DRABBLE: in which octane tags along with sandstorm WARNINGS: death mentions, violent beating, suicide ideation
Besides the rumble of the engines, Engineering was quiet. Usually Sandstorm was fine with that, but today it grated on his nerves. He was restless, and the stillness – broken only by the sounds of Runabout moving around as he worked – only made it worse. He had that familiar itch to do something exciting, and more than likely life-threatening. Knowing that that 'something' was going to happen to him, and soon, meant that the itch was nearly overwhelming.
Sandstorm clicked through the most recent diagnostics on his computer terminal. It was all the same as it'd been yesterday, and the day after that: navigations was shorted out, the engines were missing about 30% of their power-converting capacity, long-range communications were completely unavailable... he could fix most of this, if he had the parts he needed. Which, currently, he didn't. Thankfully Silverbolt had approached him with a solution for that particular problem yesterday; the system they were passing through had a moderately populated planet with one known city that might have a hardware shop. Sandstorm had recognized the name immediately, and had agreed to the mission, as he knew exactly where to go to get what they needed.
Hence the itch.
He exited out of the diagnostics program and stood up, pacing across to the other side of Engineering and then back again. At least if he had something to work on he could stand the wait, but without the parts he'd already done everything he could.
From his kneeling position next to an open panel on Sandstorm's left, Runabout looked up and watched him pace.
“Um, Sandstorm?” Runabout said tentatively. “The fuel gauge still needs rewiring--”
“Did that.” Sandstorm held his chin plate in his servo as he paced, optics fixed intensely on nothing.
“Well, uh, there's that surge in the life support systems--”
“Fixed that.”
Runabout dug around in his processor for something else they had yet to do. “The inner access tubes need cleaning?”
“Did that yesterday.” Sandstorm stopped and turned to Runabout, servos on his hip struts. “I get that you're trying to help, Runalong--”
“Runabout.”
“--whatever – but I've already done everything. At least, everything that wasn't on your list.”
“Oh, uh, well...” Flustered, Runabout searched for the tablet Sandstorm had given him with his to-do list on it. Sandstorm watched impatiently as he frantically looked for it, finally spotting it on the floor beside the last panel he'd been working on.
“I know there's something, let me just...” Runabout mumbled, almost to himself, as he flicked the tablet on. “Um...oh! I haven't recalibrated the targeting computer for the starboard laser cannon array yet?”
Sandstorm slapped his servos together, startling Runabout. “Now that's more like it! That I can actually do.” Given purpose, he moved around the room like a whirlwind, gathering various tools he'd need and shoving them into the toolcase he'd left by the main computer terminal. He could access the targeting computer circuitry from another area of the ship easily but instead he removed the panel in front of one of the starboard access tubes inside Engineering. Crawling through the ship's innards for a cycle or so ought to help the itch, at least for a little while. He was already three-quarters of the way inside, toolcase in servo, when he heard someone yell his name and tell him to wait.
He stopped, exasperated, and called over his shoulder, “I've got work to do, Runaround!”
“That's not his name.” Through the opening and above his own legs Sandstorm saw Octane crouch down to peer into the tube. “It's, uh, wait, don't tell me--”
“Runabout!”
“Yeah, that.”
Sandstorm frowned, and turned away. “I meant what I said. I've got work to do.” He started moving forward again. Octane hurriedly got down on his servos and knee struts and followed.
“I only need a klik,” Octane said conversationally, as if he wasn't currently picking his way through an access tube full of pipes and wires. Sandstorm vented a sigh and stopped again, twisting in the cramped space so he could face the 'Con.
“What do you want?”
“You're going to that planet tomorrow, right? Solari?” Octane sat with his legs crossed, helm bent because of the limited room, and still looked completely comfortable. “I'm coming with you.”
“What?” Sandstorm couldn't have heard right. “Wait a second, no, you can't be. I told Silverbolt I was going alone.”
Octane shrugged. “TC didn't think that was a good idea. I volunteered.”
“Who--” Then he realized. 'TC'. Thundercracker. “You volunteered? Why?”
“I wanted some time off this ship, honestly,” Octane replied. “And TC's gonna make us all go out on missions with you Autobots anyway, so I decided I wanted to pick who I got stuck with.”
“So you picked me.” The itch strengthened as he considered it. He really should go to Silverbolt and insist on going alone, but at the same time, bringing a second bot would make his plan a little more challenging, and though impractical, that in itself was alluring. What closed the deal was having a fall guy around, just in case. “I'm flattered, I think.”
“Well you are the only other triple-changer, so at least we'll have something in common.” Then Octane let his optics drift over Sandstorm in a way he didn't exactly try to hide. Sandstorm felt his circuits spark, his core temperature rising slightly.
“Hey. Stop that.” Sandstorm twisted in the tube, turning away from Octane. “If you insist on coming, then know we're leaving at first shift tomorrow. Make sure you're ready,” he called over his shoulder, already resuming his descent into the ship's interior. And though he shouldn't (with the itch clawing so insistently at him, that's probably exactly why he did it), Sandstorm made a point of giving Octane a spectacular view of his aft before turning a junction in the tube.
He regretted it later, once he was deeper inside the ship, maneuvering his way through tubing he knew almost as well as his own systems. He'd stopped playing that game long ago, and it bugged him that he had to be careful about it now because of a Decepticon. Most likely that was why it was so tempting.
