#but they both think its each others fault instead. decepticon moment

[ojamayellow]

i really really want to continue my oc x starscream (earthspark) fanfic but someone left a weird comment on it and ive feel less motivated since

[melishade]

Oh my God, that deleted scene makes me think of how Pixis would react to Elita-1.

Previous Episode of the Beloved Timeline

Pixis would be so jealous, and so proud that Optimus managed to bag a woman like that. So proud.

So after Optimus and Elita have a really good cry session and hug at the fact that both of them are alive, they begin to talk about what exactly happened with each other and how they ended up here on this planet. Elita explains how the crew saved her life after she went into stasis lock, but the Decepticons attacked the ship with scraplets, causing the ship to crash land. But the ship fell apart and flung her into the water, sparing her the fate of getting eaten alive. But instead of going back to save the people on the neutral ship, she ran, and she had been running and surviving on this world for twenty years.

Optimus is absolutely devastated at the fact that Elita was all alone, and it's very apparent the horror and guilt is etched in his face. Elita has to prompt him to tell his side of the story, and Optimus explained what happened during the war, how he got the Matrix, fleeing the planet and ending up on Earth where the war continued. He tells her how the Autobots did win the war and how he had to sacrifice himself in order to ensure that the Well could create new life.

"So, I could very well be talking to a spirit right now?" Elita tried to tease, but Optimus could see the guilt and shame in her optics, trying to cover up her pain.

And both end up apologizing at the same time, which startles them both. They explain why they're apologizing. Optimus is apologizing for letting his anger get the better of him in that moment. For not realizing that she was in stasis lock and going into a fit of rage instead of grabbing her and taking her to safety. She wouldn't have been left alone, and it was his fault. Elita retorts by saying that he was grieving in that moment, and to know that she was loved like that made her spark happy. But Elita still has to apologize for not coming back. Not finding a way back to the war and back to Optimus. She had been scraping by to survive instead of putting her life on the line for the Autobot cause. Now to know that the war was over and that she didn't really do anything to stop it, on top of that, somehow managing to survive while so many more noble had fallen? Oh, it fills her with such shame and grief. Optimus has to tell her 'no'. It wasn't her fault. She couldn't have been able to control what had happened and how. She did what she had to do to survive. It happens in war. Maybe it was the part of him that was so happy to see her, but Elita is not feeling any better. 20 years of guilt doesn't go away.

"Optimus...I...I'm not the same person I was when we last saw each other," Elita proclaimed.

Optimus was stunned at the statement, but Elita merely chuckled at his confusion.

"I mean, look at me." Elita gestured to her faded armor, "I look like scrap. I haven't been able to talk to someone in 20 orbital periods. I'm...damaged."

"...I am not the same mech you once knew either," Optimus proclaimed, "The war has taken its toll on me. To lead and to guide has been...mentally draining."

Elita couldn't help but smile bitterly at that, the survivor's guilt eating at her.

"But...I cannot wait to learn about you all over again," Optimus declared with a small smile.

Elita stared at Optimus in surprise before she began to laugh, and her laughing caused Optimus to chuckle. Somehow them laughing together, ease the pain in their sparks just a little.

Meanwhile, the Survey Corps are still freaking the fuck out. Because WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT'S OPTIMUS' GIRLFRIEND?! Hanji demands to know why in the fuck Levi knew about this shit! And Levi explains that he knew after Levi's squad died because Optimus wanted to empathize with him. Also, how the fuck does Mikasa know?!

"Bonding?" Mikasa guessed, wiping her mouth of the water she choked on.

"So Optimus tells the two of you about his long lost love, but not me?!" Hanji exclaimed, "I am insulted!"

"Hanji, that's not even the point right now!" Levi reminded.

"It is very much so!" Hanji declared.

"Optimus has a girlfriend," Jean could only mutter, "I never expected someone like him to get...anyone. He just seems so quiet?"

"So does that mean that Optimus has had sex?" Sasha raised her hand.

"Sasha, what the fuck?!" Eren yelled, "That's not something I need to hear right now!"

"It's a simple question!" Sasha retorted.

"It's a gross question!" Eren declared.

"It is a valid question!" Hanji agreed, "Did Optimus get laid and how does it work?!"

Eren could only scream and cover his ears, trying to block out the mental image that was trying to form.

Everyone is just going through it, and it is something that takes up hours of conversation. The military heads do get wind of this because of the commotion it initially caused, but they don't know that Elita is Optimus' love. Out of respect, the Survey Corps will keep that under wraps, but they are certain someone heard it with all the commotion they created.

Optimus eventually does have to leave Elita for the time being to allow her to recover and to explain his absence. He tells the military that Elita is a high ranking Autobot that was considered deceased during the war and that the neutral ship that they found was the one that she was on before she got stranded on the island. He omits the fact that the two are in a relationship, which the Survey Corps are relieved about because they made the right call about keeping their mouths shut. When they hear the fact that she's been on this world for 20 years, they are understandably frustrated because she could've help, but Optimus says that she tried to come to the walls and was immediately met with cannon fire. So they all come the the conclusion that Rod must've covered it up. Optimus explains that for now, she needs to rest and recover and she will be caught up to speed about what their current situation is.

The military accepts this. The Survey Corps do not. Once the meeting is over, Optimus is immediately pulled aside in a makeshift classroom and the Survey Corps immediately sit down in anticipation for a god damn explanation.

Optimus took a deep breath. "You are allowed to ask questions."

Everyone's hand immediately shot up.

"None of which are inappropriate," Optimus declared.

Half of the hands went down. Optimus stared at Hanji as she kept her hand raised with a tight expression, tapping her foot on the floor.

"Hanji-,"

"Dear Optimus Prime," Hanji began with an innocent smile, "It's me. C'mon. You know my shit's gonna be inappropriate."

Honestly, Optimus should've expected this reaction.

Ymir and Historia kind of come into the middle of this, ready to give their own demands, but the bomb is dropped on them that Optimus has a significant other that's alive and is here right now. The two decide to politely sit and listen in, trying to process what the hell is going on.

(So it's gonna be just a little bit more before Elita is introduced to the Survey Corps because she just needs a moment of rest right now. And the Survey Corps are trying so hard to comprehend. But it's gonna be a while before other people find out too.)

[libermachinae]

Fault Lines Under the Living Room

Part IV: Touch - Chapter 12: Stumble and Lost His Grip

Also available on AO3! Summary: Knocking on the front door didn’t work, so time to try the back. Word Count: 3,437

---

Scorch might have been as pleasant as the rust ruined dregs at the bottom of an oil can, but damn if Spur wouldn’t mind feeling that arrogant crackle of a laugh at the other end of his spark. A few jabs about how he’d teamed up with Autobots just like Grrder always warned he would with too-easy remark about how he got distracted by a smooth tread. Anything but the emptiness of stasis lock chilling him from the inside out. Add in the fact that they were racing narrowly by a straight plummet to a grisly death and this could easily rank among the top five worst days of his life.

He clung tighter to Drift’s roof, optics offline. If this was the end, he didn’t want to see it coming.

“Watch it,” Drift warned. Spur ignored him.

He’d had an alt-mode once, so long ago it was hard to remember now. He and Scorch had worked in construction setting up new plumbing infrastructure and had hated it. Even though he couldn’t remember what form he’d taken to do the job, he could still smell the insides of those tunnels and feel that wet heat weighing down on him. When the representative for Triple M had shown up on site, it hadn’t mattered that the foreman dragged him off before he could introduce himself. Spur and Scorch had been among the handful to roll up to the ramshackle unformatting clinic.

He justified the decision with a simple fact: everyone did stupid slag when they were young. His dumb idea also meant they weren’t in Ultrix when the sinkhole opened under the Ioreian neighborhood, and that they were among the first to know when Triple M leadership decided the Decepticons had the right idea. Or at least were on a better track than the Senate. Spur hadn’t paid much attention to the politics, that was more Scorch’s thing. Spur was more interested in survival, a simple goal that had become more complex the moment Drift had realized he didn’t have any wings or wheels of his own. That was how he found himself now with his fingers tight around the edges of Drift’s roof, squished flat with the wind tearing at his back plating, wishing for the untold time that he was about to wake up in his closet-sized hab back on the lunar base.

“Acknowledged,” Drift said. 

“What’s happening?” They hadn’t offered to patch Spur into their comm channel, and he hadn’t asked.

“Rodimus says we’ve got incoming.”

“Pitslag,” Spur muttered. He was so tired of getting shot at and beaten up and chased—

“Just keep your optics open.”

Which sounded like an awful idea, except Drift was very much in control of the momentum of Spur’s poorly armored body. He brought his optics online slowly, peering through a staticky haze, but nothing could disguise the depth of the canyon’s shadow, nor the sheer drop, which Drift’s tire edged along like a battlefield medic’s torch across a wound.

Against the ludicrously powerful engine underneath him, Spur failed to catch the moment the echoes started up from behind them, only realizing he was hearing something when Drift briefly slowed for a tight turn. The sounds overlapped, feeding into each other, but when he listened close he picked up a pattern: the ripple of a spring releasing, followed by the harsh thunk of a metal body hitting stone. He twisted, trying to catch a glimpse, but the darkness of the canyon hid its secrets well.

“On their way,” he said.

“I know.” Drift pulled a tight corner faster than he should have and started to tilt toward the edge; Spur felt his spark seize and threw his weight in the opposite direction.

“Gonna fraggin’ kill us!” he snarled.

“If not me, then it’ll be them. You want to choose which one?” Drift asked.

Another day, Spur might have considered the Decepticons. With the ground under his pedes and a blaster in his grip, he could handle himself. He might not have been able to fight so well, but he could make a stand, which was often all his superiors had asked of him. Something had happened to Scorch, though, and since Spur wasn’t about to reveal his biggest weakness to a bunch of pseudo-Autobots (even  one had saved his life), he was stuck with them until he could find somewhere to slip away.

The first blaster bolt that pinged off the wall behind him had him wondering if there were any right choices in this mess.

“Slag!” Drift swore as the second shot clipped his side mirror. “They’re on us!”

Spur twisted again. He mistook them for Insecticons at first, with their twisted bodies and spring-loaded legs, but as one dug its thick claws into a wall with a heavy thunk, it revealed a small pilot crouched within.

Bang!

A pilot with a decent aim.

“Scrap, scrap!” he swore, his voice tilting up as he felt Drift slow further. “No, what are you doing? Speed up! They’re shooting at us!”

“Get off.” Drift didn’t wait and transformed as he pulled to a stop, dumping Spur onto the ground. Both took evasive actions as the plasma bolts rained down, Spur wedging himself behind a boulder while Drift took up the annoying hoppy thing he’d done to evade them back on Vitrious.

“Rodimus!” Drift barked. “I know, but we’re getting shot right now!”

Spur wanted to know why that was only an unimportant detail when he was the one pointing it out, but his attention was quickly grabbed by another sound pushing into their canyon, drowning out even the blasterfire: an interstellar speeder descending directly on top of their pursuers.

The Decepticons, startled by this new development, broke formation. One released his hold on the wall and dropped out of sight, apparently uninterested in dealing with Drift’s reinforcements. The others regrouped, one continuing his assault on Drift and Spur while the second twisted in his perch on the wall, apparently with the intention to latch onto the ship itself.

“Down!” Drift shouted.

Instead, the speeder tilter up and to the side, slamming into the assailant before he’d engaged his claws. He went tumbling end over end after his teammate, which would have felt more like a win if Spur wasn’t still ducking from blasterfire that rained shrapnel down on his helm.

“Will you do something?!” he demanded.

“I’m—trying!” Drift’s words were labored, popping between bursts of gunfire. Spur questioned, not for the first time, what he had done to earn luck so bad his captor was a swordsmech. “Rodimus, watch—”

Spur was still ducking, so he didn’t see exactly what happened, but there was a bang accompanied by the shriek of tearing metal. The engine swung closer before it dipped away again.

“No!”

And then the sounds of the battle fading, falling. Spur stayed frozen, hands clutching his helm, waiting for an explosion or another burst of gunfire that never came. After several minutes, he brought his optics online and peeked over his shoulder.

Gone. The lot of them all disappeared.

On legs that were still trembling from the force of the gunshots, Spur stood and stepped out from his cover. His tiptoed to the edge of the canyon but stopped before he was close enough to look down. He hadn’t heard a crash yet, which implied they were still falling; that was a long, long way down.

He hesitated, listened close. He took two steps back and turned aside, walking, at a much more reasonable pace, in the direction he’d already been headed. It was very quiet, down inside this lonely canyon on this almost empty hunk of rock. He tugged again on the thread tied to his spark, hoping that this would be the one that revealed he wasn’t alone anymore.

~*~

Drift had been accused in the past of not thinking before he leapt. It would have looked that way, had anyone been watching as he sailed through the air folded into the jet stream of the plummeting shuttle. The assumption overlooked the fact that he had considered all of this well in advance, and he had decided, regardless of their easily broken promises, he would do everything in his power to get his friends out unharmed.

Despite the damage, the shuttle’s engines were still functioning, and it was fighting to stay airborne, bucking against its unwanted passenger. Drift almost shot past but managed to grab a service handle, wincing as the shuttle’s violent movements wrenched his delicate repairs.

“Rodimus!” he shouted, not sure comms would cover up the roar of the air and the shuttle’s engines. “Calm down! I’m taking care of this!”

“Slag, Drift, hurry!”

Drift startled. He wasn’t used to hearing Rodimus like that. As if sensing his confusion, Ratchet chimed in.

