Disclaimer : I don't own Transformers. That awesometastic franchise is owned by HasTak or whatever the heck they're calling themselves today.

Credits : In this story I will be referencing Bumblebee's origins as developed by Karategal in her stories, as well as the destruction of the Youth Sectors, coined as 'Floatila' by Lady Tecuma in 'Sparks and Plasma'. I will also be using the concept of 'carrying' as developed by Litahatchee in her story 'Night Fire', as well as referencing her depiction of the Floatilla Massacre. These ideas are used with permission. If you wish to use them, do not ask me. You must obtain permission from these authors. That said, I reccommend that you read each and every story mentioned here, especially if you're a fan of Ironhide/Chromia, sparklings in general, or Bumblebee.

File Recovery

Chapter Seven - Semblance

He sat on the tiles, watching the sluggish swirl of soupy sediment inching towards the drain. Every so often it would receive an added boost of fluid, pushing it further towards the grate, which was nearly clogged with sludge and bits of debris. All of it had come from him, flushed from the crevices beneath his armor and scrubbed off of the top. Decaying, stringy pieces of blackish carbon, the source of most of the stench, and heaps of mineral laced muck, all organic, all evidence to describe exactly what kind of planet they were on. The worst were the calcium deposits that had adhered themselves to nearly every available surface.

Those had taken a pressure hose on the highest setting to get the majority of them off, and even then, they left oddly shaped blotches on his armor that made his sensors itch.

He'd been let off the table and allowed time to ingest a cube of energon, before being taken into the medical washroom. Half carried, half staggered, half dragged. With his leg missing, he had to lean on his brother, but his size had caused an unbalance in Optimus's equilibrium. His brother had stumbled, and the medic had moved in to assist, though he could tell by the green mech's grip that he'd been reluctant to come near him with his limbs free.

He had tried desperately not to look at himself, afraid of what other changes there might have been to his frame. However, some things could not help but make themselves obvious, such as his size. He was a full meter larger, his frame adjusted to compensate for added mass. Exactly what kind of mass he wasn't certain, but given the evidence at the end of his own arm, he could hazard a guess. A short review of all his currently disabled subsystems confirmed his suspicions.

The list was far longer than he had expected.

He raised his gaze off the floor, turning towards his brother, ready to ask-but stopped.

Weaponry, inbuilt or otherwise, was meant to be used.

He had used them.

He had used them and one of his brother's greatest friends was dead because of it. And though by now he was positive that Jazz was not the only casualty, he couldn't wrap his processor around it.

Shuttering his optics, he fought to keep from twitching involuntarily as his brother moved on to clean another panel on his back. However, some of the cleaning fluid seeped down the wires dangling from his shoulder, stinging the ends. He winced, half raising arm off the floor to grab at it before gravity decided to remind him why he'd been bracing it against the floor. He started to fall back, but luckily Optimus moved in and grabbed his uninjured shoulder so he could regain his balance.

His brother pushed him back up, keeping a hand steady on his shoulder until he was once again propped up on his good arm.

"How many more have I killed?"

Optimus didn't answer right away, though the grip on his shoulder tightened imperceptibly. He knew it was the wrong question to have asked when the bond constricted, almost twisting shut again. A short wave of tangled emotions leaked through, so brief he couldn't decipher them all. He caught grief, guilt, and again that underlying anger that sent a chill through his neural network.

When the reply finally came, it was in a measured tone, unwavering, controlled.

"You don't want to know that."

"No," he agreed after a moment, bowing his head. "No, I don't."

Too many.

So many that enumeration was difficult, if not impossible.

His frame suddenly felt heavier, shoulders pulled down as if a weight greater than the adjustments that had already been inflicted to his armor had been placed there. He recalled the pain he'd felt break through the bond earlier, when he'd asked his brother if the recovery of his memories would make Optimus hate him.

His brother had never hated him.

He didn't doubt it. He'd felt anger and sadness through their link, suspicion and pain, but not one of those emotions held a single drop of hate. He wasn't certain that, if the situations had been reversed, he would feel the same.

