Originally written and posted to Archive of Our Own and FFN for free under the penname SemanticSunset. Don't re-post this story to any third-party site, and DEFINITELY don't pay anything to read it. Thank you. –SS
I hope you enjoy it.
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Never Hope
A story about existential anguish, desperation, and maybe even hope.
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Shortcut to the Arc
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The Cybertronian race stood at the precipice of an endlessly promising future. Their technologically advanced civilization prospered and thrived. The extents of their prosperity ethically mandated they share their great fortune and impressive achievements with the other, struggling beings of their Universe, their cosmic neighbors. Cybertron would lead the populations of their Universe into salvation, to the next phase of evolution—this was their moral imperative, the cost of their grand opulence. And so, their neighbors were contacted, alliances formed, and together, they meticulously constructed the space bridge networks to enable ease of access that spanned the stars. One space jump at a time, Cybertronians raised the lesser masses to their higher mechanical standard, pulling them into an age of galactic stability and interplanetary trade.
However, this tedious process of discovery and expansion of Cybertronian advancement operated slowly—inefficient. The moral imperative required more pointed attention, more actualized effort. As such, the esteemed Nova Prime lay groundwork to speed the process, to actualize the grand Cybertronian destiny. Nova would lead Cybertronians to their rightful fate, at the head of the Universe leading it to its best potentials. To actualize this goal, Nova planned a grand quest into the cosmos to bring mechanical superiority to struggling beings and raise them to the great Cybertronian technical standard with intention and purpose.
For his noble quest, Nova and his trusted engineers built a starship unlike any seen before. The Arc—as it came to be called—was a massive structure built of peak Cybertronian ingenuity. It was built to sustain extended travel to the outermost reaches of the Universe, specially equipped to meet the needs imposed by such a grand journey. The ship provided room aplenty for Nova's meticulously hand-selected crew to live and labor for the actualization of their virtuous goal. Its massive cargo bays housed enough energon fuel to power the Arc and its crew to the edge of the known Universe and back. It carried Cybertronian technology to be shared with the beings they encountered on their voyage. Its medical bay similarly brimmed with the best Cybertronian science, fully stocked and supplied to respond to any repair, necessary maintenance, or known ailment that may befall the ship or crew. Although the yet unexplored reaches of the cosmos contained many unanticipated dangers, Nova ensured none of his mechs would fall to disrepair for want of fuel, maintenance, or medical attention.
Primed and nearly ready for takeoff with final preparations well underway, the Arc was docked at the launch site when the supercomputer Vector Sigma announced a new spark would soon emerge from the Well of Allsparks. These days, emergence was rare—a special occasion for all of Cybertron. The timing of the new spark was nothing short of prophetic; so close to the planned launch this spark would emerge, the bot it would become could only be a blessing from the First Creator, Primus, upon Nova's expedition and vision, upon Cybertronian expansion into the vast galactic expanse.
Accordingly, while Nova itched to launch to bring Cybertronian fortune outward, he delayed. He waited for the new spark's separation from the Allspark and for that spark to take its shape in the great Forge. Only then would Nova and his crew embark on his voyage, accompanied of course by that blessing from Primus at his side. Thusly, good fortune and great prospects would be bestowed upon his goal, the expansion of Cybertronian superiority to the cosmos. Primus himself willed it.
At least, that was the story told to Tailgate by his new team as they rushed his mentorship and raced to prepare for a life among the stars. After Tailgate took his form, the Arc's new launch date was set. Facing that deadline, his new team did not have time to meander through the basics. By necessity, Tailgate hit the ground in overdrive, caught up in his team's frenzied activity, drinking in any and all information they offered him.
The waste disposal crew chattered endlessly at him, burning excess energy as they rushed around. Their engines thrummed with excitement; their anticipatory expressions mirrored on one another's identical face masks. Most of their chatter was nonsense, but all of it helped him piece together an understanding of his new existence. The team pulled Tailgate along through their work and preparations, teaching him through emersion what he was forged for and how to meet functional expectations.
