Getting a button maker today and.... Looking at the dropmix game i got ages ago and never play with like.... Some of that card art is gorgeous. It cant be that much of a sin to cut up the cards for pins 👀 right? 👀👀 Like, i never even hear people talk about this game so its not a big deal! It was like 10$ at the second hand store
Oh my gosh, it’s a miracle. I didn’t abandon the little mini series that I’ve yet to name with Jeopardy figuring out Dropmix is a gladiator.
This has been half finished for weeks and I’ve just not touched it because… I don’t have a reason.
Anyway, I’m sure the pacing is weird or smth. Not my finest work but it’s not terrible. Just Dropmix coming to terms with things. If I’m nice I’ll get the next part of this done quickly…
@thebrokenmechanicalpencil
—
Dropmix didn’t sleep.
He ran diagnostics instead—rechecked inventory numbers, reorganized the stims in drawer seventeen, recalibrated the optic scanner in room B, rewrote two minor patches of code in the medbay monitoring system. He kept moving until his joints ached and his internals throbbed with the kind of fatigue only stress could create.
He didn’t ping Jeopardy.
Didn’t track him down or demand a meeting.
No, that wasn’t how this had to happen.
This needed to be natural—or as natural as anything could be with a transfer request hanging like a blade above their heads. He waited in the medbay, sitting at one of the observation stations, pretending to review case notes on a datapad he never once read.
At 0600 sharp, the door hissed open.
Jeopardy entered with his usual fluid grace, frame compact and composed. His plating was polished, weapons stowed, his optics dull in that same detached way that Dropmix had grown to dread.
He didn’t even pause when he stepped inside.
Didn’t look at him.
Didn’t speak.
It was achingly familiar, like a strange mirror to when Jeopardy first showed up in his medbay. He had been quiet and unsure, keeping to himself while trying to look as busy as possible. An odd little bot who watched Dropmix’s every move when he drew close. He had been duller then too, detached and untethered like he didn’t plan on staying.
Now, Jeopardy didn’t watch him at all.
Didn’t fidget. Didn’t hesitate. Just walked past Dropmix like a ghost skimming through a memory. No trace of that quiet curiosity from before. No cautious looks. Just purpose. Cold, clean, and decisive.
It was somehow worse than when Theremin would yell at him, it stung more than the harsh words exchanged.
Dropmix stared at him for a long moment, unsure how to start. Every line he’d rehearsed all night scattered like scraps of broken glass. None of it fit. None of it was enough.
Jeopardy pulled a panel from the diagnostics bench and began routine checks on the scanner coils, as if this were any other shift. As if the weight in the room wasn’t crawling into Dropmix’s throat. Music ebbed in his ear, hauntingly beautiful, too serene for a moment like this.
He shut it off. He needed to focus. The large mech couldn’t deal with the persistent buzzing of BCP in his ear, not when everything was on the line like this.
“I read it,” Dropmix said at last, he lowered his datapad, eye firmly on the other mech in the room. He watched and waited.
Jeopardy didn’t look up.
“I read the request,” the dark mech repeated, quieter now. He watched for any response, any sign that Jeopardy was listening. His voice still felt too loud in the quiet of the medbay. There was no music to speak over now. “You didn’t even tell me.”
A soft clunk of tools was his only answer.
“You were just going to leave.” Dropmix stood slowly, voice brittle with effort. The large mech stood, datapad placed carelessly on the desk like a discarded prop. Words clung to his throat, refusing to surface. Instead they blinked in his gut, unpleasant and building pressure, waiting for something. Dropmix did not know what, though he doubted it would be good.
Jeopardy’s back was to him. Still. Unmoved. The tension in his frame said he’d heard every word—but not a single motion betrayed how he felt about it. Not at first.
Dropmix took a step closer.
The young medic didn’t turn. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even blink.
The only sign that he was still present, still listening, was the faint flicker of a diagnostic screen responding to his idle tapping. But he wasn’t working anymore. Not really. Just going through the motions, letting the hum of routine shield him from the storm at his back.
Dropmix’s spark cracked in the center of his chest. He was going to lose him before he got the chance to fight for him to stay. He managed to keep his voice steady, strong and unwavering “You were going to leave without saying anything. Without giving me the chance to—”
“To what?” Jeopardy cut in, flat. Still not turning around. He didn’t snap like Theremin, it wasn’t sharp and cruel. It sat, demanding attention, almost unbelievably plain at a moment like this. It was soft and cold, “Explain it away? Give me a half-truth I could convince myself to believe for a few more cycles? Continue to play your—”
The mech cut himself off, wincing before going still.
Dropmix seized on the flinch like it was proof of something—fragile, raw proof that Jeopardy still felt something. Still had skin in the game, even if he was trying to walk away from it like it never mattered. It was a weakness, something to exploit. Battle programs idled, searching for higher ground, some way to gain the advantage. There was no telling how much Jeopardy knew.
The mech targeted the weakness like he would a crack in Theremin’s armor during an argument. He needed to play on it if he wanted to keep him. Dropmix needed to tread carefully to not lose Jeopardy.
“I wasn’t playing anything,” he said, quieter now, but laced with a kind of painful urgency. It was a lie, he knew it, perhaps Jeopardy did as well. There was no way to know, not now. Just how there was no way for Dropmix to pinpoint which lie Jeopardy had finally seen through.
Jeopardy still didn’t turn. His shoulders, usually tucked into the perfect line of someone always prepared to be underestimated, shifted ever so slightly—as if bracing for something he didn’t want to hear but had long since expected.
“I wasn’t playing anything,” Dropmix repeated, slower this time. Like if he kept saying it, maybe it would transmute into truth. As if maybe the words that pressed relentlessly against his spark casing and chest would escape and make everything better.
They didn’t. They remained trapped like a wingless seeker in a pit, clawing and screaming for escape, begging to be let out. Dropmix wouldn’t let them, the soft and kind words came after the fight, after the hurt—sometimes they came broken and bent during the fallout, Theremin had taught him that.
A small, almost imperceptible flick of Jeopardy’s hand shut the diagnostic console down. The bench lights dimmed with it, casting half his frame in shadow. He stood like that for a long moment, hands flat on the metal, head bowed—not in defeat, but deliberation.
Then finally, finally, he turned.
Not dramatically. Not with anger. Just—turned.
And Dropmix hated the look on his face more than silence. Calm. Composed. Burned out in all the places where fire used to live, it reminded Dropmix too much of Theremin when he was younger, when the pits had fallen and he was left trying to hold the world together.
He held Dropmix’s gaze for a second too long. Not confrontational, just… measured. The way a tech would look at a cracked fuel line. Not worth salvaging unless you had a very good reason.
“I waited,” Jeopardy said.
It was a simple thing. No venom. Just the truth, bare and low, like a report filed and timestamped. Dropmix’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He nodded. Once. He needed the truth, Dropmix needed it so he could spin his words, give Jeopardy what he wanted to hear so he would stay.
The young medic shook his head, voice getting quieter, “I trusted you, Dropmix, I… I cared. I fragging cared about you!” Jeopardy hissed the words, angry and vile. But not directed at Dropmix, rather himself.
The dark mech didn’t flinch, but the words hurt. They stung and sunk their ugly claws into his chest. Even if they weren’t for him it revealed an unsettling truth, Jeopardy had twisted whatever lie he had discovered on himself. Dropmix was not trying to convince Jeopardy to stay, but rather the kid’s own self hatred that it was wrong.
“I know,” he said softly.
Two words. Not an argument. Not a defense. Just… acknowledgment. Something real. He didn’t know what else to say, there was nothing else. Nothing but the suffocating presence of what he couldn’t say, what he wouldn’t let spill out and tarnish whatever chance he had. Dropmix couldn’t lose the young medic, he was all the dark mech had.
He was all Dropmix had of Theremin—the thought stung his processor.
Jeopardy blinked, optics narrowing, not quite sure what to do with the lackluster response.
Dropmix stepped forward again, slow and deliberate this time. No sudden moves. Like approaching a wounded creature in the dark. He carefully crossed the space between them until he stood beside Jeopardy. He knew the motions, how to get through the thick of self doubt and self deprecation that existed in the smaller mech’s head. Dropmix knew what he had to do, he had done it hundreds of times before.
The medic watched, posture tense and unsure, still cold, but something was dripping through the cracks. Something hurt, something that wanted so badly for this. Craved it even. Depended on what Dropmix had to offer. It wanted comfort when the rest of Jeopardy was sure he was above it.
Dropmix reached out—but paused.
His hand hovered inches from Jeopardy’s arm, static humming faint between them. His fingers trembled, just slightly, as if even now, with Jeopardy standing right there, he still wasn’t sure if it was allowed. If he was allowed.
Because this wasn’t Theremin.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
He saw it now—too late to undo, too soon to forgive himself for. That look on Jeopardy’s face wasn’t just hurt. It wasn’t just betrayal. It was exhaustion. The kind born from being mistaken for someone else over and over again, until your identity became a costume someone else kept trying to sew you into.
Even if Jeopardy hadn’t noticed it, even if he wasn't aware of the part he had played, he was tired of it. Jeopardy could not continue to be some lackluster version of Theremin. Dropmix was reaching for Theremin, afraid he’d lose him all over.
He was afraid to lose Jeopardy because it was all he had of Theremin—which was a lie.
The pressure eased from his chest, not gone, but lightened.
Dropmix’s hand lowered.
He looked at Jeopardy—not the silhouette of Theremin superimposed over him, not the half-built replacement his mind had shaped to fill the void his Conjunx left behind—but really, really looked.
This was someone different.
Smaller. Quieter. Sharper in some ways, softer in others. The precision of his work came from obsession, not pride. The guardedness wasn’t defiance—it was self-preservation. He didn’t argue like Theremin had, didn’t spit venom just to feel heard. No, Jeopardy folded when pushed too far. He disappeared inward. He let silence do the screaming.
Dropmix wouldn’t reach him by using battle programs to locate weaknesses, he wouldn’t get him to stay by having a shouting match only to fall and comfort each other afterwards. Jeopardy was more delicate than that.
Jeopardy stood in that silence now—arms at his sides, jaw tight, optics dimmed like a signal blinking on low power. He didn’t look away, but his whole frame was on the edge of retreat. One wrong word, one careless misstep, and he’d vanish. Not physically—no, Jeopardy would finish out his shift, pack his things, file the paperwork—but he’d vanish all the same.
And Dropmix couldn’t let that happen.
He broke the quiet, voice low and plain. “I’ve fragged up.”
Yeah, I finished writing this. I still don’t know if I already sent you this. But it’s here now. So… yeah. I don’t love it, but it works. The ending still isn’t great… but it’s better than it was?
I don’t have any real thoughts on this, I wrote the majority of this like a month ago so… yeah…. No thoughts
Jep’s death prt two.
—
Jeopardy woke up slowly, feeling far more rested than he had in a long time. There was no ache in his joints or lingering exhaustion that he had grown accustomed to, for the first time in centuries he felt like he had gotten enough recharge. It was an odd feeling, foreign, but not unwelcome. He huffed slightly, basking in the glow of contentment.
The gentle music of the medical bay played in the background, soothing and grounding. The song was an old one, Jeopardy hadn’t heard it in ages, one of Dropmix’s favorites. It was somber, but the bass was strong and prideful, the brass marched at a slow pace, but it didn’t steal from the gentleness of the melody.
A familiar rhythm was tapped onto the panels of his shoulder. Confident and grounding, the old lullaby’s beat seemed to resonate within him. Jeopardy was being held by someone big and warm, gently rocking his curled form.
It was a kind of comfort that he had not gotten to experience in a long time.
Jeopardy had outgrown being cradled and held ages ago. After Dropmix had passed there was no mech older than him—and large enough to effectively hold him—that he was close with that could provide him this kind of gentle care. An old ache in his spark echoed, the memory of Coo’s teasing questions lingering in his thoughts—perhaps if he found a Conjunx he would get something like this.
