Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Uh,” Typhus said, looking over the words spark casing failure and imminent frame rejection . “Is that… treatable?”

If he had to guess, he would say yes. The medic seeing him—Fixit—didn’t seem at all concerned, and Typhus liked to think that medics hesitated to tell their patients if they were about to die. He wasn’t too sure of Fixit, though; he was never too sure of the ones who had been in the war. Something about their music was always a little off key.

“Yes,” Fixit told him, handing him a datapad with a clear treatment plan. “It would be easier if you were cold constructed, but the procedure is the same. We make a new spark casing and rehouse your spark into the new one. Simple as that.”

“Oh,” Typhus said. “That sounds… dangerous?”

Fixit shrugged. “I mean, it could be, if your surgeon didn’t know what he was doing. But the biggest risk isn’t the surgery—it’s the spark casing. It needs to match the frequency of your spark about three magnitudes more exacting than, let’s say, a servo replacement. Cold constructed mechs only have a few frequency variations, but forged sparks all have unique casings. That’s why it’s a little trickier.”

Typhus relaxed. He wasn’t used to thinking about death. A lot of people were, he knew; most of his friends were Neutrals, and the Speakeasy he frequented discouraged war-talk, but there was no hiding the stench of blood. Three out of his four colleagues had been on frontlines, two for the Decepticons and one for the Autobots. Most people he walked past in streets had killed as many times as they have nearly died, if the stories were to be believed. Typhus was not among them, and thus was entirely unfamiliar with the idea of death.

“You were forged in… Iacon?” Fixit squinted at his screen. “Four thousand years ago?”

“Three thousand nine hundred and eight, yes,” Typhus said. He was remarkably young, or had been told enough times to accept it. Some people were curious, some were skeptical, and some were downright rude about it, so Typhus had memorized the number to keep ahead of them. 

“That’s right after the war.”

“Yes?” There hadn’t been a proper history data packet when he onlined, but he gathered enough hearsay to paint the picture. Autobot, Decepticon; Functionists and revolutionaries; their grudge and feuds. He was lucky to have fallen in with a crowd of Neutrals and avoided the faction wars altogether, that first few turbulent centuries. “Nineteen years or so, right?”

Fixit was no longer looking at him, and was instead clicking insistently at the screen. He stared at it. He was furious and clicked at it more, and then stared at it again. He stared back and forth between two spots, clearly unhappy with either. 

“That can’t be right,” he muttered, tapping a finger on his lip. It was an inconstant rhythm, soft yet chafing. Typhus didn’t like it.

“What’s that?”

“Iacon didn’t have working hot spots until two and a half thousand years after the war,” Fixit said. He’d know, Typhus thought. The entire planet knew. It had been one of the milestones in interfactional homogeny, or so he had been told. He’d spent the whole week in a nearby cave system, chasing a strange sort of tingling and fizzing sound until he ran out of fuel. By the time he’d been retrieved and refueled, he had already missed all the free drinks.

“But I was forged in Iacon,” Typhus said, dumbfounded. He had onlined in Iacon, found his first job in Iacon, and spent his entire functioning ferrying construction material between its districts. Where was he from, if not Iacon?

“You—” Fixit looked alarmed. “I just got kicked. What—who—”

And then someone was comming him, by the looks of it. Probably someone important, if the way Fixit was squirming was anything to judge by. “Yes,” Fixit answered, too distracted to switch to internal audio. “Yes, of course. I’ll—well, you have access to the file, of course. I’ll just send him your way. Or… okay. All right.” He turned back to Typhus. “I’m transferring your case.”

“Uh,” Typhus said. “Um.”

“Don’t worry,” Fixit said, with a sort of forced smile on his face that was very worrying. “First Aid will be here to see you shortly. In about, oh, twenty minutes or so, traffic permitting. If you have any further concerns, you can direct them to him.”

And then Typhus was expelled from Fixit’s office. He shuffled back to the hallway, then squeezed his hips down on a standard sized chair, the very same that he’d sat in before the appointment.

Typhus wasn’t sure if he should have expected this. It wasn’t a big problem, was it? Finding a spark outside of hot spots? He looked it up. It was rare, the page said, and the spark in question was almost always a Point One Percenter. Typhus frowned. Was that why he was getting transferred to another medic? Because they thought he had a superspark? Well, he didn’t; he’d seen his spark before, in routine check ups, and it was definitely blue. 

…Who was he getting transferred to, anyway? Fist Raid? Something like that. If he was a high ranked medic, he’d show up in searches, right?

First Aid of Helex was the first item in the search. CMO-in-waiting, his page said. A long list of commendations went beneath his picture: Autobot veteran, Honorably Discharged after the factions had legally dissolved. Medic, nurse, doctor. Inventor of a now-standardized spark resuscitation technique, which had saved the life of Fortress Maximus, coincidentally himself a spark found outside of hot spots. He was clearly out of the paygrade of the little roadside clinic Typhus had stumbled into after work. Whatever the pit would he be doing here?

Before he could go back and look at the other search results, a mech sauntered into the building with a booming chord of confidence. It was First Aid.

“Uh,” Typhus said, eloquently. There wasn’t anyone else in the hallway. “Hi?”

First Aid visibly relaxed, then put on a smile. “Typhus, right? I’m First Aid, CMO-in-waiting. Fixit transferred your case to me.”

Typhus took the hand First Aid had extended, a little wary to be touching someone so small and so important. “Thanks?”

“This isn’t a good place to go over your file,” First Aid said, already leading them towards the clinic’s entrance. “I don’t have an office in the building. Mind if we commute?”

There was a polished non-sentient vehicle waiting for them outside, the one First Aid must have taken to get here. Typhus didn’t fit in most vehicles—and some buildings—but this one was spacious enough to seat him without difficulty, if also without comfort.

“Am I getting kidnapped right now?” There were all sorts of horror stories about the war, about memory-wiping and organ harvesting and stealing faces. Most of them, Typhus thought, were probably conflated. Jazz would have called it a problem with the chicken and the eggs, and Squawkbox would have said non sequitur ; if it had been as bad as they said in those bawdy, drunken accounts, then there would be no one left to tell the tale. But the stories must’ve begun somewhere, and it must hold some notes of truth, he thought, if he kept hearing the same ones. 

First Aid huffed, then gave him a real smile. “No,” he said. “I just need to talk to you. In private.”

Typhus sent a note to Squawkbox that he’d have to miss karaoke tonight, and stepped into the vehicle. It held his weight. 

“Iacon Central,” First Aid said.

Typhus focused on the passing scenery. First Aid didn’t speak to him, and he found that he had nothing to say to First Aid. It was nice, at least, seeing different parts of the city. Being on the heavier side of tanks meant that the smaller half of the city was forbidden to him. And the farther districts, since he couldn’t go on the freeway with his alt, though he supposed he had gone there a few times on the bus. 

Typhus loved the city. Not everyone did, he knew. In this place once lived the Functionist, then the Autobots, then the Decepticons, then no one at all. Typhus had read a few poems by a Neutral, who had also included a sensory packet with the release of his book. It was very quiet, in that corpse of Iacon, without lights or the thunderous stampede of mechs going about. When Typhus had returned to himself he was happier to see the difference. Autobots wanted their shining spires, and the Decepticons wanted to see its ruin. Typhus found that he loved it as is: patchwork and hodgepodge and olio. There was always something new to hear.

Iacon Central was less imposing of a building than he expected. It was big, but not at all shining and elegant like in the vids of the Golden Age. It was humming lowly in the early evening, shedding the noise of the sun. A working building, neither too full or too empty. Typhus found that he liked it.

“This way,” First Aid said, marching confidently onwards. It wasn’t difficult for Typhus to follow his stride, given the size difference, but he imagined that most mechs would, the speed First Aid was going. It wasn’t until First Aid was locking the door that Typhus realized they had already arrived. It was stately, and built so that patients of all types and sizes could be comfortably treated. There was a small shelf of personal effects.

“Uh,” Typhus said, not sure if he should sit. First Aid was fiddling with some sort of… buzzing device in his hand, and he had closed the curtains.

“Just making sure we have privacy, is all,” First Aid said, finally sitting down at his desk. Typhus sat across from him.

“You do this for all your patients?” Typhus asked, wary.

First Aid gave him a wry sort of smile. “No. Typhus, do you know how sparks are made?”

Typhus knew the basics: cold constructed and forged. “Why? Is there a secret third option?”

“Funny you should ask,” First Aid said, presenting him with a datapad. 

Impossible Birth From Outlier Spark, read the headline. Scientist defies the will of Primus! 

It was a very engaging article, if a bit hard to read due to the difference in lingo. “ You can do that? ” Typhus exclaimed, having gotten to the line where the scientist proudly proclaimed that the spark was entirely viable. It had—if this was to be believed, which Typhus was having a hard time doing—gone on to adapt successfully to sentio metallico, the blacksmith in the picture adeptly weaving the protoform around the spark casing. “Wait. Does that mean I…?”

“Yes,” First Aid said, quiet and solemn. “You’re not cold constructed or forged, Typhus. You’re made.”

Typhus tried to wrap his mind around it. A Cybertronian, born from another Cybertronian. That was so… weird. Jazz had mentioned offhand about how humans and most organics had to splice their DNA and reproduce that way, but Typhus had mostly listened out of polite interest. He didn't think that it would mean anything to him in a way that mattered. “I had a… parent?”

“Have,” First Aid said. There was an edge to his voice. “You have a parent. Well, you had two at the time of your conception, but there’s only one living. If we are to use the terms coined by the trailblazers here, I suppose he’d be your carrier.”

Typhus scanned the article again. Carrier. Right. And the other was… progenitor. “Wait,” he said, suddenly remembering. “Does that mean…?”

First Aid gave a long and heavy sigh. “In order to replace your spark casing, we need a sample from your carrier. Typhus, I hereby grant you visitation rights to prisoner 248b of Garrus-10, effective until your immediate medical need no longer involves the prisoner in question. Would you like me to send him your request?”

***

“What?” Typhus’s brain module stopped functioning. He was. He had. What? What? 

“Okay, I should slow down,” First Aid admitted, leaning back. He was gauging Typhus for his reaction, but Typhus didn’t know how he should react. Cybertronians weren’t meant to have parents. Mentors, maybe. A few vids he saw mentioned masters who taught their pupils the ways of the Circle of the Light. But a parent was nothing like that. A parent was like—Primus, he supposed, if he were to equate one maker of life to another. How was he supposed to think of… prisoner 248b? Who was he to Typhus? And who was Typhus to him? “Typhus? Typhus.”

“I’m back,” Typhus told him. “Yeah, you can send the request. I’ll have to meet him, right?”

“Ideally, the samples should be taken within the same half hour in the same room, to prevent data loss.” First Aid considered this. “But you don’t have to meet him. You don’t have to think about him ever again, if you don’t want to.”

“Oh,” Typhus said. It wasn’t at all what he expected First Aid to say. “But I want to?”

First Aid shot him a funny look. “I guess I can understand why you’d be curious. All right, I’ll make the arrangements.”

“He’s agreed?” That was… really fast. It hadn’t even been a minute since First Aid had told him.

Now First Aid was the one keeping silent. “No,” he admitted. “But we can make it happen. The surgery should take place within six months, so I’ll schedule the visitation as soon as possible. How is the day after tomorrow?”

Typhus had work that day, but he was sure he could beg off. “What do you mean, you can make it happen?” he asked, once they were done with scheduling. “Do you—I mean, I thought—”

“Hey,” First Aid said, softly. “You’ll be okay, all right? We’ll take good care of you. Nothing’s going to happen to you so long as you keep your tank full and recharge the full eight hours.” He looked at the clock. “It’s getting late. Why don’t I give you a ride back home?”

Typhus dumbly agreed. He was sure he still had questions, but they were all tangled up in his mind, dissonance upon dissonance. Who was his parent? Why was he in Garrus-10? What did First Aid mean, he’ll ‘make it happen?’ What exactly was so harrowing that the CMO-in-waiting had to make that face? 

It wasn’t until First Aid’s non-sentient transport dropped him off at his hab that he finally landed on the right note: First Aid didn’t want him to meet his carrier. Or rather, he thought it wasn’t supposed to be something Typhus wanted. Why?

Typhus couldn't make sense of it. First Aid had been in the war firsthand, had witnessed all its exudante and gore and easy cruelty. Typhus worked with murderers; he took his energon next to people whose job it was to carry prisoners from one camp to the smelter, then the ingots from the smelter to factories. Even Squawkbox had confessed to his fair share of murder during the war: Beastbox had been stuck on an Autobot transport after a botched infiltration, and Squawktalk had sent an entire battalion to their deaths to get him back. It didn’t seem possible on him, but Typhus had learned to believe. 

If those were the people he drank with—that he was neighbors with, colleagues with, friends with—then what sort of heinous was his carrier?

Typhus supposed he’d have to see. He wasn’t in the war; he had no right to judge its criminals. He set the thought process aside and went to bed.

The next morning, he found several pamphlets in his inbox. They were all articles and infographics about made mechs, courtesy of First Aid. Typhus read them on the way to work. It sounded fake, last night, when he had first read that miraculous headline. Now, peering down at the data detailing nine spark dissipation out of ten, Typhus was finally able to realign his reality matrix. The numbers were discouraging; there needed to be at least two parents, both forged, and one had to be a Point One Percenter. The carrier also needed a rare mutation in his spark casing that allowed the spark to split, the odds of which were one in fifty thousand. The sparking required total spark merge—allegedly painless if the sparks were in ionic harmony—and the cooperation of both Point One Percenters, which was hard to come by. Then, the carrier had to incubate the spark for ten to twenty years, before undergoing a painful and high-risk surgery to rehouse the split-spark into a new spark casing.

Typhus felt a little overwhelmed by the numbers. He was used to being unusual, but there was a world of difference between odd oversized tank and miraculous feat of science. He wanted to see how many others were like him, had been made and were still living, but the article ended there. The last one, a historical account written at the end of the Golden Age, was the only one with numbers: At most six of these sparks were Made, and that is a generous and likely false estimate. Cybertronians, no matter how exalted, should not attempt the work of Primus, for out of the four documented Made mech, three had burned out within the century. The medics had claimed faults in their spark casings. Falsities! The proof is there, laid plain before their eyes: these Made sparks are profane.

“Typhus.” Landfill had snuck up on him, somehow. “You good there, buddy?”

“Uh.” Typhus hadn’t noticed that he had already arrived. “You know where Loadout is? I gotta talk to him.”

Loadout gave him the day off easily enough, but paused when he mentioned Garrus-10.

“You’re not in trouble, are you?” he asked gruffly. “Didn’t break anyone’s arm?”

Typhus shook his head. He supposed that heavy tanks could break someone’s arm easily enough, but he couldn’t fathom how it would happen, even unwittingly. The closest he’d gotten was slapping Squawkbox on the back without modulating his strength, which gave him a few dents that he laughed off. “There’s someone I gotta see.”

He was allowed to return to work and suffuse himself once more in the familiar rhythm of toil. Load liquicrete mix, secure cargo, transport; load liquicrete mix, secure cargo, transport. It’s usually very satisfying, the rhythmic march of labor, but Typhus found that he was unable to enjoy himself. There was too much on his mind.

He went straight to see Squawkbox after work.

“Hey,” Squawkbox said, looking up from the glass he was polishing. “Missed you yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Um. About that.”