Tailgate picked up the lessons fairly quickly. He mimicked their movements and expressions easily enough, though he could not help but feel inadequate and underqualified for the voyage that awaited him in only a few decacycles. The work was hard, and his inexperienced hands were clumsy, but mimicking the other waste disposal bots was almost calming among the chaos of his new existence. It was simple work, and he was built for it. Soon enough, Tailgate could mimic his team's self-confidence and bravado too, even when he did not feel it in his spark.
These charades were always met with blunt positive reinforcement from his team, and it relieved him. Clearly, the trick was acting as though you already fit in, and then, you would. And Tailgate fit in with his team seamlessly. They let him know they were happy to have him. With his white plating, sturdy built, and simple face mask, he emerged matching their uniform. Each wore the same glyphs stamped on their arm—a badge to quickly identify their function. The glyphs reminded Tailgate of what he was forged to do and how he fit into their structured society. It was clear-cut and simple. He belonged with his team, naturally equipped for the work. He fit even better when he mimicked their ease and poise, their confidence. This reassurance lessened his anxieties, dampening his imposter syndrome, even if his spark maybe spun too quickly in his chassis on occasion.
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By the new launch date, not much had changed for Tailgate. Two decacycles was not nearly enough time to master everything he needed to know, but at least now, he understood the basics—or at least, as close to understanding as he could manage in such a short time. His own ignorance frustrated him endlessly. He wondered if every new Cybertronian took so long to catch on, to learn how to navigate their complex world. He hoped so, as the alternative suggested some flaw incorporated into his being, which would be nothing but a hinderance.
In that time, he had grown fonder to the notion of the galactic quest Nova wanted him to serve on. His anticipation for the launch began to match his team's enthusiasm for it. The Arc was leaving Cybertron on the adventure of a lifetime. And he—Tailgate!—would be onboard! Discovering new wonders, forging new paths, helping Cybertron into its position at the head of the Universe! He would be right where he was meant to be, doing what he was forged to do; following the Arc's legendary officers into a fantastic future! How lucky he was to emerge when he had! How auspicious to be marked by Primus as a blessing upon Nova's ambitions! How likely the mission would fail without him!
At least, that was the sentiment his team impressed upon him. But indeed, their enthusiasm chipped away at Tailgate's anxieties, his feelings of inadequacy, filling the gaps left behind with assurance and excitement. Their stories about the Arc's officers helped too. Tailgate was easily inspired to learn the quest was lead by such singularly stand-out and utterly accomplished mechs—the insurmountable Nova who alone remained at the Siege of the Citadel, blessed by the respected Alpha Trion to adopt the mantle of Prime; the indominable Galvatron who fought his way from the gladiatorial pits to true living legend, his power and physical might uncontested; the clever Jhiaxus who labored tirelessly for the development, advancement, and evolution of Cybertronians to reach their full species potential with his grand experiments and unmatched genius; and the mighty Cyclonus who lived proudly by the ancient sacraments and rites, learned beyond contest in the legends of old, devout and loyal to Cybertron and Primus like no other mechanism before or since.
The stories Tailgate heard about these legendary figures involved concepts and history he did not know or really comprehend, but the tales filled him with fervor all the same. War and salvation, love and pain, conquest and triumph, perseverance and all-inspiring hope—it seemed the Arc's officers had all lived through every exciting happening to date, and emerged victorious!
Tailgate absorbed the tales as quickly as he could process them, committing them to memory. Though he lacked personal experience to connect to the events recounted, Tailgate was awed by the officers' accomplishments, nonetheless. Like the rest of the Arc's crew, Tailgate was confident in their leadership, willing to follow their command into the stars without complaint. With them leading the way, failure was surely not an option. And with Tailgate onboard—Primus' blessing—doubtlessly the quest would be an extraordinary success!
How Tailgate wished to be there for it! How he wished to become greater than himself through their shared triumphs! How we could faithfully follow their instruction to glory! To life! He could hardly believe his luck, chosen to explore the Universe with these legends following his emergence directly. What were the chances?