“That thing’s nearly punctured through the shuttle’s inner walls,” he said. “Rodimus is scared the rider’s going to find his way inside.”

Which was, of course, the one thing they could not allow to happen and the entire reason Drift had told them not to come. It was only concern for Rodimus’ safety that got him to withhold his anger for later, focusing on what he could do instead of what he wished he’d done. The shuttle stopped its thrashing, which gave Drift an opportunity to pull himself against its side and start climbing the short ladder. He was almost to the top when he ducked, just avoiding a blaster shot between the optics.

“Frag off!” he yelled.

No response from the canyon crawler pilot. Drift didn’t understand why he hadn’t disengaged yet and wondered if it was a mechanical failure. The rigs weren’t designed to bore into spacecraft, and it was possible he had accidentally fused it to the shuttle.

“Rodimus, what’s he doing?” Drift asked.

“I don’t know; I can’t see! Half your cameras are busted!”

Drift switched to his other channel.

“Calm him down,” he demanded.

“I’m trying,” Ratchet said. “The kid’s stressed.”

Drift bristled.

“He’s not a kid,” he snapped, then cut the comm and launched himself over the shuttle.

The tick wasn’t expecting another attempt so soon or so suddenly. His shot landed somewhere behind Drift, the gun ripped from his hand before he’d finished releasing the trigger. He cowered within his metal exoskeleton, the entire contraption shivering as it tried to pry itself from the inner workings of the shuttle.

Drift didn’t stop to think about it. He wrapped his hands under the upper jaw of the crawler and wrenched it open, griding its fangs back through the punctures it had made. Freed of his captive, the small Decepticon immediately tried to reengage, snapping the crawler’s trap shut and almost crushing Drift’s fingers in the process. Drift tried to hold on, but in his effort to save his hand, he accidentally aimed the crawler’s spring legs at himself. They kicked into his abdomen, causing him to stumble and lose his grip entirely.

“No!”

The metal cage went flying, sucked into the air current before tumbling down into the abyss, Drift watching it go from his place atop the shuttle.

He hesitated a nanoklik. Then it was too late to do anything. Drift stared at the place the bot had vanished and turned on his comms, but he didn’t know what to say.

“Drift?” Rodimus said. “I kinda saw what happened. You alright?”

It was a long drop, and the shuttle wasn’t moving slowly. If the crawler came with an eject function, the bot might get lucky and land on something pliable, but more likely he was riding it all the way down. Drift tried to muster up an answer to Rodimus’ question, but nothing came to mind. The exhaustion that dogged his frame came back in full force, but that was so normal he doubted it was worth mentioning.

“Are you injured?” Rodimus pressed.

“No,” Drift said honestly. He sunk down, reattaching himself to the side of the speeder. “I—I don’t know what I’m doing.” He had spent months practicing the most rigid self-control of his life, keeping slavers and imperialists and megalomaniacs alive long enough to deliver them to justice. He’d made every thrust with precision, every grapple a little less than his full strength, and now that it appeared his efforts were at an end, he felt nothing. He’d thought that his first kill—because it had always been inevitable that he would go back to his old ways eventually—would provoke guilt or grief. But he didn’t feel anything.

“You’re going to get Grit,” Rodimus said. “You’re protecting Vitrious.”

Allegedly. If he didn’t care about this, had he ever cared about Vitrious? Was all that scrap about slavers and the betrayal of the Cause just an excuse for him to indulge the anger he had kept hidden under a red badge?

“Why are you here, Rodimus?” he asked. “Forget Ratchet and the Enigma. Why did you agree to come?” He wasn’t sure that answer would matter any more than the rest, but he was tired of being in his own head. He needed something else.

“To bring you back to the Lost Light,” Rodimus said.

“But why?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Rodimus.” If there was a growl in his voice, it was because he couldn’t be bothered to hold it back anymore.

“W—what do you want from me?” Rodimus asked. Despite the stress in his voice, the shuttle kept on a smooth course. “Do you want me to say that it’s for some selfish reason, that I was doing it for myself and my personal glory again? I’ve gotten a lot of practice with—I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

“I want you to be honest with me,” Drift said. “If we’re going to risk our lives for each other, I need to know why.” Everything had a price. He’d learned that years ago, and that the only way to get anywhere in the world was to set your own as high as you could. This was probably the most he could ask of Rodimus, and he still didn’t know if it would be enough. And yet for a moment, it didn’t seem like Rodimus would be able to pay. The silence stretched out, waiting, until Drift very nearly told Rodimus to carry them back up to the ledge so he could drive himself the rest of the way.

“I thought about being a hero,” Rodimus said. His voice was quiet. “I had dreams about bringing you back to the Lost Light and telling you everyone had forgiven you and giving you everything you deserved afterward. I would give you your life back, with interest. Anything you wanted. But it wouldn’t be like that, and I knew it. So then, I was afraid.”

Afraid simply of disappointment, or something more specific? Drift didn’t have a chance to ask, because Rodimus barreled on.

“That’s why I didn’t come to get you sooner,” he said. “I was scared. Getting you back would mean facing up to all of my mistakes, when before you were always the one who let me feel like I was doing everything right. When Ratchet told me he was coming to find you, it made me realize that I needed to get over that. Much as I appreciate what you did for me before, I wanted you back more than the things you did for me.”

“I already told you I didn’t leave for you,” Drift said, because Rodimus sounded sincere, but it wouldn’t mean anything if he was still sequestered in the fantasies Drift had built around him.

“I know,” Rodimus said, “but I’m talking about all of it: the Lost Light, the speeches, just telling me that I was doing a good job. You did so much for me.”

“I didn’t,” Drift insisted. “It was—it wasn’t about you, Rodimus. It was about everyone else. They needed you to be someone and I did everything in my power to make sure you were that person. I…” Fear and shame and something like self-loathing curled inside Drift, but he shoved past them because fuck it. He couldn’t go back to the Lost Light under more false pretenses, and if that meant he couldn’t go back at all…

He already knew better than to rely on himself first.

“I needed you to be that person,” he said. “I did it for me.”

A longer silence descended over the comms. The canyon was narrowing around them; Rodimus would need to ascend soon.

“Ratchet’s right,” Rodimus finally said, apparently unaware that Drift hadn’t been privy to whatever conversation the two had just shared. “I don’t have any room to complain when I was doing pretty much the same thing. You were doing what you had to, right?”

“I’m not sure how you want me to answer that,” Drift said honestly.

“Right, never mind.” Rodimus still sounded nervous. “What I really want to say is that, um, I get it. I think. We all set off on this quest for our own reasons, and most of them don’t really align at all. And—Prowl aside—it’s because our goals were so different that we—us two, but I guess Ratchet also a little bit—that we ended up out here. If we want to find the Knights, or save Vitrious, or just watch out for each other, I think we could stand to be more honest with each other about why we’re doing those things.”

Rodimus sounded reasonably confident about that, but Drift wasn’t so sure. He had no way to know whether Rodimus could handle the version of him that was more honest. Rodimus cared about his crew; Drift had seen that and knew it to be true. But he also cared about himself, and his tendency toward inflating his own ego wasn’t something that would be fixed by promise alone.

“You could start by answering my question,” he said.

“Question?”

“Why you came out here.”

“Oh. I mean, I think it’s straightforward: it’s because I missed you.”

“You don’t really know me,” Drift warned. Rodimus had asked for honesty.

“I’ve learned a lot recently,” Rodimus said. “And I want to get to know you more. Even if it’s not what I was expecting, you’re still my friend and my crewmate. No matter what. You could tell me you step on organics for fun and you’d still have a place on my—on our ship.”

Drift pulled a face.

“Ew.”

“Yeah, bad joke, bad timing,” Rodimus agreed, so casual Drift knew it had to be an act. “But that’s the other thing: Ratchet’s going to be on my aft this time. He’s looking out for you, too, and he’s not going to let me make the same mistakes twice.”

Drift and Ratchet might have only come back on speaking terms in the last few years, but Drift had trusted Ratchet for just over five million. Maybe it tipped the scales unfairly in Rodimus’ favor, but when Drift imagined the scenario Rodimus was building, it sounded good. Good enough that it was risky to trust. Good enough that he might never stop watching out for signs of the end. But maybe, if they were working together, he could trust the three of them to try.

“Okay,” he decided. “I can try. That’s all I can promise, though. I’ve got all the same hangups you do in making a commitment. That’s going to mean a lot of different things, and some of them aren’t so easy to manage.” It was possible that just stepping back onto the Lost Light would cause him to try to fold back into the third in command role he’d built for himself, though he didn’t know for sure; it was rare for him to be able to return to a life he’d left behind.

“Have you met me? Or Ratchet?” Rodimus asked. “None of us are ‘easy to manage.’ Doesn’t mean we’re not worth the effort.”

“You’re starting to sound like him,” Ratchet cut in. “Drift, you staying back?”

“I’m fine, Ratchet,” Drift assured him. The shuttle had begun to rise, bringing them back up to the level they’d been on when the patrol found them. They were nearly within sensor range of the base. Soon enough, he’d be on his own again.

“Stay that way,” Ratchet warned. “Don’t need you getting wrapped up in this mess.”

In a way, he already was, Drift mused, and that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Not yet. As the ship crested near a reasonably drivable cliff, he stood, preparing to dismount.

[black-strike-otp]

part 96

I like this chapter. This is a nice chapter. Actually looked forward to this chapter.

~Days Later~

Bots were swarming for a chance to help build the intergalactic transmitter. A surprisingly small amount arrived simply for the sole benefit of energon they’d collected. The majority arrived stating how they longed to be in contact with old friends. Another servoful was eager to be part of such a monumental and meaningful project rather than waste their lives and time away waiting for change. With the war having went on for lifetimes on Cybertron and a significant fraction off, most were interested in the change the transmitter may bring.

Unfortunately, it left Blackout preoccupied with trying to help construct the base for the communicator. He had very little issues with his size and strength carrying around equipment and holding up the skeletal pieces of metal. In fact, Novastrike was pretty damn sure he was enjoying himself. Having a task seemed to fuel him. After spending roughly half an Earth year with no work and no purpose, wondering the galaxies only to return home and have to work like a junkyard dog just to survive, he finally had routine and something physical to do. A routine. A task.

The only down side to all this change was the loneliness. With Blackout both desiring to and being asked to be on the job site not too far from the rogue outpost, it left Novastrike alone a lot. With her size, she wasn’t of much help and would only get in the way. Even Scorponok had found a job in burrowing holes into the planet to help keep the posts good and stable to the concrete bases.

So Nova spent time in the one place she was both out of the way and could be found useful. Though the medic didn’t seem keen with the extra presence, he stayed just about as far as he could away from where she hovered not far from Venus and Barricade.

She watched the infected mech with wonder and awe. Aside from the gentleness Blackout always expressed upon her, she’d never seen from an outsiders view the love a bot could have for another. He didn’t leave her side for a nanoklik, no matter wake or rest. Venus had since woken, but was told to remain in the medical office until she’d completely recovered from her injuries.

Jiggling one of her pedes from where she saw, the small femme watched as ‘Cade lovingly caressed his recharging femme’s servo. Where light glossed over her frame reflected a well polished streak over black and magenta that he took such great obsessive care to help clean when she had been out. The silver and purple metal on the claws of his servos caressed over Venus’ with delicate feather-light brushes as she slept.

Every bit of predatory insanity that had been written in his faceplate and surging at the surface days ago was gone, but the blame still warred in his dark mauve optics. No matter how hard Novastrike tried to find the words to speak to him, she couldn’t bare to open her mouth. Usually she didn’t have a problem spitting out whatever was in her processor if she thought it could help. Barricade was different however; he twisted words meant to soothe into daggers and inflicted them upon himself until he was bleeding from wounds you couldn’t see and physically mend. He was bound and determined to be the villain of his own story; the catastrophic hurricane, the cause of torment, the weight that dragged Venus into the fire and flames and would inflict only a plague of misery and hurt upon her.

Breaking into the solace with a clearing of her vocalizer, Novastrike gestured slightly to Venus as ‘Cade turned towards her and quietly coaxed, “Venus is looking better every day. Do you mind if I come over and remove her path to see if she’s in need of a replacement?”

From the other side of the room, the doctor looked up. His gaze was disapproving and somewhat distrust of her, like he found it hard to believe she could manage the task. Rather than involve himself though, he lowered his helm back into whatever he was working on in his files.

In a stereotypical robotic response, ‘Cade numbly nodded his helm as he answered in monotone, “Sure thing, Novastrike.”

“You can call me Nova,” the white armored femme stated, offering a half-sparked smile to try lightening the mood.

It didn’t to inflict any difference on the bad cop. He shuttered his optics at her very slowly and with disinterest. Gradually, he shifted his optics back down to look upon Venus as he continued stroking her servo softly.

Bounding off the counter, the small femme made her way over to the examination table and jumped up on the edge. She made sure not to glance up at the worried mech and make awkward optic contact whilst approaching Venus’ form.

With her tiny servos, she had no problem finding and disconnecting the clips helping to keep the temporary plate of metal in place. She pulled at the soft, spongy material this particular medic used instead of welding and peeled it off to toss to the side. As Novastrike began to lift up the compress with a huff, Venus began to stir.

Mumbling some nonsense gibberish, the taller femme unshuttered her optics and blinked in the dim overhead light for a moment. Her fuchsia optics blinked as she reflexively twitched her digits, curling them around Barricade’s servo that had been holding hers up.