Typhus met Squawkbox entirely by accident. He’d stumbled into the Speakeasy—Squawktalk and Beastbox couldn’t agree on a name, and so its regulars had to improvise—three thousand years ago, hunting a loud, deafening sort of ringing. The mech it was coming from—a ditzy little flight frame, Decepticon emblem still welded to the front of his chest—was entirely unaware. He hadn’t known what to do; no one else had heard the noise, and it was only getting louder. There had been a lot of people around, probably, only he didn’t notice them at all. He was frantically trying to turn it off. The noise had been deafening by then, and it was all he could do not to scream out in pain. 

Squawkbox liked to tell the next part to their regulars. “I called the neighborhood grunts, o’course, cause a heavy duty tank having the jitters on the bar floor is never good business,” he’d say, pointing to the spot where Typhus had curled in on himself. Allegedly. “And then squirt shot up all business-like, an’ he grabbed the little plane by the wings and chucked ‘em out. Mech went off a’fore he even landed. Blew a hole in the road. Squirt saved the life of this whole crowd.”

And then Typhus was seamlessly folded into the evening crowd at the Speakeasy, as if there was always a tank-rated chair for him at the exact same time every evening, right on the counter where Squawkbox worked. 

“Garrus-10?” He had a fairly classy accent today, some branch of Iaconian in the Golden Age. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

Typhus sighed. “No, I’m not in trouble. Why does everyone think I’m in trouble?”

Squawkbox looked him up and down. “That’s Functionist,” Typhus grumbled. 

“Just making sure you know, squirt. A heavy tank isn’t what mechs think of when they say ‘innocent.’” He levelled Typhus a searching look. “Seriously. Why are you going there?”

In lieu of answering, Typhus showed him the article First Aid showed him. Squawkbox’s disbelief wore off somewhere in the middle, though Typhus wasn’t sure where. It was a pit of a thing to believe a friend on.

“You wanna get sparked by some Point One Percenter in prison?” Squawkbox said, a little dubious.

“No!” Typhus looked around. The Speakeasy wasn’t busy, but this wasn’t the sort of thing he wanted flying around. “No. I’m a made mech. My carrier is in Garrus-10.”

“Oh,” Squawkbox said, looking relieved. “Who is he?”

“Prisoner 248b,” Typhus said unhappily. “First Aid didn’t give me his name.”

Now Squawkbox was alarmed. “First Aid? Isn’t that the CMO-in-waiting? What’s he have to do with this?”

“Well, my spark casing is failing,” Typhus said, ignoring the concern dancing across Squawkbox’s face, “so they need a sample from my, er, carrier. That’s why I’m going.”

There was a minute where neither of them said anything. “Damn,” Squawkbox said. “Damn.”

There wasn’t really much else to say, so Typhus finished his energon without further comment. It was otherwise an uneventful night; a few local singers went on the mic, but most people here were familiar figures, people he’d seen and greeted for centuries. He let the drowsy mood of the night carry him, shutting off his higher processes to drown in the dim lights of the bar. 

“Squirt.” Squawkbox waved him down as he was leaving. “You saved my life that day. If there’s ever a time to call in the favor, you’ll tell me, yeah?”

“Yeah?” Typhus wasn’t sure what Squawkbox was talking about, exactly. He tossed some guy out the door, and suddenly he was a hero. He hadn’t even meant to do it. “Whatever you say, Squawkbox.”

***

First Aid was already in the transport when Typhus got in. Thankfully, there was another medic around, and between the two of them they were able to tide over the awkward silence with pleasantries. 

“Minerva,” she introduced herself, shaking Typhus’s hands without hesitation. “It isn’t my first rodeo in Garrus-10, though I’m hoping it’ll be the quickest. We’ll just go on it, take the signature from the two of you, and hop right out.” She looked down at her note. “First Aid will take your frequency, and I’ll be taking your carrier’s.”

“Oh,” Typhus said. Something about that sounded wrong. “I thought it would be the other way around.”

“No,” First Aid said, terse. “I can’t work on him. It would be a conflict of interest.”

Minerva reset her voice module, clearly uncomfortable. “Shall I walk you through the procedure, while we’re here?”

Typhus agreed, if only to stave off the silence. He was usually good with silences, the ones with him driving slowly on the edges of Iacon, the waste of the wilds to his left and the bustle of the city to his right. There was always something mystical about it, that complete and total silence, as if it had once been something else. This silence was nothing like it; it was rife with the stink of something vile and unsaid, of something that sounded like a distant, painful ringing.

“We’re here,” First Aid said suddenly, cutting off Minerva’s recount of one of her stays on Earth. Typhus looked up. Before them was an imposing, metallic edifice, one magnitude larger than even the largest of the buildings in Iacon. There was a post out front: Garrus-10. No slogan. “Pull up.”

There was a clear line they had crossed upon seeing the sign. Minerva quieted down, First Aid straightened up, and Typhus found himself unnervingly drawn to the whispers ricocheting through the cracks of the building. 

“We have an appointment,” First Aid told the guards, showing his ID. 

“Go on in,” the guard said, raising the coronoid bars, and all at once there was music. It was like—like the Speakeasy’s first open mic, when Squawkbox had misdialed the volume and put the drinks on sale. You could hear the music from the outside, the faint thumping of too many people moving at once, but you weren’t really hearing it until you were on the other side. 

It was deafening.

“----! -------!” Someone was shaking him. It was First Aid, he realized, who was holding his collar plate. “------. -------?”

“Uh,” Typhus said, trying to tune out the—everything. “I can’t hear you. Hang on.”

Resetting his audials was disorienting, so he didn’t like to do it any more often than he had to. He figured that this was probably a time where he did have to. “I’ve reset my audials,” he said, unable to parse what Minerva and First Aid were trying to tell him. “Gimme a sec.”

And then Typhus focused. The first time he reset his audials, it did the exact opposite than what he wanted. The music had gotten louder, so much so that he was unable to hear his own voice. It took him two days and thirty more resets to get back to normal, the interim of which was as embarrassing as it was inconvenient.

He got it in one, this time. “Okay,” he said, his own voice sounding a little warped from the reset. “Okay. I think I’m good now. Um.” He looked over at First Aid and Minerva, who were both frowning at him. “Sorry. Happens sometimes.”

“Does that happen… often?” Minerva asked, unnerved.

“Um.” Typhus wasn’t sure, himself. He could go centuries without needing an audial reset, but there were times where he needed to do it daily. “Uh?”

“Do you know what just happened?” First Aid asked, imperative and steely.

“No…?” Typhus fidgeted.

He opened a panel on his arm, then showed it to Minerva, who froze. “You just had a spark surge,” First Aid told him. “A very powerful one.” He tapped furiously on his arm again. “I just moved up your surgical deadline. We have four months.”

“But they need a month to make a spark casing, even a rush order,” Minerva said, looking pained. “If—if we don’t get it right…”

“We only have one try,” First Aid said, looking so resolute Typhus had little trouble imagining him in the war, shedding his own fair share of blood. “Sorry. I don’t mean to spook you.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

First Aid exchanged a look with Minerva. “The spark casing is one of the most complex pieces of Cybertronian anatomy,” she began. “Cold constructed mechs have less variation in the frequencies of their casings, but studies have reported a staggering 5% difference in material makeup in the same model, all of them three thousand years off the line. The spark casing isn’t just there to contain the spark; it needs to sustain it, to protect it, to help direct its power to the rest of your frame. It needs to match your spark exactly, mirror every pulse, every surge and dip. The frequency of every spark casing—yes, even the cold constructs—is entirely unique.”

“The same spark casing can give off different frequencies,” First Aid continued, stepping off the transport, “depending on the health of the spark, external stresses, and the individual locations on the casing that we take the reading.”

“Oh,” Typhus said.

First Aid grunted. “Usually it takes one try,” he said, looking Typhus in the eyes. “It’s just that, well, we’ve only got one try.”

Typhus followed them silently down the halls, at once too large and too narrow. How was he meant to feel? He still needed the procedure. He was still getting the frequency. First Aid was still going to save his life, and if he couldn’t do it, then no one could. Nothing had changed.

The room the guard led them to was as sterile as the hallway, with two inclined slabs facing each other on opposite ends of the room. There was a glass partition between his end and the other. Minerva was already setting up her station, just as First Aid was setting up his. 

“All right,” First Aid said, some busying later. “Lay down, Typhus. I need to calibrate this to your frame.”

Typhus swallowed his questions. Who was his carrier? What had he done? Why would First Aid working on him be a ‘conflict of interest?’ “Okay,” he said instead, laying down.

And then the door opened on the other side. Typhus didn’t know what he expected. Made mechs always resembled one of their parents, according to the articles, and the chances leaned towards the carrier. Something about the time spent with the spark during incubation, though admittedly it was only speculate. Too few data points. He thought his carrier would be a Point One Percenter, maybe. Definitely someone big. 

What was actually escorted through the door was a weedy jet, looking like he was one breeze away from keeling over. He didn’t look at Typhus. He didn’t look at anything. Something about him unsettled Typhus, something eerie and quiet and echoey, as if travelling down a long and narrow tunnel. He couldn’t make sense of him. He couldn’t look away.

“Lay on the slab,” Minerva told him, neither friendly nor hostile. 248b made no sign that he’d heard except obeying. She did something to his wrists—no, his shackles—that magnetized them securely to the slab. 248b didn’t even seem to notice, except he must have. It looked painful.

“Let’s begin,” First Aid said, like it didn’t matter to him, like it hadn’t happened at all. Typhus wanted desperately to say something. But what could he say? What even was there to say? It was difficult to say anything to a doctor on a good day, Typhus found, and on this day, he’s literally presiding over Typhus’s naked spark. They was nothing for him to say.

He wished, suddenly, that he had waited to see 248b’s spark before revealing his own. He was born from that spark. It wasn’t weird to want to see it, right?

“Frequency ready,” First Aid said, a little while later. “Read consistent, margin of error 2%.”

“Affirmative,” Minerva said, distractedly. 

They waited. 

“Minerva,” First Aid said. 

“I can’t,” she muttered, face scrunched in concentration. “There’s no…” she backed off from 248b, fans loud with exhaust. “I can’t get a good read!”

“Typhus, close your spark chamber. Minerva, let me see,” First Aid said, and Typhus thought he’d finally go over and show him what he meant by ‘conflict of interest,’ but First Aid did not move at all. He was reading the data off his arm. “Is he not getting enough energon?”

The guard that escorted him in hesitated. “We abide by the Amendments,” he said, defensively. “You can look over the accounts if you want. Primus knows the Orator does.” And then, probably seeing First Aid’s murderous glare, he added: “It’s not our business if they trade it, okay? This is Garrus-10, not Garrus-9.”

And then, as if following the script of a dramatic and well-rehearsed production, 248b fainted. Typhus saw it in slow-motion: the slight tilt of his head, the dimming of his eyes, the tension in his shoulders and neck going slack. It was a subtle fluid motion, unnoticed past the glow of his spark chamber, which was held open by clips Minerva had installed. No one else saw it at all; they were still tinkering with the equipment, distracted with one another.

“What’s wrong with him?” Typhus asked, because no one would. It was—it was frightening, and disquieting, and wrong on a level so deep and visceral it was all Typhus could do to stay still. It felt—criminal, almost, to see someone’s spark when they were unconscious, and know that it was for his sake. That he was why it had happened.

Minerva finally noticed. “Minerva ID-413e, aborting assignment G-875 due to patient compl—”

“No,” First Aid said. “Complete the reading.”

Everyone looked at him, Typhus included. “But,” Minerva said, glancing at 248b. 

“If we consider the time needed to compile the data, synthesize the optimal metallic blend, and send the order to factory, we are already behind schedule.” First Aid pressed something on his arm. “First Aid ID-771a, authorization for Minerva ID-413e to complete reading on prisoner 248b.”

Minerva held for one moment, but not a long one; who was she to deny her superior, the CMO-in-waiting? He held her life in his hands, Typhus realized. He held all their lives in his hands. “Affirmative,” she said, readying the equipment once more.

“Wait,” Typhus said. Something had possessed him, something potent and loud and pervasive. “What are you doing to him?”

“Typhus,” First Aid said, softly. “Lie back down.”

“No.” This wasn’t the right move, Typhus knew; they were trying to save his life, and he had no place to question them doing their job. It was all… all wrong. Wrong! “Tell me what’s going to happen to him.”

Minerva paused, looking between Typhus and First Aid. She didn’t want to do this, Typhus thought, and he—he wanted to know why. He needed to know why.

“We’re just going to get a reading from him,” First Aid said placatingly. “There’s no reason for us to do anything more, is there?”

“I asked,” Typhus growled, “what’s going to happen to him.”

It was Minerva who broke. “We can’t pick up a frequency because he’s too weak,” she said. “It happens sometimes, with patients with poor circulation or suffering from underfueling. Under these circumstances, there’s only one reliable way to extract a casing frequency.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Typhus said. What was so hard for them to admit? They were about to actually do it to a living person; shouldn’t that be harder?

“We need to take samples from the source,” First Aid said, finally. “If the sentio metallico is removed from the spark casing, it would lose the resonance. The medics of the past found a workaround: if you cut just a small, semi-attached piece of the spark casing, it would isolate enough charge for the machine to read without dissipating from the spark itself. That’s what we’re trying to do.”

Typhus was angry all of sudden, a feeling as foreign to him as death. It was hot. It was cold. It was utterly silent. “And what’s going to happen to him, once you’ve sliced bits off his spark chamber?”

”It’s non-fatal on a healthy mech,” Minerva said, like she was trying to convince herself. 

“What do you think,” he asked, “will happen to him?”

The medics said nothing. The guards, ineffectual as they were, looked uncomfortable. He was alone, Typhus realized, in caring. Not even the 248b had weighed in on this. 

“It’ll shorten his lifespan,” Minerva admitted. “Increase the likelihood of spark burnout, cybercrosis, Sigma’s Disease.”

“It’ll kill him,” First Aid corrected. He didn’t sound sorry. He didn’t sound even a little hesitant. “But if we don’t get the casing frequency from him, you will die.”

“What—I—you don’t get to trade lives, ” Typhus bellowed, unable to contain himself. “You don’t get to just decide who lives and who dies.”

First Aid raised an eyebrow. “I’m the CMO-in-waiting,” he said. “Choosing who lives and who dies is part of my job description.”

Typhus wasn’t an angry person. It was a good thing; a hundred and fifty tons of rage was a lot to handle. People have called him things, yelled at him, refused to believe him at his word, and kicked him out of buildings that were allegedly rated for his frame type. It was irritating, sure, but he wouldn’t get angry over it. Veterans—the ones that fell through Squawkbox’s well-kept net—was another story. Typhus tried to understand them for a while; he felt that they had deserved it, somehow, with the things they went through. He wasn’t sure when he stopped, or why. Maybe it was the Autobot trying to shoot Squawkbox over regional differences in drinks. Maybe it was the Decepticon tearing off Landfill’s arm for breathing near him. Maybe it was the little pains, the insults and bad jokes and backhanded death threats. He didn’t know. One day Typhus woke up and stopped sympathizing with the ones who chose violence.

“Really,” Typhus spat. “Well, you’re right. I’m not a medic and I don’t know pit about lives, or deaths, or the decisions you have to make. But I do know this: it is illegal to kill someone without their consent. So if you don’t want me to tell the Orator what you just told me, you’ll wake him up and ask. ”

And then First Aid smiled, like he’d won. “You heard him,” he said, turning to Minerva. “Fuel him up.”

