Rodimus looked up at Thunderclash’s face, frozen in an expression of hurt and surprise, and almost -- almost -- wanted to take the words back. Instead, he turned away, intending to head to his quarters or the bar or somewhere, anywhere else but this particular hallway at this particular moment.
“Why?”
It was soft and plaintive and maddeningly genuine, and Rodimus felt the gall and bile build in the back of his intake as he turned around again.
“ ‘Why?’ Because it isn’t fair,” he bit out, frame trembling. “Because you and I have made plenty of similar mistakes, but people excuse yours and not mine. Because when you mess up, it was you being unaware or excessively forgiving of people’s flaws and history -- just looking past all of that to see their hidden potential -- but when I screw up, it’s because I’m stupid and naive and easily manipulated. Because when you apologise, it’s you doing the right thing, but my apologies are dismissed as desperate pandering. You’re giving; I just give in too easily.”
Rodimus ground his dentae. “It’s because when you administer justice, it’s righteous and responsible, but when I do it, it’s seen as cruel and unfair. It’s because when you try to change yourself for the better, it’s an improvement, but if I try to do better, I’m just being inconsistent!” Tears slid down his cheeks, hot and angry. “When you were sick, people rallied together to help you live and keep you doing what you wanted to do. Anything bad that happens to me turns into a ship-wide in-joke, which I apparently deserve because it’s always my fault in the first place, anyway! People mourned you before you were even properly dead, Thunderclash -- no-one showed me much more than impatience when asking me to identify my own corpse.”
He reared up suddenly, jabbing a digit into Thunderclash’s chestplate. “ ‘The flames on your chest are tacky, Rodimus!’ ‘You’re flashy and shallow, Rodimus!’ ‘Stop with the fake cheeriness, Rodimus!’ ‘That’s so dramatic, Rodimus!’ ‘Be more sincere, Rodimus!’ ‘Don’t be so childish and petty, Rodimus!’ And I try so hard, but it never matters! I do everything you do, and it’s still wrong! So that’s ‘why’! But most recently--” he snarled, “I HATE YOU because Optimus would NEVER have made Megatron captain of YOUR ship!”
There was nothing but shock and pity and a horrible sort of understanding on Thunderclash’s face, and something seemed to snuff out in Rodimus’s optics. “And... and after all of that, some people ended up liking him better, anyway,” he said quietly, stepping back to be out of Thunderclash’s EM Field. “And I was just a petulant child, because I didn’t want my murderer on my ship, telling me what to do.” He wiped his cheeks with the heel of one servo. “And then, other people handed us over to the DJD because I’d rolled over, like I always do, and let him stay.” He looked back up into Thunderclash’s wide, uncertain optics. “I hate you because everyone loves you, no matter what, but I catch it for not being able to please everyone all the time. I can’t please anyone,” he mumbled, almost as an afterthought, and sighed raggedly. “Go ahead. Say something noble and placating and mature in the wake of my childish, hysterical outburst, and cement our respective positions in the universe. I don’t care.” He looked away. “I know -- I know it’s not exactly your fault, but... it’s not entirely mine, either. And it’s not fair.”
some Constructicon fluff, hold the Prowl
a little late but technically for your birthday :D
Scrapper rolled over, knocking Bonecrusher’s pedes from off of his waist and shoving Scavenger’s arm away from where it was encroaching on his pillow, and opened his comm. line for the umpteenth time that night.
::Hook? Things settle down in the medbay yet?::
When Hook replied, he still sounded as irritated as he had each time Scrapper had called him before, but not nearly as worried or harried. [If you mean ‘have I managed to pull all three of our resident Seekers’ afts back from the Well with any sort of certainty’, then yes, things have calmed down.] There was a staticky sigh. [I told you to stop calling me; I still can’t make it back to the hab yet.]
::I know.:: Somewhere down by Scrapper’s knees, Long Haul flopped and kicked, taking the blankets with him. ::Everyone’s managed to fall asleep but me, and I thought if you had to stay up anyway, you could use the company.::
[Alright, then.] Soft tidying-up noises filtered in over the comms. [I’d suggest you just come here, but Megatron is in one of his moods and he’s haunting the place.]
