You are Whirl, Skyfire, Chromedome, Brainstorm, Tailgate, Perceptor, Prowl, Tarn, Jazz, and Rung.
Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 14
Warning: Drunken flirting, sadness, objectification, abuse of a hung-over jerk, BDSM play, sad Matrix
Rating: R?
Continuity: IDW & G1
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): Prompts from Tumblr.
Note: the Nautilator/D.J.D. ficlet once in this chapter has been moved to 'Gone Fishing.'
[* * * * *]
Rewind - "Scarf: borrowing/stealing clothes from the other"
[* * * * *]
Are you allowed to get mad at the pipsqueak? You're probably not allowed to get mad at the pipsqueak. If there isn't a law against it in Ultra Magnus' handbook, there's definitely one in Chromedome's.
You sort of like Chromedome. He hates Cyclonus and therefore, conditionally, sides with you against the purple geargrinder in every argument. You like that in a mech. He also hugged you that one time. Sure, it was because you saved the pipsqueak after a teensy guilt trip, but still. A hug.
…it's not often you genuinely feel like a hero. Chromedome made you feel like one that day, despite all the slag that probably negated any heroism.
You choose not to think about it that way.
But it means that getting mad at Chromedome's pipsqueak is off the table.
You glower across the bar. Rewind pulls the fuzzy hat with the trailing audio covers down lower as if he feels you glaring. The thing practically covers his whole rusted head in orange and red layers of weird organic knitted 'yarn' stuff. The fluffy ball on top waggles at you. It's mocking you. Rewind's mocking you.
Okay, Rewind seems to be giggling as Chromedome ties the strings on the sides of the hat into a cute bow under his chin. You interpret that as mocking. Adorable and mocking.
You're not mad at the pipsqueak. You are happiness-handicapped. Yes, that's it.
The runt stole your gorram hat, and you can't say anything because nobody knows it's yours, and you're not about to confess in front of the whole slagging bar. You managed to sneak it onboard after buying it at the gift shop without anyone noticing. If you say anything, everyone will know the fluffy 'Jayne-style' hat belongs to you, and then they'll look at you funny for wanting it at all.
It looks cool! They can suck weapons-grade nucleon! You don't care what they think anyway!
You get to wear it in your quarters where nobody can see you, and that's just awesome. It's a better secret than keeping a bunch of Sweeps nailed to the walls. You think so, anyway. Maybe you should ask Rung about that sometime.
Sometime after you get your hat back.
This might require a Plan.
Your plans don't have a habit of working out as planned, however.
Just in case, you'd better find some grenades.
[* * * * *]
"Date" - Cosmos/Skyfire
[* * * * *]
Your date meets you in orbit and asks a very important question. You know it's a very important question because he keeps asking you.
He has to, because you forget what he's asking halfway through the question. Look, there are a lot of words and only so much processor space left over to deal with them, what with your processing systems clamoring for your attention like this. Plus, you're in space. Humans keep launching things up here and leaving it floating about. The amount of shiny debris drifting around up here is so distracting.
So when Cosmos keeps repeating his question enough times to finally register in your cortex, you know it has to be important. Just don't ask you why, because you are so not up to that level of thought right now.
What were you doing?
He patiently repeats his question again, and you give it some thought. Is he asking for actual measurements, or for a more vague quantifier? Who knows. It's a moot point, because you don't really know the exact measurement.
Vague amount is a go!
"Very," you say, proud that you manage not to slur.
Cosmos turns as he circles you. It's not easy for you to watch at the moment. He's a disc, spinning around his own axis, while he flies in a circle around you, while you both orbit Earth. That's far too many round trajectories for your high-grade sodden mind to handle. Some part of you stubbornly tries, however, because science.
Unfortunately, that steals whatever processor power is leftover from automatic functions and shiny things. Add in some words, and he's destroyed you intellectually before you even register what he says.
You sort through the words. It doesn't do you much good. They're so very wordy. Resigning yourself to your fate, you brace yourself and ask, "What?"