But until then, it was Jeopardy’s responsibility to be the comforter. He was the oldest, the one who kept it all together and provided wisdom and solace. A guardian of sorts, of both his patients and his family. He guided the generations of pretenders, watching over his beloved friend's family as if it were his own.
Regardless, it was nice being held again, tucked away safely against the warm body of another.
He pressed himself into the hold without much thought. His chest and spark swelling with affectionate warmth. He could afford to sleep in late today, the others could cover his shift, Jeopardy just wanted to be held a little longer.
The mech holding him chuckled, low and rumbly, the sound vibrating through Jeopardy. The medic grumbled at the disturbance, burrowing himself further into the body of the larger mech in hopes of getting to sleep again. The other spoke softly, and either Jeopardy was still waking up or it was in a language he wasn’t familiar with.
The white mech vented deeply, he would rather the bot that was holding him just stay silent so he could pretend that it was Dropmix for just a bit longer. Let himself believe that the mech who had become a father to him hadn’t slipped away millions of years ago. That Comet would be in the medbay waiting for his friend to play poker.
Jeopardy just wanted a few more minutes of blissful ignorance before he was forced back into reality again.
Despite the smaller mech’s internal requests, the other bot chuckled and spoke again. They were a little louder this time, “I know you're awake, Junior.”
The medic frowned slightly at the nickname.
Only Dropmix and the other members on the old outpost ever called Jeopardy that. Which was odd because he had either lost contact with them or they had offlined by now. Not to mention he could have sworn that the voice sounded just like his mentor. Which was impossible, Dropmix was gone, dead—the thought made Jeopardy’s spark ache.
But it felt like Dropmix, and sounded like him.
The medic’s spark surged in his chest, naive and youthful hope making his plating tremble and his fingers twitch. His eyes flew open faster than he could online his optics, immediately focusing on the face of the dark mech above him. Jeopardy sucked in a shaking breath as he looked up at the mech who was holding him. His vents hitched as he stared blankly at Dropmix.
He was here.
He was real.
The gladiator looked different, younger and healthier than when Jeopardy had last seen him. His heavy armor stripped away to reveal unscarred dark plating with vibrant splashes of color painted over it to form intricate tattoos. His agile frame finally uncovered from the layers of bulky armor he had strapped to himself. Bright yellow optics looked down at Jeopardy fondly.
Dropmix looked like he did in all of the old recordings of his matches in the Pits, before Kaon had fallen.
He wasn’t lying motionless on a berth, optics dark and frame cold like he had been when Jeopardy had last seen him. He wasn’t old, war torn and scarred.
No, he was youthful and complete in a way that Jeopardy had never seen before. His paint was pristine and almost radiant, the weariness that used to settle on his broad shoulders had been lifted. He was different, but the truth was undeniable.
It was Dropmix.
Jeopardy couldn’t stop the keen from escaping him as he looked up at the other, chest constricting painfully as his spark soared, the old ache growing stronger. He missed his mentor, his father. It had been so long since he had been held by him that Jeopardy had almost forgotten what it felt like to be cradled in his embrace.
But here he was, being held like he had countless times before. Like nothing had changed, like Dropmix was still alive and well.
Jeopardy’s expression grew more pained, his jaw tightening as he looked up at the mech who was softly smiling at him.
Primus, he missed that smile.
A small strangled sob escaped the medic, his meager attempt to contain his emotions failing. Youthful clicks ran from his vocalizer before he could hold them back. He gasped wetly, his arms weakly wrapping around the other’s midsection. His plating pressed into himself as he tried to make himself smaller, trembling with the strength of his mounting emotions. The white mech closed his eyes tightly as he buried his face in the other’s chest. His hands grasping desperately onto Dropmix’s frame like he would disappear any moment.
Jeopardy prayed that he wasn’t dreaming, that maybe this time when he woke up he wouldn’t be alone again.
“I’ve got you,” Dropmix spoke softly, hand pulling the quivering frame of the smaller mech impossibly closer. He moved Jeopardy so he was sitting up a bit more, his head now resting in the nape of Dropmix’s neck. Heat radiated off of the dark mech, not in an unhealthy way, it was more like his very spark was trying to reach out of his chest and wrap itself around Jeopardy.
The gladiator’s voice wavered with thick emotion, “Just let it out, it’s alright. I’m here.”
Another weak cry escaped Jeopardy at the sound of the gladiator’s voice.
Dropmix’s hand moved in slow, practiced circles across Jeopardy’s back, a quiet, grounding rhythm. He didn’t rush him. He just held him, silent and steady, like he used to all those years ago when Jeopardy had just been sent out to the outpost and he was still struggling with an impossible weight.
“You don’t need to worry, you’re safe. I’ve got you now,” Dropmix's voice was gentle and steady, soft words attempting to sooth the younger mech. He sucked in a sharp breath before huffing out a small possessive growl, gently squeezing Jeopardy. His voice got more gruff—yet, despite the roughness there was still a small waiver, his voice catching a broken note, “No one’s gonna get you, I’m here.”
For reasons beyond Jeopardy's own understanding, the words made his spark twist. His processor seemed to cling to them, echoing them over and over in his mind. He swallowed thickly, keening softly at the way his chest seemed to swell at the thought of being safe—of not being alone. His breath hitched again, his systems hiccuping, engine stalling for just a moment.
The gladiator hummed softly, resting his chin on Jeopardy’s head. He was quiet for a moment, the music filling the silence, just loud enough that Jeopardy’s harsh attempts to breathe between his cries weren’t deafening. Dropmix’s voice got soft again, “Just breathe, Jeo, breathe.”
It all felt real, more than what a dream could provide.
The medic choked on another sob. He could feel the thrum of Dropmix’s spark through the thin plating on his chest, the warm air of his vents washed over him with every breath. Jeopardy swallowed thickly as he fought the urge to cry out again. Instead he just made a weak strangled noise, his vocalizer clicking again.
It was so real that it was almost overwhelming. It was too tender, too grounding and genuine to be a dream or memory.
His spark sang some long forgotten tune, humming faintly from his chest. There was no doubt in his mind anymore, Dropmix was really there.
This time the young medic was unable to keep his desperate sob from escaping him. His plating trembling and pressing into himself more as he tried to burrow into Dropmix’s shoulder. More pitiful, static filled sobs forced their way from his vocalizer. His entire frame shaking with the force of his cries, his vents hitching and stuttering as he struggled to breathe between the pained noises.
He didn’t pull away, Jeopardy didn’t dare let go. He could risk it, even with Dropmix being there, he was sure the world would find a way to take him again if the medic moved away.
“Shh… I know- I know,” the larger mech’s deep voice cut through the sound of his sobs, acting as an anchor. A large clawed hand moving from Jeopardy’s back to cradle the back of his head, pulling it closer to his neck. Dropmix tilted his head, his cheek resting on Jeopardy’s helm gently. His thick voice rumbled softly, “You're alright. I’m not letting go.”
Jeopardy’s voice fractured mid sob. Static crackling loudly as his vocalizer gave up on trying to form coherent noises. His frame ached in ways it hadn’t in a long time, not physically—but somewhere deeper, older. A pain that came from holding onto something for far too long. His hands grasped at the plating on Dropmix’s back, desperate enough that it had to be hurting the older mech. The gladiator made no move to stop him, only shushing him softly again.
“I’m not going anywhere, not this time, I promise,” Dropmix whispered warmly, a gentle hum thrumming from his vocalizer as he pressed his forehead against Jeopardy’s helm. “I’m here, Ao, I’m here. Everything’s going to be alright.”
Jeopardy shook with sobs, gasping brokenly between his tremors. He nodded his head weakly, vents hitching in small hiccups. The medic closed his eyes tightly, swallowing down another pitiful cry. He managed to open his mouth in an attempt to speak—not cry—but all that came out was choppy static and clicking.
Dropmix gently rocked Jeopardy. One hand still moving up and down the smaller mech’s back in a soothing motion. The gladiator shifted a little, cradling the medic more securely in his lap. Just like he used to during long recharge cycles after rough nights out in the field or when things would go awry in the sanctuary of their medical bay. His frame still held that same quiet strength, solid and immovable, a steadfast shield against the chaos of the world.
Jeopardy could almost pretend they were back in the old outpost. Dropmix sitting with him after long shifts, coaxing him into recharge when stress wouldn’t let him rest. Back then, Jeopardy had been young and overwhelmed, his systems constantly overstimulated as his processor tried to prepare for any outcome. His own anxieties got the better of him, his worry slowed him down. He had been stuck in an inescapable cycle of paranoia and self depreciation.
Dropmix had become his grounding tether, his steady constant when the war made everything else uncertain. He had been willing to take the time to give Jeopardy a voice, supporting him when he fell short and letting him lead when he was ready.
He was the mentor—the father—Jeopardy had always longed for.
The medic let out a shaking breath, trying to compose himself, letting the comfort of the achingly familiar embrace settle him. His didn’t know how much time passed before he finally began to calm down, his body slowly recovering. His breath hitched in small hiccups as his weak cries and sobs slowly faded into small whines.
“There you go,” Dropmix’s voice rumbled through his chest, low and quiet. His tone was dripping with tender affection despite the gruff sound of his voice. Jeopardy recognized the thickness in his tone, how the syllables clung together, the way each word almost rattled—Dropmix was fighting back his own overwhelming emotions.
“That’s it, just breathe,” The gladiator’s vents were uneven, his clawed hand trembling as it ran over the medic’s back. He held on just a bit too tightly, not enough to hurt, but enough that Jeopardy would struggle to pull himself free if he tried.
Not that the medic wanted to pull away anyway.
The longer Jeopardy stayed in Dropmix’s arms, the more his frame began to loosen, slowly untangling from the tight, coiled tension that had become second nature over the years. Jeopardy’s vocalizer clicked and whirred like a sparkling. He didn’t care if it was childish and immature, it was soothing, just like Dropmix’s presence, and the gladiator didn’t seem to mind.
A low chuff reverberated through the larger mech's chest in response. Jeopardy’s breath hitched at the sound of it.
He had watched thousands of old recordings of Dropmix: interviews and matches; listened to old audio files and clips that the older mech had made as a medic. The white mech had watched every home video and silly recording he had taken to send to the triplets and Comet—but not in a single one of them had he ever caught Dropmix’s chuff.
No matter how hard he had tried to record it, how many files he combed through, he hadn’t ever caught it. Jeopardy hadn’t heard it since the gladiator had passed.
Hearing it again was almost too much.
Dropmix sucked in a breath when he heard Jeopardy’s hitching vents. He let out a huffy laugh that shook, “What am I going to do with you, hm? You're getting all worked up again.”
Jeopardy shook his head, closing his eyes and forcing his breaths to come out more even. He tilted his head, pressing into Dropmix’s cheek; the dark mech pressed back, returning the gesture. The white mech’s vents calmed and his grip loosened with exhaustion. He let out a small huff as he slumped against the larger frame.
The gladiator leaned back just enough to look at Jeopardy, his clawed hand tilting the medic’s chin up. His gentle eyes carefully looked over the other’s face. Aching affection flashing across Dropmix’s expression for just a moment as he looked over the bot in his arms. He smiled, the edges tainted with fond bitterness, “I missed you, Ao.”
There was a beat of silence, Jeopardy blinked, his expression blank as the words settled between them. Another choked noise was pulled from his throat and he leaned back into the larger’s embrace. Jeopardy buried his face into Dropmix’s shoulder, trying to focus on controlling his breathing.
He didn’t ask where they were. Not yet.
He just… held on.
They sat like that for a while, silently embracing each other, basking in the presence of the other. Then Jeopardy looked up, resting his head quietly on Dropmix’s shoulder as he looked around his surroundings.