“How are you feeling, beautiful?” ‘Cade requested quietly as he raised her servo to press a gentle kiss against her knuckles.

“Fine, Barricade, just as I keep telling you,” Venus explained with a broad and loving smile.

Using her elbow to prop herself up, she pressed a kiss against the underside of his chin. The corner of his mouth pulled up a little as he rubbed his thumb against the back of her servo lightly, watching her with brightly shining optics.

Nova would have to give Scorponok more credit later on. Being the one to just stand around while two bots were staring at each other, optics locked like they could see all their hopes and dreams and happiness in the others gaze, really had a way with putting the aww in awkward. It was sugary sweet and gave her the fuzzy feelings, but maybe if she wasn’t specifically inspecting one of the bot’s injuries in the middle of it she could appreciate the sappy quality a bit more.

But right now she just felt like a nuisance.

“Ahem, sorry to barge in,” Nova spoke up nervously as Barricade looked to her with vague irritation. “I know Barricade asked you this, but how are you doing, Venus? Feeling any abnormal pains anywhere? Energon making you feel sick at all? Did you recharge well?”

Unlike her mech, Venus seemed unperturbed by her interference. She smiled in a way that probably made cherubs so jealous they turned their noses up and gazes away, as if looking upon her too long would befall you into a state of worship. There was something lethal in that beauty however; a threat waiting to pounce at opportune moments as she sucked bots into her charm.

Nova felt incredibly lucky to be on her side, and not her opponent. She rather enjoyed Venus; her kindness, her wit, the snide joking remarks and high sense of self-confidence made her a truly fun individual. The thought of being sucked into all that flare only to meet a demise was very disheartening.

“I feel fine,” she insisted. “I just wish I could get out of here. Yeah I probably had the longest amount of recharge in years, but that’s all I’m doing.”

“Well I’m sorry about that,” Novastrike offered sympathetically as she turned her optics upon the injury, brushing her digits in a ghostly, hardly touching contact upon it. “I’m sure it was worth it though, right?”

Barricade gave an offensive curse to himself. Glowering at her mech, Venus squeezed his servo firmly and nudged him slightly with her elbow.

“It certainly was.”

Novastrike grinned to herself a bit. Even if she couldn’t drill the thought into Barricade’s helm that the incident was none of his fault, Venus would have a better chance of knocking it into him.

“Good news: everything appears to have healed up nicely. The sealant has done its job and there’s no leaks since it melded your cracked lines. Your frame seems to have accepted the new replacement gears nicely. I don’t think there’ll be any lasting effects from the damage. Of course, the medic should really give you the a-okay and get your reformed and refortified armor back in place before you’re allowed to leave.”

The smile on the bigger femme’s faceplate faltered slightly as she whispered, “Wait, you’re not a medic? I thought for sure you were a field medic, or a trainee, or something.”

Timidly shrugging, Novastrike offered a cheesy grin and replied, “I’ve had some experience working with two highly skilled medics. I’m not a professional; I have no doctrine to prove anything and went through no schooling, but I got some servos-on-training.”

“Wow,” Venus pondered with amazement. “That’s pretty remarkable Nova. You know, I know we haven’t known each other too long and it’s not like my opinion matters at all, but I’m glad Blackout found you. I like you. He’s always been a bit of a brooding, anti-social, silent type but he’s never been anything but pleasant around me. I knew he had to have something in him willing to care more than just beyond being polite to ‘Cade,  Scorponok and I.”

“Oh. T-Thank you, Venus,” Novastrike stuttered in reply. “I gotta say, I was a bit intimidated meeting the both of you. Blackout never really revealed much of his past to me; even his work with the Decepticons he kept vague. I’m not sure how much of that was him trying to protect me from the things he’d done and how much was him just wanting to move forward in life. But I’m really glad I’ve gotten to meet you both. I mean, you look like you walked off the runway and strolled out of some sort of fairy tale.”

Grumbling, Barricade removed his servo that had been upon Venus’ and wound it around her back. He rested his palm against her backside, stretching out his digits along her frame as he tossed a look at Nova.

“Yo, smalls, I’m the one with the flirty pick-up lines. You’re laying it on pretty thick. Watch it; she’s mine,” ‘Cade cautioned.

Looking sideways at her mech, Venus rolled her optics. She turned her gaze onto Nova as she nervously twiddled her digits.

“Don’t mind him. You’d think he’d know bots can be inclined to compliment one another and not mean anything by it. I’m flattered by your praise, but you’re a cute little thing yourself. Don’t feel intimidated or discouraged. I’m sure you’ve gotten your fair share of admirers, and you don’t have to worry about the one whose opinion probably matters the most to you. ‘Cade probably would have tried killing Blackout years ago if he’d actually thought of him as competition.”

“He’s got a size kink, babe. You’re not tiny enough. He only really hung out with Scorponok before me anyway which proves my point-ouch!”

Pinching a nerve in Barricade’s wrist, the goddess of a femme shot him a warning look.

The trio turned their optics to the shuffling pedes as the medic made his way over towards them. He looked nervously at ‘Cade, who turned his helm away quickly. From the glance Novastrike got from him before his faceplate was hidden, the poor mech’s demons were rearing their ugly helms again; stricken with a look of self-loathing.

Cutting right to the point, the doctor held up the pieces of Venus’ armor that had been removed to be fixed. He waved them in the air slowly before her.

“You’re suitable to be discharged,” he stated, looking down at the wound and up to her optics. “I’m going to put these on you, and I want you to take your friend and get the Pit out of my office. Immediately.”

Smiling sweetly up at the mech, Venus purred in response, “Yes of course, sir. I’m so sorry if our ruckus disrupted your work at all.”

Suddenly, the medic’s face looked like he’d been struck by cupid’s arrow. His pupils dilated a few degrees and he looked down from her faceplate swiftly and to her injury as light filtered brightly out of his gaze. His digits fumbled for a moment shakily; too nervous with his fumbling digits to touch her. After a few tries, and Novastrike squinting at him as she considered offering to do it, the medic finally managed to snap the pieces of armor into place.

“There you go!” he practically burst out as he stiffly turned around. “Now get out, and don’t come back unless you have a real fragging emergency!”

~

“Wow, I’ve never been thrown out of a medic’s office so quickly,” Venus laughed as they walked out of the rogue outpost. “I guess I should have spoke to him a lot sooner!”

“He wanted us out because he was terrified of me,” ‘Cade sulked quietly, looking off to the side.

Walking backwards in front of the duo so that she could speak to them directly, Novastrike flicked her servo out as she threw in her own two credits, “Venus is up and walking around again, free of the med-bay and constant prodding and poking. We should all be very happy and enjoying this moment!”

Glancing over to the mech following her stride, Venus nudged her hip against Barricade’s as they walked. He glanced at her somewhat shyly and wrapped his arm around her to plant a kiss against her lips.

Nova made sure to discreetly look away, embarrassed.

By the time she turned her optics back, Venus had playfully shoved ‘Cade as he pulled away. A small smile played against his mouth as he snickered quietly.

Not watching where she was going, Novastrike tripped up on the uneven surface of Cybertron and fell right on her aft.

“Ha!” ‘Cade snorted.

Holding back from laughing, Venus managed a shaky, “Are you okay?”

“Y-Yes,” the small femme squeaked with humiliation. She quickly pushed off on her pedes and righted herself to brush at her rump. It hurt a bit, but not nearly as much as her ego that felt like it’d been popped and collapsed like a balloon.

“You should watch where you’re going,” the taller femme scolded gently. “You could get hurt, walking without looking where you’re going.”

Nova pressed her audio receptors against her helm with mortification. She could make out the warble in her dejected spark, and the sound of other pedes approaching from the left as bots came their way.

“R-Right, yes-”

A rush of air whizzed by Novastrike’s frame and a small explosion of metal and dirt flung up from the ground. The suddenness stupefied her for five nanokliks as they all turned to look at what had just hit the ground.

A single bullet, mostly collapsed in on itself from hitting the ground, lay on the ground.

Flicking her audio receptors up, the little femme swiveled them in the direction she’d heard the muffled pedes walking around. A distinct sound of a shell casing popping out with a mechanical click of a pin whispered into her sensitive ears.

“Move!” Nova yelled, jumping out of the way just as another shot went hurtling by her, mere nanokliks from having punctured into her processor.

Assessing the trajectory of their assailant, Barricade moved around to Venus’ left side as he helped push her along to the nearest area of cover. Another bullet whistled right by; this time missing ‘Cade by a few inches and ricocheting uselessly off some nearby scrap metal and flying off elsewhere.

Charging in the opposite direction of the other twosome, Novastrike panted quietly as she jumped over some nearby twisted scrapmetal. Her form shifted; panels moving and rearranging so that when she hit the ground on the other side, she landed smoothly on four sturdy legs instead of two. The feline’s sharp optics and audios moved in the direction she’d heard the last shot come off from as she crouched low behind the mass, thinking she may be out of the line of sight.

Another bullet zipped by, luckily hitting some of the scrap. It embedded itself in the ground just centimeters from the cyber-cat’s toes.

Lifting her helm quickly, Nova picked out the brief gleam of a rifle, and the figure of a bot lying down with it in the shadows. Another ping of a shell casing had her twitching her audios in his direction.

Dashing forth, the white cat streaked across the ground like a bolt of lightning. Her hunches sprung fluidly as she dodged and weaved around the twisted formations and remnants of buildings in her way towards the bot. With fangs bared, a snarl rippled through her form as she closed in.

A shadow to her right moved as she closed in.

The crack of a cannon went off and Novastrike went rolling across the dusty surface of the planet. She slid her claws into the surface with a screech of metal, coming to a halt.

Snarling, the feline lashed her tail furiously around as the sheath around her barb tail slid open to reveal the sharply honed prongs. The blast hadn’t hit her directly, merely gave splash damage and debris flung up on her side as it harmlessly hit the ground from her last-minute adjustment.

The bot didn’t have a faceplate she recognized as they leered at her with jagged, uneven derma.

They raised their cannon and fired once more, but she was already moving once again. Hurtling over a waste of metal, the femme raced around and towards the shadows as another shot went off from the sniper. The bot didn’t have time to recover and ready another shot when she jumped into the darkness; swallowed by the shadows as she came down on the bot.

Novastrike’s claws snagged upon their faceplate as she let out a roar of fury. The bot let out a femme’s cry of pain as they released the sniper rifle to try swatting her off. Elongated gashes dripping with energon whelped as Nova sprung off the femme’s face to leave a pleasant calling card behind.

Pedes moved behind her. She tensed, whipping her helm to the mech that she hadn’t realized had approached so close already. Raising her tail, Novastrike hissed, ready to strike the bot when an explosive crack of a blaster went off.

The mech cursed, stumbling back as he was struck.

Loosening her posture, Novastrike turned her helm just in time to see Barricade as he jumped. He crashed directly into the mech. As the pair fell together, ‘Cade physically rolled with the assailant and threw him with tremendous strength. It was disturbingly horrifying to hear the bot strike the knotted up mass of rebar sticking out with such force that it punctured into areas of his frame as he let out a terrified, pained scream.

Turning towards the femme whom she’d just clawed, Novastrike saw the dawning look of fear on the bot. She pushed herself away just in time as ‘Cade jumped and came crashing down on her sniper rifle, his pedes snapping the weapon in half.

Dumbfounded and more than a bit terrified herself, the white cyber-cat turned her helm to the incoming sound of pedes. Huffing softly from the jog, Venus sprinted right past Novastrike, much to her confusion. She craned her helm around just in time to see the goddess strike a blow to the mech’s extended arm’s crevice in his forearm. The joint cracked as his arm snapped downward, firing his cannon into the ground.

Bringing up her leg in a wide arc, she struck him hard in the side. As he stumbled and tried to regain his balance, Venus slid a dagger out from her forearm into her servo. With a flick of her wrist, she plunged the blade with a fluid stroke beneath a section of the bot’s armor of his chassis and up.

His optics flashed with alarm as he sucked in deeply. She extracted the blade and rammed it in again as he wheezed, staggering. There was very little energon that dripped out from beneath his armor as he fell into Venus, but she stepped aside as he collapsed.

Nova didn’t bother to watch as he convulsed and slowly would begin to turn gray. Instead, she slid her paws gingerly on the ground, scared to witness what Barricade had done to the femme he’d been victimizing.

It seemed Venus had the same thought.

Running around Novastrike, the taller femme hurried over to the two frames upon the ground. She reached out tentatively to touch ‘Cade on the shoulder as he leaned over his opponent.

“Babe?” she whispered nervously.

Lifting his helm up, Barricade’s optics were that eerie slightly pinkish-purple. The seams on his faceplate were slightly parted, but not fully opened. He held his ventilation system still so not to breath in the smell of energon. A bit stiffly, he pushed himself to his feet.

Novastrike grimaced and looked away from the femme. Her armor was practically crushed out of sheer, brutal strength. There was hardly a faceplate to be made out.

Reaching out, Venus gingerly touched the sides of his face. A kitten’s purr almost moved through the cop as the four segmented areas of metal on his faceplate flexed slightly and retracted back to making his faceplate smooth once more.

“Are you okay?” Venus demanded swiftly.

“Fine,” ‘Cade rasped, grinning. “Didn’t even take a nibble.”

“Primus, you had me scared there for a moment,” she hissed, stroking the side of his face.

Chuckling with some unease, he leaned in to press his forehead lightly against hers. An adoring smile formed on his faceplate as he looked her in the optics tenderly.