It took him the better part of a cycle to reach the targeting systems by the starboard laser cannons, and another full cycle on top of that to recalibrate them. By the time he was done his health subroutines were blaring at him over his need for recharge, and he remembered vaguely that he hadn't gotten any for the last two days. He'd been too busy trying to bring this sad excuse for a ship back to working order.
Sandstorm lifted a servo to cover his mouth at the unwilling exvent that escaped him. It wouldn't hurt to just...lie down right here, he thought groggily, resting his helm in the crook of his arm, shifting so his turboprop rotors weren't pressing uncomfortably against the floor. He'd done this before, on other ships, and he found that for all its flaws, the Alpha Bravo's access tubes were actually among the most comfortable. He slipped into recharge thinking about installing a berth in here, where attractive Decepticons couldn't find him.
He awoke much later to a buzzing along his audio sensors, and as his CPU booted he slowly came to the realization that it was Silverbolt's voice.
“Sandstorm? Sandstorm, do you copy? Sandstorm--!”
Slag. “Copy,” Sandstorm said over the comm, voice still staticky from recharge. He pushed himself into a sitting position, his joints and exterior plating sore from being curled up in such a small space for so long.
“Where are you? I've been calling for kliks, you said you'd meet me on the bridge at first shift and it's almost a cycle past that.”
Sandstorm cursed again, then said reluctantly, “I'm...in access tube 4C. By the starboard targeting array.”
There was a pause. “...And how long will it take you to reach the bridge?”
“Ten kliks, tops.”
“Make it eight.” Silverbolt's voice was hard. “You had a responsibility, Sandstorm, and next time I expect you to take it more seriously.”
Sandstorm hissed as the comm cut off and grabbed his toolcase. This time it took him barely a klik to find the nearest access panel, and then he was jogging down the hall, weaving around two Decepticons walking the opposite direction. When he finally stepped through the doors to the bridge he was venting hard, fans whirring as they cooled his internal mechanisms. Silverbolt, Thundercracker and Octane were already there, along with one of Jetfire's hover trolleys. Thundercracker looked bored, Octane was playing with the trolley's remote and Silverbolt's optics on him were hard as stone, his arms crossed and posture rigid.
“Do you have everything you need for this mission?” Silverbolt asked. It took Sandstorm an astro-second to find the words for a response; he'd never seen Silverbolt so angry with him before. He honestly hadn't thought the Aerialbot was capable of it.
“Y-Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“Good.” Silverbolt activated his comm and, without further comment, said, “Bridge Octane, Sandstorm and the hover trolley to the planet's surface.”
Jetfire must have been standing by because the effect was instantaneous. Sandstorm's mood improved slightly as he was engulfed in blue light and his body was ripped apart into its basic elements. Jetfire's modified ground bridge was one of his greatest thrills. He didn't exactly know how it worked or what was going on but he did know that he was hurtling through space, completely out of control of his own self and the freedom was exhilarating. There was something about knowing how close he was from becoming a bunch of floating particles in space, that skirting along the fringes of death, that he couldn't get enough of.
As always it was over too soon and less than an astro-second later he was standing on the planet's surface, on the outskirts of Solari City (original) with his toolcase still clutched in his servo. Octane was standing nearby, next to the hover trolley. He grinned and shook his helm once they had both rematerialized.
“Where in the pit were you, dude?” he asked. “Bolt and TC got into some bragging fight and he was talkin' you up good so when you didn't show – frag, I thought he was gonna blow a gasket.”
Sandstorm couldn't meet his optic. “I, uh, fell asleep.”
“Really?” Octane snorted, then moved over to clap a servo on Sandstorm's shoulder. He didn't seem bothered when Sandstorm shrugged it off. “Don't worry, he'll get over it. C'mon. Let's get those parts you need.”
–
Solari City, despite the name, was extremely small; it would be more accurate to call it a border town than a city. It was made up of a cluster of buildings and structures surrounding an open-air market and surrounded by a dusty, flat savanna that a kilometer or so away edged into full-fledged desert. Despite its small size, though, the place was packed. It must have been some kind of hub for this section of the system. Octane had trouble guiding the hover trolley through the crowd of aliens they encountered as they moved further into the town, organic aliens and mechanical aliens and sometimes things that looked like both, or neither. He even spotted one or two Cybertronians, who disappeared as soon as they spotted the pair. They seemed to have a lot easier of a time than him navigating the masses; he had to work the trolley and simultaneously not step on anybody (why were organics always so small?). Sandstorm, meanwhile, was even more skilled at this than the random bots he'd seen. The Autobot weaved and slid through the throng so easily it almost looked like he was dancing.
“Been here before?” Octane asked, twisting to avoid a large beetle-like creature that snarled at him.
“A few times,” Sandstorm answered cryptically. Octane glanced at him out of the corner of his optics. This Autobot was turning out to be a lot more mysterious than he'd thought. It was kinda hot.
Sandstorm, clearly knowing where to go, led the way through the market to quieter streets on the other side. Octane was glad; the colors and sounds and the plethora of smells had been starting to make his processor ache. Out here, the crowds were thinner, meaning Octane was less likely to crush someone (which at that point he might have done on purpose). The buildings were also further apart, with wider alleys and even some courtyards dotted here and there. Octane spotted what was most likely the parts shop they were looking for – it was a low, wide building several blocks down with a junkyard behind it – and started toward it, but Sandstorm grabbed his arm and instead steered him down the next side alley across the street. Octane assumed he'd been wrong, except Sandstorm led them through the courtyards and paths behind this section of buildings until they were in another alley, this one directly diagonal from the junkyard and mechanic shop.
