data, muttering again as he scrolled through reports. “Could’ve been better too. But that’s the tragedy of cold constructs, isn’t it? Always a compromise.”

Flatline leaned back slightly, his optics narrowing as he scrolled further down the streams of diagnostic data. “Surprisingly good condition,” he muttered, almost sounding disappointed.

Getaway blinked, sluggish. “Aren't you a medic? With medic coding? Is it normal to wish for more damage?”

“No, of course it's not normal,” Flatline replied smoothly, retracting the cable with a sharp click. “It seems all you need is a corrected weld on that helm of yours, and some realignment on your shoulder and ankle joints.”

Getaway flexed his servo against the wall, plating rattling. “I already realigned those. Did it myself.”

Flatline barked out a dry, humorless laugh, the sound echoing faintly in the cell. “Yes, I can tell. Which is exactly the problem. You patched yourself up just well enough to limp around, but not correctly. They’ll shear again under pressure.”

Getaway glared, heat flickering in his optics. “You saying I don’t know my own frame?”

Flatline ignored the challenge, already rummaging through his kit. He produced a slim torch and a clamp, his claws clicking against the tools as he arranged them neatly on the floor. “I’m saying you’re a con job of a medic. Now hold still.”

Getaway’s vents flared, but he pressed himself back against the wall anyway, watching Flatline crouch beside him with sharp, practiced movements. The torch hissed to life, filling the small cell with a faint glow.

Flatline tilted Getaway’s helm forward without ceremony, claws hooking under a seam. “Head weld first. Whoever did this patch should be ashamed. Looks like it was sealed in the dark, one-handed.”

Getaway winced under the contact. “Yeah, well. It probably was.”

“Mm.” Flatline pressed the clamp against the jagged weld, sparks spitting faintly as he locked the seam tight. “And you’ll be grateful they didn’t weld against your processor casing. Idiot work like this can make the difference between walking away and seizing mid-step.”

Getaway clenched his fist, biting back a retort as the torch’s heat licked close. He could feel it—pressure and burn all at once—though Flatline’s touch was precise, practiced.

“Stay still,” Flatline ordered, voice low but edged. “One slip, and you’ll have a molten groove across your processor.”

Getaway forced his frame to lock, every instinct screaming to pull away. The smell of scorched alloy filled the air as the torch smoothed over the messy seam, flattening it with slow, deliberate sweeps. Flatline hummed under his breath as he worked, not a tune—more like a mechanic’s rhythm, counting out motions. His claws adjusted the clamp every few seconds, keeping the metal perfectly in place.

“You ever notice,” Flatline drawled suddenly, “how every bot thinks they can weld? As if holding a torch is all it takes. Most of you couldn’t line a seam to save your sparks.”

Getaway clenched his fists tighter. “You always talk this much when you’re cooking someone’s head?”

A thin smirk tugged at Flatline’s mouth. “Only when the patient looks like he’s about to jump. Keeps you distracted.”

The hiss of the torch continued, a steady, almost hypnotic sound. Flatline leaned closer, optics sharp as he melted the last uneven edge into a clean, flat line.

Finally, he snapped the torch off, the sudden silence ringing in the air. “There. Not perfect, but far better than that hack job. You won’t rattle every time you take a step now.”

Getaway ex-vented slowly, only then realizing how tightly he’d locked his frame. His servos ached from clenching, but he refused to show it. “Frag you.”

Flatline chuckled softly. “Don’t thank me all at once.”

Flatline’s claws ghosted over Getaway’s shoulder joint, prodding sharply until the mech hissed and jerked away.

“Hold still,” Flatline snapped, catching his arm with surprising strength. “You jammed this back into place like a barbarian. No wonder it grinds when you move.”

Getaway jerked away, a sharp hiss rattling through his vents. “Keep your fragging claws off me—”

Flatline twisted the joint suddenly, earning a strangled yelp. “Oh, you’re not in any position to make demands. You want this to stay in place or do you prefer it dangling out of socket every time you swing?”

Getaway swung a weak punch at him. His fist connected with Flatline’s chest, more of a push than a hit.

Flatline laughed, the sound rich and mocking. “Pathetic. I used to patch up gladiators with their frames hanging off by cables, screaming loud enough to shake the walls. And you—” he gave the shoulder another firm press, forcing Getaway to squirm and curse— “you think that little slap is going to bother me?”

“Frag you,” Getaway spat, another useless punch landing against Flatline’s side.

Flatline didn’t even flinch. “You really are nothing compared to the mechs I used to deal with. They’d tear their enemies apart in the pit, then stumble into my workshop dripping energon. And still, they’d take the pain with more dignity than you’re showing me right now.”

Getaway gasped through clenched denta as the medic’s claws prodded deeper into the joint. “You saying I should be grateful? That it could be worse?”

“Yes.” Flatline’s tone was flat, practical, almost bored. “You’re lucky I’m even here—” he gave the joint a sharp pull, forcing Getaway to arch and curse again— “I can’t afford to waste resources.”

Getaway sucked in a harsh vent, optics narrowing against the haze of pain, and tried to distract himself. “You… you knew Sideswipe then. From before the Quintessons.”

Flatline smirked without looking up from his work. “Of course. Him and his golden brother. Regulars of mine. Walked into the pit, walked out broken, and crawled to my table. Over and over again.”

Getaway blinked, trying to focus through the sting of each adjustment. “Sideswipe mentioned—”

“Of course he did, they're twins.” Flatline’s voice dropped lower, cutting, before he twisted the joint with brutal precision. “Now hold still.”

There was a sharp snap, the sound echoing in the cell. Getaway shouted, his whole frame jerking violently before collapsing back against the wall, vents shuddering.

Flatline held the joint steady, testing its movement with clinical detachment. “Better. Smooth, aligned. No more grinding. That’s how it should’ve been done the first time.”

Getaway panted, optics dim from the pain but still burning with defiance. “You— you’re a sadist.”

Flatline finally looked him in the eye, an eerie calm in his own optics. “No. I’m a medic. You’re just weak.”

Getaway clenched his fists again, though his punches had long since lost strength. His only answer was another ragged curse through vented breaths.

Flatline’s smirk returned faintly as he packed his tools for the next adjustment. “One joint down. One more to go.”

Getaway let his helm fall back against the wall, processor swimming, and muttered bitterly, “Frag my life.”

Flatline crouched lower, his optics narrowing at the mess of Getaway’s ankle. The joint wobbled unnaturally when he pressed it, a hollow clunk echoing faintly with each shift. He clicked in sharp disapproval.

“You call this a repair?” he muttered, clawed digits probing the socket. “It’s barely sitting in place. One wrong step and it would’ve torn clean out.”

Getaway hissed as the probing pressed a sensor. “What— you gonna hit me like you did with Rodimus? Smack me around until you feel better?”

Flatline froze for a moment, optics flicking up to regard him. His face stayed unreadable. “No.” His voice was steady, lacking the cruelty he’d thrown at Rodimus. “You took care of yourself before the Quintessons. That much is obvious. This—” he twisted the joint slowly, making Getaway grunt— “this is just ignorance. Not negligence. Can’t get mad at someone for not being a medic.”

Getaway snorted weakly. “Funny. Sounded like you had no problem chewing Rodimus out.”

Flatline ignored the jab, his claws tightening around the joint. “Brace yourself.”

“What do you—”

Before Getaway could finish, Flatline yanked the joint free with a sickening snap. The sound bounced off the metal walls, sharp and violent. Getaway shouted, his hands flying to grab at Flatline’s arms, but the medic already had the ankle prepared for realignment.

The second snap was quieter—cleaner. Flatline’s work was swift and precise, his digits moving with steady control as the joint slotted neatly back into place.

Getaway panted harshly, his whole frame trembling. “Primus—frag—”

“Vent,” Flatline said calmly, still holding the ankle steady as he tested the movement. “There. Sits properly now. You’ll actually be able to walk without tearing your struts apart.”

Getaway’s vents wheezed, optics dimming with the aftershock. “Could’ve—warned me—”

“I did.” Flatline’s expression remained clinical as he released the joint. “You just didn’t listen.”

Getaway slammed his head back against the wall, a humorless laugh breaking through his venting. “You’re fragging cruel.”

Flatline began packing away one tool and reaching for another, his movements deliberate. “No. I’m efficient. Cruel would’ve been leaving you to limp until it snapped on its own.”

“That’s… supposed to make me feel better?”

Flatline tilted his helm, optics cool. “It should. Means I don’t actually want you dead.”

Getaway stared at him, optics narrow, still processing through the haze of pain. His fists clenched loosely in his lap, but his frame stayed slumped against the wall. “You talk like a mech who’s had practice.”

“I’ve had centuries of practice,” Flatline corrected, almost proudly. “And believe me, this is the gentlest I’ve ever been.”

Getaway muttered under his vents, “Lucky me.”

Flatline smirked faintly as he pressed one last test into the ankle, satisfied at its stability. “Yes. Lucky you.”

Flatline leaned back on his heels, optics raking Getaway up and down like he was cataloging every detail. His claws tapped once against his thigh before he spoke again.

“You’re in one piece,” he said at last. “Barely. But I’ll say this once—don’t you dare hide any more injuries or discomforts from me. You think you’re clever, patching yourself up half-slagged? You’re not. All you’ll do is make me angry.”

Getaway bristled despite his exhaustion. “What are you gonna do? Snap my other ankle?”

Flatline leaned in close, his voice low and razor-sharp. “I don’t need to. Pain comes in subtler ways. Don’t test me.”

The cold edge in his words lingered even as Flatline stood, collecting his kit with methodical precision. Getaway’s vents hissed, but he said nothing more, optics following the medic’s movements warily.

The sound of heavy footsteps broke the silence. A moment later, Sideswipe swaggered back in, arms full of Rodimus. The red mech looked limp but not unconscious, entirely exhausted.

Flatline’s optics narrowed immediately. “What did I say about being careful with new welds?”

Sideswipe only grinned, lowering Rodimus none-too-gently onto the berth. “Relax. I carried him like a sparkling.”

Flatline snapped his claws shut and strode over, smacking Sideswipe sharply across the helm. The sound rang out, and Sideswipe laughed, rubbing the spot with exaggerated offense.

“You’re not funny,” Flatline hissed. “If any of those welds tear because of you, I’ll make sure you’re the one I practice on next.”

“Sure, sure,” Sideswipe said breezily, completely unbothered. He began strapping Rodimus down to the berth, tightening the restraints just enough to keep him from thrashing around. “See? Gentle as ever.”

Flatline muttered under his vents, but turned back toward the door, clearly unwilling to waste more words on him. His claw tapped once against the frame before he stepped out, leaving them behind.

Sideswipe gave a small snort of laughter at the medic’s dramatics, then settled against the wall. “Guy’s all bark and no bite. Don’t let him scare you.”

But Getaway wasn’t listening. His optics had locked onto Rodimus the second he’d been carried in, his focus narrowing down to nothing else.

Rodimus looked… better. Not perfect—never perfect—but better. His armor sat smoother, the jagged welds now replaced with clean lines. His colors hadn’t come back yet, but the harsh edge of damage had been softened.

Still, Getaway could see the weight in him. Rodimus wasn’t moving, wasn’t protesting, wasn’t throwing barbed jokes or fighting the restraints. He just lay there, optics dim, like he’d been wrung dry.

Sideswipe muttered something under his vents, still amused at his spat with Flatline, but the words washed over Getaway without meaning. He couldn’t pull his optics away. He hadn’t realized until now just how used to Rodimus’s constant energy he’d gotten—the endless motion, the reckless stubbornness, the ridiculous noise. Seeing him quiet was almost worse than watching him bleed.

Getaway’s fingers curled faintly in his lap, his tanks tight. For all of Flatline’s threats, for all of Sideswipe’s cocky posturing, none of it mattered compared to the mech across from him. Rodimus looked like he’d been through the pit. But at least he looked alive.

Sideswipe slouched against the wall just outside the cells, arms folded behind his helm, vents huffing in exaggerated annoyance. “Can’t believe I'm on guard duty for this slag. Two bots, and I’m not even allowed to fight either of you? Fraggin’ waste of my time.”

Getaway didn’t bother answering. His optics remained fixed across the hall, locked on the berth where Rodimus was strapped down. Every so often he swore he saw a twitch—an intake hitch, a faint shift of a spoiler—but he couldn’t tell if it was real or just his own desperation projecting movement onto him.

Sideswipe, apparently unbothered by the silence, went on. “You know what really kills me? Rodimus was no fun in the showers. Whole time, he just complained, squirmed, whined—like he didn’t appreciate the attention at all.”

Getaway’s optics flicked to him then, a sharp glare without words.

Sideswipe grinned like he’d been waiting for it. “Ah! Finally, a reaction. I was starting to think you were just another corpse warming a bench.”

Getaway’s plating prickled, but he forced his vents steady. “We’re not staying in Kaon.” His voice came out low, firm.

That earned him a look of genuine confusion. Sideswipe leaned forward, one optic ridge arched. “What do you mean, ‘not staying’? Of course you are. There’s nowhere else to go. Here’s about as good as it gets—barely any ferals, steady fuel, decent walls.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Getaway shot back, though his tone was quiet. “We’re moving on.”

Sideswipe chuckled, shaking his helm. “You say that like you’ve got a choice. Kup’s got rules. You’re in Kaon now, you stay in Kaon. End of story.”

Getaway ignored the bravado, his voice cooling into something sharper. “What about the disappearances?”

That stopped Sideswipe cold. His grin faltered, his vents stuttered. For a moment, the swagger fell away and something harder—warier—sat in its place.

He looked away, jaw clenching. “It’s barely a thing.”

Getaway narrowed his optics. “Barely a thing doesn’t mean nothing.”

Sideswipe shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “Doesn’t even matter. People get lost. It’s Kaon. Happens.”

Across the hall, Rodimus stirred faintly, a soft groan escaping him, and Getaway’s attention snapped back instantly. He leaned forward, optics scanning every subtle tremor, every twitch.

Sideswipe noticed, smirk returning just enough to cover the crack in his mask. “You really care about him, huh?”

Getaway didn’t answer. His gaze stayed locked on Rodimus, determined to catch every small sign of life.

Sideswipe laughed under his vents, trying to fill the silence. “Yeah, thought so. That firebrand’s the type to get under your plating whether you like it or not.”

Getaway only narrowed his optics. He wasn’t going to give Sideswipe the satisfaction of another reaction.

Sideswipe leaned back against the wall again, optics half-lidded, tone almost casual. “You know… me and Sunny—my brother—we weren’t just nobodies before all this. We were a duo. A show in the arenas. Everyone knew us. You should’ve seen the way crowds lost their slag when we tore through another pair of challengers.”

Getaway didn’t respond. He stared across the hall, the steady rhythm of Rodimus’s restrained frame keeping his attention.

Unfazed, Sideswipe carried on. “We specialized in duos. Didn’t matter how good they thought they were—brothers, bonded partners, trines—we’d break ‘em down piece by piece. Some fights ended quick, some dragged out long. Either way, we always came out on top.”

His grin widened, sharp and nostalgic. “There was this one set—two big bruisers from the Tarnian mines. Thought they’d crush us easy. Sunny distracted one, I tore the other’s knee joint right out of its socket. Guy screamed for a whole breem before Sunny drove his sword through his chest.”

Getaway’s optics didn’t move from Rodimus.

Sideswipe’s tone darkened with a twisted sort of pride. “Another pair came from Vos—flyers. Arrogant slaggers. Thought they could outmaneuver us. You ever see a flyer crash with both wings shredded? There’s this moment where they realize they’re not going to get back up. Beautiful.”

Getaway’s fists clenched, but he gave no answer.

Across the hall, Rodimus’s arm twitched against the restraints, a faint shudder passing through his frame. Getaway immediately sat forward, optics zeroing in on the movement like it was the only thing in existence.

Sideswipe noticed. His smirk returned in full force. “Ohhh, I get it now. That’s what’s got you all stiff. Not my war stories. Him.”

Getaway didn’t spare him a glance. His optics were locked on Rodimus, cataloging every tremor, every flicker of life.

Sideswipe tilted his helm, tone dripping with mockery. “What, he must be a real good frag if you’re worked up just from him twitching in his berth.”

That snapped Getaway’s attention away from Rodimus. His optics burned as he finally glared across the hall at Sideswipe.

Sideswipe’s grin only widened. “Oh, I struck a nerve. Thought so. Guess he’s already yours, huh? You mind if I have a turn?”

The air between them went taut, heavy. Getaway’s voice came out sharp as a blade. “You’re disgusting.”

Sideswipe chuckled low in his chest, enjoying the bite.

Getaway leaned back slightly, his tone steady but full of venom. “If you want a frag so bad, go frag yourself.”

Sideswipe laughed outright at that, head tipping back against the wall. “Hah! Now that’s the spirit. Knew you had a mouth on you.”

He didn't, but Getaway’s glare didn’t waver. He refused to look away first. Not from Sideswipe, not when Rodimus was strapped helplessly just across the hall.

Sideswipe dragged a hand down his faceplate, the cocky grin replaced with something tighter. “You know, truth is, I’m not really from Kaon. Not born here, anyway. Me and Sunny just ended up here ‘cause it was the only place that didn’t spit us out.”

Getaway didn’t move his gaze. His voice was flat. “I don’t care.”

But Sideswipe pressed on anyway, as if ignoring him entirely. “We were from Iacon. Real polished place. Shiny towers, perfect streets. Full of self-important snobs who thought me and Sunny were dirt just ‘cause we didn’t fit their mold.”

Getaway’s optics flicked, betraying the spark of interest that flared in his core—but he smoothed it out, not letting it touch his expression.

Sideswipe leaned closer to the bars, voice low but edged with memory. “We tried to fit in. We really did. But those Iaconites? They looked down at us like we were vermin. Didn’t matter how hard we worked, how sharp we got. We weren’t them, so we’d never belong.”

He chuckled, bitter and humorless. “So we bailed. Found ourselves in Kaon. And you know what? The pits didn’t care where we came from. They only cared how hard we fought, how much energon we spilled. And that—that was something we were good at.”

Getaway’s optics shifted to Rodimus again, but he listened, silent.

Sideswipe’s smirk came back, tempered with the glint of bloodlust. “The arenas… we lived for it. The crowd screaming our names, the thrill of putting someone in the ground, the rush of knowing everyone feared us. Kaon didn’t just take us in. It made us gods.”

He spread his hands, as if presenting himself. “So yeah, no wonder I’m thriving now. This whole slagged-up world? It’s built for me. Always has been.”

For the first time, his grin faltered. His optics darted away, restless. “But… Kup. Kup doesn’t see it that way. Even though me and Sunny are a duo—Kup keeps us separate. Sends him on easy tasks, keeps me on the leash. Always the fraggin’ leash.”

There. A crack.

Getaway caught it like a predator catching scent. “Maybe Sunstreaker’s just the better twin.”

The words dropped like a live wire. Sideswipe froze, and then his expression twisted with fury.

He slammed his fist into the bars of Getaway’s cell. The metal shrieked and dented inward, vibrating from the impact. The sound reverberated through the hall, sharp and violent.

Getaway didn’t so much as twitch. His optics stayed steady, locked on Sideswipe with cold disinterest. That unflinching calm only made Sideswipe’s vents cycle faster, shoulders tight as cables.

Getaway tilted his helm, voice cool, cruel. “Hit the bars all you want. Won’t change the truth.”

Sideswipe snarled, chest heaving, fists clenching at his sides. The dented bars between them hummed, a physical mark of his temper.

Getaway leaned back against the wall of his cell, utterly composed. “Guess deep down, you already know which one of you Kup values more.”

The silence that followed was thick, tense, stretching taut across the hallway. Sideswipe’s optics burned like fire, but he didn’t have a comeback ready.

Sideswipe’s vents roared as he bared his denta, slamming his hands against the bars so hard they shook. “You fraggin’ little piece of scrap—I’ll tear you apart, consequences be damned!”

Getaway didn’t flinch. His tone was slow, deliberate, smug. “Ah. There it is. That temper. I bet that’s why Sunstreaker gets the easier tasks, huh? Kup doesn’t trust you not to lose it.”

The red mech’s plating rattled with the force of his rage. “You don’t know a fraggin’ thing about me or my brother!”

“Oh, but I don’t have to,” Getaway replied smoothly. His voice was silk over sharpened steel. “All it takes is the smallest guess. The way you said it, the way you twitch when I mention him—it’s obvious.”

Sideswipe snarled, kicking at the bars this time. The dent deepened, the whole cell shuddering.

“And there’s that fire again,” Getaway drawled. “You can’t even keep yourself together for one conversation. I bet Kup noticed that too. Bet that’s why Sunstreaker gets to walk free while you get stuck babysitting us.”

“Shut up!” Sideswipe barked, his voice cracking with pure fury. “Sunny would never—never—do something like that on purpose! He wouldn’t betray me like that!”

Getaway tilted his helm, optics glinting. “Wouldn’t he? You said it yourself—he gets the easier tasks. The better treatment. Feels an awful lot like favoritism, doesn’t it?”

Sideswipe shook his head violently, gripping the bars as if he could rip them apart with sheer will. “No! You don’t understand. He’s my brother. We’re a team. Always have been!”

“Mm,” Getaway hummed, feigning thought. “Funny thing, though. I remember you twins, vaguely, from old holo-vids when I was back in Helex. The crowds always roared louder for Sunstreaker. He was the star, wasn’t he?”

Sideswipe froze for a second, optics flashing wide.

Getaway pressed in, seizing the crack. “Surely you remember it too, Sideswipe. The way the crowd surged when he struck a killing blow. The way they screamed his name, not yours.”

“That’s not—” Sideswipe’s voice broke, wavering between fury and denial.

“And you?” Getaway’s words were a knife’s edge, soft but cutting deep. “You were just the other twin. The set piece to Sunstreaker’s glory. Even in Helex, where scholars enjoyed merch of the brutality, you were nothing but backdrop to the better twin.”

Sideswipe’s fists trembled on the bars, energon seeping from his palms where his grip dug too deep.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Getaway taunted, calm as ever, optics steady.

“I’ll kill you,” Sideswipe hissed, low and trembling. “I swear to Primus, I’ll fragging kill you.”

Getaway reclined against the wall, utterly composed, crossing his arms over his chest. “And there it is. Not denial. Just rage. Guess that means I hit the truth after all.”

Sideswipe’s frame shook, his vents stuttering like he could barely keep himself upright. Across the hall, Rodimus shifted faintly against his restraints, optics flickering online at the sound of Sideswipe’s breaking voice. Getaway pushed himself upright slowly, every joint grinding in protest. His frame ached from Flatline’s work, and dizziness pressed at the edges of his vision. Still, he forced himself to stand, bracing a servo against the wall until the vertigo steadied.

Sideswipe’s optics tracked him instantly, predatory and suspicious. “What the frag are you doing?”

“Stretching,” Getaway said easily, rolling his shoulder with a faint wince. “Testing what Flatline fixed. Don’t want to keel over if I sneeze too hard.”

Sideswipe sneered, but Getaway saw the faint twitch of unease. Perfect. “You know… Rodimus used to adore gladiators. Thought they were legends. Funny thing, though—he didn’t even know who you were.”

The red mech stiffened, plating rattling. His vents hitched as if he’d been struck.

Getaway pressed the advantage, voice smooth and poisonous. “Imagine that. You make your whole life about the pits, and the only bot who idolized gladiators back in the day doesn’t even recognize your name.”

Sideswipe’s mouth curled into a sharp, brittle grin. “Oh yeah? Tell me, did Rodimus confess his little ‘adorations’ while you two were fragging each other in this slagged apocalypse?”

Getaway didn’t even blink. “You seem awfully concerned with our interface life,” he said lazily, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world. “Jealous, Sides? Maybe you want what I’ve got?”

Sideswipe snarled, energon bubbling under his tone. “Don’t push me.”

“Oh, but it’s so easy,” Getaway purred. “Let’s be honest—you’re just jealous that I’ve got a sweet piece of aft keeping me company while you follow Kup’s every order like a turbofox begging for scraps of affection.”

That one landed like a blade through the spark. Sideswipe staggered back half a step, optics blazing, fists clenching so tight his knuckles clicked.

For a moment it seemed he’d launch himself into the cell just to tear Getaway apart with his bare servos. Instead, with a strangled growl, he threw his servos up. “Slag this.”

He stormed down the hall, stomping hard enough that the metal floor groaned under each step, and disappeared into the dark.

Silence dropped heavy in his wake. Getaway let himself sag back against the wall, vents dragging harshly as the adrenaline slowly faded. His frame still swayed from dizziness, but the satisfaction of seeing Sideswipe crack more than made up for it.

A faint, shaky sound broke the quiet. A muffled laugh.

Getaway’s optics flicked across the hall, meeting Rodimus’s half-lidded gaze. He was awake, restraints holding him down, but his mouth curled into the ghost of a grin. “So… I’m a sweet piece of aft, huh?”

Getaway groaned, wiping a servo down his face. “Shut up.”

Rodimus’s chuckle grew a little stronger, still rough around the edges but carrying genuine amusement. “You knew them from holovids?”

“Never even heard of them,” Getaway muttered.

The silence between them didn’t last long. Pedesteps echoed down the corridor—steady, measured, heavy with the weight of countless cycles. Not the arrogant strut of Sideswipe. Not the clinical pace of Flatline. Something older. Something heavier.

An old green mech stepped into view, broad shoulders lined with scars, his plating dulled from age and worn by war. His optics swept across the cells, and a wry smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth. “Well, slag me. You two managed to get under Sideswipe’s plating. Congratulations.”

Getaway narrowed his optics, recognition stirring in his processor. He’d seen that face before—distorted by shadows, half-hidden behind a gun’s muzzle. The tunnels. After the collapse. The mech who’d leveled his weapon straight at Getaway’s helm without a second thought.

“Don’t make a habit of it,” the green mech continued, leaning against the bars with casual authority. “Sunstreaker’s brother doesn’t forgive easy. You keep pokin’ him, he’ll snap eventually. And you won’t like what’s left of him when he does.”

Rodimus pushed against his restraints, enough to angle his chin defiantly. His optics blazed even through exhaustion. “Then maybe you should keep your turbofox on a leash. You do that, and there won’t be any problems while we’re here.”

The green mech barked a laugh, rough and full of smoke. “Frag me, you’ve got a mouth on you. Figures.”

He straightened up, rolling his shoulders as though they ached from centuries of wear. “Name’s Kup. Don’t forget it. I run things around here, more or less. You cross me, and Sideswipe’ll look like a sparkling compared to what I’ll do to you.”

Rodimus gave a humorless snort. “Sure. Kup. Got it.”

Beside him, Getaway pressed a servo to his face in weary disbelief. Of course Rodimus would keep mouthing off to a mech who reeked of command, who radiated the kind of authority mechs obeyed even when they didn’t want to.

Kup’s optics flicked to Getaway briefly, narrowing as though he recognized the silent gesture for what it was: exasperation. Then his gaze returned to Rodimus. “Tell me, kid. You think your stay’s gonna be short, do ya?”

Rodimus didn’t hesitate. “Of course it is. We’re just passing through. Soon as he—” He jerked his chin toward Getaway. “—is steady on his feet, we’re heading for Iacon.”

At that, Getaway groaned aloud and let his helm thunk back against the wall. “Primus, Rodimus…” he muttered. But when Kup’s optics landed on him, sharp and suspicious, Getaway forced himself upright and added firmly, “Yeah. That’s right. We’re going to Iacon.”

For a moment, Kup simply stared at them. Then a low chuckle rumbled out of his chest, dark and almost pitying. He shook his head slowly, as if they’d just told the world’s funniest joke.

“Iacon,” Kup repeated, the word dripping with disbelief. “You two really don’t have a clue, do you?”

Rodimus’s jaw tightened. “We’ve got enough of one. Iacon’s the only place left worth getting to.”

Kup’s laughter came again, louder this time, filling the corridor until it bounced off the cell walls and sank deep into their sparks. “Kid, Iacon’s gone. Burned, gutted, hollowed out. You’d be scrap before you even hit the city limits.”

Rodimus’s expression faltered for just a second. Just long enough for Getaway to notice the flicker of doubt behind his optics.

Kup leaned closer, his voice dropping into a gravelly growl. “You’re not going anywhere. Not to Iacon, not to anywhere. You’re in Kaon now. You’ll fight to keep this hole alive, same as the rest of us. ‘Cause survival of the Cybertronian race is on the line.”

Rodimus opened his mouth, ready to spit back another defiant quip, but nothing came. The weight of Kup’s words sat heavy in the air, ringing in his audials.

Getaway’s spark lurched unpleasantly. He hated to admit it, but the old mech’s conviction carried the kind of truth that couldn’t just be waved off.

Kup turned away, already moving down the hall as though the conversation was over. “Settle in, mechs. Kaon’s your world now. The sooner you realize that, the longer you’ll last.”

The echo of his steps lingered long after he vanished, leaving only silence between Rodimus and Getaway once again.

Rodimus finally let out a harsh vent, shaking his head against the berth restraints. “Slag him. We’re still going.”

Getaway said nothing, just watching Rodimus with a mix of disbelief and weary loyalty. Because frag it all, Rodimus meant it.

Chapter Text

Rodimus lay stiff against the berth, very uncomfortable as Flatline crouched at his side. The medic’s diagnostic cable was once again plugged into his reopened medical port, the faint hum of the connection filling the silence of the cell block.

Flatline’s optics narrowed at the glowing data scrolling across his visor. He muttered under his vents, low and sharp, the words dripping disdain. “Unbelievable. Your coding is as organized as an unattended sparkling's room… spark efficiency dipping like a rusted energon pump… you’re a walking disaster, bot.”

Rodimus twitched, biting back the urge to snap at him. Every cruel word burrowed into his plating, but he endured it, optics flicking briefly to the cell across from him where Getaway watched with hawklike intensity.

Flatline continued, voice rising as he scrolled deeper through the readings. “You’ve been running this frame into the ground since before the invasion, haven’t you? Burnt circuits, degraded fuel lines, fractured welds…” He let out a harsh laugh. “If it weren’t for my brilliant servos keeping you together, you’d already be scrap.”

Rodimus growled under his vents, muttering, “Didn’t ask for your slagging commentary.”

“Commentary?” Flatline’s tone sharpened. “This isn’t commentary. This is me marveling that you’re even still functioning. Reckless little racer frame, still trying to act like he’s invincible.”

The medic scrolled further, then paused. His optics narrowed to pinpricks as something shifted in the data stream. “Wait. What is this?”

Rodimus flinched involuntarily, feeling the cable hum against his port.

Flatline leaned closer to the diagnostic, his voice turning tight. “Spark output… fluctuating irregularly. Overdrawn… again and again. This isn’t right.”

His optics darted to Rodimus, suspicion flashing into something sharper. “No. This… this isn’t natural. What in Unicron’s name have you done to yourself?”

Rodimus froze, mouth going dry. His vents stalled, and instinctively his optics darted toward Getaway. But Getaway was watching him intently, not with confusion, but with a sharp, cutting gaze that demanded answers. His expression left no room for evasions.

Flatline yanked the cord slightly as he leaned down over Rodimus’s berth with sudden urgency. “Answer me, racer. Right now. You’ve got modifications on your spark casing that shouldn’t even be possible without—” He cut himself off, optics blazing with realization.

Rodimus swallowed hard, pressing his lips together, refusing to answer.

Flatline’s hands twitched toward his chest, his voice hard. “Open your plating. Let me see. I need to confirm this before—”

The sound of heavy footsteps interrupted him. A yellow mech pushed the door open with his shoulder, wearing a permanent scowl across his faceplates.

“Flatline,” he grunted, barely glancing at Rodimus or Getaway. “You’re needed in the mines. Another accident. Stupid slaggers don’t know how to shore up their tunnels. Don’t make me drag you there.”

Flatline snapped his helm up, irritation flashing. “I’m in the middle of something critical—”

The yellow mech snorted. “Yeah, yeah. And I’m in the middle of getting slagged with extra work if you don’t come now. Kup said priority. So move your aft.”

Flatline hissed through his vents, clearly torn. His optics darted back to Rodimus, glaring daggers. “This isn’t over. Don’t think you’re keeping secrets from me, mech. I’ll find out what you’ve done.”

Rodimus immediately drew his arms across his chest, clutching his plating protectively as if he could shield himself from the medic’s questions. His vents rasped shallow, optics wide and haunted.

Flatline unplugged his diagnostic cable with an angry twist and swept his supplies into his kit, storming after the yellow mech without another word. The door clanged shut behind them, leaving the cell block eerily quiet.

Across the hall, Getaway leaned forward, elbows on his knees, optics locked on Rodimus. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The sharp intensity of his stare screamed the question he hadn’t yet voiced: What are you hiding?

Rodimus refused to look up. His arms tightened over his chest, every line of his frame rigid with shame.

Rodimus sat up slowly, rolling his shoulders and testing the fresh welds across his frame. The ache was there, but it was dull, muted—like the pain had finally decided to give him a break. He flexed his servos experimentally, optics lighting in surprise at the ease of movement.

He swung his legs off the berth and pushed himself to his pedes. The room tilted for a moment, then steadied, and he laughed, shaking his helm. “Hah. Would you look at that? I can stand without wanting to keel over. Who knew I could actually trust a medic for once.”

Across the way, Getaway’s glare sharpened. “Cut the slag, Rodimus. What was Flatline talking about? What did you do to your spark?”

Rodimus waved him off, arms rolling back as he stretched out his stiff joints. His vents purred with relief at the pull and release of cables that had been bound tight for too long. “Primus, I feel like I haven’t been this loose since I was a new spark. You ever get that? Like your frame just… finally breathes?”

Getaway’s fist clenched. “Answer me.”

Rodimus ignored him, throwing his arms wide and leaning back until the joints creaked, then snapping forward with a groan that sounded more like a satisfied hum. “Slag, even my transformation seams are clean. You know how rare that is?”

“Rodimus.” Getaway’s voice cut sharp through the space between them. “Stop dancing around it.”

Rodimus grinned crookedly, pacing the cell with a bounce in his step. “You don’t get it, do you? This—this is what freedom feels like. No janky welds. No clunky plating. The only time I’ve ever felt this free is in vehicle mode.”

He spun lightly on his heel strut, arms flaring out, movement boyish and unguarded. “But now? Now it’s like I’m going to feel like that all the time. Can you imagine? Every step’s like a swig of high grade!”

Getaway stood, stepping close to the bars, his optics narrowing to slits. “Rodimus, I swear, if you don’t answer me—”

Still grinning, Rodimus stretched again, twisting his torso to see how far he could go before the welds complained. “You worry too much. Don’t you want to just enjoy it? For once, I’m not aching like a broken down shuttle. That’s a gift, Getaway. Don’t ruin it.”

“Don’t ruin it?” Getaway’s voice cracked with barely contained anger. “Flatline looked at you like you were a fragging horror show, and you think I’m the one ruining it?!”

Rodimus hesitated mid-stretch, optics flicking away, but forced the smile back onto his face. “It’s not that big a deal. You’re making it sound worse than it is.”

“Then tell me what it is.” Getaway’s fists clenched around the bars. “Now.”

Rodimus finally stopped, the grin faltering. His arms folded across his chest, protective, defensive. His optics dimmed just a little as he leaned back against the wall. “It’s… it’s nothing big. Just a stupid mod.”

Getaway’s voice was a blade. “What kind of mod?”

Rodimus ducked his helm, avoiding the sharp look being pinned into him. “Back alley slag-job. Medic promised me something special. Said it’d make me stronger, faster.”

Getaway’s hands curled tighter against the bars, the metal creaking under the pressure. His optics bored into Rodimus, searching for every flicker of truth in his words. Rodimus didn’t look back. His arms stayed locked over his chest as though he could hide the secret still sparking inside him, his vents shallow and quick despite the mask of carelessness he tried to hold.

Getaway’s voice cut through the fragile silence like a blade. “A spark mod doesn’t increase speed, Rodimus. That’s not how it works.”

Rodimus twitched, spoiler hitching higher, caught in his lie. His arms wrapped tighter across his chest. “Doesn’t matter. It’s just a slagging mod. I was young. Stupid. How was I supposed to know?”

Getaway’s optics narrowed. “You knew enough to crawl into some back alley and let a quack cut into your spark chamber. Don’t play like you didn’t understand the risks.”

Rodimus let out a bitter laugh, though it sounded more like static in his vents. “Risks? Back then, everything was a risk. You want to lecture me about playing safe when half the planet was tearing itself apart? When every fragging day was a gamble whether you’d wake up with your spark still in your chest?”

“That’s not an answer,” Getaway said coldly.

Rodimus shook his helm, striding a restless pace across the cell. “You think I knew what I was signing up for? That I wanted this? I was a kid, Getaway. A stupid kid looking for a purpose, agreeing to something way bigger than he was.”