Optimus was better than him; he'd known it for the longest time.

His brother was better at interacting with others, making friends easily, always managing to say all the right things. Empathy, the intellectual identification with the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another. Optimus was empathy personified, caring about everyone, no matter who it was, and responding in kind. He had, on occasion, been jealous of that trait, envy stemming from admiration.

He'd wanted to be like his elder sibling, had tried and failed to find anyone outside of his brother who'd wanted to interact outside of a professional basis that he could tolerate. Mainly those who wanted any interaction at all were femmes, pretending to listen, but all the while scheming. They'd desired him for his station, not for himself.

He knew his brother was victim to them as well, though it always hurt Optimus more when he discovered that each date was just another trap. He hated seeing and feeling his brother's disappointment after each attempt. He'd grown to hate official functions and ceremonies, and the socialite femmes that frequented them in the hopes of bedding either one of them.

Optimus always gave them the benefit of a doubt, whereas he'd given up on it.

"How was your date?"

"What?"

He knew that the question had been abrupt and seemed to have developed completely out of nowhere, but right now he craved a semblance of normalcy. He wanted nothing more than to be back in Central Towers, back in their shared quarters, talking as if nothing bad had ever come between them.

"Your date," he repeated, glancing over his shoulder. "The one you painted yourself blue for. How did it go?"

Optimus stared at him for a moment, bewildered expression caught in the midst of overtaking a look of concentration. Apparently his brother had zoned out, focused on scraping the calcium deposits off one of his shoulder plates, as they had apparently resisted the pressure hose. The scrubber was still in hand, soap bubbles dripping off of it.

It seemed to take a few extra seconds for his brother's processor to analyze the question.

"She-she saw right through it," Optimus finally answered with a strange, almost amused sort of frown. "I...accidentally knocked over a table, and made a fool of myself...in short it was disastrous."

"I see," he murmured, surprised, for his brother was never so clumsy. When such rare occasions did happen to pop up, Optimus tended to become exponentially embarrassed. It was strange to hear about such a situation, yet not even a hint of embarrassment leaking through the bond. Then again, he'd brought up a subject more than a hundred thousand vorns old, so maybe it wasn't so surprising. "Sorry..."

Optimus chuckled and he felt a faint hint of amusement through their connection.

"You said that, when I came back and told you about it later that night. You also laughed and called me a glitch-head, if I recall correctly."

"Ah..."

"She asked me out again though, so it was alright."

"She did?"

"Yes."

There was silence as he let that information roll around in his processor for a moment, musing as Optimus picked up one of the other hoses to rinse off the panel that had just been finished. He examined the bond anew, and despite the fact that it wasn't as open or fully realized as he recalled it being, now that he knew what to search out he could feel the different textures that the link now held.

One separate string for each individual connection to his brother's spark.

Of the many, there were three that stood out against all of them, the most important ones. His own was easy to pick out, burning brightest only because it belonged to both of them. But as he felt out the other two his brother withdrew, pushing those threads out of his reach. It was a reflexive motion, snapping him back into the reality of the present and out of the brief semblance of what once had been.

He drew back from the bond as well, feeling a strange itch at the back of his optics and a sudden surge of...hatred for himself welling up. His actions had driven away the one whose opinion, whose approval, mattered to him the most.

Optimus's trust in him was broken and he knew with a concrete certainty that it was irreparable.

"What is her name?" he asked as he looked back at the drain, shoulders sagging. He didn't expect an answer, knowing the conversation had died off with his attempt at reaching further into his brother's spark. "You don't...you don't have to tell me, I just-"

"Elita. Her name is Elita."

He hesitated, uncertain if he should even attempt to press further for more information but then he felt his brother's spark reaching out. An apology for the reaction, for cutting the link so abruptly. He latched onto that, throwing open his own end of the bond, so that Optimus could view it freely, without hindrance.

Maybe if he kept it that way there would be a possibility of renewal. Not the same level of trust they'd had before, but even just a little bit would be better than none.

"And she's your spark mate now, isn't she?"

A pause, indecision through the link so brief it could have been his own.

"Yes."