Slowly pulling away, Barricade looked over Venus’ shoulder to stare at Novastrike. She went rigid, looking around like she wasn’t sure where to go to be out of his sites. It wasn’t like she’d done anything wrong, but being caught staring was certainly a bit awkward.

“You’re not too bad,” he admitted gruffly as Venus caressed his face.

Blinking her optics slowly, Novastrike offered a nervous smile. “Thank you, for saving me from that mech, Barricade.”

‘Cade gave a single nod of his helm, flashing his derma in a grin. “Sure thing, Nova. By the way, you can call me ‘Cade. I won’t bite, I promise.”

Light sparkled in Novastrike’s optics as she let out a faint gasp. A feline’s grin appeared on her cyber-cat alt-mode’s face as she wriggled in place excitedly.

What a way to get the approval of a new friend.

[libermachinae]

Fault Lines Under the Living Room

Part II: Breathe - Chapter 7: Filter Out

Also available on AO3 Summary: The pair continues to search for common ground. Word Count: 4818

---

Working silently from there on, Ratchet and Rodimus cleaned, drained, and stacked every cube from the damaged crate. Rodimus pulled up his old music files, and though Ratchet mentally complained about the first few tracks, it gave them something to focus on other than each other.

Eventually, though, Rodimus’ mind did start to wander further than the music could reel him back in. What was behind the locked door? Ratchet said it was just recharge stations, but what if he was wrong? They still didn’t know where Arcee had gotten this ship and its cargo; how could they truly feel secure that they had found its worst secret? Especially given their own ship’s track record for transporting dangerous secret—

“The cargo bay’s got to be a disaster,” Ratchet said, just to break that line of thought before it could ensnare them both.

“Knowing what kind of firepower Cons take with them on an afternoon walk, we’re probably lucky the whole ship didn’t get blow up,” Rodimus said.

Ratchet did a commendable job trying not to laugh, save for the fact that he thought about it. Despite everything, Rodimus grinned.

“We should go check it out,” he said, dumping the cube in his hands into the drum before standing up. “Whatever’s down there has got to be more exciting than this.”

“Not so fast,” Ratchet said, mind and optics still on the task. “We need to finish this. Every moment we waste is more fuel lost.” The puddle that had formed from the yet-undiscovered broken cubes was sizable, but the pile that yet remained was not.

“We can mop it up,” Rodimus said. Feeling the way Ratchet balked at the idea (unsanitary, he called it, even though that fuel was going straight to the engines anyway), he shrugged and took a step back. “Or not. You can keep working on this while I scope it out.”

And risk Rodimus finding another artifact that—that blew them up? No, absolutely not.

“We’ll go down together,” Ratchet said, and he would hear no argument.

But Rodimus had built his reputation on insubordination, and he said as much, out loud, unaware he had done so. He spun around and marched to the stairs, Ratchet’s bolt of panic only adding to his frustration. He wasn’t some freshly forged protoform, so accident prone as to be literally dripping with corrosive material.

No, Ratchet agreed, he was an adult bot with a lifetime of experience and not a lick of wisdom to show for it: infinitely more dangerous.

“I try,” Rodimus snapped. He didn’t want to, but it felt good. “Not all the time, because I’m an idiot, but I do try to do the right thing and learn from my mistakes. I don’t hang on to people who have betrayed me and I try to keep myself out of situations that have screwed me in the past. And then I still get knocked down sometimes because life sucks life that, but it’s not—I’m not—” Lazy. Selfish. Stupid.

He hated that not only could Ratchet hear the words, but could feel how they burned Rodimus and made the hate he felt towards himself just that much sharper. So, it took him a moment to realize that Ratchet’s head had not gone silent, but was instead repeating Rodimus’ words back at him as he analyzed them. Great, he wanted to form an opinion.

“I’m trying to understand,” Ratchet shot back. Still annoyed, but in the chronic sense Ratchet was known for. “You’re so—” Impossible. “—defensive. I don’t know one moment to the next whether you’ll be apologizing for something or making excuses.”

“I’m not trying to make excuses,” Rodimus said. He shouldn’t be looking at the ground, but Ratchet’s gaze was painful. “I don’t like other people telling me how I think.” Even though you can see it now. You don’t get it.

Ratchet didn’t get it. He didn’t understand how anyone could function with that much going on at once, so much of it conflicting and bouncing off each other. Of course Rodimus would be prone to make mistakes, when getting a coherent thought in was next to—

“Stop saying that!” Rodimus snapped.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You know what I mean!”

“So, I’m the one who has to control what I think?”

“If it’s so easy for you.”

It wasn’t easy. It took effort to not think about something (like Drift, like Delphi, like how impossible Rodimus was), and Ratchet was already expending enough of that trying to keep himself calm.

“Sorry to have made you waste the energy,” Rodimus huffed, not sorry at all.

“It’s—” And Ratchet stopped himself before he could make this worse, because Rodimus was right about one thing: it was a waste of energy to keep fighting, especially when he could barely keep track of what they were fighting about.

You hate me, Rodimus automatically supplied.

“No, stop it,” Ratchet said. “That’s not useful.”

“Truth’s not always useful,” Rodimus shot back, like a discount Primeism.

Ratchet felt bad about thinking that the moment Rodimus caught it.

“Look, kid,” he said, careful not to meet Rodimus’ optics. There was only so much Rodimus he could handle at once. “I don’t hate you. I don’t,” he insisted when he felt Rodimus’ disbelief. “You don’t need me to tell you again that you’ve made mistakes, but if that alone was worthy of being hated for, I’d be a slagging lonely bot.” He touched his chevron and let the weight of his helm rest on his hand. “You’re as angry at yourself as I was, which tells me you want to change. It’s more practical for me to believe that and help you where I can than to keep holding on to this.”

It would be hard. There were some who would find Rodimus’ mistakes unforgivable, and rightly so; not everyone was lucky enough to crawl back from the pits. But Ratchet’s resentment was not planted so deep, and with effort on both their parts, he knew it could be uprooted.

“However I make it seem on a bad day, I don’t actually want us to be miserable the whole way there,” he finished. He was a healer. It would be unfaithful to his vows to keep inflicting this emotional harm on them both.

He glanced down at the task they had abandoned in favor of arguing. At least one or two cubes were still leaking, but Rodimus had a point that the fuel loss would be negligible. They could take a break to explore the rest of their ship.

“I don’t need an escort,” Rodimus said. Despite seeing the rationale behind Ratchet’s decision, his thoughts still felt prickly and uncomfortable. He didn’t trust Ratchet to keep his word.

“I know,” Ratchet said. “I’m not supervising you. You’re right that we don’t know what’s down there. I’ll be there to watch your back.” And you’ll watch mine.

And I’ll watch yours. Their thoughts overlapped and rather than clash, they blended.

They ventured down together, Rodimus in the lead while Ratchet followed at a more sedate pace, taking in the details as he could. Not that there was much order to be found in the mess. The contents of the hold, already thrown into disarray by Rodimus’ frantic search, now seemed beyond any hope of order: weapons and their parts lay among repair tools, containers of unknown fluids smashed open and dripping into delicate electronics.

Half of this stuff was probably unsalvageable, Ratchet thought, and the rest were weapons: handguns, shotguns, cannons, and grenades of every variety. Rodimus even noticed a few swords among the mix, though none so nice as Drift’s. Ratchet pressed at how he could judge the quality of a sword, and Rodimus idly admitted that he couldn’t. They just didn’t look as cool.

“Sorry,” he said. He didn’t mean to keep coming back to Drift.

“I get it,” Ratchet said as he stepped further in, going for a cabinet that might hold something other than weapons. “He’s very present.”

“He’s spooky like that.” Rodimus took Ratchet’s interest as permission to begin exploring. He tiptoed as he went, careful not to disturb anything lest he start a chain reaction, but the piles and mess were already settled. Nothing moved as he waded in.

Rodimus wondered how it would feel to Drift, to be approached by a Decepticon ship chock full of weapons.

“Not like we can do anything about it,” Ratchet said. The first couple drawers he had opened were full of disorganized ammo and magazines, but the third was a packed collection of promising metal boxes. He pulled one out.

“I wasn’t actually asking,” Rodimus clarified as he finally reached down to extract a handgun.

“I know,” Ratchet said. The lid was stuck tight; if there were medical supplies inside, he would need some way to test they were still usable.

“So, you didn’t need to answer.” It wasn’t a gun at all, it turned out: it was a grappling hook.

“You’re going to get one whether I intend to or not.”

“Fair point.” Rodimus aimed the grappling hook across the room, wondering what its range was.

“Don’t you dare,” Ratchet warned, right as he popped off the lid. He discovered inside a few vials of unlabeled powders and fluids. They looked like the ingredients to produce some of the more common data dampeners, but without a test kit Ratchet had no way to be sure.

Rodimus lowered the grappling hook, mildly annoyed, but Ratchet’s thoughts caught his curiosity and he came circling back.

“Can I see?” he asked, holding out his hand. Ratchet obliged and Rodimus took the box, peering closely at the contents.

“Yeah, it’s a syk kit,” he said, tucking the grappling hook under one arm so he could pull out a vial and hold it to the light. “Nice one, too. I thought Kimia was the only place you could get materials that fine.”

“Decepticons had their own labs,” Ratchet said, though he also would not have been surprised to learn that the cross-faction drug trade had gone beyond the cheaper to produce circuit boosters.

“That’s true,” Rodimus said. He was getting an idea, and Ratchet immediately shook his head.

“No,” he said.

Rodimus’ expression was steady, but his emotions were expanding again. Some hurt, some curiosity, some frustration.

“It’s just an idea,” he said. “If I can calm down for little bits at a time, maybe we’ll be able to get through this without blowing up at each other anymore.”

“Do you have any idea how much sediment I’ve had to scrape off idiots’ brain cases?” Ratchet demanded. “A single impurity could cause your whole processor to melt down.” Even those he managed to recover never came back exactly as they had been. In best case scenarios, the changes weren’t apparent until after they had left his office: subtle shifts in mannerism, a change in fuel preference. The worst… Ratchet had seen a bot’s entire language core corroded as a result of bad materials. He didn’t care the depth of experience and knowledge Rodimus was broadcasting to him, it was a risk he wouldn’t allow any friend to take while they still had a choice.

Rodimus had faced worse in Nyon than a few bad trips, worse on the frontlines than suddenly coming back to consciousness with a gun in his hands. It wasn’t a solution, no, but at certain times it was the best a bot could hope for. Maybe right now happened to be one of them.

Ratchet tried to grab the box back, but his thoughts projected his intentions and Rodimus easily dodged him.

“People need you, Ratchet,” Rodimus said. “Not just Drift; everyone on the Lost Light relies on you.” Exaggeration, plain and simple. Rodimus ignored him. “If something were to happen to me, Ultra Magnus and Megatron can keep things running, but you need to get back in one piece.”

That wasn’t true, not in the slightest. And, Ratchet found, it didn’t matter.

“Not everything is about what’s best for other people,” he said. They were out here to look for a solution, and none were viable that did not result in both of them continuing their lives afterward as best they could.

He felt something quake in Rodimus, a distraction just powerful enough to give him a chance to grab the box back. He barely had a moment’s satisfaction, though, before a pounding emotion hit him with blunt force. It was deep, but not in the sense of a hole, where one might find safety or comfort; it was deep like the emptiness of space, yawning wider and more oppressive the deeper one sunk into it. Ratchet squeezed the box between his fingers, disengaging from Rodimus’ thoughts and retreating back into his own.

Ratchet stared at Rodimus, who from the outside looked normal. A bit tense, but no more so than he usually looked when they got into one of their spats. Had he not had this perfect window, he would have missed the storm entirely.

“Rodimus…” This was beyond his scope.

Rodimus opened his mouth, but he didn’t say anything. He was horrified.

He shouldn’t have seen that, Ratchet realized. Whatever injustice they might fight about next, whatever disagreement they came to over whether something was right or okay, nothing could excuse such a breach of privacy.

No one had ever seen that before. Certainly not Drift.

“Okay,” Ratchet said. Without turning around, he put the box back in the drawer and shut it. “Do you want to be alone?”

“God, yes,” Rodimus said. He had been doing so well not going to that place. Of course he had been a fool to hope he could keep it up a whole week, but he’d hoped to go a few days, at least, maybe wait until Ratchet was in recharge before he let himself fall back into—

“Come on,” Ratchet said. “Let’s go upstairs.” Out of the mess, the forgotten scraps of violence that had chased them throughout their lives.

Ratchet led them back up to the bridge and seated Rodimus in the captain’s chair. He wanted—he didn’t want—Primus, it was so hard to think when everything kept circling, he wished Ratchet hadn’t seen that—

“Can you teach me how to meditate?” Ratchet asked, using the tone of voice he was finding worked well to break them from a loop.

“Huh?” Despite that, it still took Rodimus a moment to understand. “I was terrible at it, remember? Couldn’t sit still.”

“And sometimes the worst students make the best teachers.”

Yeah, like he would know. Ratchet had probably aced every class he had ever been in.

That actually got a laugh out of him.

“Me?” Ratchet said. “Frag no, my early years were a disaster. Almost flunked out one semester, considered dropping out the next. If it hadn’t been for one of my instructors stepping in and deciding I was worth something, I probably wouldn’t have made it to my residency.”

Ratchet had been lucky in many ways. It was, of course, the Functionist Council that had decided he should go into medicine, and he had gone along with it out of the assurance that it was what he was built for. The early rhetoric had him thinking that he would be able to breeze through and grab his high-paying job on the way out; only once he was in the thick of it had he realized that not only was it a great deal of work to become a doctor, but there was also a real chance he could fail on the way. It had only been Glass and his kind yet brutal way of teaching that had helped Ratchet onto the right path.

