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quibble-auk · 16 days ago

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Nah I really gotta get a name for this. But I suck at them. So part… I actually don’t know… like six I think? Maybe it’s five?

Yeah, more of that one thing where Jeopardy and Dropmix are being dysfunctional little guys.

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

—

It had been six days.

Six long, dragging, excruciatingly polite days, and he was not any closer to figuring out how much Jeopardy knew. Dropmix was still grasping at strings, trying to piece together what the medic had figured out.

Each interaction was tense, too professional, and suffocating. Each attempt Dropmix made to connect, to bridge the gap, was turned down with a calculated and cool response. The dark mech was never ignored, shunned perhaps, but always acknowledged to some extent.

He was turned down, locked out, and rejected. He had gained no ground with Jeopardy, but he hadn’t lost any, not exactly—the void between them got deeper instead of getting wider.

Dropmix had finally been deemed well enough to work again, his imprisonment in the private room was finally over. It gave him more opportunities to reach out, Jeopardy couldn’t avoid him as easily. They had to interact, had to speak and be around each other. It should have given Dropmix an advantage, he should have been repairing the damage and effortlessly slipping back into the normal routine. They should have talked about the incident and given Dropmix the opportunity to clear any suspicions.

Jeopardy never brought up the mission or the gas. Not even once. But he hadn’t really spoken, either. Not to Dropmix, not in the way he used to.

The large mech was starting to feel like he was bleeding out in silence.

Not literally—his systems were fine. No leaks. No critical errors. His ventilation systems were almost as good as new. But there was something in his chest that felt cracked open, raw and exposed, like every time Jeopardy passed him in the corridor without really looking, it carved a little deeper.

Dropmix felt like he was shouting across a canyon that swallowed up his attempts to reach out rather than echoing and amplifying them.

It stung, each failed attempt tore at something deep in his core, it buried its teeth deeper than humiliation or shame ever did. Every excuse and polite decline made a primal desperation rise in him, it clawed up his throat and tore into the seams of his mind. His mask slipped and cracked, and he was left fumbling for rehearsed lines, reading over the script he knew so well.

Dropmix was caught trying to dance with a partner who refused to move. Each attempt to dip or spin was met with resistance, so Dropmix improvised. He did what he must to keep the show going, he performed. He played his part, put extra effort into each smile and friendly chuff, forced tame works in hopes that something would spark and they could continue as a duet.

Nothing was working.

They still shared space—barely. Handovers, medbay tasks, and reports, each interaction swamped in a tension so thick it buzzed under Dropmix’s plating like faulty wiring. Jeopardy hadn’t been cold. Not exactly. Just... formal. Efficient. Controlled.

Distant.

Dropmix hated it more than shouting. At least yelling meant fire. Fire meant fuel.

With Theremin it had always been like that, things bubbling up under the surface until one of them snapped. They yelled, told the other what was wrong through harsh words and bitter feelings. Then they would split, dwell, simmer in the aftermath as they processed and eventually come together again.

They would talk, sort things out, explain. Apologize. But they would move on, try to do better, have the weight off their chest. Maybe not the healthiest, but it worked. They communicated, told the other what they did wrong or how they made them feel instead of leaving the other to guess.

This was not that, there was no fire.

This?

This was a vacuum.

Now, the medbay was quiet again—late shift, lights dimmed to that same tired, blue-toned glow. The music hadn’t been on in days. Jeopardy had shut it off and Dropmix had resorted to his internal comms to play it. The few attempts he made to turn the music back on the speakers were efficiently shut down. Jeopardy was never rude or crass, suggesting rather than demanding.

Dropmix almost didn’t listen, he wanted the music to be on, he didn’t want to deal with the additional effort it took to keep it running on his comms. This was his medbay, he was in charge, he would not be ordered around by Jeopardy. But he didn’t want to strain whatever was left with the other medic, so he listened.

The music was shut off without any further questions. Neither of them said anything about it, but Dropmix noticed the silence like a missing tooth. He saw the refusal for what it was, an act of defiance, a constant reminder that everything wasn’t alright.

The quiet was screaming at him in Jeopardy’s place.