The familiar outpost medbay around them flickered faintly, the dimmed emergency lights pulsing once—twice—like a slow heartbeat. It looked just like Jeopardy remembered, sterile and organized—but also lived in. There was a warmth in the pale walls and large cabinets, the odd way that Dropmix had arranged the overflow berths—to make it easier to navigate. The familiar call of home thrummed through Jeopardy.
For just a moment he could have sworn he could see something laying on the ground.
He stayed quiet for just a moment longer, the outpost medical station had been torn down millennia ago to make space for an expanding city state. They couldn’t be there, the room pulsed and flickered again, then he managed to regain his voice. Static laced his broken and feeble tone, “Drop-Dropmix… why—how are we here?”
Dropmix didn’t answer at first.
He just held him tighter.
The old mech let Jeopardy tentatively pull away from him, leaning back just enough to look around the room better. The medic’s arms remained firmly wrapped around the dark bot as he did. Dropmix smiled, though it was more sympathetic, sad—mournful. His voice was soft and a little hoarse. “I’m sorry, Jeopardy.”
Jeopardy stared at Dropmix for a moment before something seemed to click into place and they were no longer sitting on the floor of their old medbay.
Instead they sat in a small, dimly lit medical office. The computer on the desk sparking and flickering, monitor glitching and occasionally strobing bright white around the otherwise dark room. Medical equipment covered almost every surface—the kind that promised research rather than treatment. It was messy, empty energon cubes stacked in a corner, datapads lying around in places they shouldn’t.
He remembered now.
The medic looked to the ground next to them, his spark dropping as he stared at the broken figure that lay next to them. Jeopardy swallowed thickly, an odd understanding and numbing feeling washing over him as he looked at the familiar bright red and white mech. A morbid curiosity twisting through his mind as he stared hollowly at the familiar frame.
It was his own.
Jeopardy’s body lay limply on the ground, a bright pool of his own energon gathering beneath him. His optics were dark, his venting nonexistent. Jeopardy’s jaw was slack, plating loose, unseeing eyes staring at a small data chip that lay discarded on the ground with him.
It was almost uncanny, it should have been disturbing. But for some reason Jeopardy didn’t feel anything like close to that. There was no grief or resentment, just… truth. Everything was starting to make sense as phantom sensations surging through him.
Jeopardy was dead.
He had been shot and killed while trying to defend the newly discovered cure to a plague.
The medic blinked and stared intently at the broken mirror on the ground. For whatever reason, it felt right. Jeopardy was alright with this.
Dropmix’s hand gently cupped the back of Jeopardy’s helm, steadying him as the medic stared down at his own broken body. The tension in Jeopardy’s frame wasn’t from fear. Not anymore. There was no resistance in his plating, no anxiety clinging to his joints like static. Just stillness.
Acceptance.
“You deserved better,” Dropmix’s voice was soft but bitter, a harsh whisper most likely directed at himself than the mech in his grasp. “You deserve more than this.”
Jeopardy blinked down at the broken frame on the ground, the memory now fresh in his mind. He smiled sadly to himself, “I wasn’t alone at least. You were there, weren’t you?”
“Of course I was, you needed me,” the response was quick, as though the mere idea of the gladiator not being with Jeopardy in his final moments was a personal attack on his pride. Dropmix glared at the form on the ground for a moment longer before his expression softened again.
The gladiator huffed and looked at Jeopardy, pulling him a bit closer, his large arms wrapping protectively around the smaller mech.
The silence that followed was long and aching. They both knew the truth, Jeopardy had been alone, physically speaking. It didn’t matter if in his final moments he swore he could feel Dropmix with him. There had been no one there to comfort him, not really.
Both mechs ignored the unpleasant reality.
Then, in a low voice, almost like he was afraid saying it out loud might break something:
“I’m proud of you, Jeopardy.”
The medic’s face turned to Dropmix, his eyes wide, his spark swelled in his chest, warmth spreading through him like rays of sun. Jeopardy’s vents hitched, the weight of the words hitting harder than anything else had.
Dropmix didn’t rush to explain, didn’t embellish. He just pressed his forehead gently to Jeopardy’s and in that quiet contact, something deep within Jeopardy shifted.
It was as if every aching moment, every burden, every silent cry swallowed across the centuries—had finally been acknowledged. He hadn’t realized how long he had been waiting to hear those words. Not just to be thanked, or admired, but to be seen again. To be known not as the unshakable medic, the watchful patriarch of generations of pretenders, or the stoic veteran of loss, but as Jeopardy—flawed, afraid, and hopeful.
And Dropmix saw him. He always had.
The warmth of that realization settled deep into Jeopardy’s core, grounding him more thoroughly than even the strongest stabilizing field ever could. He vented out a shaky breath, finally steady, his trembling frame slowly relaxing completely into Dropmix’s hold.
For the first time in a very, very long time—he wasn’t carrying the weight alone.
Jeopardy looked up at his mentor, and for the first time since his awakening, he allowed himself to smile—small and tired, but genuine.
“What happens now?” he asked, voice low, childlike.
Dropmix looked thoughtful for a moment, a small, soft smile ghosting his face. “Depends on what you want. We can stick around as long as you’d like.”
He paused, chuckling quietly to himself, “Cometeater may accuse me of trying to keep you to myself though.”
Jeopardy let out a small, breathy laugh. It caught on the tail end of a vent cycle, dry and quiet, but real. A genuine thing he hadn’t felt in ages. The thought of seeing his beloved friend again made an aching warmth spread throughout his chest. It had been far too long since he had seen Comet, heard his laugh—Jeopardy had been watching over his organic friend’s family for generations now, catching glimpses of his friend in each child.
But he would get to see Comet again.
Dropmix watched his expression carefully, fondness etched into his features. “You've got a gathering of his descendants waiting for you too. Plenty of mechs as well.”
“They’ve been waiting a long time,” Dropmix continued, voice thick with the kind of warmth that only came from long-standing love. He absently ran his claws up and down the white mech’s back.
“Most of them are getting rather impatient,” He continued, offering a small grin that was half-mischief, half-gentle teasing. Dropmix’s eyes alight with the fire of youth, “Comet’s especially dramatic about it. Said if you didn’t show up soon, he was gonna come fetch you himself.”
Jeopardy’s expression twisted with a laugh that turned into a soft, shuddering sigh. The thought of Comet barging into whatever plane of existence this was, shouting like he had just missed a meeting instead of mourning a death, filled him with more joy than sorrow.
“I… I’d like that,” Jeopardy whispered, voice still scratchy, uncertain, but stronger now. “To see them again. All of them.”
Dropmix nodded slowly, chuffing softly and pulling Jeopardy close again. “There’s no rush. You’ve got time. As much as you need.”
Jeopardy closed his optics and simply breathed, feeling the rhythm of the gladiator’s frame syncing gently with his own. He could stay like this for hours—or eons—and he knew Dropmix would let him. No expectations, no responsibilities pressing in from all sides, just… time.
Dropmix let his helm rest against Jeopardy’s once more, venting out a long, steady breath. The silence between them had shifted now—less strained, more settled. The kind of silence that didn’t demand answers or movement. One that simply existed, warm and safe.
And for the first time in centuries, Jeopardy allowed himself to feel weightless.
He wasn’t anchored by duty or the pain of memory. He wasn’t haunted by what he couldn’t fix, who he couldn’t save, or the burden of living when so many had fallen. The guilt he had carried so long—that heavy, grinding pressure on his spark—was no longer clinging to him.
Yeah, I like to refer to this as baby Dropmix even though he’s not a baby… or even a teenager… this is like young adult I guess. But he’s just a baby. A melodramatic, arrogant little baby (I say affectionately)
And Theremin has to put up with it.
Anyway, this is like… beginning of their friendship with each other. They’ve gotten over disliking each other, and surpassed the acquaintance point. And there are no romantic feelings yet, well… I mean maybe if you squint. Most of this is just them sorting out how they can function as friends because friendship is messy when one of you is kinda a narcissist.
But that just leaves room to grow Hehehehehe.
—
Dropmix strut into the medical wing, weaving past working bots and other gladiators with ease. He ignored the curious glances of the medical workers, each one taking a moment to mentally scan him for potential injuries before resuming their work. The gladiator didn’t have time for their grievances, he was trying to speak with someone in particular. A medic by the name of Theremin, they had met some time ago and despite Dropmix’s original disliking of them, the white mech had managed to redeem himself.
The large gladiator was now quite fond of their company, though he could still be rather annoying at times, there were redeeming qualities.
He huffed, turning down a hall that led to the medics personal offices. His eyes darted to the door numbers, searching for Theremin’s. He had been to his office plenty of times before, but it never hurt to double check. After another few seconds of brisk walking he finally found himself at the right door.
The dark mech paused, taking a moment to look down and inspect his plating. There were a few new scratches, a small chip in his shoulder plate, but nothing too bad. He was still presentable. His plates quivered and flared slightly, brightly colored tattoos almost flashing against his darker paint from the movement. Dropmix smiled to himself, a deep satisfaction churning in him from the display.
He didn’t bother knocking on the door—Theremin would get upset about it sometimes, but he never really cared enough to stop. Occasionally it was even a bit amusing to watch the other get so upset over something so trivial—and walked into the office. He lazily closed the door behind him and looked over at the mech he was seeking.
Theremin was sitting at his desk, a pile of data pads piled on one side, next to it there was a half empty energon cube. On the other side was a sample container, full of a strange liquid, various tools and scanners sprawled on the desk and nearby cabinets, and some sample gladiator plating. His monitor screen was on and brightly displaying lab results next to him. Music played gently out of a nearby portable speaker that the medic always seemed to have.
The orange and white mech didn’t bother to look up as Dropmix entered, his attention solely focused on the datapad in hand. His fingers lightly tapped along to the beat of the song playing—one that Dropmix wasn’t familiar with—as he analyzed the information. After a beat of silence he spoke, still not bothering to look at the visitor, “Hey Dropmix.”
The mech in question smiled, plates flaring proudly as he confidently walked over to Theremin’s desk. He placed his large clawed hands on the edge of it and leaned over, looming above the smaller frame—who still didn’t bother to look away from his work. Dropmix ignored it for the time being, grinning wider, almost giddily as he looked down at the other.
“Did you see me out there?” he asked, voice rumbling with pride and excitement as he watched for any reaction from the other. “Raptortrak thought he could get the jump on me with that little aerial feint he’s so proud of.”
Dropmix’s expression shifted to something more smug, plates flaring as he bore his teeth in a proud smile. He tilted his chin up, snickering as he continued, “Thought he could use his new alt mode to throw me off, but I showed him.”
Theremin nodded along, still looking down at his datapad, flicking at the screen. “Oh, yeah?”
The gladiator pushed himself up from leaning over the desk, shoulders rolled back and hands resting on his hips. He nodded to himself, “Yeah, you should have been there, it was awesome. The crowd loved it. Caught him mid dive and tore out his wing…”
He paused, looking back down at Theremin, who was still looking at the datapad instead of him. Dropmix’s plates pulled in a bit, his smile dropping as he stared at the other, hands falling to his side. He blinked, looking between the datapad and the medic for a moment before he scowled. A twinge of bitter jealousy flaring in his chest and making his fingers twitch.
What could that datapad possibly have that was so important?
“Theremin,” Dropmix voice lowered, not hostile yet, but no longer sharing the same enthusiasm as before. “I’m talking to you.”
Theremin's fingers stilled on the datapad for a beat, the music from the speaker suddenly feeling too soft—too far away. He didn’t look up immediately, but Dropmix could tell he’d gotten his attention. The medic let out a slow, measured sigh before finally setting the datapad down with a quiet clack against the metal surface.
His gaze lifted, green eyes calm and gentle, like always, though there was something more worn out in his expression. “I heard you,” he said simply.
Dropmix’s eyes narrowed, his plating shifting with a subtle but tense ripple. He crossed his arms over his chest, “Doesn’t feel like you did. You were too busy looking at that.”