Rodimus wasn’t sure what to do with all that information. Ratchet shrugged.

“It’s all ancient history,” he said. “Just hope I didn’t scare you off of trying to teach me.”

“I never agreed,” Rodimus said, but he was thinking about it. Even if they only managed a few minutes, a distraction would be good for them, anything to push them farther away from that.

“Come on,” Ratchet said, helping him up again.

It only took a few minutes to hack their way into the recharge closets at the back of the ship. On an Autobot vessel, the crew’s recharge docks would have shared a common room, but the Decepticons had divided them into four cramped compartments. Something about reducing the risk of getting stabbed in recharge, Ratchet suspected, not that he would have thought reduced visibility would help much. Half the rooms contained four berths each, stacked in two bunks, and the others each contained a single large slab likely meant for a heavy.

The bunks were just tall enough for a bot to crawl on for recharge, inadequate for sitting up straight, so they took over one of the larger berths. Perched at the foot, Rodimus watched in silence as Ratchet climbed on the other end and got himself situated.

“Am I doing this right?” he asked. For all the mindfulness seminars he had dozed through, Ratchet had very little idea of what actually went into meditating. He had stumbled into Drift practicing a couple times in out of the way yet distinctly visible spots, but he had not bothered to inspect the minutia of his activity. The one exception had been the time he had stumbled upon Drift with his foot twisted up behind his head, but he had never figured out whether that was supposed to be meditation or just showing off.

“Um.” Rodimus thought back. “Sit however’s comfortable for you. But, like, actively.” A straight back was the most important thing. When Rodimus had started fidgeting, Drift had let him try it standing up, and then gently pacing. He doubted Ratchet would have that problem, though, so they stuck with sitting side by side, their legs dangling off the berth.

“And now?” Ratchet asked.

“Power down your optics,” Rodimus said. Drift had offered a soft reassurance here, that they were alone and safe, but Rodimus doubted he could capture the same sense of security Drift imparted, so he skipped it. “Don’t do anything yet. Just sit with it. Pay attention to your body. Think—I mean. Feel it. How it feels.”

As though Ratchet could ever get away from feeling his body, the persistent aches and tugs that accompanied years of poor maintenance. Their exchange did not include physical sensations, but Rodimus could feel Ratchet’s reaction to them and winced in sympathy.

“Is yours really much better?” Ratchet countered. “Can’t remember the last time I got you in for a tune-up.”

Was Rodimus comfortable in his own body? He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t paid attention to it in—

Right, meditating. They were meditating. He quickly reeled himself back in, trying to pay attention to the way the cables in his right shoulder twitched without actively thinking about them.

“Don’t crank your fans, but if your systems are running hot, try to cool yourself down,” he said. “Filter out the warm air until you’re comfortable.”

This had been one of their stumbling points, because Rodimus always ran hot due to the combination of an inefficient alt-mode and his poorly optimized flameout mod. They had eventually agreed it was best to just have Rodimus running his fans throughout, but he knew that wasn’t the right way to do it.

Ratchet nudged the thought—he might be able to do something about that, once they had a proper medbay again—but he didn’t comment out loud.

“And now… don’t try to stop your thoughts. Let them come to you, but don’t dwell on them. Acknowledge them and then move on.” Drift had suggested anchoring himself to the beat of his fuel pump, but not-thinking about it had caused it to speed up until he couldn’t sit still anymore and had to move. Then had come the trinkets: a ball he could roll between his palms, or a long shard of crystal to tumble through his fingers over and over again. Practicing with them had brought Rodimus the closest he had come to understanding what Drift was on with all his talk about inner peace.

Rodimus had no idea what had become of those things when Drift left. Maybe Drift would have wanted to take the crystals with him, but Ultra Magnus probably confiscated the rest when he did the final room sweep. He didn’t even know where that stuff had ended up, whether Drift’s possessions had been thrown away or—

Broadcasting his intentions with his thoughts but otherwise staying quiet, Ratchet pulled from his subspace a laser pointer and pushed it into Rodimus’ empty hands. The button at the end would depress a decent distance before it settled with a click, and Rodimus’ thumb immediately sought it out, testing it a few times before it settled into a rhythm.

Thanks, he thought.

Don’t mention it, Ratchet sent back. Just letting the thoughts go, right?

Right, Rodimus thought, and then he did just that, letting Drift slip to the back of his processor. Always there, especially as of late, but not dominating. Just waiting.

Click. Click. Click. Ratchet was good at this. Ratchet was really good at this.

His job wasn’t always snap decisions and pinpoint accuracy. In the smoldering years, a lot of Ratchet’s time was spent performing basic maintenance work, the same procedure a hundred or thousand times over. Thoughts had a tendency to turn dark in situations like that, so he had become adept at keeping his processor empty.

Click. Click. Click. Rodimus was reminded of drill routines and perimeter sweeps, but that was as far as he let the thought go. He settled again.

Click. Click. Click. Click click. Click. Click click. Click.

No commanding officer would sponsor a mod that introduced so much randomization to a battle, so Rodimus had had to go through back channels to get it, chatting up anonymous specialists on the intranet until he found someone he could both afford and reach between assignments. He had never gotten his name—Accupunch was not a name any MTO could have snagged—and the only note made on his patient file was for a blown tire (which had been real; the first time he tested the mod, he hadn’t known to adjust his tire pressure ahead of time).

He felt Ratchet’s frown like a wave. He would definitely be taking a look at it. Later.

Right. Meditating. They were meditating.

Click click. Click. Click click. Click. Click click. Click. Click click. Click. Click click. Click. Click click. Click.

The noise was starting to grate on Ratchet’s nerves.

Rodimus onlined his optics to find himself staring down at the laser pointer in his hands.

“This isn’t gonna work,” he whispered.

It just takes practice, Ratchet thought.

“I’m talking about everything,” Ratchet said. He squeezed the laser pointer; he wanted to throw it at the wall. “Cleaning the ship and finding Drift and surviving long enough to do it. It’s not going to work! We’re too different; the things we do just to function are too incompatible.” No matter how much effort they put in, there had never been a chance this would work. “You’re all—all patience and find details and compassion.” In the most jagged possible way. “And I’ve gotten through on charm and the occasional—” very occasional, always fleeting, but essential nonetheless “—handout of good luck. I’ve tried, but not the way you try, and I don’t care the way you care.” Ratchet didn’t take on vanity rescue missions; everything he did was for the good of someone else. “You’re going out there to find Drift—” because Ratchet was in love with him “—and I’m—”

Ratchet, who had been gripping Rodimus’ thoughts like he was trying to pull a tumbling speeder out of a nosedive, felt his hands slip.

“Now hold on,” he demanded, twisting so he was facing Rodimus. “I’m what?”

“You’re what?” Rodimus had already lost track of the thought. Luckily, it came bouncing back to him, echoed over and over as Ratchet’s precision processor analyzed and examined and tried to make sense of what Rodimus’ own had considered an inconsequential observation.

“I’m not—” But he was, and he had known. Of course he had known. How could anyone miss something so monumental, as discovering they would do whatever it took to keep one singular person (Just one! Not a planet, not a platoon, just one person!) safe and happy in a universe that seemed to conspire against it. Ratchet had known, but he hadn’t thought about it, not when Drift was alone and needed help, not—not another mess. Not this.

But Drift deserved to be loved, Rodimus pushed back.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he said out loud. Love was what had gotten Ratchet through the war, love of life and other people. It had the potential for destruction, but that was true of the Cybertronian as a whole. “Just… you know. Be reasonable about it.”

“Reasonable,” Ratchet repeated, with a huff that was as amused as it was self-deprecating.

“Make sure we get the pleasantries done before you sweep him off his feet,” Rodimus said. Though a joke, the suggestion did bring a snapshot to mind, just briefly: an orange sunset backdrop, Ratchet and Drift wrapped around each other and gazing into each others optics so fiercely it was as though the whole universe had ceased to exist. Like Rodimus, despite imagining it, had disappeared entirely.

Tagged onto the end of the thought, smothered with the rest as Rodimus desperately tried to turn his processor to the problem of how they would convince Drift they had come in peace, was a note of jealousy.

Ratchet noticed it. His optics snapped to Rodimus, and the latter refused to meet them.

Drift deserved to be loved without reservation, by someone ready to put their whole being into it. Rodimus wasn’t even sure he was built for such a task.

“Hey now, where’s that coming from?” Ratchet asked. Functionist nonsense.

The quivering mass that represented Rodimus’ many, many failures shook loose of his careful hold. Ratchet felt the weight of it, similar to that—

“Everybody makes mistakes, Rodimus,” Ratchet said. He was trying to be gentle without patronizing, and while he didn’t quite manage it, Rodimus caught his intent and was grateful. “Me, Prime, Drift. Your mistakes are serious, and they’ve had consequences, but that’s the reality if you want to be someone important. You’re going to fail at important things. That doesn’t mean you’re built wrong.” With some uncertainty, not immediately soothed by Rodimus’ responding confusion, he breached the gap between them and laid his hand over Rodimus’.

You can love, he thought, the kind of words he could never say out loud.

Rodimus caught them anyway. Still a little confused and equally uncertain but with the boldness that had already gotten him this far in life, he flipped his hand over so that he and Ratchet held the laser pointer between them.

“I admit, I haven’t been the best so far at this… partnership,” Ratchet said. When Rodimus balked and made to interrupt, he shook his head. “No, really. I gripe and complain because that’s what I do, but the truth is, you’re trying. I’m not saying this is going to make it any easier, but I need to start trying, too.” He squeezed Rodimus’ hand.

Rodimus, for once, was empty. He didn’t know what to think about that, so for a moment he just floated, until eventually Ratchet’s steady march of thoughts reeled him back in again. He grinned and released Ratchet’s hand, pushing himself off the massive berth.

“Fuel?” he asked. They had gone to the trouble of sorting all those cubes; might as well make some use of them.

“Sure,” Ratchet said, following at a more sedate pace. Maybe afterward, they could work out how recharging was going to work in their current state. Any peace they found would be short lived if they couldn’t work that out.

“You think the berths will work for us if we’re not Decepticons?” Rodimus asked as he walked backwards to the bridge.

Ratchet had no idea. But if not, it was something to work on, another puzzle to solve. And it turned out the two of them together were better at that than he would have expected. Maybe it would still be a challenge. Maybe they would get angry and think hurtful things of each other and be overly offended by that which neither could control. But that too was just a problem to solve. They could figure it out.

Rodimus grinned at him. A little nervous, but hopeful. He trusted Ratchet, and the feeling he got in return was so similar he almost missed the fact that it hadn’t come from himself.

[libermachinae]

Fault Lines Under the Living Room

Part II: Breathe - Chapter 6: Just Another One

Also available on AO3! Chapter Summary: Ratchet and Rodimus embark. Word Count: 5096

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They could have left the last stage of planetbreak to autopilot, but Ratchet kept his hands wrapped around the yoke. If there was damage the shuttle’s sensors had missed, he said, better to have someone sentient piloting. Rodimus nodded along with his logic, like he hadn’t been aware the moment Ratchet decided he would do everything in his power to distract himself from… all this.

Rodimus had little room to feel offended. He was trying to dd the same, exploring the shuttle’s interface while background threads worked through anything he might have forgotten in their haste to leave. He hadn’t gotten around to telling the engineers about the ominous blinking panel in engine room 3, and he’d neglected to pick a replacement judge for the upcoming karaoke contest. His consciousness slipped between these background thoughts and exploration and Ratchet’s piloting, both of them trying so hard not to acknowledge the other than they jumped when the alarm went off.

“Frag.”

Rodimus grabbed for controls that failed to materialize in front of him.

“What?” he demanded, looking to the monitors for an incoming projectile despite the answer pooling in his mind.

“Haven’t reached exit velocity,” Ratchet said, punching commands into the console with one hand firm on the yoke. “Forgot how much power it takes to get these old war rigs moving. I’m adjusting the flightpath to buy us time to build momentum.” The alarm stopped. “There.”

Ratchet’s words were echoes of his thoughts, old knowledge by the time they reached Rodimus’ audials. Ratchet didn’t know how to fix that problem. Rodimus hadn’t realized it was a problem. Conversations between them were already a challenge, to add this new dimension was—

They were thinking about each other’s thoughts again. Rodimus rapidly shifted between menu options until the flashing light dragged him back out of his head.

“This sucks,” he said.

Ratchet grunted. He couldn’t keep up with all of Rodimus’ thoughts at once, and even hanging onto one was a strain, so he was trying to create hard divides between them. Right now, he was generating a list of all the medical supplies one could expect to find on a ship this size, basing it on a combination of Autobot guidelines and the kinds of repairs he had seen on POWs. Rodimus’ processor tried to latch on, but the thick jargon kept him slipping off, back to exploring the workings of their new home.

No, was home not the right word? The place they were living? Where they were captive? Their cosmic questing raft? The Decepticraft? The Drifter?

Ratchet withdrew the tracker from his subspace, ignoring the way plinking ideas sunk into his thoughts like lead nuggets into molten cadmium. Autobot and Decepticon tech was not designed to be compatible, but he had performed enough surgeries with parts scavenged from the battlefield to know how to jury rig the connection. As he pulled out a small utility knife, he thought sadly of the universal adapter he had stashed with the rest of his medical supplies, all of it now sailing away to parts unknown. Though he would knock a dent into Arcee if they ever caught up to her, he did hope his kit was getting put to use.

