Disclaimer: do not own Transformers.
Summary: Oneshot, Armada, minicons-centric. They would still rather be children's toys, to be used and to be discarded, than be tools of titans.
Rating: K+
Use and Discard
Rad, Carlos, and Alexis bring them home when they can. High Wire and Sureshock and Grindor like it when they do. Though the humans are alien, the minicons feel more at home in their little human-houses than they ever have at any Autobot base.
High Wire has never seen living quarters quite like Rad's before. Even the messiest of Autobots—like Hot Shot—had at least some order in the room. It was a consequence, after all, of being a soldier in an eons-long war.
But Rad's isn't like that. It is, in a word, chaos.
There are posters around, slowly making a transition from bubbly cartoon characters to frankly scary-looking human singing groups. There is clutter on the desk where Rad attempts to do homework, scribbles and equations overlapping with the clumsy drawings and photos. There are miscellaneous electronics around, tools and half-finished projects. Somewhere beneath the pile of blankets and clothes is a bed where Rad recharges.
And in a small corner of the room are worn picture books and outgrown clothes and toys, many toys, old and broken and forgotten.
It is the room of a child who is growing out of being a child.
High Wire likes it when Rad is around. The human boy laughs with him, plays games with him, shows him things on the computer and shows him how to work the television. He makes a space for him in a room that had always been his, pulling out a spare bed even though High Wire had tried to explain that minicons don't need to sleep quite like humans did.
He likes it when Rad is around. He likes it when Rad plays with him.
He and Sureshock and Grindor like it when the kids take them places, like the old bike trial behind the house they swear is haunted. They like taking the kids places, hearing them laugh as they try to outrace each other for the sake of hearing their laughter at the speed.
High Wire is so excited at those times. It's like he can't stay still. He wants to be alive. He wants to be real.
But when Rad goes away, High Wire doesn't do anything. He just sits there, in the little pile, with the rest of the toys.
He sits there now, hoping that Rad will come back.
He sits there now, thinking, feeling sorry for himself and for the other toys.
He has no other purpose.
If he thinks about it—if he thinks about it truthfully—High Wire realizes that, at some level, the minicons are objects, really. Without personality or names that distinguish one from the other. The Autobots are the stars of this particular reality show. The humans are the distraction—they make everything seem okay. But the minicons? They are the sidekicks, the supporters—their use lies only to be upgrades for the Autobots or the Decepticons, whichever side gets them first.
What is their purpose? The Decepticons have conquest and power; the Autobots have peace and order. And even the humans had an answer, this strange thing called"42,"even if no one could understand it.
But what was the purpose of the minicons? They could not fight on their own. They could not even flee from those who pursue them.
Who is there to love them?
The minicons were not made out of love. They were made to fulfill a purpose.
The Autobots are okay, in their own way. But even they can fall. Even they.
Who were Dirt Boss, Downshift, and Mirage to them? Dirt Boss, who sang badly, Downshift, who took things too seriously, and Mirage, quiet, shy, little Mirage who spoke volumes in few words. But no, for the Autobots, for the moment, they were only the Skyboom Shield.
And Jetstorm, Runway, and Sonar? Just the Star Saber.
And Astroscope, Payload, and Sky Blast? Just the Requiem Blaster.
It seems that, most of the time, to the Autobots, the minicons are merely the sum of their parts. Useful upgrades that happened to have the added bonus of having their own, little, cute, obedient minds.
It's better than working for the Decepticons…at least, that's what they like to think. At least here they have the freedom of thought and action.
At least here, they can pretend to have a purpose.
So yes, the minicons aren't exactly overjoyed with the Autobots. But the humans aren't their saviours, either.
In fact, High Wire and Sureshock and Grindor may actually hate them.
No, hate is too strong a word. And the minicons, in general, don't really feel strongly about anything. They do not hate, and they do not love.
It's not in their programming. It is not in their purpose.
But still, they hate them. But still, they love them.
They love the human children. They love Rad and Alexis and Carlos. They love them because they laugh with them and play with them, they love them because they show them places and tell them stories, they love them because they are their best friends, if only for the moment.
They hate the human children because they forget too easily. They hate them because they looked at the Autobots with stars in their eyes, because they forget their own strengths. They hate them because they forget their loved ones with the passing of something as minor as time. They hate them because they act like you are their most cherished possession, only to discard you in favour of the next toy.
Even living beings are like toys to them.
Even other humans are like toys to them.
Rad comes home, and High Wire tries to forget. He tries to be happy again. He tries to fool himself that he has a purpose.
When Rad falls asleep, High Wire climbs into bed with him, replacing the old stuffed teddy bear that Rad's pre-pubescent pride won't allow him to take out of the closet.
He and the others may actually love humans.
He and the others may actually hate humans.
They hate them because, at the end of the day, they may or may not come back to them, and they would never know how cruel they had been in forgetting them. They seem incapable of it.
But still…High Wire thinks unhappily as he curls up a little tighter, as he goes limp in the warm human child's arms, as he tries to be the best toy he could be. But still…
They would rather have the bedtime stories, though they would inevitably get shorter and shorter until the kids grew too old for that sort of thing, than battle schematics. They would rather have the pointless trips that were too short and lead nowhere than to be taken to see the farthest corners of the galaxy. They would rather plan for mischief, quick, innocent mischief, than for mayhem.
They would rather belong to the human children, the cruel and kind and thoughtless human children, than to bow to those who have been and still are called gods.
They would still rather be children's toys, to be used and to be discarded, than to be the powerful, the abused, the cherished, the obedient little tools of titans.