Minerva quickly did as she was asked. Typhus felt bad for her. She hadn’t asked to be part of this, but she was, now, because of him. His carrier, too. 

First Aid unlocked the partition, finally, and beckoned for Typhus to follow. In another world, another life, he might have given the moment its due credence. There was no room for it now. 

Prisoner 248b looked worse up close. Typhus had been told, before, that he was shit at using his eyes, but it had never been so clear to him until he was inches away from 248b. Up close, he looked small. The slabs here, Typhus realized, were at least three sizes bigger than the largest in Iacon, and twice as thick. Aside from the medics, 248b was the smallest mech in the room.

“Uoghhh.” His eyes were slowly lighting up. On the monitor Minerva set up, Typhus could see that 248b’s energon levels were 65% and rising. His voice was soft, gravelly, like he hadn’t used it in a while. “Yeuuuhg. Who. What?”

He saw Typhus and stopped breathing.

“No,” he gasped. “No, I. You’re dead. You’re not—you—I—!”

Typhus hadn’t noticed how quiet the room had been until it was already suffused with the sound of 248b’s fans. He was… struggling, Typhus realized, shimmying his arms and legs fruitlessly against the magnetic restraints. He couldn’t even close his spark chamber, though by the looks of it he was trying.

“No,” he croaked. “No, no, no. No! You’re not r-real! You’re not! You’re dead!”

“Hey,” Typhus tried. It was probably scary, waking up finding himself immobilized with his spark chamber open. He’d be freaked out too. “It’s okay.”

248b gave him a full body shiver in answer. “I gave you—you want—!” He sobbed. “No, no, no, no no no, I, I, please. ”

First Aid extended a long rod to 248b’s neck and zapped him. “Minerva, the clips.”

She had barely gotten her fingers out of the way when 248b’s spark chamber closed. Without the blinding sheen of blue obscuring his face, 248b looked like a mess; his paint was faded, entirely gone on some places, such as his hands. His eyes were chipped, lubricant leaking profusely out of one of the sockets. He was very deliberately looking away from Typhus.

“Back with us?” First Aid sounded bored. 248b didn’t appear to have heard him. He was still trying to pull free. First Aid sighed and zapped him again.

“I think you should release him,” Typhus said. Zapping 248b again hadn’t calmed him. It had only confused his power systems enough to falter a little.

First Aid considered his suggestion. “Fine. But only if you hold him down.”

Typhus acquiesced. He was the one who wanted this. “Okay,” he said, pinning 248b down by the shoulders. “I’m ready.”

The moment the magnets shut off, 248b punched him. It wasn’t a very hard punch; he was sure Landfill patted him harder on the arm. It still hurt, somehow. 

“Look at me,” Typhus found himself saying. “Whoever you’re thinking of, it’s not me. You’ve never met me before, have you?”

He wasn’t ready for 248b’s gaze upon him. It was—icy, in a way, brittle and sharp and cold. Nothing, not the bruised lens of his eyes or the cracks of his face, could hide the hunger. Typhus felt pinned under his gaze, like he was the one immobilised on the slab, instead of the other way around. 

“You,” 248b whispered, so quiet he barely heard it. “It’s you.”

He felt 248b go slack beneath him. “Uh,” he said, releasing his hold. “Yeah. It’s me.”

“What—” he looked around. “What are you—what is—”

“What’s your designation?” Typhus found himself asking. He wanted to know, of course, only he didn’t mean for it to slip out at such a bad time. “They, uh, they’ve been calling you 248b.”

“Why do you want to know,” 248b rasped.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Typhus was so confused. Nothing about this made sense. “You made me. You do realize you made me, right?”

248b was looking at him like he’d lost his mind. “I do recall the bothersome division of my spark, yes,” he snarled. “And the twenty long years I had to keep you in here.” He tapped his chest emphatically, like he hadn’t just opened his spark chamber for all to see. “Is that what this is? A social call? I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive my appearance; I’ve gone too long without a solvent bath, you see.”

It was likely true. “I think I need one soon.” He counted the days. Setting up the bath was a hassle, but he needed it to get the dirt out of his seams. 

First Aid pulled him back. “His spark casing is failing.”

248b stared up at them in offense and alarm. “And what, you still haven’t taken the sample?” He scoffed. “Come now. You’re not that bad.”

“But you—they say it’ll kill you.” He looked down at 248b, who was entirely unmoved. “You’ll die,” he said, feeling very small.

248b looked at himself; at his paint, his dents, his cracked plating, as if he hadn’t seen himself in a thousand years. “So it would. Well? Don’t let that stop you.”

And then he opened his spark chamber again, as if nothing had happened. That he hadn’t passed out, that First Aid hadn’t zapped him, that he hadn’t panicked in Typhus’s arms. 

“Didn’t you hear me?” Typhus said. He didn’t understand.

248b snorted. “You just had a spark surge, didn’ you? That would put your timeline at, what, five months? Seven, if you get a buffer. I assure you, I am not going to get well enough in seven months in Garrus-10 to survive this.” He chuckled, like that was funny. “It’s my life or yours. Take your pick.”

“No,” Typhus said. He had never wanted something less in his entire life. “No. No!”

248b closed his spark chamber. “Listen to me very carefully,” he said, jabbing his unpainted finger into Typhus’s chest. It barely had any strength behind it, but Typhus was so startled he took a step back. “Do you know how painful spark casing rejection is?” Typhus didn’t shake his head, but maybe he had and didn’t notice; 248b certainly thought so. “I will tell you. Right now, your surges are still manageable. Past the three month mark, they won’t be. When your spark decides the casing is a foreign object, it will begin to eat mass to produce excess energy to reject the casing. The power lines to your motors will burn out, and you will lose sense in your limbs until they can be torn off in your sleep. Five months and you lose fans. Five and a half, your pumps. By the time the seventh month comes around, you’ll be little more than a brain module attached to the barest echo of a spark, and then you will die. Slowly. And painfully.”

Typhus believed him. His self-preservation protocols were trying to tug him back onto his own slab, to open his own spark chamber and let himself be saved. Typhus liked living. He liked his job and his friends and his hab, his musics and routines. He didn’t want to die. He tried to envision himself after the procedure: unchanged and well, as if he was a regular forged mech, that he wasn’t born from the impossible odds of sequential miracles. That he would forget 248b, that he had laid down his life for Typhus to live.

“ No, ” he said, and found that he meant it. 

Once he reached that conclusion, his logical subroutines came back online. “You—you said you couldn’t get better in Garrus-10,” he said. “What if we take you out? What if we let you get better somewhere else?”

248b scowled nastily. “And what makes you think they’ll allow it?” He tilted his head towards First Aid. “Because you’re throwing a tantrum? Because it’s wrong? In case you haven’t noticed, my life is worth less than nothing. They’d sooner have my corpse than your living frame.”

Typhus held his tongue. It was cruel and sad, but it was true. He—he wanted, suddenly and desperately, to take 248b out of this place, out of this echo chamber of pain and death. But he couldn’t. There was nothing he could do.

First Aid had opened his mouth to say something, but it was interrupted by the crackle of a speaker turning on.

“A very interesting proposition,” came a low and solemn voice. “One that has more merit than the immediate effects of saving a life, I should think, but given the circumstances I think it will already take great effort for this allowance.”

First Aid crossed his arms. “ Minimus. ”

“Shall we take the discussion up in my office?” Minimus asked, though Typhus sensed it was really more of a request. “I believe we have much to cover.”

Chapter Text

When Typhus took Minimus’s offer of tea, he didn’t think he’d be the only one to accept. He also didn’t think Minimus would take twelve painstaking minutes to make the tea, using several complicated and expensive-looking devices for five distinct layers of beverage.

“Um,” Typhus said, holding what was admittedly a very fragrant and delicious looking tea. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome. Now, to business.”

Minimus, much like 248b, was not quite what Typhus expected. He was easily the smallest mech he’d ever seen, smaller than even Squawktalk and Beastbox. His desk, conversely, was large enough to accommodate Typhus, who was five times his size. It suited him, strangely. Minimus had a sonorous sort of booming sound, a cross between a large brass and a choir, mixed with some wispy notes of melancholy. Typhus liked him immediately.

“The guards filled me in,” Minimus said, somehow making a booster seat look dignified. “Before I begin my proposition, I would like to say that I am sympathetic to both your positions. First Aid, I understand that Typhus is your patient and that it is your duty to see him whole and hale. Typhus, I sympathize with your unenviable circumstance.” He paused, looking at 248b, but did not say anything. 248b didn’t meet his eyes.

“Since time is of the essence, I will state my own interest in this,” Minimus continued. His voice was smooth as copper. Typhus felt, if a little irrationally, that he could rely on him. “As the Orator-in-Chief of the Revised Council and the Overseer of Garrus-10, it is within my interest to see as many of our inmates rehabilitated and reintegrated into society.” He looked at 248b again, to no avail. “248b has been a model inmate,” Minimus said. “He has consistently exhibited good behavior and has had his sentence sufficiently reduced to such a point that I can make you an offer.”

“No,” First Aid said, jabbing his finger down at the desk. “ No. His sentence was for life. You can’t overturn that.”

“Actually,” Minimus said, looking impassively into First Aid’s eyes, “I can. Under the Amendment, prisoners who pass their risk assessment can apply for conditional release.”

“No appeals,” First Aid said, looming. “That was the deal.”

“Exactly,” Minimus parried, as if he’d done this before. “It’s not an appeal. It’s an application.”

Typhus almost laughed at how angry First Aid looked. It was odd, wanting someone’s discontent. “You can’t—you know how dangerous he is! You were there!” He put his fist on the table, hard enough that Typhus could feel it. “Minimus. He killed my friend! He killed our patients! He conspired with the DJD to harvest organs from our soldiers!” First Aid turned to glare at 248b. “You’re not even sorry, are you? You’re not sorry at all.”

248b snorted. “I haven’t changed in the least, First Aid. You know me. Incorrigible.”

Minimus raised a pointed eyebrow at him before turning back to First Aid. “First Aid,” he said. “Twenty three justice ministers have reviewed his case, and they are in accordance. If nothing else, the precedent of giving the condemned conditional release has already been made for more terrible mechs than he. That is my final decision.” Then, after relaxing an inch: “If you feel unready due to personal reasons, I remind you that you are free to assign another doctor to Typhus’s case.”

“He is my patient,” First Aid said, leaning forward on the desk. “And that is my final decision.”

Minimus sighed. “If it would make you feel more secure, know that 248b will be released with maximum restraints. No transforming—including his hands—and under house arrest unless accompanied by his Guarantor. Who, I might add, has over a hundred tons on him.”

First Aid said nothing more. Minimus turned to Typhus, who nervously took a sip of the tea. It was very good.

“Typhus,” Minimus said. “I can grant your carrier conditional release without trial, given our constrained timeline. However,” he said, taking a datapad out from subspace, “you must become his legal Guarantor. The full list of terms are listed here,” he said, demonstratively scrolling down a wall of text, “but I can summarize the basics, if you like.”

Typhus nodded vigorously. The tea was delicious, and he drank it happily as Minimus gave him the rundown.

“You will be responsible for his accommodations, as well as his safety and mental well being. You will also be liable for any damages he will cause in the meantime.” He frowned. “I must emphasize that this is not standard procedure. Usually we would provide psychiatric support, along with an adjustment period for you to make your arrangements.” He looked thoughtful. “I understand the rationing can be… difficult, on larger frame types. You will be allowed to buy additional energon as his Guarantor, but it may be insufficient, given his health and yours.” Minimus wrote something down, and Typhus realized that it was his personal comm frequency. “Comm me if you need assistance. I trust that you will not misuse this line.”

“I won’t,” Typhus promised, having just finished the tea. 

Minimus nodded. “First Aid, what is the latest date you can take the frequency?”

“It’ll take a month to manufacture, even with my stamp of approval,” First Aid said flatly. “We can install a buffer as a preventative measure, but it won’t buy us much time. The nature of spark surges is that they’re irregular, and they will get worse.” He thought about it. “Four months at the latest, and that’s if his condition keeps.”

Typhus signed the document. A guard led 248b away.

“For his effects,” Minimus explained, completing some accompanying paperwork. He stuck a hand out. Typhus took it.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

Minimus shot him a small smile. It felt rare. “You are very welcome.”

***

Minimus arranged a separate transport for Typhus and 248b, so they didn’t have to share the ride back with First Aid and Minerva. It was very thoughtful of him.

“Uh,” Typhus said. “Sorry. They didn’t tell me your name.”

Garrus-10 was fading behind them, swallowed slowly by the sloping, beige hills. Typhus sighed in relief, almost unwillingly. Being there was like being underwater: sounds warped and magnified, disfigured by misery. 

248b made no signs that he heard him. He was sitting across from Typhus, in the exact spot the guard had left him. They’d put a restraint on his T-cog, and gave Typhus a little data pad that told Typhus if he tried to transform.

It seemed a little excessive. “It is not for standard prisoners,” Minimus had explained in answer. “The datapad will also allow you to keep track of his location, though of course he is not allowed to leave your abode without your company.”

Typhus wondered if 248b knew. If that had explained it to him. “That can’t be comfortable,” he said. 248b had cuffs on both his wrists, and they were magnetized together until they left the transport. 248b was hunched over, hands clasped between his knees and eyes downturn. He did not answer.

Typhus leaned closer. 248b was asleep. Oh.

Slowly but without hesitation, Typhus put his arms below his knees and behind his back, then gently set him in his lap. The road was rough; he would rather not risk his charge getting a bruise on the first day. 

Typhus peered down at 248b. He looked peaceful, like this. So quiet Typhus could barely hear the pulsing of his spark. That was what unnerved him, Typhus realized. He was quiet when he first walked in, and quiet on the slab. He was quiet even as he writhed in fear, as he returned to himself, as he scolded Typhus for his obstinance. Some people were like that, Typhus thought. Some people were just quieter than others. 248b wasn’t one of them at all. He… he ought to be someone louder, Typhus felt, someone who had a distinct noise. Someone who was… more . It didn’t feel like he was meant to be quiet. It felt like he had been snuffed out.

Typhus spent the rest of the ride trying to sound 248b out. Maybe it was his audial. He had just reset them, after all. But 248b’s breeze of a tune never got louder, not even when he stirred in Typhus’s arms. 

“Hrnngh,” 248b grunted. “Wh… who? What?”

“Hi,” Typhus said, which he felt was a normal way to start a conversation. 248b clearly disagreed, seeing as how he was doing his level best to squirm out of Typhus’s lap. “Um, you okay?”

248b snapped his head up and snarled at him. “Put me down! Now! ”

Typhus stood up and carried him off the transport. Before he could set him down, 248b decided he was unable to wait a moment more and tumbled ungracefully onto the ground.

“Um,” Typhus said. “You need a hand?”

The magnetic handcuffs had unlatched themselves, so Typhus thought he wouldn’t. He was proven wrong, however, when 248b continued to shiver on the ground.

People were starting to notice. “Um,” Typhus said, quickly snatching him by the collar plate. “Why don’t we take this inside?”

When Typhus had mentioned a habsuite, he might’ve fibbed a little. It was less than, let’s say, a room in a building, and more of a comfortably sized condo. Hab was just easier to say. That, and Squawkbox had insisted. People his age weren’t supposed to have condos.