There are more words involved this time. He's asking a more difficult question than 'Just how drunk are you?', you can tell. Primus spare your overfull tanks, because you might end up having to think past warm fuzzy feelings and the freedom of too much high-grade in too short a time. You're not sure you're up to that at the moment.
Oh, wait! You know this one! Yay.
"Starscream," you declare. Your answer catches up with you a second later, but oh well. Too late to take it back. You wiggle your wings at the other spacefarer in an apologetic shrug. "We were doing science. Study of plugs." The giggle-snort sneaks up on you and blurps air into space from your vents, a visible sign of just how funny you think you are. "Mine are bigger, but he just has to know for sure. You know how you test a plug's size?"
Cosmos either doesn't know a leer when he sees one, or you've forgotten how to leer in altmode. Starscream knew, but Starscream can set forests on fire with a single twitch of his lips. Smokey the Bear hates when Starscream flirts. Only you can prevent forest fires!
You trail air again, laughing helplessly at the images flitting pell-mell through your thoughts. Cosmos swings out of the way of your laughter, grabbing your attention again.
"No more science tonight," you croon as the little green Autobot stops his inspection of you and skids on ahead. You get the feeling he's not happy with you for some reason. "Just want to fly. Want to fly like only you and I can, up here. Want to…" What do you want? Dreamy and languid, you roll until your cockpit reflects the planet below. "I want to turn over and let you land on my belly, tractor in tucked and secure, and feel how warm you are against me when the rest of me is cold. It's cold. Aren't you cold?" You roll once more. Your underside feels exposed, and your voice turns coaxing. "We'll watch the sunrise soon, and I want you to be here on me when it does."
Cosmos slows, almost hesitating. Earth is dark beneath you, but it turns. The sun will peek around the curve of the planet, and it'll hit your armor in a blast of light and radiation that will warm everything it touches. Everything in shadow will still be bitter cold.
"Sunlight's nice," you tell your date, "and science keeps the body hot, but only you warm my spark."
You roll, inviting him closer, and it turns into a nice date indeed.
[* * * * *]
"Snow" - Chromedome
[* * * * *]
It's cold out here. The temperature never bothered you before, when Rewind was at your side.
Rewind is here. The ship continues on, but you know he is still nearby. It's a relatively small distance when you take into account the vastness of space. It will only grow larger as the ship moves on, so you are here, by yourself out in the cold. You are out here because Rewind is out here, and soon you will have to go inside while he stays out here.
You will leave him. He will be here, but you will go on and leave him here alone.
You tell Skids you're out here looking at the stars, but you don't tell him you're imagining that Rewind is still at your side. Distance is relative, in space. Compared to the distance that will soon be between you, Rewind is almost in the shelter of your arm right now.
It's so cold out here, and it bothers you now as it never did before. You will go inside soon. You will be warm again, and you will forget the frozen pain.
But the cold will keep Rewind forever.
[* * * * *]
"Nurse Me" - Brainstorm
[* * * * *]
"Oh, you poor little thing," you coo when you pick up your newest paramour. That lovely bit of a thing, lying out in the open like that? Just asking for it, in your opinion. "Such a shame someone left you in this condition."
Yes, such a shame. Hmm, not really. Now you get to put your hands all over, however you like. The gash splays open, and you shake your head. Why, it's positively lewd how you can stroke your hand up one side and dip into the damage. If you shiver a tad while you do so, well who could blame you?
All in the name of some tender loving care. "Tsk. Well, I'll just have to do something about this."
You go home. You clean up. You nurse and tend and patch. Your hands slip from serious business a few times, fondle here and there, but you keep your mind on the job. Mostly.
"It's going to be alright," you say, even when you're not sure. It's quite the repair job, even for a genius like you. But everything worth lingering over afterward needs a down-payment of effort beforehand.
The self-doubt and effort is totally worth it when your finger finds the trigger and curls. The recoil is perfect. It's like you two were meant to be.