His optics darted to Getaway for the barest instant, then skittered away. “Drop it. Just… drop it, alright?”

Getaway didn’t move. His frame was stiff as the bars he gripped, his gaze unyielding. “No. Not this time. You can dodge, you can laugh, but sooner or later we’re going to talk about it.”

Rodimus stopped pacing. His optics glowed faintly in the dim light, too bright, too raw. He clutched his chest like he was afraid Getaway could see through the armor. “If we ever make it to Iacon…” His voice wavered, then firmed with forced bravado. “When we make it there, I’ll tell you everything.”

The words hung between them. Getaway’s expression shifted, doubt flickering across his features. He hated that hesitation, hated giving Rodimus ground. But still… he hesitated.

“You’ll tell me in Iacon,” he repeated flatly.

Rodimus nodded, almost desperately. “Yeah. I promise. You’ll get your explanation then.”

Getaway studied him, optics hard, expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither mech moved. The air felt too tight, like even the walls were listening.

At last, Getaway exhaled through his vents, a sharp hiss that cut the silence. “Fine. I’ll hold you to that.”

Rodimus relaxed by a fraction, his hands falling from his chest, though he didn’t quite look at Getaway. “Good. Because you’re not going to like it, and I don’t feel like reliving it until I have to.”

Getaway’s optics narrowed again, but he didn’t push further. His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “You’d better be ready to talk when that time comes.”

Rodimus smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his optics. “I’m always ready. Just… not here. Not now.”

Getaway gave one last glare, then finally turned away from the bars. He didn’t believe Rodimus— not fully— but he’d play the waiting game. For now.

Rodimus leaned back against the wall, vents shuddering as though he’d just outrun a feral pack. His optics slid closed, his hands drifting back to guard his chest as if out of instinct. The silence returned, heavy and tense, but neither mech spoke again. The promise of Iacon hung between them, fragile and dangerous.

The door clanged open hard enough to rattle the bars. Sideswipe strutted in, optics bright with a kind of restless excitement. “Good news, fraggers. Flatline cleared you both for work. So guess what? You’re gonna work.”

Rodimus sat up too fast, welds pulling tight as his optics flared wide. “No way in the pits I’m going to work.”

Sideswipe’s grin widened, all sharp denta and challenge. “Hate to break it to you, pretty-bot, but you are in the pits. And you are going to work.”

Getaway stood slowly, still stiff from his repairs, watching both of them with a sharp gaze. “What kind of work?” he cut in smoothly.

Sideswipe whipped his helm around and glared at him like he’d dared insult his lineage. “Mining.” The word dropped like a weight, hard and final.

Rodimus barked out a disbelieving laugh. “Mining? I don’t have the frame to mine! Look at me!” He gestured broadly at his own lithe structure, vents flaring with indignation.

Sideswipe leaned against the bars, casual as you please. “I tried to get Kup to hand you something else, you know. Maybe something fun. But the old mech wouldn’t budge.” His smirk twisted. “Guess you’ll just have to make do.”

Rodimus surged to his pedes, shoulders squaring. “Make do? I’ll break before I dig! This frame was built for speed, not hauling ore.”

Sideswipe tilted his helm, optics gleaming with mockery. “Tell me, hotshot—do you believe in functionalism?”

Rodimus froze. The word tasted bitter in the stale air. His wings twitched, claws flexing. “…No. Not really.”

“Not really?” Sideswipe echoed, laughter curling through his vents.

Rodimus shifted uneasily, struggling to explain himself. “I mean—every mech’s got a role, right? A thing they do better than others. That’s not the same as… as functionalism.”

Sideswipe laughed, sharp and loud, like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. The sound bounced off the walls, filling the cell with its derision.

Rodimus glared, but it only made Sideswipe laugh harder, doubling over with glee. “Oh, Primus—‘not really.’ That’s a fragging riot.”

Getaway crossed his arms, optics narrowed, watching Rodimus struggle under the weight of the mockery. Rodimus huffed, his vents shuddering with pent-up words he couldn’t seem to force out. His spoiler bristled, defensive and ashamed all at once.

Sideswipe finally straightened, shaking his helm as if to clear the laughter. “You’re fraggin’ priceless, you know that?”

Rodimus scowled. “I’m not mining.”

Sideswipe’s smirk sharpened. “Yeah, you are. Whether you break or not, that’s your problem. Kup doesn’t care about your fragging philosophy. You’ve got a pick waiting, pretty-bot.”

Rodimus’s fists clenched at his sides, his entire frame quivering with frustration he couldn’t vent.

Getaway spoke up, calm and cutting. “Then we’ll mine. But don’t expect us to break for your amusement.”

Sideswipe’s grin widened again, feral and bright. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. But it’ll be fun watching you try.”

Rodimus looked between the two of them, vents cycling hard. And Sideswipe just leaned there, smug and unshakable, like he already knew exactly how this would end.

The corridors of the prison complex Kup had decided to hole them up in were narrow and echoing, walls pitted from age and conflict. Sideswipe led the way with a casual swagger, as if he owned the place. His longblade clinked lightly against his thigh with every step.

Rodimus dragged his pedes, not liking the way the hallways seemed to close in around them. His spoiler twitched constantly, catching the light from overhead strips that flickered every few seconds. Getaway stayed just behind Sideswipe’s shoulder, his posture deceptively calm, though his optics kept flicking from shadow to shadow. He wasn't dizzy anymore, but still felt off.

“You’ll be mining energon,” Sideswipe announced after a while, breaking the silence. “Of course. Got a system set up—some genius named Perceptor whipped up a filtration rig that actually works.”

Rodimus’s helm snapped up, optics wide. “Wait—Perceptor? Red mech? Microscope alt-mode?”

Sideswipe glanced over his shoulder with a raised optic ridge. “Yeah. That one.”

Getaway groaned aloud and slapped a servo against his faceplate. “Oh, for frag’s sake.”

Sideswipe slowed, turning his helm between the two of them with suspicion. “The frag was that reaction supposed to mean?”

Rodimus shot Getaway a sharp look, but Getaway just kept his hand plastered against his face, muttering under his vents.

Sideswipe’s optics narrowed. “How do you two know him?”

“Because,” Sideswipe said before they could answer, “last I checked, Perceptor turned feral. And then that lunatic Brainstorm neutralized him. Cost him his life to do it.” His tone was casual, but his words carried weight.

Rodimus grimaced, shaking his helm hard enough to make his vents hiss. “That’s… not how it went down.”

Getaway’s hand slid slowly away from his face, his expression unreadable.

“They’re both still alive,” Rodimus said finally, his voice low. “I think. Last we saw them, anyway.”

Sideswipe stopped dead in the hallway, forcing both of them to halt abruptly behind him. “What did you just say?”

Rodimus squared his shoulders, though his wings trembled. “Perceptor’s still feral. Last we met. And Brainstorm—he wasn’t dead either. Not then.”

A long, heavy silence fell. Even the flickering lights seemed to quiet for a beat. Getaway crossed his arms, studying Sideswipe’s face closely. He was watching for the crack, for the flicker of unease he could use later.

Sideswipe finally barked out a laugh, the sound harsh against the stone. “You two are either slagging insane, or you’ve got stories worth Kup’s attention.”

Rodimus muttered under his vents, “Yeah, we’ve got stories. None of them good.”

Sideswipe’s grin returned, sharp as a blade. “Good. Kup loves stories.”

The prison’s corridors stretched out ahead, filled with echoes and the faint rumble of machinery. Rodimus glanced sidelong at Getaway, wishing—not for the first time—that they’d kept their mouths shut.

But the damage was done, and Sideswipe’s swagger was back, leading them deeper into Kaon’s heart.

The air shifted as Sideswipe pushed open a set of heavy gates. The courtyard stretched wide before them, ringed by jagged walls and makeshift scaffolding. It was no ordinary yard—set directly into the far side was a yawning hole, its mouth ringed with crude braces and floodlights that buzzed faintly.

Rodimus slowed, optics narrowing. He pointed with a sharp jerk of his chin. “That’s the mine entrance? In the courtyard? That’s so fragged up.”

Sideswipe’s grin flashed again, almost proud. “Right? I said the same thing the first time I saw it.”

The hum of machinery floated up from below—drills grinding, metal shrieking, voices shouting instructions. The entire yard vibrated with activity, a pit of survival dressed as productivity.

Rodimus dragged a hand down his face. “This place gets more and more slagged every klik.”

“Welcome to Kaon,” Sideswipe quipped, already waving them forward.

They passed groups of weary mechs hauling crates, their optics dulled with exhaustion. Some turned their helms to glance at Rodimus and Getaway, measuring them up with expressions that spoke of both pity and curiosity.

Sideswipe led them toward a section cordoned off by yellowed hazard tape. A makeshift booth stood there, stacked with datapads and rusting tools. Behind it sat a small orange mech, frame delicate compared to most here. His glasses clung stubbornly to his faceplate, one lens cracked.

“Yo, Rung,” Sideswipe called out casually. “Got two newbies for you.”

The orange mech looked up, adjusting his glasses with a practiced motion. His smile was faint, but it carried a strange warmth despite the grime all around. “Ah. New workers.” His voice was soft, but it carried in the courtyard, as though the noise bent to allow it.

Rodimus tilted his helm, optics narrowing slightly. “I'm guessing you’re the operations manager?”

Rung nodded, still smiling. “That’s correct. It's so nice to see new faces after so long, I hope you two get along well with others.”

Rodimus muttered something under his vents that Getaway didn’t catch, but his scowl deepened.

Sideswipe leaned an elbow on the booth, optics glinting with mischief. “Oh, and Rung and Kup go way back. Like… waaaayyy back. I’m talking millennia back.”

Rung’s smile twitched, uncomfortable but still polite. “Yes. We’ve known each other for a very long time.”

Getaway arched a brow ridge, arms crossed as he studied Rung with quiet suspicion. “Millennia, huh? And Kup still stuck you down here?”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘stuck,’” Rung said, tone careful. “But I’ve remained… present.”

Sideswipe chuckled, enjoying the tension he stirred up. “Kup trusts him more than just about anyone else. You know what that means—”

“It means,” Rung interrupted gently, “that if you ever have any problems, you can always speak to me. I may not have all the solutions, but I can listen. Sometimes, that’s all one needs.”

Rodimus blinked, thrown off by the genuine note in his voice. For once, he didn’t have a sarcastic comeback waiting on his glossa. Getaway tilted his helm, watching Rung closely, optics flicking between him and Sideswipe. Something about the orange mech didn’t match the rusted ruin of the prison courtyard.

Sideswipe clapped his servos together, breaking the moment. “Alright! Enough with the soft touches. You two heard him—let’s get you slaggers dirty.”

Rodimus groaned, spoiler twitching tight against his back as he dragged his pedes forward. “This is the stupidest apocalypse I’ve ever been in.”

Rung tapped a small panel on the wall behind his booth, and a side door hissed open with a creak of old hydraulics. “This way, please,” he said, motioning them inside. His voice carried a calm finality that even Sideswipe didn’t challenge.

Sideswipe groaned, dragging his pedes as if reluctant to leave them. “You sure you don’t want me to hang around? Could be fun watching them whine.”

Rung didn’t even glance at him. “I think we’ll manage without you. Thank you, Sideswipe.”

That clipped dismissal earned a bark of laughter from the red mech. He spun on his heel and swaggered back toward the courtyard. “Fine, but don’t come crying to me when they frag everything up!”

The door sealed shut behind him, leaving the three mechs in a dim storage room lined with shelves of rusted gear. Tools hung neatly from pegs, their edges dulled from constant use. Rung moved with familiarity, selecting two heavy picks and two reinforced drills, setting them on a crate in front of Rodimus and Getaway.

“These will be yours,” he explained, his tone even. He paused, though, lenses narrowing ever so slightly. His gaze flicked down, settling on Rodimus’s chest with an intensity that made the air heavy.

Rodimus froze, instinctively crossing his arms over his plating.

Getaway groaned, tipping his helm back against the wall. “Oh, for frag’s sake. First Flatline, now you? That’s two pervs!”

Rung’s optics widened, and he shook his helm quickly. “No, no—my apologies. I didn’t mean it that way.” He adjusted his glasses nervously, voice low. “It’s just… the mechs here… You’ll see soon enough. Forgive me.”

Rodimus shifted uneasily, optics narrowing. He didn’t like the way that sounded.

To cover his nerves, he huffed. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Our plan hasn’t changed anyway. We’re still going to Iacon.” His tone was sharp, defiant, as if daring Rung to argue.

Rung’s smile softened into something sad, almost pitying. “Iacon doesn’t exist anymore. Not as you think it does.”

The words landed like a weight in the stale air. Rodimus flinched but said nothing, his wings twitching uneasily.

“Come,” Rung said gently. He picked up a lantern from the shelf and held it steady as he moved toward the next door.

They followed him down a sloping hallway, the walls narrowing and darkening with every step. The air grew thicker, tinged with the metallic tang of raw energon.

Other miners trudged past them in the opposite direction, their frames smeared with dust and wear. Each one, without fail, gave Rung a nod or a quick greeting.

Rodimus’s optics darted between them all, unease crawling through his frame. He finally muttered under his vents, “Primus, the atmosphere down here is slagged. My processor can barely keep up with the stench.”

Rung chuckled, not unkindly. “You’re not wrong. The air has been heavy for vorns. You get used to it—though I wouldn’t recommend trying.”

Rodimus scowled, but his frown wavered when he noticed Getaway was studying the walls, silent and sharp-eyed as ever.

The lantern’s glow painted them in pale light, their shadows stretching long and distorted. Rung carried on, every step steady, as if he had walked these paths a thousand times before. And Rodimus, despite his complaints, felt something uneasy stirring in his spark—the weight of a place where hope had long been buried.

Rung’s lantern bobbed as he guided them, the air growing thicker with the faint tang of energon and overheated vents. The first door he stopped at slid open with a wheeze, revealing a dimly lit chamber lined with battered recharge slabs and makeshift furniture cobbled together from scrap.

“This is the break room,” Rung said softly.

Rodimus blinked. A pile of mechs was slumped together in the center of the room, limbs tangled like some half-scrapped combiner. Some were snoring, vents hissing softly, while others just sat and stared at the floor with glazed optics. The sight made his plating crawl.

“Frag,” Rodimus muttered under his vents. “Looks like a junkyard sleepover.”

Rung gave a weary little smile. “It's comfort, in its own way. Some mechs… they don’t like to recharge alone anymore.”

Rodimus and Getaway exchanged a glance but didn’t comment. Rung led them onward, the door sealing behind with a sigh.

The next stop was louder. A low hum filled the hall, growing into a mechanical thrum as Rung pushed open another door. Inside was a cavernous room, pipes and conduits tangled overhead, leading down into a battered but functional energon refinery.

“Here,” Rung said, voice carrying a hint of reverence. “This is our refinery. Perceptor—rest his spark—designed it before…” His voice trailed off, optics dimming.

Rodimus stepped inside, staring at the contraption. Crude but clever. The machinery filtered raw energon chunks through a series of glowing tubes, spitting out a more stable liquid into storage tanks. It was ugly, but it worked.

“Red microscope,” Rodimus muttered. “Right?”

Rung nodded once. “Yes. Brilliant mech. Shame about what happened.”

Rodimus’s expression twisted, and Getaway muttered a quiet curse. Neither elaborated.

Rung, sensitive to the tension, quickly steered them toward the next hallway. “Come. There’s more you should see.”

The air grew sharper with antiseptic as they neared the next door. Rung slid it open, and the sound hit them first: a furious voice barking over the grinding whirr of medical tools.

Inside, Flatline loomed over a large mech strapped down to a berth. Two equally massive bots pinned him in place while Flatline’s claws dug into an exposed seam of armor, cables sparking violently.

“You fragging idiot!” Flatline snarled, yanking out a tangle of burnt wiring. “Did you seriously think hiding this was smart? You could’ve gone into stasis-lock! You could’ve died!”

The restrained mech bellowed in pain, straining against the hold of his guards, but Flatline didn’t so much as flinch.

Rodimus flinched instead, one hand tightening over his own plating. “Primus.”

Rung grimaced. “I recommend you both avoid injury, if possible.”

Getaway arched a brow, his tone flat. “Why in the pit is that your medic? Isn’t brutality the opposite of medical care?”

Rung adjusted his glasses with one hand, answering almost absently. “Glitched coding. He means well. His bedside manner leaves much to be desired, but he keeps mechs alive. And he’s one of two we have left.”

Rodimus tilted his helm. “One of two?”

“Yes,” Rung said quietly. “So he’s far too important to dismiss, however… unconventional his methods may appear.”

Rodimus snorted, muttering, “Weird way to show he cares.”

Getaway’s optics lingered on Flatline a moment longer. The medic was still barking furiously, clawing into the mech’s frame with a mix of precision and aggression that made Getaway’s fuel pump turn. He looked back at Rung. “So basically, try not to need him.”

“Exactly.” Rung’s lips curved in a thin, humorless smile. “Now, let’s move on.”

Rung’s steps echoed faintly as he guided them down a broad, sloped corridor lined with piping and flickering emergency lights. The smell of raw energon became stronger with every meter until the hall opened up into a cavernous space.

“This,” Rung said, gesturing with one hand, “is the cart unloading and storage center.”

Dozens of low, tracked carts trundled along rails built into the floor, hauling chunks of unrefined energon from the depths. The air hummed with quiet industry; mechs moved with practiced motions, unloading the heavy chunks and stacking them into reinforced storage bins.

A few of the workers paused to wave at Rung as he passed. Their optics brightened slightly, a rare flicker of something like hope in this underground tomb.

Getaway’s gaze swept across the room, noting the easy nods and half-smiles directed at Rung. “They seem friendly,” he remarked, almost wary.

“Community is important,” Rung replied without hesitation, “especially in a place like this. It fosters the will to survive. Without it, despair wins.”

Getaway hummed under his vents, but didn’t comment further. His optics slid to Rodimus instead, who was staring at the carts as if trying to gauge their weight.

Rodimus shifted, scratching at a seam in his plating. “Hey, Rung.”

“Yes?”

“If you had to sacrifice yourself—completely—so these mechs could have a better life,” Rodimus said suddenly, “would you?”

Rung blinked, taken aback. The question hung in the air, heavier than the energon chunks. He slowed his pace, optics flicking between Rodimus and Getaway as if gauging their intent.

“That’s… a profound question,” he said softly.

Rodimus just watched him, faceplate neutral but optics sharp.

Rung finally came to a halt, folding his hands in front of him. “I’d like to think I would. Yes,” he said after a beat of silence. “If my end could guarantee their survival, I would accept it.”

Rodimus frowned faintly, his gaze drifting to the storage bins. “I don’t know if I could do the same,” he admitted quietly.

Getaway, who had been leaning against the wall with arms folded, tilted his helm toward Rodimus. “You already have,” he said flatly. “For me.”

Rodimus huffed, looking away. “I knew I’d live,” he muttered. “That’s not the same.”

“It’s close enough,” Getaway countered, but didn’t press.

Rodimus’s optics dimmed a little. “I meant… if I had to kill myself. Like, really kill myself. For someone else— for everyone else. I don’t know if I’d have the strength to do it.”

Rung was silent for a long moment, his gaze unusually soft as it rested on Rodimus. “It’s not an easy thing to know,” he said finally. “Or to decide.”

Getaway’s expression remained unreadable, though his optics flicked between the two mechs.

Rodimus rubbed at the back of his neck, the welds on his frame still pulling faintly. “Yeah, well. Hope it never comes to that.”

Rung inclined his helm, but his voice was a whisper when he spoke again. “We all hope that, Rodimus.”

Rodimus gave a dry laugh, but it didn’t sound like humor.

Getaway straightened, pushing off the wall. “So,” he said, deliberately lightening his tone. “You’ve shown us the carts. Where to next?”

Rung glanced back toward the bustling workers, some of whom were still unloading energon with weary motions. “There’s more to see,” he said, voice steady once more. “This isn’t the whole of it.”

Rodimus snorted. “Primus help us if it is.”

Rung led them further along the railing overlooking the storage center, his posture calm, but his optics still distant—still replaying Rodimus’s question in his head.

Rung led them away from the cart unloading center and down a narrower hallway, lit only by dim strips embedded into the walls. The faint hum of energon radiated through the metal as the corridor opened into a massive chamber lined with tall racks and sealed containers.

“This is the energon storage room,” Rung explained, his voice reverent as though he were introducing them to a temple. “Every cube, every drum, every container is carefully inventoried and rationed. It’s survival, stacked floor to ceiling.”

Rodimus’s optics widened at the sight of it all. Drums, cubes, cylinders—the sheer amount of processed energon made his tanks twist with longing. He all but drooled, taking a step forward like a turbofox catching scent of prey.

Then his optics narrowed. His hand shot out toward a familiar sight: two empty drums with distinctive red markings scuffed along their rims. Recognition hit him like a slap.

“Those—” Rodimus barked, striding toward them. “Those were ours! The ones we brought with us before we got jumped and dragged here!”

The drums were completely empty, their lids pried off and tossed carelessly aside.

Rodimus rounded on Rung, spoiler flaring with agitation. “Those were supposed to last us the trip to Iacon!”

Rung’s hands folded behind his back, his expression calm but tinged with sympathy. “And Iacon, Rodimus… is gone.”

Rodimus rolled his optics so hard it looked painful. “Yeah, yeah, everyone keeps saying that,” he snapped. “Like slagging clockwork.”

Getaway, who had been watching with a tighter, more controlled expression, finally cut in. “And how exactly do you know that, Rung?”

Rung tilted his helm. “Because two mechs who used to be here—Perceptor and Brainstorm—came from Iacon. They told us themselves.”

Getaway’s optics narrowed into slits. “They said. Doesn’t mean it’s true. They might have been lying.”

Rung blinked at him, genuinely puzzled. “Why would they?”

Getaway didn’t flinch. His tone sharpened. “Because there are no Quintessons in Iacon, that's what survivors say. And if that’s the case, then Iacon still stands. Which means there’s a chance. A reason to lie.”

Rodimus perked up faintly at Getaway’s words, shoulders straightening. “Exactly.”

Rung sighed quietly, optics dimming as he studied the both of them. “It may very well be true that there are no Quintessons in Iacon,” he admitted. “But if so, it is because there is no Iacon.”

The words landed like a hammer, the chamber suddenly too quiet despite the faint thrum of energon.

Rodimus scoffed loudly, shoving his hands onto his hips. “Yeah? Says who? Two science types who probably never even went back to check?”

“They were there,” Rung said firmly, though his tone never lost its gentle edge. “They saw it themselves. Iacon was reduced to ruin. It was nothing more than rubble and ghosts when they last stood upon its soil.”

Rodimus’s spoiler twitched, his jaw clenching. “That’s—no. That’s not right. Iacon can’t just be gone.”

Getaway folded his arms, optics unreadable. “You’re sure they weren’t exaggerating?”

Rung met his gaze evenly. “Perceptor was not prone to exaggeration. And Brainstorm, for all his… dramatics, would not have fabricated such a thing.”

Rodimus laughed, sharp and too loud. “So that’s it? We’re just supposed to take their word for it and stop trying? Just give up like everyone else hiding down here?”

Rung shook his head slowly. “Not give up. Survive. There’s a difference.”

Getaway’s voice dropped into something colder. “Survival without a future isn’t much of anything, Rung.”

Rodimus smirked at that, though his expression was brittle. “See? He gets it.”

Rung’s optics dimmed further, like shuttered lights. “Perhaps. But if you cling to a place that no longer exists, you’ll break yourselves chasing shadows.”

Getaway looks at Rung, then at the miners in the storage room, then at Rodimus, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, Rung is right. Everyone here is right.

Rung paused near the energon racks as a pair of miners approached with datapads, asking about inventory numbers. He excused himself softly, leaving Rodimus and Getaway at the edge of the chamber.

Rodimus didn’t wait for silence to settle. He leaned close, voice a harsh whisper. “He’s wrong. Iacon’s still there. It has to be.”

Getaway tilted his helm, expression grim. “You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need to know,” Rodimus shot back. “I believe it. That’s enough.”

Getaway exhaled through his vents, low and deliberate. “Belief doesn’t change slagged reality, Rodimus. Even if Perceptor and Brainstorm exaggerated, that doesn’t mean Iacon’s untouched. And look around you—” He gestured to the chamber filled with energon, to the workers hauling cubes, to the stability the camp radiated. “Here works. Here’s safe enough.”

Rodimus turned on him with fire in his optics. “Safe? You call this safe? Locked in pits, watched by perverts, getting patched by a sadist like Flatline?”

Getaway’s shoulders lifted in a shrug, though his field was tight. “Safer than wandering half-starved across feral territory.”

Rodimus clenched his fists so tight the plating creaked. “We aren’t just going to stay here like prisoners. I’m going to Iacon.”

Getaway’s tone dipped, sharp and cool. “And what if it’s gone?”

Rodimus shook his helm violently. “It’s not. Don’t you get it? It can’t be. If Iacon’s gone, then there’s nothing left. And I’m not living in a world with nothing left.”

Getaway studied Rodimus for a long moment, helm tilted, optics unreadable. Finally, he muttered, “Maybe there’s nothing wrong with here. Kup’s group has energon, structure, protection. That’s more than most mechs ever get now.”

Rodimus barked out a bitter laugh. “Oh yeah, structure. Protection. You mean chains and bars. Getaway, you really want to rot in Kaon until your spark flickers out?”

Getaway’s optics narrowed. “If it means surviving, then maybe.”

“Slag that,” Rodimus spat. “Survival isn’t living.”

Getaway leaned closer, voice low and cutting. “And chasing a city that doesn’t exist anymore? That’s not living either. That’s suicide.”

Rodimus’s spoiler twitched sharply, bristling. “I’m going to Iacon,” he repeated, voice raw. “With or without you.”

Getaway’s field pressed against him like cold steel. “You wouldn’t make it a cycle on your own.”

Rodimus’s lips twisted into a sharp grin, though there was no humor in it. “Watch me.”

Getaway stared at him, optics unreadable, hands flexing against his arms like he wanted to grab Rodimus and shake some sense into him.

Across the room, Rung’s calm voice carried faintly as he spoke with the other miners, but neither Rodimus nor Getaway paid him any attention. Their world had narrowed, just the two of them, standing in the shadows of energon that gleamed like captured starlight.

The silence between them grew heavy, until finally Rodimus turned away, his vents hitching. “Iacon’s still there. It has to be.”

Getaway said nothing this time, but the weight of his silence spoke volume.

Rung returned with his quiet shuffle, brushing energon dust off his frame as he rejoined them. “Sorry,” he said gently, “I get caught up sometimes. Let’s move on.”

Rodimus only grunted in reply, still prickling from the argument with Getaway, spoiler twitching faintly as he stalked after Rung. 

The corridors narrowed as they wound deeper into the complex, until Rung finally stopped before a heavy door and keyed it open with a soft chime.

“The barracks,” Rung said, ushering them inside with a slight wave. “Plenty of space for now.”

Rows of berths stretched out in two neat lines, some covered with tools or belongings left behind by their occupants. A faint hum of recharge cycles echoed in the distance where other mechs already slept.

“This room's empty since most mechs prefer to pile up in the break room,” Rung continued, pointing toward a side alcove with a pair of unclaimed berths. “You can use it until more stragglers arrive. Then we may have to shift things around.”

Rodimus didn’t hesitate. He strode in, glanced at the berths, and claimed the farthest one in the corner, tossing himself down on it with exaggerated flair.

Getaway lingered, optics narrowing, before deliberately choosing the berth furthest away from Rodimus. His movements were quiet, measured, almost stubborn in their distance.

Rung blinked at the separation, adjusting his glasses as though they’d somehow fogged over. “I… thought you two were close,” he murmured, genuinely puzzled.

Neither mech answered him. Rodimus turned his helm toward the wall, arms crossed tight against his chest. Getaway laid flat on his berth, hands folded neatly over his plating, staring at the ceiling.

Rung’s optics darted between them, clearly perplexed, before he finally gave a small shrug. “Well, relationships are complex, I suppose.”

He clasped his hands together. “In any case, you should rest. Night shift will be starting soon, and Kup has you listed for day shift. You’ll need your energy.”

Rodimus muttered something under his vents, too quiet to catch, but his field bristled with frustration. Getaway remained silent, optics still locked on the ceiling as if it might hold answers Rung couldn’t give.

Rung took a step back, his voice dropping softer. “If either of you need anything, you know where to find me. I’ll check in tomorrow.”

He turned and slipped out, the door clicking closed behind him, leaving the two mechs alone in the heavy silence of the barracks. For a long moment, the only sounds were the faint whirs of their cooling fans and the muffled sounds of other mechs shifting in recharge down the hall.

Rodimus eventually rolled onto his side, facing the wall. Getaway adjusted his position too, curling slightly, though he kept his optics open and watchful, tracking the shadows that crept along the ceiling as if they might shift into something worse.

The room felt far too large for only two sparks, the empty berths between them echoing the distance neither seemed willing to bridge. The barracks had gone still, every creak and vent cycle settling into a quiet rhythm. Most mechs around them had long since powered down, leaving only the low hum of the base’s systems filling the silence.

Getaway broke it first, his voice low and careful. “Rodimus… I want you to rethink this. About leaving. About Iacon.”

Rodimus didn’t turn. His optics glowed faintly in the dark, facing the wall. “I can’t rethink it.”

“You can,” Getaway pressed, shifting upright slightly on his berth. “You don’t have to go charging into nothing. Kaon’s here. It’s safe. Why throw that away?”

Rodimus’s shoulders tensed, wings twitching against the berth frame. “Because I have to. Iacon’s still out there. I know it.”

Getaway's voice rose just a little despite the need for quiet. “You don’t know that. Everyone here says the same thing—that it’s gone. Scrap, Rodimus, you’ve heard it a dozen times today alone.”

Rodimus finally turned his helm, optics narrowing across the dim distance between them. “And what if they’re wrong? What if it’s not gone? What if there’s still something there worth saving?”

Getaway leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And what if there’s not? You’d risk your spark on a ghost? On a hunch?”

Rodimus’s vents whirred hard as he sat up on his berth, fists clenched. “I can’t just sit here and pretend like it’s okay. Iacon is—” He cut himself off, field flaring before pulling back tight. “It’s home— it's going to be.”

Getaway’s voice softened, though there was still a bite to it. “Kaon could be home too, if you let it. Nobody’s asking you to pretend. Just… stay. With me. With them. Don’t run off into nothing.”

Rodimus looked away, jaw tight. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” Getaway pushed, almost desperate now. “Explain why this matters so much that you’d risk both of us losing you.”

Rodimus’s frame sagged as though the weight of it pressed down too hard. “Because… I need it to still be there. If it’s gone, if everything is gone, then what was the point of all of this? All the fighting, all the losses—what was it for?”

The words hung heavy between them, raw and jagged. Getaway didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t.

Rodimus rubbed his faceplate, optics dimming. “I don’t want to argue anymore. I just want to recharge.”

Getaway sat back slowly, his hands flexing uselessly before curling into his lap. “Fine,” he muttered. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Rodimus’s voice was flat as he lay down again, curling toward the wall. “I won’t change my mind.”

Silence stretched again, sharp as cut metal. Getaway didn’t press further, though his optics stayed lit long after Rodimus dimmed his own.

The distance between their berths felt wider than the entire base, an empty gulf neither of them dared to cross. And as the barracks finally settled into the steady rhythm of sleep, the weight of Rodimus’s resolve lingered like a shadow neither of them could shake.

Chapter Text

A few weeks passed in Kaon, time measured not by stars in the sky but by the endless cycle of shifts, meals, and the faint buzzing hum of the filtration rigs. Days blurred, but habits formed—everyone learned to move with the grind or be crushed by it.

Getaway had slipped into the rhythm easier than Rodimus could have imagined. He laughed with the miners on break, leaned against walls with a lazy charm, and picked up stories from half the survivors who drifted to Kaon. He remembered names, quirks, and debts, trading jokes and favors with ease.

Rodimus, on the other hand, scowled his way through it. The mines drained him, body and spirit, and each cycle left his plating dusted in grime and energon residue. He hated the feel of the tunnels—the weight of the rock above, the stifling atmosphere, the gnawing reminder that this was not what he was meant for.

And still, every night when he returned to the barracks, Rodimus sketched escape routes in his processor. He replayed maps of Kaon from his rather brief time on the surface, memorized guard rotations, and tracked every shipment leaving and entering. He stared so long at the corridors in his head that sometimes he saw them even when he shut his optics.

Getaway noticed, of course. He wasn’t blind. He’d catch Rodimus staring too long at a vent grate or watching a passing guard with narrowed optics. At first, he said nothing. Later, he started throwing subtle barbs, a little shake of the head, a quiet “don’t even think about it.”

But Rodimus always thought about it. That was the problem.

The work itself was brutal. Their section of the mines was narrow, jagged, and unstable. The energon veins were half-tainted, requiring constant sorting and filtering. More than once, Rodimus’s pickaxe had glanced off stone in the wrong way, sending shudders through the tunnel. Getaway always steadied him, quick to quip, “Watch it, hotshot, you’re not supposed to bring the roof down on us.”

Rodimus barely grunted back anymore. His vents wheezed with the dust, his frame protesting each swing, but he kept going. Not because he wanted to be there—never that—but because his stubborn pride wouldn’t let him quit in front of the others.

Getaway made the best of it. He joined in with the miners’ banter, asking questions, trading stories about “the old days” as if he’d been one of them forever. He laughed, leaned on his pick like it was casual, and half the time he didn’t look like a prisoner at all.

Rodimus hated that about him. Hated that Getaway could blend so easily, while he felt like a jagged piece of metal wedged into a machine that wasn’t built for him.

Breaks were the worst. Getaway lounged among the others, energon cube in hand, telling some story that had half the miners chuckling. Rodimus sat a little apart, shoulders hunched, optics burning with something none of them seemed to share: the need to move forward.

One cycle, Sideswipe leaned close to Getaway during break and slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re settling in nice,” he said, grin wide. “Almost like you were built for this life.”

Rodimus had overheard, and the words lodged in his spark like shrapnel. Built for this life. Mining. Prison. Stagnation.

That night, back in the barracks, he whispered to himself that he wasn’t built for this. He was meant for movement. For direction. For leading somewhere.

Getaway rolled onto his side and caught him muttering, voice a little sharp with exhaustion. “You’ll burn yourself out if you keep running circles in your head like that.”

Rodimus didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The next cycle, when they were handed their tools, Rodimus caught sight of one of the supply carts heading toward the main gate. He watched the wheels, the way they rattled against the stone, the guards half-distracted as they checked the cargo. He filed it away. Another possible route. Another maybe.

Getaway noticed the stare, of course. “Rodimus,” he said quietly, so the others wouldn’t hear, “don’t.”

Rodimus lifted the pick and swung, his voice flat over the clang of metal on rock. “I have to.”

The routine ground on, day after day. The mines, the breaks, the endless rhythm of work, eat, collapse into recharge. For some, it became normal. For Rodimus, it became suffocating.

He felt it in every slagging swing of his pick. In every glance at the gates. In every offhand comment from Getaway that sounded just a little too comfortable.

Getaway, meanwhile, seemed to thrive. He was learning the miners’ jokes, weaving himself into their circles like he’d been there for cycles. He talked with Rung in the halls, exchanged nods with guards, and even tolerated Flatline’s fussy repairs.

Rodimus simmered. Every laugh Getaway shared with them grated on him, every relaxed gesture in this prison carved a little deeper into his patience. He wanted out. He wanted Iacon. And he couldn’t stand watching Getaway forget that.

That night, when they returned to the barracks, Rodimus couldn’t keep it inside anymore. The walls felt too close, the silence too sharp.

“What happened to you?” he snapped suddenly, his voice slicing through the quiet. His optics burned as he spun toward Getaway. “What happened to the mech who wanted to go to Iacon?”

Getaway froze mid-step, his expression unreadable for a beat. Then his optics crinkled in a half-cold attempt to show a smile. “I wanted shelter, Rodimus. Somewhere to survive. Kaon provides.”

“That’s slag and you know it,” Rodimus shot back, stepping closer. His vents rattled with the weight of his anger. “This place isn’t shelter, it’s a cage!”

Getaway straightened, his own frame tightening as he met Rodimus’s glare. “A cage that feeds us, that keeps us alive. That’s more than most mechs get right now.”

Rodimus’s fists clenched. “Alive isn’t enough!” he shouted, shoving Getaway in the chest. The impact echoed off the thin walls of the barracks.

Getaway staggered back a step, his optics narrowing. “You think I don’t know that?” he growled, shoving Rodimus right back. “You think I don’t want more? But sometimes you take what you can get.”

