Chapter Text
He lost.
He lost.
He lost.
The biggest race of the deca-vorn, and Blurr had lost.
There was chaos around him as the victor cheered. Media drones buzzed around.
One of them paused to snap a picture of his frozen frame.
His processor was lagging, dragging along with the speed of broken down transport. He felt distant. Not present in his own frame. Like he was observing the proceedings from outside of himself.
A frame bumped into him, sending him stumbling.
He dragged his processor back to himself, optics overbright with shock and stress, disbelief making his spark tight in his chest. The other racers were gathered around the vicor, cheering and congratulating him.
He couldn’t bring himself to join them.
Dread made his spark spasm with pain, and suddenly he couldn’t vent.
He wheezed, and then he was turning, stumbling, running out of the arena and away, away, away.
He hadn’t even placed on the podium.
It had been the most important race of his life.
And Blurr and lost.
(And he was lost. Lost in his own processor, swept up in the panic and disbelief. So lost that he didn’t notice when the stranger on the rooftop lined up a rifle and took the shot. He just felt the sting of impact, and then he was lost to the darkness)
When he came to, he ached.
His helm was in agony, as were his servos and legs.
He shifted, and the movement caused a clattering of metal around and under him,. He onlined his optics when something hit him on the helm.
Except…
Something was wrong with his vision. It was…different.
Why was his periphery smaller?
He lifted a servo, to rub away the lingering static, unsure what was going on. Last he remembered, he’d been running. Had he crashed from the stress? It would explain why he felt strange.
And then his servo entered his field of vision.
It wasn't a servo anymore.
It was a claw.
His energon turned to ice in his lines, spark starting to pulse a turborabbit’s pace.
He lifted his other servo, hope aching in his chest, unsure what he was hoping for.
He was met with another claw.
He jolted upright, and something fell from his chest to his lap. He looked down, vision fritzing with shock and panic.
A datapad.
What?
He tried to pick it up, but he couldn’t get a grip.
After several minutes of struggle, his ventilations coming in faster gasps with every failure, he finally just nudged it face up in his lap and tapped a claw on the power button to turn it on.
A letter greeted him.
Blurr,
I am disappointed. I invested a lot in your victory today. You were supposed to succeed. You cost me with your loss. I do not abide by failures, and I have no need for a washout of a racer. Let your current state be a lesson as to what becomes of those who cost me.
Senator Proteus
He stared at the words, uncomprehending.
This didn’t make sense.
He didn’t understand.
Blurr shifted, shoving the datapad aside. It had to be a joke.
(He ignored how his current state said that this was very much real.)
This was wrong. All wrong. He had to find help. He could fix this.
Finally, he looked around. If he could figure out where he was, he could figure out where he needed to go.
Mountains of metal met his gaze. In the distance, he saw the tell-tale glow of a smelter.
Oh.
This was a junkyard.
He shook, shaking his helm in denial.
“No.” he croaked.
He flinched.
(Even his voice was different. Not as smooth as it had been. Raspier. How much had they taken from him?)
“No.” he repeated the denial, shifting and trying to stand.
His legs weren’t bending right. When he looked down, he didn’t recognize what he was looking at. His legs looked wrong. His knee bent the right way, but there was another joint now. Or was it that they’d made his shins shorter?
Primus.
They’d taken his legs.
He gasped painfully, and finally he forced himself up. His pedes were different too. Thinner. Maybe segmented?
He tried to get his balance but he wavered, then tipped forwards as the metal scraps under his pedes shifted. He caught himself on his knees and servos (not claws, they couldn’t be claws).
He wheezed, shaking, and finally forced himself up again, going slower.
He took everything slower, even as his spark screamed for speed.
Finally, he made it out of the junkyard, and collapsed again at the edge of the sea of scrap metal.
This couldn’t be happening. It had to be some sick, twisted recharge flux.
A glint caught his periphery. He looked over, spotting a cracked, dull mirror, its gleaming finish long since worn away but its surface still reflective enough to give him a look at himself.
It made him shake.
It should have been obvious, given what had been done to his servos and legs and voice, and yet, it still made him sick.
Somehow, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to think, to dwell, on the possibility.
He stared into the mirror, every vain hope fizzling out as his spark thrummed agonizingly in his chest.
A single, bright blue optic stared back at him.