[* * * * *]
"Don't Leave Me!" - Tailgate
[* * * * *]
Energon leaks from huge splits in purple armor. The pink threads trickle from cracks and gush in a river from the hole blasted into his chest, pooling together into punched-in spots on his plating until the pools overflow and cascade in a thin sheet off his side into a spreading puddle. Swirls of green lubricant and oily sheen wind across the surface. So much vital fluid. So, so much. More than you've ever seen outside of the fatal accident between the -
No. That was a long time ago, this is now, and you refuse to think this is the same. He won't bleed out under your hands. You've seen how much energon's in a mech. Frag, you've seen it splashed around with joy and abandon right in front of you today, and it's more than what's currently beneath you. You're sitting in a puddle that's getting larger by the second, but you try to objectively judge how much bigger it can get before you really have to worry.
You have time. You think. You hope.
Your arms tighten around the one-horned helm in your lap, as if that could stem the steady seep of vital fluids. "Is anyone going to help him?" Your voice quavers, but you're upset. You're allowed to sound tremulous when your friend - not really your friend, but he's someone you know and like - is pumping bodily fluids out at a steady rate.
Ambulon is tending to poor Rewind, but you're surprised when he doesn't at least glance toward you. He doesn't even look up. His optics constantly move, assessing the Autobots seated or laid out around him, but they don't turn in your direction.
"Hello? Ambulon?"
You're quiet because you're a little afraid to speak up. Nobody looks toward you. They never do, if they can avoid it. The dark stigma they've surrounded Cyclonus with has blotted him from their sight, and you? Well, you don't really exist in this age and time. As important as you've tried to make yourself seem, you just don't matter. You're a no one. You're a nothing. Worse than a has-been, you're a never-was. You've a blank spot in the shuttle, holding onto a black hole.
Your arms tighten further. This is your fault. You can't pierce the Autobots' antipathy toward Cyclonus, and you can't make them care about you. You wish you could, but you can't.
In addition to that failure, you actually did bring about the explosion that damaged Cyclonus. The blame belongs to you on every level.
It's either take action or let it go. You don't stand out in any way but your attitude toward this one mech, the mech you've laid low. You can try to fix this, or you can walk away and blend into the background just that much more.
When the ship lands and everyone exits, you wait, hoping on one last whisp of faith in their inner compassion. Nobody looks back. They automatically expect you to follow, if they even acknowledge your existence. It's like you're not even there, and Cyclonus will just disappear, another unfortunate casualty of a senseless war you don't fully understand.
You don't let go.
[* * * * *]
"Drink" - Perceptor
[* * * * *]
It was a terrible night. No wonder you are feeling testy, this morning.
Your mood fails to improve when you enter the laboratory. There appears to be a drunken sot on your workbench.
"Move," you order shortly. "Your weight distribution is putting undue stress on my jondular calibration module, and furthermore, that cannot possibly be a comfortable position no matter how much high-grade you've pickled your brain in."
Brainstorm makes a strange honking noise as you shove him aside. He attempts to stand and promptly flops into a heap on the other side of the bench. He dribbles trail of regurgitated fluid across the surface, because his mere presence is not disgusting enough. It occurs to you, not for the first time, that tolerating him is some form of penance for a crime you do not remember committing. Or perhaps his existence is the universe providing a lesson about the perils of not keeping your own ego in check.
After a moment of calm, rational thought, you decide you simply must have your rifle at hand right this second in case of further mysterious karma visiting, or an outbreak of Decepticons. One never knows what will happen next on board the Lost Light, and you should be prepared for violence. Retrieving your rifle does, naturally, necessitate the rattling every piece of equipment in the laboratory as you systematically search for the keypass to the weapons locker in the corner. Surely you left it there. Perhaps here? Over here. Ah, no, up there.
Nothing breaks, of course, because you are not a clumsy oaf. It is, however, a long and loud search.
"Oh, Adaptus. Please stop," bleats pitifully from under your bench. A pathetic lump crawls toward a chair. You don't deign to call it a person.