248b was clearly of the same opinion. “And your housemates? Do they know what you've brought in?”

“I don’t have house mates,” Typhus said, busying himself with energon. Usually he ate at the Speakeasy, but a few solar storms two thousand years back had taught him to have some emergency rations on hand. “And I don’t know what I’ve brought in. You still haven’t told me your name.”

248b was finally looking at him. Wearily, like he was out of options. “No one,” he said, so soft Typhus had to lean to hear. “I’m no one.”

Typhus wanted to shake him, but found that he couldn’t; 248b was already shaking. From hunger, he realized, not fear. He likely hadn’t eaten the whole day.

“Here,” Typhus said, handing him a cube. 248b didn’t try for dignity. He snatched the cube from Typhus’s hand and started to chug.

You’ll cramp your tank like that, Typhus wanted to say, except 248b clearly knew; he was taking exactly the same amount of energon each swallow with a ten second window in between. It was strangely mesmerizing to watch, this hard and relentless rhythm. He hadn’t realized that he’d been staring until 248b was done.

For a moment it was just them: Typhus and 248b, standing in the unlit living room, the spillway light from the kitchen dividing them. The world fell away. 248b looked like he had something to say, something secret and fragile.

And then he swayed. “Here,” Typhus said, holding the cube for him and taking his arm. “Let me take you to bed.”

The guest bedroom was sparse. When he first received the condo, it had been sized for the average Cybertronian, so he’d spent the next five hundred years saving up for renovations. This room was the only room left untouched. Typhus was sure that the preset furnishings were still in there: a poster of the Golden Age Iacon skyline was still in there next to the little window, along with a standard-sized berth, untouched.

248b needed no further instructions. He wobbled his way to the berth and collapsed. 

***

Thankfully, the next day was a rest day. Minimus had sent along a list of things 248b might need during his stay, most of which were frame specific and not in the house. Typhus was sorry that he had so little.

248b was still asleep when he had to leave. There’s energon in the shelf if you’re hungry, he wrote, though it isn’t very fresh. He looked around. Was there anything they could use to keep in touch? I’m out shopping for supplies, since I’m not expecting a guest. Here’s a short ranged communicator that a friend gave me. If there’s anything you need, I’ll try to get it. He thought about it. I work most days, so if there’s anything you need to keep yourself occupied, I’ll get that too.

It felt like he should write more, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Maybe he should get him a gift? If only he knew what 248b liked…

Oh, well. He supposed he’ll have to ask him when he gets back.

Most of the items on the list were easy enough to find, though he had trouble fitting into some of the shops. Sometimes the vendors tried to ask what sort of flier he was buying for. Typhus… didn’t know what kind of jet 248b’s altmode was. 

“He’s an atmospheric flier,” he said. “I think.”

A few containers of coolant, cleanser, oil, and polish in his subspace, Typhus set out to the Speakeasy. He was only peripherally aware of the rationing, having been a regular at Squawkbox’s before it came into effect. He was certain that Squawkbox was giving him some sort of leeway, but he wasn’t sure how. 

Thankfully, Squawkbox tended to answer when asked. “Hey,” Typhus said, sticking his head past the Closed sign. “Mind if I talk to you for a bit?”

Squawktalk and Beastbox welcomed him in.

“One sec,” Squawtalk said, already leaping to combine with Beastbox. “Hey, squirt,” Squawkbox said, stretching to ease out the combination. “How was Garrus-10?”

“Oh, uh. It was pretty bad.” Squawkbox always tolerated Typhus’s rants about sounds with an air of fond exasperation, but Garrus-10 wasn’t the sort of music he wanted to describe. “Wanted to ask about fuel rations, actually. I, uh, I don’t really know what the rationing is about?”

Squawkbox sighed, like he knew this was going to happen. “Siddown.”

Typhus sat.

“As you well know, Cybertron is in bad shape.” Squawkbox mimed smoking. Jazz had said that it was inaccurate, but Typhus thought it was amusing. “Not raiding worlds anymore, so we gotta source local. Unfortunately, local’s pretty scarce. And the Lunabots ain’t helping the issue.”

“Oh,” Typhus said. He’d heard something about that. “Aren’t they really fuel efficient, or something?”

“They are,” Squawkbox said. “An’ they’re awfully good at what they do. But those kind of mechs—the ones made for peace—ain’t welcome when the three way tug o’war wasn’t finished down here. Luckily for us, a buncha head honchos went off on their own little trips, vendettas, what-have-yous, and killed each other off. An’ whoever’s left’s real good at pushin’ papers.”

“So we’re rationing,” Typhus said.

“Yup. But you knew that.” Squawkbox started mixing some sort of solution that looked and tasted like energon, but didn’t actually have any. “We did find a few surviving mines in the first few centuries, but you can be sure as pit they ain’t enough for a planet full of hungry, angry souls.” He poured half for Typhus, and half for himself. “Now, my frame’s a’plenty efficient. So’s most of the Lunabots, as you said. But frames like yours? Frames like Fortress Maximus and Ultra Magnus?”

“Ah,” Typhus said, finally understanding. Warframes weren’t at all fuel efficient, and all of the veterans—and a good chunk of the Neutrals—were warframes. In fact, all the people who contributed the most to the war were warframes. Shocker. “How did I miss this?”

“I ask myself that everyday,” Squawkbox said. “Well, ‘least it means your crowd’s keepin’ outta trouble.” He shook his head. “At first there were restrictions based on rank, though you can see how that fell apart.” Right. Neutrals would be in the lowest of the low, if that was the case. “Then on need, but there’s a buncha ways of definin’ that. Finally, the mechs up on high decide on the system we have now: mass, plus whatever you can find on the market. Don’t account for work. Don’t account for sickness.”

“Oh.” Typhus thought about the kind of work that he did. It wasn’t especially draining, but it wasn’t especially easy on the consumption, either. “Then how have you been feeding me this whole time?”

“I have a commercial license,” Squawkbox said. “I can defer energon as pay.”

“But I haven’t been doing anything?”

He reached under the counter and produced a pay stub. His own, Typhus realized.

“Uh,” he said. “What?”

“You have been working, in a manner o’speakin’.” Squawkbox took a sip of his drink. “Squirt, do you know how many troublemakers I toss out on a nightly basis?”

Typhus thought about it. The Speakeasy was unusually peaceful for such a popular location. “None? On most days.”

“An’ when did you think that started bein’ the case?”

“Since forever, I guess.” There were a few rowdier people, but those times, Typhus just had to walk over and ask them to quiet down.

“No,” Squawkbox said, like he was reassessing Typhus’s awareness variables. “Since you came here.”

“Oh.” Typhus looked down at himself. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Now, is that all?”

“No,” Typhus said. “Do you know what jets drink? And, uh, I did get this,” he said, brandishing the very detailed stipend certificate Minimus had given him. “Is this any good?”

Squawkbox looked at the certificate, looked back at Typhus, then back at the certificate again. “Squirt,” he said, running a palm down his face. “What did you get yourself into?”

***

All things considered, Squawkbox took it pretty well.

“I am not taking this well,” Squawkbox informed him, having taken a brief moment in another room to scream. “Do not look at me like I’m taking this well.”

Typhus checked the time. 248b should be fine if he took the energon in the shelf. “He looks like he needs triple refined, but I’m not sure if I can get it here.”

“First of all, you can’t,” Squawkbox said, downing his drink in one. “You can only buy triple refined if you pass the Needs Assessment, which has a waitlist of ten years. Second, no, he doesn’t. Unless he’s a forged medic and needs to process energon infusions for a battalion, he can get by just fine on regular fuel.” He looked thoughtful. “Well, double refined if he flies every morning, but I’m guessing he’s not allowed to transform.”

Typhus was surprised. “You know an awful lot about regulation.”

“Worked comms back in the war,” Squawkbox said, shrugging. “News finds me.”

And then he was squinting at Typhus like he was owed something. “Well?” He leaned forward from behind the counter. “Out with it. Who’d you smuggle home?”

“I’m pretty sure I got him legally,” Typhus said, defensive.

Squawkbox snorted. “What, you’re tellin’ me that the Orator of Justice just let you go home with one of his without so much of a trial?”

“Minimus said I could,” Typhus muttered, suddenly worried. What if Minimus was wrong? What if he couldn’t convince his superiors? Typhus had, had thought that Minimus had the authority to let 248b out. He had sounded so confident! Maybe he was wrong?

“Minimus?” Squawkbox was openly gaping at him. “Minimus Ambus? You actually met the Orator of Justice?”

“Uh, maybe?” Typhus’s impression of Minimus was mostly auditory. “He was small. And green. And has a moustache.”

“And stiff as a coronid bar, I’d assume?”

“Maybe?” Typhus shrugged. “I thought he was nice.” He thought about it. “Oh! He also makes great tea. The best I’ve had, I think.”

Squawkbox was having some sort of fit, but that was just Squawkbox being Squawkbox. Typhus took a sip of the faux energon. Tangy.

“And he said you could, what? Take him home tonight?”

“Last night, actually.” Typhus thought about it. It seemed a little rude, telling someone else about 248b without asking, but Typhus could admit when he needed help. “I went to get him some stuff, but I’m not sure if it’s right. You have experience with jets, right?”

“He’s the jet? ” Squawkbox was nursing a headache, or at least anticipating one if the way he’s rubbing his helm was anything to judge by. “And his trine?”

“I… don’t think he has one…?” Typhus knew very little about trines. Most jets who had one were ex-Decepticons, and thus had been summarily banned from the Speakeasy for trying to murder Squawkbox a few times. “He hasn’t told me his name, either. I only have his ident. 248b.”

And then Squawkbox changed. His music went from the easy woodwind of swing to a technical string passage. “Typhus. Listen to me very carefully.”

Typhus wasn’t used to being told the same thing by two different people within twenty four hours, but he nodded. 

“There are criminals and there are criminals. Pickpockets? Nickers? Those are the small fry. A little higher and we have the tax evaders, the energon stealers, the smugglers and corporate thieves. And then we have murderers.” He paused. “Not just… not just your run of the mill, I ran over someone by accident sort of killers. They’re— killer killers. Killers like Overlord. Killers like Impactor. People whose names have been erased from history.”

“But,” Typhus said. 248b didn’t look like he could hurt anyone at all. He was so quiet. “We know about Overlord and Impactor. I didn’t—“

“Yeah, because they were on propaganda posters,” Squawkbox hissed, nearly growling. “There are bigger and badder monsters out there, Typhus! You—you just onlined, so maybe you didn’t know. But the things that we admitted—that both Autobots and Decepticons admitted—they make you think. What could possibly be so bad that they still couldn’t come out and say?” Squawkbox looked him in the eyes. “If he hasn’t told you his name, it’s cause he don’t got one. Whoever he was, whatever he’d done, had to get wiped. That’s why he’s only got idents.”

Typhus was deeply unhappy to hear Squawkbox’s very reasonable argument. It was for his own good, he knew, much like he knew that First Aid’s insistence had been in his best interest. He just—he didn’t understand it. He refused to understand.

“Squirt?”

Typhus looked up from the table. He gave Squawkbox a feeble smile. “It’s okay, Squawkbox. I get it. I’ll keep an eye on him.” And then he drops some shanix on the table, the exact amount to pay for the drink. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

He left without another word and went to the nearest energon depot for his daily fuel. It was smaller than what Squawkbox gave him. There was a waiting list for double refined, and it was thrice the price, but he put his name down. 248b could use a pick-me-up for getting out of prison.

When Typhus got home, he was happy to see 248b lounging listlessly on the couch in the living room. “Did you have some energon?” 

248b looked at him, but otherwise made no reaction to his presence. Typhus checked the shelf. He didn’t take the energon.

“That’s okay,” Typhus said, taking the cubes out of subspace. “Now we can eat together!”

He usually ate on the dining table, but this time he conceded and put the food on the little cabinet next to the sofa. “Do you want additives? I have tungsten, though they’re a bit old. And silver.” 248b sat up and took his cube, but did not answer. “Um, there’s nothing wrong with your audials, right?”

248b shot him a nasty sideways glance. “No,” he rasped. “There’s nothing wrong with my audials.”

He drank his energon slower this time, though he still licked the rims clean. It was both endearing and saddening. Typhus wished he had never starved, that he had never learned such a thing in the first place.

After they were done with the meal, Typhus presented him with the day’s spoils. “I wasn’t sure what you used,” he said, a little nervous. He didn’t want to get this wrong. “So I got all the standard stuff. Is there anything I should, uh, switch out?”

248b pounced on both the coolant and the cleanser. He poured them both—in excruciatingly exact amounts—into his various intakes, then sighed with involuntary satisfaction as he ran an interior cleaning cycle.

“Oh, right,” Typhus said, feeling stupid. “The washracks! You must be dying to get clean. Do you want me to show you how to adjust it?”

248b looked at him like his head fell off. Typhus got that a lot. Tanks weren’t supposed to have his kind of personality, or so everyone kept telling him. “I got you some polish, too,” Typhus said, “and a base coat, since I didn’t know what color of paint you wanted. Do you want to go together next time? So you can pick?”

248b made a face that was a cross between disgust and shock. “What is wrong with you?” he asked, half to himself. “Why are you like this?”

Seeing as how 248b didn’t actually object, Typhus figured that they could both go. He didn’t really need the rinse, seeing as how he didn’t have work, but 248b might need some help with his back. The shoulder vents were probably inconvenient to see past.

248b let himself be dragged into the washracks, which Typhus liked to interpret as permission. “Oh,” he said, looking at the solvent. It was the formula he used, which was too heavy-duty for a jet like 248b. “Um. Maybe just a rinse?”

“Dilute it with water, 1:4,” 248b grunted. Typhus did so. It still seemed harsh, especially since 248b had some parts entirely devoid of paint, but he supposed it would have to do. 

It was a little awkward, washing the back of someone he didn’t know all that well, but Typhus couldn’t help but also be a little pleased. He was certain that 248b wasn’t the kind to let people this close to him. He didn’t know why he was certain; he just was.

After 248b rinsed and dried himself, Typhus took out the base coat and two brushes.

“It’s late,” 248b said. It was. Typhus had work tomorrow.

“I’ll paint your back,” he said. 

Surprisingly, 248b didn’t argue. He just took a brush and started on his thumb. Typhus took his spot behind him. It was slow-going, for him, because his hands were so large and imprecise. For a few minutes all the sound in the world was in the dipping of the brushes and their friction with plating, the two of them awash with the orange of the overhead lights. It was strangely intimate, especially given how recently they met. They trusted each other intrinsically, Typhus realized, doing his best to make this patch more even. It was… a damning revelation, Squawkbox would call it, even if he wasn’t damned at all. What could be so damning about trust?

248b went to sleep on his own, this time. A day with regular rations and he was already steadier. It made Typhus wonder what sort of life he had before, in Garrus-10. If it was much of a life at all.

***

Typhus returned from work to find 248b tinkering on the dataport in the living room. For a few blissful moments, Typhus watched as 248b clacked animatedly on the keys, chewed his lips thoughtfully, then grasped his throat like he was processing data chunks. And then 248b noticed him and closed all his tabs.

“You don’t have to do that,” Typhus said, setting down 248b’s energon. “You can use the dataport whenever you like.” And then, because he felt he left things unfinished with Squawkbox, “I’ll be going to the Speakeasy tonight. I’ll try to get back before it’s too late.”