It was here, pressed against the stone wall of one of the buildings that framed the alley, that Sandstorm stopped. He tossed his toolcase into the hover trolley and peered out into the street, gesturing for Octane to stay out of sight.
“Why are you acting like you don't want to be seen?” Octane asked, keeping his voice low. From his position he couldn't see past Sandstorm at all.
“Because I don't.”
“Why not? This is the place we want, isn't it? Why don't we just go inside?”
“Because then they'll know I'm here.” Sandstorm cycled air through his vents. “Look, Octane, this isn't – there's a reason I wanted to go alone, and I haven't...I haven't really told you the truth about this mission.”
“Yeah, I'm getting that,” Octane said dryly.
“The thing is, we're here to scope the place out so we can break in later.”
Octane laughed. “You've gotta be kidding me, right? You're kidding.” Sandstorm wouldn't look at him, and he didn't say anything, either. Octane's laughter trailed off as a thrill shot through his circuits. “Okay, so you're not kidding. Why're we doing that?”
“'Cause we wouldn't let him in otherwise,” a deep voice rumbled behind them. Octane and Sandstorm spun around as one, Sandstorm drawing his blaster but it was shot out of his servo before he could pull the trigger. He hissed in pain while his blaster flew through the air and landed several meters away in the street.
“Nice to see you too, Blackjack.” Sandstorm managed to sound almost friendly. Meanwhile, Octane had his servos up in surrender.
“You never were too good at keepin' watch, were you?” the stranger said. He was a Decepticon, smaller and burlier than the two triple-changers, with black, yellow and purple plating. He was also pointing a very big gun at Octane, which was not a situation the latter really wanted to be in.
So he tried his usual tactic: talking his way out of it.
“Sorry about that,” he said sincerely. He heard Sandstorm shift behind him and willed him not to try anything else. “Autobots are always so 'shoot first, ask questions later', am I right? But otherwise, I think there's been a misunderstanding, so if you could just let us go--”
“He doesn't know, does he?” Blackjack asked, optics on Sandstorm. Octane couldn't see Sandstorm's expression but Blackjack gave an amused grunt. “You'll get plenty of time to tell him all about it when we go see Zabit.”
Zabit? Who in the pit was that? Octane knew better than to ask; it sounded like he was going to find out whether he liked it or not. His CPU was buzzing as Blackjack forced them out into the street. Octane and Sandstorm walked side by side, and he saw Sandstorm's optics dart toward where his fallen blaster lay in the dirt. Blackjack must have known what he was thinking because he pressed the barrel of his gun between the bases of Sandstorm's rotors until after they'd passed it.
“I remember your tricks, Wildcat, so don't even think about it.”
Octane carefully turned his helm, quirking an optic ridge at Sandstorm. “'Wildcat'?”
“Old nickname. One I always hated.”
When they reached the low building that housed the hardware shop Blackjack prodded Sandstorm in the back with his blaster. Sandstorm got the hint, reaching out slowly and pulling the door open, a door that was large enough for the three of them to fit through (though Octane and Sandstorm had to duck their helms) and then they were inside.
The front room was small, with shelves and tables placed haphazardly throughout the main area and strewn with different odds and ends, almost all mechanical in some way. Each part was labeled. Octane recognized at least three transformation cogs, two disembodied Cybertronian servos and a fuel intake among the lot; there were probably a lot more where that came from, and knowing that caused his anxiety protocols to hitch up into the red.
On the outside, though, he looked cool and collected. “I don't know what you did to get us in this mess,” he muttered to Sandstorm as they headed through another door, this one behind the front counter, that led to an even dingier back room. “But I'll get us out of it.”
“Not likely,” Sandstorm grumbled back.
“Stop here,” Blackjack ordered, and they did as they were told, knowing without seeing that Blackjack's blaster was still aimed at them. Octane glanced around as much as he could without moving his helm – this room looked almost the same as the front of the shop, but darker, and now there were boxes shoved under the tables that overflowed with parts. Each one was labeled in black, blocky letters. TRANSMISSION COILS. SHOCK PLUGS. PROCESSING UNITS. That one made the energon in his tank churn. There were a few doors set in the walls in addition to the one they'd come through, and Octane assumed they led to more storage or maybe even the junkyard itself. Without knowing the layout of the building his ability to come up with an escape route was severely impaired; no matter how much he'd wanted to at the time, now he seriously regretted volunteering for this mission.
They must have been expected because almost as soon as they entered the door on the opposite wall opened, and through it came two more bots, both sigil-less, and a blue-skinned organic about the size of a human, maybe larger, with four eyes and two thick, curved horns that extended out from its head.
“If it isn't our favorite Autobot!” The alien stood in front of the two mechs, arms crossed and fangs bared in a wicked sneer. “Been a while since we've seen you, eh? Not since Caldoor.”
“Yup, that sounds about right,” Sandstorm said idly, as if they were old friends talking about the weather, but Octane could see the tension in his frame, the way his plating clenched against his protoform, ready for a fight. Octane really hoped it wouldn't come to that; he was good with his mouth, not his fists.
