Chapter Text
Okay.
Okay.
Be cool.
Do not freak out. Be normal, be normal and not weird.
Do and say normal, average teenager things.
…
What do normal average teenagers do or say?
Slag. Alright. Just be quiet then.
Because they totally think he’s weird. They think he’s really, really weird.
…
But they want him to go with them anyway.
… Still, he should make an effort not to freeze up anymore, because that’s weird and well-adjusted, cool new sparks don’t do that.
These are all things that B-1 repeats in his mind throughout the duration of the drive to Iacon.
And it’s weird he’s driving to Iacon. Why the hell is he driving to Iacon?
Like an idiot, he’s broken one of his rules again and has been slapping it in the face since he agreed to help with the slagging Energon transport.
He reminds himself that he hasn’t made a decision on staying yet.
It’s insane he’s even considering it. He knows he’s no good to the Autobots and eventually, they’ll realize that too – despite Jazz’s faithful assurances, he must understand that there’s no place for sparkling’s in war. Giving over that fuel so freely mostly came from a sense of justice. Many Autobots and neutrals alike died to protect it and while it was once a safe haven for B-127, it’s clear it can’t be now. It’s a war, B-1 won’t prioritize his selfish wants over the Autobot’s needs.
No matter how tempting it is.
And he isn’t sure about the duo escorting him. Someway, B-1 thinks he likes them – not trying to kill him immediately is a big plus – but he knows that the burning of his spark is getting in the way. He doesn’t know why it hurts so much right now, but as it feeds on the darkness it feeds on the kindness they’ve given him, in their strange and convoluted way.
B-1 tries not to look into it too deeply, for fear that if he does, he’ll plunge helm-first into something old and blistering. It pisses him off to no end. God just react to something normally for five kliks—
Jazz and Ironhide seem to find favor for him. Maybe. They cast strange glances at him a lot and Ironhide does a very bad job of hiding his EM field’s weirdly concerned waves, but B-1 doesn’t think they would push this hard to get him to follow if they didn’t find his presence tolerable.
Unless they really do just want his help with moving the fuel, which is stupid because B-1 knows that’s not what this is.
In trying to make sense of it, B-1 only gives himself an irritating helmache and a further warring spark, so for now he decides to put the topic of their true motives to rest for now. He can chock it up to irrational Autobot kindness, even though that doesn’t make much sense to him either.
It’s when B-127 jerks awake the next morning and promptly recalls that he isn’t alone that it sinks in fully. His programs online one by one with sweet little pings, and the normal rapid spin of his spark is there with an electrifying jump, but it’s tamed somewhat by the strong cover of the two secure fields surrounding him.
It's a purposeful thing, to extend them this close. They don’t wrap around him as such, not the way Faylever and Newdawn used to, but it’s not overbearing, either. Not imprisoning, like the bandit’s.
They give him his space, allowing him room to ventilate.
As for him, he keeps his field pulled tight against his frame, locked near his spark. Keeping it closed even in his recharge is leaving him a little sore, but he can’t bring himself to open it up just yet. His vulnerability brought him pain once and though he logically knows he won’t be treated that way here, something in him sickens at the idea of letting these strangers in on his outer-layered emotions. What if it’s all a lie? What if they don’t like the waves he puts off, what if they feel the death he’s put into the world? What if they change their mind?
But he will admit it’s… something, to wake up with others around him and not be in fear. The nightmares purge themselves slowly and in broken clips as they always do, but the heaviness of Ironhide’s wavelength and the blue zigzag of Jazz’s distracts him enough that it doesn’t leave him shaking like it normally does. In rewinding his ambient sensor nodes, B-1 notes that he slept rather deeply, for the first time in a while. Out of habit, he tends to force himself to sleep with one audial online.
You know, just in case.
They’re staring at him as he stumbles to his pedes but he tries to ignore it, tries for a shaken smile even though his gears are weary to force the motion. “Uh, good morning,” he greets, keeping his vocoder low and mild. His chronometer informs him that it’s early, but not so early that the sun hasn’t said its hello yet. It peaks up from the horizon, illuminating the space in fractionated beams through the cybermatter branches.
Masking his observant gawking, Jazz pulls on a rather east smile. “Mornin’ bro, hungry?”
That question leaves him stunned no matter how hard he tries to pretend it doesn’t. It shouldn’t, of course, Jazz asks because Jazz is nice or at least doesn’t hate him. Jury’s still out and B-1’s trust isn’t so easily earned.
And it’s the servo being reached out to him, medium Energon cube in its grasp, that really throws his tanks over into a tizzy.
Because this is so silly. Why is Jazz offering him Energon when he knows B-1 has all of his subspace crammed with it? That’s such a pointless gesture, B-1 is perfectly capable of refueling himself.
So.
So, why does his spark feel so…
… Bright?
Curious, the glowing tendrils tickle along his scarred spark chamber, dancing underneath his chest plates, reaching out further than they have in a long time. It doesn’t burn, but it does. It doesn’t hurt, but it does. Both are true, at once.
“B, it can be both.”
Clinking his denta together, B-127 reaches out.
***
He reels his overzealous spark back in, reminding it of its place.
Begrudgingly, it obliges, settling back down.
Still, the fact remains, it has been so long since his core has even wanted to venture out like that. Yearned to breach its boiling tomb to touch the sky once more. To take in a gasping vent of survival.
Primus, this is shaping up to be a complete nightmare of emotional conflict. He supposes that’s not exactly a new experience, but it is a bit of a pain to know it so intimately.
They drive in silence for the most part. Well, Jazz talks well enough for both B-1 and Ironhide, sharing inconsequential anecdotes and pestering B-1 with questions he feels too nervous to really answer.
The sheer amount of Energon stored between the three of them is slowing their progress down. Or rather, it’s slowing Jazz and B-1 down. Ironhide’s engine is beefy enough to hardly be affected, but he’s not built for speed either. B-1 isn’t used to carrying this much weight and though his engine is powerful in its own way, it would be a bad idea to push it for such a long time.
To put it simply, they’re crawling.
Jazz doesn’t seem bothered by this at all, coasting alongside B-127 for a while and then circling Ironhide, seemingly with the sole purpose of annoying the larger build. Despite his clear irritation, Ironhide never retaliates beyond some verbal lashings and a growl from his engine.