Typhus felt bad for leaving 248b alone for so long, but there was little use. There weren’t many options for a heavy tank. Maybe he’d ask Squawkbox about it, once they were past this bump. And if he were to come around on 248b.

Squawkbox greeted him like nothing happened. “Hey, squirt.” 

“Squawkbox.” He took his usual seat. “How’s your week?”

They didn’t touch the electrophant in the room. That meant that Squawkbox wasn’t stepping back—and neither was Typhus. This was a first, for them.

“So,” Squawkbox said, once the evening picked up. “Planning to bring him around sometime?”

It was Squawkbox’s way of caring, Typhus thought, sussing out the bad ones and screening them out. He probably wasn’t expecting Typhus to sneak one past him. “I’d like that,” he said. 248b needed to go out sometime, and Typhus found that he genuinely wanted the two of them to meet. On good terms. “It might be a week or two, though.”

248b wasn’t vain, but he was aware of himself in a way that betrayed his sense of self-image. Typhus guessed that he wouldn’t want people to see him without a proper coat of paint. Hmm. Should he bring 248b to a salon…?

The night passed slowly. Typhus found himself thinking about 248b the whole time. What did he do, before Garrus-10? He must’ve been in the war. He knew First Aid, had killed his friend, allegedly. Why was he in prison? Why did he lay down on the slab to die? What flavor of additive did he like?

Squawkbox let him go early that night. “Don’t think I didn’t catch your exhaust,” he said. “Recharge properly, will ya? Primus knows I ain’t the one with a busted spark casing.”

Chapter Text

When his rest day came around, 248b agreed to go paint shopping with him.

He wasn’t picky about the sort of paint he used, apparently, but he was choosy with the color. Typhus was soon holding a dull can of blue, a small tin of yellow, and a bulk-sized bucket of off-white that took 248b nearly five whole minutes to pick out.

“I’m sorry,” the clerk said, looking at 248b’s hands. “We don’t hold that shade of orange. We can order it in, if you like. Can I see your medical license?”

248b took a step back. “No,” he said after a moment. “No, nevermind. I’ll go pick something else.”

If Typhus hadn’t noticed the slight upbeat in 248b’s mood earlier, then he certainly had now, as it soured entirely. He tried not to deflate. The day had been going so well! 248b had spoken four whole sentences to him this morning, then kept up an irregular stream of chatter as he chose the paints. He hated that it was gone. He hated that he couldn’t do anything about it.

In the end, 248b chose something as close as he could get to the medic orange. It was three shades deeper, since the other two shades were also reserved. He was now closer to a bright red which, Typhus realized, did not compliment the palate he picked out. The entire set had been made to pair with something lighter.

Typhus wished desperately that he could make 248b feel better. But it wasn’t about him, he knew. It was about something old and festered, something cavernous and irreplaceable. Typhus didn’t ask. He didn’t say anything at all. It wasn’t his place.

They went home early that day. Typhus suspected that 248b would be unable to appreciate the gardens. The excess time, at least, could be put to use. With their combined efforts—most of which were from 248b, if he was honest—paint, primer, and polish were all applied properly to 248b’s frame. Minimus had even allowed them to take the cuffs off temporarily to get his wrists.

“All right,” 248b said, sounding more himself than he had since Typhus met him. “Well? Don’t keep me waiting. Shall we attend this Speakeasy of yours?”

When Typhus had stared at him, agog, he huffed. “Don’t tell me you expect me to be cooped up here the whole time,” he said, nonchalant in a way that was deliberate. Like that had been a fear of his, and still was. “I do need some air.”

“Okay!” Typhus beamed. He had wanted to ask 248b one day, when he was ready, when his music was a little more constant and less of a whisper. He hadn’t at all expected 248b to instigate. Typhus resisted the urge to wiggle with joy. He was told that it unsettled people.

248b was clearly of the same opinion. “I can’t wait for you to meet Squawkbox!” Typhus said, ignoring him. “He, uh, he wasn’t the happiest to hear about my health, but he’ll understand when he meets you.”

Typhus was sure of it. Squawkbox was a skeptic in the best of times, but he was always willing to give Typhus’s word a chance. And, Typhus thought, walking happily at the same pace as 248b, he was always willing to face the truth. Not everyone was. Typhus found that the war had the tendency of promoting private realities. But Squawkbox wasn’t susceptible. Once he met 248b, he’d understand. 248b wouldn’t hurt a technofly!

The Speakeasy was pleasantly busy when he arrived. “Hey, squirt,” Squawkbox said, pretending not to tense when 248b walked in. “You got here at a damn good time. Guess who’s back?”

“Jazz!” Typhus tackled him. “You’re back!”

“You know it.” Jazz, on top of being a good sport and generally cheerful busybody, was also the only person Typhus could hug with more than 5% of his hydraulics engaged. He never dismantled his armor. “How you been, T-man? Still jammin’?”

“Uh,” Typhus said. It didn’t feel right to hide his health from Jazz, but it was also a really bad time. Every time Jazz came back from Earth, Squawkbox closed the Speakeasy for the night and let Jazz host a private little get-together with his friends. Typhus had more or less been included due to him being there every day. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been jamming. Sort of.”

He dug out the audio recorder he always kept on. Typhus had a good memory, but a perfectly average voice module. It was impossible to replicate the things he heard without an external device. “It’s a bit thin,” he said in apology. “I’ve been busy.”

Jazz was among the few people who asked to see his audio collection, as well as the only one Typhus knew was genuinely interested. He had been confused about the attention until a few hundred years ago, when Jazz commented on a recording of cyberbirdsong.

“We used to hear them every morning,” he said, a little inebriated. “Me ‘n the others in the board house. Staniz wasn’t developed yet; something about Praxian factories and debts. We were dirt poor, Typhus. Even turbofoxes ate better than us. Turbofoxes! But we never had to think about tomorrow. We only had today.” 

And that was when Typhus got it. Jazz—war hero extraordinaire, expert music-meister, saver of many and Honorary Diplomat Terra—wanted that peace. He wanted to step away, to leave behind his many and burdensome duties and become once more Jazz of the past, who loved strange, innocuous noises and had strange, innocuous friends. It was like the falling of a phrase or the late note in a chord; everything about Jazz fell into place. They had been friends ever since.

Jazz promised to listen to it later. He turned back to his crowd of friends. “Tonight, we ball!”

Typhus raised his cube with everyone else, then retreated back to 248b.

“No, thank you,” 248b said, when Typhus offered him a drink. “I prefer to be sober.”

“Oh.” Typhus offered him the other one, the one he’d gotten for himself. “This one won’t get you overcharged, right?”

248b sniffed it. Took a sip. He didn’t say anything or pass it back to Typhus, which he counted as a win.

Squawkbox had been watching the whole time. “Not joinin’ the party, squirt?”

“Naw.” The day wore him out. Typhus quickly sent the audio clips to Jazz, before he forgot. “I’ll just hang out here.”

248b had no objection, even if he kept glancing furtively towards the party. Did he want to join? Personally, Typhus could think of nothing more perilous than drowning 248b’s wisp of sound against Jazz’s hip hop playlist. He tried to imagine 248b as a partier, and couldn’t. But he could be wrong. He didn’t know 248b very well at all.

“Not a fan of the taste?” Squawkbox asked 248b.

“Not a fan of being overcharged,” 248b answered.

“They don’t give you FIM chips in prison?”

“They do,” 248b said, eyeing Squawkbox warily. “Being clear-headed means I like damaging my tanks even less.”

Typhus got the impression of two large predators circling. He wasn’t sure what to do about it. He wasn’t sure if there was anything to do.

Squawkbox snorted. “If only our jets thought the same. You couldn’t find one upright after a party. Acid Storm was stuck in the wall, once, though you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Oh, we weren’t much better,” 248b said, outright grinning. “You’d think less engex means fewer incidents, but I think they make up for it with variety. Did you know, I once fished out a Voxian centipede from inside Ironhide’s coolant intake? It was causing his brain module to overheat, and the bastard nearly died because he ‘didn’t like lying on a slab.’”

During 248b’s little monologue, Squawkbox’s tune had gone from a background piano to an interested forte. Typhus mentally shot 248b a sideways glance. Squawkbox liked gossip as much as the next barkeep, but what really got him going was intel. He could always pick useful facts from the rest; a talent Typhus has long learned to be as natural and inexplicable as his own hearing. 248b had just given Squawkbox a gold vein.

Typhus thought about it. Was it really that important? He’d revealed that he was an Autobot, so that explained why First Aid had been so angry. Betrayal meant more to the Autobots, particularly faithful ones like First Aid. That could be why 248b was wiped, if Squawkbox’s theory had been correct. Oh, and that he helped Ironhide with a health issue. On a slab. Which implied that he was a medic, though that had been fairly obvious from the beginning. 248b had a spiel about Typhus’s own health after suffering a panic attack, had correctly diagnosed him without so much as an intact optic, and nearly bought medic paint for himself. An ex-Autobot medic, condemned for killing First Aid’s friend. A fairly trivial and fruitless deduction.

This was the sort of thing Squawkbox would kill to know, Typhus thought. But it mattered very little to him, even as he listened in on their banter on gore and death. Squawkbox made an exception for Jazz, since he never brought trouble and tipped generously, but it was rare to find him participating in war talk. He must really want to unearth 248b.

Typhus was working on more important secrets. How did 248b take his energon? Where did 248b like to spend his free time, and what kind of people did he make friends with? What sort of music did he listen to? What hours did he keep? What regrets did he have, and what memories did he want to make? Where had he been? Where was he going?

Who was he?

He was so immersed in his futile line of questioning that he hadn’t noticed the party winding down. Jazz snuck up on him and clapped his back.

“Not up for the party tonight, T?”

“Uh,” Typhus said, watching as Jazz’s attendees trickled into the distance. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

He told Jazz as quickly and as painlessly as he could. And Jazz did take it well—not Squawkbox well, but actually well—though not without a few pats on the shoulder.

“This related to that prisoner you have on parole?”

“Huh?” Jazz always caught Typhus off guard. He kept noticing things. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, he’s here to help.”

And then Jazz dropped the act. “Listen. I recognize him from somewhere. I‘m not sure where—pretty sure I haven’t seen him since the war—but that’s bad news, T. You sure you have it handled here?”

“Yeah,” Typhus said, suddenly weary. Why were people so suspicious of 248b? He hadn’t even done anything! At least, nothing they were certain of. They didn’t even know what they were warning Typhus against. “Yeah, Jazz. I’m sure.”

And then Jazz drove off. Typhus found himself happy to see him go.

***

Three days later, Typhus prepared the dining room for a meeting with 248b’s parole officer. They weren’t told who it was beforehand, which displeased 248b, though he tried not to show it.

“It’ll be okay,” Typhus said. His hab was entirely unoffensive. His only decoration were music players and his only food was standard issue energon packets. 248b’s room was likewise barren. He had refuted all of Typhus’s attempts to furnish it.

In truth, Typhus didn’t know if it was going to be okay. Minimus assured him that it would be, but it was his word against the world. Squawkbox hadn’t liked 248b. Jazz hadn’t liked 248b. Not even Landfill had liked 248b, though that was probably because Typhus stopped being free on rest days to get fuel with him. The way Typhus saw it, there was nothing wrong with 248b at all. But everyone else thought there was. And the decision, Typhus thought uneasily, was in their hands.

He still went to work. He still hauled the liquicrete mix, still marched along the construction zone to meet quota. But his spark wasn’t in it.

Landfill could tell. “Is this about the jet again?” he asked. Typhus ignored him. It was starting to grate. 

“Not right now, Landfill,” Typhus said, civil as he could. He just had to get through the day and he could see 248b again. The double refined energon arrived yesterday, but he thought that it would be better to give it to him today. Congratulatory or consolatory, it was a gift Typhus was fairly certain 248b will enjoy.

“Okay,” Landfill said, backing off. “Just, uh, figured you might want to hear about this.”

“What?” Typhus said, nerves fraying. “Is this about 248b again? Because I swear to Primus—”

“No, no,” Landfill said. “Not like that.”

Apparently, there was a job posting for construction workers. The work was more delicate than what he did here, but the hours were shorter and the pay was better. It was the kind of posting Typhus wouldn’t have bothered looking up before, but was exceptionally enticing with 248b at home. 

“Thanks, Landfill. I’ll think on it.”

Typhus didn’t think he was actually going to apply. There was the issue of his health, and he didn’t think the schedule change would be something he should spring on 248b. But it was something to consider. If all went well, 248b would one day be free. The hab was big enough for two of them, but a career change might be in order. Typhus couldn’t spend six out of seven days only catching glimpses of him.

When he got back, he was pleasantly surprised to find Minimus in the living-room. “Minimus! I didn’t know it’d be you!”

“I have been told that it is a bad idea to inform the public that the Orator of Justice is also serving as a parole officer,” Minimus said. They clearly had the interview in the dining room, and Typhus was suddenly sorry to not have bought tea. “Regardless, I am happy to inform you that your carrier is in good standing. If this continues in our next meeting, I can waive his transformation restrictions.” He paused. “Though, perhaps not on his hands. And he would still have to stay with you, of course.”

After Minimus left, Typhus snuck a look at some of the pamphlets he left on the table. They were job opening, he realized, a few of them altmode specific but most of them medical. Nurse. First responder. Paramedic. Pharmacist. Typhus thought about it. Wasn’t there a shortage of medical personnel a while back? Something about latent wounds from the war outstripping the supply of doctors. Was that still the case?

Oh, well. Typhus didn’t care what 248b did for a living so long as he was happy. 

He went to 248b’s room and knocked.

“I don’t need your hapless wheedling, Ambus,” came a furious voice. “I don’t need your—your charity!”

And then the door swung open. 248b had a scary face on before he realized it was Typhus. Typhus was shocked, himself. He had no idea 248b could be so loud.

“You.” His scowl was back on. “Well? I haven’t killed any protoforms or war heroes while you were out. Go on. Get.”

“Oh,” Typhus said. “I, uh, I thought you could use a gift.”

Typhus also thought they could fuel together this evening, but 248b sounded like he wanted to be left alone. “Can, uh, can we do this in the living room?”

248b shot him a most put upon sigh, but followed him to the living room. “Well? What is it?”

“It’s nothing much,” Typhus said, suddenly feeling inadequate. It was just energon. Maybe 248b didn’t even like double refined. Maybe he wouldn’t even take it. “I, uh, I figured you could use a pick me up. For getting out of Garrus-10.”

248b looked at the cube of double refined like it was out to get him. “How did you get this?” he said. “Whatever you think—what do you—what do you want from me?” He was trembling. Typhus put the cube down to steady him, but 248b inched back. “What do you think you’ll get from this?”

Typhus didn’t really understand the question. “Do you not like double refined?” he asked. He didn’t think it was legal to get triple refined without the Assessment, but he could ask, if that was what 248b wanted. 

“I—!” 248b threw his hands up. “There’s an energon shortage! I’m a criminal! You’re a heavy tank!”

Typhus was confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

248b was staring at him like he had revealed himself to be a sparkeater. “What is it that you want?” he said, incredulous and befuddled. “Do you imagine that I was some sort of hero, that I was mistakenly incarcerated and imprisoned, that you could save me from a miserable death in the rusty corner of a forgotten room? Well, you can’t. I killed people. I meant to do it. I didn’t hesitate, if that’s what you thought, and I certainly didn’t mourn them. If you think you can salvage me into some sort of charity case, you are wrong. I don’t—”

Typhus wasn’t looking at 248b anymore, so he didn’t know why he stopped. He was… he was trying not to cry. Crying wouldn’t do anything but waste coolant, Typhus reasoned, even if it was a perfectly routine response to an overacting emotional subroutine.