You drag the chair away, deliberately resting just enough weight on it to cause the feet to screech across the floor before you begin stacking things on it in a noisy clatter. A feeble whimper protests. You find glassware to clink and clank together. There's a faint groan. The locker door hinges probably should have been oiled, oh, approximately any time before you yank them open. How thoughtless of you. You are appropriately shamed and exclaim over the clamor of metal screaming. No better time to fix that but now; the hinges shriek and screep as you work the oil into them.
Brainstorm sobs and curls up to clutch his head, crossing his ankles and trying to hide his helm between his knees. "Please. Please stop. I didn't mean to do it," babbles weakly at floor-level.
You hum thoughtfully and rummage about in the locker for your rifle. You are not certain who he's talking to. You are fairly sure he could not currently locate you with a map and a guide, from the distended look of one optic behind the glass. He garbles out more excuses for his poor behavior in your general direction. That may be because he is already facing your direction, not because he knows you are over here.
You regard him for a moment, mouth set in a grim line. He did not mean to send the crude texts to you in the middle of the night? He did not mean to catcall you as you patrolled the corridors? Or did he not mean to end up on top of your workbench, drooling tank-rejected high-grade across research more valuable than any weapon he has every constructed? You will believe his excuses in the realm of never.
The mech is mad. Obsessed, incompetent, sloppy, and mad. He remains convinced that he will eventually invent a device so clever it will drive you to envy and uncontrollable lust. When he is inebriated enough, he skips the actual work phase and attempts to incite envy and lust through touting his accomplishments and self-proclaimed genius in your face.
As last night prove yet again, that does not work. It never works.
You lift a hand. Unfocused as he is at the moment, Brainstorm retains enough focus to catch sight of your fingers. He fixates immediately, because your fingers are fine-tuned instruments of science: long, elegant, and yes, you are quite aware how he loves them even as he hates them. He stares, confused by the slight smirk you are wearing. You rest your hand on a particular box, and comprehension hits him right between the optics.
He whimpers a sad attempt at an apology.
"Pardon me?" you ask sweetly as the box tips over and precisely 298 empty metal bullet casings rain down onto the metal floor in a resounding, merciless hail. "What was that? I could not hear you over the sound of your overcharged antics keeping me from my work."
You feel better already.
[* * * * *]
"Tease me" - Prowl
[* * * * *]
Chromedome can always take you by surprise. Be it a touch to the inside of your elbow or an amused glint of his visor when he glances at you, it's an unexpected thing. The blush of heat rising in fat coils through your internals startles you every time. You can't predict what he'll choose to set you off, nor your response to his signal. Lust rushes into you at the fleetest glimpse of desire, a hint of more, the promise that he'll follow through.
You can't pin down what he does to you. The cause and effect doesn't annoy you, not really, but the lack of control you have in the connection between the two bothers you. Information is a mild obsession of yours. You feel that you have all the pieces laid out; it's you who's failing to see the pattern. That failure bothers you.
You smirk one night, under the blindfold, and his hand pauses on your throat. "What?"
"I've got it." Confidence relaxes you. You found the connection. You've found your footing again. Good.
Suddenly untroubled, you tilt your chin up despite the earlier order to stay still. That violates the rules of tonight's game, but your lips tug into a smug smile. According to your calculations, he will react with irritation and a stinging slap, just enough to make the nerve circuitry glow and run a pulse of charge under your plating. He knows how much you can take, and how far to push you into completely losing it while screaming his name. He seems to know you better than you know yourself, in this. You've been shocked over and over by why you can not only tolerate, but enjoy. You may be his superior on the job, but you're definitely under him here and now.
But not this time! This time you've got the numbers down, and you know what he'll do.
You brace for the slap, still smirking because you got it. He can't surprise you anymore.
He grunts. There's a soft pat to your shoulder, and then footsteps walking toward the berth. "Well, if you've got it, then there's no need for me to finish up here. Have a nice night."
You blink behind the blindfold. That isn't what you predicted. At all.
Your smirk twists into a sour scowl.
Fraggit, he's done it again.