Tonight was no exception, it seemed. The silence gnawed at Dropmix’s thoughts, picking apart the last threadbare hopes he hadn’t quite admitted he was clinging to.

He’d finished the inventory cycles two hours ago. All the supplies were aligned. All the data was clean. There wasn’t a single damn thing left to fix, except the one thing he couldn’t touch. The one thing that was most important.

Dropmix sat alone on the edge of a diagnostics berth, flexing a rag through his fingers. He mindlessly wiped down the surface in front of him, trying to keep himself busy. It was already clean. Everything in the medbay was clean. Immaculate, actually. Jeopardy had gone through earlier and done a full sweep, his movements efficient, surgical.

He hadn’t said a word the entire time.

Now, Jeopardy was gone again. Off shift. Probably in his quarters, or perhaps socializing with the other mechs on base. He once may have lingered with Dropmix, accompanying him even though he was free to go. Not anymore. Jeopardy only lingered as long as he had to.

The dark mech huffed, eye narrowing at the berth before him like he could somehow intimidate it into spilling all of the answers he needed. The music in his comms swelled, sweet strings echoing the melody with dainty steps as the woodwinds fluttered along. A gentle song, hailing from a distant organic planet. This one had been a part of Theremin’s personal collection that was left in the ruins of the Pits.

It was one of Jeopardy’s favorites.

Dropmix didn’t hear the door until it hissed open and boots stepped inside. He looked up too quickly. Some part of him still stupidly hoping—

But it wasn’t Jeopardy.

Rumbleclutch.

Massive, dented, always smelling faintly of ozone and engine grease. He ducked through the door like the frame was too narrow for him, his plates slightly flared with practiced discipline—they always were, it was a show of rank. It was not an angry display, but a confident one, it demanded respect. By all means, the hulking frame of the outposts Commanding Officer was an intimidating sight for most.

Not Dropmix. He could pinpoint each weakness within seconds of seeing the other, he saw the slight limp, the exposed seams, the restrictive armor. Rumbleclutch was a force to be recorded with—any military frame of his stature was—but so was Dropmix.

There always seemed to be a mutual understanding of that between them.

The mottled gray and navy mech was holding something in one large hand, a datapad, military-standard. His expression was unreadable, not warm but not unfriendly either. His amber eyes swept the medical bay once before lingering on Dropmix.

The dark mech straightened, reflexively. Quelling down any natural desire to challenge or defend what was his. The display was not meant to provoke or challenge, simply enforce—it made his plating itch regardless, the numb static of his mind buzzing obnoxiously in his skull.

“Sir,” Dropmix didn’t smile, but he carefully crafted his expression to be warm, welcoming and respectful. Rumbleclutch wasn’t one to drop by unannounced, and he wasn’t due for any maintenance either, “Is there anything I can help you with today?”

Rumbleclutch didn’t answer immediately. He glanced around the medbay like he didn’t quite recognize it, then gave a grunt, half-thoughtful. “No music?”

The darker bot shrugged, ignoring the way his plates flared under his armor. “Wasn’t in the mood.”

Rumbleclutch grunted again, noncommittal. His optics slid to the speakers overhead, then back to Dropmix, expression still unreadable. His steady voice was as emotionless as ever, “Hm. I’ll have to inform Saberfire to update her betting pools.”

Dropmix blinked, single eye widening. “I’m sorry?”

The mottled mech’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile—he didn’t do those unless someone was dying or just got promoted, sometimes both—but the lines of his jaw eased. “She had money on you playing music until the war ended or you were physically incapable of doing so.”

“I’ll be sure to send my condolences.” Dropmix’s voice was flat, but he let a sliver of warmth seep in. A blanket of familiarity and fondness wrapped around each word as he continued, “You didn’t come down here for banter, I assume?”

“No,” Rumbleclutch agreed, stepping closer, datapad still in one thick hand. “I didn’t.”

The medic’s fingers twitched around the rag. He set it down slowly.

A beat passed. Two.

He extended the datapad, holding it out the same way one might offer a weapon mid-duel—neutral, cautious, with the understanding it could change everything depending on how it was received.

Dropmix took it.