B-1 observes and tries not to find it all odd because this is just normal. They’re friends, it’s normal to be all… domestic, or whatever.
It's just not… his normal. Not anymore.
All in all, B-1 tries his very best to appear nonexistent. He’s honestly thankful this is taking forever because he honestly feels sick to his tanks at the idea of witnessing more of this.
Not because he finds anything about it at all disgusting – of course not.
But. Well.
B-1 is begrudgingly able to admit that he is a little jealous.
Only, is that it? Perhaps reminiscent is a better description. He watches the two bots – older and wiser and somehow so much happier – simply exist together despite the hell around them. B-1 feels dizzy at the sight not because he wishes he was them, but because he once was.
So long ago now.
Or was it?
His memory banks have all blended together into some toxic tar pit, bubbling up and popping in wicked bursts of painful recall and missing time.
Core pulsing, B-1 wonders whether Moonracer ever feels the complete heaviness of managing a smile in a world like this. Jazz certainly doesn’t seem to struggle.
What will they do, he puzzles, when they find out the absolute trials he forces himself through even to find a single one. Will they stare with those same pitying optics that Ironhide can’t seem to get a handle on? Will they whisper statements of forlorn?
They won’t hurt him, he knows. Hopes. Not the way he is used to. Moonracer promised understanding from them and even with the voices in his helm stating their hushed doubts, B-1’s trust in her remains. However shaky, it remains.
They won’t hurt him.
But with dawning horror, B-127 reconciles that perhaps, somehow, their smiles will.
His chassis shudders with a clanking vibration. The road stretches on ahead, another few groons to go, according to his geo-cortex.
As subtly as he can, B-1 slows further.
***
“It is handsome, your paint,” Ironhide compliments as they crest over a steep hill.
B-1 nearly locks a gear, stalling his engine for a moment and failing to mask it. “Wh—Oh, um, thanks.” Replies B-127, wracking his brain module for the context of the sudden praise but coming up empty. For the most part, Ironhide has gone above and beyond to keep out of his space, even if his EM field hasn’t been quite so successful.
A silence rings in the air between them, and B-1 mentally agrees with a twinge of awkward discomfort exuding from Jazz who does not comment.
After a time, “Some believe that yellow represents the mind and the intellect.” Ironhide provides, vocoder projecting an octave lower than before, almost… shy. “Hope, too, in some cases,” he adds quietly.
“—Oh, that’s where ya were going wit’ that, I was confused as slag,” Jazz interrupts, playfully revving his engine and pulling ahead, rocking his axle to curve his wheels and swing him around to face them, pulling into reverse to drive backward. Woah, cool. “Vosian’s say it means danger, like a warnin’ sign.”
Ironhide’s vocoder spits a gritty beep, and he rattles some of his kibble. “I only meant to pay the child a kind word,” he grows silent for a moment. “I have always been fond of yellow.”
Willing his bio-lights not to grow brighter in reaction to the unearned acclaim, B-1 clears his voice box mechanisms and refreshes his stack to try to clear his helm as best as he can. Ironhide does not seem like the type to give out random compliments, so B-1 tries to be grateful instead of horrified, which is his first instinct at this point. “I like yellow too,” he says, and what a stupid thing to say because of course he likes yellow. Is he serious? Say something better!
“… I saw the golden edges of a comet one night,” he almost whispers. There’s no need to mention that it was his first night, where the awe of a bespeckled heaven was all he needed. “… I liked it.”
And while in alt mode, B-1 can’t pick up on any of the typical Cybertronian body language quirks, but from the small turn of Ironhide’s mirrors, he can imagine the older man nodding. “A fine choice, young one. A fine choice.”
***
A groon later, B-1’s social protocols finally come online, and he nearly spins out in horror.
“Slag!”
The two older bots slow and their fields ping with query.
“Somethin’ wrong?” Inquires Jazz, hovering a little too close for his liking.
B-1 exvents, allowing the shame to cover him. “Yes.”
Ironhide swerves around a sharp rock. “What is troubling you?”
Allowing himself to drive over said rock – with an uncomfortable but deserving clunk of his components – B-127 shrivels. “… I forgot to compliment you back.”
***
When they at last draw near to Iacon – because despite the slowdowns it’s not nearly a long enough drive – a red frenzied border creeps in at the edges of B-127’s vision, and rule number three digs into his processor’s finer circuits and has B-1 fighting a raucous broil of nausea.
The wild and sharp edges of Cybertron’s vast untamed tundra slowly begin to populate. Jagged natural formations fall away, and the obvious signs of Cybertronian life fill in with tall towers and small, rural rest stops. If he stresses his optic feed, the sun's rays clear, and in the distance, B-1 observes the unmistakable silhouette of what was once one of the most powerful city-states comes into view. Though now a protected Autobot fortress, to put it lightly, B-127 is entranced by its glory even from here.
It'd be pretty if the sight of it didn’t have him tying his wires in knots.
Either oblivious to B-1’s plight or doing an incredible job of concealing it, Jazz pulls up to him with a small crunch under his wheels as if nothing is amiss. “We’ll hafta’ go through a security checkpoint here in a lil’ bit, nothin’ serious, they know we comin’, including you.”
Despite keeping his field to himself, Jazz must somehow sense his discomfort and offers a secure pulse through his own. “Just a routine checkup, they’ll plug in, check fer’ malevolent software, an’ it’ll be over. I promise.”
“There will be another as we pull into Iacon,” Ironhide gently corrects. “But it will be a mere formality, they’ll simply double-check the data inputted at the checkpoint. No more after that, young one.”
While their vocoders project gentle warnings, the subtle pleading is there, underneath. He will have to stay calm. Don’t freak, this is normal. Granted, B-1 thinks he's done a pretty decent job of not completely losing his helm, but clearly despite his best efforts, the two older bots in his company have picked up on his tendency to do so.
He knew the stupid shaking would rat him out. Stupid irrational helm and involuntary slag – whatever. Whatever.
The thought of a bot plugging in and pouring over his sensitive data leaves his pistons and gears feeling tight and heavy, and B-127 can’t tell if he has slowed down or not.
His medical port still burns sometimes from Dea-8’s rough treatment of it, though for the most part B-1 is certain a lot of the pain is just psychosomatic. Regardless, it’s difficult to find solace in that when soon, someone else – a bot he doesn’t even know – will be scouring through his different information chambers, and B-1 has to let them.