Scrapper wrestled with the duvet for a minute before replying. ::He’s not going to bother you, is he?::
[I just put his Command Trine back together without mixing up their pieces; he’d better not give me grief, or next time I’ll swap their voice boxes and call it an accident. I think I’ll give Starscream’s to Skywarp.] Hook’s tone suggested that he was only partly joking.
Scrapper snickered. ::Poor Skywarp.::
[It’ll serve him right, for all the grey nanites he’s given me over the centuries. Might even get him to shut up for a bit.] He paused, and Scrapper could hear the quiet shush of his vents. [Primus, Scrapper. How in the Pits did we get here.]
Hook could be asking any number of things, Scrapper realised. Maybe he was asking how was it they had ended up on Earth, or with the Decepticons, or hundreds of feet below an alien ocean. That being said, he wasn’t quite sure how to answer.
::We’re here because we did what we could to stay alive, and stay together,:: he replied at last, suddenly feeling very sincere. ::I think it’s worked out pretty well, all things considered.::
The soft chuff of Hook’s amusement washed over the comm. and the gestalt bond. [That’s fair.]
::You know I’d do anything to keep it that way. The six of us, alive and together.::
[I know.] Hook sounded as plain and sincere as Scrapper felt. [I would, too.]
The moment stretched between them, soft and tenuous and bright like the sun-caught spiderwebs Mixmaster liked to marvel over. Scrapper lay still, afraid to break the silence with so much as a rustle of blankets. It had been a long time since any of the Constructicons had allowed this much open, undistracted communication between themselves, what with how hectic everything had been lately.
Finally, there came a quiet sigh. [You should try to get some sleep,] Hook said. [I’m going to give it another hour before I hand things over to Jigsaw, and then I’ll be right up.]
::It’s almost morning.::
[Pretty sure everyone is gonna get the day off.] Hook’s voice squeaked a bit, as if he were stretching. [If not, I’ll get Soundwave to at least give our team the day off, even if I have to call in every favour he owes me.]
There was another, fuller sigh, and Scrapper answered it with a yawn. ::Okay.:: He rolled over and gently nuzzled Scavenger’s helm. ::See you in a little bit, then.::
Warm, clear sunlight filtered down through the pink blossoms of the cherry trees, the air turning into a soft, sweet-smelling blush by the time it poured over the orchard grass. The tea-like warmth soaked into the plating of the two flight-frames dozing between the trunks of the trees, their venting slow and quiet in the still morning air.
Starscream curled into Skyfire’s side, listening to the idle thrum of the jet’s internal systems. It was so good, being together again; not like old times, never again like old times, but that was alright. Starscream had never expected things to be exactly the same as they had been… well. If he was honest with himself, when the Decepticons had first pulled Skyfire out of the ice, there had been a tiny part of Starscream that had thought that the two of them could just pick up where they had left off. He hadn’t realised then just how much he had changed since Skyfire had last been conscious, and of course none of that had gone very well.
Starscream sighed—a gentle huff of vents—and in response, Skyfire sleepily rubbed his thumb between the smaller Seeker’s wings. One blue optic opened slightly, checking. Starscream flicked his wings reassuringly, his venting slowly turning into a rumbling purr.
Ten months ago, Starscream thought he would never be able to see Skyfire anywhere but the battlefield. Four months ago, he wouldn’t have even dared to hope that their mutual attempts to be civil could ever be anything more than polite but frosty small talk during stolen minutes on the occasional simultaneous patrol. Thank heaven for Skywarp and Thundercracker, the ultimate—and literal—wingmen. In the interest of soothing their Trine Leader’s troubled spark, their combination of underhanded trickster and innocent-opticked straight-man had bought Starscream hours of free time in which he could spend repairing the rift between himself and his amica. All for the good of the Trine, of course.