“I caught 'em in the alley 'cross the street.” Blackjack poked Sandstorm with his gun again. “Apparently Wildcat here was thinkin' he could just break in while we were all sleeping and take whatever he wanted.”
The alien laughed, deep and cruel and sharp. That kind of villain laugh would make anyone else sound like a bolthead but Octane actually found that this time it was extremely intimidating.
“So what, ya thought you could just show up after all this time and steal from me? An' here I used to think you were the smart guy!”
“Are you the owner of this shop, then?” Octane interrupted, ignoring the sharp look Sandstorm gave him. The alien looked at him, nostrils flaring, the ring in his nose flashing in the ceiling lights.
“Who's this?”
“A Decepticon,” the mech on the alien's right answered. This one was a big grounder, taller but not wider than Blackjack, with black, purple and green plating. Octane's optics widened. He knew that color scheme, that build, he'd seen it before--
“Grave Digger?” he said, bewildered. Grave Digger snorted.
“The one and only.”
“And I'm guessing you're Zabit,” he said to the alien, who bared his fangs again, and looking to the last mech he added, “But I don't know him.”
“Her,” Sandstorm and the stranger corrected at the same time.
“That's Windsweeper,” Zabit said, bringing Octane's attention back to him. “And none of this answers my question.”
Sandstorm answered before Octane could even open his mouth. “Octane's not involved. You're pissed at me; don't take it out on him too. He doesn't know anything.”
He couldn't believe his audios. Octane stared at Sandstorm, surprised that the mech so insistent on avoiding him on the ship would risk his spark like this. His processor was also having difficulty acknowledging that an Autobot – mechs who thought, by alignment, that they were better than everyone else – would stoop so low as to work with shady characters like these. He would be angry about all of this later, no doubt, but right now his spark pulsed in admiration.
“It doesn't matter what he knows,” Zabit was saying as Octane came out of his thoughts. “He's with you. That's a death sentence all on its own.”
“If you don't mind,” Octane interrupted again, knowing he was pushing his luck this time because Blackjack's blaster was now poking him in the back, but carrying on anyway as he tried to keep his vocalizer from hitching at 'death sentence', “I do want to know what he did that's so terrible. If I'm going to be killed for something I had no part of I think I at least deserve to know what it was.”
“Why don't you tell him.” For the first time it was Windsweeper who answered. Her voice held a vehemence that surprised Octane and had Sandstorm wincing. “Tell him what you did to us, Wildcat. Go on.”
Sandstorm seemed to sag beneath that pressure, that responsibility, and despite his previous fear that was more terrifying to Octane than everything that had happened so far.
“We...were on Caldoor, a trade planet,” Sandstorm began monotonously. “I'd set up a meeting with a black market brain module dealer. Everything was fine until it turned out she was an undercover Federation agent – the Galactic Federation, I'm sure you've heard of it. When her cover was blown she started arresting everyone and I...bolted.”
“You left us for dead, more like,” Zabit hissed. Their four captors had gone past sarcastic mockery straight to vengeful rage; Octane's optics flicked from Grave Digger to Zabit to Windsweeper, and though he couldn't see Blackjack (who was still behind them) he could practically feel the same radiating from him, too.
“Two years in a Federation prison before we could get out; you know what that's like?” Grave Digger asked, voice dangerously low. Sandstorm didn't answer. Grave Digger took a step forward, then another, and before Octane could move Blackjack had put Sandstorm in an armlock so Grave Digger could punch him in the face. It was hard enough that Sandstorm staggered, but Blackjack's grip kept him from going anywhere. Grave Digger raised his fist to do it again but Octane, to Sandstorm's (and his own) very great surprise, stepped in between, servos up and palms out in a surrender gesture. Grave Digger froze, apparently too shocked to follow through, and Octane couldn't help the relieved, stuttered exvent that escaped him.
“Hey, hey! Let's not go overboard here!” He was shaking on his pedes but he was still able to slip into the calm persona that had gotten him out of so much trouble. “I get that you're all upset, I really do, but...it doesn't have to be like this.”
He heard Sandstorm behind him murmur, “Octane...” in a quiet warning. He ignored it, too focused on the fist Grave Digger still held poised in the air. The others were watching, Zabit unable to keep a pleased smirk off his face, and Windsweeper's optics were on Sandstorm. Octane felt an awkwardly-timed pang of jealousy.
“I'm sure we can reach some kind of agreement,” Octane's vocalizer went on, working despite the turmoil in his processor. “We can pay for what you lost, a compensation for the time you were in jail, we've got plenty of credits--”
“This was never about the money!” Windsweeper snapped and Octane immediately knew he'd said the wrong thing. Grave Digger punctuated the realization by shifting gears and sinking his servo into Octane's lower abdomen, making the triple changer choke out a gasp in pain and shock. He heard Sandstorm yell his name.
When he ended up kneeling on the floor, servo over the now-dented plating of his midsection, Zabit stepped forward. Grave Digger lifted his fist again and Octane involuntarily winced, making Zabit let out a harsh laugh.
“Looks like you found someone just as weak and cowardly as you, Wildcat!” Zabit grinned up at Grave Digger, who traded his servo for a swift kick to Octane's shoulder. Octane just barely managed not to fall over, biting back a yelp while his fight-or-flight protocols screamed at him that he needed to get out now right now but then Grave Digger was hauling him to his pedes, pinning his servos behind his back. Octane had an uncomfortable flashback to Tracks doing the same thing just a few weeks ago.