Out of habit, B-1 pulls up his Energon percentage, and then immediately dismisses it when his mind catches up to the knee-jerk reaction. Stupid.
It’ll be fine, he reasons. He has no malevolent programs hiding in his subroutines – hell, half of them have been offline or quarantined for stellar cycles. The only thing to find in there is a messy quandary of convoluted and contradictory moral bull-slag.
He wonders if they’ll see any of the ghosts haunting him.
Hmm, and what would they do if they crawled all the way back through his memory banks? Would they pull up the feed of the cycle where his world ended? Would they feel guilty?
Would they turn him away, the very moment they felt the darkness invade his spark?
And he’s supposed to just… be okay?
If he’d known lending these bots a servo would be this much trouble, he would’ve driven away and minded his own damn business.
… After helping them beat the Decepticons. He wouldn’t leave then high and dry like that. Maybe.
Instead of voicing his discomfort- because why would he do that—B-1 gives a small rev of understanding. “Got it,” he replies, perhaps a bit too curtly. He doesn’t want to be mean in the grand scheme of things, but he’d rather they think him mean than a shaking mess to be baby-sat.
Toxrine was always gentle when searching through his processor, she never broke through any partitions to find any secret programs or to catch him in a lie.
It's not often that he thinks of her, but when he does it’s horribly sad. He hopes she’s alive out there somewhere, helping some other hopeless sparkling in a hopeless world. She was the first bot to show him warmth, and a part of him feels guilty for forgetting her so much.
But that’s the way of things, is it not? To move on from these things.
B-1 is no good at that, really. Though he tries, he’s always stuck. Replaying the same moments, over, and over, and over.
***
About thirty kliks pass by the time the trio comes upon the checkpoint. Well, B-127 can only assume that’s what it is. It’s more of a small cubic drive-through, a small break in what B-1 thinks is a pulsating energy field. If he really stresses his optics, he can see the waves bounce off the open air. He’s curious as to what happens if you try to drive through it.
They drive over a few rumble strips, signaling their need to slow, and B-1 feels a horrible buzzing underneath his plating, and he has to force himself not to shake. Stay calm stay calm stay calm.
“Easy,” Jazz quietly placates from his place behind him, and B-127 centers on the gentleness in those words like a lifeline. He wishes he was in root form, he’d tug on his antennae to distract from the whirling of his spark.
“I’m okay,” he states firmly, in a desperate hope to sound normal.
Three bots emerge from the inner quarters of the small building, standing to the side on a small platform. They are visibly armed with plasma weaponry welded to their arms and shoulders. Smaller, more agile bots, good for chasing down anyone who tries to skip the line, B-1 guesses.
One of the bots hops from her place on the platform, trotting up to them and placing herself between Ironhide and B-1. Her optics are a steely yellow as she gestures with her palm, indicating that they’ll have to wait their turn.
Feeling his spark pulse reverberating throughout his chassis, B-1 focuses on keeping his ventilations steady, growing a little frustrated. He can handle this; he can handle this. Ironhide pulls ahead into the covered drive-way, transforming and greeting the other two bots cooly. They salute him, and it’s then that B-1 realizes that these two bots he’s been hanging around might be a tad more important than previously thought.
Upon the first few clinks of metal, B-127 checks his mirrors and sees that Jazz has returned to his root mode as well. Not wanting to look like a complete idiot, B-1 transforms as well, a little clunkier than usual and he chooses to blame the strain of heavy Energon. The femme enforcer takes a step back, giving him some space with a non-committal nod. B-1 tries to return it without being weird but he can tell his helm jerks too quickly and his neck cables snap audibly. She raises an optical ridge.
“—Ramna, how are ya?” Asks Jazz, who interrupts B-1’s internal turmoil by stalking past him to meet the femme.
She gives a weak salute in return, rolling her optics to place her servos to her hip plates. “Just as well as when you asked me yesterday, sir.” Replies the femme, Ramna, apparently.
Jazz waves a dismissive servo, placing one on her shoulder. “Ay, in this business, you n’ I both know one cycle can make a hell of a difference.”
Ramna replies with a shrug, chancing a glance back to the drive-through, B-1 follows her. Just as they had said, Ironhide is plugged into what appears to be a mid-size monitor, with one bot scanning over the contents displayed, and the other chatting idly with the larger red bot. This must be incredibly boring for everyone if only one person is paying attention.
Jazz and Ramna make small talk for a few more kliks and B-1 takes great effort to ignore the stares being cast in his direction. His plating pulses with his spark and B-1 feels a little bitter that he’s the only one freaking out. Because of course he is because he’s a wreck and these people are not.
Uhg
And then all too soon, B-1 observes as Ironhide is accepted through the checkpoint, his heavy pedesteps clunking as he turns to face them, waiting for them to pass through.
He's so focused on the overwhelming sense of dread that he jumps a good foot backward when Jazz steps into the center of his vision. The older bot holds his servos up, a slightly strained smile stretched across his intake. “Woah there kidda’, take it easy,” he says, taking a step forward. B-1 locks up the pistons in his stabilizers, ensuring he doesn’t shy away again. “Lost ya fer’ a nano-klik. I was jus’ gonna say I can go next.”
B-127 frowns, considering Jazz’s words and feeling the darkness in him clench around them in sickly sweet mockery. He doesn’t want to go at all, but more than that he doesn’t want these bots' first impression to be of his weakness. Has he already failed to show his mettle? Is their view of him already shifting to the waste of materials he knows he is?
For some reason, that pisses him off.
They truly think him so fragile? Already? He’s a lot of undesirable things, but as he reminds himself of every little silver scar and dent and fragging corrupted program, B-1 thinks that fragile isn’t one of them.
The Autobots don’t have time to spend their time keeping their pede-steps featherlight for some sparkling who can’t handle even passing through a routine checkpoint. B-127 will not be the one to give them that burden. Rolling his shoulders and lowering his optical ridges, B-1 clenches his servos and shakes his helm, inventing harshly. “No, no, that’s alright,” he responds, forcing his legs to move despite how much his sensornet dances with static.
His steps are unnecessarily heavy and a bit poorly telegraphed, and B-1 admonishes himself for letting his emotions take control and reveal some of his dysfunctional clumsiness. Even so, he stomps briskly past Jazz and Ramna who both look a little shocked. Surprised he hasn’t fallen to the ground crying yet? Yeah, keep waiting. He may be useless to their cause but there’s no reason to really hammer that home.