And thank heaven for Soundwave, who knew when to keep a secret. It helped that the Decepticon Communications Officer was also secretly visiting an Autobot. Starscream didn’t know what Soundwave and Blaster got up to on their down time, but the betting pool odds were in favour of Cassette play-dates.
Speaking of Soundwave… Starscream checked his internal chronometer and groaned slightly. The Seeker only had about fifteen more minutes before he had to start heading back to base. He nuzzled his face into Skyfire’s chest and pouted, listening to the soft whirr-click of the shuttle checking his own chrono. There was a beat, and then Skyfire laughed quietly, snugging Starscream more firmly against him as the smaller flight-frame grumbled. Honestly…
One day, Starscream told himself, he just wasn’t going to leave. He would stay underneath the cherry blossoms with Skyfire forever, and never lose him again.
• Rodimus smells of ozone and hot metal – an electrical storm without the petrichor. It’s a little nerve-wracking to be so near to a mech that smells of burning and electricity, but those that know him best no longer feel the uneasiness that such a scent often brings. When explaining it to others, Drift says that Rodimus smells like lightning.
• Ambus smells like an old bookshelf, like dust and oxidation and tradition and late nights reading. It’s a rigid sort of smell, one that makes mechs solemn and polite if they are unused to it. It stopped working on Rodimus and Drift long ago.
• Get too close, though, and a mech can catch the barest whiff of the scent of old, purpled energon that clings to the Magnus Armour. Not all joints and seams can be cleaned, try as Ambus might.
• Drift smells like the soil of distant planets, comet ice, and moondust – the scent of leaving and getting lost. Rodimus buries his face in Drift’s shoulder, smells the cold darkness between the stars and the radiating warmth of distant suns, and knows the scent of the void.
• Ratchet smells of a particular type of soldering wire; it’s a bitter and caustic scent. Sometimes, on the rare occasions when he is ‘off-duty’, the bitterness is mixed with the sweetness of high-grade. At those times, Drift sits next to him and wisely says nothing.
• Ambulon smells of old paint. It’s a dusty, homey smell, the scent of gently creaking joints and a soft voice. First Aid will never admit that it’s a slightly comforting smell to taste in the clinical air of the Infirmary.
• First Aid smells of cleaning solvent. It’s bright and fresh and sterile and masks most other smells most of the time – even the smell of uncertainty.
• The medical team in general all smell of energon and coolant and antiseptic and regret.
• Red Alert smells overly warm, as if he is always running too hot – because he is. Manage to get close enough, and a mech can feel the heat radiating off of him. It overwhelms any other scents that might cling to his frame and burns off any lingering particles of matter. Red Alert smells of overheated circuitry and quiet distress at all times, though he may come out of Rung’s office a few degrees cooler than when he went in.
• Cyclonus is layers and layers of ancient and varied scents. He smells of fierce battles and late nights in shady clubs and early mornings in sacred temples and nights spent in the ditches of distant planets. The trace of an EM field belonging to an unnamed Cybertronian is burned into his plating. All he lacks is the bitter scent of regret.
• Tailgate smells ancient and brand-new all at once. He smells like a time at the edge of other mechs’ memories: a smell generally buried under centuries of living, but on Tailgate still immaculate except for the scent of the Mitteous Plateau that has seeped into the very metal of his frame.
• Someone sitting between Cyclonus’s messy vibrancy and Tailgate’s pristine disuse is in for a confusing experience.
• Whirl smells of death – hot, angry death that’s still fresh on his servos and lingering in the back of his processor. It’s a reliable sort of scent, familiar and friendly as four million years of War, and one that meshes with his words and movements. It is a promise of violence for the sake of violence and of the willingness to throw himself into any fight, often in service to the crew – if it suits his mood, which it generally does – and is no surprise to anyone; nevertheless, it still makes it difficult for most to be near him for very long. Rung and Cyclonus are among the few who seem not to mind it at all.