“I don’t need to look at you to listen,” Theremin replied, tone infuriatingly neutral. He leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his arms as he held the gladiator’s gaze. “And you barged into my office in the middle of my shift, I have work I need to do.”
Dropmix’s golden optics flared briefly at that, irritation and something rawer flickering behind his expression. His shoulders hunched slightly, claws tightening around his arms. Ready to snap back with something harsh—he was good at that, at turning bruised pride into bite.
“Work?” He growled, scoffing as he made a show out of looking Theremin up and down. Droomix rolled his eyes, “You're sitting in here looking at datapads! What could possibly be so important that you can’t stop to talk to me!”
Theremin’s expression didn’t change right away, but something in his frame shifted—stiffened. He straightened slightly, hands folding more tightly across his chest as he let Dropmix’s outburst hang in the air. The music kept playing in the background, soft synth and percussion warbling in from the speaker, now feeling strangely out of place against the growing tension in the room.
“Those datapads,” he said slowly, voice quiet but firm, “contain preliminary readings from a scan I ran on another gladiator last night. He’s got signs of energon degradation in his core systems—something that shouldn’t be happening at his age, or with his level of maintenance.”
Dropmix scoffed and shrugged, “So?”
The medic tensed, staring at Dropmix like he couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Theremin blinked, mouth twisting and brows furrowing. He was silent for a moment longer before he finally retorted sharply, “What? So? That’s really all you have to say? We could be looking at an epidemic here! If it was caused by one of the imported organics we could have a serious problem!”
“Yeah, but I came to talk to you!” Dropmix exclaimed, choosing to ignore what Theremin was trying to convey. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew something like that was serious, but Theremin could look away for at least five minutes.
Theremin stared at him—really stared at him this time—like he was trying to piece together what part of Dropmix’s logic made any kind of sense. The medic's green eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward just slightly, elbows bracing against the desk.
“You came to talk—Dropmix, do you hear yourself?” he said, voice tight with barely-contained frustration. “Someone could die, and you’re upset I didn’t immediately drop everything to listen to you brag about ripping off someone’s wing?”
The implication stung more than the words themselves, Dropmix’s already wounded pride under assault again. His playing flared, pudding up angrily as he vented hotly. The gladiator took a step forward, looking down his nose at the other. Theremin was supposed to be his friend, he was supposed to care. Dropmix listened to all of his boring rambles about medicine and music all the time. He could repay the favor.
He opened his mouth to bite out a remark but paused, growling and clenching his jaw tightly. If Theremin wanted to be difficult then it would be his loss. Dropmix rolled his eyes, plating still flared up in an attempt to insist that he wasn’t backing down, and scoffed again, “Fine! Forget it! Do your… whatever this is!”
The gladiator aggressively gestured to the datapad before turning away and storming to the door.
Theremin didn’t stop him.
Not at first.
The hiss of the door control responded instantly to Dropmix’s touch, the panel lighting up as the mechanisms within whirred softly. The music behind him continued its mournful rhythm, now drifting in like a fading memory. The moment stretched—tense, brittle. Dropmix’s frame lingered just at the threshold, hesitating briefly as he debated where he would go from here.
“I am your friend, you know,” Theremin’s voice called out—quietly, almost too quietly for someone of Dropmix’s size to hear, but there was no mistaking the sincerity behind it. “But being your friend doesn’t mean I stop caring about everyone else.”
Dropmix turned to glare at the medic, ignoring the softness in his expression. He raised his voice a bit more, tone harsh and jealous, “You're supposed to care about me!”
Theremin didn’t flinch.
The words rang out, loud and jagged, cutting through the low thrum of the speaker’s melody. Dropmix’s voice was too big for the space now, too raw, too exposed. He hadn’t meant to say it like that—at least he didn’t think so. But now it was out, ringing in the air like the aftermath of a misfired shot.
The smaller mech stared at him for a moment longer, the corners of his mouth tightening, not in anger, but in something much more complicated—hurt, maybe, or the kind of tired understanding that came from too many late nights and too much emotional math.
“I do care about you,” Theremin’s voice was carefully calculated, like he was talking to a cornered animal. He paused and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes tightly. “It’s just… sometimes you can be so…”
He trailed off, opening his eyes and gesturing vaguely to Dropmix. He struggled to find the right word for a moment longer. “You act like such a gladiator.”
Dropmix paused, confusion dimming the fire of his anger for a brief moment. He blinked, trying to decide how to interpret that, he landed on it being offensive. The gladiator huffed, tilting his head up as he looked down his nose at the other. “Well, I am a gladiator.”
Theremin looked at him blankly for a moment before shaking his head and sighing. “That’s not- No, Dropmix, I don’t mean it like that. You get so arrogant sometimes, ignorant too.”
Dropmix’s eyes narrowed. That hit him wrong—really wrong.
His claws twitched at his sides, and he took a slow step back into the room, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss. “Ignorant?” he echoed, voice flat with disbelief. “You think I don’t know what’s going on out there? You think I’m just some overpainted brawler that’s no smarter than a sparkling?”
“That’s not what I said,” Theremin replied firmly, though there was a tiredness behind his words now. “But you walk in here like you own the place, like your time matters more than anyone else's. Like the whole medbay should pause just because you had a good fight.”
Dropmix’s plating twitched. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Theremin said, stepping forward now, just enough to close the gap a little. “You come in, barge through my door—even when I’ve told you to knock— and expect me to drop everything because you felt like talking. And then when I don’t, you throw a fit.”
The gladiator looked like he’d been slapped. His jaw tightened again, eyes flicking away briefly. Theremin wasn’t wrong… but he wasn’t about to let him have that.
“I listen to you,” Dropmix said, quieter this time. Not calm, low and restrained. “When you need to talk. About your files. Or your stupid projects. Or that weird music you’re always playing. I listen.”
“I never said you didn’t,” Theremin shot back, exasperation flaring briefly. His plating rippled, “But there’s a difference between listening because you care and listening because you’re waiting for your turn to speak.”
Dropmix bristled, jaw clenching tighter and clawed fingers flexing at his sides. He has been in a good mood before all this, and now his day has been spoiled because Theremin randomly decided that he was going to be extra annoying. It wasn’t fair. He growled, the sound making his plates flare up again.
“Primus! You're so annoying!” He sharply exclaimed, mostly to himself, trying to air his frustrations. He didn’t bother waiting for Theremin to respond this time. He took a single confident step towards the exit, opened the door and stomped out.
The gladiator stormed through the medical bay, mechs ducking and weaving to get out of the glowering mechs path. Dropmix growled when a smaller gladiator stumbled in front of him, nearly running into the large dark mech. They managed to turn away at the last minute, which was good. His processor was itching for a fight, his claws prickling and twitching.
Theremin was complicated. He could be fun and interesting, gentle, playful, caring—he was someone that Dropmix enjoyed being around. Much better than any other company The Pits had to offer. But he could also be stubborn, annoying, frustrating, and just too much at times. He was wonderful and impossible at the same time.
And as much as it annoyed him, there was one thing that Dropmix was certain of, Theremin was honest. The medic wouldn’t back down, even when faced with a pissed gladiator that could snap him in half. He was willing to tell the truth no matter what the outcome—win or lose.
Despite himself, Dropmix couldn’t help but admire that.
Not his beach from back a thousand life times ago, but a beach he knew from passing maybe once or twice back in that time. The obsidian cliffs in the distance tall and sharp, this stretch of sand sitting in rings around his old plateaus.
The sand was thick and warm, the sun bright and glowing.
Comet had opened his eyes on that beach.
He couldn’t remember why he was there, or even how he had gotten to the stretch of white in the first place. Yet he felt no fear. No panic frightened him as he sat on that beach, something in his chest saying everything was as it should be.
Cometeater allowed the soft sun to warm his flesh, as he watched the green tinted waves lap the smooth sand.
He eventually stood, almost giggling as the sand moved beneath his feet. An old childlike wonder shifted across his flesh as he hopped to the sturdier sand, it having been firmed up by the ocean’s licks.
The sky stretched on, the tealish blue cloudless and wide. The plateaus large mountains out of the sea. Comet walked with no real purpose, enjoying the warmth of his old sun like a friend he had not spoken to in far too long.
That sun wasn't as harsh as the one on Cybertron, Comet idly thought as he spotted a figure farther down the beach.
Comet narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sand, unable to make out many details. No panic flared in his heart however. So he just continued, breathing deeply to catch the salt and other old smells as he went.
Slowly he grew close enough to the figure out in the distance that he could make out some sort of silhouette.
Each step seemed to grow easier as he went, and the features grew more apparent.
Comet’s heart began to race as he slowed, the first hint of something other than contentment entering his mind. The figure was large and broad shouldered, he was looking out past the sea as if waiting for someone and it was the only thing to watch as he did so.
Cometeater drew a shaky breath, rubbing his eyes as he blinked and tried to make sense of what he saw. His heart throbbed with hope. Soon he started walking again, trembling even in the soft glow of the sun above him.
Comet froze when he was within a couple yards of the figure, who wore a soft expression. Bright cold optics tracing the sea and thick sharp digits tapping a tune on his arm.
The pretender couldn't move as he stared at the mech, tears burning his eyes as he rubbed them. Hope throbbed in his chest as he took another shaky breath.
That hope is what made his feet move forward.
He took another couple steps, before utterly coming to another halt. A sob choked his throat, Comet suddenly felt like a child once more.
The mech turned slightly and smiled warmly at the trembling pretender, his face softer and younger than the last time Comet had seen him.
His large frame unscarred, extra armor gone. He looked like he did back when Cometeater had first seen him as a cub, but different.
Those soft optics were warm and gentle, so familiar it hurt, Comet took another hesitant step forward.
The mech chuckled, a deep noise that had Comet coming to a stop once more. “You were always timid Ino, didn’t think that would change.”
Comet took another shaky breath, tears now flowing. He decided to take the risk, the hope too much to bear.
“Dropmix?”
The hope and unsteadiness in his voice made the gladiator soften, his optics warming in a light Comet had not seen in eons.
“Yeah Comet, its me.”
The pretender stumbled, he choked on another sob when he collided with the mech. Warm arms hugged him tightly, soft gentle chuffs rumbling from the mech as he sat on the ground to better hold the other.
“Im dreaming I have to be.” Is all Cometeater could get past his sobs, pressing his face into the other’s neck. Dropmix only smiled snuggling the pretender tight to him as though he was still a child.
“You're not, promise. I'm here, I’m not going anywhere.”
Dropmix’s voice lilted with emotion on the last sentence, hugging the pretender tighter as if to make up for the one they didn’t get to have.
“I missed you so much, I missed you so so much.” Each word was kindled with a shake, Dropmix’s large sharp hands moved in soft circles as he soothed the mech in his lap. “I missed you too, Primus I really did Comet.” His deep voice was raw, aching with an odd tinge that had Comet snuggling closer to him. The two held one another as though afraid Dropmix would have to leave at any moment, that Comet would have to watch him go.
Slowly the tears subsided, as Dropmix bucked his helm to gently press against Comet’s. The pretender took a deep shuttery breath as those large sharp hands cradled his face. Thumbing the tears away as Comet whimpered again. Like a child, though Dropmix couldn’t seem to care less. He returned the noise with a chuff, nuzzling the pretender with a soft chuckle.
Comet returned the tenderness with his own, chuckling slightly at the chirp that slipped from his throat. The shock had began to slip away, dripping and seeping into the sand as Comet held Dropmix’s face and beamed.
“Your here.”
Dropmix laughed, pressing into the organic’s hands, sharp large fangs glinting in the light.
“Im here.” The amused rumble had Comet laughing again, throwing his arms tight around the mech. Dropmix chuckled again, his strong arms tight on Comet’s back. Neither moved for a while, melting into the embrace. It had been so long since they had held one another.