He scanned the screen, expecting… something routine. A roster change. A new supply intake. A requisition order, maybe, or disciplinary notice for one of the rowdier interns who’d knocked over the coolant monitors again.

He didn’t expect the header—his vents hitched.

The slightly larger mech straightened—if at all possible—as his amber eyes looked over Dropmix. His plates flared more, just enough to almost be unnoticeable, the only tell the CO had. “With the reason specified it’s customary for me to analyze the subordinate’s officer and ensure that they are still fit for their role.”

Dropmix nodded mindlessly, the datapad oddly heavy in his hand. His armor pressed into him more, suffocating, making his straining vents hiss with effort to suck in air. His jaw tightened, dull teeth grating together as he stared down at the offending screen.

—

TRANSFER REQUEST: JEOPARDY.

Outpost: 06—Aubris Ridge.

Junior Medical Officer.

Requested Reason: Personnel Conflict (unspecified).

Status: PENDING CO APPROVAL.

—

Dropmix’s thumb hovered over the screen, the pad of his finger resting just above the edge of Jeopardy’s signature. Two days ago.

He’d submitted it two fragging days ago.

Dropmix’s spark gave a stuttering twist behind his plating. The silence of the medbay roared in his audials again, louder this time, more personal—hollow and accusatory. The music in his comms reared, amplifying and squandering any rising emotion. It stung, a migraine blossoming across Dropmix’s processor. His jaw tightened further, blunt fingertips gripping the datapad harder in an attempt to stabilize himself.

The betrayal twisted deep, hollowing out his compressing chest. His spark thrummed loudly, twisting into something cruel. That primal desperation and need roared, beating painfully against the armor that encased it, like a beast in a cage. An overwhelming possessive anger rooted in his frame, recoiling against the music. It spread like an infection, burning and unforgiving.

He looked up slowly, eye locking with Rumbleclutch’s. Somehow, he managed to keep himself composed. The CO didn’t look away. He never did. His gaze was a solid wall—one Dropmix had crashed into more than once, but tonight it was different. Not hostile. Just... braced. The way a structure braces before a blast.

"He's serious?" Dropmix asked, though his voice barely passed as a question. It was too even. Too calm.

Rumbleclutch didn’t answer right away. He glanced at the datapad still clenched in Dropmix’s hand, then slowly brought his gaze back up. “I was rather surprised, you both always seemed close.”

Dropmix’s hand twitched. He didn’t flinch. Didn't crumble. His entire frame was too practiced, too well-trained for that. But his plating shifted under the surface like a storm was building inside him, and only a brittle shell was keeping it contained. The music pressed against his helm, drowning out the rising unwanted emotions.

There was anger, hurt, betrayal, and fear—Dropmix hated it, the relentless terror that gripped his spark at the idea of Jeopardy leaving. It hid among the rising rage, seeping through the cracks of his anger.

It hurt, electricity running through his frame as programs fought to keep him compliant. His internal temperature rose as his vents struggled and the electrical current strengthened. He let himself lean against the berth in front of him, acting as if he was just shifting his weight.

"Two days," Dropmix murmured, the words bitter in his mouth, fingers flexing. “He couldn’t even—”

He cut himself off. His vents hitched again, his entire torso stuttering with the effort of breathing through it. Rumbleclutch watched him in silence.

“I’m assuming you came to assess if I’m the problem,” Dropmix said eventually, voice sharp around the edges now. Still not angry. Just dangerously close.

“You’ve never given me a reason to doubt your work, and I respect your privacy,” The CO’s tone remained level, voice sturdy and unwavering, “The evaluation has already been run, you have a perfect record, Dropmix, where he does not. There is no reason for me to inspect further, I’m simply here to inform you of the pending decision.”

Dropmix didn’t move.

He felt like if he did—if he shifted so much as a fraction of an inch—something inside him would break loose and start to burn. Like letting himself speak too much, move too fast, would mean the entire dam would give way and drag everything down with it. All his pride. All his restraint. Everything he'd spent cycles building just to stay functional.

He stared at the datapad again.

TRANSFER REQUEST: JEOPARDY.