• Fortress Maximus smells of metal shavings and friction and warm paint. It is the smell of joints that no longer align with each other, of metal that catches and refuses to glide smoothly in its tracks, of plating that broke and was soldered together just a few millimetres off. Fort Max smells of sharp corners and broken things and pain, and mechs look away when he passes them in the halls.
• Rung smells like rust sticks and a certain silicone compound that is no longer in production but was very common before the War. It lingers in the back of other mechs’ processors, old and familiar and often associated with comforting memories of household items. Skids feels the gentle prickle of remembering when he’s around Rung; it can even assuage Red Alert’s fear and calm Whirl’s impulsive nature, if only sometimes, and only for a little while.
• Skids smells like the dust in the vents of the Lost Light; like prayer books and hymnals; like old explosions and burning wires. He smells like forgotten things, and he smells like forgetting. Rung catches the tang of melted alloys on Skids’s hands and chest plating and wonders; Chromedome notices it too, and says nothing.
• Swerve smells of high-grade and desperation. Sometimes, though, the scent of the dust in the vents lingers on him; those days, he smells less like desperation and his smile is a little more genuine.
• Trailbreaker smells of ionized atmosphere – and the atmosphere of Swerve’s bar. The biting scent of burnt-out sparks and Red Alert’s overheated distress and excessive amounts of high-grade all combine into a hazy reek of inadequacy.
• Blaster bears the undetectable scent of radiowaves and the particular soft smell of memory tape, the same as Soundwave. He smells of the wear to plating brought about by constant exposure to steady bass beats, the same as Jazz. He smells like Soundwave and Jazz – no, he smells of Soundwave and Jazz, of their EM fields and of their company – and it ought to be a terrifying thing, but instead it’s a warm and friendly smell of music and caretaking and responsibility.
• Pipes smells almost exclusively of Cybertron and Cybertronians, of coolant and plating and lubricant and vented air and the closeness of living on transport shuttles and space stations. He smells of everyone and nothing, inconspicuous and forgettable and easily overlooked. Only recently has he picked up the sharp scent of rust and the cold; it’s foreign even to him and something he is both proud and afraid of. He tries to bury it in the company of the other minibots and steers clear of Drift’s white, space-burned armour.
• Chromedome smells of the sharp bite of processor fluid and the grime of back alleys and the grim starkness of a morgue. He smells of the stale air inside an Enforcer’s office and the cold streets of dead cities.
• Rewind smells like the peculiar plastic warmth of an old camcorder and the ink of film reels and the dust of time. He smells of the aftermath of battles and of red Autobot paint.
• The two of them both smell of regret and of each other.
• Perceptor smells of acid and copper oxide and gun oil. The scent of cooled supercomputers lingers on his armour and the places that he frequents; it’s not unlike the burningly cold scent of space, and it is often difficult to distinguish between the two.
• Brainstorm smells like the recycled air of the laboratory and soot and clean instruments, but recently he carries on him the tang of ionisation and bad decisions and dogged determination. Rodimus accidentally stands too closely to Brainstorm and Chromedome; he looks between them, optics confused, and wrinkles his nasal ridge when he suddenly and inexplicably can’t tell one from the other.
• Both members of the science team smell of sulphur and carbon and the heated air that comes from cranial vents.
...and:
• Megatron smells of spoiled energon, dirt, and ore. The scent of fear and death and despair encompasses his entire being, taints his words and his movements – it was weeks before the crewmembers stopped flinching every time he shifted slightly. Now Ambus can stand beside him without stiffening, and Megatron can clap Rodimus on the shoulder without the younger mech rearing back in sudden response to prolonged panic; still, the Lost Light comes upon sites of ancient Cybertronian battles, where the very air is filled with the scent of Megatron, and mechs look at each other and remember.
*GENTLY SLAMS HANDS ON DESK SO YOU DON'T GET ALARMED* FLUFF WITH TFP BROS KNOCKOUT AND WHEELJACK
To be fair, Wheeljack had taken up haunting the medbay from the moment he had decided to permanently base himself and the Jackhammer at Outpost Omega One. Never mind that he seemed to end up in need of repair more than any other mech: the ex-Wrecker liked to drop in uninvited and without a scratch on him – mainly to hang around Ratchet and provoke the invariably amusing arguments they shared, as well as enjoy the Infirmary’s unique quality as the secondary hub to the goings-on at the base without being as public and busy as the central meeting area of the silo.