Eventually Comet pulled back again, his smile slightly dampened. He didn’t leave the mech’s lap by any means, but Dropmix kept a firm hand on his back.
“..Dropmix..How?” It was a soft whisper, the midnight mech’s own face darkening as the pretender slowly looked around. He didn’t say a word, rubbing the mech’s back softly. He clenched his jaw tight, pain lurking beyond the love and warmth.
For a few minutes they sat together, Comet slowly winding his thoughts up into a neat spool. His breath hitched, Dropmix took a deep breath, never stopping the circles on the green mech’s back.
“Oh Dropmix..You're dead.” It was said bluntly, a whisper of a thought.
Dropmix only watched, his face familiar but so much softer then when Comet had seen him for the last time. Dead and stiff on a berth with Jeopardy curled tight over him.
The scent of death was nowhere to be found here, Dropmix smelt clean and cold.
Comet closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
“Oh.”
The old gladiator let out a deep sigh, gently nodding but never averting his eyes. Which were the same, deep and bright.
“I knew you’d get it, took me a minute too.”
Comet slowly leaned back to sit against Dropmix, his thinly armored chest warm and inviting as he mulled over the last few memories he could. Dropmix allowed him that, running a thumb down his arm in a gesture of comfort. His face soft.
They sat there for a while, the sun never setting and the waves still lapping. Dropmix silently guarded him as he brooded.
Comet wasn’t angry, he had to be honest he wasn’t surprised. He slowly flipped the memories over and understood with the same casualness of noticing the signs of a storm. Then hearing the patter of rain on the roof.
He looked up, pulling away to look Dropmix in the optics. He watched Comet softly, neutral but not cold in the slightest.
“Why..” He didn't have to finish the thought, Dropmix smiled a soft bittersweet smile.
“I came to get you,” The mech shrugged a youthful smile flashing across his canines, now sharp and nowhere close to the blunt teeth Comet saw last. “I wasn’t lying when I said I missed you.” It was shyly spoken, he finally averted his eyes and shrugged again, voice still gruff.
Comet felt himself grin, the melancholy still there but now a little less pungent. He nudged his mentor softly, taking his face in his hands, “You're gonna walk with me?”
Dropmix then grinned a grin, it was an excited smile that had Comet’s heart leaping. “Not just walking, I have somebody who’s losing his fragging mind ready to meet you.”
“So..” Comet blinked again, a fear slowly inching up and stealing his smile. Dropmix frowned his own clawed hands moving to cradle Comet’s face once more. “You won't say goodbye right? You're not gonna leave again?”
Dropmix growled softly, “I said I wasn’t going anywhere Ino,” He pressed their foreheads together ever so softly. “I'm not going to say goodbye to you ever again, I'm here.”
Comet pressed back with a deep breath, smiling past his tears.
“Ok, when do we go?”
Dropmix grinned brightly, tugging the mech up with speed and grace. His movements fluid, not a wince or grumble. Comet grinned at the sight, allowing his hand to be caught in the large paw of the gladiator.
“Whenever you get ready kid. Though your not a kid anymore are you, fraggin old man.” His optics sparked with amusement as he looked the pretender over, who now looked the same as he did when Dropmix left him and the rest of his family.
Comet rolled his eyes, tightening his grip on Dropmix’s hand. “I didn’t beat you, you're old as dirt.”
The mech chuckled, slowly leading Comet along the beach. “You got pretty damn close.”
I finished the part two. Am I happy with the ending? That’s questionable. But I was ready to be done. Maybe I’ll pick up and finish the thing later but for now this is what I’ve got for the scene.
I was also very quickly reading it back and realized I completely forgot that Comet and Coo were there but… oh well. There were too many people to keep track of.
Anyway. Hopefully it’s everything you hoped for. I’m tapping out.
—
Dropmix is just having a real good time with the little toy while he sits on the ground, alright? Let him live laugh love in his own world in peace.
—
Jeopardy was at a loss.
They were supposed to get on a call soon, but Dropmix wasn’t in any condition to have a conversation with anyone. Not right now at least.
Dropmix was still having a delirium episode, the confusion, dissociation, and apparent memory loss all pointed to it.
It had taken some coaxing, but Jeopardy had managed to calm the gladiator and moved to the living room. Which was where Jeopardy found himself experiencing his dilemma, the call was supposed to be in ten minutes now. It was last minute to call it off—the kids would be even more heartbroken if he did—but Dropmix was still stuck in his confused state.
The old mech was sitting on the ground fiddling with a small trinket that Jeopardy had picked up during his travels. He would occasionally grunt in frustration or ask a question, but otherwise he was quiet, zoning in and out of different levels of awareness and understanding.
Jeopardy hovered to the side of the room, next to where they had set up the broadcaster. He had packed himself up, welding together the injury from where Dropmix had bit him and indented the plating. It still hurt—it probably would for awhile—but it wasn’t as bad. Hopefully, if he did call, no one would notice the bite shaped mark on his hand or the dents in his shoulder.
The medic huffed and watched as Dropmix turned the small brass trinket around in his hands like it somehow held the answer to some ancient puzzle. It was almost absurdly small in his hold—something meant for a much smaller species—but he was handling it with care. He was carefully reinspecting bits and pieces of it like it hadn’t been sitting on their shelf for years now.
Jeopardy decided that he hated this.
He despised having to watch his mentor’s usually sharp and analytical mind stumble over a simple puzzle made for sparklings. Asking questions like what it was, when Theremin would be back, what he was doing. Sometimes he would slip into other languages when he asked questions and Jeopardy couldn’t answer them—Dropmix would get more confused before giving up and going back to the trinket.
They had been jumping through the same routine for half an hour now. Jeopardy didn’t mind waiting it out, but he really didn’t want to disappoint the kids. If he canceled the call then they would probably worry that things had taken a turn for the worst. But if the kids saw Dropmix like this, Jeopardy wasn’t sure who would be more crushed—Dropmix or the triplets.
“Hey, Dropmix?” The medic spoke softly, his voice unsure and wavering, “The call is in a few minutes.”
Dropmix didn’t look up, instead he turned the brass object over again and huffed, “This isn’t mine.”
“No, it’s not,” Jeopardy said, walking over to the older bot. As soon as he was close enough he crouched slowly—keeping his tone light, gentle, like one might speak to a frightened youngling. “You’re right. It’s mine. But you can hold it.”
Dropmix’s optics flickered, a jittery pulse across his vision that Jeopardy recognized now as the telltale sign of a processor misfire. He blinked, slow and confused, before his eyes narrowed. He looked at the toy, disappointed and frustrated, “It’s broken.”
Jeopardy followed his gaze down to the puzzle toy. One of the little latches had come loose, hanging off its hinge at an awkward angle. He hadn’t even known it could break. He wasn’t upset, he could get a new one, but Dropmix seemed to be upset about it. Jeopardy nodded, forcing himself to look solemnly down at the toy like it actually mattered “Yeah… Yeah, it is. That must be frustrating.”
Validating feelings was important, helping Dropmix figure out how he was feeling so he didn’t get even more confused and worked up. It was the same kind of thing he would do for a sparkling when they got overwhelmed.
“I don’t—” Dropmix began before cutting himself off with a disgruntled huff. He turned the piece over, inspecting the damage more. A growl escaped him as he glared at it. After a few more seconds he finished his thought, “I don’t want it to be broken.”
Jeopardy looked down at the toy again, nodding along. He let his shoulders sag for just a moment, his voice getting quieter, “That’s alright. It still works. Here, let me show you.”
He offered his hand out for the toy, Dropmix looked at it for a moment before hesitantly placing the trinket in it. Jeopardy shifted so Dropmix would be able to watch easily. He hummed softly as he turned the piece carefully, moving slowly so Dropmix can easily follow his movements. He repeated the same motion a few times before the gladiator reached out and grabbed it from him. Jeopardy let him take it.
“You just have to be careful. That’s all.” Jeopardy declared softly. He gently tapped a soothing rhythm onto Dropmix’s hand before standing up again.
Dropmix didn’t respond or react. He stopped moving the toy around in his hands, staring at it almost perplexed. He didn’t seem to notice what the medic had said, his focus shifting to just the trinket again.
Jeopardy sighed and took a step back, giving him room. “I’ll be right over there,” he added, gesturing toward the broadcaster.
He didn’t expect any response.
The young mech turned away before he could second guess himself, fingers twitching with hesitation as he adjusted the settings on the Communicator. The screen blinked on, casting pale blue light across the room as it initialized, and a soft chime confirmed the signal had reached Earth.
Four minutes left.
He should really cancel the call. Dropmix wasn’t going to suddenly get better, not that quickly.
The soft hum of the communicator filled the room, a low, pulsing reminder that time was still moving forward, even when Dropmix wasn’t. Jeopardy glanced back. The old mech was still sitting there, optics dimmed, fingers curled around the broken brass puzzle. It didn’t look like he’d moved at all.
Three minutes.
He could lie. Tell the kids the transmitter had glitched, or the signal didn’t reach. It wouldn’t be the first time long-distance tech failed them. They’d understand—or at least, their parents would. The triplets might cry, but maybe that was better than seeing Dropmix like this. Better than watching who they believed to be invincible lay on the ground as he struggled to form coherent thoughts.
But they already knew he wasn’t invincible, not anymore. They had been told that he was dying, that his spark wasn’t able to keep up with the taxing demand of creating energy. There was no point in trying to hide this, they knew it was happening.
It didn’t mean that Jeopardy didn’t want to shelter them from the reality of it. He didn’t want them to carry that weight—not yet. He wanted them to remember Dropmix as a fortress, as the intellect and resilient mech he was. Not as someone who blinked slowly at the walls like they were speaking in tongues. But that wasn’t his call to make.
Two minutes now.
Jeopardy’s spark flickered uneasily as he stared at the countdown, the screen cycling through soft colors while it waited. His reflection warped in the curve of the lens—a blur of tension and hesitation.
Behind him, there was a sound.
A shift of weight. Metal scraping gently against the floor. A faint creak in a shoulder joint. The medic turned.
Dropmix was staring at the screen intently, the brass toy discarded on the ground next to him. He watched the countdown that Jeopardy had set up for himself. A few seconds ticked by before he did anything beyond watching, but there was a flicker of recognition, “We have a call.”
Jeopardy reigned in his own excitement, smiling softly and nodding once, “We do have a call. The triplets are calling to see you.”
There was a pause before Dropmix narrowed his eyes at the screen. His vocalizer clicked a familiar rhythm. His expression twitched as he watched the clock. But other than that he didn’t respond.
That was all he had to say apparently.
Jeopardy looked back at the screen in time to see the incoming transmission message flash. Without thinking he adjusted his posture, moving himself in front of the camera to cover Dropmix as much as he could without making it obvious.
The screen came to life with a soft flicker and a burst of digital static, quickly resolving into familiar faces. Lyre leaned closest to the camera, his expression bright despite the strain around his eyes.
“Jep, We weren’t sure if the signal would go through,” the young pretender proclaimed, eyes darting around the screen—no doubt looking for Dropmix already. He reluctantly moved back so his brothers could be in view.
Behind him, Virgo offered a nod, his expression a little more measured. Too measured, Jeopardy realized, like he was straining himself to remain in control. Libra was sitting on the other side of him, looking a lot more worried than his brothers were trying to appear. Coo was sitting next to Libra, staring intently at the screen and Comet loomed in the back, frowning. The call was intended for the children—the adults planned on calling later—but the couple had obviously chosen to remain as support for their boys.
Jeopardy gave them a tight smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re coming through just fine. Strong signal. I’m glad you’re here.”
The triplets nodded in near unison, but their focus wasn’t on him. All of their eyes moved across the screen, searching for the mech that they had called for. The two adults's eyes lingered on Jeopardy though. Comet carefully examined his face while Coo’s gaze immediately locked on Jeopardy’s hand, eyeing the fresh welds.