Rodimus snarled, spoiler twitching. “I’ll leave eventually. With or without you.”

Getaway’s fist clenched, his expression hard. He stared at Rodimus for a long, cold moment before finally spitting out one word. “Fine.”

The sound of it hit harder than a shuttle. Rodimus felt something sink deep into his spark, a raw, twisting hurt that settled uncomfortably inside him. He didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t want to admit it was there.

So he lashed out. His fist flew before he could think, cracking hard against Getaway’s faceplate. The impact reverberated up his arm, sharp and brutal, louder than he’d expected.

Getaway stumbled back, his hand flying to his jaw, optics blazing with shock and fury. For a second, the barracks went utterly silent, the air charged like static before a storm.

Rodimus’s vents hitched, his arm still raised, spark thrumming wildly. The hurt in his chest hadn’t eased. If anything, it had gotten worse.

Getaway straightened, his optics locked on Rodimus, and for the first time in weeks there was no banter, no easy joke to laugh off the situation. Just raw anger.

Getaway didn’t swing back. Instead, he stood there, one hand rubbing the place Rodimus’s fist had landed—an ugly dent the size of Rodimus’s fist was oh so visible. His voice was low when he finally spoke, like he was fighting to keep it from exploding.

“Why, Rodimus?” His optics burned into him. “Why are you so dead set on Iacon?”

Rodimus flinched, his vents hitching. “I—” His words faltered, shame flickering across his faceplate. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” He turned, as if he could just walk away and bury it.

But Getaway wasn’t about to let him. He surged forward, grabbing Rodimus’s arm in a bruising grip, yanking him back. “Don’t you fragging dare walk away from me right now. Answer the question.”

Rodimus’s optics darted to his face, then down, then away. He shook his head like the words stuck in his vocalizer. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, brittle.

“Sorry won’t cut it!” Getaway snarled, giving him a rough shake. “Tell me why Iacon matters so much. Why you keep throwing yourself against slagging walls for it!”

Rodimus swallowed hard, his spoiler flicking up, betraying just how uneasy he felt. “Because—” He broke off, venting sharply. “Because Iacon is the future. It’s the only future Cybertron has left.”

Getaway blinked, confusion causing him to hesitate. His grip on Rodimus loosened but didn’t let go. “What in the pits does that even mean?”

Rodimus twisted in his hold, desperation sparking in his optics. “It just does, alright?!” His voice cracked, carrying too much weight, too much fear.

Before Getaway could even process it, Rodimus wrenched free, jerking his arm out of his grasp with a violent twist.

“Rodimus—”

But Rodimus was already moving. Already running. His plating flashed as he bolted down the narrow aisle of berths, his steps too loud in the confined space.

“Frag you!” Getaway roared after him, his voice echoing in the barracks. He surged forward like he might follow, then froze, rage choking him down.

Instead, he turned and lashed out at the nearest berth. His pede slammed into the frame with a screech of tearing metal. The force dented the plating, sending a sharp jolt of pain up his leg.

He hissed and staggered back, clutching his pede. “Slagging—Primus-fragged berth—” His curses poured out in a harsh string, filling the empty air.

The damaged berth leaned awkwardly now, a clear testament to his temper. His vents rasped, cycling hard, and he felt something ugly settle into his core.

Rodimus’s words rang in his helm, even as he cursed them. Iacon is the future.

“What the frag does that mean,” Getaway muttered to himself, his voice hoarse. “What are you hiding from me, Rodimus?”

But no answer came. Just the echo of footsteps that had already fled into the dark. And Getaway was left alone with more questions than he could stand.

Rodimus didn’t even know where he was running. His pedes carried him blindly through the dim corridors of the repurposed prison, his vents rattling with every ragged intake. He rounded a corner too fast, plating scraping against the wall—

—only to slam chest-first into a broad, armored frame.

Strong hands caught his shoulders before he could topple backwards. “Whoa, whoa—look what we’ve got here,” Sideswipe said, his grin too sharp for comfort.

Rodimus tried to jerk away, but Sideswipe’s grip was iron. Before he could protest, another shape loomed beside them—sleek yellow plating, harsher lines, a gaze like a blade cutting straight through him.

Rodimus froze. He didn’t need an introduction. He knew who this had to be. Sunstreaker.

“Look at the state of him,” Sideswipe went on, giving Rodimus a little shake, like he was some toy he’d dragged out of storage. “Frag, Sunny, we can’t leave him running around like this. Don’t you think we should take him back to our room? Touch up that paint, maybe fix him up a little?”

Rodimus’s plating bristled, spoiler hiked high. “Don’t touch me.”

Sunstreaker’s optics narrowed, flicking from Rodimus to his twin. “You want to drag him into our quarters?”

Sideswipe’s grin widened. He slid his hands up to Rodimus’s shoulders, petting along the seams like he was already planning his makeover. “Sure. What’s one more project?”

Sunstreaker’s scowl deepened. His pale faceplate twisted with irritation as he reached up to shove Sideswipe’s hand off Rodimus. “You’re unbelievable.”

Rodimus tried to pull away, but Sideswipe only caught him again, fingers curling possessively.

“C’mon, look at him,” Sideswipe said, voice coaxing. “Bare, unpainted alloy, scratches everywhere, paint chipping, weeks old weld lines. He needs it.”

Sunstreaker crossed his arms, glaring at his twin. “If you’re going to drag him into our room, fine. But you keep your fragging servos to yourself. I don’t want to see, hear, or know about whatever you two have going on.”

Rodimus jerked under Sideswipe’s grip, face heating with something equal parts fury and shame. “I said don’t touch me!”

Sideswipe chuckled, leaning close enough that Rodimus could feel the heat radiating off the other bot. “Don’t be like that, Rodimus. I’m just helping you out.”

Sunstreaker’s gaze lingered on Rodimus—sharp, assessing, and unsettlingly silent. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t joke. He only stared, like he was dissecting Rodimus with a single look. Rodimus shifted uncomfortably under that scrutiny, but Sideswipe kept him held in place.

Finally, Sunstreaker muttered, “Kup won’t like it.”

Sideswipe waved it off. “Kup won't care that a miner got a fresh new paintjob.” He gave Rodimus a smug little pat, like he was already settled on his decision. “Right, pretty bot?”

Rodimus gritted his denta. His spark still ached from the fight with Getaway, but now he was trapped between the twins, caught in Sideswipe’s claws while Sunstreaker loomed like a silent, watchful shadow. And Rodimus realized running might have been the worst choice he could’ve made tonight.

Sideswipe didn’t give Rodimus a choice in the matter. His grip clamped like a vice around Rodimus’s arm, dragging him out of the mine and down the narrow hallways of the prison complex. Rodimus stumbled after him, his pedes scraping against the ground with every unwilling step.

“C’mon, you’ll thank me later,” Sideswipe said brightly, as if they were old friends heading to a bar and not him hauling a mech half against his will.

Sunstreaker walked alongside them in silence, his optics hard. He didn’t look at Rodimus much, but every time his gaze flicked down, it carried a weight that made Rodimus’s plating twitch.

Finally, Sideswipe nudged his brother with an elbow and asked, grinning, “Hey, Sunny, doesn’t he look like a buymech to you?”

Sunstreaker shot him a glare sharp enough to cut plating. “Don’t start.”

But Sideswipe kept pushing, tugging Rodimus closer into his side like a trophy. “C’mon, admit it. He’s got the right frame, the right lines, would have made a killing as arena stress relief—tell me you don’t see it.”

Sunstreaker’s lip curled, but his gaze dropped to Rodimus anyway. His optics flicked over the racer’s narrow waist, sleek plating, pointy edges in all the right places, and a pretty face to boot.

A beat passed before Sunstreaker gave the barest hum. “...Yeah. He looks like a buymech.”

Rodimus snapped instantly, spoiler flaring out despite the grip holding him. “I’m not some fragging shareware for sale!”

Sideswipe shushed him, pressing a finger briefly to Rodimus’s lips before he could continue. “Easy, hot stuff. Don’t take it so hard—it’s a compliment. Sunny doesn’t take anyone to berth."

Sunstreaker rolled his optics and kept walking, muttering under his vents.

Rodimus jerked his arm, trying to free himself. “Compliment or not, I’m not fragging property.”

But Sideswipe just laughed and kept dragging him along. “Relax. You’ll like this. Sunstreaker’s the best painter you’ll ever meet. He’ll have you looking way too pretty for the mines in no time.”

Rodimus spat back, “I don’t care about paint.”

“Sure you don’t,” Sideswipe cooed mockingly. “But we do. And Kup cares about what we think. Maybe we can convince him that you’re too valuable to stick underground. Maybe he’ll let you on guard duty—with me and Sunny.”

That stopped Rodimus cold. His pedes dug into the floor, forcing Sideswipe to tug harder. “Guard duty...?”

Sideswipe glanced back at him, smug grin widening. “Yeah. Fresh air, a room in the complex, fun sparring sessions. Way better than swinging a pick in the dark. Don’t you think?”

Rodimus’s vents hitched. He knew what that meant. Guard duty meant being outside the mines. Meant access to the edges of the prison. Meant—opportunity.

Opportunity to escape.

For once, he didn’t argue. He let his frame sag into Sideswipe’s grip, tension bleeding out of him as he stopped fighting the pull forward. “...Fine.”

Sideswipe arched a brow at him, clearly surprised by the sudden compliance. Then he grinned like he’d won something. “That’s more like it.”

Sunstreaker gave Rodimus a long, unreadable look but said nothing, his steps heavy against the floor. And so Rodimus let himself be dragged deeper into the twins’ territory, already turning plans over in his processor. If a coat of paint could buy him the chance to slip away, then frag it—he’d play their game.

At least until he found the opening he needed.

The door to the twins’ quarters hissed shut behind them, and Sideswipe finally let go of Rodimus, giving him a push toward the center of the room. The space smelled faintly of old polish and paint, with empty energon cubes stacked haphazardly in the corner. A table sat against one wall, covered in brushes, rags, polish, detailing clay, and jars of pigments in every imaginable shade.

Sunstreaker immediately took control, pointing to the middle of the room with sharp authority. “Sit. Back straight. Spoiler up.”

Rodimus bristled, wings flicking in annoyance, but the weight in Sunstreaker’s tone left little room for argument.

When he didn’t move fast enough, Sideswipe came up behind him, clapping heavy hands on his shoulders. “C’mon, hot stuff. Don’t keep the artist waiting.” He pressed him forward until Rodimus sank reluctantly to the floor.

Sunstreaker crouched in front of him, optics narrowed. “Keep still. If the paint smudges, I’ll put you through the fragging pits.”

Rodimus scoffed, but the gleam in Sunstreaker’s optics told him the mech wasn’t exaggerating. He forced himself to still his restless frame, though his spoiler tips twitched in irritation.

Sideswipe, ever the nuisance, nudged him into position. He tugged at Rodimus’s wrists until they rested on his knees, nudged his chin up with a crooked finger, then leaned back with a grin. “Perfect. Just perfect. Sunny, you’ve got a good canvas here.”

Rodimus gritted his denta. “I’m not a canvas.”

Sunstreaker ignored him completely, already at the shelves gathering paint tins, a buffer, brushes, and a small spray kit. His movements were precise, practiced, every step screaming discipline.

“You’re lucky my brother likes you,” Sunstreaker said flatly, arranging his supplies. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t waste my time.”

Rodimus narrowed his optics, trying to parse whether that was meant as a threat or a twisted kindness. He opened his mouth to snap back, but Sideswipe cut in with a purr.

“He’s right, you know. I’ve dragged prettier bots than you in here, but Sunny doesn’t give them the time of day. You? You’ve got his attention. That means something.”

Rodimus’s plating crawled. “Oh, joy.”

Sideswipe crouched down next to him, close enough that Rodimus could feel the warmth radiating from his frame. His grin widened as he tilted his helm, optics roaming over Rodimus with unashamed hunger. “You’ll look so fragging pretty when he’s done. I think Getaway will have to agree, too.”

Rodimus’s scowl deepened instantly at the name. His jaw clenched, and his hands twitched where they rested on his knees.

Sideswipe noticed and laughed, leaning in even closer. “What? Touchy about your little partner? Don’t tell me there's trouble in paradise.”

Rodimus snapped his helm toward him, spoiler flaring dangerously high. “Shut up.”

Sunstreaker’s sharp voice cut through the tension. “Both of you, still.” He walked back toward them, arms full of brushes and paint bottles, setting them down with neat, deliberate care.

Sideswipe raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin never left. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave. For now.”

Rodimus shifted stiffly under Sunstreaker’s appraising gaze. The painter looked him over as though he were already halfway transformed into something else, something that existed only in Sunstreaker’s mind.

“Spoiler lower. Shoulders out. Chin steady,” Sunstreaker commanded, nudging Rodimus into position with cool precision.

Sideswipe clapped approvingly from the side. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Rodimus glared at both of them, but he stayed put. The thought of smudged paint and Sunstreaker’s promised threat was enough to keep him from jerking away.

He hated it—hated being looked at, handled, turned into someone else’s project. But when Sideswipe had said guard duty… Rodimus forced his vents steady. He could endure this.

For now.

Sunstreaker tilted his head, holding a brush up to Rodimus’s plating as if measuring. “Do you want the same colors, or new ones?”

Rodimus hesitated. His plating twitched under the scrutiny. “New. I… want to change.”

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Sunstreaker’s face, subtle but unmistakable. “Good answer.” The painter’s movements were precise, deliberate—each small panel of pigment placed like part of a larger, invisible composition. Shades of crimson, gold, and steel-grey shimmered under the overhead light, but Rodimus barely looked at them. His optics kept drifting toward the cooler end of the spread, where blues and purples gleamed like bruised starlight.

Sunstreaker noticed. Of course he did. He didn’t speak at first—just tilted his helm, the faintest smirk ghosting across his mouthplate. “You’re not even pretending to consider the warm tones,” he said. “I was under the impression that fiery paintjob was your whole thing.”

Rodimus ran a thumb over the edge of one deep navy swatches. “Yeah, used to be. Red felt like motion—speed, heat, all that flash.” He hesitated, optics tracing the cool sheen of cobalt nearby. “Now it just feels loud. Like shouting into a void that doesn’t answer anymore.”

Sunstreaker’s smirk faded, replaced with quiet scrutiny. “So you want cold,” he said, more to himself than to Rodimus. “Not lifeless. Just… quiet.” He held up a palette of shades—one a rich violet that shifted when the light hit it, another a deep, oil-slick indigo that caught faint silver in its depths. “These two will play off each other,” he murmured. “Dark enough to hide scarring, light enough to still reflect shape. The contrast will add allure to your frame.”

Rodimus studied the colors, then nodded slowly. “Blue and purple,” he said, testing the sound of it. “It’s different. I've never been anything but the colors I was forged with.” He offered a crooked grin, trying to make the moment feel less important. “Besides, it looks fragging cool.”

Sunstreaker gave a quiet, approving hum. “Cool I can work with.” He dipped the brush into a jar of a bright violet, the color richer and glossier than Rodimus’s dulled surface.

The first stroke was steady, deliberate, dragging pigment along the edge of Rodimus’s chestplate. Sunstreaker’s muttering began almost instantly. “Sloppy edges. Uneven gloss. Who even let you walk around like this? I could never.”

Rodimus frowned, but the apocalypse had truly worn down his paint. “My caretaker painted me until I was old enough to move out. Didn't bother touching it up myself after that—then the Quintessons happened.”

Sunstreaker didn’t respond. He was already moving on, laying down another coat with the precision of a mech who demanded perfection.

Sideswipe leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching the transformation with a grin. “This is gonna take a while, hotshot. Want me to keep you entertained?”

Rodimus gave him a sideways glare. “Not really.”

“Perfect,” Sideswipe said, ignoring him. “So there we were, in the upper echelon arena—for rich business mechs to gamble money away. I had four mechs on me, all bigger, all raged out on boosters. You know what I did?”

Rodimus rolled his optics, but didn’t interrupt. Sunstreaker’s brush pressed against his helm, and jerking away wasn’t an option.

“I tripped one with my own severed arm.” Sideswipe grinned wider at Rodimus’s expression. “Yeah, you heard me right. Ripped it off, used it as a fragging club.”

Rodimus’s lip curled. “You’re making that up.”

“He’s not,” Sunstreaker muttered, brushing over Rodimus’s pauldrons. “Flatline had to reattach it later. Sides cried like a newly forged sparkling.”

Sideswipe gave him a sharp look, but Sunstreaker was already focused on mixing a bright cobalt together.

Sideswipe launched into another memory, voice rising with excitement. “Or how about the time we took down Overburn? Fragging huge mech, claws like blades. The crowd was chanting our names—”

“They were chanting for Overburn,” Sunstreaker corrected, brush never pausing.

Sideswipe huffed, waving him off. “Details. Point is, he came at me, and I dodged just enough that he took his own leg off on the barrier.”

Rodimus snorted before he could stop himself. “That sounds too convenient.”

Sunstreaker leaned back to inspect his work, optics narrowing critically. “It’s true. I saw it. He almost took Sideswipe’s helm with him, though.”

Sideswipe beamed, clearly thrilled by Rodimus’s reluctant attention. “Almost. But not quite.”

Rodimus sat stiffly, enduring Sunstreaker’s careful touch as another layer of paint went on. The muttering continued, every little imperfection called out and corrected with surgical precision.

“Jagged edge. Poor shine. Your last detailer was blind.” Sunstreaker clicked his tongue and switched brushes, applying a sharp streak of violet along Rodimus’s arm plating. “At least you have decent nanites under all this neglect.”

Rodimus wanted to argue, but something in the way Sunstreaker said it kept him quiet. It wasn’t praise exactly—but it wasn’t disdain, either.

Sideswipe leaned forward, optics glinting. “Told you. You’ll look too pretty for the mines when Sunny’s done. Mechs’ll line up for you—but don't worry, I'll keep you safe from hungry servos. I'll let them know you're Getaway’s piece.”

Rodimus tensed, jaw tightening. Pretty wasn’t what he wanted. Freedom was. But if paint could get him closer to that… he’d endure this, too.

Sideswipe stretched his arms above his head with a dramatic sigh. “You know, me and Sunny weren’t just some average brawlers. We were legends in the pits. The crowds cheered so fragging loud, you could feel it in your fuel lines—all in the name of glory.”

Sunstreaker gave a soft snort, not even looking up from his brushwork. “In the name of money, not glory.”

Sideswipe rolled his optics but grinned. “All the same. Glory just comes with the paycheck.”

Rodimus shifted uncomfortably, trying not to react as the brush glided along his chestplate again. Sunstreaker tapped his side sharply. “Don’t move. You’ll ruin the coat.”

Sideswipe leaned in, wagging a finger at Rodimus. “Listen to him. He gets murder-y about smudges.”

Rodimus grumbled but kept still. Sunstreaker finally leaned back, studying the purples and blues coming together across Rodimus’s armor. “Spoiler next. Stay very still. It’s going to tickle.”

Rodimus’s spoiler twitched reflexively. “Tickle? You’re joking.”

Sunstreaker’s voice was calm, almost detached. “You’ll see.” He dipped the brush in a brighter shade of cobalt and began tracing careful strokes along the spoiler’s edge.

The sensation was sharper than Rodimus expected, almost like a static buzz dancing along the plating. He fought to keep from jerking, his hands clenching tight in his lap.

Sideswipe laughed at his expression. “Yeah, it gets everyone the first time. Sunny’s got steady servos but delicate touch. Real fragging annoying when you’re trying not to look weak.”

Rodimus glared sideways. “This isn’t weak. It just feels… weird.”

“Ticklish,” Sunstreaker corrected smoothly, continuing his work without pause. “That’s the word you’re looking for.”

Sideswipe smirked. “Ticklish, weak—same thing.”

Rodimus wanted to snap at him, but the brush dipped into a sensitive seam, and he had to clamp his mouth shut, vents stuttering.

Sideswipe leaned back with a broad grin, clearly enjoying every flinch. “Anyway, like I was saying—there was this one match in one of the smaller arenas. They threw us in against five mechs, all juiced up on some black-market drug. The odds were garbage, but you know what happened?”

Rodimus gritted his denta. “You beat them?”

“Fragging right we did!” Sideswipe puffed his chest. “I took down one, Sunny got three, and the last one—”

“Was already unconscious,” Sunstreaker interjected, painting the spoiler tip with a meticulous flick. “Sideswipe tripped over him and pretended it was intentional.”

Sideswipe clutched his chest in mock offense. “Lies! That was a tactical maneuver!”

Rodimus actually barked a short laugh before he could stop himself. Sunstreaker’s mouth twitched, the smallest curve of amusement, though he kept painting.

Sideswipe pointed at Rodimus with both servos. “See? He gets it. Glory, money—it doesn’t matter. We fought, we won, we survived. That’s all anyone remembers.”

Rodimus fell silent at that, optics narrowing slightly. He thought about survival, about Kaon, about Iacon. The brush tickled again, pulling him back to the moment, and he ex-vented sharply through his denta.

Sunstreaker finally leaned back, setting the brush aside. “Spoiler’s done. Don’t touch it until it dries, or I’ll redo the whole thing.”

Rodimus nodded stiffly, resisting the urge to stretch. “Yeah. Got it.”

Sunstreaker snapped his fingers sharply. “Up. Stand. You want the lower plating redone or not?”

Rodimus ex-vented and pushed himself upright, the joints in his legs creaking faintly from the weeks of nonstop mining. Sunstreaker circled him once, brush and palette in hand like a predator eyeing prey.

Rodimus muttered, “This still doesn’t change anything. Iacon’s waiting.”

Sideswipe leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Frag, you’re stubborn. How many times do I have to tell you? It’s gone.”

“Good riddance,” Sunstreaker cut in flatly, not even glancing up from mixing the next shade. “Overrated city. Shiny facades covering rotten foundations. Built on slave labor and harbored the worst kind of aristocrats known to Cybertronian kind."

Rodimus frowned, his shoulders sagging despite himself. His spoiler dipped until—

“Straighten!” Sunstreaker barked, snapping his brush against Rodimus’s thigh like a whip.

Rodimus jolted upright again, glaring, but obeyed.

Sideswipe chuckled, pushing off the wall to pace around. “Anyway, Sunny! You wanna hear what your canvas did before getting here? Okay, so, Rodimus—Perceptor and Brainstorm—they were the brains of the outfit here in Kaon, right?”

Rodimus’s optics narrowed. “Right.”

“Yeah.” Sideswipe smirked knowingly. “Perceptor rigged half the filtration system we still use. Brainstorm kept it running with his ridiculous mods and constant slagging upgrades. Together, they made this hole actually liveable.”

Sunstreaker crouched, painting careful lines down Rodimus’s shin guards, voice curt. “And then Perceptor got fragged. Crystal corruption. Went feral right in the middle of a night shift.”

Rodimus’s vents stuttered. “What happened?”

“Brainstorm grabbed him,” Sunstreaker said bluntly. “Flew the glitch straight out of camp before anyone could fragging react. Saw them crash from the watchtower. Left a crater out east.”

Sideswipe hummed, his tone almost sing-song. “Everyone thought they were done for. Guess not.” He tilted his helm toward Rodimus with an exaggerated grin. “’Cause you and Getaway ran into them, didn’t you?”

Rodimus stiffened. His fists clenched at his sides. “They were alive when I saw them. Perceptor was still… not himself. And Brainstorm…” He trailed off, jaw tightening, deciding not to mention that Brainstorm had tried to feed him and Getaway to Perceptor.

Sunstreaker stood and inspected the clean lines down Rodimus’s legs. His tone was low, unimpressed. “So they’re wandering Cybertron. Half-dead, half-mad. Figures.”

Rodimus shot him a glare. “They’re alive.”

Sideswipe chuckled again, stepping in close enough to vent hot air over Rodimus’s spoiler. “Alive or not, doesn’t mean they’re coming back here. I doubt Kup would allow it after seeing what happened to Perceptor. You don't come back from that.”

Rodimus’s plating prickled. His processor spun with images of the feral eyes he’d last seen in Perceptor, the way Brainstorm had explained his condition in hysterics. He forced himself to vent steady, not giving Sideswipe the satisfaction of seeing him falter.

Sunstreaker finally stepped back, arms folded, brush dangling loosely from his grip. “Lower half’s done. Don’t smear it.”

Rodimus stayed rigid, spark thudding unevenly in his chassis, optics narrowing on the floor. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker exchanged a glance, unreadable in the dim light of their quarters, before Sideswipe laughed softly under his vents.

Rodimus stood perfectly still, the faint hum of ventilation the only sound filling the twins’ quarters. The new paint gleamed wetly under the harsh ceiling lights, deep metallic blues fading into muted purples that caught in the dim glow like trapped starlight. He didn’t dare move. Every twitch could smudge hours of work—and Sunstreaker’s patience had its limits.

Sunstreaker circled him in silence, brush still in hand, optics narrowed with critical intensity. Every once in a while he’d hum, lean close and correct a smudge, then step back again. Rodimus felt like a statue—one wrong move and he’d ruin perfection.

Sideswipe sprawled lazily across the berth, flipping a spanner in his servo. “He’s actually not bad-looking in cool tones. I'd hit,” he said, tone teasing.

“Shut up,” Sunstreaker snapped without looking up.

Rodimus didn’t move a cable. His optics tracked Sunstreaker’s careful movements as the mech crouched, making minute adjustments near his lower plating. Every motion was deliberate, every brushstroke confident.

Finally, Sunstreaker rose, stepping close enough that Rodimus could feel the heat of his plating. His optics softened for a fleeting second before he leaned in, voice barely above a whisper near Rodimus’s audial. “Do you want your array to match?”

Rodimus froze. His vents caught mid-cycle. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

Sunstreaker didn’t pull back. His voice was low, even—too professional to sound like teasing, but too intimate not to feel it. “If you do, I can send Sideswipe out. This kind of work's meant only for the eyes of the painter… and the customer's partner.”

The words hit like a pulse of static through his systems. Rodimus’s processor spun, the meaning coiling and uncoiling in ways that made his tanks twist. He glanced toward Sideswipe, who was oblivious—still tossing the spanner, smirking at his visage in the polished reflection.

Rodimus’s vents hitched again. “I—” He stopped himself. His spark beat erratically, the word partner echoing like static through his frame.

Sunstreaker drew back just enough to meet his optics. There was no mockery there—just a strange, measured patience. “It's best to do it now so your paint nanites can get used to your whole frame being this color,” he murmured. “But if you decide against it, I won't try to convince you otherwise.”

The moment stretched—Sunstreaker watching, Rodimus still as stone, Sideswipe humming off-key across the room. Then Sunstreaker straightened, turning toward his workstation without another word.

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the faint tick of drying paint and the slow churn of Rodimus’s thoughts. The thought of another mech—let alone a stranger—seeing his spike made his tanks churn. 

He made his decision.

The barracks air was colder, somehow. Rodimus stood in front of the cracked mirror next to his berth, tracing the line where deep indigo bled into violet along his pauldrons. The colors were vivid under the low lights, polished to perfection. He barely recognized himself.

Getaway’s berth was still empty, the sheets half-folded. The low thrum of distant drills from the mines vibrated through the walls, a constant reminder of where they were.

Rodimus turned his wrist, admiring the faint shimmer of purple pigment that caught the light like starlight. Sunstreaker’s craftsmanship was undeniable.

He didn’t remember walking back here. Didn’t remember the conversation ending. But he remembered Sunstreaker’s words. The way they lingered—not as threat, not as temptation, but something else entirely. He sat down slowly, feeling the new paint settle against his plating with a satisfying tingle. The colors suited him more than he expected—vibrant but subdued, like fire caught under glass.

He looked over at Getaway’s berth again and ex-vented sharply, the weight of his choices and unspoken promises pressing down like the Kaon tunnels themselves. But as his optics dimmed, his spark pulsed faintly in rhythm with the hum of the mines—quiet, uncertain, and vividly alive.

Getaway stopped dead in the doorway, his optics flickering wide as they landed on Rodimus.

The light from the barracks overhead buzzed faintly, casting deep violet reflections over Rodimus’s newly polished plating. His silhouette was different—sleeker somehow, sharper in the angles where bright cobalt drew the optics towards his spoiler. He looked nothing like the scuffed, dirt-caked racer who Getaway had met back in Tarn.

“What the frag,” Getaway said flatly, optics narrowing.

Rodimus blinked, caught mid-stretch, arms rising instinctively to half-hide the new colors. “What?” he said, feigning confusion poorly.

“What did you do to yourself?” Getaway stepped forward, gaze sweeping over him like a scanner. “You look like you just rolled off a showroom line. Who painted you?”

Rodimus frowned and straightened, forcing some of his old swagger into place. “It’s not a big deal. Just a repaint.”

“Not a big deal?” Getaway’s tone sharpened, the disbelief audible. “You walk into the mines covered in enough shine to blind half of Kaon, and you call that not a big deal?”

Rodimus’s vents cycled harder, frustration flaring. “Who cares? I wanted a change. You act like it’s some crime to not look like scrap for once.”

“Who did it?” Getaway asked again, his voice lower this time. “Sideswipe?”

Rodimus hesitated. “Sunstreaker,” he said finally. “Sideswipe’s brother. He’s an artist.”

That did nothing to ease Getaway’s tension. He stepped closer, arms folded across his chest. “So you just let those perverts doll you up? What's next—raunchy bumper stickers? An hourly rate etched into your codpiece?”

Rodimus’s optics narrowed. “You’re overreacting. It’s paint, not a brand.”

“It’s fragging vanity,” Getaway snapped, his voice cutting through the room. “You think this is about looking good? This is survival. You make yourself a target looking like that. All shine and color when everyone else is trying not to stand out—are you trying to get slagged?”

Rodimus crossed his arms and glared right back. “It’s fine. You think I’m gonna go running for touch-ups every week? No. It’s just color. Something to make me feel like—” He stopped, the word catching before it formed.

“Like what?” Getaway pushed.

“Like myself,” Rodimus said finally, quieter. “I wanted to feel like myself, like I still have control over my body. Like I still have control over what happens to me."

Getaway scoffed, but there was a hitch of something uncertain in it. “You think paint’s gonna fix what’s wrong with this place? What’s wrong with you?”

Rodimus looked away, spoiler twitching faintly behind him. “It doesn’t have to fix anything. It just… helps.”

Getaway ex-vented sharply, pacing a step back, then forward again. “Helps what? Helps you forget we’re trying to survive here? Helps you pretend we’re not one Quintesson attack away from extinction?”

Rodimus shot him a glare. “It helps me remember that I’m alive.”

The words hit harder than Rodimus probably intended, echoing between them in the thin, stale air of the barracks. Getaway stopped pacing. For a long second, neither mech spoke. The distant rumble of drills from the mines filled the silence instead.

Then Getaway muttered, “You look fragging ridiculous,” and turned toward his berth.

Rodimus tilted his chin defiantly. “Don’t care if you like it or not. Wasn’t for you.”

“Good,” Getaway said without looking back, voice clipped. “Because I don’t.”

Rodimus’s lips curled into a bitter half-smile. “Yeah. You’ve made that real clear.”

Getaway sat on the edge of his berth, elbows on his knees, helm bowed. His vents ran slow, controlled, but his optics stayed locked on the floor.

Rodimus watched him for a moment longer, the hurt under his spark twisting like a gear stripped of its teeth. Then he turned away too, lying back on his berth with a tired ex-vent, the faint gleam of his new colors catching in the low light of the barracks.

Even when their optics dimmed for recharge, the tension didn’t ease. It lingered between them, sharp and humming—unspoken, unresolved, and impossible to ignore.

Chapter Text

Rodimus stood before the mirror, his reflection catching what little light filtered in through the high, cracked ceiling panel. This mirror wasn’t broken—no spiderweb fractures distorting his face, no cloudy streaks of grime turning his colors dull. It was whole. Clear. It showed him exactly as he was.

He grinned.

The deep indigo across his shoulders gleamed faintly, dark enough to look dangerous under the shadow, while the violet streaks down his arms seemed to pulse with color every time he shifted. He tilted his helm one way, then the other, admiring the way the light caught along the sharp edges of his helm crest.

“Primus,” he muttered to himself, turning to get a better look at his flank. “Sunstreaker wasn’t kidding. He knows what he’s doing.”

He pivoted again, spoiler raising slightly, and struck a mock-heroic pose—one servo on his hip, the other outstretched like he was pointing toward some far-off horizon. Then he laughed, the sound bubbling out before he could stop it. It felt good to laugh. It had been so long since he’d felt that sound come out of him without bitterness behind it.

He spun around, the motion smooth and quick, plating shifting softly with the motion. For a moment, he almost forgot where he was—forgot the mines, the ash-colored sky outside, the constant rumble of drills and shouting. In the mirror, all he saw was color, movement, life.

He caught his own gaze again and smirked. “Still got it,” he murmured.

The room Kup had given him wasn’t much, but it was something. An old office from the prison’s administrative wing, walls still lined with faded filing cabinets and datapads whose power cells had long since drained. A berth had been shoved into the corner, a thin blanket folded neatly over it—Kup’s idea of an upgrade from the barracks.

Rodimus had to admit, it was better. No snoring, no half-dozing mechs talking in their recharge cycles, no Getaway scowling at him from across the room. Just him, the quiet hum of the overhead lamp, and the reflection of someone who finally looked like himself again.

He leaned forward, inspecting the fine detailing near his jawline—Sunstreaker had painted tiny filigree patterns there, almost invisible unless the light hit at the right angle. It made his face look sharper, his features more defined.

“Could’ve been a model,” he said to his reflection, grinning. “Or a racing star, like Blurr.”

His grin faltered for only a second before he caught it and forced it back. No—no dwelling. Not today.

He backed up another step, taking in the full picture. The cracked tile floor reflected his pedes faintly, and he turned one pede out, admiring the symmetry of the color gradient running up his legs. The purple at his knees bled upward into that rich blue across his hips and midsection—it was bold. Confident. It felt like him.

And for once, no one was there to tell him otherwise.

He straightened his spoiler, flexed his servos, then spun again, watching how the light slid across his armor. His laugh came easier this time, lighter, freer. “Too bad Getaway couldn't see the beauty in this paint job. Hah, who needs him. I can entertain myself.”

The thought made him snicker to himself.

He ran a servo along his forearm, feeling the smoothness of the fresh paint, the faint texture difference where the pigments overlapped—Sunstreaker only had so many paints, mishmashing textures was bound to have happened. It was still new—still smelled faintly of polish and cleaner.

Kup had said he’d be starting guard training later that cycle, but right now, Rodimus couldn’t bring himself to care. The thought of fighting, training, sparring felt distant to him. He wanted to stay here a little longer. Stay in this moment where he didn’t feel like a survivor. 

He glanced back at the mirror again and lifted an optic ridge. “Guard Rodimus,” he said experimentally, striking another pose. “Hmm. Doesn’t sound bad. Has a nice ring to it. Lieutenant Rodimus— eugh, nah.”

He tried another: “Rodimus Prime.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Okay, definitely not.”

He leaned closer, studying his own expression, the subtle spark of brightness in his optics. It wasn’t arrogance—not really. It was recognition. He smiled quietly to himself, not the forced grin he usually wore when he had to act strong for everyone else, but something smaller. Softer.

He looked good. Better than he had any right to look in a place like this.

The sound of laughter in the hallway broke Rodimus out of his reverie. He turned toward the door, optics narrowing just as it slid open with a hiss.

“Knock, knock, sunshine,” Sideswipe’s voice sang out, smug as ever. He leaned against the doorframe, one servo perched on his hip. “You decent, or should I give you a minute to finish admiring yourself? Step out so you can feel yourself up?”

Rodimus groaned. “You’re disgusting.”

“I know,” Sideswipe said with a grin, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “But good news! I brought someone to check out your fancy new paint job—and, y’know, your internals too. Make sure you’re all cleared for your big debut as Kup’s shiny new guard.”

Behind him stepped a white and red mech, smaller than Sideswipe, with calm optics hidden behind a visor and a tidy medical kit slung over one shoulder. He gave Rodimus a polite nod. “First Aid, at your service! Kaon’s lead field medic. I’m just here to confirm you’re in fit condition for duty.”

Rodimus straightened automatically. “Oh. Uh—yeah. Sure.”

“See?” Sideswipe said, walking a slow circle around Rodimus as if he were inspecting a piece of art. “Look at him, Aid. Perfect frame balance. Clean lines. Fresh paint. He’s practically a walking recruitment poster—which are totally still relevant.”

First Aid’s optics flicked toward Sideswipe with weary patience before turning back to Rodimus. “He does appear to be in good structural condition,” he admitted. “Good plating coverage, minimal corrosion. Whoever painted you took the time to reseal your joints properly.”

“That’d be Sunstreaker,” Rodimus muttered.