But there was no denying the fact that, ever since Bulkhead and Arcee had come back from a mission four months previous with two bedraggled Decepticons in tow, Wheeljack had practically taken to sleeping in the medbay.
Today was no exception. Back from a mission, Wheeljack was tired and in need of an altercation that wouldn’t lead to spilled energon – he hoped. With the fighting having been particularly bad the last few days, and those who stayed on base having no way to blow off the tension that seemed to permeate the atmosphere lately, everyone was a little more tightly wound than usual.
Which meant Ratchet was likely to murder unwanted guests.
“Wheeljack, I’ve told you—!” A wrench, meant for the side of Wheeljack’s helm where it poked into the Infirmary doorway, clanged off the wall as Wheeljack dodged with the practiced air of someone who had avoided such attacks many times before, and Ratchet growled. “It’s significantly more crowded in here, so leave – before I give you a real reason to take up berth space!”
A plaintive, “Awww, Sunshine,” floated in past the open door, followed by Wheeljack carefully peering back around the corner. He was just in time to catch Knock Out struggling to hide his amusement, the fledgling Autobot’s wheels quivering and lips working with silent laughter as he turned to face away from the Chief Medical Officer.
Encouraged, Wheeljack decided to push his luck. “Come on – I got to come in yesterday…. And the day before….”
“Yesterday I was checking the welds I had to give you the day before,” Ratchet snapped tartly. “Unless you’re on the brink of burn-out, I don’t want you in here getting underpede.”
The younger medic shot a pleading glance to the mech in the doorway. Their gazes caught briefly – Knock Out desperately trying not to smile, Wheeljack already on his way to wearing a full-blown grin – and the ex-Wrecker seized his chance. With a wiggle of brow ridges, he pouted, “Well you definitely have to let me in now – my spark’s broken.”
With a tremendous barking laugh, Knock Out leaned against the nearest berth before slowly melting into a heap on the floor, finally overtaken by a fit of stress-induced giggles. Ratchet turned, nearly tripping over the red mech sprawled at his feet, and delivered a burning glare to the mech at the door. Wheeljack’s optics were shut as he sagged against the doorframe and shook with ugly, snorting laughter, and he missed both the glare and the roll of bandaging that sailed across the room to bounce heavily off of one of his finials.
“You are both going to send me to Well early,” Ratchet huffed, his own amusement reserved to the glint of his optics and the tilt of his helm. One saffron pede gently nudged at Knock Out’s prone figure, causing another burst of giggles to drift upwards, and the older medic sighed resignedly. “Your shift is over in ten minutes anyway; go tell Breakdown that he’s on duty.”
and then they went and watched Disney movies with Bulkhead and Miko
...this blood on my teeth, it is far beyond dry
and I’ve captured you once, but it wasn’t quite right
still, I’m telling you
that you’ll be safe with me
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
No matter how much he wanted to, Breakdown couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from the huddled ball of barely-contained fury that sat curled on the other side of the electrified bars. An intense sensation of wrongness prodded him in the spark every time the blue femme moved, and so he continued to watch, letting the feeling tear at him like sharp digits probing a festering wound. She wasn’t supposed to be here, and yet it was his fault that she was.
Behind him hovered the dark, gloating form of Megatron. The warlord had already made it clear how pleased he was with Starscream and Breakdown’s ‘joint’ capture of the Autobots’ second-in-command; no doubt there would be peace in the medbay for weeks, possibly months. Breakdown watched the femme’s winglets fan gently with her every careful, seething breath, and couldn’t find it in himself to celebrate.