“Where’s Dropmix?” Virgo asked sharply, masking his own worry with a harsh tone. Lyre nodded along with his brother, “Is he there?”
Coo hissed something quietly at them, pulling Lyre to sit down again after he had stood up and moved too close to the screen.
Jeopardy hesitated for a moment, watching the faces of the family flicker with concern. He could feel the weight of the room pressing down on him, the reality of the situation hanging in the air like a thick fog. He glanced back at Dropmix, who had barely moved since the call began, his attention had shifted back to the puzzle. He grumbled to himself as he fidgeted with it.
Jeopardy took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain composed. "He's here," he said quietly. "But it's... um.. been a bit of a rough day."
There was a pause.
Libra was the first to speak, his voice quiet, though the sharp edge of worry was clear. "Can we see him?" He glanced back at his brothers, then back at the screen, his gaze searching for any sign of reassurance.
The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the faint hum of the communicator. Jeopardy had to make a choice. Dropmix was still there, somewhere, but he was so far removed from the mech the triplets knew. The thought of them seeing him like this—confused, disoriented, unable to connect the dots of his own thoughts—was almost unbearable. Yet, he couldn’t deny them the chance to see him, to talk to him.
He turned back to the older mech. Dropmix was still hunched over, eyes glazed, his large hands working aimlessly with the broken brass trinket. Completely unaware that the call had begun. Or perhaps he did know, but had gotten himself distracted again.
They deserved to see him. Even if it was like this. It was only fair.
Without another word, Jeopardy moved slightly to the side, shifting the camera angle so that Dropmix’s form was framed more clearly. He didn’t expect the older mech to respond—Dropmix had barely acknowledged the call—but the triplets needed to see him. They needed to know he was still here, even if it wasn’t the way they remembered him.
The change in their expressions was immediate and painful. Lyre’s bright eyes dimmed just a bit, like someone had turned down the lights behind them. Libra leaned forward instinctively, mouth parting like he was going to speak but couldn’t find the words. Virgo didn’t move, but his jaw tightened, a flicker of something—helplessness, grief—passing over his face so quickly it was almost easy to miss.
Cometeater leaned forward, expression straining as he examined the form of the gladiator. His hand gently rested on Virgo’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Coo shifted in her seat, eyes narrowing and jaw clenching tightly. One hand went to run smooth circles on Libra’s back. Jeopardy almost missed the way her other hand reached out to Comet’s, carefully intertwining their fingers.
Dropmix was still hunched over, clutching the trinket. His eyes were dull, his posture slumped, and he seemed entirely unaware of the screen before him.
Lyre’s voice wavered slightly as he leaned closer, “Dropmix?”
The dark mech didn’t bother to look up at the screen, he only paused his movements for a moment. He reassessed the puzzle toy. Then started trying to solve it again, differently this time.
“Why isn’t he doing anything?” Libra asked timidly, sucking in a shaky breath.
Jeopardy looked back at the screen apologetically. He took another deep breath, his fingers tapping a calming rhythm into his own plating for just a moment. He didn’t really know what to say. He was supposed to be good at this, he was a medic, this is what he did. But he could hear his voice falter as he spoke, “He’s just… confused right now.”
Libra leaned closer to the camera again. “But he’s not talking. He’s not doing anything.” His voice cracked at the end, just slightly, and he quickly rubbed his face like that would hide the sound of it. “That’s not—he’s supposed to—”
“He looks broken,” Lyre whispered almost bitterly.
“Don’t say that!” Virgo snapped immediately, sharper than intended, his teeth bared in a desperate snarl. His eyes were locked on Dropmix like he could will him back to how he was—fierce, composed, certain. “He’s not. He’s just… tired.”
Everyone was silent again. The triplets watched as Dropmix fidgeted with the small object, occasionally zoning out before resuming his efforts to solve it. Coo’s attention flickered between the screen and her boys. Cometeater looked almost lost as he stared at Dropmix.
Coo looked at Jeopardy, glancing at his hand before looking up at his face. “Would it be better if we called later?”
Jeopardy looked at her—at all of them—silent. The weight of the question hung in the space between them, like it was demanding an answer he didn’t have.
‘Would it be better if we called later?’
He wanted to say yes. To protect them from this. To protect Dropmix from this.
But the call was already in motion. They were already here, he knew they would be able to call later—they probably would—but they were here now. And some selfish part of Jeopardy didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want to wait in silence until Dropmix was back.
“No,” Jeopardy said at last. His voice was quieter now, hoarse around the edges. “No, I think this is okay.”
The words hung there for a moment, like they needed time to settle before anyone could respond.
Lyre blinked hard. He nodded, but his expression had gone distant, his gaze unfocused even as he stared at the screen. Virgo wasn’t looking at the screen at all anymore—his eyes were somewhere off to the side, like if he didn’t look at Dropmix, it wouldn’t hurt as much. Libra curled into himself a little more, knees pulled to his chest, his arms wrapped tight around them.
Coo nodded knowingly, pulling Libra a bit closer, her gaze softening as she looked down at her son. Cometeater stared at Dropmix, a storm of emotions behind his eyes, his firm grip still on Virgo’s shoulder.
Jeopardy felt his shoulders sag, a shaking breath escaping him, his playing trembled and pressed against himself tightly. Just a bit longer. He needed to remain in control for a little longer, until Dropmix was back. Then he could curl up and break down.
The silence was almost suffocating.
And then—Dropmix finally moved. His eyes flickered, and he mumbled something under his breath—half a phrase, clipped and slurred. His fingers stilled. He stared at the brass puzzle in his hands for a moment longer before letting it fall to the floor.
“I did it.”
Immediately all the pretenders perked up at the sound of Dropmix’s voice. All of their eyes immediately shifting to Dropmix. Lyre let out a soft, broken noise—something between a gasp and a laugh, shaky and wet with relief. “You did?”
Dropmix looked up and blinked slowly. His eyes weren’t focused on the screen yet, but they were clearer—no longer as trapped in the haze of wandering thoughts. His gaze drifted toward the trinket on the floor like it was the end of a long equation he’d finally solved. He nodded and chuffed to himself, plating flaring a bit.
“I did it,” he repeated, quieter now. More certain.
Jeopardy looked at him, smiling softly. It was such a small thing for him to be proud of, to have achieved. But it was something. Despite the way his spark clenched he nodded along, walking slowly over to him and sitting next to him. He gently picked up the puzzle. Dropmix had in fact solved it, finally getting the trinket to open up the small compartment inside.
He smiled and looked back at Dropmix. He kept his tone soft and reassuring. “You did. Good job.”
Jeopardy turned the small puzzle over in his hands again, checking the latch, then gently placed it back in Dropmix’s palm. The old mech’s fingers curled around it slowly, with a kind of quiet reverence, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the validation—or maybe he didn’t know how he’d gotten there in the first place.
Dropmix stared down at the open compartment again. Then, very softly, like someone remembering a song halfway through the chorus, he whispered, “Can I show Theremin?”
Jeopardy flinched.
Theremin had been Dropmix’s Conjunx, Jeopardy had only been told about him recently. He had died when the Pits had fallen. The triplets didn’t need to know that Dropmix was asking for a long dead Conjunx, though. He doubted that Comet or Coo knew, though he wasn’t sure.
The medic forced himself to smile, it was grim and unsure, not meeting his eyes. “Theremin can’t see it, I’m sorry, I know it’s disappointing. But the triplets can, let’s show them instead.”
Dropmix paused, expression flickering between perplexed and surprised. It took a few seconds longer than it should have, but he did speak, “The triplets are here?”
Jeopardy didn’t turn to look at the screen. He didn’t want to see their hurt expressions. He could hear Libra’s small choke, Lyre shuffling, and Virgo’s unnatural stillness. The medic swallowed the tightness in his throat and nodded. “Yeah, they called.”
He reached out and gently guided Dropmix’s shoulder, adjusting the angle just enough for the older mech to face the screen. The triplets were all still there—waiting, wide-eyed and tense, their faces suspended in anxious hope, their parents watching just as eagerly.
The older mech’s eyes tracked slowly across the pale glow, expression slack with uncertainty. He blinked, once. Then again. His lips moved, mouthing something that didn’t quite make it through his vocalizer. A low, static-filled murmur buzzed faintly from him, words chewed up by a processor that couldn’t seem to follow through. His brows furrowed, a frustrated grunt escaping him as his plates flared.
He tried again, more focused on getting the words to work right. Dropmix looked down at his hands, the puzzle sitting innocently in his palm. His fingers twitched, “It’s still broken.”
Jeopardy sucked in a breath. The toy. He was still talking about the toy. His voice strained, “They would still like to see it.”
Almost immediately Lyre chipped in, his voice thick with emotion but he pressed it to sound excited. He nodded, “Yeah, I’d like to see it.”
“Me too,” Virgo quickly caught on and while Libra nodded.
Dropmix looked down at the brass puzzle again, still trying to make sense of the broken latch for a moment. His fingers moved as though they were on autopilot, not entirely in sync with the rest of his mind. He looked back at the screen, then at the toy, then back to the screen again, his expression wavering between frustration and confusion.
“The… the triplets?” he muttered under his breath, half to himself, half to Jeopardy.
Jeopardy, trying to maintain the gentle composure he’d been holding onto for what felt like an eternity, nodded reassuringly. “Yes, Dropmix. They’re here. You can show them the puzzle. They’d really like to see it.” He offered a small, encouraging smile, hoping to nudge the older mech in the right direction.
There was a long pause. Dropmix didn’t react immediately, his optics scanning the screen in an almost mechanical fashion. Then, as though something in his processor clicked—just for a moment—he moved. The gladiator pushed himself off of the ground to stand, Jeopardy helping him rise, careful to keep the other steady.
The old mech faltered for a moment, taking a moment to balance himself before walking over to the screen and camera. His steps were heavier than normal, more unsure, but Jeopardy helped guide him until he sat in the chair they had previously set up next to the device. Jeopardy took the seat next to him, carefully watching him.
All three triplets managed to brighten, leaning closer to the screen to try and get a better look at Dropmix now that he was closer. Lyre smiled bitterly while Virgo kept his grim expression—determined to mask their worry. Libra watched with almost a numb expression, concern evident.
Dropmix paused for a moment, looking around him as though confused. He looked down at the puddle in his palm and it seemed to remind him of his current task. He lifted the puzzle toy from his palm and turned it in front of the screen. His fingers twitched, and he let out a soft growl of frustration as he fumbled with it again. He pulled it closer to himself again.
“I can’t fix it,” he said, a strange vulnerability in his voice that Jeopardy hadn’t heard in years. He was frustrated, maybe a bit embarrassed, but definitely upset.
Lyre leaned forward eagerly, trying to mask the hurt that clung to his tone. “It’s okay, Dropmix! We don’t care if it’s fixed. We just want to see you.” His voice trembled slightly, but he forced a smile.
Dropmix blinked at the screen, startled by the words—by the sound of Lyre’s voice. The triplets all shifted, watching his reaction intently, something almost desperate behind their eyes. The gladiator stared for a moment too long, like his processor was buffering, trying to match what he was seeing to the name and emotion behind it.
Dropmix blinked down at the puzzle again, turning it once more in his hands like he wasn’t sure when he’d stopped. The brass piece glinted dully in the glow from the screen. His fingers fumbled over the latch—still bent, still broken.
“I can’t fix it,” he said again, barely louder than the soft hum of the transmitter. The words came like a reflex, dulled at the edges, shaped by more than just the trinket in his hand.
Libra spoke this time, voice hollow but steady, “I still like it,” his gaze lingered on the puzzle for a moment longer before looking at Dropmix, who had looked at the screen again.
There was a flicker of something across Dropmix’s face. Not quite recognition. A beat behind it. His optics darted briefly toward Jeopardy, then back to the screen. He tilted his head, thoughtful, like trying to finish a sentence someone else started, his voice clicked a few times.
“Hello,” he said as if only now realizing they were here.