First Aid hummed. “That explains it.” He tapped his datapad, then looked up again. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll run a brief diagnostic. I’ll need to plug into your medical port.”

Rodimus hesitated, his hand unconsciously brushing over the panel just below his nape. “You sure that’s necessary?”

First Aid gave him a small, reassuring nod. “Standard procedure. I can’t clear you for combat unless I know your systems are stable.”

Sideswipe leaned in, grinning. “C’mon, hot stuff, you gonna make the nice medic beg?”

Rodimus shot him a glare, but finally sighed and nodded. “Fine. Just make it quick.”

The plating slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the compact medical port beneath. First Aid stepped forward smoothly, plugging in a slender data cable. His optics dimmed slightly as he focused on the readings streaming across his visor.

For a few kliks, the room was silent except for the faint hum of data transfer. Then First Aid leaned forward.

“Hm.”

Rodimus immediately tensed. “What?”

First Aid didn’t answer right away. He flicked through several readouts, optics narrowing in concentration, then started jotting notes on his datapad. “Your energon filtration’s uneven. Pressure’s slightly low. You’ve been pushing your systems hard—too hard, considering your current energon intake.”

Rodimus looked away. “Yeah, well, my frame wasn't built for mining.”

First Aid sighed, the sound exasperated but not unkind. “You need to take better care of your frame. Deprivation like this compounds over time. You’ll end up with stress fractures or overheating if you keep it up. I'll speak with Kup about increasing your energon rations.”

Sideswipe gave a theatrical whistle. “Hear that? Doc says you’re fragile. Guess I’ll have to carry you to work.”

Rodimus shot him another glare. “You'd be dragging my cold, gray corpse before I ever agree to that.”

First Aid ignored the banter, continuing to scroll through the readings. His optics lit up behind his visor in surprise. “Wait—hold on.”

Rodimus blinked. “What?”

The medic leaned closer to his datapad, rereading something twice. Then he let out a low hum of intrigue. “Flatline mentioned a strange spark mod when he looked over your file, but this—oh-ho—this is not what I was expecting.”

Rodimus stiffened instantly, spoiler twitching upward. “Leave it.”

First Aid tilted his helm slightly. “Rodimus, this isn’t something you just ignore. There’s an energy fluctuation pattern here that shouldn’t even be possible without intentional modification. Did someone install—?”

“I said leave it,” Rodimus snapped, stepping back and yanking the cable from his port. The movement broke the connection with a sharp click.

First Aid blinked, optics widening slightly at the sudden outburst. Sideswipe’s grin faltered for once, his gaze flicking between them.

Rodimus’s optics burned a little too bright. “It’s not important. You got what you needed, right? I’m standing. I’m functioning. I can swing a weapon. That’s all Kup cares about, right?”

First Aid slowly powered down his datapad, his expression unreadable. “All right,” he said quietly. “If you insist.”

Sideswipe raised both servos in mock surrender. “Whoa, easy there, hotshot. No one’s accusing you of anything.”

Rodimus didn’t answer. He turned sharply back to the mirror, pretending to adjust his plating just to give his servos something to do.

Finally, First Aid gathered his things and nodded once. “You’re cleared for duty,” he said. “But if you start feeling off—overheating, instability, spark pain—report to me—or Flatline, if he's closer—immediately.”

Rodimus gave a short nod without turning around.

As the medic left, Sideswipe lingered at the door, waiting for Rodimus to follow him, his expression a strange mix of amusement and curiosity. “You’ve got secrets, Roddy,” he said, tone light but eyes sharp. “I like that in a guy.”

The walk through the dimly lit corridor felt longer than usual. Rodimus kept his optics trained forward, vents shallow and restrained. The prison complex is much quieter than the mines were, but his focus was on keeping his plating steady—keeping his hands from drifting up to his chest again.

Even so, instinct won out. His servo brushed lightly across the panel over his spark, as if to reassure himself that it was still there, that no one could see the faint, unnatural pulse beneath.

Sideswipe caught it instantly. Of course he did. “What kinda mod you got under there, Roddy?” he asked, voice too casual to be genuine.

Rodimus’s frame stiffened. “Shut up.”

“Oh, c’mon, that’s not an answer,” Sideswipe teased, stepping in closer, grin flashing in the dim light. “You got all twitchy when First Aid mentioned it. Makes a mech curious.”

Rodimus sped up his pace. “Drop it.”

Sideswipe hummed as if debating whether to push, then suddenly reached out and grabbed hold of Rodimus’s spoiler—firmly.

Rodimus hissed and flinched, the contact shooting through his sensory relays. “Hey—!”

“Listen,” Sideswipe said, his tone losing its usual playfulness, replaced by something harder, more serious. “I might not be a medic, but I need to know if the mech fighting next to me is gonna fraggin’ collapse from some shotty mod in the middle of a fight.”

Rodimus’s vents hitched, face twisting between frustration and discomfort. “You don’t—”

Sideswipe tightened his grip slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to demand attention. “If you glitch out in a fight, you put both of us at risk. So yeah, I’m asking.”

For a long moment, Rodimus didn’t respond. His optics burned with restrained fury as he stared at the wall ahead. Then he finally bit his lip, glaring sideways at the red mech. “The mod won’t make me collapse.”

Sideswipe arched an optic ridge. “Won’t, huh? Sounds like a pretty confident claim.”

Rodimus growled low, spoiler twitching in Sideswipe’s grip. “It won’t even affect my combat skills unless—”

He caught himself mid-sentence. His jaw clamped shut, optics darting briefly to Sideswipe’s hand still gripping the edge of his spoiler.

“Unless what?” Sideswipe pressed, grin creeping back in. “C’mon, you can’t start a story like that and not finish it.”

Rodimus yanked his spoiler free with a sharp twist and stormed down the hall, footsteps echoing like hammer strikes. “Forget it.”

“Unless what?” Sideswipe repeated, following with that infuriatingly light tone.

Rodimus didn’t answer. His vents were running hot now, partly from anger, partly from panic. He could practically feel the pulse of his spark thrumming through his frame—taunting him about a secret that isn't his to tell.

“Roddy,” Sideswipe called again, catching up easily. “You’ve got me really curious here.”

Rodimus shot him a glare over his shoulder. “Curiosity’s gonna get you scrapped one of these days.”

“Yeah? Maybe. But it’s also kept me alive.” Sideswipe smirked, unbothered by the threat. “Besides, if I’m gonna be training with you, I deserve a little transparency, don’t you think?”

“Transparency isn’t my strong suit,” Rodimus muttered, shoving his hands against his chest plating.

“I’m getting that,” Sideswipe replied, still tailing him as though the argument amused him more than anything. “But you do realize Kup’s gonna find out eventually, right? You think the old mech doesn’t have records on everyone he trains?”

Rodimus’s pace faltered for just a second, but he didn’t stop. “He doesn’t know everything.”

Sideswipe tilted his helm. “You’re seriously keeping something from Kup? You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

Rodimus didn’t respond, the tension in his shoulders saying everything.

The heavy metal door to the training grounds came into view up ahead—scuffed, dented, and buzzing with faint energy from the protective fields beyond it.

Sideswipe jogged a few steps forward to match pace again, leaning sideways to catch Rodimus’s optic. “So? Unless what? What causes that mod to change your combat effectiveness?”

Rodimus exhaled sharply, vents flaring. “You want to find out so bad,” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Sideswipe grinned. “You trying to pick a fight, Roddy?”

Rodimus reached the door and slapped the control panel harder than necessary, the lock disengaging with a clank. “You talk too much.”

“That’s a matter of perspective.”

Rodimus pushed the door open and strode inside, the floodlights casting his new colors in harsh, brilliant contrast against the gray metal of the training floor.

Sideswipe followed a step behind, still smirking but with a glimmer of intrigue in his optics now. Whatever this mysterious spark mod was, it wasn’t just vanity or reckless tinkering—it meant something.

And by the look on Rodimus’s face, Sideswipe was starting to realize that whatever it was… Rodimus was terrified of it.

Kup stood like a statue at the far end of the training grounds, back straight despite the years, his silhouette framed against the glow of the sparring lights. His green armor was worn and pitted, but polished where it mattered—across his chestplate, his pauldrons, and the deliberate tally marks scratched into his thigh plating. He turned slowly when Rodimus and Sideswipe entered, optics narrowing under heavy, time-sculpted ridges.

Rodimus’s steps faltered. Kup didn’t move. He simply looked—and somehow that was enough to make Rodimus feel a thousand cycles less certain of himself.

Sideswipe gave a low whistle under his vents. “You’re in for it now, Roddy,” he muttered, stepping past him with a grin. Before Rodimus could retort, Sideswipe gave his aft a sharp slap, laughing as Rodimus yelped and spun around.

“Luck,” Sideswipe said over his shoulder as he sauntered toward the benches. “You’ll need it more than I will.”

Rodimus glared at him, rubbing his posterior plating, but Kup’s gravel-rough voice cut through before he could respond.

“Get your helm on straight, mech.”

Rodimus snapped his attention towards Kup. Kup’s expression didn’t soften. “You know me, but just to make sure you know me, I'll introduce myself again.” He stepped closer, the faint creak of ancient joints audible even under his weight. “Name’s Kup. General Kup. Fought in the Quintesson war long before the invasion even started.”

Rodimus’s mouth went dry. He’d heard stories of that war—half myth, half horror tale—about how the old generations had bled themselves dry fighting the five faced freaks and their armada in the name of freedom for all Cybertronians. The idea that this mech, this scar-etched survivor, had lived through it all those millions of years ago—and continued to live now, was surreal.

Kup studied him silently for a long moment. Then, without preamble, he said, “You look like trouble.”

Rodimus blinked. “Uh, thanks?”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

From the benches, Sideswipe snorted, while Sunstreaker—polishing a blade until it gleamed—shot his brother a glare that said shut up.

Kup ignored them both, circling Rodimus like a drone scanning for flaws. “New paint,” he muttered, unimpressed. “Shiny. Stands out too much. You planning on distracting the Quintessons with your reflection?”

Rodimus’s spoiler twitched. “I wasn’t—uh—it wasn’t for—”

“Don’t care.” Kup’s optics flicked up to his faceplate again. “You a fighter?”

Rodimus hesitated. “I’ve fought before.”

Kup’s mouth curved slightly—not quite a smile. “That’s what every rookie says before I knock ’em on their aft.”

Sideswipe hooted from the bench. “You will get knocked on your aft, Roddy, I guarantee it!”

Kup’s servo shot up in Sideswipe’s direction without even turning. “And you, loudmouth, will run drills until your paint peels if you keep distracting my trainees.”

Sideswipe shut his mouth with an exaggerated zip motion. Sunstreaker smirked faintly and resumed honing his sword.

Kup’s attention returned to Rodimus. “Now. You’ve got a fast frame—built for running, not brute force. That right?”

Rodimus nodded cautiously.

“Good. That means you’ll learn to dodge before you learn to hit. We don’t need another corpse thinking he’s invincible.”

Kup moved to a rack of training weapons and pulled out two shock-batons, tossing one to Rodimus. The baton clattered into his hands heavier than expected. Kup spun his own easily, the motion fluid despite his age.

“We found a bunch of these when we raided this place for shelter. You ever handle one of ‘em before?” Kup asked.

Rodimus twirled it awkwardly, managing not to drop it—barely. “Uh. Once.”

Kup’s optics gleamed faintly. “Good. Then you won’t mind learning how to really use it.”

Rodimus’s vents hitched. “Wait, are we—?”

Kup struck first.

The baton slammed against Rodimus’s, sparks crackling from the impact. The force nearly knocked him off his peds. He stumbled back, optics wide.

Kup didn’t relent. He pressed forward, driving blow after blow, each movement efficient, merciless, and calculated. “Rule one—don’t think, move!”

Rodimus scrambled to parry, his spoiler twitching with every jolt of energy down his arm. “You could’ve warned me!” he hissed.

“War doesn’t warn you,” Kup snapped, twisting his wrist and hooking Rodimus’s baton downward. “Rule two—don’t talk, react!”

From the benches, Sideswipe leaned back, watching with open amusement while Sunstreaker muttered something under his breath about Kup’s tendency to break recruits before lunch.

Kup shoved Rodimus backward with a final jab that sent him stumbling into the dirt. “Rule three,” Kup said, planting the tip of his baton near Rodimus’s chest, “don’t ever underestimate your opponent—ever.”

Rodimus panted, plating scuffed, optics wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

Kup finally stepped back, letting the baton lower. “Get up. Again.”

Rodimus stared at him for a moment longer before pushing himself to his feet, jaw set.

Kup’s expression didn’t change, but there was the faintest hint of approval in his optics. “Good. Maybe there’s a fighter in there after all.”

And in the background, Sideswipe clapped slowly, grinning wide. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

The low hum of mining drills vibrated faintly through the metal walls, echoing down the tunnels like the slow heartbeat of a dying city. Getaway sat near the mouth of one of the shafts, idly rotating his wrist joint until it clicked smoothly again. He’d been waiting for the shift change—but truthfully, he was just enjoying the momentary quiet before the next round of physical labor.

That, and he was eavesdropping.

“—I’m telling you,” Flatline’s voice grated, sharp and dry as rust, “half of these miners are one cracked weld away from collapsing. If they don’t learn to pace themselves, I’ll have to start recycling limbs for repairs.”

A softer, more even tone followed, calm but tired. Getaway’s heard that voice before, often times coming into the mines to argue with Flatline about bedside manners. First Aid, Getaway thinks his name is. “They’re exhausted, Flatline. Not malfunctioning. You can patch a joint, but you can’t patch morale.”

“Hmph.” Flatline’s scoff was audible even from the next corridor. “Morale doesn’t mine energon. Work does.”

“Actually,” came Rung’s gentle interjection, “studies from before the invasion indicated that increased social morale correlates to higher productivity and—”

“Oh, please,” Flatline interrupted. “Don’t start quoting pre-invasion research journals again, Rung.”

Getaway leaned against the tunnel wall, optics glimmering. It wasn’t often you caught those three in the same place—Flatline always too busy repairing someone’s bad decision in the mine's medibay, First Aid presumably busy on the surface with Kup and the resource scavengers, and Rung… well, Rung just existing, in that oddly persistent way he did.

He leaned closer, pretending to check the calibration on his tool, listening.

First Aid sighed. “They’re tired, Flatline. They’ve been tired for months. You can see it in how slow they move, how little they talk. We need to find a way to lift their spirits—”

“By doing what?” Flatline snapped. “Therapy sessions? Slumber parties? Let's get them gift cards for a spa day!”

Getaway couldn’t resist. He rounded the corner with swagger, “Nah. What about a dance party?”

All three turned.

Flatline’s optics narrowed immediately. “Were you listening to our conversation?”

Getaway raised both servos in mock innocence. “I was walking by. Can’t help it if your voices carry, doc.”

Rung blinked slowly. “A… dance party?” he repeated, as if tasting the words for the first time in centuries.

“Yeah,” Getaway said, stepping forward with easy confidence. “Back before everything went to the Pit, those were the big thing. Everyone’d show off their plating, loosen up their joints, interact with peers, the like. Morale through motion, yeah?”

Flatline groaned audibly. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Getaway said, folding his arms. “You’ve got everyone slogging down here day after day with nothing to look forward to but a ration cube and another day of hard labor. What’s the harm in letting them have a night off?”

First Aid’s optics brightened with cautious hope. “Actually, that… might work,” he said, tapping his chin. “Music, movement—it’d stimulate coolant circulation, help relieve stress on the frame, maybe even reduce microfracture risk. You know, medically speaking.”

Flatline turned to him, scandalized. “You’re not actually entertaining this—”

“Why not?” Rung cut in mildly, surprising them both. “He’s right, in principle. Uplifting morale is vital. And community events were… quite beneficial in pre-invasion cycles.”

Flatline threw his servos up. “Next, you’ll tell me we should install mood lighting and hire a DJ.”

“Now that’s an idea,” Getaway said smoothly, leaning one elbow on a console. “I mean, I can’t promise a DJ, but I can rig up a sound system from the busted speakers and cassette player in storage. Just need a few volunteers.”

Rung smiled faintly, looking between them. “It would take some organization, of course. Space allocation, safety checks…”

Flatline groaned louder, rubbing his temples. “By the Matrix. You’re all infected with optimism.”

“Come on,” Getaway pressed, taking a step closer. “You said yourself half the miners are falling apart. Think about it—moving around, laughing a little, stretching their frames. You can call it ‘joint recalibration therapy’ if that helps you sleep at night.”

First Aid actually laughed, the sound small but genuine. “Joint recalibration therapy. I like that.”

Rung chuckled under his breath. “It does sound rather clinical, doesn’t it?”

Flatline crossed his arms tightly. “Fine. But only under strict supervision. No stupidity. No overexertion. And Primus help me if someone tries to turn it into a—”

“A rave?” Getaway supplied helpfully.

Flatline glared. “Or anything the like.”

“Not like we have access to engex or boosters,” Getaway shrugged, tapping the side of his helm. “You’ll see. This’ll do everyone some good.”

Rung nodded approvingly. “I’ll assist with the coordination, then. I can handle announcements and scheduling.”

Flatline muttered something about regretting every life decision that led him here, but Getaway caught the faintest smirk tugging at the medic’s lips.

“See?” Getaway said as he turned to leave, satisfied. “Knew you’d all come around. Guess I’ll start working on the music setup.”

As he walked away down the tunnel, he could still hear Flatline’s grumbling echo behind him—something about “fools with rhythm instead of sense”—but Rung’s soft chuckle and First Aid’s amused hum told Getaway all he needed to know.

The miners’ washroom was quiet at this hour, save for the slow drip of condensation from a cracked pipe somewhere overhead. The air was thick with metallic humidity and the smell of solvent, barely masking the underlying scent of dust and sweat and hot metal. Getaway stepped inside, optics adjusting to the low light.

He’d been here hundreds of times—rinsed off grime, washed out his joints, scraped slag from between his seams—but tonight, it felt different. He approached the row of battered communal mirrors, their surfaces scratched and fogged, reflections warped. Even so, the shape that looked back at him was unmistakably his own.

He leaned close, optics narrowing. His once-sleek white plating was dull and gray from weeks of dust, chipped at the edges, oil-stained along the seams. A smear of dirt ran across his cheekplate where he’d wiped at it earlier, thinking it was coolant. He looked more like a half-broken miner than the smooth-talking saboteur he’d used to be. 

“Primus…” he muttered, tracing a scratch near his jaw. “What a mess.”

He ran his servos through the shallow basin, the solvent trickling weakly from the spout, and splashed some over his faceplates. He scrubbed hard, watching blackened runoff trickle down the drain. Still, the dullness remained. No polish. No shine. Just a shell of his old self.

He caught sight of his reflection again, disgusted. It wasn’t just the grime—it was the way the light hit him wrong. The way the edges of his plating no longer caught any gleam. The mines had stripped the luster from everyone, but somehow, it stung more when he saw it on himself.

And then, of course, came the thought. The spark-deep irritation that twisted into something sharper—something wistful. Rodimus.

He could still picture him standing in the barracks doorway earlier that week, new paint shimmering like starlight over fresh armor, blue and purple hues almost glowing in the dim light. The color looked foreign down here, too bright for the dulled plating everyone else sported.

Getaway rubbed where the dent from Rodimus’s fist had been in his faceplate before Flatline had popped it out for him. “Show-off,” he muttered to the mirror, though the heat behind the words felt more self-directed than not.

He leaned closer, optics tracing the cracks spidering across the glass. He remembered how Rodimus had defended the paint job, chin high and defiant, refusing to back down even when Getaway had snapped at him. And Kup promoting him hadn’t helped things.

But… what if he could make it work?

Getaway straightened, staring into his own optics. The idea was forming—half desperate, half strategic. That dance party he’d just talked his way into might be more than a morale booster. It could be an opportunity. A chance to keep Rodimus close.

“Convince him to stay,” he said under his breath, the words hanging like a promise.

He ran his thumb along a seam in his forearm, wincing as he felt the grit packed into the joint. “But not like this,” he muttered. “Not covered in slag and dirt.”

He turned the solvent sprigot further open, even though the water sputtered out unevenly. He washed again, harder this time, until the trickle turned gray with runoff. Every motion was rough, almost punishing, as if he could scrape the exhaustion off his frame if he just tried hard enough.

His plating didn’t shine, not really. But as the light flickered above him, he could see faint streaks where the color showed up under the layers of caked up dust. Just barely. It was something.

He braced his servos on the edge of the sink, optics flicking up to the mirror again. The mech looking back still didn’t look like the old Getaway. He looked leaner. Harder. Less confident and more… hungry. But that hunger sparked something that had been missing for a long time—a sliver of drive.

He tilted his helm slightly, imagining what Rodimus would think if he saw him without all the grime, his plating freshly polished, the lighting just right. The thought made his chest tighten, his spark pulsing uncomfortably.

“Seduce him into staying…” The words slipped out as a murmur, soft, almost incredulous. It sounded ridiculous, almost regrettable.

Rodimus was proud, easily flustered, but eager to be wanted—Getaway knew that type. He’d made a life off reading mechs like that. All he’d have to do was make Rodimus feel like staying with him was the smart choice. The only choice.

He ran a servo down his chestplate, frowning again at the smudges that wouldn’t wash off. “Guess I’ll have to find some polish before the party,” he said dryly. “Can’t seduce anyone looking like I crawled out of a smelter.”

The solvent hissed off. Silence filled the washroom again. Getaway stared at himself one last time, tracing his reflection’s outline in the cracked glass.

He didn’t know what he was trying to prove anymore—to Rodimus, to the others, or to himself. He turned and left the washroom, the dim overhead light flickering behind him as the mirror trembled from the vibration of his heavy footsteps—leaving faint, wet marks smeared across the glass.

Rodimus lay flat on his back, vents wheezing as his optics flickered dazedly at the ceiling. The overhead lights of the training hall seemed much too bright, the glare stabbing at his optics while the hum of distant machinery rattled faintly through the floor. He could still feel the echo of Kup’s hit—a heavy, well-placed strike that had sent him sprawling to the floor.

He groaned, pressing a servo against his aching midsection. “Was that—” He coughed once, optics squeezing shut. “—was that necessary?”

Kup’s gruff voice rumbled above him, casual as ever. “You dropped your guard again, mech. In a real fight, that’d be the end of ya.”

Rodimus cracked an optic open to glare up at him. Kup was standing there with his arms crossed, optics dim, the very image of unamused authority. “You could’ve told me to move my guard instead of using me as a demonstration.”

“You think the ferals would tell ya that,” Kup said, his mouth twisting into a smirk. “I'm surprised you've lasted this long.”

Rodimus let out a noise halfway between a groan and a curse, trying to push himself upright. His frame protested, joints stiff from overuse and half-healed bruises, but he managed to sit up with a wince. “You hit like a shuttle.”

“That’s the point.”

Rodimus was about to say something sharp back when the door hissed open. Both he and Kup turned as Rung entered, holding a datapad and wearing that ever-patient smile that seemed permanently etched into his face.

“Ah, Kup!” Rung greeted warmly. “I was hoping to find you here—hope I'm not interrupting something. I wanted to discuss a recent suggestion made by one of the miners.”

Kup’s brow ridge twitched. “If it’s another complaint about rations, tell ‘em to take it up with Flatline or First Aid first.”

“No, no,” Rung said, stepping further into the room. “Nothing of the sort. It’s actually about morale. Getaway suggested—rather enthusiastically, I might add—that we host a small event. Something social. Like a… well, a dance party.”

Rodimus’s optics flickered in annoyance at the mention of Getaway. “A what now?”

Rung smiled, completely unfazed by his disbelief. “A dance party! You know, music, movement, socializing. It would do wonders to lift the spirits around here.”

Kup made a low sound in his throat that might have been a growl. “This is a prison complex, not a blasted nightclub.”

“Yes, but even soldiers—and miners—need time to rest and reconnect,” Rung countered, gesturing with his datapad. “You’ve seen how exhausted everyone’s become. Morale is sinking, and if it dips any lower, our means of survival might diminish.”

Rodimus rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to snicker. The idea of Kup surrounded by dancing mechs was… surreal, to say the least.

Before Rung could reply, Sideswipe lingered over, a grin stretched wide across his face. “What’s this I hear about a party?”

Rung looked pleased by the interruption. “Ah, Sideswipe! I was just explaining to Kup here about a proposed dance event to improve morale.”

“Oh, that sounds fantastic,” Sideswipe said immediately, hands on his hips. “About time we did something fun here. I haven't been out scavenging since hot stuff over there showed up.”

Kup groaned, dragging a servo down his faceplate. “Primus help me…”

And because the universe had a sense of humor, Sunstreaker joined, wiping his servos with a cloth. His optics flicked from Rung to Sideswipe, to Kup, and finally to Rodimus, who was still sitting on the floor. “Heard something about a party?”

Sideswipe grinned wider. “A dance party, Sunny! Music, movement, the works.”

Sunstreaker blinked once, expression flat. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Fine. Could be fun. I have some old cassettes I've been collecting from scavenge runs.”

Rung clapped his servos together, delighted. “See, Kup? Even Sunstreaker agrees!”

Kup muttered something under his breath that Rodimus couldn’t quite catch but sounded suspiciously like, “The end times are here.”

Rung tilted his head patiently. “Kup?”

Kup let out a long, exaggerated sigh and gave Rodimus a look that clearly said don’t you dare start laughing. “Fine. Fine. We’ll have your slaggin’ dance party. But if anyone breaks equipment or starts a riot, it’s on you, Rung.”

Rung smiled serenely, as if Kup hadn’t just threatened mass chaos. “Wonderful! I’ll start organizing shifts and inform the miners right away.”

Sideswipe whooped and slapped Rodimus on the shoulder. “You hear that, new guy? You better bring your moves.”

Rodimus muttered something unflattering under his breath but didn’t argue. Deep down, though, as he watched Rung leave with a spring in his step and Sideswipe already chattering excitedly about playlists with Sunstreaker, he couldn’t help feeling a faint flicker of curiosity.

A dance party. In the middle of an apocalypse. Sounds thrilling.

Rodimus winced as he pushed himself up from the floor, still feeling the ache of Kup’s blow radiating up his back strut. The old mech’s hits weren’t just strong—they lingered. He brushed dust and grit from his armor, sighing when he saw another shallow scratch running down his arm. Kup really did believe in “learning through pain.”

He staggered toward the washroom, still sore and only half aware of his surroundings. The echo of his own pedesteps filled the corridor until another, lighter pair joined in behind him. He didn’t even have to look back.

“Aw, don’t walk off like that,” Sideswipe called, the grin practically audible in his voice. “We’re all friends here. Well, sort of. You look like you could use a pit stop—and some company.”

Rodimus groaned. “Sideswipe, I just want to clean up and not listen to your voice for five minutes.”

“Rude,” Sideswipe said, but he followed him anyway. He always did.

The washroom was utilitarian—metal counters, scuffed mirrors, the faint scent of cleaning solvent. Rodimus grabbed a rag and a small container of polish from the shelf, muttering under his breath as he started buffing the scratches from his shoulder plating.

“So,” Sideswipe started casually, leaning against the counter beside him, “about this dance party—”

Rodimus shot him a look through the mirror. “No.”

“No what?”

“No, I’m not dancing, and no, I’m not going with you.”

Sideswipe feigned a wounded look, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. “Ouch, Roddy, that hurts. You wound me.”

Rodimus snorted and focused on a stubborn scuff along his forearm. “Good.”

Sideswipe leaned closer, optics glinting with mischief. “You know what they say—you must have a date to go to a dance party. It’s tradition. You can’t just show up alone like some lost protoform.”

Rodimus rolled his optics, the cloth squeaking against his plating. “You’re making that up.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Sideswipe grinned. “Am not. It’s in the official rules of fun.”

Rodimus sighed, setting down the buffer. “You ever stop talking?”

“Only when someone makes me,” Sideswipe said smoothly, then sidled up closer, the smirk on his face turning sharp. “But you—you’re fun to bug. You’ve got that twitchy thing going on with your spoiler whenever I talk about Getaway.”

Rodimus froze, his spoiler giving the exact twitch Sideswipe was talking about. “What about him?”

“Oh, nothing,” Sideswipe purred, tapping the edge of Rodimus’s spoiler with a finger. “Just thinking you must miss him, huh? Poor little miner left all alone down there while you’re up here getting painted, promoted, and pampered.”

Rodimus’s optics narrowed. “Don’t.”

Sideswipe chuckled, ignoring the warning in his tone. “What? Can’t blame me for noticing how touchy you get when someone mentions him. I’m just saying—if you’re that lonely, I could—”

Rodimus shoved him away, hard enough that Sideswipe stumbled a step back. “Leave it.”

For a moment, Sideswipe looked like he might push it—might say something cutting or smug. But then he laughed instead, that easy, careless sound that somehow made Rodimus’s plating crawl.

“Alright, alright. I’ll drop it.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “No need to bite my head off. Just saying, you should lighten up. The dance’ll be fun. Maybe even you could enjoy it.”

Rodimus picked up the rag again, wiping furiously at a scuff that wasn’t there anymore. “Not interested. Not with you.”

Sideswipe leaned against the wall again, optics watching him too closely. “You say that now, but don’t be surprised if a tall, handsome gladiator swoops in and saves you from dancing alone. Someone’s gotta appreciate your new paint job.”

Rodimus gritted his dentae, refusing to rise to the bait.

Sideswipe’s grin widened. “And hey, don’t worry. I don’t mind a little baggage—secondhand goods have character.”

Rodimus’s servo froze mid-polish. His vents hissed once, sharp and uneven, before he muttered, “Get the frag out of here.”

Sideswipe winked. “See you around, hot stuff.”

“Don’t count on it.” Rodimus scowled at his reflection in the mirror as Sideswipe strolled out, humming something tuneless and smug. He looked at himself—his bright new paint, his too-polished reflection—and for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he liked what he saw.

He glared at the mirror and muttered under his breath, “Secondhand goods, huh? Frag.”

Getaway crouched down behind the old sound system, the tangled mess of wires and dust-covered dials testing both his patience and his sanity. The thing had probably been in storage since before the invasion, and he was half convinced it might explode the moment he powered it up. Still—anything to keep his hands busy, his mind from spiraling.

Across the cafeteria, First Aid was straightening up a row of tables that had been repurposed as refreshment counters. The young medic hummed to himself, occasionally calling out instructions that no one followed. “Sunstreaker,” he said eventually, glancing up, “where’s your brother? We could really use another set of arms for those crates.”

Sunstreaker, perched on one of the tables as if he were too good to stand on the same ground as the rest of them, didn’t even look up from painting a banner. “Sideswipe’s busy,” he said flatly. “He thinks he has a date to get ready for.”

First Aid paused, a hint of amusement in his tone. “A date? Oh, Primus. Don’t tell me he’s actually managed to convince someone to go with him.”

“He hasn't,” Sunstreaker replied, inspecting his reflection in his arm. “But he’s polishing himself up for some mech. Don’t ask me why.”

First Aid snickered, setting down a container of energon. “Let me guess… that some mech is Rodimus, isn’t it?”

Getaway’s servo slipped, and the wire in his hand sparked, biting at his thumb. He hissed through his vents, biting back a curse. His spark did a strange little twist in his chest at the medic’s words, and he forced himself to focus on the cables again.

Sunstreaker finally glanced up, optics narrowing as if the question itself annoyed him. “Yeah. Rodimus.” He said it like it was obvious. “Sideswipe’s been gushing about him for weeks. It’s disgusting.”

First Aid laughed, light and cheerful. “Figures. He’s been going on about Rodimus to me as well—though when I met Rodimus, I didn't get the impression that the feeling was mutual."

Getaway said nothing as he tried to untangle another length of wire. The sound of their conversation was grating—Rodimus this, Rodimus that. Like the fragging dance was just an excuse for Sideswipe to flaunt a trophy he didn't earn.

Rung, who had been arranging old string lights near the ceiling, called down from atop the scaffolding, “Oh, I think it’s sweet, actually. After everything these mechs have been through, finding companionship—even temporarily—can do wonders for self-esteem.”

Getaway wanted to tell him exactly what he thought of that sentimental scrap. Instead, he made the mistake of kicking a table leg out of frustration. The leg splintered, the whole thing groaning before collapsing halfway.

The noise turned every optic in the room toward him.

First Aid blinked. “Uh… problem?”

Getaway forced a cheerful tone that didn't reach his optics. “Just stress-testing the furniture.”

Sunstreaker arched an optical ridge, unimpressed. “It failed.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Getaway muttered, kneeling again to hide the anger in his optics. 

Rung looked down, holding a coil of lights in place. “You seem tense, Getaway. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Perfect,” Getaway said, snapping another wire into place. “Never better.”

The radio crackled to life for a split second—just static and a garbled hum—before dying again. He smacked the casing with a flat hand, earning a small puff of dust.

First Aid chuckled. “Careful, you’ll break it before the party even starts.”

“Wouldn’t that be a tragedy,” Getaway said dryly.

Sunstreaker dropped down from the table, stretching. “You know, if Sideswipe doesn’t get here soon, I might start charging him for doing his share of the work.”

“Maybe he’s too busy preparing for his date,” First Aid teased.

“Maybe he’s too busy staring at his reflection,” Getaway muttered under his breath, but no one seemed to hear.

Getaway took the wires, staring down at them as if they might twist into a noose. He didn’t want to think. Not about Kaon, not about Rodimus, and definitely not about Iacon. 

Because no matter how many lights they strung up or how clean the floors got, he couldn’t shake the image of Rodimus in that new paint job—vivid, bright, and alive—and the thought of him standing next to Sideswipe made Getaway’s plating prickle.

He tugged one more wire into place and muttered under his breath, “Frag this dance.”

Getaway sighed, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand rather than the ugly twist in his spark. The sound system wasn’t going to fix itself, and if he was being honest, he needed something—anything—to keep his servos busy. He rechecked the cables, followed the faint hum of current through the old speaker lines, and tested the power feed from a backup generator Rung had dragged out from one of the storage rooms.

After a few clicks and a whine of static, the system finally buzzed to life. The speakers coughed once, twice, and then settled into a steady background hum. He fiddled with the dials until the cassette tape Sunstreaker had given him started playing.

“Finally,” Getaway muttered, leaning back on his heels. His armor was dusty, and his hands were smeared with grime, but it didn’t matter. The system worked. For once, something actually worked.

Rung stepped closer from atop the scaffolding, adjusting his glasses with a delicate motion. “That was quite the effort, Getaway. Thank you. I know this isn’t exactly… an easy environment to work in.”

Getaway shrugged, brushing his hands off on his thighs. “Just needed something to do.”

“Well,” Rung said gently, “you’ve given everyone something to look forward to. That counts for more than you think.”

The therapist’s tone was kind, too kind. Getaway didn’t trust it. He only nodded in response, then slumped onto one of the cafeteria benches, the metal creaking beneath his weight. Around him, the others were still bustling about—stringing lights, clearing floor space, setting up what passed for refreshments these days.

He rested his elbows on the table and stared at the opposite wall. It was pitted with blaster marks and years of grime. Whether the blaster marks were from before or after the invasion, Getaway couldn't tell. Fitting. Everything down here was scarred, even the mechs trying to pretend they weren’t.

He could almost picture how it would look when the dance started—lights flickering weakly overhead, music playing from speakers older than half the mechs in here, laughter echoing off cold metal. For a fleeting moment, it might even feel like the old days.

Then he thought of Rodimus.

Getaway’s optics dimmed. Rodimus would be there, of course—bright, reckless, impossible to ignore. And Sideswipe would be at his side, loud and smug, dragging him out onto the floor. The image made Getaway’s plating crawl.

“Hey,” came a voice beside him.

Getaway turned, optics narrowing slightly. First Aid slid into the seat next to him, wiping his hands off on a rag. The medic’s expression was annoyingly cheerful, which made Getaway instantly suspicious.

“You did a good job with the setup,” First Aid said casually. “Seriously. This whole thing wouldn’t even happen if you hadn’t suggested it.”

“Not feeling the celebratory mood right now,” Getaway muttered.

“Then make yourself feel it.” First Aid leaned back, crossing his arms. “Ask Rodimus to go with you. Before Sideswipe does.”

Getaway blinked, half a laugh escaping before he caught it. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“There’s no way Rodimus would say yes to Sideswipe,” Getaway said, waving the idea off. “He’s not that desperate.”

First Aid’s tone turned a little sly. “That’s not the point, and you know it.”

Getaway’s optical ridges creased. “Then what’s the point?”

“The point,” First Aid said, lowering his voice, “is that it’s not about Sideswipe. It’s about you. You and Rodimus. You keep pretending this whole thing doesn’t bother you, but you’ve been grinding your dentae since Sunstreaker mentioned his name.”