“Oh-kay, I just—” Jazz starts, but B-1 redirects his audial sensors forward, purposefully drowning out whatever overly nice gesture the older bot was about to make.
If his functional door wing is raised to it’s highest point, and his gyroscope is feeding into his emotional centers and making him dizzy, well, no one needs to know that. Waltzing with a confidence he definitely does not feel, B-1 stops in front of the two bots, relishing in the shade from the beating sun as one small mercy from this experience. In his periphery, he spies Ironhide reaching out a servo before seemingly thinking better of whatever he wants to do, and lowering it once more.
The two mechs manning the checkpoint seem a lot less jovial then they were with Ironhide, but that doesn’t really surprise him. They know Ironhide and they know Jazz, it makes sense they’d be more comfortable. B-1 is a stranger, granted a teenage, dented up stranger, but B-127 knows better than most that danger can come from anywhere.
“Give yourself a little grace, B,” Newdawn quietly instructs from beyond the veil. B-1 grits his denta and demands he stay focused. Don’t space out to argue with a delusion. The voices have been somewhat quiet since they left the abandoned settlement, but B-1 thinks that is mostly because he’s been doing whatever he can to not act completely insane.
B-1 notes that the drive-through is blocked by a small fence gate that swings out of a chamber in the building, he hadn’t seen it before. It locks into place as seemingly a blockade to keep anyone from driving straight through. That sets him further on edge, but B-127 still insists on meeting the mech’s optics helm-on.
One of them gives him a nod of greeting, and upon examining B-1 a little further, spreads a smile across his face plate. “Hi, they let us know you were coming. We’ll be quick about it, promise!” He says, gesturing wildly around him to further push his point as his tough warrior demeanor all but melts away. “Can I ask your designation?”
Somewhat taken aback, B-1 clears his vocoder. “Oh, um, B-127,” he answers numbly, annoyed by the betraying shake in his voice.
The nicer guy shakes his head in understanding and turns to type something into the data console, and B-1 shivers at feeling his field open up to encroach on his space. The other bot doesn’t seem as willing to warm up, but his EM isn’t particularly harsh, either, he just stares at him, bright cyan optics taking in his every feature. A wrongness settles near B-1’s spark.
Clapping his servos together, then reaching for the dangling port plug, the nicer bot steps closer. “Okay, all we need is to look over a few things, then you’ll be right as acid-rain to pull through, little buddy,” he makes a swirling motion with his opposite digit. “Your helm-port would be most efficient."
And B-1 knew that was coming but it still brings a horrible nausea and a burning in his fuel lines. He knows they all notice the shaking in his servos but he is far too stubborn to beg for help now, nodding and reaching to take the plug from the bot with a little too much force. It’s barely anything in his grasp, but to B-1 it’s the heaviest thing he’s ever lifted, and he knows if he thinks about it too much he’ll freeze up, so with a harsh invent, he slams the plug into his port.
Perhaps he should have been a little gentler.
The sudden inflow of data crashes over him so fiercely his ventilation cuts off and he gags, suddenly unsteady on his pedes. The more stoic bot is suddenly by his side with a steadying servo cupping his elbow.
Splitting his attention between B-1 and the screen, which is now alight with data – B-1’s data – the nicer one gives him a slightly alarmed look. “Woah little buddy, be gentle with that – you could hurt yourself jacking in that rough,” he says, optics a little wide as if B-1 has grown a second helm.
That almost makes him laugh because oh, this guy has no idea. The only reason he doesn’t is because this isn’t exactly the same sensation as whenever Dea-8 combed through his processor, digging his coded claws through his firewalls and leering at information he wasn’t meant to see. No, this is still invasive – god, it doesn’t ever stop – and B-127’s body still goes completely still under the disconcerting feeling that there are hundreds of optics looking through him, but it is, noticeably, more careful with his stack and more delicate functions.
If he weren’t about to implode, he’d be relieved. They don’t break through any partitions and don’t try to pick apart his subroutines. It’s more of a passing-through than a heavy search.
Just as he thinks they’ve finished, and predictably found nothing besides a few dozen corrupted files, B-127 feels them freeze, and his spark chills. What, what’s happening?
The servo holding him up tenses, and B-1 looks up – not having realizes he’d been glaring daggers into the ground – and finds the two bots making optic contact with each other. B-1 can only assume they’re communicating, and they look… confused, more than anything. His port is beginning to burn and this time, B-1 knows it’s not just in his mind. The well-meaning Autobot turns to him, and in the corners of his vision, Jazz, Ramna, and Ironhide all take a step forward.
B-1 feels a lot like a cornered animal.
“I-Is something, uh, wrong?” B-1 shakily inquires, ashamed at his fear and beginning to quietly pray that Primus just make him disappear. He doesn’t have any evil code does he? Dea-8 didn’t sneak anything in there while he was recharging, right? No, he never slept heavily enough with them when – well, maybe when he was knocked out? Oh Primus.
“No, uh, just curious about something, buddy,” assures the nicer guy, and B-1 finds the smile he pulls on to be a lot less comforting than the first one. “It’s just, you’ve got some coordinates here, and we’d just like to know where you got them?”
Oh fragging Primus almighty.
The fragging coordinates.
How had he forgotten about them? Not a cycle goes by that he doesn’t look them over and quietly yearn, and yet now he actually follows them and he forgot them completely?
He’s so stupid of course that would be suspicious! Why would a random youngling have coordinates to several Autobot bases. Iacon is one thing, but some of these are definitely not supposed to be common knowledge.
He couldn’t look more like a spy than if he plastered the Decepticon insignia to his face plate.
By now, Jazz and Ironhide are right by him, eyeing him strangely. B-1 becomes very aware of his every movement, the sway of his body, the twitch of his finials, the quiet grinding of a mal-healed bio-mechanism. His optics feel too big and his chassis too small, and B-1 very much would like to shrivel up and die now please.
Opening his intake, B-1 starts. “Oh.” He stops. He opens his intake again. “I um. An Autobot gave them to me.” And that sounds like such a fragging lie even B-1 wouldn’t believe himself. To prove his point, Ramna’s optics narrow.
“… Gave them to you?” She repeats, baring her denta in a puzzled grimace.