“No doubt she will have vital information on the Autobots’ next move regarding the Iacon relics,” Megatron purred, his EM Field roiling with morbid humour. “Starscream has informed me that use of the Cortical Psychic Patch has proven effective on her in the past; however, Soundwave feels that a second Patch could possibly prove damaging, and we cannot risk whatever information she may carry.” Scarred lips pursed thoughtfully, and he turned, one brow ridge raised slightly, to consider the mech in front of him. “We’ll give her a chance to settle in – we are not without manners, after all – and then perhaps you can try your hand at persuading our guest to talk.” Breakdown swallowed against his dismay; Megatron gave a dry chuckle. “Undoubtedly your experience as both a Wrecker and a medic will be put to good use. I leave you to it.” And with that, the pewter mech left. Heavy pedesteps faded out into the hallways of the Nemesis, and Breakdown felt something cold and slimy settle in the pit of his tanks.
Funny how he had forgotten what guilt felt like.
Slowly, carefully, he walked over to the glowing bars of the cell and crouched, his processor racing and leaving his frame behind to mind itself. This was a mess, a terrible mess, a wrong mess… “I’m sorry.”
“If you were sorry you wouldn’t have let this happen,” came the immediate reply, still sharp and biting even from within the curl of limbs. “So don’t give me that scrap.”
His mouth opened briefly, even though he knew there was nothing in the world he could say to make this any better. She was right; he had finally screwed up enough to get someone killed, even if it was going to be eventual and not immediate. “I don’t…” He sighed, roughly scrubbing the back of his knuckles over the patch where is right optic used to be. “Tell me. Tell me what I should do.”
“Go back in time and let me get away before Starscream showed at the relic site,” she snapped bitterly, her helm still buried in the hollow where her crossed arms draped over her bent knees. “Do something besides freezing and looking mildly horrified. I know that turning on another Decepticon is risky, I appreciate the danger, but did you think I wouldn’t help?” Her winglets wilted ever-so-slightly. “It doesn’t matter; it’s too late for any of that, anyhow.”
‘Too late’: he simply hadn’t been able to make himself speak, to move his pedes fast enough or to bring his servos up to pull Starscream’s vice-like talons from around her shoulders (how lucky she was that the Seeker hadn’t seen fit to dig the sharp tips of his digits into her plating to make her stop struggling!). But it was also too late to accept all those offers to come back to the Autobots, all those forgiving servos that had been held out to him, invitations that he had been too complacent to accept. Not two weeks ago, hers had been the most recent offer; a plea for him to come back with her, and not for the first time. It was just the two of them that day, with no one to stop him; he couldn’t even remember whatever weak excuse he had given her for why it wasn’t going to work out. Maybe next time…?
He’d been the only one in danger then, the kind he’d known for most of his life, and so it somehow hadn’t seemed to matter all that much.
It was silent for a long while, the sound of their vents slightly ragged against the even hum of the cell bars. Finally, there came the soft shuffle of plating, and Breakdown looked over only to be met by a fierce, foxglove glare – bright and venomous.
“I’m not going to tell them anything, no matter what they have you do. You know that,” she said, her voice dangerously soft.
“I don’t doubt it,” he replied miserably.