“Lock that one up,” Zabit ordered. He was beaming now, face split nearly in half with the ferocity of his smile. “I've got a few more things to say to our old friend here.”
Grave Digger dragged Octane backwards out of the room, and he didn't protest or try to fight back. He knew better than that. He offlined his optics as they passed through one of the side doors, unable to look as Blackjack picked up where Grave Digger left off, but he could still hear it and the sounds of metal scraping across metal jarred him to the core.
–
They didn't let Sandstorm go for a full cycle, though it felt more like an eternity. After Grave Digger took Octane away Blackjack happily replaced him, driving his servos and pedes into Sandstorm's plating over and over, each gasp or hiss of pain earning him an even harsher blow. He could feel Windsweeper's optics on him the whole time, yet she never said anything, which made it worse; he had thought she'd be the most understanding of the four, but she hadn't even asked to hear his side of the story. He'd wanted her to be the voice of reason that gave him the chance to explain...and she hadn't. None of them had. He wondered, dimly, through a haze of pain as Grave Digger returned and kicked him in abdomen, what had happened to them in that Federation prison. They'd never been this cold, or this cruel. At least not where he’d seen it.
Eventually Zabit said, “Enough,” and the two mechs backed off. Sandstorm weakly lay on the floor, frame crumpled and dirty from the assault, and when he tried to pick himself up Blackjack and Grave Digger unceremoniously grabbed him and dragged him away.
He knew where they were taking him. He'd seen it often enough when he used to come here. The huge metal cage they brought him to was in the middle of the garage, which was otherwise packed full of useless junk piled around the room in seemingly random mounds. Octane was already inside, sitting defeated against the side that bordered the back wall, and he looked up when they pushed Sandstorm in with him.
“We'll be back for you tomorrow,” Grave Digger said icily, shoving Sandstorm through the cage door and locking it behind him. “You had great timing, for once; this guy's all about Cybertronian parts. Especially when they're fresh.” Grave Digger's low laugh followed him all the way out of the room.
For the next few cycles Sandstorm didn't say anything. With his servos bound behind his back (the same way Octane's were) it was difficult to get comfortable, especially now that his entire exterior hurt and groaned in protest whenever he moved. Finally he found a position sitting against one side of the cage that didn't leave him in total agony. Octane said his name a few times, though he didn't try to come over; and Sandstorm didn't blame him. He'd gotten Octane, a bot he barely knew, into this mess, and he wouldn't be surprised if Octane hated him for it. Pit, he expected him to. Maybe then at least he'd stop trying to be friends.
Sandstorm rested his helm gingerly against the chain links of the cage. The itch he'd been so obsessed with scratching had been replaced by a dull ache in his spark. Getting caught like that, seeing how venomous Windsweeper was toward him now...it had affected him much more strongly than he could have anticipated. He didn't know what he was going to do, how he could get them out, and he didn't bother trying to think of something. He let himself wallow in it instead because, if he was completely honest, he deserved this. He had abandoned them on Caldoor to save his own spark. As he sat there, pain pulsed along his circuits from his wrecked plating and snapped wires, which made basking in self-pity extremely easy.
Eventually he heard Octane get up, and when he onlined an optic he saw the Decepticon settling beside him, moving a lot easier with bound servos than Sandstorm ever could.
“You look like you just went three rounds with Devastator, dude,” Octane said, sitting close enough that his pauldrons were almost touching Sandstorm's shoulders.
Sandstorm snorted and offlined his optic again. “Thanks.”
“What was up with you and that one bot, uh, Windcharger?”
“Windsweeper.” He exvented slowly. “We were...close. Sort of. Could have been close. I don't know.”
“Let me guess,” Octane supplied. “You pushed her away like you're always pushing me away, right?”
Ouch. “I-”
“Don't you even try to say you don't. I'm here because of you, so you don't get to lie.”
“Okay, okay! Yeah, that's....yeah. Basically.”
“Thought so.” Octane was silent for a klik, then asked, “How did an Autobot end up working with smugglers anyway? And remember, no lying.”
Sandstorm shifted uncomfortably, hissing at the spike of pain through his systems the movement caused. He onlined his optics and glanced over at Octane, who was watching him.
“Fine. The truth.” They were gonna be scrapped in the morning anyway, so what did it matter? And he was tired of hiding it. “I thought the Autobots would be exciting. See new places, do new things, you know the drill. And then I actually went into the war and instead it was....painful.” No, okay, maybe he wasn't ready to talk about that just yet. “Painfully boring. So I started doing some freelance work.”
Octane scoffed. “You thought war was boring?” He sounded like he didn't really believe Sandstorm but he didn't press, so Sandstorm went on.
“You can only kill so many 'Cons before it gets old.” He looked away from Octane. “Sorry.”
“Keep going. How'd you end up with this crew? Why'd you ditch 'em on Caldoor? I don't know you all that well but that doesn't sound like something you'd do.”
“I met Grave Digger on a job, and he said he liked my style, so I agreed to come work for him. That's when he started calling me 'Wildcat', 'cause he said I would always pounce on any chance of a headrush.” Sandstorm unconsciously pulled a face. “Worst nickname ever. As for Caldoor...” The memories resurfacing were ones he'd tried to ignore for years, and it took his vocalizer a few tries and false starts to work properly.