He nods, nervously bringing his servos together to knead his digits together. “She wanted me to go to them,” he explains, subdued at the memory. “I um, didn’t.”
Oh Primus does he sound like a complete liar it isn’t even funny. What the hell. Scrambling for something to make his unbelievably far-fetched story believable, B-1 picks at a weld in the back of his servo, right across the ridge leading to a bio-light. “Moonracer, her name was Moonracer.” Her designation plays fondly across his glossa, and B-1 hopes that’s enough.
Surprisingly, it’s Ironhide who speaks up. “Moonracer… that is a familiar one…” he ponders for a moment longer before a small groan of recognition beeps through his vocoder. “Ah,” he turns to Jazz. “She is one of Chromia’s. A fine young warrior, according to her,” his optics return to B-1, who instinctively hikes his pauldrons to his helm, trying to appear as small as possible. “You have met her?”
Stunned, he shakes his helm. “Once,” he replies shortly. “She was nice,” he adds, when he thinks that’s not quite good enough.
No one responds to that, and by the odd stillness that settles around them, B-1 knows they’re communicating somehow. His gyroscope betrays him as his emotional centers leak into his logic centers and he tries to keep his ventilations steady. What to do if they don’t believe him? Before, B-1 had the assurance that they wouldn’t hurt him, but that was when he was just a useless sparkling. Now, he’s a potential spy and a detriment to their cause.
A random new spark who appears just in time during a Decepticon ambush to conveniently help save the cycle? God that’s like, textbook secret evil, right? Straight out of a cartoon.
Maybe he should just leave, they’d be okay with that right? What should he do if they try to detain him? Run, drive? He doesn’t want to fight them, they’ve been kind, and he can’t bring himself to disappoint Moonracer like that.
But what if they do hurt him? What if?
He is about to retreat into the opposing wall and maybe combust when Ramna interjects on the reigning silence.
“Let us in on your field,” she commands, assertive but with an oddly kind undertone.
Next to her, Jazz frowns, but says nothing.
Resetting his optics, B-1 tilts his helm. “Wh… What?”
She points a digit to her chest plates, just above her spark chamber. “Let us in on your EM field. That combined with the data sifter, we’ll know if you’re lying.”
“Probably,” adds the less happy guy.
There’s an awful jolt of his spark and B-1 does his best to dismiss the sudden worsening burning within his core’s chamber. Unbidden, his armor locks to his protoform, and the sickness tumbling in his tanks spreads like creeping miasma until his ever piston, gear, and fuel line feels off to a startling degree. Letting his field free is bad, bad, bad.
His optics fly between the various bots surrounding him at a speed that makes him even more queasy, and he takes a shaky step back before he can stop himself. He isn’t lying, he knows he’s not, but they don’t, and the rumbling distrust emanating from them has his composure crackling away like a broken window. He should just do, it, let them in, stop being so slagging sensitive it’s just one thing and they’d believe him but what if they don’t like what they feel oh Primus—
A steadying servo clamps over B-1’s shoulder and the contact is so shocking a burst of charge zaps between them and B-127 yelps. The servo releases him immediately, and B-1’s optics manage to spiral back to some semblance of control and he sees it’s Ironhide, looking down at him with a softness he wouldn’t have predicted. “Only for a moment, young one, we won’t intrude any more,” he promises and B-1’s audials pick up a loud wurr, and in looking past the larger bot to the console monitor, his displayed data is speeding by fast enough to be concerning.
Slag, get a fragging grip.
Angry to have lost himself so easily again, B-127 grits his denta, tight enough to have his mandible joints creaking. “Okay,” he manages, because he’s reasonable and well-adjusted dammit. Ironhide gives B-1 room and that helps a little bit. He really, really would rather just keep his emotions to himself – that had been the plan for as long as he could bear it, but the virtual broadcast of his panic is already on full display on that stupid console, so he supposes it’s a little late now.
It's as easy as exventing, and like a dumpster long overdue to be taken away, his raw and frazzled mentality comes spilling out of him all at once and B-1 finds it extremely annoying how much relief he finds in it. His spark chamber is aching from keeping everything so close for two cycles and in some way B-127 knows that’s probably unhealthy. Now as his field mingles with the others around him, it’s sensitive and has B-1 feeling oddly hollow, the feelings kept prisoner having carved out a space somewhere to nest.
While overwhelming, nothing is more so than the way the other bots tense around him, and B-1 feels so very watched, picked apart. He can’t bear to keep optic contact with any of them as they read him, so he looks off, imagining Faylever’s sad expression at his inability to open up. “I’m not lying,” he says, almost a whisper. “I promise.” His vocoder breaks into a small crackling one the last word, and a hot shame runs down his back strut.
He's been shot by Autobots before. Just a few times when the bandits made him infiltrate and steal. He’d rather not repeat that experience. A weld in his shoulder throbs.
Believe me, please believe me, please, please please.
His desperation must flood through his field because the nicer guy winces and Ironhide looks a tad owlish.
And Jazz holds a servo up, his easy-going smile gone. It’s deeply unsettling. “That’s enough,” he announces, authoritative and strong and very unlike whatever persona he’d been keeping up until now. The visored bot sends a rush of static that feels so much like it’s okay, you’re okay, and B-1’s sensor nodes buzz. “We believe ya, B.”
The quieter guy raises an optical ridge. “Wait, but—”
Both Ironhide and Jazz give him a look, and it chills B-1 to his core. The bot settles and steps back. Ramna crosses her arms. “Alright then, we’re gonna flag this, but you’ll be fine I’m sure, we’ll get in contact with this Moonracer’s commanding officer and confirm all of this.”
“Not necessary,” Ironhide interjects, raising a servo to brush along his helm. “I know her officer personally, I shall take care of it.”
That gives her pause, but she responds with a straightened backstrut and a salute. “Ah—very well, sir, just be sure to let the Iacon gate know the situation—”
The tall mech scoffs. “Yes, yes, soldier, there is no need for a lecture, I’ve known the protocols longer than you’ve been in your final frame.” Grumbles Ironhide, turning with a shake of his helm and a lasting glance in B-1’s direction, before he lumbers back off of the platform to await them.
Ramna is taken aback and if B-1 wasn’t so frazzled he’d pity the way a spike of embarrassed nervousness strikes through her field. Optics blinking rapidly, she swiftly finds her composure and zeroes back in on him, B-1 pulls his field back in as far as he can once more. “You can unplug now,” she instructs, somewhat weary.