The stories also provided Tailgate with a groundwork knowledge of how Cybertron and its society worked. Cybertronians were a great race—one of a likely scarcity in the Universe. They were advanced beyond measure, flourishing and filled with promise which Tailgate could not even begin to grasp. Everything he learned was amazing, outstanding, so much larger than him. There was so much he did not know, so much he would likely never know. His lack of knowledge was positively tantalizing in its inadequacy.
He so coveted his own experiences. Good and bad, Tailgate wanted. He itched with the desire for life, for his own stories, to find the meaning of his coming online. It was right at the edge of his grasp. For, soon, he would have his own adventures beside Cybertron's greatest; the thrill of new experiences, exploring the galaxy as no mechanisms had before, alongside Cybertron's finest stock. And so soon, the new launch date was already upon them! Tailgate could hardly contain his amazement, his keenness, the grand promise of the voyage pulsing in his spark chamber.
Of course, alongside the excitement bubbled up anxiety too—unbidden and undesired. Tailgate knew so little of life on Cybertron, he worried it would make him a liability out in space. Maybe he was not cut out for this kind of adventure. He did not yet know his abilities or limitations beyond the mundane, but he feared he possessed few of the first and an abundance of the latter.
He worried his designation had not been officially added to the Arc's roster. What if they turned him away? He did not think he could bear to be left behind after his hopes had grown so unrestricted. He worried he would be asked to prove his worth as rite of passage to board to vessel. He did not possess the expertise, talent, or knowledge to impress.
What would he do if Nova changed his mind and left Tailgate behind? He might not live up to Nova's expectations now that he properly took his form. Maybe Nova expected him to be bigger. Or quicker. Or smarter. Or… not a waste disposal bot…
It was not a conscious choice to form this frame in the Forge. When he came to consciousness, this was the frame he possessed. All the same, in the duration of his scant decacycles of life, already Tailgate had observed his team and their interactions closely enough to know where he and they stood on the simple social hierarchy. He was not blind to the way larger Cybertronians with flashier paint jobs looked down at them on the city streets, or the way higher class mechanisms hardly acknowledge them at all. Though he had only been online a short time, he recognized the social cues. It was not the greatest to emerge from the Allspark as waste disposal.
However, his team did not appear nervous as the launch approached, so Tailgate swallowed his misgivings and fell in line. There was so much happening at once that demanded his attention, and Tailgate knew his team would taunt if he shared his worries with them. Already, he learned to keep those thoughts to himself. They shrugged off his concerns brusquely when he expressed anxieties. His team scoffed and advised he calm down and get himself back to working order as quickly as possible. There was no use burning out his circuits. Tailgate generally did his best to follow their recommendations. There was no use working himself into a malfunction over things beyond his control… The anxiety, it seemed, stemmed from a glitch in his programing—a glitch he did not want to focus too much external attention on.
So, Tailgate pushed his worries to secondary commands, shutting the windows that popped up on his visual feel, and focused his primary functions on laughing and spitting back excited chatter while his team laid out maintenance equipment, supplies, and disposal gear for Tailgate to pack into his trailer. It all fit inside neatly, cushioned around his energon rations. With ease of confidence that he did not truly feel, Tailgate transformed into his alt-mode and attached his trailer hitch just as his team did.
At that, they were off!
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Tailgate and his team left the recharge block where he had lived his entire time on Cybertron. They sped out onto the streets—a small and overlooked procession. As always, they were ignored by most mechanisms on the streets and regarded with derision by the rest of them. But it did not bother his team, so Tailgate did not let it bother him. The group stopped at an intersection near the large energon dispensary plant which received fuel directly from the harvesters for processing. Here, Tailgate's anxiety flared, insuppressible once more.
What if he had forgotten to pack something crucial his team laid out for him? He wanted to double check his trailer. It would only take a klik. He did not want to slow down his team, but he also wanted to be sure he grabbed everything before they drove too far from the recharge block. The closer they approached the launch site, the more difficult it would become to double back if he left anything behind. Taking advantage of the traffic stop, Tailgate transformed into root-mode again and flipped open his trailer to check over his scant possessions. Quick and nonchalant. Only a casual glance. Just checking. No big deal…
Tailgate had not packed much. His team assured him that he would not need much. All the same, as he glanced over the few possessions stashed in his tailer, calm suffused his spark once more. He was worrying over nothing. Again. No wonder his team laughed at him. Still, that was one worry crossed from the list. He shut down the corresponding alert window crammed into his secondary commands with a silly sense of satisfaction.