“It was a standard job. Get in, make the deal, get out. I was on lookout duty, and when I heard it start going south, saw the GF ship comin' in, I panicked. Getting stuck in a Federation prison is one thing; I was an Autobot. Once I got out, I'd be heading right for an Autobot court marshal.” He shook his helm. “I couldn't do it, so I took the opportunity and I ran. Once I'd calmed down I tried to come back for them but by then it was too late.”
Octane let out a low whistle. “Damn. That sure is a story.”
Sandstorm shrugged. “That's why they're gonna scrap us tomorrow. Because I left them for dead.”
“Is this why you're all mopey all the time?” Sandstorm's helm jerked up sharply; he looked for some hint of a joke but Octane wasn't smiling. “One, they're not dead, in case you haven't noticed, and they need to cool it. Two, you were gonna have it worse if you got caught with 'em, right? I've heard stories of Autobot prisons. Those pitcrawlers are whining about a two-year sentence – Autobots throw you away for life.”
Sandstorm frowned. “It doesn't--”
“You did what you had to do to survive. They knew the risks of this business going in. And can you really say none of 'em wouldn't have done the same thing if they could've?”
“I-” He'd never thought about it that way. “Huh.”
“Yeah, you know I'm slagging right.” Octane tilted his helm thoughtfully, then added, “This is the longest you've ever talked to me.”
Even in his state, Sandstorm chuckled. “Don't really have a choice, do I?”
“No, there's more to it than that.” Octane caught his gaze and held it, red optics burning so intensely Sandstorm couldn't pull his own away. “You pulled this on Windsweeper too, you said so. The cold shoulder. The avoiding. No wonder she hates you so much.” Sandstorm flinched, but Octane pressed on.
“That means the mope didn't start with this whole Caldoor thing, doesn't it. It goes back further than that; and don't think I haven't noticed that you don't talk to anybody else on the Alpha Bravo, either. Why?”
Of all the thoughts he'd had about Octane, he'd never imagined the 'Con would be so sharp. He was getting dangerously close, too close.
“I already gave you my backstory,” Sandstorm snapped. “What more do you want?”
“And I already told you – the truth. Tell Doc Oc what ails you.”
That caught him off guard, and he couldn't help himself; Sandstorm snorted. “Octane--”
“Come on! You said it yourself, you don't have a choice. You owe me. Now tell me why you're so against making friends.”
“That's not what I meant,” Sandstorm protested, but Octane was staring him down, and he felt his resolve weakening. Primus, he was really going to talk about this. His vocalizer felt like it was encased in rust, glossa turned to lead in his mouth. He forced some fluid down his throat to lubricate them, then sucked in a deep intake. “It's because—because friends die, Octane. We're in a war, remember? Friends get shot up left and right until there aren't any friends anymore, and it's just you. You're better off not bothering in the first place.”
Octane didn't say anything, and when the silence stretched too thin Sandstorm glanced over to see Octane staring at him.
“Pit, that's it?” Octane said so suddenly that Sandstorm jumped, pain rocketing up his circuits at the sudden movement. The 'Con, meanwhile, cycled air through his vents and shook his helm. “That's why you're on this 'suicidal loner' thing?”
“Suicidal--?”
“Oh come on, you can't fool me! You became a smuggler because you said the war was too 'painful' (and I knew you didn't actually think it was boring) and then you come here knowing exactly what was gonna happen, you knew these people hated you and would probably catch you--”
“I didn't—”
“And then you didn't even tell me and got me caught up in it too! All because you lost a few friends! We've all lost friends, Sandstorm; we're in a war. I've lost more friends than I want to think about but you don't see me pushing everybody away and going off like a loose cannon!”
“I'm not you!” Sandstorm shot back but Octane went on as if he hadn't said anything.
“And now I'm gonna get scrapped because you were too busy feeling bad for yourself to even tell me you planned on walking us straight into a death trap!” Octane exvented heavily, optics blazing more of a yellow than red in his anger. Sandstorm withered under that gaze, any strength to argue with gone.
“I wasn't gonna take you with me,” he mumbled, staring at the floor. “I was planning on knocking you out and going alone.”
Octane took a klik to process that. “Oh,” he said finally. Some of the anger evaporated. “Still. You should've told me.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry.” He felt Octane watching him, and squirmed until he finally looked up and blurted, “What?”
“That's kinda sweet. That you were gonna knock me out to save me.” Octane grinned. “Rude as slag, but sweet. Here. I know what we should do – I'll make you a bet.”
Sandstorm's optics narrowed. This conversation had already been a rollercoaster ride of topics and now he felt like he was reaching the top of the last peak, about to plunge down into an unknown hell.
“A bet.”
“Yup. Here's how it works. If I get us out of here, you have to stop avoiding me. Let me befriend you.”
Sandstorm turned away. “Octane....”
“If you get us out of here,” Octane said over him, “I'll leave you alone and stop trying. Deal?”
There was no way they were getting out of this, he thought. He didn't know what Octane was trying to pull but he did know that. Still...if this was how the 'Con coped with imminent death, he guessed the least he could do was play along.
So he vented a sigh and said, “Deal.”
“Good.” Octane patted him on the shoulder. Sandstorm stared in disbelief. “Because I've got a plan.”