Rodimus wondered how long Ratchet had been preparing for his trip, when the planning had started (at the vote? Overlord?), how he could have missed it. Ratchet recoiled from the blunt curiosity and his list fell apart, dumped out of short term memory as his processor scrambled to pull up the answers to Rodimus’ questions.

Mistake, mistake, mistake.

“Just—stop,” Ratchet said, waving at Rodimus like he could dispel the corrosive thoughts with a gesture.

How do I stop? Does it hurt? You’re so quiet? Are you okay? Does it hurt? What do I do? Rodimus had never had reason to stop his processor before, and the effort of trying to now was making it worse.

Ratchet, though, had a lifetime’s experience forcing himself to focus in stressful situations. He stopped responding to Rodimus’ questions, and the thoughts that did come through were focused entirely on his hands as he stripped down the tracker’s cable. Once a physical connection had been established, he would need to register the tracker as a pilot in the navicomp, then reroute the transceivers in the shuttle’s communications array to increase their range.

His calm confidence guided Rodimus’ focus. The stream of questions would not abate, but they were no longer provoked from panic, nor did they interrupt Ratchet’s process.

Will it accept an Autobot ident?

Some even turned out to be helpful.

“Probably not,” Ratchet said, their connection helping Rodimus pinpoint which of his thoughts Ratchet was responding to. “Not a problem, I can just program a new one… dammit.”

The computer flashed red: outdated codes.

“Who was stationed on this ship they would bother updating their security?” Ratchet wondered aloud, his processor trying to piece together a workaround simpler than taking apart the entire navigation system.

Rodimus hesitated, but Ratchet caught it, so there was no point to staying quiet.

“Prowl passed me some intel before we left,” he said.

“Hm.” Ratchet’s thoughts turned sharp, a phantom pain that caused Rodimus to wince.

“Codes,” he said. “Just in case.”

He hadn’t asked where Prowl had gotten them, though Ratchet’s imagination filled in the gaps. Instead, Rodimus had been doing his best to appear professional and capable before Optimus’ infamous adviser. Prowl’s optics could not bother to emote for how unimpressed he was. That Rodimus had assumed this meeting concerning “galactic relations” would be about culture clash with their closest neighbors had not helped his image.

He had nearly run out of the office when Ultra Magnus commed to say he was actually late for another meeting, stopped only by the datapad forced his way.

“A few precautions,” Prowl had called it. Rodimus downloaded the files and stored them among the events on Kimia, tech specs for the waste disposal system, and other things he could willingly not think about.

Ratchet’s hand, poised over the keyboard, clenched and shook itself out.

“I hope you ran a virus scan on that thing before you plugged it into yourself,” he said, doing a commendable job not bringing up everything this subject of conversation was making him think about.

“No, but I passed it through my antivirals.” And it didn’t feel like Prowl was remote controlling him from the opposite side of the galaxy. He doubted Prowl had the processing capacity to pilot him through multiple rounds of volcanic derby racing, for one.

“Here.” Ratchet retrieved his portable med kit from his subspace and set it on his lap. The lists were moving back in: everything he’d lost versus what he had to work with now. Rodimus found himself sobered and accepted the antiviral chip when it was passed to him. “Load this and run another scan. You might experience a few seconds lag or disorientation; just ride it out and let the chip do its job.” A few very rare cases experienced sensory inversion, but longterm effects were uncommon enough Ratchet wouldn’t bother to mention them.

Rodimus cracked a grin as he popped open a port cover and inserted the chip. He grimaced as he installed the program—invasive medical programs were rarely comfortable to integrate—then ran Prowl’s files through it.

So, there had been a tracking signal that Rodimus’ programs had failed to uncover, but once that had been snipped out the rest were deemed safe. Rodimus tightbeamed the data to Ratchet who used it to finish building their fake Decepticon and finally got through. ‘Galeforce’ finished integrating the tracker and set the system to start searching for Drift’s signal.

“Thanks,” Ratchet said, a longer pause than normal between thinking the word and saying it out loud. Internal distractions compounded and inevitably led them to crashing into each other, so maybe talking would redirect enough of their attention to stop the spiraling before it could start.

Rodimus chanced a glance at him but could not catch his optic; he was still focused on the controls.

“No problem,” he said. Drift had once wasted a full off-shift failing to teach him how to meditate. The problem had not been Drift’s teaching: it was all Rodimus and his inability to let a thought go once it manifested. It was like they stuck him, coils of barbed wire wrapped round and around, each pinprick demanding his attention and—”How far is it to the outer rim?”

“Depends where we’re going, and if Drift’s on the move,” Ratchet said. The screen of the navicomp blinked, a pinwheel replacing the previous screen. “Might find somewhere to get comfortable. This part’s been known to go for a few hours.”

“Hours?” Rodimus repeated. Anything that could have once been considered comfortable was covered in junk. The captain’s chair had belonged to Ratchet before they had taken off, and the flight deck chairs were too abandoned to feel secure.

“The transceiver on Drift’s speeder isn’t strong enough to send a direct signal,” Ratchet said. “It’s going to have to bounce between Galactic Council transmission planets a bit before it makes it back here.” Assuming Drift had strayed close enough for one to grab his signal. From what Ratchet understood, though, they were almost impossible to avoid these days. “Whatever we get’s going to be a few days old, but it’s a start.”

Rodimus’ processor drew up a cartoonish map, a dotted line zigzagging between planets to show the path Drift’s signal would take. He recoiled from under Ratchet’s scrutiny, but all his haste could add was a backdrop of randomized stars.

“While we’re waiting, I’ve got us on course to slingshot around Scarvix’s star,” Ratchet went on. A note of surprise: Rodimus’ stress had caused his own cables to tense. “By the time the tracker gets us some coordinates, we should be ready to… This isn’t helping.”

Rodimus was distressed and Ratchet was spiraling. How were they going to make it all the way to the outer rim? What would they do if Drift had nothing for them? Refused to help? Rodimus couldn’t keep tying himself in knots, nor could he endure the sting every time Ratchet anguished over a possible future trapped together.

“I distract myself.” Rodimus forced his voice through the fog.

“How?” Ratchet was gripping the edge of the captain’s seat, squeezing until the hard edge reminded him which body was his.

“A lot of things work: racing, fight,” Rodimus said. “Anything that could get me out of my head for a few minutes.”

Meteor surfing, free all skydiving, asteroid spelunking. Any activity that teased the edge of mortality (crafting a spectacle was a bonus) was fair game. The rush of knowing he was solely responsible for the continued light of his spark never failed to wipe his mind of the stress of everything else.

Ratchet could not relate. Nor could he imagine how they were going to fit a racetrack into a ship just a bit larger than Swerve’s. Sparring might have been an option, were it not for the fact that every step risked tripping and landing face first on something volatile.

The idea hit Rodimus and he groaned.

“What about—cleaning?” Ratchet gestured around them. “I don’t want to put up with this chaos for longer than I have to.”

And there was something nostalgic about it. After the destruction of his Rodion clinic, Ratchet started practicing performative minimalism; anything of purely sentimental value had to be kept on his person, out of harm’s way. Prior to that, his offices had been littered with evidence of a life lived mostly within their walls: chickenscratch notes immediately forgotten, used energon cubes, and fond mementos from old friends he would get around to calling one of these days, for sure. Over days and weeks it would pile up, until he was using his lap as a desk and had no choice but to sweep it all back into a configuration resembling tidiness.

Rodimus balked at Ratchet’s fondness of those memories. Cleaning for him was performed on hands and knees, tips of steel wool sticking into his finish as he worked rust out of wash rack corners. Back and forth over the same spot, over and over and over, until boredom pressed down like it intended him to become one with the floor.

“Punishment detail,” he said, though Ratchet had already guessed.

During the war he had bounced between barracks and military vessels, plugging into recharge docks still warm from their last occupant. How could he ever take pride over a cleaned room when neither the space nor the mess belonged to him? He had tried to improve his habits upon moving into the Lost Light, but there were reasons Ultra Magnus refused to meet him at his hab suite.

“It’s not just about the space,” Ratchet said. “It’s an emotional reset. When you have time to clean, it means the fighting’s over for now.” Ratchet’s memories had lost hold of entire days stationed in field hospitals, brought back only as he had wiped down his instruments and organized his remaining supplies. Rubbing cleanser deep into his joints to free them of the day’s residue was one small kindness he could afford himself.

Rodimus shrugged and twisted in the seat so he could rest his chin on the back of it. He scanned the room. It certainly looked like a fight had gone through.

“Right.” Ratchet did one better than him and stood up. “You’ve got decent knees, so you can start by hauling those shelves back into place.”

“Decent knees?” Rodimus repeated, allowing himself to crack a grin. He shoved himself from the chair and wandered out into the swamp, tripping once as he felt something snap under his heel. “Old joint all worn out, doc?”

“Just got them replaced,” Ratchet corrected, “and I’d rather not break them in on a mess that wasn’t even my fault.” First Aid would let him have it, and he was already due for a tongue lashing whenever they got back to the Lost Light. “This can be your penance.”

“Penance.” Rodimus laughed through the word, though he was already maneuvering around the shelves in question, trying to guess which end would be easiest to lift from given the state of the floor around them. “Right, because I’m the one who put you on this ship in the first place.” Neither would have been out here if Ratchet had just asked to go get Drift.

Nor if Rodimus had gone first—not sent him away—prevented Overlord—

“Here,” Ratchet said, clearing some of the space Rodimus had been tiptoeing around. “Let’s start with this.”

They started together, Ratchet picking through whatever was in Rodimus’ way as he heaved the shelves upright, but their tasks caused them to drift apart, Ratchet sorting through his findings while Rodimus shoved the room back into a semblance of order. He drifted into a rhythm of lifting and pushing, occasionally grunting with the effort of returning the room to its previous state. This plan was derailed almost immediately: he’d had other things on his mind when he first rushed onto the bridge, and the placement of the various shelves and crates had missed his attention entirely. Even Ratchet’s memory of the layout was imperfect.

So, he got creative with it, using the shelves to form a divider between the cockpit and what would have been the command zone. He used the crates to fill in the gaps and form uneven benches along the walls, and as he took to shoving the broken pieces and miscellaneous ends into piles, the bridge started to take the shape of a living space. Ratchet, glancing up from his work only to remind Rodimus not to lift with his back, had no complaints about the design choices.

He spoke up again when Rodimus paused before one of the larger crates, considering it carefully.

“It’s not a bad idea,” he said, “but I doubt you’re the first to have it. Why would the Cons waste space with chairs when they’re already tripping over storage cubes?”

“You can’t relax sitting on a block,” Rodimus said, although, he reflected, that was likely the point.

In the end, he settled for placing a couple smaller cubes on either side of the makeshift table, almost adding a third before he thought better of it and slotted it into a space on the wall, finally covering up the loosened panel from which red light continued to trickle. His cables relaxed and he became aware that he had been hearing a buzz (a melody?) in the back of his processor ever since the flare. The silence that swept in to fill the space was just as loud, but slightly less grating.

His optics swept the room; still chaotic, according to Ratchet, but Rodimus thought it was gaining a shape. Noticing that he had accidentally blocked the door at the back of the bridge, he went to clear it, and was surprised when it didn’t open automatically for him, nor did he see a control pad.

“Ident sensor,” Ratchet said. He had noticed it built into the upper frame of the door.

“What, more secret tech stashed back there?” Rodimus asked. Both their minds bloomed with possibilities, but Ratchet shut them down.

“Recharge docks, more likely,” he said. “We had similar systems on some of the larger warships. Kept bots to their assigned off-shifts.” On one occasion, a superior officer had tried to use the same tactic to lock Ratchet out of his medbay when he was supposed to be recharging. After the public fallout settled, no one else dared to try it. “I can rig up our transceivers with a couple more facsimiles, soon as I’m finished here.”

Rodimus grinned and waved up at the sensor. He thought he could feel a brush of radiation as it scanned him, but Ratchet rebuffed the notion; it wasn’t nearly that powerful.

If that was true, what was to stop the Decepticons from lacing their ships with invisible observation devices? What if it had already discovered the intruders and was sending alerts straight to the DJD who were—

Fifteen pounds titanium alloys, ten pounds compressed carbon, eighty pounds halogen…

Ratchet’s thoughts were calm, regular, and purposeful enough for Rodimus to latch on. He glanced around again. He could start clearing the stairs. Or sweeping up glass. He could create a designated pile of useful equipment, or check that all the navigation terminals were in working order, or perform a quick security sweep. So many options. So many ways to prove that he was taking this seriously and was ready to work to stay out of Ratchet’s way.

“Come here, Rodimus.”

Of course, thinking about his options accomplished none of them. Aware he would continue wasting time if left to his own devices, he complied, plopping down in front of Ratchet. He landed in a relaxed sprawl, his position calculated down to the bend of his fingers.

Ratchet glanced up to him, thoughts of energon stock briefly set aside.

“Maybe you should’ve paid more attention to those meditation lessons,” he said.

“Told you, it didn’t work.” Never mind that he hadn’t said that part out loud; it was the defining feature of that memory. Drift had tried so hard, patiently explaining each step and troubleshooting when Rodimus struggled. They had tried different techniques, positions, even locations, and at every one, Rodimus’ thoughts had caught up to him and refused to be ignored. And every time, Drift had nodded with gentle understanding and suggested something new to try.