He shut his trailer and hitched the coupler again, assuming his alt-mode while he did so. It had not taken much time for Tailgate to check though the trailer contents; however, when he refocused and looked up again, he was completely alone at the intersection. He turned in every direction, looking all around his surroundings to the extent he could do in his alt-mode, but his team had vanished, nowhere to be seem. He rotated a full circle for good measure, stretching up as high as he could.
They had disappeared without a trace.
Tailgate panicked properly.
Shaken, he jumped out of the way as larger vehicles sped past him, horns blaring irritably. The crackling intensity of energy over-generating from his spark nearly drowned out those sharp sounds as his audio receptors began to focus inward and pick up on his internal buzzing, energon surging in rushes through his fuel lines. He tried desperately to calm down, think clearly, not throw himself into a proper fit, even as his malfunction set his internal pistons to firing uselessly and his engine to hiccupping pathetically.
His team knew they might be separated on the busy roads. They planned for it, in fact, checking that Tailgate had the correct time, coordinates, and details to reach the launch site on his own. Just in case, they informed him mirthfully. Tailgate was ever so appreciative of their foresight now. He would have to thank them twice when he met with them again at the Arc. All he needed was to enter the coordinates into his Planetary Positioning Program as his team demonstrated for him. Then, he would be on his way again with no problems. There was no need to get flustered.
The PPP churned over the data and calculated his best routes. He had plenty of time yet to reach the Arc, but it would not hurt to be early. How surprised his team would be if he chose his route and arrived at the site even before them! The bottom lime was that Tailgate could not keep the crew—keep Nova Prime—waiting any longer than he had already required of them. So, he selected the quickest route proposed by his PPP and he was off, racing along a short cut over the Mitteous Plateau, a straight shot to the launch site.
The adventure of a lifetime waited for him there! All those experiences waiting for him to taste them! Nova waited on his emergence. He delayed the voyage to bring Tailgate along. His inclusion was mission critical—his team told him as much! He was their good luck charm, the blessing from Primus, and they very simply, could not leave without him. Without him, the mission was doomed to failure for certain. Tailgate was giddy with the idea of it.
They needed him. The Arc was where he was destined to be.
The buildings, posts, banners, and billboards that lined the roads of the city each urged him onwards with their images and messages. Interspersing the typical slogan signs that encouraged 'Take pride in being a means to an end!', 'You are what you do!', 'Everything is fine!' and the like, were announcements of Nova's voyage, depictions of the Arc, and snippets of video of Nova and his officers describing the quest during previous interviews.
Nova's countenance filled the screens—the deep blues and pristine whites of his powerful, winged frame confident and inspiring. He assured the Cybertronians who would remain behind of the great feats he and his crew would achieve. The unmistakable orange frame of Jhiaxus flickered around the streets as Tailgate accelerated towards the city exit. He promised the extensive productive innovations that would come out of the voyage, the opportunity for Cybertronian technology to advance even further than it had yet to date. Galvatron's deep purple and many spiked visage filled the screens next, ruminating on Cybertron's prosperous duty to guide unfortunate, less developed beings and worlds into the brilliance of Cybertronian prosperity. Cyclonus stood behind Galvatron, his sleek, violet plating bearing no mark—a silent appeal for the pious support of Cybertron's devout.
Each scene that flashed across the billboards urged Tailgate onward, following the instruction of his PPP. He was to be part of this exhilarating and honorable cause and he harbored no doubts as to the righteousness of their mission. One day, maybe even his image would appear on those screens around the city.