[* * * * *]
Drift - "Nightmare"
[* * * * *]
This is the worst day of your life.
Guilt constricts your spark, and you know - you know - that you should be overjoyed. Your Lord is happy. There is a fierce light to his optics that you have only ever seen in the heat of battle, when the tide turns and the Autobots' defenses scatter. It is a look of triumph. It's a look that quickens your fuel pump, or it should, but today it runs liquid nitrogen through your lines until your pump slows to a sluggish thump in your chest.
Lord Megatron stands proud and tall, conviction radiating from every move he makes. The gathered soldiers cheer, carried by his confidence and soaking in his words as gospel truth. Meanwhile, you shrivel inside your armor. Far be it from you to doubt the unparalleled genius of your leader, but…
" - and it is fitting that one of my Decepticons' finest officers be finally recognized with the command he has earned! This is why I have chosen to reward you," a familiar hand comes down on a white shoulder paldron, and you gag at the indulgent pride in that gesture, "with the command of my elite. My standard-bearers. You shall represent my law and seek out those who would attempt to violate their oaths to me!"
Oh, Primus. A quick flash of red toward you, and your spark sinks down to hide in your fuel tank. You're being summoned. This is the moment you've dreaded since Lord Megatron informed you of his will. Not that you protested, but you're sure your Lord is aware of your silent horror. Perhaps that's why he chooses to inflict this on you, as punishment for doing anything but completely supporting his decision. It's a public relations move, you know. A tactical strike against Autobot morale. It's meant to inspire Decepticon soldiers and sneer in the face of traitors, but it feels like a slap to the face.
Because Lord Megatron's favor is fickle, and you no longer have it.
'Humiliation' is not a strong enough word for what you feel as you slowly climb the dais stairs. You keep your optics on your Lord, who wears the narrow, savage smile that normally weakens your knees with the passion you feel for his vision. In your mind, you repeat the facts. This is not meant as insult. This is not meant to unseat you from your place as a weapon of the Empire. This is simply meant to honor someone who has served Lord Megatron more faithfully than you. You did not fall short; your new commander simply exceeded all expectations.
Shame still sizzles through your lines. Suddenly, your fuel pump is absolutely hammering. You want to throw yourself at your Lord's feet, ask what you have done wrong, plead that your actions be praised half as much as this usurper's -
" - bear the stigma of joining the Autobots, only to return to my side and lead my Justice Division."
The crowd roars. Pain saws into your spark, misery sinking it low, but you keep your head up. It's small and flickering, but you have some dignity left. What pride isn't blubbering over your demotion keeps your shoulders squared.
Your step remains steady when you reach the top of the stairs, and you offer a perfectly correct bow to your master. "Lord Megatron."
And then, hating your life and terribly conflicted, you salute your new commanding officer. "Commander. It is an," argh no this is horrible, "honor."
Drift smirks and salutes back. "Tarn. A pleasure, I'm sure."
This is the worst day of your life.
[* * * * *]
"Save me" - Jazz
[* * * * *]
It scares you the first time you hear the voice that isn't a voice. You're sure you've gone crazy. No one else can hear it. You don't dare mention it to anyone else, but you're sure no one else hears it, because you know what it is that's speaking to you. If it were a real voice, someone would have done something by now. A real voice from a real item pleading for help this long - someone would have helped long before you entered the picture.
Right?
You ignore it as hard as you can, wishing it away, but still it speaks. And you become less convinced that nobody else hears it, but more convinced that it's talking directly to you. You don't know why. You don't know what that means.
You do know what it wants.
It speaks, when the bullets fly. *Save me.*
When you give up on ignoring it, you talk back. You don't know why you think you'll get a response, but you can't pretend it's not there anymore. "From what?"
It never replies directly. It just pleads, again and again. *Save me.*
In the silence of covert operations, the words are wistful. It speaks as though it is pained and weary, but gentle. It is gentle, asking for gentleness in return, and that grates on you.