He should have expected it. He should have! This was just like last time, when First Aid and Minerva were ready to preside over a corpse instead of a patient. 248b hadn’t defended himself, not even when he was awake. He had opened his spark chamber to make it easier. He had been ready to be condemned, to be cast down and die.

Typhus took a deep breath, but it came out shaky. “Okay,” he said, wetly. “Okay,” he said, quieter.

He got up and went to his room and wept. He wasn’t even entirely sure why. He was hungry, maybe, and tired and generally not in a good mood. But he was excited to see 248b. He, he wanted to cheer him up, wanted to take the smallest silver from the terrible weight of 248b’s pain. He wasn’t at all prepared to be spat on by the same poison he was weathering from everyone else. It was different when it came from 248b. 

It got him thinking. If he hadn’t stopped First Aid, if he hadn’t laid down his life as collateral, if Minimus hadn’t been there, if 248b hadn’t been on good behavior, if, if, if. 248b’s presence in his hab was only made possible by sequential miracles, the byproduct of a dozen major actors and political forces. And 248b was trying to sabotage it. Typhus didn’t get it. There had been spiels, speeches, essays and entire week-long performances on how awful the war was and how glad they all were that it was over. Why were they all so intent to jump back in? Why was 248b so set on self-flagellation? Why couldn’t he just—let Typhus love him?

He hadn’t noticed the soft knocking until the third tap. 

“Typhus,” 248b said, soft and clumsy, like he didn’t know what Typhus wanted, either. “Typhus, it’s late.”

It was. Too late to go to the Speakeasy, now.

“Typhus,” 248b said. “You need to fuel.”

So he did. He wouldn’t have time the next morning. “Okay,” he said, standing up. There were coolant streaks on his face, and his legs had locked up. He shook off the numbness and opened the door. 248b was waiting with the cube of double refined on the other side, looking both caught and belligerent. 

“That’s for you,” Typhus said.

“You need to fuel,” 248b insisted. “I’m not the one with a job.”

Typhus shrugged. “I’ll get a cube from the depot.” It was always open, and Typhus had never had issues going out at night.

He really was hungry, so he brushed past 248b to head out the door. What he wasn’t expecting was for 248b to follow him.

“Typhus,” 248b said, voice hard. “Be reasonable.”

“I am!” Typhus was raising his voice in the streets, which had never happened before. “I am perfectly reasonable. You’re the one who makes no sense.”

“ I’m the one—?” 248b snorted. It was an ugly sound. “Please. You think I can just expect the little bit of spark breakoff I had four thousand years ago to, what, come back and save me from my duly-appointed fate? To bail me out of jail? To give me double refined energon?”

“ Yes! ” Typhus turned on him. “That’s exactly what you should expect, because that’s what’s happening!”

If there was another soul on the streets, they’d cleared out. Typhus was shocked at himself. He didn’t know he could be that loud.

This was that moment in the living room again, where they were divided by the kitchen lights, except now it was the dull yellow of flickering street lamps on the abandoned road. 248b was looking at him, bewildered, like his private reality had been smashed to smithereens, irrecoverable. His music was creeping out, winding purposefully out of a worn crack. 

Typhus found that he had nothing left in him to say. He turned around and kept walking.

“Why?” 248b said, trailing behind him. He was shivering. Typhus wanted to hold him, though he knew 248b wouldn’t let him. “Because you love me? ” he spat, like an insult.

“Yeah,” Typhus said, glancing back before heading into the fuel depot. “Because I love you.”

248b didn’t say anything as Typhus had his cube. Typhus could feel his emotional subroutines settling back to baseline. He was already feeling more like himself. 

“It’s late,” Typhus said, feeling as if he had braved the Rust Sea. “Let’s go home.”

***

248b agreed to go flying after Typhus’s surgery.

“Your priority tree is completely hopeless and in need of overhaul,” 248b had said. “But fine. I do need to stretch my legs.”

The operation was unremarkable aside from the little itch Typhus had afterwards. “I want to scratch the inside of my chest,” he confessed to Squawkbox. “It’s like… muffled. Ough.”

Squawkbox was not impressed. “Don’t,” he said. 248b, by the looks of it, had become his ally. 

“Oh, that’s right!” Typhus twiddled his thumbs happily. “Squawk, do you know where we can go flying?”

There were flying regulations, he knew, because there was a dedicated channel on the radio that complained about them all the time. “On the edge o’the city’s fine,” Squawkbox said, exasperated. “What’s your range, again?”

“Two miles,” 248 answered. He was very responsive these days. Maybe Typhus should tell him he loves him more. Food for thought.

“Short leash.”

“Mm.”

The two of them seemed to have settled into some sort of acquaintanceship accord. It was, Typhus observed, a common occurrence among the veterans who had little to say to one another.

Typhus thought about it. “Do you need refined fuel? For flying, I mean.”

“Regular energon is fine,” 248b said. “Though I do need a bit more than usual.”

A few minutes later, Squawkbox made sure 248b wasn’t looking and slipped Typhus a cube.

“Um,” Typhus said, unsure of what to do with it. “I already had my—?”

“Shh. Put it in your subspace.” Squawkbox was standing awkwardly. To block the cameras, Typhus realized. “You heard ‘im. He needs ‘a bit more than usual.’”

“Oh.” It was—very generous of him, and unusually kind. “Thank you.”

Squawkbox chuffed. “Consider it your yearly bonus.”

Historically, yearly bonus was not a part of his expected pay, largely due to Typhus not knowing that he was employed at all. He decided that the Squawkbox should get hugged.

“O—ooookay, okay, squirt. You can put me down now.” 248b was waiting for him a few steps away. He looked fairly smug to have been spared.

It was a bit of a walk to the edge of Iacon. 248b didn’t mind; he’d spent the whole week with the new stylus Typhus gave him, having already gone through a stack of empty datapads and was working quickly through the rest. 

“What were those datapads for?” Typhus asked. He was waiting for 248b to bring it up, but he never had. They may as well talk about it while walking.

“Oh, you know,” 248b said, twirling his fingers in the air. “Making notes of a cure for late stage spark burnout.”

He didn’t know what that was. “That’s a… disease?”

“Of a sort,” 248b said. His music was calm, even if he looked a little bewildered. Was Typhus supposed to know what that was? Maybe it was related to spark surges, or something. “One of the incurables. You can’t reinvigorate a dying spark once it’s past critical mass, though there’s evidence to the contrary.”

248b, as it turned out, was in a lecturing mood. He clearly had experience teaching. His notes, as far as Typhus had gleaned them, were unintelligible and unorganized. But what came out of 248b’s mouth was a well-formatted, highly informative spiel, even if a few of the terms flew over Typhus’s head. 

“—which means that there is a way, if only this far achieved under highly specific and undocumented cases.” He didn’t notice that they’d stopped. “You know about cybercrosis, don’t you? Everyone knows about cybercrosis.”

“Um,” Typhus said, reluctant to cut 248b off. “We’re here?”

It was the patch of relatively flat ruin that Typhus liked to visit when he was in a silent sort of mood. “Ah. So we have.”

Typhus watched very carefully as 248b transformed. He was a jet, as promised, but he wasn’t like any jet Typhus had ever seen. In lieu of the standard pair of turbines, 248b had only one in the middle of his rudder, along with smaller thrusters to complement them on his wings. It was an odd combination, Typhus thought. Usually fliers were sturdy and dense, or slim and flighty. 248b was a mix of both. His turbine looked powerful, but his wings were exceptionally thin. He had a strange arc of a suspension beneath his fuselage that Typhus did not know the use for. He was kind of hodgepodge, Typhus thought, though 248b wouldn’t like to hear that he was.

“Excuse me,” 248b said, and he was off. The thrusters were for lifting off without a runway, Typhus observed, and they made 248b much more maneuverable in the air. It was clear he hadn’t flown in a long time. According to Minimus, fliers were allowed at least five hours of air time every two weeks. Typhus felt sorry to have deprived him.

248b didn’t do any tricks. He was flying fairly gingerly, Typhus thought, listening to the variable sound of his turbine. Two miles really wasn’t very far. 248b did a fly around clockwise, then counterclockwise, in slow, sloping circles. It hurt Typhus’s neck to keep looking at him, but he did it anyways. A strange and unbidden yearning welled up in him: Typhus wished to have been made a jet, so he could fly with 248b. It was the most nonsensical thing he’d ever wanted. But he wanted it quite bad.

 Eventually, night fell. It was 248b who noticed first. “Well?” he said, landing gracefully in front of Typhus. “I hope you’re not expecting another hour of flying out of me. It’ll hurt my ailerons if I keep going.” 

Typhus snapped out of his stupor. “Oh, uh. Are you hungry?”

248b shrugged. It was the most relaxed Typhus had seen him. He had the abrupt and deafening image of harmony, though he didn’t know where it came from. “I could eat.”

“Okay,” Typhus said, feeling like he was the one who’d been flying, that he was coming down from the joys of an alt mode not his own. “Let’s go home.”

***

Typhus felt that something was off in the Speakeasy that night. It wasn’t… loud, like it usually was, and the notes were off. He couldn’t find the source of that dissonance no matter how hard he looked. The buffer distorted his hearing. 248b had told him that spark output and audials operate on completely different systems, but Typhus knew what he heard. And what he heard was not enough.

248b and Squawkbox were chatting about regional differences in lowcharge drinks when it happened. Typhus only had a moment’s warning: the sound of thunder before lightning, the absence of rain when something was overhead. And then:

“Pharma?”

248b’s music—ceased. There wasn’t another word for it. It had been there, and the next moment, it wasn’t. Typhus looked to the speaker.

There was an ambulance at the door. This one did have medic colors, the same shade 248b had wanted for himself. He was new to the Speakeasy. And he was staring right at 248b.

248b was staring right back. He wasn’t—he wasn’t right. It was like Typhus was looking at someone else entirely, that someone had killed 248b and made a stranger animate his frame. 

“Stop!” Typhus cried, standing up. “What are you doing?”

The stranger wasn’t doing anything aside from standing there and attracting everyone's attention. “Is that Ratchet?” someone muttered, and Typhus realized that it was: Ratchet of Vaporex, former CMO of the Autobots and current Cybertronian CMO, here in the metal. 

“Pharma,” Ratchet said, looking at 248b like he was something miraculous. “I thought Jazz was… Pharma, it is you, isn’t it?”

248b shrunk into himself. Typhus could hear the layers—the easiness of his gait, the endless stream of his words, the steady and indignant air of his attentions—collapse into dust. He wasn’t trembling. He was shaking.

“What do you want?” Typhus asked, standing between Ratchet and 248b. 

“I need to speak to him,” Ratchet said, trying to walk around him. He couldn’t, of course. Typhus was doorway sized.

“No,” Typhus replied. “You don’t.”

“He’s one of my staff—”

“No,” Typhus said. “He isn’t.” And then: “He doesn’t want to speak with you.”

For a moment it looked like Ratchet wasn’t going to leave. He was very forceful, Typhus thought, and had the air of someone used to getting his way. “Fine,” Ratchet grumbled, when it was clear that this would neither escalate nor dissolve. “This isn’t over.”

248b hadn’t moved. He was still shaking. “Don’t,” he hissed, when Squawkbox opened his mouth to say something. 

“Do you want to—” go home, Typhus wanted to ask, except 248b cut him off.

“ Is he gone? ” 248b whispered. He looked haunted. 

“Yeah,” Typhus said, scanning the streets. “He’s gone.”

248b floundered gracelessly on the counter. He was staring at his hands, turning them around and around, clenching and unclenching them.

“Wings,” Squawkbox said. “You good?”

“You saw his hands,” 248b gasped. To Typhus, he realized. “How did they look?”

“Uh.” Typhus wasn’t sure what 248b was asking. “He looked fine?”

248b nodded as if he had heard something else altogether. “Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?” He covered his mouth, stifling a snort. “Oh, silly me, to have worried.” And then he was giggling. It was quiet in a way that was practised.

Typhus didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t even sure what had happened. He hated the buffer. Without it, he would know how to approach this. Without it, he would be able to fish out the remains of 248b’s music.

Squawkbox was clearly having a field day. Pharma. Was that 248b’s name before Garrus-10? Was it still his name? Typhus wasn’t one to dig up someone’s past without their blessing, but he was itching for something, anything, to do. He looked it up.

Pharma of Iacon had a page in the Autobot database. He was a decorated and high ranked surgeon that went MIA at the end of the war. He had numerous accolades: Salutatorian of Greater Iacon Medical Academy, half a million years of unblemished record as a general surgeon before he acquired specialties in spark studies and transplants, ventilations, and neuro-tuning. He had an Award of Excellence for search and rescue, having set its unbeaten record of 204 saved mechs in one season. He had an ‘unusual altmode,’ and was apparently famous for being forged. There were no pictures.

Typhus closed the page. He shouldn’t have looked at it. It hadn’t answered anything. Why was 248b afraid of Ratchet? Why had he asked about Ratchet’s hands? How did they know each other? What should he do now? Pharma might be 248b. Might not be. It didn’t matter to Typhus either way. What did matter was 248b, who was crumbling quickly into ruin on Squawkbox’s counter. He wanted to bang his head against a wall. What was he supposed to do?

They went home early that night. 248b didn’t say anything. He trailed behind Typhus like a broken puppet, unmoored and absent. Typhus kept having to stop to make sure he was there.

“Good night,” Typhus said, gently, once they were home. 248b didn’t appear to have heard him. He stalked into his room and locked the door.

***

The switch, Typhus observed, was permanent. 248b no longer spoke about his projects. He did everything else perfunctorily: drank all the energon Typhus gave him, allowed himself to be dragged out for flying. Not even Squawkbox’s juiciest war stories could draw him out.

“Typhus,” he said one day. It wasn’t a rest day, but they had both gotten early enough to go to the fuel depot to fetch breakfast. Typhus suspected that 248b slept very little at all. “I need you to do something for me.”

Typhus leaned forward. “Yeah?” 248b hadn’t asked anything of him before. “What is it?”

248b shoved a few datapads into his hands. “When—when you see Ratchet again, give this to him.” He wasn’t looking Typhus in the eyes. 

“Oh.” There were a lot of things he wanted to ask. “Um, what if he doesn’t come around again?”

“Doesn’t—of course he’ll come,” 248b said. “He’s—I’m—”

And then he shot up and started pacing. Typhus didn’t move. “Haha. You’re right. You’re right! What if he never comes back?” A strangled sound; Typhus wasn’t sure if he was holding back a laugh or a cry. “Oh, but he does. He went back for Drift, didn’t he? Left a whole ship of Autobots behind. What was the line from the Memoir ? I hadn’t known him at the time, only heard from word of mouth. I thought it was a nice thing he’s done. It’s not easy going against the majority, you know, especially if they’re all your friends. ”

And then 248b laughed. It was—sharp and grating, like the edge of a filthy knife. A horrible sound. “It’s funny. I did think we were friends! We fueled together, practised together, went on sleepless studying sprees together. I helped him cheat on one of the tests. Me! Pharma!” He laughed again. “Oh, but it’s just so funny. I’ve known him since he was in residency, you know. Before there was any whisper of a Revolution, before the Autobots, before he was Ratchet of Vaporex, Physician Premier of Zeta Prime.” He giggled. 