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Tailgate drove out onto the Plateau, leaving the city and billboards behind him, his processor engaged with electrifying stories and hopes. He had never driven out of town this way before, but the ground looked as solid and stable as any other part of the planet, even without the smooth conformity of designated roadway beneath his tires. He was honestly surprised to find himself alone on the Plateau. Surely, he could not have been the only one to recognize this short cut to reach the Arc. The multiple, tangled streaks of flight exhaust overhead reassured him all the same—at the least, flight frames took this route too.
The ground creaked slightly beneath him, acknowledging his small girth as he forged a path across the undeveloped landscape. His engine accelerated and his trailer bounced happily behind him. Tailgate had always enjoyed driving and driving off-road took the experience to a whole new level. In the city, he had to keep alert for larger vehicles and stay aware of speed limits, but out here on the Mitteous Plateau's expanse, he could revel in the feeling of his tires propelling him through space without restriction.
The day was pleasant, the sun warm and bright in the sky. Luna One peeked over the horizon in the distance, while Luna Two hung fully in the sky overhead. Only a slight breeze kicked up metallic dust against his plating. The dust crunched satisfyingly under his treads as he raced onward. One or twice, the sounds of heavy engines split the stillness of the Plateau as cargo carriers streaked across the sky, making their way to the Arc with last minute supplies. More often, the pitched shriek of high-performance engines whistled over the Plateau as seekers shot across the sky to gather for boarding.
Tailgate had not gotten the opportunity yet to personally meet many flight frames in his short lifetime, and he was excited by the reports that the Arc would be crewed predominantly by fliers. It only made sense, given that most of the officers were fliers themselves. His team warned him that flight frames tended to be even more contemptuous and disdainful of bots like them—ground-wheeled and built for collecting waste products—than even the fancy vehicles with the flashy paint jobs on the roads.
Still, he admired their sleek aerodynamic frames from afar all the same. He wondered if flying felt as freeing and unbridled as it felt to drive out here in the open. It seemed to Tailgate the open sky would never constrict a flier the way city turns and traffic forced ground vehicles to slow down and pay attention.
As he contemplated it, a glossy purple seeker shot across the Plateau towards the horizon, made up of all smooth curves that fed into the pointed nosecone beautifully. It moved smoothly through the sky as if flight were an effortless endeavor. Tailgate was certain flight must be more liberating than driving on a fundamental level. He could not determine the seeker's identity given the distance between them and his lack of personal familiarity with any fliers, but Tailgate thrilled at the chance to meet one on the Arc. Admiring the seeker's deep violet paintjob as it neared the horizon line, he meekly wondered if the attractive flier might even be the honorable, accomplished Cyclonus…
Distracted by his musings, Tailgate had little time to react as the ground wailed suddenly and gave way beneath him. Without even the time to cry out, he fell through the metallic crust, helpless to the pull of Cybertron's immense gravity. His HUD flashed warnings quicker than he could attempt to make sense of them as he scrambled into his root-mode to grab hold of anything that could stop his fall. Unfortunately, anything he managed to snag promptly snapped off in his little servos, barely slowing his drop.
The solid floor of the opened chasm rose quickly to meet him. The weight of his trailer bore down against his back, forcing him into the pull of gravity quicker still. It would crush him when the floor caught them, Tailgate realized despairingly. There was nothing he could do to prevent it if he could not catch hold of an outcropping from the walls as they sped past.
As he watched his doom rush to meet him, he wondered if the ground at the bottom would not actually give under his weight as well and he would keep falling to the planet's core. He had fallen so far down already, through layers of beams and sheets of planetary metal… Then again, what if his fall ended here at the bottom of the chasm, his trailer crushing him beneath? He would be wrecked, smashed, and broken for sure, leaking energon until his lines ran dry.
He wondered if this was not exactly why no others ventured across the Mitteous Plateau to reach the launch site. He should have known better as soon as the traffic faded around him. He did know better. Whatever happened now was fully and undeniably his own fault. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And then Tailgate crashed, his momentum stopping suddenly against the unyielding metal floor. As anticipated, his trailer landed directly on him, pinning his lower half. Sensations he never experienced before bloomed up Tailgate's spinal circuits. Although new, the feeling was instinctually recognizable: raw, undampened pain.