“How did you--”
“They've been jamming our comms since we got here; I can't reach the Alpha Bravo at all. We should get a signal once we get outside though.” Octane pushed himself to his pedes, then leaned down and grabbed Sandstorm gently by the arms, pulling him up too.
“When did you get loose?” Sandstorm asked, dumbfounded, as Octane unbound his servos.
“Few kliks after they threw me in here. I was gonna tell you earlier, but you were pretty beat up, and then you sat there pouting forever.”
“Hey--”
“So we gotta be quick, 'cause we only got a few more cycles before they come for us.” Octane was already moving to the cage door. It was almost as tall and wide as one of the cage faces, and was locked with a huge, complicated-looking padlock. Octane licked his lip plates and pressed the middle joint of one of his digits. Out of the end popped an equally complex tool.
“A CR 3700. Haven't seen one of these babies in a while,” Octane commented as he stuck the tool through the chain links and into the lock.
Sandstorm stared. “You have a lock picking kit in your servo?”
“'Course I do. How else am I gonna get myself out of slag like this?”
Sandstorm shook his helm, an unbidden smile crossing his features. “You're astounding.”
“I'm good in the berth, too,” Octane said, glancing back to give Sandstorm a saucy wink. Sandstorm felt his fans kick on at the unexpected surge of heat in his systems.
“I said I'd be your friend, Octane. Not berthmate. Remember?” But the smile grew. “So what's this plan of yours?”
“Well,” Octane replied, still working on the lock, “First we get out of this cage. Then we grab as many parts as we can carry – that blockhead Blackjack left the hover trolley in that alley, so we can put 'em in there once we get outside and until then we can carry it all in our cockpits.”
“You forgot to mention how we're getting outside,” Sandstorm prompted. “We can't exactly walk out the front door.”
“Oh, I know.” Octane stopped for a moment so he could point at something leaning against the adjacent wall. It was partially obscured by a junk pile. “We're gonna use that.”
Sandstorm's optics widened as he realized what it was. “Oh, no,” his mouth said, even as the thud of his spark and the crackling along his circuits brought that itch roaring back to life saying oh, yes.
Octane beamed. “Told you I had a plan.”
–
It took a few more kliks for Octane to pick the lock but it was worth it when it finally unlocked, falling to the floor, and Octane pushed the cage door open as Sandstorm breathed, “Incredible.” Octane grinned at him. He was still pretty pissed that the Autobot had gotten him into this in the first place, but it was hard to stay mad when Sandstorm's reasons for keeping his distance were so sad. And the fact that Sandstorm kept complimenting him in that awed, almost reverence way. He only hoped his plan worked so they'd live long enough for Sandstorm to keep doing it.
“Okay, now we grab the parts.” Octane looked over to see that Sandstorm was already off, making a beeline across the garage to one of the mounds nearby.
“If Zabit's organizational system is still the same, I should be able to find what we need.” Sandstorm was frowning as Octane caught up to him. “But we're only going to be able to grab the parts for fixing the navigations system, and maybe a few things for the long-range comms.”
“Hey, that's still something.” Octane looked down at the parts Sandstorm was already holding. He had no idea what they were. “You can't have thought you'd be able to steal much more than that.”
“To be honest, I hadn't really thought that far ahead.” Sandstorm gave a worryingly pained laugh. “Alright, let's do this. We don't have any time to waste.”
Sandstorm pointed out everything he wanted Octane to grab, and apparently Zabit's system hadn't changed at all because it didn't take them long to find everything they needed. Their cockpits were stuffed uncomfortably full of sharp metallic things but they wouldn't have to suffer long. If they got out of here, anyway.
Once they had everything Octane led the way over to what he'd noticed earlier, the thing upon which their whole escape depended: a huge, admittedly slightly rusted, Draxian fireworks setup with at least half of the rockets still attached. Between the two of them they were able to carefully lift the array and carry it closer to the center of the room, directly beneath the weakest area of the ceiling above them. Octane pulled out a working igniter he'd found amidst the junk.
Sandstorm was eyeing the rockets, expression halfway between distrust and excitement. “You really think this is gonna work?”
“Draxian fireworks are some of the most powerful explosives in the galaxy.” Octane knelt by the fuse that connected all of the rockets. “It should be fine. And you, uh, might wanna step back.”
Sandstorm immediately backed away a few meters. “But what if they're duds?”
“Then we're slagged.”
“Hey!” Both helms whipped toward the door, which was now occupied by a very angry looking Blackjack. “What do you two think you're doing?!”
Octane and Sandstorm exchanged looks. Octane lit the fuse.
An instant later, the world exploded.
Three of the rockets, it turned out, were duds. The rest burst free of the array, shattering the old rusted frame and peppering Octane with metal scraps as he tried to get out of the way. Blackjack was already running toward them when the rockets hit the ceiling and went off, blowing a hole in the stone that had much more dangerous debris raining down on the three bots below. The garage was full of sound and color as the fireworks that hadn't fired quite straight ricocheted off walls and shelves, screaming from one end of the room to the other, trailing smoke and fire in their wake. Those that had hit the ceiling bloomed and overlapped to fill the space with sparkling, shining tendrils of glitter. Between that and the dust and rock falling from above it was difficult to see anything at all. Amidst the chaos Octane thought he heard Sandstorm shout, “Octane, transform!” and he did, hardly able to tell where he was going but knowing that up meant out and heading in that direction. As a cargo aircraft Octane rose, grateful for his vertical take-off feature even as debris pinged off his exterior. He ascended as quickly as he could and though his wing tip scraped painfully across the jagged edge of the hole they'd created he didn't care because that meant he was free, they were free, rising into the air above the junkyard.