“—Please don’t yank it, you’ll have a helm-ache for cycles,” warns the nicer guy. B-1 wonders if he should as his designation. He doesn’t.
No one is more well-acquainted with helm pain than he is, so his pride is no more wounded as he gently ushers the plug from his port. It still sizzles as it jacks free, but he imagines that has more to do with Dea-8’s careless touch than anything. Still, he exvents in relief when the sensation of prying optics fades from his helm.
Gesturing with her forehelm, Ramna ushers him to the other side of the checkpoint, and B-1 is very impressed with his ability to even walk right now. He finds himself staring off into space as he takes his place next to Ironhide, who is definitely looking at him a little differently.
What did he betray, in that single moment of cracking himself open? What did they say? What do they see now? Moonracer told him the Autobots wouldn’t care if he was crazy, just how true were those words?
He doesn’t really want to think about it.
It’s bad, but he allows some of himself to numb and he sways with the calm wind. If Ironhide speaks up, B-1 doesn’t register it.
When Jazz gets through the checkpoint – in like two kliks because of course his is fast and easy and not suspicious – he skips up to them grinning, all traces of that weird serious wavelength gone.
“See? What’d I tell ya? Nothin’ serious. Easy peasy!”
Feeling a bit brave—or perhaps masochistic, B-1 doesn’t hide it when he rolls his optics.
***
The remainder of the drive is awkward, it’s all awkward and now they’re upset and B-1 is upset and everyone’s upset and he should have minded his damn business this is so stupid.
Jazz chitters on about random things but B-127 honestly hears very little of it.
There’s this weird rift between the trio now and acting like it isn’t there feels counterproductive. Jazz can ignore it, but B-1 knows it’s there. It’s all rather silly because B-1 truly doesn’t know why he cares so much, he doesn’t know these bots very well. They’re virtually strangers to him.
Well, maybe acquaintances now, but semantics.
But even still, there is something old and overgrown in the depths of his burnt spark that yearns for it, for their approval. Different from how he at first wanted the bandit’s approval – that was a matter of survival, keeping his pedes light to survive another day in their fold. This is something else. A wanting that dates back to before his processor and spark alike were shattered and clumsily put back together.
Every attempt to put a name to it is like trying to bring Energon to his intake with his bare servos. Whenever he thinks he gets close, the definition dribbles through his digits and back to the inky darkness, where the beasts extend their slinky arms and devour every good thought he has. Even his tired infodex is unhelpful, lazily giving him defining potentials, but never quite landing on true meaning.
Whatever it may be, it’s placed a guilt on his shoulders that adds to the weight he drags along with his existence, and it feels like a punishment for some unseen sin. Guilt that these new bots had to feel even an ounce of the heaviness he does each cycle, when he knows they must already suffer so much, for what could be heavier than the weight of war?
How could the pain of a single sparkling even compare?
So, he keeps quiet, allowing the ambiance of his rumbling tires and the whistling breeze to keep him centered.
If it comes to it, he can always leave.
***
The darkened visage of Iacon’s skyscape grows closer and closer until it’s all B-1 can see. Tents grow denser and denser on either side of the old highways and B-1 deduces they must be different Autobot branches or maybe even civilian housing of some sort. Iacon is supposed to be huge, but there’s no telling how much of it is still livable.
Tall fences line certain blocks, and his curiosity has him swiveling his mirrors as curiosity nips at his plating. It’s a favorable distraction, so he spends the rest of the drive imagining rows and rows of weapons being developed, epic training halls, and warriors sparring and honing their skills. It’s a fun picture, and B-1 hasn’t indulged in that kind of play in a long time.
Blue Breeze would love it here, he imagines.
Eventually, more rumble strips skate below his tires, and B-1 follows Ironhide and Jazz’s lead to slow down for the final checkpoint leading to the city. The dusty cybermatter is replaced by smooth, polished metal, corroded in some places but surely more well-kept than the wilds outside. B-1 is reminded of the frequent acid rains here; he assumes there is a correlation.
Just as promised, this checkpoint is not nearly as stressful. Thank Primus for that. One lone fem-bot mans the station and greets them with a cheery smile. She seems to know Jazz and Ironhide too, though understandably Jazz is far keener to converse, while Ironhide only offers her a slightly less-than-angry grunt. There is no logic in plugging in twice, so they don’t, and the nice femme compliments B-127’s paint as she goes over the data the first checkpoint sent over. He remembers to say something nice back this time.
If she is perturbed by his dents or the contents of the data-packet, she doesn’t show it, smiling the whole way and even offering him a small Energon cube. “For the rest of your drive,” she explains calmly, holding it out to him. Her sweet demeanor is extremely jarring, and he declines the cube because he’s got plenty – and he imagines she needs it more.
He doesn’t wanna be greedy.
“All of it, child.”
It probably would rust his lines anyway.
As he trudges on dragging pedes, B-1 doesn’t realize he has crossed over into the city until he’s hit with the sheer intensity of it all. Backstrut straightening, his optics spiral, and his observational subroutines boot up to see and catalog information. Long sweeping highways dance above their helms, creating flowing ribbons as the living metal of their planet follows the flow of traffic, building more surface area as the car alt modes utilizing it twist and turn to their desired location. Similarly, B-127’s optics zoom to spy nearly invisible purple lines glistening high into the sky.
Some sort of flying guideline for airborne Transformers, perhaps?
Though, whether you can fly or not seems to be of little consequence here, some of the buildings cast in a beautiful multi-chrome stretch far past the heavens, so much so that B-1 nearly laughs at the image of one of them accidentally spearing one of their moons.
Despite supposedly being a shadow of it’s former brilliance, B-127 is still thoroughly impressed, though being the country astro-vulture he’s grown to be, maybe any city would be impressive.
He told himself he would never step a pede inside of a city, it’s dangerous, he can’t, and in many ways B-1 still believes that, but as he is overwhelmed with the whimsy of the utter life thrumming through this place, he finds that perhaps his spark burning discomfort was worth it. If they kick him out now, he won’t complain, because sure the beauty of the city is palpable.