Getaway looked away. “Don't have dentae to grind.”

“Metaphorically.” First Aid rested his chin in his hand. “You think I haven’t seen it? The way you watch him when he’s in the room? You two were partners, weren’t you?”

The word hung heavy between them.

Getaway’s vents cycled once, slow and uneven. “Not like that,” he said finally. “We only traveled together.”

“Then this is your chance,” First Aid said softly. “You want him? Then show him. Don’t sit here and sulk while Sideswipe swoops in and plays hero.”

Getaway let out a quiet, bitter chuckle. “You make it sound simple.”

“It’s not simple,” First Aid said. “But it’s honest. And I think Rodimus deserves that much.”

Getaway looked down at the table, tracing a dent with his thumb. He didn’t have a quick or clever answer. Just the few memories he and Rodimus shared—Rodimus’s jokes during hopeless times, his fire during moments of panic, the way his plating teetered on the edge of scorching.

He exvented slowly, optics narrowing in thought. “If I do this… and he turns me down—”

“Then you’ll at least know where you stand,” First Aid interrupted. “And maybe that’ll hurt less than wondering.”

Getaway leaned back, optics fixed on the flickering string lights across the room. The faint hum of the sound system filled the silence, steady and constant.

“Yeah,” he said at last, voice low. “Maybe you’re right.”

First Aid grinned, pushing up from the bench. “Of course I’m right. Now, come on. Help me finish the refreshments, or pull your slag together and ask him to dance with you.”

Getaway stayed seated for a few moments after he left, staring down at his reflection in the dented tabletop. It was faint, warped—but still his. Still here. Maybe this dance was a stupid idea. Or maybe it was his last chance to make things right.

Either way, he’d find out soon enough.

Getaway stood and left the cafeteria, the faint hum of the old sound system fading behind him as the corridors swallowed the noise. His servos flexed restlessly at his sides, each motion a small outlet for the storm in his chest. He was going to do this—he was going to do this. No hesitation, no backing out this time. He’d face Rodimus, look him in the optics, and tell him everything that had been chewing him up from the inside out.

He told himself that this wasn’t just about the dance. It wasn’t just about Sideswipe’s smug grin or Rodimus’s new paint job. It was about keeping Rodimus here—safe, grounded, his. Because if Rodimus left again, if he went running off somewhere else, Getaway wasn’t sure what would be left for him down here in the dark.

His pedes echoed off the cold metal floor as he marched down the narrow hallways, their walls lined with faded warning signs and rusting panels. The old prison had been repurposed into something livable, sure, but it still felt like a tomb. Every corner he turned carried the faint hum of old energy lines, every door looked the same—gray, dented, and silent.

“Rodimus,” he muttered under his breath, reading faded room labels. “Where did Kup stash you?”

He passed one room full of storage crates, another marked for weapon maintenance. No sign of him. He thought about asking someone, but the idea of explaining why he needed to find Rodimus right now was unbearable. So he kept walking.

Minutes stretched. His earlier confidence started to waver. The conviction that had driven him out of the cafeteria was starting to crack, giving way to the familiar tug of doubt. What if Rodimus didn’t want to see him? What if he’d already agreed to go with Sideswipe?

He shook the thought off. No way Rodimus decided to go with Sideswipe.

Then, as he rounded another corner, he saw it. A door, unremarkable at first glance—except for the rough glyphs carved into it. The name wasn’t elegant or even centered, but there it was, jagged and bold: RODIMUS.

Getaway froze. For a long, long moment, he just stood there, staring at the uneven etching. The edges of the glyphs were sharp. Rodimus had probably done it himself, knowing him—impatient, unable to wait for someone to give him a proper nameplate. That simple, reckless act tugged at something deep in Getaway’s chest. Yeah, he thought bitterly, that’s him all right.

He approached the door slowly, optics tracing every carved line. His spark pulsed heavier now, deep in its chamber, like it knew what he was about to do. He raised a hand halfway, then stopped short, his knuckles hovering just above the metal.

What was he even going to say? “Hey, remember when you punched me in the face because I wanted you to stay in Kaon?” Or maybe, “You look good in blue and purple, wanna dance while the world falls apart?”

He huffed out a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so bitter. His reflection in the door looked just as lost as he felt.

He dropped his servo, cycling a vent slowly to calm his field. “Frag,” he muttered. “Pull it together, Getaway. You’ve talked your way outta worse.”

And he had. Sweet talk, charm, deception—it was all second nature to him. But this wasn’t a psychopath he'd been tasked to cozy up to. This was Rodimus. And somehow, that made every polished line and easy lie feel wrong.

He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, trying to picture Rodimus on the other side. Maybe cleaning his armor again, admiring that new paint job. Maybe still mad about their last argument. Maybe both. 

Getaway’s servo twitched. He reached for the door again, but his field stuttered—just for a moment—uncertainty clawing at the back of his mind. What if Rodimus didn’t want to see him? He could turn around. Walk away. Pretend he’d just been making rounds, checking security. There’d be other chances. But the faint hum of the old dance track still lingered in his head, and he could almost see Rodimus under those flickering lights, laughing with someone else. The image burned too much to bear.

“Not this time,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

He straightened up, squaring his shoulders. His plating creaked faintly in protest. He wasn’t leaving until he said what he came to say.

His knuckles hovered over the door again, this time steadier. He took a long vent, the kind that made his frame rise and fall, then—

Then, finally, with a quiet, shaky exvent, he lifted his servo and rapped twice on the metal door.

The sound echoed down the corridor, sharp and final.

No taking it back now.

The door creaked open slowly, and Rodimus’s face appeared in the gap—half-curious, half-guarded. His new paint caught the low hallway light, casting shifting hues of violet and indigo across the threshold. He looked brighter, sharper, different. Getaway froze mid-motion, caught in the full intensity of those optics that seemed... distant.

For a long, heavy moment, neither of them spoke. They just stared—Rodimus gripping the doorframe like he might close it any second, and Getaway standing there, servos twitching at his sides, trying to remember why this had seemed like a good idea.

Then, finally, Rodimus spoke first, his voice steady but faintly tired. “You got that dent in your faceplate fixed.”

Getaway blinked, startled by the simplicity of it. Then, with a short, awkward laugh, he reached up and rubbed the side of his face. “Yeah,” he said, trying for lightness. “Flatline wasn’t too happy about it, though. Said I should’ve just lived with the reminder.”

Rodimus winced, a tiny flicker of guilt flashing over his expression. “Sorry about that,” he murmured.

Getaway shook his helm, offering a small wrinke of his optics in a faux smile. “Nah. I kinda deserved it. Probably would’ve done the same if I were you.”

That shut them both up again. The silence stretched—long enough that Getaway started to feel the weight of it pressing down on his plating. He shifted his pedes, glanced down the empty hallway, then back at Rodimus. He could almost hear the words bouncing around in his processor, struggling to get out.

“Listen, I—” he started, but Rodimus cut in, holding up a servo.

“Getaway,” Rodimus said quietly, his voice dragging with fatigue. “I’ve been training all day with Kup. I’m… not really in the mood for another argument right now, okay?”

“It’s not an argument,” Getaway said quickly, taking a step forward before stopping himself. “It’s—important. Just hear me out, okay?”

Rodimus’s optics narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering there, but he didn’t shut the door. “Okay,” he said warily.

Getaway exvented slowly, trying to steady himself. Every vent cycle felt too loud. He glanced down at Rodimus’s servo, then up again at his face, then back to his servo, and before he could overthink it, he reached out and gently caught it in his own.

Rodimus stiffened at the contact, his optics widening just a fraction. His plating twitched, but he didn’t pull away.

Getaway’s voice came out quieter than he meant it to, stripped of his usual confidence. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Rodimus blinked, optics darting briefly to their joined servos before focusing on him again. “Yeah?”

Getaway’s vocalizer clicked as he thought for a beat before he forced the words out. “Come to the dance with me.”

For a second, Rodimus just looked at him, as if processing the question took longer than expected. Then, slowly, he smiled—but it wasn’t his usual grin. It was smaller, sadder, softer. “I don’t dance,” he said simply.

Getaway’s field wavered, a flicker of frustration and warmth tangled together. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly, thumb brushing the edge of Rodimus’s plating before he caught himself and let his servo fall away. “It’s not about the dancing.”

Rodimus looked down, expression unreadable. His vents hitched once, and then he laughed—barely a breath of sound, tired and hollow. “So demanding.”

“Yeah,” Getaway admitted, optics wrinkling. “But maybe we shouldn't burn bridges we're not done crossing yet.”

Rodimus’s optics flicked up at that, meeting his. The moment stretched, something tense and fragile between them. He looked like he wanted to say something—anything—but every word seemed to die before it reached his vocalizer. He opened his mouth, closed it, then rubbed at the back of his neck with a faint grimace.

Getaway stayed quiet. He’d said what he came to say. The rest… that was on Rodimus.

Finally, Rodimus spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not making this easy for me.”

Getaway gave a humorless laugh. “Is anything easy anymore?”

Rodimus huffed softly, optics flicking toward the floor. His servo casually brushed over the one Getaway had held, as though it gave him something to focus on. The hallway lights caught the shimmer along his armor, and Getaway couldn't help but stare. 

He wanted to reach out again, to say something reassuring, to close that distance. But he didn’t. Instead, they stood there—two mechs in silence, separated by everything unsaid.

Rodimus’s vents cycled slow and deep, and he finally looked back up. His expression had softened, even if his optics still held that flicker of uncertainty.

“I’ll think about it,” he said at last.

Getaway nodded once, relief and ache warring inside him. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Rodimus shifted his weight, servo still hovering near the doorframe. “You should probably get back before Kup complains about your work ethic.”

“Yeah,” Getaway said, stepping back. “See you at the dance… if you show.”

Rodimus didn’t answer, but his faint smirk was enough.

As the door slid shut between them, Getaway let out a long, shaky exvent, his spark thrumming fast and unsteady. He’d said it. Finally.

Now, all that was left was to clean himself up properly and see if Rodimus would show.

The bass of the music thrummed through the floor plating before Rodimus even stepped fully into the old cafeteria. Light—real light—flooded the space, bouncing off mismatched banners and the large bowl of energon that Rodimus had no idea existed in this place. Mechs crowded the floor, laughing, moving, dancing. The air didn’t smell of dust and exhaustion—it buzzed with something dangerously close to hope.

Rodimus hesitated in the doorway, vents cycling unevenly. He’d told himself he was just going to look. That he’d make an appearance, maybe grab a cube, and leave. But then his optics swept over the room—and froze.

Getaway stood in the far corner, away from the flashing lights, leaning against the wall like he was carved there. His optics tracked the room with that sharp, quiet focus that never failed to make Rodimus’s fuel pump skip. He looked—frag, he looked good. His plating had been polished, every dent smoothed out, his frame finally free of the grime that had buried his white and red plating.

And when those optics landed on him, Getaway pushed off the wall and started walking.

Rodimus’s vents hitched. He wanted to bolt, but his pedes were locked in place as Getaway crossed the room—each step deliberate, steady, confident. The crowd seemed to part around him, and in the next blink, Getaway was standing in front of him, his field brushing against Rodimus’s like static.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” Getaway said softly, but Rodimus knew him enough by now to know that was a lie.

Rodimus shrugged, trying to look casual. “Didn’t think I would either.”

Getaway’s optics wrinkled. “Guess I should count myself lucky.”

Rodimus didn’t get a chance to reply—Getaway extended his servo, palm open in silent invitation. “Dance with me,” he said simply.

Rodimus blinked at it, then up at Getaway’s face. “I told you,” he said, a little defensively. “I don’t dance.”

“Just follow my lead.” Getaway’s optics brightened just enough to show he wasn’t asking.

Rodimus opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Getaway took his hand anyway and pulled him toward the dance floor. The crowd swallowed them up, the thrum of music pulsing through their plating, every vibration deep and dizzying.

Getaway’s grip was firm but careful, guiding Rodimus into a slow rhythm that didn’t quite match the beat—most likely to get him used to the motions. Rodimus stumbled almost immediately, his pede scraping over Getaway’s.

“Sorry,” he muttered, already wincing.

“Don’t apologize,” Getaway said, voice low. “Just feel the rhythm. Don’t think so much.”

Rodimus glared up at him. “Easy for you to say.”

He tried again. One step forward, two back—and crunch.

“Okay, that one was my fault,” Getaway said through a wince, his optics flickering. “But we’re getting there.”

Rodimus groaned and tried to pull away. “This is ridiculous.”

Getaway tugged him closer instead, resting a servo on his waist to keep him from fleeing. “Relax,” he murmured, optics softening. “You’re not gonna break me.”

Rodimus’s field spiked in embarrassment, and he muttered something unintelligible before giving in—half because it was easier than fighting, half because Getaway was warm and steady and close.

Minutes passed like that: a fumbling rhythm of missed steps and quiet laughter. Rodimus stepped on Getaway’s pede again—hard—and Getaway only laughed harder, optics flickering as he spun Rodimus in a shaky circle.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Rodimus accused, his vents fluttering.

“Can you blame me?” Getaway said, leaning in. “It's fun seeing you out of your element.”

Rodimus’s engine sputtered, his optics darting anywhere but Getaway’s face. “It's embarrassing.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Rodimus didn’t answer, just glared halfheartedly as Getaway’s servo slid up to his shoulder, guiding him into another slow sway. The world outside the music—the prison walls, the mines, the ghosts of Iacon—all faded for a fleeting, dangerous second.

Finally, Rodimus broke the silence, if only to escape the intensity of Getaway’s gaze. “How do you even know how to dance?” he asked, his voice rougher than intended. “You don’t exactly strike me as the type.”

Getaway’s optics dulled slightly, replaced by something more distant. He let out a soft vent, gaze flicking down before meeting Rodimus’s optics again. “Was uploaded into my processor before I even onlined,” he said. “Back in Helex.”

Rodimus frowned, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. “Uploaded?”

“Yeah.” Getaway’s voice was quieter now, barely audible over the music. “Helex thought so highly of ballroom dancing that even the lowest-caste mechs should know how to do it. Said it showed refinement. Control.” His optics twitched. “Guess it stuck.”

Rodimus blinked at him, something uneasy and soft stirring in his spark. “That’s… kinda fragged.”

“Yeah,” Getaway said, in a sly tone. “But I'm not complaining about it right now.”

They kept moving, Rodimus still stepping wrong, still awkward, still glaring every time Getaway chuckled. But his laughter wasn’t cruel—it was warm, quiet, fond. And for all he grumbled, Rodimus found himself laughing too.

The room spun around them in color and sound, and though the world outside was still broken, and the mines still waited, and Iacon still called to him in the distance—right now, in this small, flickering pocket of light, it didn’t matter.

Getaway leaned closer, their helms nearly touching, his voice low enough for only Rodimus to hear. “See? Told you you’d be fine.”

Rodimus snorted, stepping on him one more time for good measure. “You call this fine?”

Getaway winced but didn’t pull away. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I do.”

Kup’s gruff voice cut through the music like a saw through metal. The beat sputtered to a halt, and the crowd of dancing mechs slowly turned toward the raised platform where Kup stood, arms folded and expression torn somewhere between pride and irritation.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough racket for a second,” he barked, his accent thick as ever. The chatter dimmed, and a faint feedback squeal from the speakers made several mechs wince. Kup frowned at the equipment like it had personally offended him, then continued, “Now, I ain’t gonna stand up here and pretend I understand what half of you are doin’ out there—some of it barely qualifies as dancin’—but I’ll be the first to admit it’s a fraggin’ sight better than what we’ve had lately.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd. Kup’s mouth quirked up.

“Don’t go gettin’ any ideas, though,” he said, pointing a finger toward the audience. “This isn’t gonna be a regular thing. You still got shifts, duties, and maintenance. But tonight?” He paused, optics scanning the crowd—so many worn faces lit up for the first time in cycles. “Tonight, you’ve earned a bit of normal. Don’t waste it.”

The murmurs softened into silence. Kup’s expression, stern as it was, held warmth.

“Now,” he continued, clearing his vents, “since none of you ever seem to give proper thanks, I’m gonna do it for you. This whole shindig wasn’t my idea—obviously. It came from three mechs who still had the good sense to think about morale.” He nodded toward the crowd. “So, if you’re enjoyin’ yourselves—and from the looks of it, some of you definitely are—you can thank Rung, First Aid, and Getaway for pullin’ this off.”

The room filled with applause, loud and uneven, but genuine. Rodimus found himself joining in without thinking, his hands coming together as Getaway shifted uncomfortably beside him, rubbing the back of his neck.

Kup smirked at the reaction, muttered something about “soft-sparked youngsters,” and then waved a hand toward the DJ booth. “Alright, Sunstreaker, turn that noise back on before I change my mind.”

The speakers thumped back to life, bass rolling through the room again. Conversations resumed, laughter picked up, and the crowd began moving to the beat once more.

Rodimus turned toward Getaway with a grin. “Didn’t know you were part of the planning committee,” he teased.

Getaway shrugged, still visibly embarrassed. “I suggested the idea—might’ve been eavesdropping to do it, but I'd say it was worth it.”

Rodimus laughed. “Agreed.”

As the music settled into a smoother rhythm, Rodimus glanced toward the DJ booth—and froze. Sunstreaker was back behind the controls, but standing beside him, arms crossed and scowl unmistakable, was Sideswipe. The mech looked every bit the sulking troublemaker: posture drooped, optics dark, jaw set tight as he glared at the dance floor like it had personally betrayed him.

“Uh-oh,” Rodimus snickered, nudging Getaway with his elbow.

Getaway followed his gaze and burst into laughter almost immediately. “Oh, that explains it.”

Rodimus blinked. “Explains what?”

“You,” Getaway said, pointing. “He was planning on asking you to the dance.”

Rodimus snorted and shook his head. “He asked me when Rung brought the idea to Kup—I said no.”

Getaway nodded, looking far too amused. “I'm simply the better pick, anyway. I guess even Sideswipe the Gladiator can get outmaneuvered.”

Rodimus’s faceplates flushed hot, his vents sputtering as he glanced back toward the red twin. “I would never dance willingly with a perv like that,” he said flatly.

Getaway chuckled, leaning in closer. “Oh? That a firm moral stance or just selective taste?”

Rodimus shot him a glare. “Don’t start. Sideswipe’s got all the subtlety of a neon sign. He reminds me of the tourists who would come to Nyon and offer to buy out almost any mech for the night. Makes me sick.”

Getaway made a low hum, a thoughtful sound beneath the music. “Guess that explains why you keep glaring at him.”

“Not glaring,” Rodimus said quickly, then winced. “Okay, maybe glaring a little. But only because he keeps staring at me like I’m his next conquest.”

The music swelled again, laughter echoing through the cafeteria, and for a fleeting moment—just before Getaway tugged him back toward the center of the floor—Rodimus decided that he didn’t mind being the reason Sideswipe was sulking.

Sunstreaker flipped a switch, and the smooth rhythm vanished beneath a thrumming pulse that made the floor vibrate. The lights overhead flickered, cycling through bright reds and golds, and a fast, thumping beat filled the cafeteria. Someone in the crowd whooped, and several mechs immediately dove into more chaotic, energetic movements.

Rodimus blinked at the sudden shift—then broke into laughter. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” he shouted over the music.

Before Getaway could react, Rodimus broke away from him, bouncing backward with a grin wide enough to light up the entire hall. The tension that had followed him all night seemed to melt away as he started moving—his body falling into sync with the rhythm as though the beat had crawled right into his circuits.

Getaway stood frozen for a moment, watching. Rodimus was... alive in a way Getaway had never seen. He spun, spoiler flicking in time with the music, arms moving in loose, careless arcs. His plating caught the glow of the lights, throwing bright streaks across the dull walls.

Getaway’s vents hitched. He couldn’t look away.

Rodimus laughed again, clapping his hands above his head as the beat dropped. He was terrible at staying on rhythm, but it didn’t matter. Every misstep only made him laugh harder, and the sound of it carried, infectious, pulling more and more mechs onto the floor.

“Thought you didn’t dance!” Getaway called out as Rodimus spun past him.

Rodimus shot him a wild look, optics bright and mischievous. “This isn’t dancing—this is clubbing!”

The way he said it—like the word itself carried power—made Getaway bark out a laugh. “I don’t think there’s a difference!”

“There’s a huge difference!” Rodimus shouted back, stepping closer, spinning, then pointing a finger dramatically toward him. “Dancing is rules. Steps. You mess up, people stare. Clubbing is about not giving a frag who’s watching.”

“Then what’s this?” Getaway asked, gesturing vaguely as Rodimus’s movements devolved into an enthusiastic series of jumps and hip sways.

“This,” Rodimus said between bursts of laughter, “is freedom!”

Getaway snorted, shaking his head. “Freedom looks a lot like flailing!”

“Hey!” Rodimus said, mock-offended, shoving him lightly. “You’re just jealous ‘cause you don’t know how to move!”

That earned him a challenge. Getaway straightened, optics narrowing in playful defiance. “Oh yeah? Watch me.”

He stepped forward, hesitating for only a second before he started copying Rodimus’s rhythm—loose, energetic, completely unpolished. His first few moves were stiff, mechanical, but he caught on fast. The next beat dropped, and he started to actually move with it, laughing when Rodimus clapped approvingly.

“There you go!” Rodimus yelled, spinning in a circle. “See? Not so hard!”

“Hard to look as ridiculous as you? Yeah, maybe not,” Getaway shot back.

Rodimus pretended to gasp, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’ll have you know, this is top-tier classic Nyon club culture!”

Getaway laughed so hard his vents wheezed. “Oh, Primus, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m serious!” Rodimus grinned, swinging an arm around Getaway’s shoulder and pulling him closer as they moved. “Nyonian clubs were unmatched!”

Getaway tried to picture it—Rodimus, younger, cocky, surrounded by light and music in his old fiery paint job. The image was so sharp in his mind it almost hurt. “Guess I missed out.”

“You did!” Rodimus shouted, then twirled out of reach again, throwing his arms up. “This—this is what it felt like before everything went to slag! No invasion, no ferals, no Quintessons—just noise!”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word, but the music swallowed it. Getaway didn’t point it out.

Instead, he joined him again, matching his rhythm, laughing when Rodimus tripped over his own pedes and caught himself with a flourish like it had been intentional.

“See?” Rodimus said through laughter, pointing at him again. “You’re learning!”

“Maybe I just needed the right teacher,” Getaway replied, his optics overbright.

Rodimus’s optics flicked to him briefly before darting away, a faint flush coloring his faceplates. “Yeah, well—don’t get used to it. I’m not usually this generous.”

“Oh, sure,” Getaway teased, “Dragging me out of the distillery was the epitome of selfishness.”

Rodimus stuck his tongue out—actually stuck it out—and Getaway nearly doubled over laughing.

The music pulsed louder, faster. Mechs around them were cheering now, spinning in pairs or clapping in time. The dull, heavy air of Kaon’s prison complex had transformed into something almost bright.

Rodimus grabbed Getaway’s hand again and pulled him into the motion. They didn’t move gracefully, but it didn’t matter. The beat thudded through their plating, syncing their steps, their laughter blending with the rhythm.

Getaway thought about all the times he’d imagined Rodimus angry, closed off, distant after their argument—and realized this was who he really was. Wild. Free. Impossible not to look at.

He didn’t say it out loud, but the thought burned bright in his processor as the music climbed toward its peak. And when Rodimus finally spun close again, grinning, optics shining brighter than the lights overhead, Getaway found himself staring back like the invasion had never happened.

The music thumped hard enough to shake the vents along the ceiling, lights flickering over the crowd in gold and red. Getaway was moving almost without thinking now—his pedes knew the beat, his frame had caught the rhythm. Rodimus was all motion and limbs in front of him, his plating glinting in bright flashes every time he turned.

For a long moment, Getaway just watched him, completely lost in how alive Rodimus looked. Then—almost without meaning to—he stepped closer.

He reached out, hesitating for a split second, and laid his servos flat over Rodimus’s chest plates. He could feel the hum of Rodimus’s systems through his palms, the faint warmth radiating beneath the armor. His spark flickered faster in response, realizing how bold this was.

Rodimus looked down at the touch. Getaway froze, expecting to get shoved or at least snapped at.

Instead, Rodimus grinned. “Now you’re gettin’ it,” he said, his voice half a laugh as he reached up and placed his own hands over Getaway’s.

Their frames moved together—slowly at first, then back into rhythm with the pounding music. Rodimus leaned in close enough for their helm crests to almost touch, swaying from side to side, the heat between them rising in time with the beat.

“See?” Rodimus said, his tone a mix of mischief and nostalgia. “Told ya it’s not about rules—it’s about feeling it.”

Getaway’s vents hitched. He didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded, focusing on keeping his hands steady.

The crowd around them blurred into light and sound. Mechs bumped into each other, cheering, laughing, but none of it mattered. It was just them in that moment—Rodimus’s grin, his spark thrumming beneath the armor, the shimmer of paint in the colored lights.

Rodimus’s optics caught the red gleam from a nearby light. “You know what would make this perfect?” he asked suddenly, still swaying.

“What?” Getaway managed.

“Engex,” Rodimus said with a soft chuckle. “Primus, I’d give anything for a strong round of shots right now.”

Getaway laughed, finally finding his voice. “That’s all it takes to impress you?”

Rodimus smirked. “Maybe a little more than that. A street race, maybe. Something fast. Something that makes you forget there’s a world outside the road.”

There was a flicker of longing in his tone, something deeper than Getaway had realized.

“You miss it,” Getaway said quietly.

Rodimus met his gaze. “Every day. It was terrible, and every moment was a fight for survival, but it was home.”

The honesty in his voice stunned Getaway for a second. He wanted to say something—anything—to make that ache go away. But before he could, Rodimus tilted his head, grin returning. “You ever race?”

Getaway chuckled. “Only to get away from things trying to kill me. Doesn’t count.”

Rodimus laughed so loud a few nearby dancers turned to glance at them. “Oh, it counts. Everything counts when you’re running for something.”

“Or someone?” Getaway said before he could stop himself.

Rodimus blinked at him, the grin faltering into something softer. “Maybe,” he said finally, so quiet Getaway almost didn’t hear it.

Then the beat shifted—Sunstreaker must’ve switched the track again—and Rodimus spun away, tugging Getaway by the servos still linked to his chest.

“C’mon!” Rodimus shouted over the roar of the crowd. “You’re not done yet!”

Getaway stumbled after him, laughing incredulously. “You’re gonna fragging trip me!”

“That’s the point!” Rodimus called back, grabbing his hand again and pulling him into a spin. Their plating brushed, heat rising where their frames met.

Rodimus twirled, optics half-lidded with joy, and when he came back around to face Getaway, there was a spark in his optics that made Getaway’s own systems stutter.

“This,” Getaway said between beats, “is so much better than any party in Helex.”

“Yeah?” Rodimus asked, grin wide. “Those Helex types never danced like this?”

Getaway laughed breathlessly. “Frag, no. They had expensive jellied energon treats I couldn't even eat. Rules. Partners that moved like they had sticks jammed up their tailpipes.”

Rodimus threw his head back and laughed, the sound pure and bright. “Then you’ve been missing out!”

“Guess so,” Getaway said, unable to look anywhere but at him.

Rodimus’s grin softened into something almost shy before he spun again, his spoiler brushing against Getaway’s midsection as he turned. “C’mon,” he called over his shoulder, “try to keep up!”

Getaway followed without hesitation this time, their frames moving together in a blur of motion and light. The air felt electric—heavy with music and something unnamed pulsing between them.

When Rodimus finally slowed, their servos brushed again, lingering just a little too long. Getaway could’ve sworn his spark skipped a pulse.

The song faded out, replaced by a slower rhythm that neither of them could quite follow after so much spinning and laughter. Rodimus’s vents were cycling fast, his plating hot, his spark still thrumming from the music and the motion. He glanced at Getaway and grinned, optics bright.

“Break,” he said, a little breathless. “My pedes are gonna fall off.”

Getaway chuckled, wiping at a streak of dust across his cheek. “You’re fragging hopeless.”

“Hopelessly good-looking, maybe,” Rodimus shot back with that lopsided smirk, and Getaway rolled his optics—but didn’t disagree.

They wandered off the makeshift dance floor together, both still catching their vents, weaving past clusters of laughing mechs. The cafeteria was packed, but the far table—one of the few that hadn’t collapsed during setup—stood mostly empty. At its center sat a giant bowl of energon, reflecting the overhead lights like a liquid jewel, shining in an off color. First Aid or Flatline must have put in some additives. It's clear that most mechs had already had a drink from it.

Rodimus stared at it with something close to reverence. “Finally,” he said. “Thought they were just teasing us with that thing.”

“Can’t have a dance without a drink,” Getaway said, reaching for two cups stacked at the side. He handed one to Rodimus, their fingers brushing, and the faintest charge of static jumped between them.

Rodimus laughed, pretending it didn’t make his spark hiccup. “Guess not.”

But neither of them moved to pour. They just stood there, grinning, the faint hum of the music vibrating through the floorplates.

“Hey,” Getaway said after a moment, softer than before.

Rodimus looked at him, the grin faltering a little at the tone. “Yeah?”

Getaway hesitated, then took the ladle, scooping energon carefully into each of their cups. The soft clink of metal against glass sounded louder than it should have under the music still pulsing through the room.

When he handed Rodimus his drink, he didn’t pull his servo away. His optics held Rodimus’s, steady and searching.

“Stay,” he said simply.

Rodimus blinked. The word hung there, fragile and heavy at once.

“Getaway—”

“I mean it,” Getaway pressed, his voice quiet but firm. “Forget Iacon, forget all that scrap about rebuilding or dying trying. We’ve got a life here. You’ve got a place. You don’t have to—”

A drop of something hit Rodimus’s servo with a faint plink.

He frowned, looking down as another drop fell into his energon. The pinkish surface rippled once, spreading a faint, unnatural shimmer.

Then another drop fell.

Rodimus followed its path up—his optics tracing along the stained ceiling, the long crack cutting across the old plating like a wound.

“Uh,” he started, but the word caught in his vocalizer.

Because up was wrong.

There, through the crack that had previously allowed light to stream into the cafeteria, two green optics gleamed through—bright, unblinking, feral. Their light flickered with that sickly hue Rodimus had learned to dread, the color of corrupted energon.

It shifted, scraping metal on metal. Something wet and thick dripped down between the cracks, landing in uneven plops that hissed faintly in the large bowl of energon.

Getaway followed Rodimus’s gaze—and froze.

“What the frag—”

A jagged maw split open behind the cracks, a twisted grin full of sharp, uneven, energon-streaked dentae. The corrupted glow intensified, casting eerie green light over the table and the two of them standing motionless beside it.

Rodimus’s cup trembled in his servo. The laughter, the warmth, the moment—they all vanished in an instant, replaced by the chilling, electric silence of dread.

He couldn't move.

The feral optics blinked once. Then, from the shadows above, something dripped again—thicker this time, like sap from a dying tree, landing in Rodimus’s drink and turning it murky green.

Neither of them spoke.

And in that suspended instant—music still thumping faintly somewhere behind them, voices fading into background noise—the monster above the ceiling moved.

The crack widened. Metal creaked.

Rodimus’s spark flared in panic. Getaway’s servo twitched toward his weapon that wasn’t there.

Then—the ceiling peeled open.

Chapter Text

The moment the ceiling groaned open and that green-tainted energon dripped down, Rodimus didn’t think—he ran. His processor screamed, his plating clattered as he tore through the crowd, shouting Kup’s name as loud as he could, but he was barely audible over the loud rhythmic thumping blaring through the cafeteria. 

“Kup! Kup!” he yelled. The older mech stood by Rung, a half-empty glass of energon in his servo, optics dim and unfocused. Rung was laughing along next to him, holding his own empty glass.

Rodimus froze. “Don’t—Kup, don’t drink that!”

Kup looked at him with the slow, confused blink of a mech too tired to be startled anymore. “What’s got your spoiler in a twist, kid—”

“Rodimus—?” Rung flinched as Rodimus leapt towards them.

Rodimus lunged forward, knocking the cup from Kup’s servo. It shattered against the ground, glowing sickly green. Kup stared down at it—and then his optics flickered.

“No, no, no, no—” Rodimus reached for him, but Kup staggered back, clutching his chest. His vents sputtered, his field spiking erratically. 

“Slaggit all,” Kup rasped, his voice glitching, static rising beneath his words. He dropped to one knee, putrid energon dripping from his lips. Rung gasped and stumbled away from Kup, but his own plating started to warp. “Too late, kid—”

Rodimus stumbled back, horror freezing him mid-step as Kup’s optics guttered out entirely. His plating cracked, energon lines splitting open with the telltale glow of corruption.

“KUP!”

From behind, Getaway’s shout tore through the panic. “Rodimus! Come on!”

Rodimus spun, still shaking, and followed Getaway across the cafeteria, trying to warn every bot they passed by. The white mech was sprinting toward the two medics, shouting names that echoed like alarms—“First Aid! Flatline! Don’t drink that slag!”

But when they reached them, Rodimus skidded to a halt again.

First Aid and Flatline stood by the doors, cups raised mid-conversation. The liquid inside shimmered faintly with the same greenish pink gleam.

“Don’t!” Getaway roared.

Both medics turned to them—too late. The energon was already draining from the cups, already sliding down their throats.

Flatline frowned, rubbing his neck cabling. “What are you—”

He didn’t finish. His optics went wide, and the cup shattered in his shaking servo.

“Primus,” First Aid whispered, clutching his chest. “It burns—”

Their coughing was drowned out by the music. Flatline collapsed against the counter, tearing at his own plating. First Aid’s frame seized, limbs locking, as his vents whirred violently. 

Rodimus pulled Getaway back, forcing him away from the doorway as the medics convulsed. “They’re gone—come on! Move!”

Getaway’s voice cracked. “That’s Flatline! He’s supposed to—”

“I know!” Rodimus shouted, grabbing him by the arm. “We can’t help them anymore!”

They bolted back through the crowd, their voices unable to carry to the mechs on the dance floor. Rodimus looked around for any mech who he didn't see drinking tonight.

“Who’s left?” Getaway shouted over the noise.

“Sunstreaker! Sideswipe!” Rodimus barked. “They've been at the DJ booth all night!”

They looked toward the booth, and sure enough, the twins were still there—Sunstreaker wiping his servos on a rag, Sideswipe leaning against the wall behind him, clearly bored. Neither of them seemed to have noticed the mechs starting to turn feral. 

Rodimus didn’t even slow down. “Don’t drink the energon!” he yelled.

Sideswipe raised a brow. “Roddy, you change your mind? Finally come for a dance?”

Rodimus’s vents flared, fury overtaking fear. “Are you serious right now?”

Sideswipe’s grin widened. “What? You finally realized—”

Rodimus slapped him, hard. The sound pierced through the music in a way that would've been satisfying if Rodimus wasn’t utterly freaked out.

Sideswipe blinked, stunned. “What the—”

Rodimus pointed up, his voice breaking. “Look around you, dumbaft!”

Both twins followed his gaze.

The ceiling—already torn from before—was peeling back further, the metal shrieking under invisible claws. From the widening gap, those same green optics gleamed in clusters now—two, four, six pairs—dozens of feral faces pressing close to the light.

They dripped corruption like venom, their jagged mouths snapping in hunger.

Sunstreaker cursed, shoving his brother backward as chunks of ceiling began to rain down. “Frag, frag, frag—Sideswipe, move!”

Rodimus’s vents seized as the first feral dropped down—landing awkwardly on the refreshment table with a sickening CRUNCH.

The corrupted energon spilled like blood across the floor. The music stuttered once, then cut out entirely. And in the silence that followed, Rodimus realized the screaming had already started.

The first scream didn’t sound like a mech. It was wet, guttural—something that came from deep in the spark chamber and scraped against the walls of sanity.

Rodimus turned just in time to see one of the miners—someone whose name he couldn’t even remember—drop to his knees and clutch at his chest, his vents shrieking as green fluid poured from his mouth. His body spasmed, plating rippling as if something alive was crawling beneath it.

“Primus…” Sideswipe whispered.

Kup was next. The old mech twitched, his optics flashing between blue and green like a flickering flame. His mouth twisted open, the sound that escaped a broken gurgle as cables in his neck snapped. His armor cracked along his shoulder seams, leaking corrupted energon that steamed where it hit the ground.

Rung let out a thin, fragile whine as he collapsed beside Kup. His tiny frame convulsed, servos scraping against the floor as his plating began to warp—metal bubbling as if melting from within.

First Aid screamed and tried to crawl toward him, but his arm twisted wrong halfway through the motion, servos locking up, energon spurting out in short, erratic bursts. Flatline was worse—his optics burned out completely, replaced by harsh, black pits. His mouth unhinged with a metallic snap.