The triplets collectively flinched back. Virgo’s hands twitched in his lap. Lyre’s mouth opened, but he didn’t speak. It was Libra who answered first, voice wobbling despite how hard he was trying to keep it even.
“Hi,” he said, quiet but clear. “We’ve missed you.”
Dropmix stared at the three of them quietly before looking back down at the puzzle. He set the toy down slowly on the table between him and Jeopardy, fingers curling inward as he pulled his hand away. His eyes lingered on it.
He didn't say anything else. He didn’t need to.
The triplets were all still watching, their expressions soft, uncertain. No one moved to fill the silence this time. They let it settle between them, not heavy—just real.
Eventually, Dropmix shifted again. His voice, when it came, was quiet. “They can see it?”
Jeopardy nudged the trinket a little closer to the screen. “They can.”
Dropmix looked down at it again. He didn’t pick it up this time, but his hand stayed close.
There was a pause. A long one.
Then Dropmix spoke again, his voice thin, like it wasn’t sure if it was allowed, “I think I did it right.”
The triplets didn’t speak right away. None of them did. They only watched, as if by doing so they could hold this fragile moment in place just a little longer—Dropmix sitting beside Jeopardy, the broken puzzle between them.
And for now, that was enough.
The silence wasn’t as painful as before. It was still sad, but not sharp. It didn’t press down the way it had earlier. It felt more like a lull—like an exhale after a long breath held far too tight.
The screen glowed softly as Lyre whispered something only the mic could catch—something like “Good job,” echoed by a nod from Libra and a barely-there smile from Virgo.
Dropmix didn’t respond, but his optics lingered on the toy.
Jeopardy leaned back in his chair, his frame aching, but for the first time in hours, his hands were steady.
Yeah, I slipped and had to break the scene I had into two… I have the other part half written already so it should be done soon (hopefully)
But this was the scene that’s been spinning around my head and then I got an idea to make everything way more painful. Your welcome. I’m a terrible person.
More Dropmix death trials let’s go.
—
Jeopardy hated silence.
Especially this kind—the kind that settled thick over everything, heavy with tension and the faint, unspoken hum of something unraveling.
The washroom was still damp with steam, condensation clinging to the metal walls. Dropmix had asked to be cleaned up before the call—wanted to look his best, he'd said with a tired sort of pride. Jeopardy hadn’t argued. He’d always be willing to help. And he needed a bit of cleaning anyway and the triplets would want to see him, after all. Not just hear him.
Lyre, Virgo, and Libra had been told about his condition earlier that cycle—Comet and Coo had delivered the news of Dropmix’s impending end gently, but Jeopardy knew it still hit them hard. The small pretenders had been deviated when they heard, and Dropmix had extended the offer to call them in hopes of trying to ease that pain. A video call, something that they hadn’t done in ages.
It wasn’t as simple as dialing in. The triplets had to request access to the Ark’s long-range broadcast system, since personal communications couldn’t support the signal. Ratchet was quick to agree, letting them use the transmitter in the medical bay for privacy.
They scheduled the call right away, during a time when the old medic could get the room cleared.
Jeopardy had managed to dig out their own old long-range broadcaster without too much trouble. And it was already warming up in the other room, the signal link to Earth prepped and waiting. Which had left them with enough time to wash off.
Unfortunately, like most things in Jeopardy’s life, nothing could ever go according to plan.
The universe couldn’t just let him have a good thing—it was taking Dropmix away from him after all, one of the best things that had ever happened to him.
The young mech was currently focused on a stubborn patch of grime tucked deep into a seam near Dropmix’s shoulder, humming quietly to himself—he couldn’t help himself, the lack of music was just as unsettling as before. His fingers worked with care, the cloth soaked in a diluted solvent and warm water, gently scrubbing at the seam. There was no tension or awkwardness between them, they had done this hundreds of times by now.
That’s why Jeopardy felt the shift before he saw it. The subtle way Dropmix spaced out, his movements slowing. He hadn’t thought anything of it though. The medic had learned that Dropmix found the physical contact involved with bathing with another soothing—it was the kind of touch he liked, firm and heavy. So, Jeopardy continued with his work, noting the shift but not addressing it.
Which was his mistake, he should have stopped then.
The larger mech's arm stopped moving. His hand, which had been scrubbing at the plating on his other arm, dropped to his side with a faint metallic clink. Jeopardy casually looked up to Dropmix’s face, expecting to see him relaxed, but was startled to find the old mech glaring—not at him, but at his own arm, like it had done something unforgivable. His expression was blank and furious all at once.
That was when the low growl began.
It rumbled from deep in Dropmix’s chassis, vibrating through the air in a way that made Jeopardy freeze mid-motion. The gladiator hardly ever growled, not without a good reason, and for a brief moment Jeopardy was worried that Dropmix might try to do something with how intensely he gazed at his own arm. The cloth slipped from the young mech’s hand and landed with a soft wet slap against the floor. He opened his mouth to speak—but he was too late.
In a single motion, Dropmix snapped his head toward him, lips pulling back to reveal his teeth that he had filed down ages ago. But the lack of sharpness didn’t matter. He was still a gladiator equipped with a powerful bite force. That hadn’t changed.
Jeopardy didn’t react fast enough. Metal clamped down on his hand with a sickening crunch, as Dropmix’s hands grasped his arm, once clawed digits digging into his shoulder. Pain flared hot and immediate through Jeopardy’s arm. His emergency lights flickered on from the shock—flashes of amber strobing briefly against the walls—before he managed to suppress them, his jaw clenching tightly with effort.
The medic didn’t yell, he couldn’t.
He knew what this was, Dropmix was confused—a symptom of his Cybercrosis. This confusion had been their first sign that something was wrong, an incident similar to this one had altered them to the issue. But last time there had been music to stop the gladiator’s confusion from becoming aggressive. This time there wasn’t.
He stayed still, even as sharp agony laced through his limb. Dropmix’s eyes were unfocused, unseeing—staring straight through him as if he were somewhere else entirely. Despite everything, Jeopardy didn’t pull away. He needed to be calm, take a breath and address this like he would a patient. Calm and collected, he could let his own internal panic and pain prevent him from helping.
Medical programs hummed to life in the back of his processor.
“Dropmix,” he said softly, voice steady despite the tremor in his fingers. “I’m Jeopardy.” Some part of him hoped that the introduction would be enough, but he knew better. He kept his tone deliberate and clear. “I’m a medic. I was helping you wash off.”
“Dropmix, I’m Jeopardy,” an introduction, some part of him hoped that it would be enough to get the other to release his arm. It didn’t. “I’m a medical officer. I was helping you wash off. Are you ready to be done?”
The dark mech didn’t move.
His eyes didn’t refocus. His grip didn’t loosen. The only thing that changed was the faint tremor starting to ripple through his plating, a subtle quiver that Jeopardy wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t close—if his hand wasn’t still trapped in the older mech’s mouth. Dropmix let out another rough growl, though it was quieter, more uncertain.
The medic took another deep breath, trying to keep his own armor from trembling, fighting against the rising panic. Dropmix didn’t mean it, he would never hurt Jeopardy, he was just confused. He needed to help the older mech walk through his thoughts, make sense of his disoriented state.
“You didn’t like it when I touched you there,” Jeopardy spoke softly, each word slow and clear. He needed to keep things as simple and easy to understand as possible. He continued trying to reassure his mentor, “That’s alright. We can do something else now.”
Dropmix still didn’t move for a moment, his eyes slowly moving over Jeopardy’s frame as he processed the words. But his grip loosened, jaw eventually going slack as he pulled away. His large hand didn’t move from the medic’s shoulder, but his fingers didn’t dig into the plating anymore. The gladiator blinked slowly, his expression shifting to something less aggressive and more lost—though clarity didn’t return.
Jeopardy shifted carefully, sucking in a sharp breath as his injured arm protested against the movement. He cradled it against his side, fingers twitching from the aftershock of being crushed. The bite mark was deep. Cracked plating. Joints crushed. Energon smearing over the surface. But nothing unfixable.
His jaw clenched as he fought back a shiver. He knew Dropmix didn’t mean it, but it still hurt. It didn’t stop the way his spark ached with the knowledge that his mentor—the closest thing to a father he knew—had hurt him. Jeopardy sucked in another shaky breath, his uninjured hand gently tapping a soothing rhythm onto his own plating. He weakly nodded. “Yeah, let’s… let’s get dried off now.”
Dropmix didn’t react, he only blinked again slowly, blankly staring down at Jeopardy. The silence that followed was thick. Wrong. The kind of silence that should’ve been filled with the soft lulling of Dropmix’s ever present music. It sat heavy in the air as the gladiator slowly revived his hand from Jeopardy’s shoulder. His vocalizer clicked a few times as his expression twitched—he was struggling to piece together a thought. He seemed to give up on words and nodded instead, a frustrated grunt escaping him.
“You don’t have to speak,” Jeopardy soothed, trying to keep his voice level despite the tremble creeping into his frame. “It’s a bit frustrating for you right now. That’s alright. We can just go sit down.”
Jeopardy reached out again. Carefully. Cautiously. His good hand hovered, then settled just below Dropmix’s elbow. The gesture was slow, telegraphed—meant to be seen, even if Dropmix wasn’t seeing much at all. The gladiator didn’t pull back or react anymore than a low chuff. Jeopardy tried to gently guide the older mech out of the shower.
He didn’t move to follow.
Instead, he looked down at his own hands—still half-curled like they expected to find resistance. He flexed them slowly, watching with mechanical detachment as if they weren’t even his.
Then, abruptly, he let out a low, almost pained whine. His hands shook as he pulled away from Jeopardy’s touch. He backed up one step, then another—until his back thudded into the corner wall of the washroom. He stood there, staring at his own limbs like they were strangers. Like they had betrayed him.
“Don’t,” Jeopardy said quickly, alarm flooding through him as he took a step forward. “Don’t do that. They’re just hands. They made a mistake. That’s all it was.”
Dropmix weakly shook his head, his focus entirely on his hands, slowly turning them over to inspect. He let out a small grunting noise as he did, brows furrowing with concentration. His expression twitched before he finally spoke, voice ragged and hesitant, “My claws? Where did they go?”
Jeopardy swallowed, the lump in his throat thick. His mentor's voice was thick and almost slurred—he was disoriented, beyond confused. It was painful to watch. The medic took a small step forward, hands outstretched like he was approaching a wild animal. Dropmix had gotten rid of his claws before Jeopardy ever got the chance to meet him. Filed them down or ripped them off, Jeopardy didn’t know. But they were gone now, leaving only blunt fingertips behind.
“They’re... gone now,” Jeopardy said softly, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. How would he explain this with confusing or panicking the older mech? Jeopardy’s voice remained gentle as he stepped closer, inch by inch, keeping his movements deliberate. “You had them filed down. You don’t fight anymore.”
Dropmix shook his head once more, a small noise escaping him—one of frustration, of confusion. He shifted slightly, adjusting his balance from one leg to the other, his hands flexing again. The sight of his hands—stripped of their former weaponry—seemed to haunt him in a way that nothing else could. His eyes narrowed and another growl rumbled from his throat. His voice came again, softer, almost as if he were speaking to himself, but more agitated than before. “They’re mine.”
The young medic nodded solemnly, finally close enough to gently grasp the larger hands in his own. Dropmix didn’t protest, his gaze softening as he looked up at Jeopardy, who tried to smile softly. His hand still stung but he could push off the pain until later, until the confusion had passed and the bot before him got to be Dropmix again. Then Jeopardy would let himself break, but until then he needed to b remain steady. “I know. But you didn’t want them anymore.”
For a minute Dropmix was silent, blankly staring at Jeopardy. Then, he chuffed again and leaned forward, forehead pressing against Jeopardy’s own in an affectionate manner. The medic let his eyes close for a moment, allowing himself that brief second to breathe into the contact. His playing trembled as he tried to soothe his own tension and anxiety.