But it’s the number of people that really sets him over the edge. So many different builds, mechs, and femmes alike, all flocking and running this way and that, living their lives with the freedom B-1 has always longed for. And he knows that he’s just building a narrative, but this is the most people he has ever seen in one place, and for the first time in stellar cycles B-1 really feels like the Well didn’t spit him out to an empty house. Didn’t throw him from the pits to be destroyed by those less gentle. No one here wants to hurt him – probably, his injured mind unhelpfully adds – but really, they’re too busy to hate him. Too busy with their lives to find something unpleasant about him to dislike. The thought shouldn’t be comforting, but it is.
There are just… so many.
…
…
Primus, there are so many.
He wants to hold onto the awe and wonder forever, but it’s already fading, he pockets what he can to analyze later, but now, sound begins to filter back through his audials as his earlier numb catharsis dissipates and he realizes just how utterly noisy Iacon is. His olfactory sensors pick up the scent of oil, Energon, metallic corrosion, coolant and acid, and so much more. Dozens upon dozens of EM fields crash through him and then zip away, ripping something from him each time as he tries and fails to get used to the sensation.
Yes, he isn’t alone, not at all. His gyroscope miscalculates as it often does and the dizziness he normally has no problem fighting off has his helm spinning. Well, at least no one can say he’s a particularly good spy, were he actually lying about the coordinates. One step in this place and he’s already overwhelmed.
“Kid, ya alright?” Jazz queries, tilting his helm and waving a servo in front of B-1’s rapidly focusing and blurring optics to regain his attention.
B-1 jumps with a small yelp, gets annoyed, and furiously lowers his optical, olfactory, and audial input. He reasons he can slowly bring everything back up to a normal setting once he’s adjusted to the bustle of this place. “Buh—yes, I’m sorry. Just…” he gestures weakly, clinking his palms against his tibulens. “Never been to a city, before. Yeah.” The way he admits it makes him feel small, and B-1 sets an objective for himself to get used to all this slag as quickly as possible.
But not too used to it, yeah? He could still leave.
Avoiding B-127’s gaze, Ironhide grunts from his perch just at the edge of the checkpoint’s drop-off point, observing the city with well-seasoned wisdom. “It is quite something.”
For a moment, Jazz is by his side with an arm raised, as if to rest it on his shoulder. He seems to think better of it, allowing it to rest at his side. B-1 is grateful for it, casting an ever-so-slightly exhausted look his way. Jazz calks his helm fondly – wait, fondly? “Don’tcha worry kid, where we’re goin’ is a lot quieter.”
At that, Ironhide snorts, stepping to the level ground and transforming in one slick motion. “Old friend, quieter to you is only slightly below deafening.”
B-127 and Jazz walk in step, following Ironhide’s lead as they set off on the road. “Ay, someone’s gotta bring a little life ta’ the table. I’m jus’ doin’ my part to make sure we don’t lose our minds.”
They continue to bicker like that the entire drive, and B-127 has to rev his engine to hide his laughter. This is all so ridiculous. They’re acting like nothing happened and they all know something has, they know B-1 is an allegorical train-wreck waiting to happen and even he will admit that his existence is suspicious. They should be treating it with more care, really.
Didn’t they feel it? That dark part of his spark? Did they not feel the gritty texture of the lives he’s taken?
He’d hoped to find some sort of closure by coming here, but all he is finding is more questions and the clawed grip of fear around his thraceatic cables.
He supposes he should be glad that he at least has the privilege to be this disheveled, if Lariat were here he’d have knocked him senseless by now.
Though rather morbid, B-127 can’t lie that the image makes him chuckle.
***
“Now, don’t mind any of the hard-afts in there. They know yer comin’, they just ain’t relaxed in the last ten vorns,” Jazz warns, grinning as he ushers B-1 through the courtyard of a reinforced building that towers high into the sky, sleek metal bouncing off of the water in the sky and coloring everything around it like a soggy rainbow.
“We won’t let em’ give ya a hard time. Scout’s honor.”
Ironhide scoffs at his side. “Some of your scouts have very little.”
That has Jazz frowning and it’s the first time B-1 thinks he looks genuinely offended. “Ay man, not cool. Just because they gotta do some slag you might think undesirable don’t mean they ain’t some of our finest.” Jazz defends fiercely, a slight rasp in his tone that informs B-127 that this is far from the first time they have argued about this.
The taller bot rolls his optics and grumbles something surly about ‘real warriors’ and ‘regulating behavior,’ but doesn’t push the issue. B-1 tries to focus on putting one pede in front of the other.
This place is huge, and clearly important by the shining Autobot insignia embossed proudly on its front entrance. While his anxiety is spiking, he saves some room to ogle at the soldiers idling in the courtyard, mechs and femmes of all sizes. They all share that same sigil and seeing it so very present makes them all seem so… united.
He’s reminded of that old Decepticon cartoon, the one he’s made great efforts to keep buried. Quotes of glory and purpose come to mind, all in hopes of spurring on the Decepticon cause. Yet, as he looks out at the warriors – who show no shame in staring right back – B-1 thinks they may have only aided the Autobots with those words.
Because Primus, don’t they all look glorious?
Seeing them all clustered here in this stronghold of a city is different from any of the outposts or settlements he’s stolen from. This place feels cut off from the tragedy outside, somehow, secure in the bubble they’ve created. Would Lariat ever be able to break through it? Would Locke Up?
Puzzling, puzzling.
***
They go through a few more security measures walking through the foyer, but nothing is so formal as before, most of the bots take one look at Jazz and Ironhide and let them through. B-1 keeps his helm ducked and manages to get out of it without having to talk to anyone, only getting stuck in an awkward smile-and-wave combo once.
Before long, they’ve descended to some sort of underground sub-level hangar, with ceilings high enough to make B-1 dizzy. Just how low have they gone? The elevator leading down definitely isn’t built for three bots, and B-127 nearly loses his composure over how close he must be to the two older warriors, who, annoyingly, don’t seem to care at all. Even Ironhide, who is large to begin with, only scowls in that way that B-1 is starting to recognize as a staple to his character.
It becomes pretty clear almost immediately that this is where this base stores their Energon cache. To begin with, there’s not much as he would expect from the main headquarters of the Autobots, but he supposes that they wouldn’t have gone hunting through a long abandoned ruin if their supply wasn’t low. There is a healthy mix of Transformers and worker drones pottering about, sorting and B-127 guesses counting as well.