Rodimus staggered back, optics wide, vents cycling in staccato bursts. “No, no, no, no…”

Getaway grabbed his arm, voice shaking. “We have to move—Rodimus—guys! We have to move!”

But Sideswipe wasn’t listening. He broke away, lunging toward Kup, who was twitching on the ground, the sound of grinding metal rising from his throat. “Kup! It’s me! Sideswipe! Snap out of it!”

Kup turned. For a flicker of a moment, there was recognition. Then it was gone. His servos clenched, the sharp edges of his digits slicing through his own palm as he lunged.

Sideswipe caught him by the shoulders, shaking him violently. “Kup, stop—STOP! It’s me!”

But Sunstreaker was already moving, grabbing his brother around the waist and yanking him back. “He’s gone!”

“No!” Sideswipe kicked and screamed, his voice cracking into static. “He’s not—Kup, it’s me! It’s SIDESWIPE!”

Kup roared. The sound wasn’t a voice anymore—it was static and hunger and pain.

His hands came down hard where Sideswipe’s head had been moments before, denting the floor plating with terrifying strength.

“Frag!” Sunstreaker hauled Sideswipe backward, his vents roaring with effort, plating scraping the floor. “We have to go! NOW!”

Behind them, the cafeteria was a nightmare of screeching metal and tearing armor. Mechs they’d known—miners, engineers, medics—were collapsing in agony, their frames twisting into shapes that didn’t belong to Cybertron anymore.

Greenish energon pooled across the floor, slick beneath Rodimus’s pedes as he ran. Every crash, every shriek followed him, growing closer.

Sideswipe’s sobs echoed off the walls. “We could’ve saved him! We could’ve—”

“You can’t save what’s already dead!” Sunstreaker shouted back, dragging his brother through the corridor, his voice equally as distressed.

Getaway threw an empty cube behind them, striking one of the advancing ferals. It stumbled, then kept coming, even as half its helm dented in. Rodimus skidded around the corner, vents burning, optics blurring from the haze of panic. The sound of claws against metal followed them—scraping, tearing, faster every second.

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

All he could see were their faces—Kup’s dim optics, First Aid’s twisted plating, Rung’s frame shaking itself apart.

They were gone. All of them.

Rodimus stumbled through the doorway to weapons storage, shoving it open with a clang that rattled the poorly balanced shelving. The lights flickered, half of them shattered in the ceiling. The room was bathed in the dull red glow of emergency lighting—everything looked like it was already soaked in energon.

“Inside!” Rodimus barked, voice raw. He grabbed Getaway by the arm and pulled him in, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker followed, panting, armor rattling from the sprint, sealing the door behind them with a slam that made the hinges squeal.

For a moment, none of them spoke. The only sounds were their vents—loud, shallow, trembling—and the distant, gut-wrenching chorus of screams echoing down the corridor.

The screams of their own.

Sideswipe leaned against the door, helm tipped back, optics wide and flickering. His vents heaved. He looked like he wanted to say something, but no words came out.

Rodimus pressed his back to a wall, optics darting, trying to force his vents to steady. The sound outside—the metal scraping, the shrieks—it was unbearable. It was the sound of being too late.

Getaway’s optics flicked around the room, frantic but focused. “Weapons—where are my fragging weapons—”

Sunstreaker swore under his breath and slammed his fist into the wall beside the door, hard enough to leave a dent. “Primus damn it! They were right there! Rung, First Aid, Kup—slag it all!”

Rodimus covered his mouth with a servo, trying not to gag. He could smell it—the acrid stench of corrupted energon even through the sealed door. It seeped through the vents like rot.

He couldn’t stop the tears that welled up in his optics. They blurred everything—Getaway searching through the racks, Sunstreaker pacing with clenched servos, Sideswipe staring blankly at the floor. He blinked hard, but the fluid just rolled down his faceplates anyway, hot and stinging.

Getaway cursed softly, his voice breaking as he dug through a pile of confiscated weapons. “Come on, come on—where the frag—ah.” He stopped. Pulled out two sleek daggers, their edges gleaming faintly in the red light.

He held them like they were lifelines, ex-venting shakily before setting one down. His optics caught on the next weapon—the long, mangled spear leaning against the rack beside it.

Rodimus’s spear.

He reached for it without thinking. Just the sight of it grounded him.

Rodimus glanced up, vision still blurred, and managed a hollow laugh. “You find your toys?”

Getaway looked over his shoulder, optics dim. “Yours too.” He tossed the spear, and Rodimus caught it automatically, fingers curling around the familiar grip.

The weight felt good. Familiar. Something to hold on to when everything else was falling apart.

Sunstreaker slumped against a crate, covering half his face with one servo, the other curling tight into a fist. “We’re fragged. We’re completely fragged.”

“Not yet,” Rodimus said, forcing himself upright. His knees wobbled. “Not if we stay smart.”

“Smart?” Sideswipe finally spoke, his voice trembling but low. “Rodimus—half the base just turned into monsters. The other half are getting torn apart. Kup—!” His voice broke halfway through the sentence.

No one said anything.

Getaway finally sheathed one of his daggers, the other spinning idly in his hand. “We’ve still got the four of us. That’s better odds than most. We find energon, find an escape route, and get the frag out of here.”

Sunstreaker gave him a bitter look. “And what happens when we get cornered?”

Rodimus raised his spear. “Then we fight.”

Outside, something slammed into the door—hard. The impact reverberated through the entire room.

Sideswipe flinched, spinning toward it, fists up defensively.

Rodimus felt his spark jump in his chest, beating loud enough to drown out thought. “Barricade it,” he ordered.

Getaway and Sunstreaker didn’t hesitate. They dragged over a heavy crate of discarded melee weapons, wedging it against the door. The next hit came seconds later, harder, cracking the hinges.

The screeching was louder now—scraping metal claws dragging down the outer wall, like they were testing for weak spots.

Sideswipe finally whispered, voice trembling, “Primus help us.”

Rodimus clenched his jaw, optics burning. “Primus is dead. Just like his planet.”

And as another crash rocked the door, the red lights flickered again—long enough to catch the shadows of the things moving just outside.

Sunstreaker grabbed his sword first—a broad, double-edged blade that gleamed sharp even in the dim red lighting. He spun it once, testing the balance, and the faint whine it made through the air was almost comforting in its familiarity. Beside him, Sideswipe mirrored the movement, his own blade slightly shorter, sleeker, designed for quicker strikes rather than brute strength.

“Guess we’re doing this again,” Sideswipe muttered, forcing a shaky grin. “Just like old times, huh?”

“Old times didn’t have ferals,” Sunstreaker snapped back, his voice holding a slight tremor.

Getaway cursed lowly as another blow hit the door—louder, heavier. The hinges groaned. “They’re getting through. Won’t hold for long.”

Rodimus’s vents hitched. He forced himself to think, not just react. “Then I'll make time.” His optics flicked toward the others, resolve flickering beneath the fear. “Ferals don’t like fire—I can use that.”

Getaway turned sharply, disbelief cutting through the panic. “What?”

Rodimus’s voice steadied as he spoke, like he’d already committed to it. “My outlier ability. You know, the thing that turns me into a walking bonfire? I can buy us a few minutes—”

“Stop.” Getaway stepped forward, tone sharp, almost desperate. “Stop being a slagging martyr for once, Rodimus. We’re not doing that.”

Rodimus glared at him, frustration burning under his plating. “You have a better idea? Because unless you’ve got an army hidden in your subspace—”

“I’ve got something better.” Getaway jabbed a thumb toward the far end of the room. “My internal mapping system is picking up something weird. There’s a tunnel—back wall. Behind the shelves.”

Sideswipe blinked, optics darting to where Getaway pointed. “A tunnel? You sure that’s not just some glitch?”

Getaway was already moving, shoving aside a crate. “Positive. It’s small, but it’s there.”

Sunstreaker joined him, suspicion fading under urgency. “If you're right, then let’s move it.” He slammed his shoulder into the shelving, the metal screeching as it scraped against the floor. Sideswipe joined in, grunting with the effort. Together, the twins heaved the massive shelf aside, and dust cascaded from the wall behind it.

And there it was—a patch in the wall that didn't quite match the rest of it. A faint outline, barely visible until Sideswipe ran his servo along the edge and found the indentation.

“I’ll be damned,” he breathed. “It’s real.”

Rodimus stepped closer, optics narrowing. “Did you know about this?”

Sunstreaker shook his head, pulling his sword back into a ready grip. “Not a clue. Must’ve been one of those quick-access routes for guards before the invasion—this is a prison after all.”

Getaway nodded, kneeling beside the panel. “Exactly. According to my mapping, this thing leads close to the mine’s storage wing.”

Sideswipe’s optics brightened. “The one with the energon?”

“That’s the one.” Getaway pried open the hidden latch, and the panel gave way with a hiss of depressurization. A small, narrow tunnel stretched into darkness beyond, lined with old maintenance lights that flickered weakly to life.

Sunstreaker leaned closer, squinting down the tunnel. “That’s a long fragging crawl.”

“Better than dying in here,” Rodimus muttered, glancing toward the door as it buckled under another slam.

The metal shrieked again, a jagged crack spidering across it. The ferals outside were relentless. Their claws scraped against the steel without break.

Sideswipe swallowed hard. “They’re almost through.”

Getaway looked over his shoulder, optics locking on Rodimus’s. “No heroics. We’re all going together, got it?”

Rodimus hesitated, optics flicking from Getaway to the door. Fire hummed beneath his plating—his instinct to fight, to burn through the threat, prickling through his frame like a pleasant feeling. But he forced it down.

“Fine,” he said, though it came out rough. “Lead the way.”

Getaway gave a curt nod, then crawled into the tunnel first, blades magnetized to his thighs. The faint hum of his internal map system glowed faintly along his arms, guiding him deeper into the dark.

Sideswipe followed next, muttering, “If anything touches my aft, I’m blaming you.”

“Shut up and crawl,” Sunstreaker growled, shoving him forward before ducking in after.

Rodimus lingered for a second longer, staring back at the storage room, at the faint glow of the emergency lights and the rattling door. To think he'd gotten used to the safety this place provided. 

He gritted his denta, turned, and climbed in after the others—just as the door finally gave out behind him with a sound like tearing metal and the first feral screeched its way inside.

Rodimus glanced back at the open tunnel mouth, the metal frame still groaning from the force of the ferals slamming into the other side of the storage room. He didn’t hesitate. Fire flared from the seams of his plating, orange and yellow licking along his arms like living plasma.

“Rodimus—what the frag are you—” Sideswipe started, but stopped as the heat hit him.

Rodimus pressed both servos to the edges of the panel, optics narrowing in focus. The air around him shimmered. Metal warped and hissed as molten heat fused the panel edges into the wall. The scent of scorched dust filled the cramped tunnel, and a ripple of energy rolled down its length, forcing the others to brace themselves.

A final burst of light sealed it shut, and the faint echoes of the ferals’ pounding dulled to a muffled thud.

Rodimus staggered back, vents cycling hard. “That… should slow them down.”

Sideswipe whistled lowly. “Or roast us alive if you’d gone any hotter.”

Rodimus smirked despite the exhaustion clawing at his joints. “Be glad I didn't.”

Getaway, crawling ahead, looked over his shoulder. The faint glow of his optics reflected off the tunnel walls. “Good thinking, though. That’s one way to make sure they can’t follow.”

“Yeah,” Rodimus muttered, rolling his shoulders and following after. “But we need a plan once we hit the other end. Can’t just run blind forever.”

He crawled closer to Getaway, his tone shifting from weary to decisive. “We reach the storage room, grab as much energon as we can carry, and then we leave Kaon. All of it. Mines, prison, arenas everything.”

Sideswipe snorted from behind. “Oh sure. Just walk out into the wastelands. Great plan. And where exactly are we supposed to go, huh? You see a big flashing safe zone out there somewhere?”

Rodimus twisted his head enough to glare back. “Anywhere’s better than waiting here to die.”

Sideswipe opened his mouth to retort, but Getaway cut in before the argument could flare. “We’re going to Iacon.”

Rodimus froze mid-crawl, turning his helm slowly toward Getaway. His optics brightened like twin sparks flaring to life. “You’re serious?”

Getaway didn’t look back, but his voice was steady. “You were right before. If there’s any chance of civilization left, it’s there. We’ve got to at least try.”

Rodimus grinned—tired, wild, but unmistakably delighted. “I knew you’d come around.”

From behind them, Sunstreaker’s voice rumbled out low and irritated. “You’re both insane. Iacon’s gone. You really think it’s still standing after all this time?”

Getaway glanced over his shoulder, optics narrowing. “You have a better idea?”

Sunstreaker hesitated, jaw tight. His vents hissed once, but no answer came.

Getaway broke the silence with a scoff. “Thought so.”

The tunnel narrowed again, forcing them into single file, but the argument hung in the thick air like static. Rodimus crawled closer to Getaway’s heels, still grinning faintly despite everything. The thought of going to Iacon—with Getaway—ignited something in his spark that had been dim for too long.

He reached out, tapping Getaway’s heel. “You won’t regret this,” he said softly.

Getaway huffed. “I’m already regretting it.”

The faint blue glow of emergency lights flickered again, bouncing shadows across the walls as they moved. The tunnel stretched on for longer than expected—an old artery of Kaon’s prison network, untouched for years. Every sound felt amplified: the scrape of armor, the click of pedes, the faint rasp of their vents.

Finally, the narrow path began to slope downward. The air grew cooler, heavier with the scent of metal dust and stale energon fumes.

Sideswipe tapped the wall beside him. “If this really leads to the mine storage room, we’ll hit the old refinery pipes soon.”

“Good,” Rodimus murmured. “The faster we get there, the faster we move.”

Getaway paused to check his internal mapping again. “Another hundred meters. Then we’ll reach a hatch into the refinery internals—real close by to the storage room.”

Rodimus nodded. “Perfect.”

The ferals’ muffled screeches still echoed faintly through the metal, distant now—as they reached a hatch in the floor.

The hatch squealed in protest as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker wrenched it open, flakes of rust sticking to their servos. The air that wafted up from below was thick and stale—hot metal, long-cooled slag, and faint traces of something chemical and acrid that made Rodimus’s olfactory sensors sting.

“Lovely,” Sideswipe muttered, peering down into the black. “Smells like someone cooked energon and left it to rot.”

“Means we’re close,” Getaway replied, tapping the side of the hatch with a servo. “This is it. The tunnel ends here—above the refinery internals. If we head west from there, we should find the refinery room and by that point, we'll know where to go.”

Rodimus didn’t hesitate. He peered over the edge, optics flickering faintly in the dark. “Then we’re not wasting time.” He swung his legs through the opening and dropped down into the void below, landing with a hollow clang.

The others froze, listening.

No movement. No growling. No screeching. Just the whisper of air moving through dead ventilation systems.

Rodimus’s voice rose up from the dark. “All clear.”

Getaway followed, lowering himself carefully and letting go near the end. His pedes hit the ground with a heavy thud beside Rodimus’s. He flicked on a small wrist light, sweeping the narrow beam across the refinery floor.

“Primus,” he whispered. “This place hasn’t seen life in ages.”

The walls were lined with corroded pipes, some split open to reveal dried energon residue, others warped from an old explosion of unknown origin. Crates and empty canisters were stacked in dusty corners.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe dropped down next, both landing with more grace than the others. Sunstreaker wrinkled his nose. “Looks like Perceptor’s work. He was the only one obsessive enough to label every line and pipe.”

Sideswipe ran a servo along the nearest pipe, leaving a clean streak in the dust. “You’re right. He and Brainstorm worked down here for cycles after we settled in. Keeping the refinery stable, they said. It didn't last long.”

Rodimus frowned, looking toward the far end of the room. “Were they the last ones to maintain this area before they disappeared?”

“Before Perceptor went feral,” Sunstreaker corrected flatly.

Getaway shot him a sharp look, but didn’t argue. The quiet pressed in on all of them, heavy and suffocating.

Rodimus started walking toward a half-open blast door. The light from Getaway’s wrist barely reached it, but what they could see was unnerving—the walls marred with deep scratches, the floor littered with old tools and shattered canisters.

“They must’ve been working on something before it went bad,” Rodimus murmured.

“Or something got in,” Sideswipe said, optics narrowing as he scanned the ceiling. “Still doesn’t make sense. Ferals don’t travel in packs that big. And Kaon’s been clear for years. How’d they even find us?”

Sunstreaker’s servo twitched near his sword hilt. “Unless someone led them.”

Rodimus’s head turned sharply. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing.” Sunstreaker’s voice came out tight. “Just saying. Someone—or something—must’ve drawn them here. Ferals don’t swarm like that without a reason.”

Rodimus was quiet for a beat, his gaze flickering toward Getaway. The other mech noticed the shift immediately.

“What?” Getaway asked, his tone edged but low.

Rodimus shook his head slightly. “Just thinking about the mech whose corpse we never saw.”

Getaway’s optics dimmed. He didn’t need Rodimus to say the name.

Sunder.

Sideswipe, oblivious to the exchange, was still talking. “—and I don’t buy that it was random. We’ve had ferals try the perimeter before, yeah, but this? This was an ambush.”

Rodimus murmured, barely audible, “If it was Sunder…”

Getaway’s head snapped toward him. “Don’t. It wasn't. He's definitely dead.”

Rodimus’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t reply. The name alone dredged memories that made his spark twist uncomfortably.

Sunstreaker broke the silence with a sharp, irritated sigh. “Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter now. We need energon and we need an exit. Talking about it won’t help.”

Rodimus nodded once. “You’re right. But we’ll have to stay sharp. If the ferals found their way in once…”

“They’ll do it again,” Sideswipe finished grimly.

A metallic groan echoed through the refinery’s pipes, making all four of them reach instinctively for their weapons.

Getaway’s voice was a low whisper. “That wasn’t the ferals at the door, was it?”

Rodimus shook his head, optics narrowing toward the ceiling. “No. That came from below us.”

They all went still again—listening to the faint rumble beneath the grated floor. It wasn’t the rapid pounding of pursuit. It was something slower. Heavier.

“Let’s move,” Rodimus ordered, his voice quiet but sure. “Stay close. We’re almost to the storage.”

Sideswipe grinned faintly, trying to keep the tension light. “You heard the mech. Stick together or die ugly.”

Getaway didn’t even roll his optics at that one. His mind was elsewhere—on Rodimus’s muttered words, on Sunder, and on how his perfect shelter felt more like a tomb now. 

The refinery’s internals were a maze of narrow corridors and grated walkways, a skeleton of pipes and shadow that clung to the heat of the earth. The four of them moved in a tight formation—Rodimus in front, spear at the ready, Getaway right behind with his daggers drawn, and the twins covering the rear. Every clang of their pedes against the metal floor sounded too loud, too alive in the heavy air.

Rodimus’s vents hissed as he steadied himself. He’d been down here a few times when he still worked in the mines. Now, it was silent—eerily so. The only sound was the low hum of old generators trying to cling to functionality, flickering lights overhead fighting to stay on.

They took a sharp turn past a crumpled stairwell. A stream of thin, molten slag ran down one wall, casting dim orange light. Sideswipe muttered under his breath, “Feels like walking through a corpse.”

“Not helping,” Getaway shot back, voice low but tense.

They emerged from the cramped passage into the refinery’s main floor—a cavernous space lined with machinery that stretched toward the ceiling. Light panels buzzed and flickered, washing the room in uneven yellow and blue. Pools of old energon shimmered like ghostly mirrors beneath their pedes.

Getaway stopped short, his optics scanning across the expanse. “Primus… it’s empty.” His voice carried in the vast silence, and he winced. “Too empty.”

Rodimus stepped forward, glancing around at the rows of inactive refineries and dormant furnaces. “This place was never quiet. Not even after hours.”

Sunstreaker’s grip tightened on his sword. “Guess it really was everyone at the party.”

Before Rodimus could respond, a sound broke the stillness—a faint, unmistakable scrape of metal claws against stone. It came from somewhere beyond the machinery. Slow, deliberate, like something testing the air.

Rodimus froze, his entire frame tensing. “You all heard that.” It wasn’t a question.

“Keep quiet,” Getaway hissed, gesturing for them to move. “Stay close to the walls. We don’t know how many there are.”

They began edging along the perimeter, slipping between crates and broken conduits. Every few steps, Rodimus would stop, listen, then signal for them to keep going. The faint scraping continued—sometimes near, sometimes far, always just beyond sight.

Sunstreaker moved like a predator, silent and fluid, while Sideswipe struggled to keep his usual swagger muted. Getaway’s optics flicked toward the shadows, trying to trace movement that might not have been real.

They reached the far end of the refinery floor—a wide, reinforced bulkhead door sealed tight with old hydraulic locks. The faded stencil above it read: ENERGON STORAGE

Sunstreaker stepped forward first, scanning the console beside the door. The panel was dead—no power, no response. He cursed under his breath. “Locked. Great.”

Getaway crouched beside him, checking for manual release mechanisms. “There should be a bypass if we can manage to power up—”

“There’s no time for should be,” Sunstreaker snapped, his frustration spilling over. “Sideswipe! Get over here!”

Sideswipe jogged up beside him, digging his digits into one of the door’s seams. “We’re prying, huh? Haven’t done this in a while.”

“Less talking more prying,” Sunstreaker shot back, planting his feet.

They both grabbed hold of the door edges, hydraulics straining as they pulled with every ounce of strength. Metal groaned, the frame shuddering. The noise echoed through the refinery, far too loud, and Getaway winced.

“Faster,” Rodimus whispered harshly. “We’re not alone down here.”

Sunstreaker gritted his denta, plating flexing with effort. “You think I don’t know that?”

A rivet popped loose, clattering across the floor. The seam split slightly, just enough to let a faint hiss of air out from within.

Sideswipe’s optics flickered with determination. “Almost there—come on, Sunny!”

Together they gave one final wrench, the metal shrieking as the door cracked open.

Rodimus immediately spun around, weapon ready. The scraping had stopped. The silence that followed was worse—thick, weighted, expectant.

Getaway stepped closer to Rodimus, daggers drawn again. “We just rang the dinner bell,” he murmured.

“Then we need to be quick,” Rodimus replied, his optics bright with resolve. He jerked his chin toward the gap the twins had made. “Inside. Now.”

The four of them slipped through the opening one by one, the heavy door groaning back into place behind them. The moment it sealed shut, the scraping started again—louder this time, right outside.

The four mechs stumbled into the storage room’s eerie quiet, and the twins are quick to throw together a barricade. Rows of energon drums lined the walls, towering like metallic monoliths, most of them empty.

“Move, move, move!” Rodimus barked, his voice cracking under the tension. He shoved past a crate, grabbing smaller canisters and stuffing them into his subspace as fast as his servos could move. The energon sloshed faintly inside, bright and pure—untouched by corruption.

Getaway was right beside him, optics narrowed in focus. “We can only carry what fits,” he said, doing the same. “No time to think, just grab.”

Rodimus hesitated, optics darting toward the massive industrial drums stacked against the far wall. “What about those? We could haul a few, rig up a sled or something—”

“There’s no time to rig anything,” Getaway snapped, voice sharp but not unkind. “We’d need materials that we don't have. We have to move light and fast, or we’re not moving at all.”

Rodimus slammed a fist against one of the drums in frustration, the hollow echo reverberating through the room. “Frag it!”

The sound that followed was not an echo. It was a growl. Low. Wet. Too close.

Getaway’s helm jerked toward the door. “They’re here.”

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe reacted immediately, blades out, bracing against their barricade. The pounding started a moment later—dull thuds at first, then violent impacts that made the walls tremble.

“Keep it steady!” Sunstreaker shouted, shoving his shoulder against the door.

Sideswipe mirrored him, straining against the weight pressing in from the other side. The metal moaned in protest. “It’s not gonna hold forever!”

Rodimus spun toward them, clutching a handful of energon canisters to his chest. “We just need a few more kliks! Getaway, tell me there’s another way out—vent system, maintenance shaft, anything!”

Getaway checked his internal map display, optics flickering erratically. “There was a maintenance hatch to the east wall, but it’s sealed from the other side—we’d need cutting tools.”

The pounding grew louder. Closer.

Sideswipe twisted his helm, glancing over his shoulder toward Rodimus and Getaway. “Then you two need to find something fast, because this—” He stopped mid-sentence, his optics dimming as a loud, wet crunch sounded behind him. 

Rodimus frowned, stepping forward. “Sideswipe?”

The red mech took a staggering step forward, servo clutching at his chest, right over his spark. “Something’s… wrong—”

Rodimus lunged to catch him as he fell to his knees, energon trailing from the corners of his mouth. “Hey! Hey, stay with me—!”

And then he saw it.

Behind Sideswipe, the barricade had cracked. Just a sliver—but enough. A massive, clawed servo had punched clean through, tearing through the barricade and through Sunstreaker’s chest in one fluid, horrific motion.

The world seemed to slow around them. Sunstreaker’s optics went wide, his expression frozen in pure, silent shock. His vents stuttered once—then again—then stopped.

“SUNNY!” Sideswipe screamed, voice breaking as he tried to reach for his twin, before his own optics flickered violently. His whole frame convulsed as the spark bond ignited—a feedback loop of agony as his twin’s death ripped through his own spark chamber like shrapnel.

Sideswipe went limp, falling forward to the ground, the light fading from his optics completely. The smell of energon and burnt metal hung thick in the air.

Getaway stumbled back, optics wide. “No—no no no—”

And then they saw him.

Kup stepped through the mangled doorway, plating warped, optics glowing a ghastly green. His mouth dripped with tainted energon, and in his servo was the dead husk of Sunstreaker’s spark. 

Rodimus froze, his spark thrumming painfully in his chest. What stood before him was a shell animated by hunger and corruption.

Kup tilted his head, the feral’s gaze flickering over the twins’ lifeless frames before focusing back on Rodimus—intelligence, but not Kup. His jaw unhinged slightly, venting a guttural screech that rattled the walls.

Kup lunged.

Rodimus dove aside, pulling Getaway down with him just as Kup’s claws raked across the floor where they’d stood. Sparks flew, metal shrieked.

“Run!” Getaway yelled, voice cracking with desperation.

Rodimus’s processor screamed a dozen conflicting commands—fight, flee, grab the bodies—but the sound of Kup’s roar tore through his hesitation like fire through paper. He grabbed Getaway’s arm, dragging him toward the far side of the room.

Behind them, the barricade burst completely open. Ferals poured in.

The screeching filled every corner of the refinery—metal grinding, energon hissing, and the wet, animalistic snarls of the ferals closing in. Rodimus stumbled backward, his vents hitching. He couldn’t do it. The sound, the heat, the stink of corruption—it all blurred together into a dizzying rush that made his optics swim.

Getaway was yelling something, but Rodimus couldn’t make out the words. It was all static in his audials—white noise layered over pounding heartbeats and mechanical rasping. The world around him tilted, and the edges of his vision pulsed in time with the ragged stutter of his vents.

“Rodimus! Fragging—Rodimus!”

Getaway’s voice finally pierced the haze, sharp with panic. He had one servo clutching a crate of energon canisters, the other throwing them across the floor like improvised grenades. The containers burst open on impact, spilling glowing liquid that made the ferals recoil, hissing and snapping. For a moment, it was enough to hold them back.

Rodimus’s optics darted toward the fallen twins—their still frames—and then to Kup, whose jagged maw was open impossibly wide. His hands began to tremble. His vents locked. His whole frame went stiff.

“Rodimus!” Getaway shouted again, but the sound barely reached.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. His spark pounded against his chest like it was trying to escape. He felt light-headed, nauseous, drowning in static. The air seemed to thin, the lights too bright, every sound too loud.

A feral roared beside him. Rodimus flinched backward, tripping over a broken pipe. The fall jarred his systems, but it didn’t snap him out of the spiral. His servos were shaking uncontrollably now, and his vocalizer buzzed as he tried to speak.

“I—can’t—”

“Rodimus!” Getaway’s shout came again, closer this time. He tossed another few energon canisters, each splash of liquid creating a burning sting in the air. The ferals retreated for a moment, clawing and howling—but it wouldn’t last.

Rodimus’s back hit the wall. He wasn't going to make it. His vents kept cycling uselessly, his optics darting wildly as his frame convulsed with the need to move.

Something grabbed him.

A feral’s jaw clamped down hard on his servo, the bite deep enough to send a shockwave of pain through his whole frame. He screamed—raw, primal. His systems flared red across his HUD.

Getaway’s optics widened. “Rodimus!”

Rodimus yanked his arm free, energon pouring from the wound. His panic spiked to a fever pitch. Every line of code in his neural net screamed for escape, for survival. His processor blurred with noise and terror and heat—so much heat. The feral lunged again, and Rodimus’s optics locked onto it.

Fire.

The thought didn’t even form in words. It was instinct. Reflex. Something deeper than conscious control. He could feel it clawing at him, his outlier spark thrumming violently beneath his chest plates.

Getaway’s expression shifted from anger to horror as he realized what was happening. “Rodimus—no! Not here! Not near the energon!”

Rodimus’s vents flared wide. The air around him shimmered, and a faint orange glow licked across his plating. His optics blazed white-hot.

“Rodimus!” Getaway lunged forward—but it was too late.

The fire erupted in a burst of heat and light, searing the air itself. The nearest feral shrieked as flames engulfed it, burning through its plating in seconds. The sound was inhuman, metallic agony echoing through the refinery.

Rodimus’s body arched, every line and seam glowing with molten light. The world became soundless—nothing but the thundering rush of his spark and the roar of the fire that burst outward in a wave.

Getaway dove behind a pile of metal drums, shielding his face as the heat washed over him. The light was blinding—pure white, filling every corner of the room.

“Rodimus!” he screamed again, voice breaking—but there was no answer.

The last thing Rodimus saw was Getaway’s silhouette through the flames, arm outstretched, his face contorted with terror and pleading and pain.

Then—silence.

The world vanished into blinding white.

His vents stalled. His frame went weightless. For a split second, he felt nothing at all.

And then the roar of the explosion swallowed everything whole.

Rodimus came back to himself slowly, like rebooting through sludge. Every sensor lagged, every process crawled. His first awareness was pain—raw and burning, like every inch of his frame had been scoured by a sandstorm. His second was sound: a dull, rhythmic dragging that scraped against his audials like metal on stone.

He tried to move, but his right arm didn’t respond. He tried again, harder—nothing. His spark felt heavy, but the rest of him… too light, as though something important was missing.

“...ugh…” His vocalizer crackled, dry and weak.

The dragging didn’t stop.

He shifted his optics, but they wouldn’t online. He was blind, trapped in static and the throbbing ache of existence. His vents wheezed open and closed, pulling in air that smelled of dust, hot metal, and distant ozone.

“G—Getaway?” His voice was hoarse, the syllables catching like broken gears.

A pause. The dragging slowed.

Then came a grunt—a low, exhausted sound—and the drag resumed. Rodimus could almost picture Getaway’s shape in his mind, hauling something heavy through uneven terrain. The sound of scraping metal told him enough: he was on a sled.

Rodimus tried again to move his arm. Nothing. He flexed his left servo weakly—it responded, though sluggish and shaky.

“Getaway,” he rasped louder, “what… happened?”

This time, the dragging stopped completely.

The silence that followed was awful. All Rodimus could hear was the faint buzz of distant wind and the static hum of his half-dead systems. Then, slowly, his optics flickered to life—fuzzy shapes, glare, white light stabbing straight into his processor.

He winced and squinted until the blinding shapes resolved into forms. The world was washed-out, pale, and much too bright after so many weeks in Kaon’s gloom. He blinked hard until his vision cleared enough to make out movement ahead of him.

There—Getaway.

The mech’s back was unmistakable, shoulders broad, plating dented and dirt-caked. He was dragging the sled Rodimus lay on through what looked like cracked earth and dust—the surface outside of Kaon, under the harsh Cybertronian sun.

Rodimus groaned softly, trying to sit up. His cables strained against something—bindings, wrapped around his torso.

“Getaway… where are we?”

The other mech stopped, turning his helm slightly. Rodimus’s optics widened.

Half of Getaway’s faceplate was gone.

Where there should’ve been smooth good plating, there was instead a twisted mess of exposed circuitry, protomesh, scorched metal, and one optic cracked and flickering faintly. 

Rodimus screamed—an instinctive, horrified noise that tore from his vocalizer before he could stop it. He tried to roll, to scramble away, but the bindings held him fast.

“Hey—hey! Easy!” Getaway’s voice cut through the panic, tired but steady. He dropped the handle of the sled and turned to kneel beside Rodimus, hands raised in a placating gesture. “You’re okay, you’re okay. Primus, Rodimus, don’t—don’t move like that, you’ll tear yourself apart.”

Rodimus’s vents fluttered in short, panicked bursts. “Your—your face—!”

“Yeah,” Getaway said with a rough ex-vent, reaching up to touch the damaged plating lightly. “Looks worse than it feels.”

“Getaway—”

“Shh.” He sat beside the sled, optics softening. “You’re alive. That’s what matters right now. Just—just stay still, alright?”

Rodimus’s systems whirred in confusion and pain. His optics darted around the area—the cracked earth, the empty horizon, the faint haze of smoke rising far in the distance.

He looked back to Getaway, his vocalizer trembling. “What… what happened?”

Getaway looked away for a long moment, his gaze on the far horizon. “You don’t remember?”

Rodimus blinked, his processor sluggishly turning over fragments. “I… remember…” He trailed off, optics dimming.

Getaway waited silently.

“I remember the storage room,” Rodimus murmured, optics unfocused. “And… the ferals. Kup.” He swallowed hard, his vocalizer glitching. “Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. I… I couldn’t do anything to save them.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Getaway’s hand hovered over his, hesitant, then settled gently on Rodimus’s left servo. “It happened too fast, there was nothing you could have done.”

Rodimus’s optics flicked up to meet his, hollow. “And then?”

Getaway’s shoulders slumped. The sunlight glinted off his torn plating, making the exposed inner mesh gleam faintly. “Then everything went to slag,” he said quietly. “You… burned it all down, Rodimus. The energon. The ferals. Everything.”

Rodimus blinked, stunned. “I—what?”

“You went nova,” Getaway said, tone unreadable. “Your outlier ability—it tore through the whole place. When I came to, everything was gone but smoke and you. I don't even know how I survived.”

Rodimus’s vents stuttered again. “Gone?”

“Gone,” Getaway said simply, his voice breaking slightly around the word.

Rodimus closed his optics. The silence between them was unbearable—thick and heavy with ghosts.

When he opened them again, Getaway was still sitting there, his broken faceplate turned toward the light, expression caught somewhere between grief and grim determination.

Rodimus looked at him for a long time, his own voice barely a whisper. “You… you saved me.”

Getaway tilted his head. “You saved yourself—dragging you out of the slag was the least I could do.”

And for a fleeting second, beneath the broken sky, they both almost felt alive again.

Rodimus blinked up at the washed-out sky, the glare bleeding across his optics until it all blurred into a pale smear. He could feel the heat of it on his plating—real sunlight, not the harsh electric light of Kaon’s internals. It felt… foreign. Too open. Too quiet.

He swallowed and turned his helm just enough to look at Getaway again. “So,” he rasped, “where… are we?”

Getaway didn’t answer right away. He was staring down the slope they’d been dragging along, one servo braced on his knee, the other rubbing absently at the edge of his ruined faceplate. Finally, he vented a soft sigh. “If my internal mapping systems are still functioning—and that’s a big ‘if’, since my chronometer is slagged—we’re somewhere between Kaon Proper and the outer cities. Mebion, maybe.”

Rodimus hummed lowly, the sound more of a groan than real interest. “Mebion…” He shifted slightly, uncomfortable against the sled. “Heh—Mebius Arena was there. Used to host mechanimal fights.”

Getaway snorted. “Of course it did. Kaon couldn’t get through a solar cycle without something violent to bet on.”

Rodimus’s mouth twitched faintly, almost a smile, but it didn’t reach his optics. “Guess it made sense. Nothing else to do down here.”

“Yeah,” Getaway muttered, leaning back on his servos. “Though Mebion wasn’t just about fights. Had some energon refineries that made these weird blend batches. Helex used to get them imported for the inner districts. Bitter stuff. Too fancy for my taste.”

Rodimus made a weak sound that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe just a noise to fill the silence. “Not into high-grade?”

“I’m more into surviving these days,” Getaway said, tone dry. “But I'll take what I can get.”

For a moment, they just sat there, the wind skimming over the metal ground around them. Rodimus’s vents cycled unevenly, his processor foggy. The conversation should’ve felt normal, even comforting—but there was something wrong. Something heavy.

He tried to flex his servos again—his left one twitched weakly. His right… didn’t.

Rodimus frowned. “Hey… Getaway?”

“Yeah?”

“Why can’t I feel my right arm?”