“…Pharma?” Typhus tried.

Pharma flinched like he’d been hit, though he was still smiling. “Oh, what’s the use.” He snorted. “The cybercat’s out of the bag. Yes, that’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”

And then he retreated to his room. Typhus looked down at the datapads he left behind. He wanted—he wanted to open them, to go through its pages and see: what manner of creature was Pharma? A doctor? An Autobot? Clearly he was no longer either. Four thousand years of being Missing In Action had not been kind to him. 

Typhus found he could no longer stop this stream of questions. What had he done? Why had he come apart at the mere mention of his name? Who was Ratchet to him? When, what, where, why?

He looked down at himself. He was nearly four thousand years old. That would put his conception right around the time Pharma went MIA. And what about his progenitor? If Pharma wasn’t the Point One Percenter, then he was. If Pharma wasn’t the tank, then he was. Once he could no longer ignore the puzzle pieces, he found that everything fell together with surprising and suspicious ease. There was no longer a reason not to act.

The next day, Pharma didn’t come down. Typhus stopped knocking after the third try and went tentatively into his room.

Pharma was on his berth, though Typhus wasn’t sure if he was actually asleep. He looked exceptionally still, but he sounded—cacophonous, as if he had been screaming against cave walls.

He shook him awake. 

“Ugh,” Pharma gasped, then startled off the bed when he saw Typhus. “What are—you’re in—why are you here?”

“You haven’t been sleeping well,” Typhus observed. He had noticed the fatigue, but didn’t realize that it was from nightmares. “Is there anything I can do?”

Pharma was doing a strange thing where he kept Typhus in sight without actually looking at him. He was scared of him, Typhus realized. He tried to not let it break his heart. “No,” he said. “No, there isn’t.”

And then Typhus couldn’t contain himself anymore; he went up to Pharma and hugged him.

“I love you,” he said. He wished he could do more. He wished that he could make it hurt less. This close, Typhus could feel the faint pulse of Pharm’s spark against his own, quiet and constant and weary. “I love you.”

Pharma fell asleep in his arms. He laid him carefully back on the bed and went to work.

***

Typhus was asked to remain with Pharma, this time.

“There are some documents we need you to sign,” Minimus said, sipping on the tea Typhus made. “Given, of course,  that you understand and agree with the terms.”

Typhus looked between the two of them. “What am I signing?”

Minimus shot Pharma a look. “My money,” Pharma hissed, “is apparently still collecting interest in the Intergalactic Central Bank.”

“It is quite substantial, considering that  the account remained untouched for four million years.” Minimus slid him a few numbers so big he had to count the digits.

“Oh, wow,” Typhus said. He couldn’t imagine having that kind of money. He had never felt so young. And so inadequate; Pharma was clearly used to better things. “Wait. What do you need my signature for?”

“Your knowledge and consent is required to add your name to the account,” Minimus said, “which would give you access to these funds. I do not usually handle these documents, but given the nature of your carrier’s identity, I have been temporarily granted rights to represent the Central Bank.” 

Typhus signed. He snuck a glance at Pharma’s own signature before handing it back to Minimus. It looked neat and practised, much like Pharma himself. He committed it to memory.

“One more thing,” Minimus said. “Pharma, I am happy to tell you that you are officially reevaluated as low risk, and thus free to transform whenever you please. Your wrists, please.”

Pharma complied stiffly. He looked like he wasn’t sure if it was real or if it was a cruel joke. The shackles came off without fanfare or resistance. Pharma was provisionally free.

The moment Minimus was out the door, Pharma transformed his hands.

“Woah,” Typhus said, not sure what he was looking at. “Is that a drill?”

It was, as Pharma explained, two drills and a magnifier, and then needles and solder, and then a massive chainsaw.

“Does it work?” Typhus asked. Being able to transform your hands into giant chainsaws was enormously cool. Or rad, as Jazz put it.

Pharma smirked. It looked good on him. “Watch.”

Typhus watched intently as Pharma revved up his chainsaw, raised it, and cut off his other hand.

The scream died in Typhus’s throat. He didn’t understand what he was seeing. It was one thing to know people have limbs they potentially lose; it was another to see them cut it from themselves. And Pharma, Pharma was grinning. Typhus couldn’t hear his music past the deafening roar of the chainsaw. He didn’t know how to make him stop.

“Relax,” Pharma said, sing-song. “I’ll clean it up after.” And then he began to reattach his hand. It would be mesmerizing if it hadn’t been so grotesque—if it hadn’t been Pharma sitting across from him, if he hadn’t just been smiling while cutting off his limb. If Typhus didn’t love him and wished him well.

Typhus watched as Pharma expertly reattached his own hand. He was clearly an exceptionally skilled surgeon; the cut had been clean, and he welded every painstaking microplating, soldered every hairline wire. He didn’t think the whole thing took more than five minutes.

Pharma looked perfectly content. “Pass me a cloth, would you?” Typhus did, and watched as he cleaned the energon from what remained of the wound and the spill on the table. There was barely more than a splash. When he showed Typhus his hands, his self repair system had already covered up most of the damage. It was patched so expertly that the paint was still intact.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Typhus choked out. And then he cried.

He didn’t go to his room this time; he didn’t think he could if he tried. Typhus just pushed his face into his palms and crumbled onto himself, because how else was he supposed to react? How did Pharma think he would react?

“It’s back on, isn’t it?” Pharma said, once the sobs had eased enough for Typhus to hear him. “It didn’t hurt, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’m a medijet; I can turn off my nerve nodes at will.”

“No,” Typhus said, hopelessly. “No! Don’t—don’t do that! Ever!”

He didn’t know how to get Pharma to understand. He didn’t quite understand it himself. Was he supposed to feel differently? Was Typhus meant to follow the example of First Aid and Minerva, to be laissez-faire in letting Pharma hurt himself? Was he supposed to just stand there? Was he supposed to be fucking impressed?

“Typhus,” Pharma said, in that exasperated voice he used instead of gentleness. “Look at me. I’m fine, aren’t I?”

Typhus looked upon him in anger. “No. You’re not fine at all.”

And then he stormed out. Something heavy was crystallizing in his spark, some new and relentless music. He let it carry him. There was work to be done.

His feet brought him to the Speakeasy. Squawkbox was startled to see him.

“Squawkbox,” Typhus said, finding himself suddenly calm. “I need a favor.”

***

There was a sort of quiet boasting in bars that Typhus found common. Mechs—the ones who hadn’t been in the war, or the ones lucky enough to be sheltered from the worst—liked to think that there was such a brink someone could be pushed to where they miraculously metamorphize into something brave and miraculous. Typhus had found his brink. He did not metamorphize.

“Uh.” The Speakeasy had just opened, and Squawkbox was busy setting up some of the machinery. “Gimme a mo’, would ya?”

Typhus sat and considered. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he also knew exactly what he was doing. There was something deeply wrong with Pharma, something he found he could no longer ignore. He needed to figure it out. He needed to have it in his hands to obliterate.

“I need you to look into something,” Typhus said, quietly, once Squawkbox was back with him.

“Sure,” Squawkbox said. He looked both anticipatory and frightened, like he had been expecting this from Typhus, but hadn’t prepared enough. “What can I get’cha, squirt?”

“I need you to look into Pharma,” he said. “I need to know what happened when he went MIA.”

Squawkbox nodded. “Already ahead o’ya, squirt.”

The datapad he handed Typhus was sparse, but informative. There were pictures of Pharma and Ratchet, much younger and aglow in the light of the Golden Age. One image was a graduation certificate, belonging to Ratchet on closer inspection. It had Pharma’s signature, identical to the one he used the other day.

After the war began, information became scarce. Some of the notes were clearly from Squawkbox’s—or his two components’—imperfect memory. There were a few blurry satellite images of two orange figures, one of them boxy and pale, the other pointy with bits of blue.

And then there were a few troop assignment records—clearly obtained via illegal means—that Typhus recognized at once: Pharma ID-248b, assigned to MESSATINE, DELPHI.

“There’s no more after tha’, if that’s what you’re wonderin’.” Squawkbox wasn’t looking at him directly, as if doing so would invoke his wrath. Typhus found that he didn’t care. There were more important things to worry about. “But I have leads.”

The Lost Light: A Latecomer’s Memoir was a book yet to be published, the author having been waiting for the consent of a few remaining members of the crew to release it in print. That hadn’t stopped the script’s smashing success, however; already there were multiple leaks of it online, and the preorders were through the roof. Squawkbox had circled the chapter called Delphi.

Typhus looked at the cover again. “Nautica,” he muttered. He needed to find her. He needed to know what she knew.

“Before you get all harebrained,” Squawkbox said. “Remember, that Orator of Justice had been on that ship too. Don’t jump too far for a cliff you can’t see, squirt.”

Typhus left the Speakeasy and called Minimus. It took three tries.

“Who is this?” Minimus asked.

“It’s Typhus,” he replied. “Minimus. I need your help.”

As he expected, Minimus was not at leisure to disclose anything. “I must remind you that Pharma’s parole has been a personal grace granted largely on my insistence,” he said, sternly. “I cannot guarantee his freedom if you continue to push the matter.”

“I know,” Typhus said. “But there are other people who can tell me, aren’t there? Minimus, can you put me in contact with Nautica?”

A long sigh came over the phone. “She is not at liberty to disclose about him, either.”

“Minimus,” Typhus said. There was a way through here, the tiniest draft from between stone walls. “There is nothing I want less than to jeopardize Pharma’s freedom. You know I wouldn’t be calling if it isn’t important. Please, trust me.”

He could feel Minimus thinking through the call. “Very well,” Minimus said. “You are a direct consequence of these events. I suppose you do have a right to know them.” He sent her contact over comms. “Good day, Typhus. And good luck.”

It was late. Typhus itched to get moving, to doggedly chase down this domino line of leads. But he had affairs to put in order, obligations he must fulfill. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Typhus hadn’t realized how easy lying was until he did it.

“Yeah,” he told Loadout. “Doc says I gotta take the next few weeks easy. Sorry it’s such short notice.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Loadout told him. “You go do what you gotta do.”

Typhus hung up and called Nautica. “Hello?” She was based on Luna I, though she frequented Cybertron’s cities for various scientific conferences. Typhus was hoping that she was planetside. “Who is this?”

He explained himself as best he could. “So Minimus pointed me to you,” he said. “Do you think we could, uh, meet up some time?”

“Hmm.” She had been welcoming to his story so far. “I don’t mind meeting you, Typhus, but I don’t think I’ll have the answers you want. I joined the crew after Delphi, and I can’t say I was terribly close to Ratchet, though of course everyone knew him. There is someone I can point you to who might know more. An Amica of mine, as it happens. Her name is Velocity. She works at Iacon Central. Do you want me to give you her comms?”

He thanked her and wrote down Velocity’s contact, then looked her up: Camien medic, served on the Lost Light under Ratchet and First Aid. Currently employed at Iacon Central, as Nautica said.

Typhus didn’t have the finesse to track down someone who could be working odd hours. He called Squawkbox.

“Squirt?”

“I have someone’s comm,” he said. “She’s a doctor at Iacon Central. Do you think you can put me in contact with her?”

“And you don’t just call her because…?”

“Because she could be busy, or hang up, or not believe me,” Typhus said. Minimus’s name twice removed wasn’t much of a name at all. “And because I don’t want First Aid to find out.”

Squawkbox groaned. “Fine,” he said, after a moment. “But next time, you’re buyin’ me a drink.”

Typhus smiled. “You got it, Squawk.”

Thirty minutes later, Typhus had an appointment with Velocity. It was tomorrow. 

::You’re the best,:: he commed Squawkbox.

::Flattery? That’s a new one. Say hello to wings for me. Don’t jump before you look. Or after.:: And then, ::Good luck, squirt.::

Typhus got to work. He’d already dropped off Pharma’s fuel, which meant that he was free to visit the central archives. He wasn’t sure if he could find anything, if it had been worth looking into at all, but he had to try.

His efforts were quickly rewarded. There, in the pages of the Honorably Deceased, was Ambulon, a Decepticon defector stationed at Delphi who had allegedly died in an attempt to stop Tyrest. Among the many deceased of the Lost Light, he was the only one marked as a friend of First Aid’s.

The facts were almost lining up. Pharma, First Aid, and Ambulon were on Delphi, and then they weren’t; Pharma went missing, while the other two joined the Lost Light. A few months later, Ambulon died. But where did Pharma fit into all this? He had never been a part of the Lost Light; Typhus could see no benefit in concealing that they had three Delphian medics instead of two. But if Ambulon had indeed died months after Pharma’s disappearance, then perhaps he was not the one Pharma killed. That First Aid believed Pharma had killed.

Typhus checked the Memoir again; no mention of who went down to Delphi, only that they had returned with First Aid, Ambulon, and some change. What had happened on Delphi? What had happened on Luna I? On Delphi, First Aid had been a nurse; on Luna I, he was a doctor. What had changed?

A small accreditation caught his eye. Whoever wrote his page suggested that First Aid likely helped Ratchet with the creation of the Cybercrosis cure, though he was not cited as an official contributor. They very helpfully suggested that it was unlikely that Ratchet had come up with countermeasures to five incurables, no matter his ingenuity.

Something about that tickled Typhus. He opened Ratchet’s page. There were accolades upon accolades, names upon names of the lives he’d saved. Typhus noticed that there was no such list on Pharma’s page, though he undoubtedly had saved his own share of lives. It was curious. Very curious. He scrolled down to the cures: Cybercrosis, Corrodia Gravis, Atrophosia, and preventative measures for Cosmic Rust and Delta’s Malady. Here, First Aid was not listed as a potential collaborator. 

He looked through Ratchet’s page again. Valedictorian of Greater Iacon Medical Academy a few years before Pharma’s graduation year. There was no mention of Pharma on his page, though his graduation certificate that had been cited on the source was the very same image Squawkbox had shown him. Other than that, Ratchet’s page was a dead end. 

Typhus considered his leads, then looked up Messatine.

Headquarters of the Decepticon Justice Division, it said. Typhus opened their page.

He didn’t know what he expected. Violence, certainly. Gore. Maybe a list of names of people they’d killed, or the people they’d spared. What Typhus wasn’t expecting was his own face staring back at him, scarred and callous and cruel.

Reconstructed from the records of the Battle of Necroworld, the image said. An approximate portrait of Tarn, the leader of the DJD. Original designation: Glitch. 

Typhus couldn’t stop looking. They had the same red eyes, same nose, same mouth. Save for the scar, they could be mistaken as split-spark twins. 

Tarn was a Point One Percenter recruited by Megatron to discourage Decepticon defection, the page said. He was its first and founding member. There is no count of how many Decepticon defectors the DJD had managed to capture during its operation—or, for that matter, how many Autobots—but what is certain is their brutal and merciless methods of execution. One Autobot agent managed to infiltrate their ranks for some time, though he was unable to be extracted. His reports suggest that the DJD were fond of torturing their victims for pleasure before killing them. 