He cried out, unprepared for the intensity of the sensation. The way his team had described it to him left him fully unprepared for the real experience. Gritting his teeth, Tailgate twisted away from the pain, his plating clamped tightly to his frame, but the feeling only intensified. He could not work himself loose from under the weight of his trailer, and as he tried, a terrible high-pitched screeching started up that left his audio receptors ringing in the aftermath. He was rending his own plating.
Bright red warning glyphs and alerts lit up his visual feed, each replaced by the next too quickly to read, and his sturdy body shook with the effort. His spark flared unnaturally in its chamber turning his circuits molten as true panic gripped him even stronger than it had at the intersection what now felt like ages ago. He flailed and cried out again helplessly, the pain blossoming profoundly from the elongated tears beginning to mark his leg plating. He could feel it as deep as his protoform frame.
He might have blacked out...
But then, finally, he was free of the trailer, pulling himself to slump miserably against the wall of the cavern where he now found himself. His trailer sat innocently in front of him, looking against all sensibility as innocent as it ever had been. The remains of Tailgate's legs curled obscurely out from beneath it. Though the sharp agony from moments before faded as his nerve links with the wreckage severed, subsiding into a throbbing ache along the break in his thighs, the visual input of the damage—raw and fresh with leaking energon still warm from his systems—inspired phantom pain of the previous intensity to torment his processor all the same.
[Note to self, Tailgate: Don't panic. Don't panic.]
It was easier thought than done, his spark still spinning erratically fast in its distress and the intensity of new pain still firing against his processor's sensors. Panic, for once, was the appropriate response to his situation. He doubted anyone would blame him for it. However, panic would cloud his thinking, and right now, he needed a plan, so he needed to calm down. Calm down. Calm down. Do not panic. Repeating the thought to himself, Tailgate turned his visor down to the wreckage and focused his optics to survey the situation.
Wreckage was the best term to describe the sickeningly twisted metal struts trapped halfway beneath his trailer. The exterior plating of his thighs was crimped where he had pulled himself apart, the central support beams exposed and bent. His joints there were ripped to shreds and the entirety of his lower legs were, frankly, missing— no more than ribbons of metal sprawling across the cavern floor, ends sticking out from under the trailer, flattened into the cavern floor, no longer attached to his frame though the phantom pains persisted.
Tailgate's team told him stories of genius medics who could build Cybertronian frames from loose scrap, no injury too severe to be mended or replaced. Staring at the twisted remains below him and feeling the pain still, emanating persistently from his thighs, Tailgate could not imagine it. How could a medic, no matter how skilled, fix this?
He had been responsible for his frame only two decacycles, and already, he had torn it asunder. Maybe he was not worthy of the responsibility, to have wrecked himself so quickly. Maybe a medic could rebuild his legs, but would they trust him with the repair? Cybertron offered plentiful resources, but was it worthwhile to expend them on someone so young who had already managed such wreckage?
Nova would surely argue his case. Tailgate was critical to the Arc's mission and critical mechanisms could not be left to flounder without legs. If he could still reach the Arc, Tailgate was sure Nova would send him immediately to the starship's extensive medical bay to be rebuilt. His team had said it was equipped to perform any maintenance and address any injury. Nova would have brought onboard genius medics for his quest, of course. They would be able to fix him.
Maybe—and this was really just self-indulgent hopeful thinking—he would even be lucky enough to have Jhiaxus work on him! Of course, the Arc's crew would need to come pull him from the cavernous pit first. And they would need to know that he was stuck down here even before that.
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Tailgate settled himself against the wall as comfortably as he could accomplish. The noisy spinning of his spark seemed ever louder in the enclosed space, and it did not appear it would be slowing down anytime soon. But like his team advised, he needed to calm down and get himself back to working order as soon as possible. There was no use burning out his circuits. In fact, doing so now would actively worsen the entire situation.
His engine roared as though he accelerated too quickly. He needed to snap out of it and face the problem head on or nothing would get better for him. He could not just wallow in his self-pity. He needed a plan and he needed it now.