Because that was who Drift was: patient, calm, nonjudgmental. A forged mentor.

Ratchet’s thoughts hit him like acid rain.

“Did you know your ‘best friend’ at all?”

Of course he did, he wanted to say. All the important bits! Like that he was more regimented than Magnus when it came to his refueling schedule: one cube at the start of duty shift, and one at off-shift, every single cycle. That with his years brought experience untold, solutions and advice always at the ready. That Drift had been, and still was, extremely dangerous.

But when he dove inward to find these answers, he discovered something else: another Drift, sharp, with tattered, ill-defined edges that nonetheless drew and intimidating silhouette. This Drift was cloaked not in radiant light, but wrapped himself in darkness like a shawl, and when he tried to speak it was in many voices, none of which Rodimus recognized.

“Real friends don’t worship the ground you walk on,” Ratchet was saying. “I know your perception’s skewed since you think you have to live up to the very scratches in Optimus’ finish, but that behavior’s not healthy and it’s not normal. Drift is a real person, not some sort of—of fantasy fulfillment for you to drain until your hero complex is satisfied.”

Impatient, masking over constant stress, deeply critical of everyone but wrestling with his own failings: the other Drift’s hand appeared not with a sword, but a gun.

“I’m sorry.”

And vanished.

Ratchet released his death grip on an energon cube and set it aside.

“Not me you need to apologize to.”

“I know,” Rodimus said. “But you’re here, and it means something to you.”

“It doesn’t.” Ratchet’s lie was scratchy, like a frayed wire. “Drift’s made plenty of bad decisions in his life.” You’re just another one.

That’s not any of your business.

Habit kept them civil on the outside, but nothing, least of all self control, could stop them from thinking their truths. Drift had taken his post-war freedom and handed it straight to Rodimus, his dripping optimism like a fresh protoform faith. He had taken every dirty, demeaning job the Lost Light required of him, because he was good at them, because he wanted to help, because it was the only thing he knew how to do, because Rodimus had asked. Rodimus had taken advantage of, given an opportunity to, betrayed, saved, sacrificed—trying his best and couldn’t help that—

“Cleaning,” Ratchet said. “Cleaning.”

It took Rodimus a second just to find his body, then remember the piles of cubes stacked between them.

“What?” he asked. Even with a mental warning, he startled at the cleaning rag that landed on him.

“Some of the cubes were damaged in the crash, but it’s impossible to tell which when they’re piled together like this,” Ratchet said. He picked one from the pile and nested it in his own rag, diligently wiping away the loose energon before he unwrapped it and held it to the light. “Clean ‘em and check for damage. Get a leaker, pour it into the can with the rest. We can feed them to the ship’s reserve cells.”

The flight time bought by even a full crate’s worth of cubes would be negligible, but that wasn’t the point. Rodimus took a cube off the top of the nearest pile, feeling along the buckled edges. Were it just his own head to deal with, it might have been enough, but Ratchet’s still burning fury would not be so easily shut off.

“He volunteered,” Rodimus said.

Had he? Ratchet hadn’t known that. Rather than calm him, though, the new information made the fire in his spark burn hotter.

“I’m not having this conversation,” he said.

The cube hit the floor with an unsatisfying thud and Rodimus stood up.

“Whatever.” He had a taste of grim satisfaction watching Ratchet freeze.

“Don’t—” Ratchet started, but Rodimus cut him off.

“I get it,” he said. “You hate me. I’m used to it. I get people hating me for who I am way before they find out all the slagged choices I’ve made. But when you’re—you—”

Ratchet was treating Drift like a drone, unable to make any choice beyond its core programming, and Rodimus the cruel engineer who delighted in watching it shock itself. Rodimus could take lashing Ratchet delivered, but objectifying Drift and calling it righteous was a step too far.

“Except that’s not what I’m saying,” Ratchet said. His voice was steady and he stayed seated; he did not try to chase Rodimus. “Of course Drift is self-sufficient. I’ve never doubted that. And I believe you that he volunteered, because it’s the exact kind of glitched plan he would come up with. But the world is bigger than you, Rodimus.”

He knew—

Drift pledging life and spark to a leader whose words struck a thousand furnaces. Cast through self-revolutions of building and breaking himself, each new face patterned after what the last one lacked. Fighting his way up an eroding cliff face of rejection, reaching out…

“It’s more than you,” Ratchet said. “Drift might have volunteered. But I’ve got to check your conductors for rust if you think he wanted to go.”

“I know, but…” If Drift wanted salvation, who was Rodimus to deny him?

“His friend, allegedly.” Though Ratchet seethed with the word, there was a hidden gentleness behind it. Drift needed friends.

Rodimus had never considered that. He knew Drift was not well liked among some Autobots, a target of suspicion if not outright hostility, but Rodimus had always seen him rise above it. Strong and steadfast and as confident in himself as he was, isolation seemed no weight on his struts.

“He’s just a bot like any other,” Ratchet said. Well. Not any other. Neither knew anyone quite like Drift. “He gets slagged ideas, too, and as you’re friend, you’re supposed to tell him that.”

Ratchet had never hesitated to tell Optimus when he was being an idiot. Not much good it had done them all in the end, but memories of yelling at the Prime while elbow-deep in his wiring helped break the tension that had crystallized between them.

“I messed up,” Rodimus said quietly.

Ratchet gestured to the floor on the other side of the cube pile.

“You did,” he said, shaking his head at Rodimus’ ripe disappointment. “What do you want me to do? Say you tried your best and forgive you? You’re right, Rodimus. Whatever your reasons for not acting sooner, Drift’s the one who has to deal with your consequences.”

“I’m scared,” Rodimus admitted as he took a seat again. He picked up the cube he had been checking before and looked it over: no leaks. He put it in the intact pile and retrieved the next. “I liked what we had before, and I’m scared Drift’s going to hate me now that his big sacrifice turned out to be for nothing.”

“What you had before wasn’t sustainable,” Ratchet said. He had moved back into his own rhythm, optics on his hands while he spoke to Rodimus. “Want to talk about objectifying? You treated Drift like a personal worshiper.”

Rodimus ducked his helm. It sucked to feel Ratchet’s scrutiny even without those fierce optics on him, but he knew it was deserved. It had just been so nice to feel appreciated for once. To have someone tell him, without disclaimer or exception, that he was good at something and could help people. Everyone else was always searching for his flaw; Drift had been the first to explore Rodimus with the intention to find his virtues. It was the praise Rodimus missed most, second only to the camaraderie, and even while acknowledging it was for the best, it still stung to know he couldn’t have that back.

Ratchet set down a cube and did not immediately reach for another one.

“I can’t make any guarantees about what Drift will do, but I think you would actually find friendship without aftkissing to be more rewarding,” he said.

But I liked that, Rodimus thought, to his horror. Ratchet rolled his optics.

I’m sure you did.

“Of course,” he said out loud. “And you never doubted it? Never once thought, ‘Hey, this level of devotion from a bot I haven’t shared three words with is a little weird’?”

No. But a few moments slipped in from Rodimus’ memories. When Drift told him about his affiliation ceremony, there were embers of a once blazing inferno glowing behind his optics, a side of the ex-Decepticon that Rodimus told himself was but a lingering echo. Drift had given up that kind of passion on his road to atonement. At least, Rodimus had convinced himself as much.

“He told you exactly what you wanted to hear, knowing you would fill in the gaps,” Ratchet said. “He is a survivalist.” And to have survived so much, only to once more find himself without a home or support was a mockery of justice and everything Ratchet had believed the Autobots stood for.

That was why he needed to leave.

“And you’re getting your new chance because of it,” he said. “You didn’t earn it, but you’re getting one anyway. And if you really meant that apology, you’ll do something different this time.”

Rodimus knew that, could internalize the idea, but when so much of what he did felt like an externally sourced script running of its own volition, he struggled to make it a guarantee. He could intend, with every fiber of every cable, to do better the second time around. But so often the pressure of potential disappointment became its own self-fulfilling prophecy.

“Well, so long as we’re stuck together, you won’t be alone,” Ratchet said. “I’ll be there. I won’t let you do that to him.”

“Okay,” Rodimus said. He had heard promises like that before, from bot who promised to support him only to turn tailpipe once they learned what that meant.

But now he could feel Ratchet’s resolve. Not to Rodimus, to whom his emotions were turbulent and untrustworthy, but to Drift and giving him what life would otherwise conspire to keep away. He thought Drift a fool for the role he had assigned himself at Rodimus’ side, but he would not deny him his agency if that was something he wanted to regain.

The navicomp beeped. They stood simultaneously and Ratchet moved back to the captain’s chair to inspect the screen.

“We’ve got a hit,” he said. “Vitreous.” An organic planet, according to the report. Neither of their databanks could produce any further information.

“A week?” Rodimus’ voice was tight as Ratchet scanned the details.

“Give or take,” he said. “If we need to refuel, that will add a couple days.”

“Sure.” Rodimus was trying very hard not to think about what a week of this would be like.

Ratchet was doing it enough for both of them.

[black-strike-otp]

part 5

“Let Novastrike go. Stop holding her hostage,” said the fans.

“how ‘bout I don’t little shits?” replied Motormaster.

Do not be deceived, some appearances are short-lived, while others will make return appearances~

They’d failed. It didn’t matter who was at fault, but they’d failed miserably. All they had to show for their efforts was battered bodies and hollow screams that echoed through the brig like spark chilling melancholy music. It was horrifying.

Who was alive any who was dead? Novastrike didn’t know. There probably wouldn’t be an honest answer anyway out of the horrendous mech either. His armor was ridiculous thick and he found any of her attempts at fighting back laughable. She’d been removed of her guns after leaving a few scorching marks on Motormaster, and prior to him arriving she’d been restrained after half her cache left of grenades had been used to break out of her cell and try fighting off the guards on duty. The rest had been forcibly removed from her person.

Even with her teeth sank into Motormaster’s side, biting and clawing and scratching, he’d pick her off like a tick and flicked her into a wall. It was like he was completely unphased with pain. Or maybe she was just that weak.

She’d shake off her vertigo and go after him again and again. In one form or the other. For the most part he’d stand there, taking her attempts to hurt him, knocking her aside. Laughing at her expense. He let her work herself until she was getting too tired to be fast enough to outmaneuver him, and that’s when he’d strike back.

Picking up on how sluggish she was getting, Motormaster kicked Novastrike aside as she darted around his pedes. When she persisted to try attacking again he raised his pede and slammed it down, narrowly missing the small femme. She fell over from the sheer vibrations on the floor from the impact.

“Tell me what you and you were friends were after, minibot. You’ll make this a lot easier on everyone.”

A small growl escaped Novastrike. Her audios pressed back against her helm as she tried to stand up.

A large pede pressed into her backside and she collapsed onto the floor. The barest of whimpers fearfully escaped her as she struggled, trying to desperately pull herself out from beneath the light pressure of the mech’s pede upon her.

“You don’t want to end up like the other bots, minibot,” Motormaster snapped impatiently. “Come now femme, speak up.”

Panicked, Novastrike dug her digits into the floor and tried to pull herself free. She pushed with legs as best she could, maybe she could get one leg free and help propel herself forward. She wriggled like a worm desperately; one of her legs beginning to slip free.

Rolling his shoulders in a shrug, the mech placed his weight onto the heel of his pede. Metal began to buckle and crunch as it snapped inward.

A pained shriek escaped Nova. She tried to convulse and instead slammed her helm into the tip of the mech’s pede by mistake; seeing stars.

Giving a displeased ‘hurmph’, the mech removed his pede and reached down. His thumb digit and index digit gripped Novastrike by her helm as he picked her up.

The pressure and strain on her backstrut, neck, and helm was tremendous. Desperate to release some of the tension, Novastrike snarled and swung her legs- make that leg, she realized quickly as her hips pivoted with no reaction from her right leg but to hang limp- up until she managed to hook her left leg on part of the mech’s arm for support.

“I’m going to crush that tiny helm of yours and be done with it, ya traitorous little scrap. Nothing to say? Not a word? Not on behalf of any of your friends?”

Tears blurred Novastrike’s vision. She feebly tried punching and clawing at Motormaster’s arm, her helm pounding painfully.

“Tsk” he hissed, pulling his arm back just slightly and throwing the femme into the wall.

Novastrike flailed in the air and smacked hard into the wall. Her body fell hard onto the floor and she laid still. Each intake she took was ragged and tired. Her optics half-closed and energon splattered on the wall and upon her frame.

“What a waste of my time. I’ve had better fight out of sparklets,” the mech spat coldly. “I’ll be back for ya answer. Better think long and hard how you’re going to explain what you and the rest of your Autofilth friends sent out to ya buddies. If you think I’m being nasty now, ya just wait until I get real angry.”

Sent? Someone sent something? Novastrike tried raising her helm. Her vision was too blurry to focus on anything. She tried opening her mouth to speak and energon dribbled out of the corner and onto the floor.

The silhouette of Motormaster shifted in front of her and turned away. Novastrike tried to force her thoughts into words but just panted tiredly. What was sent? She didn’t know anything about something being sent. He could let her go right, she didn’t have the information he wanted.