“Then why don’t you just save us both the trouble,” she continued, “and skip to the end. I’ve been interrogated before; it doesn’t work on me very well, but I don’t particularly enjoy it either, and I’m guessing you could give it a pass yourself. So how about putting us both out of our misery and just—”
“Stop.” He couldn’t even look at her any more, too ashamed and too horrified to bear it any longer. Something inside of him twisted painfully at the irony of his begging her for mercy when he was hardly in a position to need it. “That’s not – Arcee please, I don’t think you –”
“What, you think I don’t want that?” She sighed suddenly, heavily, and her entire frame seemed to unspool, leaving her slumped against the cell wall with her legs in a loose crisscross and her arms resting limply at her sides. Lavender-tinged optics sought the ceiling. “Nobody wants to die, Breakdown, of course not. Not when they think about it. Most of the time, what they’re looking for is a reset-button.” She let her optics close as she settled further against the wall, winglets flattening against the slumbering ship’s lukewarm metal. “But right now I don’t really have a choice about dying, not when Death is keeping me company. And if that’s what I’m faced with, then… I’m sorry, but I’d rather not spend a lot of time suffering for other people’s poor decisions.” Her helm lolled slightly to one side, tension slowly easing out of her shoulders to be replaced with resignation. “I need… I just wanted you to give me an escape route…”
Breakdown shuddered, his gaze fixed helplessly on his trembling servos, and tried to focus… but his processor kept sliding away, playing unshot footage of the next few minutes, the next hour, the days and weeks ahead… how he knew she wasn’t going to tell them anything, just like he knew she wasn’t going to cry, or plead, or do anything but fix him with those bright, accusing optics that hadn’t left him the entire trip back to the Nemesis. If only he hadn’t been so slow to react… he buried his helm in his servos and tried not to think how he was left with a choice between the immediate and the inevitable, and how either one would haunt him regardless of his decision. There had to be a third door somewhere…
“Wait.” His quiet murmur bounced softly off the walls of the prison room like the slant of sunlight through a keyhole. “Wait, I know what we should do,” he whispered earnestly, moving from his crouch to sit down right next to the cell bars. “It’s going to work, too, because I can actually help – I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.”
“What,” she replied dully, unmoved by the sudden brightening of his tone.
“You want an escape? I’ll give you one – a literal escape. I’m going to break you out.”
“Pits of Kaon,” she said slowly, a grin beginning to form on her lips. “We’re both idiots. I’ll take your offer – help me off this smelted, Primus-forsaken barge.”
“Glad to be back in your good graces,” he laughed softly, relief trickling through his systems as he banished the dark visions of the once-definite future from his processor. “But keep it down. Soundwave uses the ship’s dormant neural network as part of his surveillance system. The walls literally have audials.”
Arcee snorted – a soft, amused sound – but shrugged her shoulders away from the cell wall anyhow. “I’ve never had inside help before,” she muttered, scooting over to sit directly beside him. “It’s going to take some getting used to.” The glowing bars between them lit her face with their sickly pink light as she tilted her helm back to speak nearly in his audial. “Really, I should have considered— well,” she amended, “maybe not. I know the frequencies to comm the Autobots for a rescue, but my personal line’s been jammed, and it’s not like I actually know where we are.”
“I can help you with that.” Maybe he’d used up all his chances, but at least there was one still left for her, and he wasn’t going to let it go to waste. Not this time. “I can get you to a comm station, and then hold off any response team long enough for you to contact the Autobots and send them the Nemesis’s coordinates.”
“Excellent.” A look of intense determination had replaced the burning apathy of minutes before as she rose up on her knees, servos subconsciously moving to clasp the bars of the cell before quickly dancing away as memory caught up to movement. “And you have easy access to those?”
“Yeah.” He nodded once, then again, vigorously. “Yeah, of course. I gotta be able to help bridge in miners. But listen,” he whispered, “we’re gonna have to wait until the night shift.”
The look on her faceplate was one of hesitant agreement. “I just want to know why.”
“There’s less guards, less foot traffic, and Starscream will definitely be in recharge. Probably Dreadwing, too. We’ve been on this planet for almost four years now; it’s hard not to let your recharge cycles match up with the rhythms of the planet.” He gave her a small, crooked smile. “Especially for Seekers, it seems.”
“Fair enough.” She sank back to sit on her heels. “It’s the same for us, so.”
“The chances of escape will be much better, and it’ll be easier to fend off the smaller teams.” Never mind the fact that, once she was safely off the ship and back with the Autobots, he would have to face the collective fury of the Decepticon Command Triad alone; right now he had a plan to fix this, and the opportunity to act on it. “We probably won’t be detected until you comm out anyway. You should be off the ship without too much trouble.”
“Sounds g—” She paused, her optics narrowing. “’We’. You mean ‘we’ should be off the ship.”
He frowned uncertainly. “I do?”