Tailgate looked up to where he had broken through the crust. The small hole he and his trailer made already closed over again. He fell past layers on layers of compressed metal and beaming that made up the structure of the Mitteous Plateau. Honestly, he should be grateful only his legs were busted to shreds. He was lucky, all things considered.
Also, Tailgate figured hopefully, it was not as though there would be no one looking for him. His team would report him missing when he failed to show at the launch site. Nova would be looking for him personally. He had postponed his whole quest so Tailgate could travel the Universe with him; he certainly would not leave him behind on Cybertron now. His team told him he was critical to the mission's success, sent from Primus with a purpose. The Arc could not take off without him. He needed to make the launch. They had waited and they expected him to be there. He could not let everyone down.
Additionally, while no other land vehicles were out on the Mitteous Plateau (and now Tailgate knew why), all those seekers and cargo carriers passed overhead. Someone must have seen him. Heck, Cyclonus may even have seen him in the moment the ground gave beneath his weight. Someone had to know where he had gone.
The Arc's crew would form a search team, and they would all be out looking for him. Surely, a flier would see his lonely tread-tracks on the surface, as well as their sudden disappearance. They would know exactly where he had fallen through and then, they could come get him.
[Everything's fine. Everything's really… really fine.]
His team had instructed him if he were ever hurt to first run a damage report. It was one of the first routine functions they taught him. Once he had diagnostics, he would know the extent of his damage. Once he knew that, he could come up with an action plan to fix himself and get himself mobile.
Diagnostics. Fix himself. Get out of the cavern. Make it to the launch in time. Totally doable.
Maybe...
He didn't have even the slightest sliver of medical knowledge or experience, but he would deal with that later. Damage report first. So, he set his processor to assess the damage his frame had taken. He would know what do once the report came back.
[Preliminary damage report: You're an idiot]
The preliminary report came back decidedly unhelpful. It seemed his self-loathing and general unease had successfully managed to infiltrate his internal readouts. He knew he was an idiot. He did not take the time to look at his surroundings and think through the implications. He blindly put trust in his PPP not actively trying to kill him by sending him on such a perilous a short cut. Failing all else, Tailgate should have noted the fragility of the terrain as he drove across it. But as it were, he did not. He was too caught up in his excitement, his anticipation, his desire to arrive at the Arc.
Regardless of his faults, the situation was not changed. He was currently trapped beneath the planetary crust of Cybertron, and the Arc's mission would fail without him. He needed to pull himself together. He could wallow in his self-doubt on a different cycle once he had fixed this situation.
[Final damage report: Ambulatory systems operating at 10% efficiency… Internal chronometer malfunctioning… Transformation cog misaligned… Attempting repairs…]
No legs. No clock. No alt-mode. Honestly, he expected worse. Medics would rebuild his legs. He could install a new clock. His t-cog could be realigned once his legs were fixed. All in all, no permanent damage. He could work with that! But for now, he would have to plan around not using his legs.
Looking up the cavern to where he fell through the surface, Tailgate doubted he could climb the incline even with all his limbs functional. No, he would have to rely on other mechs to pull him out of the cavern. The crew was looking for him. Nova Prime was looking for him. Surely, someone on the Arc's crew had a towline that could pull him up. He did not weigh much given his small stature, and his rescuers would have him topside in no time. The Arc would launch with Tailgate set up in the medical bay obtaining new fittings for his legs before the end of the cycle. He would be okay. Everything was fine.
Tailgate could not waste away time idly sitting around with no legs feeling sorry for himself while everyone else put in all the work. He needed to shift into gear and figure out how to help the search party. The Mitteous Plateau was a large expanse, and with the hole closed-up behind him, pinpointing the cavern's location would be nearly impossible. He needed a plan to draw attention to his spot. There must be some way he could help his rescuers. They would just waste fuel otherwise!
He surveyed the cavern as he brainstormed what to do. He did not have very much to work with here, but his trailer was still intact after the fall, which hopefully meant the equipment inside was unharmed. If he could pull himself over to it, he could reasonably use his maintenance gear to ignite his energon ration. Energon could be a dangerous substance, a little unstable, and an uncontrolled blast would shred his trailer and send spears of metal through the entirety of his little body to take him offline instantly. But if he could control it, someone was bound to see a detonation from the surface. Even a small one would catch attention.