Getaway’s entire frame went still. The pause stretched, brittle and sharp.

“Getaway.” Rodimus’s tone sharpened, even through the rasp of his vocalizer. “Why can’t I feel my right arm?”

Getaway rubbed a servo over his face, dragging it down across the charred edge before letting it drop. His optics dimmed, avoiding Rodimus’s gaze. “Because…” he started, then stopped. “Because it’s gone, Rodimus.”

Rodimus stared at him. For a moment, the words didn’t compute. Then his vents seized. “What do you mean it’s gone?”

Getaway looked at him finally—tired, steady, but grim. “You were bitten.”

Rodimus blinked rapidly. “No, I—I—what?”

“One of the ferals got you,” Getaway said quietly. “Right before you blew the prison complex off the map. It went for your hand. You didn’t even register it at first, you were too—too busy losing your mind with everything else going on.”

Rodimus’s spark felt like it stalled in his chest. “So you’re saying—”

“I’m saying I had to cut it off.” Getaway’s voice stayed even, but there was a tremor at the edges. “Before it spread.”

Rodimus’s optics widened, his vents starting to stutter. “You what—”

“It was turning black, Rodimus,” Getaway snapped suddenly. “By the time I dragged you out of there, the infection had already spread up your forearm. I didn’t have time to argue with fate.”

Rodimus’s venting grew erratic, the faint whine of a panic loop threading through his systems. “You—you cut it off—”

“I had to,” Getaway said, more firmly this time, though his optics flickered with guilt. “You’d be one of them by now if I hadn’t.”

Rodimus tried to move again, tried to see, but the bindings around his midsection held tight. He glanced to his right—his vision fuzzed, disoriented—and finally saw it.

His arm was gone from the elbow joint down. The plating there was patched with emergency welds and cauterized scoring, the metal rough and ugly. The empty space where his arm should’ve been felt wrong, phantom signals twitching where there was nothing to move.

He felt sick.

“Primus—Primus, Getaway—”

“Hey—hey, look at me,” Getaway said quickly, scooting closer and bracing one servo on Rodimus’s shoulder. “You’re still online. You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Rodimus was trembling, vents hitching uncontrollably. “You cut off my arm.”

“I saved your life.”

Rodimus’s optics flashed with light and pain and disbelief. “That’s not—”

“Rodimus.” Getaway’s tone dropped, steady but sharp. “Listen to me. You were infected. I didn’t have a choice.”

Rodimus’s vents whined as his field flickered—grief, confusion, panic bleeding together in static. “I should've—”

“No.” Getaway cut him off, fierce this time. “Don’t start that. You hear me? You don’t get to give up after I hauled your sorry aft halfway across Kaon’s outskirts.”

Rodimus fell silent, trembling, optics darting down to the burned welds at his side. He didn’t trust his voice—not yet. The phantom ache was too much, his sensor net screaming at him despite nothing being there.

Getaway exhaled softly and sat back, looking like he’d aged a century. “You’re still here, Rodimus. That’s what counts.”

Rodimus swallowed, optics still locked on the empty space. “You… you shouldn’t have had to do that alone.”

“Yeah,” Getaway muttered, glancing at the horizon again. “Welcome to the apocalypse. Alone’s the only constant that you can fall back on.”

Getaway braced his weight against the handles of the sled again, metal groaning beneath the strain as he began to pull. The sound of the runners scraping against the uneven ground filled the silence between them—a dull, dragging rasp that matched the rhythm of his vents.

Rodimus watched him through dim optics, the sunlight catching against the edge of Getaway’s plating.

“…Does it hurt?” Rodimus asked quietly.

Getaway didn’t look back. “What, my face?”

Rodimus gave a slow nod, wincing as the movement tugged at his shoulder. “Yeah. Your face.”

Getaway huffed a sound that might have been a laugh, except it lacked any humor. “Not really. Not right now, anyway. Guess I’ve been running on adrenaline for so long it just… doesn’t register anymore.”

Rodimus frowned faintly, optics half-lidded. “That’s… not good.”

“No,” Getaway agreed, hauling the sled up a patch of cracked terrain, “I’ll worry about it when we reach shelter. Maybe it’ll hurt then.”

Rodimus blinked, his optics sharpening slightly. “Wait—how long… how long have I been out?”

Getaway paused only long enough to adjust his grip. “About four days, give or take. You were slagged up pretty bad. Thought you might not've made it at all for the first two.”

“Four days…” Rodimus’s voice was thin, disbelieving. “I’ve been out that long?”

“Yeah,” Getaway muttered. “Guess using that much fire at once’ll do that to you.”

Rodimus frowned, processing sluggishly. “It wasn’t the first time I pushed it that far,” he murmured, optics flickering dim. “But I didn’t drain myself completely. I can’t.”

Getaway slowed his pace slightly, glancing over his shoulder. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

Rodimus hesitated, his field flickering uncertainly. “…Both.”

Getaway’s optics narrowed. “Because you’d die?”

Rodimus’s vents hitched softly, his gaze shifting to the side. The silence stretched out too long. Finally, he answered in a voice that sounded smaller than Getaway had ever heard it. “Yeah. Because I’d die.”

Getaway stopped walking. The wind whispered through the debris, stirring the dust around their feet. He turned, looking down at Rodimus, who stared blankly at the horizon with that weary, glassy look—the look of someone who’d seen too much too fast.

“…You shouldn’t have to burn yourself up just to save everyone else,” Getaway said after a long moment, voice quieter now.

Rodimus gave a faint, bitter smile. “Story of my life.”

Getaway huffed, shaking his head as he turned back around. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

Rodimus frowned slightly. “What about you?”

“I’ll rest when we reach shelter,” Getaway said, pulling again, pedes grinding against the dirt. “Which won’t be for a while, by the looks of things.”

Rodimus’s optics dimmed a little more, his field fading with exhaustion. “You’re gonna burn out before then.”

“Maybe,” Getaway said. “But I’ve got a knack for staying on my feet.”

“Getaway…” Rodimus’s voice softened, heavy with fatigue and something like guilt. “You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I do,” Getaway interrupted, without turning. “You’d do the same for me.”

Rodimus exhaled, a faint wheeze slipping past his vocalizer. “That’s not the point.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Getaway said. “Just close your optics, Roddy. I’ll handle it.”

Rodimus wanted to argue, to tell him that Getaway’s words sounded too final, too much like the things survivors said before they stopped surviving—but his processor was fogging again, his systems cycling down without his permission.

He tried to focus on the sound of Getaway’s footsteps instead—the steady, dragging rhythm, the rasp of metal over stone. It grounded him, even as his vision blurred.

Then the world dimmed to static and heat and the faint, rhythmic scrape of a sled moving through the dust.

Chapter Text

Rodimus woke to the sound of rustling. At first, he thought it was just the wind—the low hum of the wasteland carrying distant echoes—but then came the distinct hiss of a fuel line being opened, the faint glug of energon being poured into something. His optics flickered online, dim and sluggish, and the blurry outline of Getaway took shape in the dark.

The mech was kneeling near a campfire’s dying embers, his frame outlined in the faint red glow. He had a small container of energon tipped against his arm, pouring energon into his wrist fuel intake. The faint shimmer of the fluid glinted against his exposed faceplate as he fueled.

Rodimus blinked. It took him longer than it should have to piece together what he was seeing. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out—hours? a day?—but his plating felt heavy, and his systems were helpfully pinging him about a near empty tank as if he couldn't already feel the hunger pains.

Getaway must’ve noticed movement, because he jerked his helm up immediately, the shadows shifting across his ruined face. “Rodimus?” he said, voice low but sharp, like he hadn’t expected him to wake.

Rodimus tried to answer, but his vocalizer crackled uselessly.

Getaway was at his side in an instant, energon container forgotten as he crouched down and unsealed a smaller canister. “Hey, hey, easy—” His voice softened in a way Rodimus was unfamiliar with. “You’re dehydrated. Just drink, alright?”

Rodimus groaned as Getaway slid an arm behind him and tilted his helm up. “I can—”

“Shut up and drink,” Getaway said, half a laugh in his voice, though it was strained.

Rodimus’s field buzzed faintly in irritation, but the moment the cool energon hit his intake, he couldn’t resist. His systems flared back to life in weak pulses, a dull hum echoing through his chestplates.

After a few gulps, he tried to push at Getaway’s arm, trying to bat him away. “Enough—”

His arm met only air.

Rodimus froze. His right arm—gone. The absence was wrong in a way that twisted his insides, like his frame was missing something vital. He looked down instinctively, optics adjusting, and saw only the smooth plating that sealed off the stump at his elbow.

Getaway noticed the sudden distress in his field and frowned. “Hey, hey, take it easy. Don’t move too much, you’ll exhaust yourself.”

Rodimus stared up at him, vents shuddering. “My—my arm—”

“I know,” Getaway said quickly, misreading the panic in his voice. “I told you before, remember? It was the infection. I had to stop it from spreading.”

Rodimus wanted to argue, to demand why, to scream that it wasn’t fair—but the words tangled in his throat. His vents hitched, his processor spinning, and Getaway mistook the silence for compliance.

“Good,” Getaway murmured, lowering him gently back onto the sled. “You need to rest. You’re still not running at full capacity.”

Rodimus blinked sluggishly. “You keep saying that…” His voice was dry, rasping. “You keep saying to recharge.”

“Because you need it,” Getaway said simply. “You’re exhausted, you used too much of your spark power in one go. Recharge.”

Rodimus frowned faintly. “Then what about you?”

Getaway didn’t answer right away. He looked toward the horizon instead, where faint starlight spilled across the broken terrain. “I’ll manage.”

Rodimus watched him for a moment longer, processor foggy but uneasy. His thoughts were too scrambled and too hazy to truly argue against his logic.

“…Why do you want me to recharge so bad?” Rodimus mumbled.

Getaway tilted his head, optics flickering fondly. “Because for once, I’d rather you didn’t try to play the hero.”

Rodimus tried to scowl at that, but his optics were already dimming again. “That’s not… what I…”

“Shh,” Getaway said softly, adjusting the tarp over him. “We’ll talk later. Just rest.”

Rodimus wanted to protest, wanted to say he didn’t like the tone in Getaway’s voice—the quiet finality of it—but the idea of sleep didn’t sound so bad. His body was too heavy, his mind too sluggish. The sound of the wind and the faint rhythm of Getaway’s vents filled the world as darkness crept back in.

“Getaway…” he murmured, optics flickering one last time.

“Yeah?”

Rodimus’s voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t… go anywhere.”

Getaway gave a quiet huff, not quite a laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And Rodimus slipped under again, unaware of how still Getaway sat after, staring into the dark with half a face and a thousand-yard stare, the energon container empty beside him.

Rodimus woke to the jarring rhythm of scraping metal and the low hiss of curses breaking the quiet morning air. His optics flickered online, the world around him hazy and washed in pale blue light from the rising sun. The sled beneath him rattled with every uneven pull, and ahead, Getaway was hunched forward, dragging him by the rigged cables and muttering furiously under his vents.

A sharp clang broke through the air—Getaway smacking the side of his helm with a servo. “Fragging useless mapping system—slagging piece of—”

Rodimus groaned softly, his voice still rough. “What’re you… yelling at yourself for?”

Getaway froze, shoulders tensing, before glancing back over one shoulder. His face, half scorched, softened just slightly when he saw Rodimus awake. “Nothing,” he said, a little too quickly. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Rodimus squinted, optics adjusting to the light. “You’re hitting your helm like it owes you money, I definitely need to worry.”

Getaway let out a long, exasperated sigh. “You really can’t just… rest, can you?”

Rodimus shifted against the sled’s restraints, wincing at the tug along his aching chest. “Not when you’re out here trying to concuss yourself.”

Getaway rubbed the jagged edge of his faceplate, helm dipping forward. “Fine,” he muttered. He pointed ahead, toward the horizon. “You see that?”

Rodimus tried to lift his helm, optics focusing on what looked like… mountains. Great jagged shadows rising from the ground, dark against the brightening sky.

“That’s what’s wrong,” Getaway said. “Those aren’t supposed to be there. Mebion’s not anywhere near mountains. Which means…” He trailed off, tone sharp with frustration. “Which means my route might be a little off by a lot.”

Rodimus blinked blearily, taking another long moment before responding. “…That sounds like a big deal.”

“Yeah,” Getaway said flatly.

Rodimus nodded as if that explained everything, and before Getaway could say another word, the Prime’s optics dimmed again, and he was out cold, the hum of his vents settling into soft, even cycles.

Getaway stared at him for a long moment, lips twitching like he wanted to laugh—or maybe scream. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, turning back to the harness and pulling again, the sled creaking as they crept forward through the dust.

By the time Rodimus woke again, the light had changed. The sun was setting this time, painting the land in deep orange hues that reflected off twisted metal and the faint shimmer of energon veins beneath the surface. The mountains—those impossible shapes on the horizon—were much closer now, towering and strange.

He blinked a few times, disoriented, and lifted his helm weakly. “Hey…” His voice cracked. “Why do those mountains look so weird?”

Getaway, trudging along beside him, laughed softly—but it wasn’t the easy, carefree laugh Rodimus remembered. This one sounded strained, brittle. “Because they’re not really mountains.”

Rodimus frowned. “What do you mean they’re not really mountains?”

Getaway jabbed a thumb toward the strange ridges that climbed up the “mountainsides,” gleaming faintly in the dying light. “See that architecture surrounding the edges? Those aren’t natural formations. Those are old towers, scaffolds, frame support beams—Cybertronian-built. They used to line the underside.”

Rodimus stared, sluggish processor trying to make sense of the words. “…The underside of what?”

Getaway huffed a small, humorless laugh. “The island. You know—the one they built to float in the upper atmosphere. The pretty little flying city.”

Rodimus stared harder, and as the last of the sun dipped behind the horizon, the silhouette of the “mountains” came into sharper focus—tall spires, slanted platforms, outlines of streets warped and half-buried in the dust.

“That’s…” His voice cracked, the realization dawning. “That’s Vos.”

Getaway's optics gleamed faintly. “Give the mech a medal.”

Rodimus shook his helm, disbelief coloring his voice. “I knew Vos fell, but here? Kaon’s not one of its neighbors!”

Getaway shrugged, leaning on the sled’s handlebar and staring at the skeletal ruins ahead. “They might have been trying to flee.”

Rodimus’s vents hitched, optics tracing the skyline. “You’re telling me we’ve been going toward Vos this whole time?”

“More like dragging,” Getaway said dryly, tugging on the harness strap for emphasis. “But yeah. Guess we got lucky—or not, depending how you look at it.”

Rodimus was silent for a moment, optics reflecting the faint red glow of the dying sun. “…So we’re going to Vos.”

“Looks like it,” Getaway replied. “Never thought I’d see it up close. Figured it’d crumbled completely.”

Rodimus gave a weak laugh, though it came out more like a rasp. “Guess they built it tougher than you thought.”

“Guess so,” Getaway murmured.

They both fell quiet after that. The only sounds were the grind of metal underfoot and the low hum of the wind through the ruins ahead.

After a long stretch, Rodimus asked, “You think anyone’s still up there?”

Getaway snorted softly. “Doubt it. If they were, they’d be long dead by now. Vos had its energon delivered to it since it was a floating settlement. No refineries."

Rodimus’s gaze drifted toward the looming shadow of the fallen city. “Still,” he whispered, “it’s kind of… beautiful.”

Getaway tilted his helm, looking at the wreckage as if seeing it for the first time. “Yeah,” he said finally. “In a fragged-up kind of way.”

The two mechs sat in silence as night fully settled, the ghost of Vos casting long shadows across the dead plains. And slowly, Rodimus drifted back into recharge. 

The world was quiet—eerily so, the kind of silence that felt heavier than noise ever could. Rodimus’s vents hitched softly as he blinked himself awake, optics dimming in and out of focus until he could make out the faint glow of starlight above him. The sky was wide open here, not the choking smog of Kaon, stretching endlessly into the void.

Getaway was slumped beside him on the ground, propped against the edge of the sled that served as Rodimus’s berth. His head hung low, his not cracked optic dim as he slept. The cracked optic was flickering. Rodimus could see the scars even in the dimness—the jagged line where plating ended and raw metal began, where the right half of Getaway’s face had once been.

For a moment, Rodimus just stared at him. The way his servo still gripped the sled’s handle, even unconscious. He looked... tired. More than tired—hollowed out.

And it was all Rodimus’s fault. He was the reason Getaway was missing half his face. It was his stupid outlier ability. 

Rodimus’s gaze dropped to his own frame. His left hand twitched. His right arm didn’t.

The realization came with a dull, familiar ache. He raised the stump slightly, still feeling the tug of reconnected lines and still-tender welds. His spark panged in his chest. On instinct, he tried to flex his nonexistent servo—and met only emptiness.

He let the arm drop. The metal clanked against the sled’s edge, and the faint sound echoed in the stillness. He didn’t mean to make noise. He didn’t want to wake Getaway. But the clatter was too loud in the dead air, and Getaway stirred with a sharp intake.

Rodimus thumped his head back against the sled. He didn’t cry—not in a sobbing, obvious way—but liquid built behind his optics anyway, gathering until it slipped free, tracing hot lines down his cheek. He couldn’t stop it. The silence only made it worse.

Getaway’s one working optic flickered online, blue light stuttering like a glitching signal. His head lifted sharply, scanning the area before focusing on Rodimus. His gaze softened immediately. “...Rodimus?” he rasped, his voice cracked from disuse.

Rodimus didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The words stuck somewhere in his vocalizer.

Getaway pushed himself upright, his movements stiff and sluggish. He blinked his damaged optic once, trying and failing to get it to stop flickering. “You okay?” he asked, even though the answer was obvious.

Rodimus shook his helm once, silent. The tears still fell.

Getaway’s expression crumpled faintly. He reached out without hesitation, his servo tracing a line down Rodimus’s remaining arm before coming to rest just above where the metal ended. “Hey,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

The apology sounded like he’d said it before—probably had while Rodimus was out. Too many times to count.

He traced slow, careful circles against Rodimus’s upper arm, just barely brushing against the fresh seam where it was capped off by scrap metal. It was an oddly grounding touch—gentle in a way Getaway usually wasn’t.

Rodimus ex-vented shakily, his frame trembling with each intake. The heat in his optics faded gradually into exhaustion. The ache in his chest didn’t lessen, but it dulled, replaced with the steady rhythm of Getaway’s hand.

Getaway shifted closer, leaning his helm back against the sled’s side. “You should try to rest,” he murmured, voice low and uneven. “You’re still healing.”

Rodimus wanted to argue—to say he’d already done enough resting, that he didn’t want to close his optics again—but the words didn’t come. He just nodded faintly, feeling the exhaustion creep back in.

“Good,” Getaway said softly, like he was talking to himself more than to Rodimus. His thumb brushed once, absentmindedly, against the edge of the weld line. “Sorry again. Had to do it fast, before it spread.”

Rodimus’s optics dimmed halfway. He didn’t answer, but he understood. He remembered the bite. The heat. The chaos.

“Didn’t have time to think about anything else,” Getaway added after a while, his voice almost lost to the night air. “Didn’t have time to think about how fraggin’ much it’d hurt you later.”

Rodimus wanted to tell him it was fine—that he knew Getaway had saved his life—but the lump in his throat was too thick. He turned his helm slightly toward him instead, optics glimmering faintly in the dark.

Getaway looked down at him and wrinkled his optics, no doubt pulling painfully on the scorched part of his face to do so. “Go on,” he said, thumb brushing against Rodimus’s shoulder once more. “Get some rest. I’ll keep watch.”

Rodimus blinked slowly. His vents evened out. The hand on his arm was steady, firm, and strangely cold.

And just like that, the tension left him. His optics shuttered halfway, then fully. The world dimmed into a low hum, filled only with the sound of Getaway’s ventilations and the whisper of the night wind.

Rodimus’s systems came back online in a haze of static and heat. His processor throbbed, and his optics flickered uncertainly as they adjusted to light—bright, artificial light, the kind he hadn’t seen in weeks.

He was indoors.

That realization hit first. He was indoors, not on the open road, not tied to a sled, not surrounded by silence and ruin. There was the faint hum of an energon generator, the buzz of fluorescent strips overhead, and the faint, metallic smell of cleaner.

He blinked again, optics focusing—on a white ceiling lined with support beams. Then a face leaned over him.

Rodimus froze.

The bright yellow optics, the jagged white helm, the shoulder mounted wings—it was unmistakable.

“Morning, sunshine,” Brainstorm chirped, optics glinting, way too casual for the situation. “You look like roadkill, by the way. I dig the new paint job—or I would if it wasn't half melted off of you.”

Rodimus sputtered, vents wheezing with confusion and panic. “You—! What—how the slag—”

Before Brainstorm could answer, Rodimus instinctively swung with his right servo, fury overriding logic. The motion was awkward, short—cut off at the elbow. His stump hit empty air. The failure sent a jolt through his systems, both physical and emotional.

Brainstorm blinked, looked down at Rodimus’s stub, and laughed.

It wasn’t mean, but it was obnoxious. “Hah! Ten points for the attempt. Zero points for effectiveness.”

“You fragging—” Rodimus’s remaining servo clenched. Before Brainstorm could think to dodge, Rodimus twisted his torso and drove a solid uppercut straight into Brainstorm’s chin.

The scientist’s head snapped back with a sharp clang, and he stumbled a step, muttering a sharp “OW, frag—what is wrong with you!?”

Rodimus sat up fast, ignoring the burn in his chest plating, optics bright with fury and confusion. “Where the slag am I? What did you do?!”

Before Brainstorm could respond, the door to the room slammed open.

“Rodimus!” Getaway’s voice was sharp—strained—but familiar enough that Rodimus’s shoulders eased slightly before the words sank in. “Calm down, will you? He’s not the enemy.”

Rodimus whipped his head toward him. “Not the enemy? He’s Brainstorm!”

Brainstorm rubbed his jaw, muttering, “Well, yeah, last I checked.”

Getaway shot him a look, then sighed, stepping forward and gesturing for Rodimus to stay down. His plating looked worse for wear—scratched, dented, but repaired just enough to move. His damaged face was partially healed. Wires had been shoved back into place, but everything else was left alone. “Listen, I can explain.”

Rodimus’s optics narrowed. “You’d better.”

Getaway hesitated, then said carefully, “We were running out of energon. I didn’t have enough to rely on—not without one of us going offline for good.”

Rodimus frowned, his vents still uneven. “So you just... found him?”

“Not exactly.” Brainstorm leaned back against the counter, rubbing his chin where the hit had landed. “I found him.” He gestured to Getaway with a lazy wave. “Dragged himself halfway across the slagging plains to Vos. And guess who’s set up shop near what’s left of the city? Me. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Rodimus blinked, the details not fully clicking through the fog in his processor. “Vos?”

Getaway nodded. “We made it to the outskirts. Or... what’s left of it, anyway.” He looked weary, optics flickering faintly. “Brainstorm’s been running a base here—resides in buildings that fell off the island, scavenges parts, tinkers with nonsense. I didn’t have a choice, Rodimus. We needed fuel.”

Rodimus slumped slightly, looking between them. “So you just... handed me over?”

Getaway’s expression darkened. “It wasn’t like that.”

Brainstorm raised a hand, gleeful despite the tension hanging in the air. “Hey, hey, no one’s handing anyone over! I’m not running a black market here—though, admittedly, I'm not adverse to it. But no! No. He came to me asking for help. I patched you up out of the kindness of my spark. You’re alive because of me. Maybe try saying thank you before throwing another punch, yeah?”

Rodimus’s glare didn’t soften. “You could’ve warned me before standing over me like some fragging ghost.”

Brainstorm shrugged. “Didn’t want to wake you too soon. You looked peaceful. You drool a little, by the way.”

“I do not—” Rodimus started, only for Getaway to run a hand over his scarred face with a quiet groan.

“Can we not do this?” Getaway muttered. “It’s been a long cycle, Rodimus. I just needed him to help. You were offline for almost a week.”

Rodimus blinked, shock flickering through his expression. “A week?”

“Give or take,” Brainstorm said cheerfully. “You’d be slagged if I hadn’t cleaned you up. Shotty patch job on that scrap cap, uneven amputation—which is terrible for prosthetic measurements, by the way—and you had like, no spark energy, so I had to hook you up to a generator. I'm not even a medic, you’re lucky I’m a genius.”

Rodimus scowled, though it was tempered by something uncertain. He looked down at the fresh alloy cap on his elbow—the smooth welds, the clean connectors. It had been treated.

Getaway crouched beside the berth, lowering his voice. “I didn’t know what else to do. You were burning through energy faster than I could replace it. Brainstorm had supplies. And... he’s been helping.”

Rodimus hesitated, tension slowly ebbing from his shoulders. His vents hissed softly, then steadied.

Brainstorm, grinning wide again, spread his arms in mock grandeur. “See? Not a villain. Just a charming, underappreciated engineer saving the day—again. No big deal.”

Rodimus muttered, “You’re still an aft.”

Brainstorm’s grin didn’t falter. “Yeah, but an aft with the knowledge of shotty black market mods. I've seen spark energy drained to almost zero before, and I know the easiest ways to bring it back up. It wasn't exactly legal, though. You should still be thanking me.”

Getaway ignored Brainstorm’s rambling and focused a softer look to Rodimus. “Welcome back, Rodimus.”

Rodimus huffed, falling back against the berth and staring up at the ceiling. His body ached, his head throbbed, and yet... he almost felt safe.

Almost.

Brainstorm’s wings twitched as he finished his rambling. “So,” he announced, voice far too chipper for the bleak energy in the room. “You’re mostly alright. Try not to combust, okay? I like this base the way it is—unexploded.”

Rodimus muttered something indistinct and unimpressed.

Brainstorm turned toward the door, grabbing a datapad from a cluttered table. “Anyway, I’ll leave you lovebirds to it.” He waggled his fingers at them dramatically. “Just—word of warning—don’t frag each other. Seriously. I’m not cleaning up another mech's transfluid, and if one of you manages to break a joint mid-grind, you’re fixing it yourselves. I’m a scientist, not a fragging janitor.”

Rodimus blinked, disgusted. “Excuse me?”

Getaway sighed, already burying his face in his servo. “Brainstorm—”

“And before you even think of trying to deny it,” Brainstorm went on, ignoring them both, “you’ve got that look. The ‘we’ve-survived-death-and-now-we’re-all-emotional-and-probably-horny’ look. I’ve seen it before. I’d rather not see it in action."

Rodimus made a strangled noise. “What—what is wrong with you?!”

Brainstorm just grinned under his visor, utterly unbothered. “Oh, plenty of things! But not that. Anyway—nighty night! Try not to die in recharge, yeah?”

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

Rodimus just sat there for a long moment, staring at the door like he couldn’t quite process what had just happened. Then, very slowly, he turned toward Getaway. “You… work with him?”

Getaway exhaled through his vents, shoulders sagging. “Unfortunately.”

Rodimus huffed, his plating twitching with irritation before his curiosity finally won out. “Alright, so what did you do to make him let us in? Because I remember him trying to feed us to his pet feral, and I’d rather not experience that again. Ever.”

Getaway moved toward him, voice dropping low and calm. “Rodimus, you need to lie back down. You’re still recovering.”

Rodimus frowned, optics narrowing. “You’re deflecting.”

“Not deflecting,” Getaway said, pressing a steadying servo against Rodimus’s good shoulder and nudging him gently back down against the berth. “Just saying it’s not important right now. We’ll talk later.”

Rodimus resisted, pushing back with his remaining servo. “We can talk now.”

The stubborn determination in his tone made Getaway hesitate. For a long moment, the only sound was the buzz of the fluorescent lights above them.

Finally, Getaway sighed and sat down beside the berth, rubbing a servo tiredly over his face. The repaired half of his face gleamed dully in the overhead light, the jagged edge still visible where the plating ended. The rest of his features—the exposed mesh, the half-covered cables—looked raw, but cleaner. Like a battlefield patch job.

“Alright,” he said finally. “You really want to know?”

Rodimus crossed his arm, expression set. “I’m fragging asking, aren’t I?”

Getaway’s optics dimmed a little, voice lowering. “I offered him a few favors.”

Rodimus tilted his helm. “Favors?”

Getaway nodded slowly. “While you were out… I had to keep us useful. He wanted something in exchange for shelter and energon.”

Rodimus frowned. “What could he possibly need from you? He can fly, he should be doing his own favors.”

Getaway didn’t answer right away. His optics flicked toward a torn painting on the wall—anything was better than Rodimus’s prying optics right now.

Finally, he murmured, “Corpses.”

Rodimus froze. “What?”

“I bring him the remains of mechs from the city,” Getaway said quietly. “Ones who didn’t make it out before Vos fell.”

Rodimus’s processor took a second too long to catch up. “You—you climbed the ruins? For bodies?”

“Yeah.” Getaway’s voice was calm, but there was something hollow beneath it. “He uses the corpses for experiments. Or salvage. I didn’t ask for details. I just… find them and bring them back.”

Rodimus stared, mouth slightly open. “You fed his pet corpses.”

“I didn’t feed anyone anything,” Getaway snapped, the words sharper than intended. He sighed and rubbed at his helm. “It wasn’t like that. He’s… weird, yeah, but he’s not killing anyone. Not anymore, anyway. He just—he uses the parts for something. Said it helps him keep the defenses up.”

Rodimus fell silent, optics flickering faintly as he tried to process that.

“Look,” Getaway continued, his tone softening. “I did what I had to. You were nearly offline. You needed energon, a place to heal. I couldn’t carry you much farther without both of us shutting down. So yeah, I made a deal. And we’re alive because of it.”

Rodimus looked away, jaw clenching. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

Getaway gave a small, humorless chuckle. “We don’t always get choices worth liking.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the hum of the base feeling louder for it.

Rodimus eventually let out a long vented sigh, leaning back into the berth, his frame visibly trembling from exhaustion. “Next time,” he muttered, “try to make deals that don’t involve dead mechs.”

Getaway gave a quiet snort. “Next time, you can negotiate.”

Despite himself, Rodimus huffed a laugh—tired, but real. Getaway's optics gleamed at the sound.

The quiet settled again, and Rodimus stared at the end of his right arm—the smooth, sealed plating where his elbow joint should have connected to his forearm. There was no leaking energon, no jagged edges. Just clean metal and an empty ache that made his spark flutter unevenly.

He couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop thinking about how wrong it looked. The geometry of his frame was off-balance, his shadow uneven against the berth wall. His missing limb felt like a phantom weight—still there, yet gone forever.

Getaway’s voice broke through the silence, soft and low. “Rodimus… I’m sorry. Again.”

Rodimus didn’t look up. His optics stayed locked on the stump. “You already said that.”

“I’ll keep saying it,” Getaway murmured, “because I mean it.”

Rodimus finally shushed him, lifting his left servo. “Don’t. I know it was necessary.” His voice cracked halfway through, and he clenched his jaw. “I know.”

Getaway hesitated. “Then why—”

“Because it’s my arm,” Rodimus cut him off, words tumbling out in a harsh vent. “You don’t just—just lose something like that and shrug it off, Getaway. You don’t just—”

He stopped himself, his expression crumbling as his voice softened. “I need both hands to wield my spear.”

The room fell quiet.

Then his optics flicked toward Getaway, something desperate creeping into his tone. “My spear. Where is it?”

Getaway’s expression shifted, guilt flickering across his face. “Rodimus…”

“Where’s my spear, Getaway?”

Getaway hesitated, rubbing a servo over the back of his neck. “It was gone when I woke up. After you—after the explosion. I looked for it, I swear, but…” He trailed off, shaking his head slowly. “It didn’t survive the blast.”

Rodimus stared at him, optics wide and unseeing. Then, with a hollow sound, he pressed his remaining servo to his face, curling in on himself.

His armor shifted with the motion, creaking softly as he pulled his legs close and rested his chin on his knees. The silence stretched out again, long and heavy.

Getaway stayed where he was, watching him quietly. The guilt in his field was palpable—a constant pulse of regret. After a few long moments, he reached out, placing a servo gently on Rodimus’s shoulder. The touch was tentative, hesitant, like he expected to be shoved away.

Rodimus flinched at first. He almost did shrug him off. His instinct screamed for distance—too much loss, too much pressure—but then he stopped. He forced himself to exhale, the sound shaking through his frame, and let his shoulders relax.

Getaway’s servo stayed steady, grounding him. Rodimus leaned into the touch. Just slightly. Just enough to feel something that wasn’t emptiness. The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful—but it wasn’t suffocating either. It just was.

Finally, after a few moments, Rodimus murmured, “Thank you.”

Getaway blinked, unsure he’d heard right. “For what?”

“For dragging me out of Kaon,” Rodimus said quietly. “For… not leaving me there.”

Getaway’s field flickered with something complicated—surprise, relief, guilt, affection—all tangled together. “You think I’d leave you?”

Rodimus gave a small, humorless laugh. “Would’ve been easier.”

Getaway shook his head, optics dim. “Maybe. But easier doesn’t mean right.”

Rodimus finally looked at him—really looked—and gave a slow nod. “Guess not.”

Neither of them spoke for a long time after that. Outside, the wind whistled through the metal ruins of Vos, and the low hum of Brainstorm’s generators filled the silence between them.

Rodimus stared down at his missing arm again, then back at Getaway’s servo still resting on his shoulder. For once, he didn’t move it away.

Getaway stood and crossed to the far side of the small room, where Brainstorm had left a crate of rationed energon cubes. The faint blue light of them shimmered across his half-mended faceplate, reflecting off the uneven metal as he picked one up and turned back toward the berth.

Rodimus looked up blearily, optics dim and a little unfocused. The moment Getaway held the cube out, Rodimus instinctively reached with his right servo—only for the motion to stop halfway, realizing. His optics dimmed further.

He sighed, withdrawing the half-gesture. “I’ll never get used to that,” he muttered.

Getaway said nothing at first, just pressed the cube into Rodimus’s left servo instead. “You will,” he murmured. “Might take time, but you will.”

Rodimus frowned but didn’t argue. He lifted the energon to his lips, taking a slow drink. The faint hum of his systems stabilizing filled the silence.

“Brainstorm,” Getaway said after a while, “can’t build you a new arm. Not one that works, anyway. But he can rig up a counterweight—something to help you balance your center of mass again.”

Rodimus lowered the cube, glancing up at him with a weary look. “What would it cost?”

Getaway hesitated. The silence that followed told Rodimus everything before Getaway even spoke.

“Probably a few more corpses,” Getaway admitted quietly, his tone tinged with discomfort.

Rodimus stared at him, then let out a long, heavy vent. “I’d rather not put you through that,” he said finally, his voice tired but steady. “You’ve done enough already.”

Getaway’s optics softened. “If it’s for you, it’d be worth it.”

Rodimus shook his head, setting the energon cube aside. “No. I don’t want you doing that. Not for me.”

“Rodimus—”

“Drop it,” Rodimus interrupted gently. “I’m tired.”

Getaway watched him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. “Alright.”

He turned, moving toward the door, his footsteps heavy. Rodimus watched him go, a flicker of uncertainty in his optics. The thought of being alone again—after everything—twisted something inside him.

“Wait,” Rodimus said suddenly, his voice softer this time. “Stay.”

Getaway paused at the doorway, turning back to him. “Rodimus…”

“Just—” Rodimus struggled for the right words, the vulnerability catching him off guard. “I know I'm being selfish, but—Just stay. Please.”

Getaway’s expression shifted from surprise to something gentler. “You’re not being selfish, you know,” he said quietly. “You’ve earned needing someone around.”

Rodimus gave a weak laugh that barely sounded like one. “That’s one way to put it.”

Getaway moved back toward him, dragging a chair closer to the berth. He sat down beside it, the joints in his legs creaking from fatigue.

Rodimus settled back, optics half-lidded. The hum of Brainstorm’s camp filled the air again—low machinery, faint wind whistling through the gaps in the walls.

Getaway leaned back, folding his arms. “Get some rest,” he murmured. “I’ll be here.”

Rodimus’s optics dimmed slowly, the exhaustion of everything finally catching up to him. He mumbled something that might’ve been “thank you” before his systems quieted to a low, steady rhythm.

Getaway sat there long after, watching the subtle rise and fall of Rodimus’s vents. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just stayed—because that’s what Rodimus had asked him to do.

Getaway waited until Rodimus’s vents evened out—steady, rhythmic, slow enough to tell him the mech was deep in recharge. The faint blue glow from the energon cubes flickered over Rodimus’s face, catching the faint gleam of his helm crest and the subtle tremor in his chest plating as he ex-vented in his sleep.

He stayed seated for a while longer, optics lingering on him. There was something unsettlingly peaceful about seeing Rodimus still. For once, no grimace, no manic grin, no restless twitching. Just… quiet.