He knew the phrasing. He’d read and signed enough of them over the years—transfers, resignations, post-battle reallocations. He knew what it meant when someone didn’t list a specific conflict. It meant there was one. And that the person on the receiving end of it would never be told the full reason why.

The dark mech would never get to know what pushed him away, just that something did. Some unraveling of the truth that he failed to mend would cost him Jeopardy—Dropmix would lose everything.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Dropmix’s voice, when it came again, was low. Flat. “What happens if I reject it?”

Rumbleclutch didn’t answer right away. Not because he didn’t know, Dropmix was sure—but because he knew exactly what that question meant, and what it didn’t.

He crossed his arms over his broad chest, hydraulics whining faintly with the motion. “If you reject it, the request goes up the chain. I will have to do a more thorough evaluation of the situation and your suitability for your current position.”

The mottled mech’s voice wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t a threat. It was fact—solid and irrefutable, like the weight of a locked door. The implication settled between them like a thick, choking fog.

Dropmix knew what it meant.

He knew how thin the wire was. How close everything had been to unraveling since the mission. Since the gas. From the moment Jeopardy started looking at him like he was a stranger.

It didn’t matter how hard he worked or how perfectly he performed—if it came down to a thorough search, revealing his secrets… he’d lose.

He’d lose Jeopardy anyway.

The datapad still trembled faintly in his grip, the flicker of his internal stabilizers barely compensating. His thumb dragged just above Jeopardy’s signature, not quite touching it, but tracing the shape like it would offer answers. It didn’t. It never did.

Dropmix inhaled, a deep, calculated vent. His optics dimmed briefly, a false calm washing over him like a shutter between stormfronts. When he spoke, it was quieter than before, but no less steady. “Let me talk to him.”

Rumbleclutch was quiet again. Not in hesitation—he didn’t do hesitation—but in consideration. Watching. Calculating.

And Dropmix could feel it.

That measured, tactical silence, the kind that could either open a door or seal it shut. It slid under his plating and curled around the back of his neck like ice. If Rumbleclutch said no, that would be it. No more careful silences. No more eye contact in the halls. No more Jeopardy in his medbay. Just a blank space where something vital used to live. Something fragile and strange and important.

Jeopardy would be gone forever.

The thought alone made his engine stall and his spark stutter.

After a few long seconds, the CO inclined his head, just barely.

“I’ll give you until tomorrow,” Rumbleclutch said. “You have one conversation. You don’t change his mind, I process the request.”

The words weren’t sharp, but they were heavy. Steel-clad and absolute.

Dropmix nodded once. He didn’t argue. He didn’t push. He just accepted the terms with a quiet dignity, like a soldier handed a weapon too old and worn for a clean shot.

Rumbleclutch didn’t linger. He turned with military efficiency, boots echoing once on the polished floor, before the door hissed shut behind him.

Then the silence returned.

It felt different now. Heavier. More final. Like a looming threat, the silence that would consume his life if Jeopardy did leave.

Dropmix stared at the datapad for a long time before he finally set it down on the berth beside him. He exhaled, long and trembling, and let his frame slump forward just a little, shoulders bowing like the weight had finally sunk claws into his joints.

One conversation.

One shot.

He couldn’t screw this up.

#transformers #transformer oc #concepts #oc writing #oc lore #angst #miscommunication #they are so dysfunctional #dropmix #jeopardy #rumbleclutch #I know! it’s exciting! he’s here!#I’m still not sure about his color scheme but whatever #I’m working on it #imma get a doodle out for him soon #that’s on my list #I’m not sure how I feel about the pacing #or the end? it feels kinda rushed to me?#or I’m tripping #idk I’m just excited to get to the next part so I’m kinda speedrunning these bits #this was going to be longer and have more… meat to it? but uhhh yeah #I wanted to finish it so I could start working on the next part #anyway I hope that I didn’t disappoint #I started cackling when I read your repost because I uhhhh… I never said Jeopardy submitted it #but I also never said he didn’t #mahahahahhahahahahha #I highly doubt any of this is professional or how it actually works #but I needed it to so my plot works so. yeah #I can do what I want #I’m praying it kinda makes sense

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