“Yes! What –” Her expression abruptly flattened out into a dreadful calm. “Breakdown. You actually thought—?” There was a moment as she studied his face. “You did. Primus in the Well…” One small pede slid gingerly between the cell bars and kicked him sharply in the thigh. “You’re coming with me, you idiot!”
“I—”
“No! You really thought I was just going to waltz off the ship without you? I—” She broke off, yelping, as her shin brushed against the bars with a crackle of static. Carefully the singed limb was slipped back into the cell to the tune of muttered curses, and she folded her legs beneath her with a sour expression. “I don’t leave people I care about behind; not if I can help it. And I told you, I’m well aware of what it can cost a Decepticon to turn on his faction, and there is no way in Pits I’m going to leave you to face that. It’ll be hard enough just getting a Groundbridge up here; why wouldn’t the Autobots take you after going to all that trouble to begin with?”
“That’s not quite what…” Breakdown attempted to gather his thoughts, still a bit startled by her outburst. “I figured you’d need a rearguard,” he concluded lamely.
“Rearguards can shoot while retreating,” she sighed exasperatedly. “And everyone will be there to help us.”
“Well, yes. I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking about it like that. But,” he added, holding out his servos placatingly, “it wasn’t anything about whether or not you cared; I just assumed we both thought that would be an acceptable risk.”
“It’s not,” she replied flatly. She looked up at him, expression torn between sympathy and frustration. “You really think you’re worth that little?”
He paused, considering, and after a moment said, “It’s more that… that I think you’re worth that much.”
Whatever words she’d had for him died on her lips, her winglets lowering to lie almost flush against her back as she struggled to look anywhere but at him. “Hardly,” she managed at last. “And I’ve come to realise that first-hand.”
Neither said anything for a while, and this time the silence grew long past the point at which it turned agonizing. Breakdown was the first to speak again.
“Since we have plenty of time while we wait…” Hoisting himself to his pedes, he carefully punched in the four-glyph access code, and the cell door opened. “You might as well let me look at that burn.”
“It’s fine.” Still, she scooted over to make room for him in the small cell. “I thought you said Soundwave was listening – this hasn’t exactly been sounding like an interrogation.”
“It won’t matter as long as we’re quiet.” He settled down across from her. “It’d be a few days before anyone started paying attention; no-one’s really interested in what would be going on at this point. Threats and intimidation,” he clarified when her helm tilted curiously to one side. “An offer to switch sides, maybe.”
“So that’s what ‘settling in’ is.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, then we’re right on track,” she muttered, stretching out her left leg for him to see. “I have a medkit, if you need it.”
Breakdown unsubspaced his own kit and bounced it lightly in his servo. “I’ve seen your lousy Autobot field kits. Mine has burn gel.”
“So do ours.”
“This kind is better.” Taking out the little ironglass container, he cupped her calf carefully in one palm, digits gently exploring the blackened edges of the burn on her shin guard. “Not too deep. It only looks bad – probably feels bad, too.”
She nodded, idly biting her lip but seeming otherwise unconcerned as she watched him work.
“Won’t be trying to kick me again anytime soon, I bet,” he remarked, scooping a generous dollop of clear, greenish goo out of the jar.
“I’ll kick you clean onto your aft, if you keep giving me this much trouble.”
“Can’t say I wouldn’t deserve it.” He carefully spread an even layer of the gel over the affected area with slow, smooth strokes. A moment of rummaging in his kit produced flexible repair mesh, which he began to wrap firmly over the treated burn. “Arcee…” He glanced up to find her optics on him, open and inquiring; he quickly looked back down at what he was doing. “I am sorry, you know.” He separated the roll of bandaging from the wrap and smoothed the self-sealing material together. “For all of it, not just what happened today.”
Her leg slid from his grasp, only to be replaced by one delicate servo. “Oh, Breakdown…” she sighed, brushing her free servo along the side of his helm. He caught it gently, digits still tacky with burn gel. “Of course I know,” she said softly, leaning in to let their forehelms gently rest against each other. “I know, and it’s all right.”