When he was certain Rodimus wouldn’t stir, Getaway rose from the chair. His joints creaked, stiff from sitting too long. He moved carefully, stepping around the old crates and jagged floor plating until he reached what passed for the doorway.

Outside, the faint hum of the night wind filled the air. He stepped through the warped door, and immediately into the wastelands outside.

Brainstorm’s “medical bay” was nothing but the hollow shell of a collapsed tower that had once stood proudly in Vos. The city had fallen—literally. Chunks of its spires now jutted from the ash and dirt at crooked angles, scattered across the wasteland like broken teeth. Their building was one of the lucky few that hadn’t toppled all the way over, still upright though leaning ominously to one side.

The air smelled faintly of burnt metal and oxidized energon. Distant lightning flickered in the direction of the shattered skyline.

“Didn’t hear any fragging,” a voice called from the side.

Getaway turned. Brainstorm stood near a pile of scrap, arms crossed, one optic half-dim and the other glowing sharp and narrow. His frame was smudged with soot, a few dents appeared around his frame that he hadn't bothered with fixing.

Getaway frowned. “Of course not. Rodimus is still in recovery.”

Brainstorm arched an optic ridge. “And?”

“And…” Getaway ex-vented slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Rodimus wouldn’t want to, anyway.”

Brainstorm’s optics rolled so hard it was almost audible. “Right, right. All noble and tragic. You two really are the worst kind of rom-dram protags.”

Getaway didn’t dignify that with a response. He just folded his arms and looked away toward the debris field beyond them.

Brainstorm didn’t miss a beat. “Anyway, since you’re up and about, I need a few more bodies from Vos. You know the deal.”

Getaway’s shoulders stiffened. “Brainstorm, Rodimus just woke up. After a week. I was hoping to stay with him for a bit.”

“Science doesn’t wait for feelings,” Brainstorm said flatly, tilting his helm. “And my project sure as frag doesn’t. I need those corpses now, not when your boyfriend finishes his nap.”

“He’s not—” Getaway stopped himself, ex-venting through his vents. “Brainstorm, you don’t understand what it took to drag him out of there. He needs me here.”

“What he needs is more energon additives,” Brainstorm shot back. “Which I’ll get from processing the alloys in the bodies. So unless you’ve suddenly learned how to conjure refined alloy out of sentimentality, you’re going.”

Getaway grimaced. He hated that Brainstorm was right. Hated more that he couldn’t argue without putting Rodimus at risk.

“How many?” he asked finally.

“Three,” Brainstorm said. “Big ones, if you can find them. Don’t bring me half-melted scrap again.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Getaway rubbed a servo down his face. “You’ll have your bodies.”

Brainstorm smirked. “Good mech.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Fine, fine.” Brainstorm waved a servo dismissively, already turning away toward his workshop built out of stacked fuselage parts. “Try not to get killed. I’d hate to have to explain to your boyfriend why you didn’t come back.”

Getaway didn’t rise to the bait. He just stood there for a long moment, looking back at the crooked doorway behind him—the faint light from inside barely spilling onto the cracked ground.

Then he turned toward the ruins of Vos, helm heavy, every step echoing against the metal debris. He didn’t bother looking back again.

The wind howled through the broken spires, cold and sharp as it cut across Getaway’s plating. He dug his pitted digits into the rope Brainstorm had secured to the metal framing, his overtaxed joints screaming as he pulled himself up another few meters. The ropes creaked ominously—old, repurposed power lines, stripped of insulation and tied off with Brainstorm’s idea of “secure knots.”

Every movement made his face ache. The plating along the left side of his helm was still missing, wires exposed and twitching whenever the night air hit them. The numbing spray Brainstorm had used helped for a while, but it was wearing off fast. Every pull on the rope sent dull sparks of pain across his cheek, radiating to his jaw and cracked optic.

Still, Getaway climbed.

Rodimus had been worse off. That thought anchored him.

He hauled himself over the next ledge, his pedes landing on a jagged platform that used to be a nice landing pad. Probably. Below, the collapsed buildings that made up Brainstorm's camp looked so much smaller, and Brainstorm himself was barely visible at his outdoor smelter. 

His vents cycled harshly.

“Frag it,” he muttered under his breath, pressing his forehead against the cold metal.

Brainstorm had at least had the decency to stuff the exposed wires back in before spraying the numbing compound—though his bedside manner was about as subtle as a fusion cannon. “Hold still, Getaway, I’m not a real medic so if this goes wrong, it really goes wrong.” Brainstorm had barked, right before shoving the plating back into alignment and sealing it with a hiss.

Getaway snorted at the memory, pulling himself up another few handholds.

To think, he mused bitterly as he climbed, that he’d once thought he and Rodimus would be a temporary alignment. Traveling in numbers to Iacon. He scoffed aloud. Yeah, fragging right.

Rodimus had a way of getting under your armor. Not in the way Getaway liked to be—no, in the way that stuck. The way that made you care, no matter how hard you tried not to.

His servo slipped for a moment on a slick patch of oxidized metal. He hissed, catching himself, optics narrowing as he refocused on the climb.

“I shouldn’t’ve gotten attached,” he muttered, almost like the wind could hear him.

He hated that part of himself—the one that did get attached. The part that still remembered Atomizer’s laugh, that old cocky sparkle in his optics before it all went to slag. Getaway’s grip tightened on the rope. He deleted the thought the instant it surfaced, purging the memory file before it could linger. Atomizer was gone. Rodimus wasn’t. That was all that mattered now. 

Finally, his pedes found purchase on the ledge of what had once been one of Vos’s grand landing circles. The round structure jutted out from the city’s body, broken and leaning slightly, but still intact enough to stand on.

He hoisted himself over the edge and collapsed onto the cracked concrete, ex-venting heavily. The air here was thinner, colder. Wind screamed through the hollow metal around him, carrying the distant creak of shifting wreckage.

He pushed himself up, optics scanning the area. Not much left this close to the edge—just scattered debris, half-melted pylons, and the brittle remaining limbs of flyers who hadn’t survived the fall trapped under debris. Most of those corpses had long been removed. Mostly by Brainstorm.

Still, he started walking. His pedes clanked softly against the cracked metal, the sound swallowed by the endless hiss of the wind.

There weren’t many corpses left near the edges anymore—Brainstorm’s earlier scavenging runs had picked the place clean before Getaway had been suckered into doing the dirty work himself. Now, it was his job to go deeper. To climb into the dead city’s belly, where the shadows were thicker and the silence heavier.

He sighed, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted the harness around his chest.

For Rodimus, he told himself. Just for Rodimus.

The deeper Getaway went, the more surreal it felt. Vos had always been a city that touched the clouds—literally and figuratively. Only the wealthy grounders had ever been permitted to visit, and even then, they were escorted, supervised, and looked down upon the whole time. He’d never imagined he’d walk these streets, much less like this.

The architecture still shimmered beneath layers of dust and grime. Even half-melted and cracked, the city had style. The walls had been made of quartz, detailed and chiseled by the best artisans who could fly. The tilework under his pedes—where it remained intact—was cut from deep cobalt glass, fitted into intricate mosaics that formed sweeping images of wings and skies.

“Frag me,” Getaway muttered under his breath, dragging a servo along the cold wall as he walked. “You were really something, weren’t you?”

He imagined how it must’ve looked before the fall—gleaming towers, open air courtyards, platforms for takeoffs and landings. Most of the doors were high up, accessible only by flight. Roof entrances, landing ports, narrow corridors designed for sleek frames. Everything about it screamed exclusive. The sort of place that made him feel small even now, years after it crashed. 

The silence that hung over the ruins was heavy. Only the distant creak of shifting metal broke the stillness. It was never supposed to be this way.

He stopped in front of a wide plaza—a place that must’ve been bustling once. Now it was filled with half-collapsed structures and glinting piles of glass shards that caught the moonlight. Vos might’ve fallen, but even broken, it still managed to be beautiful.

“Guess even perfection looks good dead,” he said softly, voice echoing through the hollow plaza.

He adjusted the harness around his chest, the tools and hauling nets clinking softly, and continued deeper in. He needed to find corpses for Brainstorm—preferably intact ones. Fresh ones were impossible, and Brainstorm had been very clear about “quality.”

The further he went, the more the streets narrowed. The walls leaned in close, and Getaway could see how the crash had warped the city’s layout. Some buildings were toppled over, others half-sunk into the terrain. It all looked like gravity didn’t quite know which way to pull here.

He stopped at a structure that had once been pristine—a tall tower of glinting blue glass, now cracked from top to bottom. A low window yawned open about a story above him, the frame empty where stained glass once had been.

He hesitated, then shrugged. “Good enough.”

With a grunt, he jumped, grabbing the ledge with both servos and hauling himself up. The edges bit into his palms, but he ignored it, swinging one pede through and pulling the rest of his body after it.

He dropped inside, landing on all fours with a thud that echoed faintly through the hollow interior.

The air inside smelled like rust. A living space, he realized—lavish, but ruined. The walls were lined with shattered picture frames, and various decor littered the floor.

Then he saw it.

A berth—cluttered with objects piled on top—and beneath it, the shape of a body.

Getaway’s optics flickered uncertainly as he crouched down. The flyer’s frame was delicate, the plating scarred but intact, still bright even under layers of dust. One wing curled inward protectively, shielding the small, motionless body of a turbofox clutched to their chest.

The sight froze him.

They looked young—newly upgraded into an adult frame. 

He ran a servo over his face and ex-vented sharply, forcing himself not to think too hard about it.

“Primus,” he whispered. “You didn’t stand a chance, did you?”

He crouched lower, fingers brushing the flyer’s plating. It was cold, brittle, and cracked at the joints. Whoever they’d been, they had been terrified.

He hesitated for a long moment before finally taking hold of the flyer’s shoulders. The plating creaked as he pulled, and the body slid out from under the frame with a soft thud. The turbofox came with it, still pressed against the mech’s chestplate.

Brainstorm would want the body. The flyer’s structure was still intact—a seeker frame, by the looks of it. Rare for a seeker to be forged rather than constructed cold. That much Getaway knew.

He looked at the turbofox again. Its small body was curled, wires along its spine exposed but delicate.

“…maybe he’ll appreciate you too,” Getaway muttered bitterly, grabbing the turbofox by the scruff and beginning the long drag toward the window.

Behind him, the shards of the stained glass window glittered faintly in the moonlight—shattered fragments of reds, blues, and golds scattered like fallen stars across the floor. It must have been beautiful.

Getaway pushed both bodies through the window and wiped the dust from his servos. They hit the metal ground below with a hollow clang, the sound echoing through the dead city like distant thunder.

He winced, the noise too loud, too final. Still, there wasn’t much choice. Brainstorm had made his demands clear—and Getaway couldn’t afford to come back empty-handed. Not when Rodimus was counting on him.

He turned back into the room and stepped carefully, testing each stride, the floor groaning beneath his pedes. The crash had warped most of the levels—nothing was flat anymore.

The first mech had looked like a seeker, if those back mounted wings and complex torso had anything to say about it. If Getaway remembered correctly, seekers tended to fly in groups of three. Trines, that’s what they called them. Families of a sort—tight-knit, insufferably proud. So if one was here, chances were good that more weren’t far behind.

He braced a servo against the wall and moved into the next corridor. Shattered glass glittered beneath him, crunching with every step.

The hallway opened up into what looked like a common area—high ceilings, overturned furniture, a display wall shattered into jagged shards. The place was chaos.

He picked his way through the mess, optics scanning for signs of movement—though he doubted there would be any. No ferals, no life. Just ghosts.

That’s when he saw it: a glint of gray plating half-buried under debris.

Getaway crouched down, brushing aside shards of glass and twisted beams. The frame beneath was larger, broader—definitely a seeker, judging by the wings folded unnaturally beneath the body. This one was definitely constructed cold. 

“Guess you lost your whole trine, huh?” Getaway muttered quietly. “Sorry, pal.”

The seeker’s face was a wreck—literally. A massive decorative statue had fallen from a nearby shelf and crushed the seeker's helm in completely. Getaway grimaced, forcing himself not to stare at the ruin of the mech’s face. He’d seen worse. Much worse. But it still made something twist behind his optics.

He got a good grip under the mech’s arms, straining as he pulled the heavy frame free. The wings caught on the rubble, snapping slightly at the base before Getaway was able to pull the body loose.

“Sorry,” he muttered again, teeth gritted as he adjusted his footing. “You’re heavier than you look.”

He adjusted his grip beneath the seeker’s shoulders and started dragging. The plating left streaks across the tiled floor, the faint scrape of metal on glass grating against his audials. Every few steps, he paused to resecure his grip or step over twisted pieces of furniture. He tried not to look the mech in the face—or what was left of it.

When he reached the window, he stopped and looked down at the mech. The drop might break off the seeker’s already weak wings, but he could just tie them to the seeker so Brainstorm wouldn't go off on him for body part preservation.

“Alright, big guy,” he said softly, bracing himself. “Let’s get you down there with your friends.”

He pushed.

The seeker’s frame slid over the ledge and tumbled, landing with a sickening crunch below.

Getaway ex-vented shakily, rubbing his face with the back of his servo. He hated this part—the cold, methodical part. Dragging, dropping, collecting. He could almost hear Brainstorm’s voice echoing in his helm: Don’t think about what they were. Think about what they’re worth. Think about the future.

He leaned on the windowsill for a moment, looking out at the broken central monolith in the distance. Such a beautiful piece of art—Getaway would expect it to belong to a museum rather than a parliament building. Helex was so different from Vos visually and architecturally, yet the sight of Vos’s neat and artisanal buildings made him feel homesick.

He couldn’t help but wonder what Vos must have looked like when the city fell—when it tore itself apart midair and came screaming down into Kaon’s territory. How many mechs like these had died mid-flight from falling debris, wings torn to pieces before they ever hit the ground?

The thought made him shudder.

Helex had been one of the last bastions of Cybertron during the initial invasion, being the second last to fall—just before the Quintessons caught on to Polyhex's intricate underground city below the towers that stretched to the sky. Helex had shields that blocked all initial attacks, and Getaway foolishly felt safe. That was the first time a Quintesson ship had open fired instead of throwing down canisters of black smoke. 

He pushed himself off the ledge and turned back into the room—better to keep moving and not focus on the past. One more body. That would be enough to keep Brainstorm off his back for a few days—and maybe, just maybe, it would buy Rodimus some peace.

The floor creaked beneath him as he stepped forward again, the silence pressing heavy on his audials. 

Getaway brushed the dust from his plating and adjusted the harness around his torso, optics scanning the lower level of the shattered complex. Brainstorm was greedy, and if he decided that the seekers weren't enough, Getaway’d have to make the climb all over again tomorrow. He needed one more—something worthwhile.

He crossed through the open hallway, careful not to slip on the warped floor panels. His pedes echoed softly in the quiet, the only sound for possibly miles. It was unnerving—Vos hadn't been the most bustling city on Cybertron, that honor belonged to Iacon Proper, but Getaway imagined flyers of all kinds used to buzz around the skies above, or walk the streets below. He imagined the air always carried the sounds of loud flyer engines, or rotor blades beating against the wind. The silence is unnatural, but at this point after the invasion, Getaway was used to it.

He reached another doorway, the frame cracked but still holding. The panel flickered when he pushed it aside, sparking faintly before going dark again. He stepped inside, his optics adjusting to the shadows.

This living space was rather small compared to the first one. Two berths shoved together in the center of the room, a whole assortment of furniture toppled, the decor scattered, and a thick layer of dust coated everything. He was about to turn back when he caught a faint glimmer of faded gold in the corner.

Getaway approached slowly, stepping over broken datapads and a shattered energon dispenser. The glint resolved into a wingtip—small, sharp, and painted in gray shades of what had once been gold, buried under rubble. He crouched low and pulled away a fallen piece of wall.

There it was. The third.

The seeker was curled tightly into the corner, frame drawn in on itself like a frightened sparkling. The wings folded protectively around its front, the head bowed low. For a fleeting moment, Getaway’s tanks seized—because it looked alive. The positioning, the tension in the frame… like it might stir any second.

But it didn’t.

He crouched there a long moment, staring. Something about the stillness was too deliberate. This mech hadn’t died in the crash.

“Slag…” he muttered softly, optics flicking to the scarring across its chest plates—an old energon leak, sealed by time. “You lasted a while, huh?”

The mech must’ve survived the initial impact, as there were no obvious impact injuries. They survived long enough to come to terms with death.

Getaway ex-vented quietly, the sound trembling in the silence. “Guess you didn’t want to leave them.”

He’d heard about sparkbonds, of course. Every mech had, even cold constructs like himself. But in Getaway’s old line of work, sparkbonds were off limits. He himself was disposable—his own plating made from the recycled parts of his own predecessors who had failed—the fact that he had survived every job assigned to him was nothing short of a miracle. Still, even Getaway knew what it meant when one mech in a bonded trine died. The others felt it. Sometimes it shattered them instantly, like in the case of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, who were twins sharing a single split spark. Sometimes it lingered—slow, agonizing, like a half-torn circuit. The latter was more likely to happen to conjunxes who had been bonded for millenia.

Maybe that’s what happened here.

He crouched lower, fingertips brushing the cold plating. He didn’t know why he spoke aloud, but he did anyway. “For what it’s worth, you probably went out faster than you thought. Not the worst way, all things considered.”

He grabbed the seeker under the arms and began to pull. The body was lighter than the previous two, but the wings made maneuvering awkward. The edge of one caught his shoulder, leaving a faint scratch in his paint.

“Watch the finish, huh?” he muttered out of habit. The corpse didn’t answer.

Dragging it to the window was slow work—the hallway was narrow, and the seeker’s wingtips snagged against every corner. By the time he reached the broken window, he was covered in scuffs and flaked off paint.

He stopped at the window and looked down. Two seeker bodies and a turbofox already on the ground below, scattered like discarded armor pieces. The drop wasn’t high, but it was still enough to make his tank flip.

He sighed, flexing his servos around the frame of the window. “Alright. One more for the pile.”

With a grunt, he shoved the body through the opening. It slid, tumbling with a faint rattle before landing on the heap of metal below. The sound echoed through the empty air, sharp and final.

Getaway stayed at the ledge for a moment, optics unfocused. He didn’t know what to feel anymore. Pity, exhaustion, disgust—all of it blurred together.

He turned, jumping down to the lower ledge where the pile of bodies lay waiting. His servos caught the metal edge, and he swung himself down the rest of the way, landing hard enough that his knees jarred. He stood there for a long time, staring at the three bodies.

A young one, a strong one, a survivor.

A trine, reunited in death.

He shook his head slowly. “Brainstorm better be happy with this slag.”

The silence gave him no answer, only the faint hum of wind through the ruined buildings. Still, looking at his haul, he couldn’t help but feel the same twinge of guilt he always did. This was the price of survival. And if it meant Rodimus stayed alive—if it meant any of them did—then he’d pay it.

Even if it meant robbing Vos of her resting dead.

Getaway’s vents heaved as he gripped the first seeker under the arms and started the long drag toward the city’s edge. The seeker’s limp wings scraped along the ground, leaving a faint trail of dust and flecks of faded paint behind them.

He muttered under his breath as he went, the way one might curse the weather or an ill-fitting joint. “This is the price of the future, Getaway. Just a few more bodies, Getaway. Think about Rodimus, Getaway.” His tone was bitter, but his voice trembled with effort more than frustration. His shoulders burned with the strain.

The edge of Vos wasn’t far, but it felt endless. The fallen city was all sharp angles and slanted metal now, the edge that had crashed first. From above, the ground below flickered faintly like a reflection of the night sky—what had once been clouds of glimmering dust was now a barren plain littered with the remains of buildings, powered by Brainstorm-made generators.

When he finally reached the drop-off, he stopped to let his vents cool down his frame, leaning against a warped pillar that jutted outward like a rib from the corpse of the city itself. He reached for the coil of rope slung across his shoulder. Brainstorm’s rope. Reinforced synth-cable, resistant to corrosion, strong enough to lower a tank if needed. Stronger than the rope he used to climb up the side of Vos.

“Lucky you,” he muttered to the dead mech at his pedes. “You get the fancy treatment.”

He looped the rope under the seeker’s chest, threading it carefully between the wings to avoid further damage—Brainstorm hated when the wings tore. Then, wrapping the end around a rusted beam for leverage, he began lowering the body inch by inch. The weight tugged hard against his servos, and he grunted with effort. The rope pulled uncomfortably at his servos.

The descent was slow. Painfully so. Every few meters, he had to stop, adjust the tension, and brace his pedes against the ground. He didn’t want to hear the sound it made if the rope snapped.

Finally, the body reached the lower platform—a flat expanse where Brainstorm would carry the body off to somewhere else. He probably had a corpse warehouse, the weirdo. Getaway could see the mech down there already, small in the distance, craning his helm up to watch. He raised a servo and gave a half-hearted wave before unlatching the rope and pulling it back up.

“That’s one,” he murmured, the sound lost to the wind.

By the time he got back for the second body, his arms ached and his backstruts throbbed. He’d never admit it aloud, but mining was starting to feel easier than corpse duty. The mines didn’t stare at him with hollow optics.

The larger seeker was heavier—much heavier. He could feel a weird pressure building behind his cracked optic when he strained his frame to lift it.

He hauled it down the tilted walkway, every pull scraping a line into the dust. His vents cycled hot, over and over, and his cracked optics sputtered and popped sparks. He paused halfway there to rest, crouching beside the body. The dead mech’s wings caught the faint light from above, throwing fractured reflections across the floor.

“Sorry,” Getaway said softly, not sure why. “You didn’t deserve this either.”

When he finally reached the ledge again, the wind had picked up—stronger now, carrying faint whistling notes through the cracks of Vos’s broken metal. It sounded almost like a melody, if you didn’t listen too closely.

He tied the rope again, slower this time, careful to knot it just under the mech’s shoulder plating, this one's wings were already too close to coming apart for his comfort. His servos trembled as he began lowering the body. The strain was immense; the mech’s weight nearly pulled him over the edge. He dug his pedes in, energon pumping harder in his lines, joints locked until he felt the rope go slack—another one safely down.

He ex-vented shakily and rubbed the back of his neck, glancing over the edge. Brainstorm waved cheerfully from below, the gesture loose and teetering on the edge of condescending.

“Yeah, yeah, I see you,” Getaway muttered, pulling the rope back up. “You could fraggin’ help, you know.”

By the time he reached the third, smaller seeker—the one he had found curled in on itself—his joints felt like they’d been stripped raw. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could get back to Rodimus.

He bent down and picked the seeker up, surprised again by how light it was. He could almost cradle it if he wanted to. Its wings folded in naturally as he lifted.

“Guess you’re the lucky one,” he murmured, stepping over the wrecked frame of the doorway. “Gentle trip down.”

The path back to the edge was quieter this time. He didn’t talk. Didn’t think much, either. Just the rhythm of walking, dragging, his vents cycling. The wind howled around him as if to fill the silence.

At the ledge, he paused again. He tied the rope neatly, double-checking the knot, then stood there for a long moment before starting the descent. His arms burned with the effort, and he could feel a pounding behind his cracked optic, almost desperate to get his attention now.

Halfway down, his servo slipped, and the rope jerked violently. He hissed, processor screaming to keep control. For a second, he thought he’d lost it—the body swayed dangerously—but he managed to tighten his grip.

“Not today,” he growled, voice cracking.

When he finally felt the tension release—Brainstorm detaching the line below—Getaway sagged forward, bracing himself against the railing. The wind tore past him, cold and sharp against his plating.

Three bodies. Done.

He pulled the rope back up one last time, coiling it carefully, and slung it over his shoulder. His arms were trembling too hard to hide it.

Looking down at the shadowed ground, he could see Brainstorm already dragging one of the bodies toward his work area. The faint sound of metal scraping on metal echoed up through the city’s hollow skeleton.

Getaway turned away from the edge, forcing himself to make his way back through the streets of Vos to grab the limp body of the turbofox. It was small—delicate even, compared to the frames he’d just dragged. Its once-sleek plating had dulled to a faint silver-gray, and layered plating stuck together with dried energon. He tried not to look at its optics; the faint blue tint still shimmered in the right light, giving the illusion of life.

The city around him moaned as wind whistled through broken seams, the chorus of metal-on-metal filling the silence. He adjusted his grip, tucking the turbofox’s body against his chest, and started toward the ledge again.

By the time he reached the edge, his shoulders ached from the repeated hauling. He could already see Brainstorm below—still moving bodies. The sight of the other mech’s bright teal armor gleaming in the faint starlight made him sigh.

“Last one,” he muttered under his breath, though Brainstorm couldn’t hear him from here. “You better be happy with my efforts, you lunatic.”

He lowered himself down using the rope he'd climbed up from. The descent was awkward with one servo occupied, but he managed to reach the ground without slipping. His pedes touched the fractured surface with a heavy clang, and Brainstorm turned sharply at the sound.

The scientist’s optics glowed bright, reflecting off the metal wall. “Finally,” Brainstorm chirped, wiping his servos on a rag that was already soaked pink with one of the dead mechs’ energon. “What took you so long?”

Getaway ex-vented hard, dropping the turbofox body onto the nearest clean-enough slab of metal. “Found this with one of the bodies. Thought you’d appreciate some variety.”

Brainstorm’s optics flicked to the mechanimal, his expression immediately souring. “And what’s that supposed to be?”

Getaway wiped a smear of grime off his plating with his forearm, pretending nonchalance. “It’s a turbofox.”

“I can see that,” Brainstorm hissed, stepping closer. “I’m asking what the deal with it is. Why would you waste my time hauling in a glorified pet instead of a functioning frame?”

Getaway tilted his helm and shrugged, masking the flicker of irritation that spiked through him. “Thought it might be useful.”

“Useful?” Brainstorm’s voice sharpened like a blade. “Do you think science is a fragging joke, Getaway?”

Getaway straightened reflexively, feeling his frame go tense. Brainstorm’s optics bored into him, bright with that volatile edge that always made Getaway cautious.

“Not a joke,” he said quickly, forcing his tone steady. “I meant—” his processor scrambled for an answer that wouldn’t get him shot, “—it might be useful… as a… snack. For Perceptor.”

That stopped Brainstorm cold. His expression shifted from suspicion to thoughtfulness, his optics flickering faintly as he considered it. “Huh.” He rubbed his chin, optics narrowing on the turbofox corpse. “How thoughtful."

Getaway dared to ex-vent again, quietly, watching the change take hold.

“Yeah,” Brainstorm murmured. “Yeah, it could keep his hunger back, at least temporarily. Good thinking, Getaway.”

“Uh… thanks,” Getaway said, trying to hide his disbelief at being praised. “Glad I could help.”

Brainstorm knelt beside the turbofox, prodding its plating with a sharp instrument that definitely hadn’t been sterilized. “Hm. Compact structure, decent energon content… this could work.”

“Glad to hear it.” Getaway crossed his arms, trying to look casual. “You, uh, planning to give it to him now or later?”

“Later,” Brainstorm said absently, slicing open one of the turbofox’s forelegs. “He’s still in stasis recharge. Can’t risk waking him up too soon. Wouldn’t want him to have another… episode.”

Getaway didn’t ask what he meant. He didn’t want to know. The way Brainstorm said it made his spark pulse unevenly. Brainstorm continued his inspection, humming quietly to himself. The sound wasn’t comforting—it never was—but at least it wasn’t angry anymore. “You did well, Getaway. For once.”

“I try.”

“Try harder next time,” Brainstorm said without looking up. “I still need more material. This won’t last.”

Getaway’s shoulders tensed again, the praise-and-insult mixture as jarring as ever. “Yeah, sure. I’ll go back when I can. Gotta check on Rodimus first.”

Brainstorm waved a dismissive servo. “Fine, fine. Go cradle your boyfriend. But remember—if I don’t get what I need, I’ll come find you myself.”

Getaway’s plating prickled, but he just nodded, backing away from the workbench. “Yeah. Got it.”

He turned and started the slow walk back toward the fallen building that served as their shelter, the faint sound of Brainstorm’s cutting tools trailing after him like an echo. His arms felt light now without the weight of the bodies, but his chest felt heavier than ever.

Halfway there, he glanced back once more. Brainstorm was bent over the turbofox, muttering, his tools flashing in the dim light. The sound of tearing metal carried faintly up through the air.

Getaway turned away, cracked optic pulsing, and kept walking. The sooner he got back to Rodimus, the better.

Getaway reached the doorway of the half-collapsed building, his pedes dragging through the dust. The pale glow of sunrise bled through the cracks in the metal walls, touching everything with cold color. He could see Rodimus through the gap—still asleep, turned half toward the wall, his single arm draped over his chest like he was shielding himself. 

His servos trembled as he reached for the door. His vents stuttered. Suddenly it felt like his entire frame was too small, too tight. The space between his plating and his protoform crawled with heat. He stepped back, bumping into the wall, and that was all it took for the panic to start.

It came fast—too fast. A pressure built behind his cracked optic once more, sharp and deep, and his ventilation hitched in erratic bursts. His spark raced like it was trying to punch its way out of his chest. The world swam in and out of focus.

He dropped to his knees before he realized he’d done it, clawing at his helm as if he could physically pry the panic out. His servos scraped against the seams of his faceplate. He could feel the crack in his broken optic pulse like it was alive.

“Stop—stop—stop—” The words came out strangled, static-thick. His optics brightened, then dimmed again. The pain behind his helm spiked, and he slammed a servo against his head just to make it do something.

It didn’t help.

The next thing he knew, his fingers were digging under the cracked edge of his right optic. The sharp glass split the seams of his plating, and the burn of it made his spark stutter. He didn’t think—he just pulled.

There was a sickening crackle as the glass gave way, giving him leverage to pull. Hot fluid spilled down his cheek plating. A mess of wires followed, snapping one by one like breaking threads until the finally disconnected. He held it in his palm, his vents roaring.

He stared at it, stunned for a moment—his own optic, dripping faintly, cables twitching. Then he laughed, a raw, broken sound that didn’t feel real.

The panic didn’t stop. His vents cycled fast and shallow, and everything felt too heavy. His plating itched like there was grime crawling beneath it. He dug his claws into the edges, scraping until he felt the screech of metal on metal, until flakes of his own paint came away under his fingers.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He wanted to move, but his frame wouldn’t cooperate.

“Get it together,” he whispered, but it came out more like a growl. “Getaway, get it—together—”

He forced himself toward the door, crawling now because his pedes refused to hold him. The hinges creaked as he shoved it open, the faint light from outside spilling in and catching on the streaks of energon down his face.

The air inside the shelter was cooler, quieter. The sight of Rodimus—still, peaceful, breathing in that slow rhythm—hit him like a pulse to his spark.

Something in him loosened.

He dragged himself across the floor, the metal biting into his knees, leaving faint streaks of off colored energon in his wake. When he finally reached Rodimus’s side, he collapsed there, pressing his forehead against the edge of the cot. Condensation clung uncomfortably to his plating.

The sound of Rodimus’s ventilations was the only steady thing in the room. Getaway clung to it. He focused on the rhythm, syncing his own vents with it until the manic rush in his systems started to fade.

When his processor finally began to clear, he lifted a trembling servo to his face—and realized what he’d done. His optic stared back at him from his palm, dark and empty.

“Oh, frag,” he breathed. “Frag, frag, frag…”

He touched the torn cables still hanging loose from his face and winced. The pain hadn’t registered before, but it did now—sharp and deep, radiating through his helm. He deserved it, he thought distantly.

He looked at Rodimus again. The other mech’s face was soft in recharge, his armor dimmed and his features slack with exhaustion. Somehow, that sight—just Rodimus being alive—was enough to pull Getaway back to himself.

He sat there for a long time, venting quietly, one servo resting on the floor beside Rodimus’s berth. The pain was still there, but it was manageable now. Manageable because Rodimus was here.

He let his helm fall forward again, and his broken voice came out in a whisper. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Just… don’t look at me like this, Roddy.”

And then, exhausted and half delirious, Getaway stayed where he was—bleeding, shaking, but alive—and waited for the panic to finally let him go.

Getaway sat there for what felt like hours, maybe longer—time had lost all meaning somewhere between panic and exhaustion. The steady rhythm of Rodimus’s vents grounded him, a tether that kept him from falling apart completely. When his trembling finally eased, he looked down at Rodimus’s remaining servo—the one still intact, still warm with a faint hum of life beneath the plating.

He hesitated, optics flickering dimly. His own servo hovered above it for a long moment before he dared to touch. Just the tips of his fingers at first, then more fully, curling his hand gently around Rodimus’s. The contact was feather-light, reverent. It was ridiculous how a gesture so small could feel like relief.

Rodimus didn’t stir. His vents stayed slow, steady, unaware of the wreck of a mech sitting beside him. That made it easier—Getaway could just sit there, holding his hand like some desperate fool who didn’t know how to let go.

The sound of metal footsteps approaching from outside jolted him from the fragile calm. Brainstorm didn’t knock—he never did—he just shoved the door open with his hip, a small crate of energon balanced in his arms.

“Yo, Getaway! I was gonna say—nice work out there! That last haul was revolutionary—” Brainstorm’s words cut off mid-sentence. His optics narrowed, then widened, flickering with something between disgust and fascination. “Oh, sweet Primus’s fuel tank, are you holding your optic?!”

Getaway blinked once, too drained to flinch. Slowly, he turned his helm toward Brainstorm, his remaining optic dull and unfocused. Then he raised his other servo—the one still slick with faint traces of an off pink—and held up the optic he’d torn out earlier, cables dangling limply. “Can you reattach it?”

Brainstorm stared. He was actually stunned, which was impressive, given how often he had something snarky to say. “…What?”

“The optic,” Getaway muttered, exhausted, shaking it a little like a broken trinket. “Can you put it back in?”

Brainstorm set the crate down with a thunk, running both servos down his face. “What part of I’m not a medic do you keep missing? What in the pits happened?!”

Getaway sighed, head tilting forward. “I dunno. I just… it happened.”

“It happened?” Brainstorm’s tone jumped an octave. “What does that even mean—‘it happened’? Did it just walk out of your faceplate on its own?”

Getaway looked down at the optic in his hand, expression unreadable. “No. I… tore it out.”

There was a long pause.

Brainstorm blinked. Once. Twice. Then, “Okay, you know what? No. I’m not even touching that one.” He gestured vaguely toward the optic. “Or that one. Just—what in the pits possessed you—never mind, don’t answer that. I already know it’ll make me want to weld my audials shut.”

Getaway huffed a weak laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “I think I had… a moment.”

“You think?” Brainstorm crossed his arms, ex-vents flaring. “You ripped out your optic, Getaway. That’s not a ‘moment,’ that’s a lifetime achievement in catastrophic bad decisions.”

Getaway rubbed his thumb over the edge of Rodimus’s servo, grounding himself again. “Yeah.”

Brainstorm looked like he was about to retort—then stopped, staring at Getaway’s posture, at the way his frame hunched protectively toward the sleeping mech beside him. The sharp retort softened a fraction. “You’re a mess,” he muttered, quieter.

“Aren't we all,” Getaway said, voice dry.

Brainstorm crouched to grab the optic from him before Getaway could protest. He turned it over, poking at the torn wires. “It’s scrap,” he said finally. “I could maybe patch the lens if you’re feeling sentimental, but its use? This is gone.”

Getaway nodded once, as if he’d expected it. “Figures.”

Brainstorm sighed, setting the ruined optic on the crate beside him. “I’ll… find you something to keep the socket sealed, so it doesn’t get infected. Primus knows I don’t want another patient bleeding energon all over my workspace.”

Getaway snorted faintly. “You’re all heart, Brainstorm.”

“Don’t push it,” Brainstorm snapped, but the venom was gone. He picked up one of the smaller energon cubes and set it near Rodimus’s berth. “When he wakes up again, make him drink this. His spark energy is still too low, and I’m not jumpstarting him if he flatlines.”

Getaway nodded again, barely moving. His optics stayed on Rodimus. “He won’t. He’s stubborn.”

“I'm sure,” Brainstorm said, straightening. He gave Getaway one last look—half concern, half exasperation. “And you need a recharge cycle before you fall apart. Or rip out anything else, for that matter.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Right,” Brainstorm muttered, heading for the door. “And I’m the crazy one.” He paused at the threshold, glancing back just once. “Try not to implode before morning, okay? I don’t have the energy to mop up another tragedy.”

Getaway didn’t respond. He just tightened his grip around Rodimus’s servo, optics dimming. The sound of Brainstorm’s footsteps faded into silence, leaving only the soft hum of Rodimus’s systems and the faint, ragged rhythm of Getaway’s vents.

He stayed there long after, silent, his thoughts running in circles. Maybe Brainstorm was right—he was a mess. But for the first time in ages, sitting there beside Rodimus, it didn’t feel like he was entirely beyond repair.