You are not gentle. You are not kind, and it tries to appeal to a kindness you don't have. Why should you be the important one? You maim, sabotage, kill, and fight, and you wash the lives from your hands grimly satisfied that you're not what it wants you to be. You're no chosen of Primus. You're Special Operations, not special. Everything you really are, you splay open before the voice that isn't a voice, and you wait for silence.
Instead, there is hope. *Save me?*
That hurts, strangely. How dare it act like it sees more than a trained killer? How dare it make you think of potential? You are who and what you are, and nothing more!
Hurt feeds an irrational anger at it, and you start to sneer your side of the nonexistent conversation. Snide remarks carry you through most of the war. "From what? From who? Like I can. Really, you're gonna ask this now? Why me? You're pretty slaggin' saved, if you ask me."
*Save me.* Passion isn't lessened by the lack of volume. Ever quiet, ever calm, it begs you for salvation. It is never discouraged, and even when you're at your worst, it only waits out your hateful words and pleads again in the quiet afterward.
Eventually, it wears you down. "I don't know how," you admit.
Your dismissive contempt changes as your skepticism fails. Your concern for your mental health fades away gradually, and your concern for a real situation grows in turn. You check on it. You check again. Everything looks fine. It's been where it is since the beginning of the war, and no one has spoken up to say that the status quo is wrong. On the surface, it's fine. That bothers you, the longer you watch. It didn't before, but now you can't stop the doubt creeping up inside you.
The only difference between then and now is that now you're listening to what it says. You hear a voice denying that all is well, and it makes you reconsider what you see. Obviously, of course, all is not well - there's a war on - but that voice keeps talking. You check, and check again, and the checking lengthens into surveillance. The Prime is your responsibility anyway, but now you obsessively watch him.
You notice things, now that you think to look for them. Optimus Prime isn't…right. He's deaf to the voice that isn't a voice, or so used to ignoring it that the pleading doesn't register you. It troubles you, now that you understand.
Because you see that flaw, it's easier to see the larger picture. He isn't what a Prime should be. A leader, but a leader of a divided world. A Prime shouldn't just lead one faction. No one should point to him as 'the Autobot Prime.' There is no 'Autobot.' 'Autobot' is a made-up term used to divide Cybertronians into neat little categories that turn against each other because the divisions are there.
The lines are drawn. Unity cannot happen during war over boundaries and separations. Optimus Prime isn't responsible for the war, but the longer you watch him, the more troubled you become.
*Save me.*
"Save us first," you snap back, but your spark isn't in it. You're lashing out because you feel helpless.
You don't lie. You don't make excuses. If anyone knows how to end the war, they're not speaking up. It's an ancient artifact capable of miracles. Can't it just spare one? If Optimus can't be blamed for a war, can Megatron? Two sides have to be involved in a fight. Someone made the divisions.
If it could save itself, it wouldn't need you. You try to blame it, but the voice still whispers into the back of your mind. *Save me.*
There has to be a way to end the war. There has to be a way to make a divided world whole again. Autobots and Decepticons can't just get along; they have to be one. 'Til All Are One.
There is a way. There's a way, and you're horrified when you see it. It's not an option, but it really is.
To a certain mindset, war is caused by the defender. If the defender doesn't fight back, the aggressor will just take what is wanted and claim it as rightfully owned. Wars don't begin when someone attacks. Wars begin when someone fights back.
Cybertron is split by words and morals. The war could end if the factions were eliminated, but that would require taking away the root of the division. Either the Autobots have to give way, or the Decepticons must cease pushing, but even then? Even then the division won't end. All will be one only end when the words are gone.
The Autobots have spent millions of years trying to stop the Decepticons. The easiest solution, now that you see the problem, is to stop the Autobots.
You can't. You can't help. You can't do that. "I'm sorry."
*Save me.*
"No. I won't."
It becomes so quiet. And you suspect that now you know why no one else responds to the voiceless voice. How many mechs have come to the same conclusion you have? Pretending not to hear a real voice pleading for help you can't give is simple self-defense.