The touch was grounding. Familiar. Dropmix was still there, even if he was buried beneath layers of static and fog. This wasn’t the kind of clarity they used to share, but it was still real. Still his. The gesture—the press of foreheads—meant something, even now.
“I’m here,” Jeopardy whispered, their frames barely apart. “Let’s go sit down.”
Dropmix didn’t speak. He stayed pressed close, quiet and still, and Jeopardy felt a faint hum vibrating through the older mech’s frame. It wasn’t music, not quite, but it was something adjacent—a fragment of melody, an echo of a familiar song. It resonated low in his chassis.
Jeopardy smiled softly, humming along with Dropmix as he slowly guided him out of the washroom. He kept the other’s hands held in his own, dismissing the slickness of Energon and the sting of his injury.
The hallway was dim, quiet save for the hush of the ventilation systems and the steady whisper of their movements. Jeopardy led with slow, deliberate steps, guiding Dropmix toward their living room.
Dropmix followed without resistance, his eyes unfocused but not hostile. That fragment of a tune still pulsed faintly through him—off-key and incomplete, but unmistakably his. It was still that familiar soothing lullaby that he would hum when Jeopardy got too caught up in his own mind. The medic returned it, guiding him to the couch and helping him sit down.
He had less than an hour until the family of Pretenders back on earth would try and call. It was entirely possible that Dropmix would recover from the confusion in time for it, the episode may end before they call, but there was no guarantee.
Yeah. I finally got around to finishing it. I had to stop, read what I had written, then scrap it so many times. And I’m still not sure if it’s perfect or if it came out how I wanted. But it works.
Im also breaking into two parts because I’ve gotta think about how I’m going to go about writing Comet’s response. I’m very sorry he’s kinda quiet in this. I had other versions where he wasn’t but… idk none of them felt right? You can tell me if I’m wrong tho.
The beginning is kinda sketchy too. I know I say it every time, I just suck at them lol
Enough rambling. Here’s Cometeater’s call.
—
Dropmix huffed softly to himself as he looked down at Jeopardy. The young mech had finally settled down and was lying still in his hold. The mental and emotional strain of his meltdown had sent him crashing into a deep recharge cycle once Dropmix had managed to get his breath steady. He didn’t expect any less from the younger, it had been a stressful day for the both of them and the gladiator had been fortunate enough to at least catch some sleep. He had thought that Jeopardy had drifted off with him, but the medic appeared to have other plans in mind.
Calling Cometeater.
The dark mech wasn’t really surprised; Jeopardy and Comet had always been close friends and Dropmix himself had grown fond of the pretender and his family. They deserved to know the news of Dropmix’s impending death, that’s the gladiator had asked Ratchet to break the news to them since he was busy helping Jeopardy.
It would be easier to have the experienced medic inform them in person, he could more accurately gauge their responses and deliver the news gentler than Dropmix could. Ratchet also had a better understanding of what Cybercrosis was than Dropmix—it had never been something that he really needed to familiarize himself with while healing in a war—and would be able to answer any questions they had better than he could.
But the cat was out of the bag now—Dropmix furrowed his brows at the earth phrase, he really had visited that cursed planet a lot, hadn’t he? Enough that he had managed to pick up the language and phrases at least.
Dropmix looked over at where the long distance communicator sat innocently on his bed, the screen faintly glowing. He still needed to call Comet back after abruptly hanging up. The gladiator looked down at the mech in his arms, carefully shifting Jeopardy to rest in his lap more. The medic shifted slightly as Dropmix moved him, a small unconscious click escaping his vocalizer, but otherwise didn’t stir.
The gladiator turned his attention back to the communicator and picked it up with his free hand. The device’s screen lit up more as it was awoken from its idle mode, Dropmix squinted at the screen for a moment, fiddling with buttons until he was able to find Cometeater’s name again. He hesitated for a moment, briefly looking back down at Jeopardy—the young mech was still fast asleep, and would most likely stay that way. He would be able to make a call without stirring the other.
Satisfied with his oversvation, Dropmix pressed the dial button and waited.
The tone buzzed once.
Then again.
It got halfway through the third buzz when there was a small chime, Comet had answered the call. There was a brief pause as the communicators connected, when they finally did Dropmix could hear a stifled sob from the other side. He winced, glancing down at Jeopardy to make sure the sound hadn’t woken him before sighing and speaking, “Hey, Ino, breathe.”
Comet sucked in a ragged and broken breath at his request. There was some shuffling, another few hiccuping breaths, and the pretender’s raspy voice split the silence, “Dropmix, I-”
He was cut off by another weak cry.
Dropmix’s expression tightened, jaw clenching at the noise the young mech made—he pulled Jeopardy a bit tighter as if it could substitute for offering Comet any physical comfort. This was why he had wanted Ratchet to do it. The medic was a grouch, sure, but he would understand their loss and he could do one thing Dropmix couldn’t at the moment—try and offer physical comfort. Which meant that he was left trying to verbally comfort the other.
The gladiator had never been good at this.
Regardless, it had to be done. He cleared his throat, opening his mouth to say something only to clamp it shut again. No, he couldn’t say that. It wouldn’t help. He heard Comet cry out again, the sound more muffled this time. Dropmix glared down at the communicator, why did he have to be so bad at this? Theremin would have been better at—Dropmix paused mid thought.
If there was an afterlife he’d get to see him again soon. He wouldn’t be left wondering what his Conjunx would do anymore, he would get to be with him. Dropmix wasn’t sure whether or not it was something to be concerned about, but his spark skipped in his chest with excitement. He’d get to be with Theremin again.
His thoughts were broken by another sad cry.
Dropmix needed to remain focused on Cometeater, he could contemplate the afterlife later. He exhaled slowly, taking the time to gather his thoughts again. His voice came out rough but steady, “I know it’s a lot, I didn’t mean to hang up on you so abruptly.”
He passed, looking down at Jeopardy. That might have been a lie. More of a half lie. Nonetheless, he continued, a bit more unsure than before, “Do you need a minute?”
Despite the fact that Comet was most definitely crying at the moment, he managed to scoff. He attempted to sound offended, but his voice broke and wavered, more panicked than anything “No! Why would I—Don’t hang up again!”
“I won’t,” Dropmix began, he couldn’t keep the warm rumble of his amusement out of his voice. He wanted to say he wasn’t going anywhere, but that wasn’t exactly true. He would be gone very soon. Sooner than anyone seemed to like. He absently ran small circles on Jeopardy’s shoulder, “I didn’t know if you wanted me to hear you cry. That’s all.”
Dropmix winced as soon as the words left his mouth. That had sounded less harsh in his head. But it was true, the pretender had always been averse to having others see him cry. It was just a part of his nature and Dropmix didn’t want him to feel obligated to remain on the phone if he didn’t want to.
“You're terrible at this,” Comet huffed through a hiccuping breath. It was intended to sound more teasing—Dropmix assumed—but it was far too broken for that still. The pretender sucked in another shaky breath as he fought to reign in his cries.
The gladiator let out a huffing chuckle, he was terrible at this. He had comforted grieving machs before, plenty of times, but never once for one that wasn’t even dead yet—Sunrazor being the only exception. It only seemed to make it more difficult that he was trying to comfort them about his own death.
Silence sat heavy for a minute or two, Comet slowly regaining his control over his breathing while Dropmix waited.
“Dropmix, I have so much I want to say,” Cometeater began, voice timid and uncertain. Not too unlike his younger self. “But I don’t know how.”
The older mech nodded even though the other wouldn’t be able to see it. He felt similarly, but it was now or never he supposed. They would probably call again but it would be easier to just be upfront. Dropmix would rather not. He could simply write all his feelings down and wait until he was dead to share them. But it was unfair to do that to everyone, he should have to confront his feelings eventually.
His jaw tightened for a moment and he adjusted his position slightly. “Then I’ll go first.”
The younger mech was silent, Dropmix waited a few seconds before accepting that the other wasn’t going to say anything. He let his head fall back and rest on the wall behind him, his hand on Jeopardy’s shoulder moving to the other’s back. Why did this have to be so difficult? It wasn’t like he would have to live with the consequences for very long.
Dropmix’s optics dimmed slightly as he searched for where to begin. There wasn’t exactly a guidebook for dying conversations. He took in a slow, shallow vent and let it out through his nose, the sound soft in the quiet room.
“I’ve never been good at this,” he said finally, his voice low. “Talking. Sharing things. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that.”
On the other end, Cometeater didn’t respond, but the silence was still there. Present. Listening. As much as Dropmix appreciated the other letting him speak uninterrupted, it left him at a loss. He hadn’t had time to prepare what he would say, he had been hoping that he would have time to plan this all out before he was stuck in this situation.
So Dropmix stalled like a coward.
Dropmix shifted again, moving Jeopardy just slightly to give the younger mech more support. The quiet whir of Jeopardy’s fans was a soft, steady background to his thoughts. It was nice to not have the music playing in the background anymore. No matter how fond of it he was, it was relieving to finally be able to think fully again. He didn’t have to sort through the fog that the constantly running BCP would inflict on him.
“I’ve been thinking about a lot lately,” Dropmix wanted to kick himself. Who wouldn’t be thinking in a situation like his? He was really going to fumble this, wasn’t he? The gladiator’s brows furrowed but his tone remained contemplative and neutral, “I’ve lived a long life, longer than I ever expected it to be. I’ve met a lot of people, most of which I couldn’t even tell you the name of if I spent the rest of my life trying to remember them.”
He paused briefly, thinking through his next words carefully before continuing. “And yet, despite having met so many people, I’d only ever entrust my life to three of them.”
Dropmix couldn’t help but snicker at himself, “And the odds of getting on that list is slim, if you can’t tell. Most will never get close to being added to those few people.”
The gladiator went silent. He stared thoughtfully at the wall for several moments, wrapping his head around the idea of saying everything out loud. Eventually he managed to find his voice again, though it was softer than he would have liked, “Somehow you did though.”
With that small admittance Dropmix’s carefully constructed walls seemed to crumble.
He smiled weakly to himself, chuckling and shaking his head as his own mind wandered through memories “I didn’t mean for you to. I didn’t even want to add to that list for Primus sake. Let alone have it be you, not at first.”
“You were put on a list of mechs I told myself I could never trust. I was convinced not to like you, didn’t even have a good reason why,” the old mech mused. He hadn’t heard anything from Comet yet, not even a shuffle. Dropmix wished he could have at least seen his reaction, then he would have known if he should stop or continue. He chose the latter, “I don’t know when it changed, not really. I can’t even tell you how it changed either, how you managed to weasel your way over to the mechs I’d gladly give my life for. But you did it.”
The gladiator let himself pause again, almost expecting Comet to butt in, he didn’t. The other end remained deathly silent, enough so that Dropmix briefly considered if somehow the call had ended. It hadn’t though, the pretender was just quiet. So he kept going, not sure if he should stop, “I’m glad you did, though. For my own sake and Jeopardy’s.”
Dropmix let out a deep breath, eyes wandering to the ceiling, unsure what to look at, “Maybe—if I had been just a bit less stubborn, if we had more time—I would have called you mine in the same way Jeopardy is.”
The quiet didn’t shift. Not even a static crackle.
Dropmix stared at the ceiling a moment longer, letting the weight of what he’d said hang between them. His spark felt like it was rattling in its chamber, not from fear, but something close. Something tired. Raw.
He closed his optics.
“Don’t take it the wrong way. I’d still call you mine. It’s just not in the same way. It’s something close though,” Dropmix opened his eyes, looking down at Jeopardy in his arms for a moment. His voice got even quieter, almost timid, “Close enough that I’d let you be it if you wanted.”
The old mech left it at that. He probably had more to say—no, he did have more to say. But what he had said was enough for now. They still had more time. But he had said what he had to, what he needed to. Hopefully it had been what Comet needed too.