The comms must have been working again because his crackled into life as Sandstorm said, “Forget the hover trolley! It's got a tracker so we can bridge it back with us. I'm getting us out of here now!” And there he was, Octane saw, ascending just as steadily as Octane, a magnificent twin-rotored helicopter of some human design – but better.
When Octane noticed the blue light beginning to surround them, even as someone below started shooting at them, the laser bursts barely missing his left tail fin, Octane thought he could cry. They'd done it; they'd actually escaped. He started laughing, he couldn't help it, and when they rematerialized in the storage bay he was still laughing as he transformed back to robot mode.
“Holy frag.” Sandstorm was standing nearby, also in robot mode again. “It worked.”
Octane pulled himself together, wiping at the energon leaking from his optics. “I told you, didn't I? I told you it'd work!”
“What in the pit happened to you two?” They both looked over to see Thundercracker and Silverbolt standing by the hover trolley. Silverbolt was staring at Sandstorm, and Thundercracker's optics were on Octane. Thundercracker gestured at the hover trolley.
“And where are the parts we sent you to retrieve?”
“We got 'em. Well, most of them.” Octane went to the trolley, emptying his cockpit of its contents. Sandstorm came up beside him and did the same. In the bright lighting of the storage bay, Sandstorm looked even worse – Octane felt like he could see every dent in the Autobot's plating, every trickle of energon from a broken wire in his face. Octane felt a twinge of something he couldn't describe.
“Sandstorm, you look like you got in a fight with a sparkeater and lost,” Silverbolt commented, unable to hide the worry in his tone. “I want you to see Ambulon immediately. Octane can take this to Engineering.”
Sandstorm immediately protested. “Silverbolt, I'm fine, really--”
“I'll make sure he gets there safe,” Octane interrupted, putting a servo on Sandstorm's shoulder. Silverbolt looked at him like he was seeing Octane for the first time. Octane grinned first at him, then Thundercracker. Neither captain smiled back.
“I expect a debriefing when you're done,” Thundercracker said firmly. Octane nodded, now grinning as though his lip plates were stuck that way. He began steering the still-protesting Sandstorm (and the hover trolley) out of the storage bay.
“That goes for you too, Sandstorm!” Silverbolt called after them. Sandstorm cut off his own indignant objections to give an exasperated exvent.
Once they were in the hall, Octane kept careful but firm pressure on Sandstorm's shoulder while they walked.
“You can let go of me now, you know.”
“Nope, no can do. If I let go you'll head straight for Engineering and not see our friendly neighborhood medic.”
Sandstorm groaned and pushed Octane off. “Like I told Silverbolt, I'm fine.”
“Yeah, sure you are. That's definitely why you're limping and leaking energon from more cuts than I can count. Because you're fine.” Sandstorm scowled, but Octane was right. Some of the wounds inflicted by Zabit's people had opened again in their escape, and he couldn't put his full weight on his left pede. Octane watched him for a klik, growing serious.
“I mean it. I'm taking this stuff back to Engineering and you're going to see Ambulon.” This time he gently put an arm around Sandstorm's shoulders. “I'm your friend now, you have to listen to me.”
“No, actually, I don’t,” Sandstorm grumbled with a shake of his helm, but Octane saw the way his lip quirked at the corner. Octane, meanwhile, was beaming.
“Ah, but you didn't deny it! We're friends now.”
“But why?” This time Sandstorm was the one who brought the joking mood back down. “Why do you want to be my friend so badly?”
That was a loaded question. Octane mulled it over, then gently patted Sandstorm's opposite arm.
“Because you need at least one friend to keep you from pulling stunts like that.”
To Octane’s surprise, Sandstorm actually chuckled. “Just know I'm doing this only because I lost the bet,” he shot back, without any heat. His plating, in contrast, was warm beneath Octane's digits, and Octane couldn't keep from being disappointed when they reached the medibay a klik later.
“Still counts.” Octane dropped his arm as Sandstorm reluctantly moved toward the medibay door. “Oh, and Sandstorm?”
Sandstorm stopped and looked back. “What?”
“When you're done in there, and when you're done talking to Silverbolt, don't go to Engineering. Meet me in the mess instead; we're having lunch.”
Sandstorm laughed again, shaking his helm, and though he didn't say anything else before entering the medibay he definitely didn't say no. Once he was alone Octane gave a little fist pump of triumph.
“Looks like my advice worked.” He straightened, embarrassed to realize that he hadn't actually been alone as Flatline came down the hall from the opposite direction. Octane cleared his intake.
“Yeah, it did. Thanks.”
“Sure, sure.” Flatline pulled his e-cigarette away from his faceplate hatch and blew out a puff of pink smoke. “Just don't mess it up, huh? I don't want you bothering me about this every other week.”
“Please.” Octane started back down the way he'd come, hover trolley in tow. He was riding a high that even Flatline's pessimistic sense of humor couldn't ruin. Around his pauldrons he glanced back and said, “Everything's gonna go awesome. You'll see!”