You wish you were better at ignoring the pleas. As things are, you try to push them aside until they're the softest whispers. *Save me.*
The only scream you hear from it is when Galvatron takes down Ultra Magnus. *Save me!*
"I can't," you cry back in useless apology.
Unicron attacks Cybertron. Rodimus Prime arises. This time, those who tried not to hear its pleas beg it in turn. "Save us!"
It does save you. It saves all of Cybertron.
The words are still there: Autobot and Decepticon.
It's there, too, speaking directly to you again. *Save me.*
You are silent. The voice that isn't there dies down again, slow and sad. You don't encourage it.
But you watch. You watch Rodimus try for peace. You watch him fail. You watch Galvatron scrape the dregs of the Decepticons back into an army, and Rodimus leads the Autobots against him.
On the edge of hearing, fading into despair, it speaks to you. *Save me.*
"I'll try," you say at last. Someone has to.
You're trying to reassure a sadness deeper than the Pit. Your words disappear into the void. That's enough. Sometimes, the power of an infinitely small sip of hope can revive what's nearly dead. *Save me?*
Optimus Prime returns, and you think this is the end. This is when the war will truly be over. All your preparations are in vain, and isn't that great?
Except there are still Autobots and Decepticons. Still two sides of one planet. You look at your Prime, and the same though returns: there is something not right in him. You're not sure what, but he's wrong.
It's such a plaintive stir of sound at the back of your head. A stir, a ripple, and nothing more. *Save me.*
You make a promise, and you mean it. "I will."
You steal it, when the bullets fly. The Prime goes down, and neither side will ever know who did it. You retreat into the silence of covert operations, vanish under the cover of confusion, and disappear into the underworld of a broken planet. There are no divisions here. No Autobot or Decepticons. There is black market and law, and that's a slippery boundary that you pass back and forth through without leaving a trace behind.
There is a way. It's a less horrifying path than you'd thought before you set foot on it. Once you commit to driving this road, it makes total sense. Options open, and you must have been blind not to see them earlier.
Makes you wonder why it took a thief to end the war, when there have been Primes and strategists and warlords aplenty. Maybe they were so busy blocking out what they didn't want to hear, they stopped being able to think along the route you've chosen.
Words nestle close, quiet and grateful in your mind. *Saved me.*
You smile. "That I did."
And Cybertron unites to hunt you down.
[* * * * *]
"A Little Sleepy" - Rung
[* * * * *]
It might be a side effect of the attention deflectors, but that's only a theory. If that were true, after all, he'd be less aware of you than he is. He's usually very aware of you.
He finds it easier to rest when you're there.
"Shhh," you soothe absently, and Red Alert's optics flick online for another nervous sweep of your office. "I'm here."
"You're always here," he says, but his factual tone blurs under the onset of recharge protocols. "You're always in the background, no matter where my cameras turn. You're here, and everywhere."
His optics dim despite himself, and you keep your optics on your work. You make another calm, background-type noise that indicates you're listening. Paying more attention than that would trigger him, and he's so close to falling asleep that you wonder if this time he'll shut down. It will be real, measurable progress on his case if he does.
You are at your desk because this isn't a session, per se. Red Alert finally agreed to start meeting you in your office instead of in place he considers more secure. It's progress enough that you don't mind how he tosses your place every time before a scheduled session. Showing up outside the scheduled times is meant to take you by surprise, and it does, but you don't mind. He plans ahead. He's yet to impose on anyone else's time slots, which is the only reason you'd protest. If surprising you or analyzing your office down to the last stylus helps relax him even the slightest amount, than you won't protest.
It's not recharge, per se, but he's resting, now. The level of exhaustion he considers normal saddens you. He's confessed to you that he never truly shuts down. You wonder what it would take for him to finally do that by himself, much less in the presence of someone else. You're determined to help him find the peace within himself to allow it.
Years later, you're startled and exasperated when Swerve laughs about what he gets up to when Red Alert's asleep. Paranoia shouldn't be played with that way.
There's a twinge of professional pride in you, nonetheless.
[* * * * *]