The mech left the room before she could usher a single word.

~~~~

Motormaster slapped on the biggest shit-eating grin of pride and glory he could muster the moment that the latest recruits arrived. They came with supplies, new Cons, weapons, armor enchancements, seasoned warriors, you name it. All the creature comforts a senile Decepticon outpost’s leader could want.

A particular lone figure caught Motormaster’s optic. Letting his smug grin grow, the mech’s orange optics shone bright as he ‘casually’ strode over to greet the mech.

Casually being walking like some wanna be criminal into a saloon in an old western movie.

“Ah! Megatron sent one of his finest Generals to oversee the shipment here aye? Must be a pretty decent load.”

Blackout barely offered a glance towards Motormaster.

“Yep. Must be pretty important stuff sent to me, yours truly. Say uh, Blackout, has Megatron asked about me at all? Ya know he probably could use some more bots close at hand.”

A rumble echoed through the Giant Asshole. “Lord Megatron would contact you directly if he wished to speak with you about a promotion, Motormaster.”

“Yes of course. But you could always put in a good word for me. Say, you have time, right? Why not take a look around the good ol’ base.”

“I’ll pass,” Blackout growled.

“Ya could at least verify out prisoners! I sent Megatron a message but wasn’t sure it got through, he hasn’t replied to me...”

“Prisoners?”

“Aye, prisoners. Stole something from the database and sent it-”

Blackout turned sharply towards Motormaster. “They sent out information?”

“Aye.”

“Does your base not have a functional digital shield? No information should be leaving or entering the area without hitting the safety walls, someone should have noticed.”

Motormaster raised his servos. “It should be active-”

Blackout growled. He shouldered past the stupid mech. Leave it to Menasor’s leading idiotic head to screw things up.

Not even recognizing the hostility and irritation of Blackout’s actions, Motormaster was quick to turn and half jog to keep pace with the even larger mech whose stride was both fast and wide.

“We’re working on finding out what exactly was taken.”

“You’re following the trail of the message?”

“Well- no- but it was erased as soon as someone caught it’s signature.”

Blackout’s expression turned into a grimace. Either someone very skilled had been sending out that data, or Motormaster was really that stupid as were his bots. Both were highly probable. The later just seemed moreso than the former.

Looking over to the moron of a mech, Blackout stated in as slow and patient a voice as he could, “So, we’ve no idea what was taken, it seems its trail is lost, you have no other information, and there’s prisoners here who may have insight.”

“Prisoner.”

“One?”

“The others, well... Didn’t make it-”

“Didn’t make it?” Blackout repeated, mouth hanging open. His optics were locked on Motormaster, who seemed confused by the shocked looked in Blackout’s face.

“Well,” Motormaster began, “Some were taken out during the search for the intruders. Those that we captured were mostly fairly injured. We have to get information somehow.”

“Motormaster, you-”

Blackout felt something clip his pede and turned his helm quickly to the right to see what had hit him.

With a disgruntled expression on his faceplate and narrowed optics, the mostly red and black mech he’d accidently bumped while walking turned a scowl up to Blackout.

“Pleasant to see you, Hound.” the mech muttered.

“Likewise, Nighthawk,” Blackout grumbled, narrowing his gaze as well.

“Here on duty from Megatron I presume?” Nighthawk asked stiffly. “Or just flying aimlessly around, looking for something to destroy?”

Motormaster barked with laughter. He stepped between the two, whose eyes were locked in a glare that spoke of nothing but disdain for the other.

“Good one, Nighthawk,” Motormaster beamed.

With a sniff, the medic slowly turned his optics to Motormaster. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize my declared observation was noted towards this vacuous unhinged sadistic ruffin.”

For a moment, there appeared to be some confusion on Motormaster’s faceplate before he grinned brighter. “Always the funny one, ya are doc.”

“Right,” Nighthawk drawled. “Jovial indeed.”

The same puzzled expression flashed across Motormaster’s face. Blackout wasn’t sure if the obnoxious medic just earned a half a kilogram of his respect for his wit or irked him all the more.

“If you’ll excuse me, fine mechs, I have actual work to do around here.”

“Of course ya do Nighthawk,” Motormaster stated with annoying cheer. “Some of these bots will be needing your help before long if you know what I’m saying, ha!”

“Oh trust me,” Nighthawk replied in an icy tone as he turned away, “I won’t be keeping a pede in here any longer than necessary.”

As the seeker marched down the hall, Motormaster turned his dopy grin up at Blackout. “Medics, amirite?”

Primus help him, he’d rather bicker with the fragging medic than listen to this fool.

“Where’s the prisoner?” Blackout insisted curtly.

“Right this way,” Motormaster grunted, slapping a ‘serious expression’ on as he lead the way down the hall.

~~~~

If Blackout had to hear another plea from Motormaster about becoming part of the ‘upper crust’ of the Decepticons, or another shitty story, or another torture story, he was going to rip out the mech’s vocal cords.

Thankfully, just shy of coming to that point of insanity, Motormaster had stopped just outside the guarded brig doors and had the guards step aside to allow them entry.

“As you can see, we had a problem with the Autobots,” Motormaster began, ushering a servo to the hall stained with energon and shrapnel. Blackout’s optics studied the patterns on the walls, flood, and ceiling. Explosives; small. Grenades.

“They tried to escape?”

“One tried to escape,” Motormaster clarified. “The one we still have left.”

Blackout’s optics flickered into the open cells as they walked by. There were eradicon and vehicon inside, trying to clean up pools of energon from the latest victims that had been contained in those rooms.

Blackout curled his lip slightly. Torture was not in his taste. He prefered a quick death. The sooner a job was dealt with, the better.

A few rooms down and past a particularly blown up cell, Motormaster stopped at what appeared to be the only actively locked door in the corridor. Motormaster tapped a few keys on a nearby lock and a portion of the door’s one-way glass went transparent to show the prisoner inside.

Blackout almost lost his lower jaw. Almost.

“It’s a fragging minibot,” Motormaster explained like Blackout couldn’t see. “So ya know, gotta be extra gentle. Ya know how fragile they are.”

“I don’t,” Blackout stated bluntly.

“Really?” Motormaster muttered, trailing a moment before he continued. “Anyway, ya can tell Lord Megatron we got her contained. I tried getting her to talk, didn’t do much good. Think it may be better we try a cordial patch if we want some accurate and immediate progress. Would ya put that suggestion by him? Tell Lord Megatron it was my idea?”

The Extra Large Asshole offered a curt nod.

Lighting up like a kid on Christmas, Motormaster puffed out his chassis with pride. “Now, if ya’ll follow me out of ‘ere, I can show ya to the armory. I’d like your opinion on...”

Tuning the dim-witted mech out, Blackout pinged Scorponok through their partner bond. The scorpion stirred on his backside.

< What is it? > the bug inquired through the bond.

< I have something for you to do. > Blackout replied. While Motormaster’s back was turned, Blackout pressed his servo over the keypad for the room. He sent out a small EMP wave, blowing the circuits inside.

Scorponok shuffled through Blackout’s thoughts for a moment, and then groaned. < You’re trying to get us killed, or at the very least, beaten and stripped of rank. >

< I’m repaying a favor. >

Blackout could sense Scorponok’s disbelief, but didn’t try to argue with him now. As Motormaster yapped and walked ahead, Blackout followed behind him. His rotorblades spread apart and Scorponok undocked from his back and climbed carefully around to Blackout’s shoulders.

< Be quick, and meet me on the south side of the building. The majority of this base is meeting with another unit north to strike on an Autobot base. I’ll make sure the guards outside the brig are distracted. >

Scorponok clicked softly, balancing over Blackout’s shoulder. The large mech leaned down and the bug climbed halfway down his arm and to the floor, scurrying into an empty, bloody room nearby as Blackout stepped out of the brig with Motormaster.

Quick on his many-pronged legs, Scorponok stepped out of the room and nimbly snuck past the rooms the eradicon/vehicon were working in. He stepped over to the door Novastrike was imprisoned in, and tapped the doors lightly.

The doors slid part of the way open before jamming. Scorponok squeezed inside and scurried over to the heap of white and light gray armor lying on the floor. He reached out and prodded her side with one limb.

Novastrike sluggishly raised her helm. She stared at Scorponok’s face with utter confusion.

“Oh Primus, did they drug me,” Nova mumbled.

Scorponok gave a click and tapped Nova a little firmer.

“Ugh- go away, apparition, please. I just want to rest.”

“You come,” Scorponok stated in a mechanical, almost monotone voice.

Novastrike’s ears turned to the bug. She looked more confused than ever. She’d not heard that voice before, and certainly not from this minicon. The last time they met, he hadn’t spoke at all.

“Come now,” Scorponok stated with a hint of firmness now.

“Okay okay,” Novastrike agreed, not understanding the urgency. She tried to stand up and instantly collapsed, her broken leg not functional in the least.

Scorponok gave a click. He looked Novastrike over a moment. Judging her height, her injuries...

“Hey what are you-”

The bug awkwardly stepped over her.

“Crawl?” he suggested.

A groan escaped Novastrike. This was embarrassing.

“Gimme a second.”

 Twisting around slightly, Novastrike adjusted the potion of her leg. She transformed; her mostly shattered leg creaking and twisting as pieces of her leg fell off during transformation.

Resisting the urge to sob, Novastrike pressed her feline-like alt mode’s tummy to the ground. “Okay, how’s this going to-”

Scorponok started moving. His pace was slow without being obnoxiously obvious slow. Novastrike half army-crawled and half dragged herself beneath the bug to keep up.

Embarrassing.

“Wait wait- the others-!”

Scorponok continued walking down the hall. There was no need for him to say what could be seen. Novastrike’s optics looked at the doors as they past. The argument in her throat slowly died and she allowed her ears to droop sadly.

The bug walked up to the brig door and it opened smoothly. Off to the far left, Blackout was standing with four guards and Motormaster. Scorponok quickly veered right, with Novastrike barely able to keep pace beneath him.

“Where are we going?” Novastrike hissed. “Why exactly are you helping me?”

“Quiet,” the monotone-scorpion insisted.

Novastrike bit her glossia. Best not look a gift turbofox in the maw.

The pair traversed the hallways with caution. Novastrike could overhear some of the Decepticon’s gooding and bragging their kills, their weapons, their battle experience. It made her feel sick.

Eventually, Scorponok lead Novastrike to a doorway. She was almost giddy enough to charge out from below the minicon and out but quivered nervously beneath him As they turned to the left outside of the door, Novastrike glanced back. Energon droplets and splatters revealed her escape. She swallowed anxiously.

The bug stopped suddenly and Novastrike almost walked out from under him. She froze, ears twitching nervously.

Chirping, Scorponok looked at the shadow standing within the shadows just beneath an overhang. He scurried over, Nova awkwardly shuffling beneath him.

“Took you long enough,” Blackout stated gruffly.

“Femme bleeding,” Scorponok explained. “Left multiple trails.”

Blackout nodded. He reached down, offering an arm for the minicon to climb up.

As soon as Scorponok moved from over Novastrike, the cyber-cat flattened. Her optics wide, she looked left to right, and then up, spotting the Big Jerk squatting beside her.

“You?” Novastrike hissed.

“I prefer Blackout,” Satan replied.

Standing on all fours, Novastrike looked around. There were no Decepticons around, and a conveniently placed transport vehicle was parked in front of them to keep anyone from simply walking by spotting them.

“You had Scorponok help me?” Novastrike inquired.

Blackout didn’t respond. Instead, he nodded to his bug, which climbed over his shoulder and down his backside to dock. He moved to stand once his minicon was secure, looking down at Nova silently.

Lashing her tail, Novastrike shifted and her form morphed; switching back to bipedal. She winced as more gears and sprockets tumbled out of her leg; some locking up awkwardly.

“You helped me,” Novastrike repeated, “Why? You said the next time I saw you, our debts were paid. You’d kill me.”

“You lived because Scorponok lived that day,” Blackout stated. “Today I am repaying another debt. You helped me escape, I help you escape. There. We are even. Now I can kill you next time.”

“Without remorse?” Novastrike stated sarcastically.

“Precisely.”

Novastrike glanced around once more. “Where’s the others? Shouldn’t there be some Decepticons at work?”

“Sent to battle,” Blackout stated calmly. “Although I have no doubt someone has noticed your energon trail by now. Best take the opportunity you have, there won’t be another.”

Novastrike glanced back up to Blackout’s faceplate. She felt a tinge of pity in her spark for him. Why, she couldn’t explain.

“Thank you,” she whispered softly. “Both of you, Scorponok as well.”

Blackout blinked slowly. “Scorponok says you’re welcome.”

Ah. That’s how it is.

Shuffling on her good leg, Novastrike turned to leave. She started to limp away and then paused, turning back to see Blackout already turning to go.

“Hey,” she stated loudly, catching his attention. Novastrike pried the armor on her arm open and pulled out the usb, tossing it up to Blackout.

By reflex, Blackout caught the usb. He looked down at it slowly.

“Take it,” Nova muttered. “I won’t be needing it where I’m going.”

She turned and went to hobble off again, keeping her helm held high.

Blackout looked up to watch the femme. The very corner of his lip turned up by the slightest degree and he pinched his digits around the usb, pulverizing it into dust and shards of twisted metal he dropped to the ground.

< You respect her. > Scorponok piped up through the bond.

< .... Maybe a little, > Blackout agreed. < But any bot who can go this long in the war and uses stun guns when possible, and refuses to kill someone... She’s earned that respect. She’s true to herself. >

< How do you know she hasn’t killed yet? >

< I can tell. >

Scorponok didn’t question how he thought he knew this. But just before retracting from the bond, he made a final remark: < Careful, Blackout. One might say you even care about what happens to her. >

The bug was gone from this thoughts before Blackout could remark. However, that didn’t stop him from snarling with annoyance as he stomped off. The last thing he wanted was to be found at the end of that femme’s energon-trail.