They are stopped somewhere near a wall and told to unload all they can, and then told basically get out as soon as possible
“I got twelve malfunctioning drones and overworked Autobots. I ain’t need you loud-dermas getting on my fuel lines too,” sneers a deep purple femme. She must be old enough to garner some respect because even Ironhide doesn’t raise an optical ridge at her tone. B-1 is amazed she still has a helm on her shoulders.
Once they dump all of the cubes, he feels significantly lighter, and his engine gives a happy tumble at the lack of strain. He allows himself a little shake of his door wings, careful not to set his gyroscope off kilter. The pleasant buzz of his working one picking up the electrical current of the Energon brings a timid smile to his intake, one he keeps to himself to help ease some of his stress.
And with that they make their way out of the hangar. B-1 turns his helm to admire the small towers of fuel, and the cubes that only a few nights ago, only he was privy to. A certain greedy tingle singes under his mandible and down his neck cables, but B-1 dismisses the sensation as best he can, reminding himself with some spiteful pride that now, well and truly, Lariat and his merry men will never get their servos on these cubes.
That eases the tingle, somewhat, and he forces his helm away, balking with some alarm when the action has his spark pulse skyrocketing. That haze of needing to check his surroundings makes him queasy in the sea of bots around them, and he grimaces as they return to the elevator.
“You won’t be punished for thinking out of turn, B,” Newdawn reminds from some spot in the corner. It’s tight enough that if he stresses his optics enough, B-1 can just faintly see the outline of his bleeding and long-dead form.
He sets his jaw as tight as he can manage, praying that Primus chases away the awful phantom optics all around him. Keeping his helm down is easy, and ignoring the sheer proximity to Jazz and Ironhide isn’t as worrisome as the first time. Jazz hums a little tune B-1 doesn’t recognize. Clenching on to the noise helps, and by the time they’ve ascended twenty floors, the edges of himself don’t feel so rough, and he thinks he can ventilate without causing a ruckus.
With a clicking rest of his vocoder, Ironhide draws B-1’s attention, and looking up at his looming figure has gotten a little easier, too. “You should know, young one, that this is all quite unusual,” he starts, flickering his optics and then shaking his helm. “I’m afraid your… appearance, and subsequent aid to our fight has garnered more attention than we intended.”
The reaction is too quick to stop, and so B-1’s fuel lines flush hot when his armor forcibly locks itself to his protoform in shock. What the frag does that mean? Has he done something wrong? He hasn’t decided on staying yet—he can leave – what if they want him to leave? Was he too cold? It wasn’t on purpose.
Well, it may have been a little on purpose.
Was it his field?
Primus this is all too convoluted.
He can manage a, “Oh?” and mentally cheers that his vocoder doesn’t glitch at all. Ha, take that irrational insanity.
Jazz chuckles, waving a servo before he crosses his arms. “We got other kidda’s like ya around the city somewhere – protected, amnesty and slag like that. Usually we have scouts stationed near tha’ Well, an' a few a’ the other known openings. Negotiated wit’ the Decepticons and larger Neutrals for em’ an’ everythin’.” Something about him softens, and B-1’s finials twist, as his sensornet tries to compensate for his confusion. “Worked well the past thirty vorns. Sorta.”
The older, taller bot groans. “Hardly, the Decepticons honored the deal we struck for all of six stellar cycles before new sparks began going missing.”
A small hollow carves itself into his midsection plating, but he resists telling the bots that he really doesn’t want to know any of this. Doesn’t want to know why he didn’t get the mercy the others have. Why so many have met fates far more cruel still. All he really wants to know is if he is in trouble – and what that could mean.
That makes him feel so horribly selfish.
The two older warriors must sense his discomfort, sharing a look and noticeably softening their fields around him. “Point is—it’s not uh, common, ta’ meet kids like you out there,” Jazz says gently, his sardonic grin morphing to one much more sheepish. “And we’ve got a pretty tight knit group. Known each other for…”
“Eons,” Ironhide supplies.
Jazz nods. “Right, so, we’re friends, yeah – no matter what any of tha’ old fools say – so, ova’ the centuries, the reports we send each other for smaller missions like this have gotten a little… informal.”
Ironhide rolls his optics. “Speak for yourself. You’re a terrible example.”
Dismissively waving a servo, Jazz continues. “Whateva’ you say brother.” Through his visor, B-127 can see Jazz wink at him. The elevator shutters to a stop, and with some horror, B-1 realizes they’ve ascended to the very top floor of the tower. “What I’m tryna’ say is ah…”
The doors slide open with a metallic swish. B-1’s sparkpulse doubles. “We are all a bunch of ancient relics hoping to find something worth paying attention to,” Ironhide adds, wistfully, taking the first step out of the crowded space. Jazz soon follows, and with a buzzing in his pedes, B-1 shakily does too.
It’s a smaller space, data consoles line the walls, some awash with information B-1 is pretty sure he’s not nearly qualified enough to see. The rest are turned off, and B-1 wonders just what kind of intel is shared up here and why they would let B-1 anywhere close. The ceilings are high, and at the room’s center, a long table spans it, a few half-used Energon cubes scattered about with other data pads.
He tries not to look too starstruck, but the windows surround the room and shine in like show lights displaying the bots within as if they’re a god-given solace.
The elevator doors shut with a clunk, making B-1 jump out of his thoughts, and the encroaching fields rush to him like scraplets in need of a feed. It makes him shiver to have so many optics suddenly on him at once, and he resists the urge to jump out the window. There are seven of them, two femmes and five mechs – all wildly different and all staring at him oh god –
They’re all balking at him with various degrees of obviously staring, and B-1 wants to bang on the elevator to make it take him away.
… Is that Optimus Prime?
What the hell.
What the – what.
Why would a Prime give a damn about a new spark who only sort of helped these apparently very important men?
His plating completely clamps to his protoform and his mandible drops, and his processor slows to a crawl as it tries and fails to understand what’s going on here.
Crossing his arms and giving the bots a grimace, Ironhide gives B-1 a pitying look. “Some of the strongest and most skilled members of the Autobot cause, high commanders and generals. They’re all well regarded and for good reason.”
He sighs. “But as it stands, no one is perfect.” His helm turns to eye them all down with a frown. B-1’s optics are wide and barely taking in the words. He waits for the gavel to hammer down. Instead, Ironhide only growls, a little louder than necessary.
“It stands that they are all also horrible gossips.”