The trick would be creating a blast strong enough to reach up through the cavern's roof without taking himself offline. He did not know enough about the chemistry to be sure, but he hoped his relatively small rations would do the trick. The crew would be searching for any sign of him by now and an explosion would signal his location perfectly. He was as good as saved.
It was a good plan. A solid plan. He could still move—could crawl—without his legs. He had the materials to alert the search party. If he did it right, the blast would break the roof without scrapping him in the process. It was doable! Probably…
[Ha! Not such an idiot after all!]
He had not wriggled far from his trailer when he tore apart his legs. His energon lines had pinched shut and he had not yet bled out. He was lucky. If he could crawl out from under the trailer while in so much pain, he could certainly make it back to it now the pain had faded away to memory. It was his best chance, his only chance! If he stretched his arm reach just a little further than was strictly comfortable, he would be there in no time at all.
The search party would find him. Nova would be relieved to see him. The Arc would take off as scheduled. A miracle medic would reconstruct his legs, and his life of adventure would begin without another hitch. The Arc's legendary officers would want Tailgate to stand with them, and together, they would face the distant stars and the mysteries they kept. They would extend Cybertron's prosperity across the Universe and lead all beings into a new era, just as his team had explained it to him.
This was his destiny, his higher purpose. He was forged with meaning, bearing Cybertron's promise for the future. They could not launch without him. They would not launch without him. Their mission would only find despair and failure without him onboard. He had the power to save them, bring them to success. All he needed to do was stay calm, follow his plan, and pull himself… just a little… further.
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His energon rations ignited as expected. The blast successfully shot high through the ceiling of the tunnel. It knocked him back against the wall which set his audial receptors to ringing again, but when he looked up through the new hole above him, he could see three bots peeking down at him. By coloring, at least one of the bots at the opening above was a medic. How lucky! He was so relieved, so happy to see them. The search party had found him after all.
It seemed the blast had cleared the metal beams he had fallen past in his descent, and although the depth of the tunnel did not seem quite right to him, Tailgate was thankful for it all the same. The larger one of his rescuers reached into his hiding spot and gently pulled Tailgate through the new hole, out onto the Plateau. He felt a little delirious from the whole ordeal, but how amazing the mechanism could reach him so easily!
Emerging onto the topside of Cybertron again, Tailgate took a moment to admire the wide expanse of the Plateau for the first time since his fall. The sun was still warm and bright, though only one moon hung in the sky. Based on the moon's position, if he correctly judged his timing—which he was sure he did—he could still make the launch in time. He would be cutting it close, but they would be waiting for him. Everything would go as planned. Everything was okay.
Relieved for the moment, his attention landed on the dark, smoking figure laid out across the ground before him. The mech in question bent at many odd angles, his head thrown back, devoid of movement. From the smoking blast-tears issuing from his chassis, Tailgate understood immediately the tragedy he had caused. The poor extinguished bot, caught by the detonation he had used to signal the search team, smoked pitifully in a tangle of mauled metal that twisted similarly to Tailgate's wrecked legs, still down at the bottom of the cavern. The relief and calm felt upon his rescue disappeared quicker than his ignited energon.
As he stared at the immobile frame of the unlucky mech, Tailgate's spark began generating energy faster and faster once again, sending wild pulses of energy searing through his circuits, the consequences of his actions fully hitting him. He had been so desperate to draw attention to his location, so relieved at his rescue, he had failed to consider the danger an energon blast might pose to others, to those mechanisms out searching for him. Now, he had created another casualty of his own stupidity: a bot who had been gallantly searching for him, to bring him safely to the Arc. How could Tailgate live with himself after causing this senseless tragedy?
"He's de—He's de—He's dead! I killed him!"
And he blacked out again.
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6,838 words
Thank you for reading!
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Thank you to my main squeeze for encouraging me to get back into my writing, persuading me to post my work again, and beta-reading my chapters.