Though the records of other members remain piecemeal, it is confirmed that Tarn’s outlier ability controls living metal. He is verified by eye witness to have killed numerous victims with his voice alone. Due to the auditory nature of his outlier, he is speculated to have a strong love for music. ^{Citation needed}

Typhus looked up from the dataport. He found that he could no longer focus. Pharma was safe, he reasoned; Typhus would rather die than hurt him. But he was reminded, suddenly, of their first meeting: Pharma, immobilized beneath him, desperately trying to break free, to close his spark chamber. The article First Aid gave him, saying total spark merge required; though ionic harmony is recommended, it is not necessary for conception. While carriers reported more discomfort with a dissonant progenitor, the health of the newspark is unaffected so long as the carrier remains healthy through incubation. 

And then, as if the final note on a funeral dirge, the page said: Tarn’s altmode was a heavy tank. 

Typhus turned the dataport off and left. It was still early in the day, but he found himself unable to continue. For the first time since he knew about Pharma, Typhus found himself unwilling to see him. He had never doubted whether Pharma had loved him, he realized. It was never something that needed doubting. Pharma had opened his spark chamber for him. He had acquiesced to Typhus’s company, had gone with him to fly. Typhus was certain he wouldn’t do that with someone he hated. He was. He was.

It was late when he got home. He’d walked the entire way. It hadn’t helped. His thought trees had been replaying snippets of the day, the was a Point One Percenter and strong love for music and a heavy tank. Typhus’s visual identifier was beginning to blur his own face with that of Tarn’s. It wasn’t difficult. They looked exactly the same.

Pharma was waiting for him in the living room. “Where were you?” He’d drunk the cube Typhus left him. Good. “Do you know what time it is? Didn’t you think to leave me a note?” It was hard to hear Pharma over his own thoughts, echoing and echoing and echoing. 

He hadn’t noticed that Pharma had his back against the wall until he heard the clink of his wings against the liquidcrete. Pharma only came up to his chest, he realized. Was it the same, with Tarn? “Typhus?” he asked, quietly.

Typhus was suddenly suffused with the need to question Pharma. Did he love Tarn? Had they merged their sparks hoping to conceive, or had Typhus been entirely incidental? Would Tarn have wanted him? Would Pharma?

Were you afraid of him? he nearly asked. Are you afraid of me?

He looked at Pharma, who was pressed against the wall. Typhus had been walking towards him without noticing. He should say something, he thought, looking at Pharma’s confused and bewildered face, but found himself unable to speak. Typhus had run out of words.

He slept uneasily that night, turning the words in his head. He didn’t know how he should feel about it. If he should feel anything at all.

***

The next morning, he woke up angry. Typhus didn’t know what to do about it, so he didn’t do anything. He had his fuel across from Pharma, as they did every morning, and tried not to think.

“Well?” Pharma said, after they were both finished with their cube. “Where are we going?”

Typhus hadn’t realized that it was a rest day. “Oh,” he said. “Nowhere, I guess.” He had an appointment with Velocity this afternoon that he wasn’t sure would succeed—if he even knew what success meant. 

“Don’t tell me you’re cooping me in here for another week,” Pharma grumbled. “You wouldn’t want my health to deteriorate right before the surgery, would you? That would be an awful waste of your time.”

The surgery, Typhus realized, was indeed next week. In exactly five days, actually. He had forgotten about it entirely. “Oh,” he said, numbly. 

Pharma looked concerned. “What is wrong with you?” He leaned forward on the table, scrutinizing his face. “Energon levels sufficient, no broken or missing parts. Adequate levels of coolant and oil, though you could do with a new coat of polish. Hmm. This wouldn’t be psychological, would it?”

Typhus discovered that the cruelest mech he’d ever heard of was his progenitor. Was that ‘psychological?’ Maybe it was. “I have an appointment in the afternoon.”

When it was clear he would not elaborate, Pharma huffed and pretended he didn’t care. “Don’t let me stop you,” he said. “But I did promise Squawkbox a show one of these days, and if you’re keen to come home so late on workdays, then.”

Right. “Okay,” Typhus said. The Speakeasy was open early today anyways; Squawktalk hosted a gentleman’s club once a month, and on those days he had to set up in the morning. Sometimes Typhus dropped in to say hello, even though he didn’t know what a gentleman’s club was. He was fairly certain Squawkbox didn’t know, either.

He and Pharma made it to the Speakeasy just as the doors opened. “Squirt,” Squawkbox said. “Missed you last night.”

Pharma shot him an odd look, which he ignored. “Long day.”

Squawkbox clearly wanted to ask some questions, but it was impossible with Pharma there, even if he was chatting with another patron. It was good, Typhus noted distantly, that Pharma was socializing. 

“Squirt,” Squawkbox said, as if he could contain himself no longer. “You okay? Seriously, this is the worst I’ve seen you, and I’ve seen you passed out and buried under fifty tons of cave.”

Typhus softened. “I’m okay,” he said, unsure if he meant it. “I’ll be okay,” he amended.

Squawkbox nodded, looking equally unsure if he believed him. “Right.”

If Typhus felt better, this would be where he offered to buy Squawkbox that drink. As it were, the only thing keeping the counter alive was the animated conversation Pharma was keeping with a few of the other patrons. Squawkbox kept shooting him worried glances. Typhus was unable to reassure him.

He wished, suddenly, that he could leave. Something about the cheer and mundanity of a morning in the Speakeasy was suddenly intolerable, like a paint that was flaking, a joint wound too tight. Then, as if Primus himself had heard, Typhus got a call.

“I have to take this,” he said, and stepped outside.

He looked at the caller ID. Ratchet of Vaporex, it said, and all of his relief evaporated. 

“Hello?” It was the same voice. It was both perfectly forgettable and undeniably memorable, gruff and pointed and deep. “Is this Typhus?”

“Ratchet.”

“That’s my name,” he said. “Don’t wear it out. Listen, kid. We gotta talk.”

Typhus found a wall to lean on. “I’m listening.”

“I need to talk to your carrier,” Ratchet said, like First Aid had given him Typhus’s file, like he had a right to know in the first place. “He’s an old friend of mine. There’s… a lot we have to hash out. Minimus says you’re his Guarantor, so I’m calling you.”

Typhus didn’t know how to respond. Should he agree to a meeting? Obviously not; Pharma had an episode the moment Ratchet called his name. Should he ask Pharma? Maybe, but it might only serve to upset him. Should he reject Ratchet outright? Ratchet was the CMO of the fucking planet. Would he respect a refusal from someone a fraction of his age, untested in war?

“I have an appointment with Velocity this afternoon,” he found himself saying. “If you still want to talk, I can see about opening my schedule after my meeting with her. Otherwise, good day.”

He hung up. It was possibly the stupidest thing he could ever do, telling a medic Typhus was meeting him in his territory, but it was all he could think of. Ratchet, he realized, likely knew where they lived. The call was already a courtesy.

Typhus took a moment on the streets to recenter himself. Too much was happening. Too much was counting on him. Pharma’s life. His own life. The tangled knot of the past pooling at his feet, stretching in all directions. He wished it was simpler. He wished less was at stake.

When Typhus went back in, he was not expecting Pharma to be at the center of the room, walled in by a crowd of silent and rapt audience. Even Squawkbox had left his counter to observe. There was a stopwatch that they all snuck glances at, but most of them were focusing on Pharma, who had his head tilted all the way up and was fiddling with his throat. Typhus didn’t have the time to be confused before Pharma slid out his voice module—through a slit he had made, though it was so thin he hadn’t noticed—and placed it on a cloth on the table. And then he took another voice module—from his subspace, he realized—and slotted it in, so quickly that only a single drop of energon leaked onto his frame. He was doing this all by touch; the cut, the extraction, the replacement, and the welding. Once he dabbed that single drop of energon, there was no proof any of it had happened at all.

The entire bar exploded into raucous cheer.

“Two fragging minutes,” someone said. “I’ll be damned.”

“Mmm,” Pharma said. Typhus could hear him over the others, somehow. “I do intend to collect, you know. All fifteen of your drinks. Low grade.”

And then Typhus understood, and he was so angry he couldn’t breathe.

“I told you to never do that again.”

The room fell silent. Everyone turned to look at him. Typhus found himself loathing them. Loathing that they thought they could goad Pharma into cutting himself, that they gathered like scraplets to sentient metal, that they dared to offer him drinks in recompense. They were all veterans, he realized; they could only be veterans. Even Squawkbox, who was helping him meet Velocity, who was his friend, was a veteran.

“Typhus?” Squawkbox said, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. “Squirt?”

But most of all, Typhus thought, Pharma was a veteran. Pharma had spoken to them with good cheer, had offered himself, had agreed. He had cut himself and let them watch. 

Why? he wanted to ask. Pharma was right in front of him, encased in his shadow. He was shaking. Typhus found himself too angry to care. What did you think you accomplished? He stared down at him. Did flaying himself for these strangers feel good? Did he like the pain? Neither of those sounded right. Maybe he didn’t have a reason to do it. Maybe he didn’t care about himself. Maybe—maybe self-flagellation was so habitual to him that it was barely more than reflex. Or maybe he just liked seeing Typhus squirm. 

Pharma didn’t say anything. His hands were clutching his chest, Typhus saw, right on top of where his spark chamber would be.

“I—I gave you,” Pharma said, stepping back. “You wanted—what do you want? ”

Typhus stopped. This wasn’t the time. “Come on,” he said, weary. “Let’s go home.”

Pharma flinched away from his hand. Typhus froze. “I gave you—I met the quota.” He was looking at Typhus, but seeing—someone else. “Tarn, please. ”

The whole Speakeasy was looking at them now, some with suspicion and all with interest. Squawkbox in particular looked thunderstruck, which Typhus did not address. He needed to get Pharma home.

Squawkbox was the one that moved first. “All right,” he said. “Wrap it up. I’m calling this one early. Squirt?”

Typhus had to get away from Pharma, he realized. He needed to, to leave. He couldn’t, of course; Pharma needed to be within two miles of him, unless he was at home. “Yeah,” he said, not quite gentle. “We’re going.”

“No,” Pharma gasped, looking frantically around. He was searching for an exit. “No, no, no. No no no no no, no!”

Out of options, Typhus went in and grabbed Pharma’s wrist. He tried not to think about how easy it was to drag him out of the Speakeasy, how little effort it took for him to keep walking. Pharma was leaning his entire weight against him, scratching at his hand and scrambling for purchase, and he barely felt it. It would take very little to restrain him. It would take nothing at all to send him back to Garrus-10.

Typhus let go the moment they were inside the hab. “Stay,” he said, not trusting himself to look at Pharma. “Don’t follow me.”

Maybe it was wrong of him to leave Pharma alone. Maybe he should have stayed to reassure him, to comfort and hold him. But Typhus found that he couldn’t. He couldn’t face a Pharma who was, was trying to keep his spark from him, he realized, who looked at him and saw Tarn.

Typhus kept entirely still on the bus to Iacon Central. Maybe he should be disgusted with himself. Maybe he should be ashamed. There was no reason to have overreacted at the Speakeasy, no reason to be furious at Pharma at all. Who was he to tell him what to do with his body? He could slice off his hand as many times as he liked, open his throat for as many strangers as he pleased. He ought to feel sorry, he thought, but he didn’t. Typhus only felt hollow. All he could think about was Pharma’s horrified face, his desperate Tarn, please. 

He barely noticed Velocity welcoming him into her office. “Um,” she said. “You okay?”

Typhus looked at her. “Hello,” he said, wearily. “I’m Typhus. I might’ve… fibbed a little, when I booked the appointment. I was actually hoping you could answer some questions for me.”

Velocity, though initially skeptical, quickly agreed. “I was wondering what they were arguing about,” she muttered. “Well, this is a sore spot for the both of them, so it’s no surprise.” She pushed her datapad aside. “I’d tell you to sit down, but, well, you’re already sitting. It’s not a happy story.”

When Nautica had assured Typhus of Velocity’s insight, she had not been lying. By virtue of being one of the few medics on the ship, Velocity had heard a lot about Delphi and Ambulon.

“Ratchet said he was friends with Pharma,” Velocity said, “but I don’t really get it. First Aid told me that Ratchet took Pharma’s hands.”

“Wait,” Typhus said. “Aren’t medic hands…?”

“Irreplaceable? Invaluable? Priceless? Yeah, they are. Mechs can get a regular set of hands no problem—just some plating on a few wire frames, really—but medic hands are different. The kind of work it can do, that it has to do, needs precision on a level cold constructed hands can’t compete with. It doesn’t matter for most procedures, of course,” she quickly added. “A cold constructed mech can become a medic so long as they pass the evals. World class doctors, on the other hand, are always forged. Ratchet, as you know, and First Aid. Flatline, though allegedly he’s replaced his hands a few times.” She thought about it. “I’m pretty sure Ratchet got the new hands at Delphi. That’s where we got Ambulon, too.” She drooped. “He only spent a few months on the ship before, uh, before Pharma cut him in half.”

“What?” Typhus said.

“Yeah,” Velocity said. “I wish I could’ve met him. I did meet his corpse. Oh, sorry, maybe that’s a bit morbid. First Aid put him back together after Pharma split him in the middle and, uh, he wasn’t as subtle as he thought. I saw him sneak an industrial sized paint primer into the morgue. It was pretty sad, seeing him stay up all night making sure Ambulon’s body looked nice. I don’t think he ever got over it.”

“That’s why First Aid hates Pharma,” Typhus said. That was one theory confirmed. “But how was he on Luna I? Wasn’t he MIA?”

Velocity thought about this. “You know, I’m actually not sure. I know he wasn’t on the ship at that time; he would’ve left records as a prisoner. And, you know, as a patient. Since his hands got chopped off.”

“Chopped off?” Typhus found himself unable to keep quiet. That wasn’t a procedure or a punishment. That was— violence. “They had his hands chopped off? ”

“Allegedly,” Velocity said. “It was Ratchet’s conjunx who did it. Or so First Aid said.”

“Wait.” Typhus was having a headache. Everything was lining up, but nothing made sense. “How did he go MIA, then? He didn’t have his hands! There wasn’t a port on Messatine. If he didn’t board the Lost Light, then where did he go?”

Velocity thought about this. “I wish I could tell you,” she said, “but First Aid never mentions that part. Just the, uh, the plague. And Ambulon.”

Her account of Delphi, at least, was complete: Pharma had released a plague onto the facility—one he had a vaccine for—and shot a life support machine. “First Aid kept saying that he lost his mind,” she said. “And then he’d say that Pharma was like that all the time, that he was a maniac that finally showed his true colors. And, uh. Other… bad things.” She looked sheepish. “Ratchet doesn’t mention him at all.”

“Okay,” Typhus said, nodding woodenly. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Are you okay?” she asked. She was genuinely concerned, Typhus thought. “Want me to look at your buffer? You do have an open spark operation in five days. Maybe I should check you over.”

“No,” Typhus said, standing. “I believe I have an appointment with the CMO. Thank you for your time, Velocity.”

He didn’t know what he was doing. Maybe Ratchet was expecting him. Maybe he wasn’t. Typhus had followed the thorny road of truth to the last domino, and he was approaching it with abandon. He had to.

As it turned out, he needn’t have worried; Ratchet was on his way to Velocity’s office, and they nearly ran into each other turning a corner.

“Typhus,” Ratchet said. “I thought I might’ve missed you.”

“Ratchet,” Typhus said, feeling something hard settle into his spark. “We need to talk.”

***

Ratchet’s office was somehow even more ostentatious than First Aid’s. It was on the highest level in the hospital, the room itself spanning nearly half of the floor. Behind his desk was a brilliant view of Iacon. It was made worse by Ratchet’s poor taste; half of his awards were entirely mundane, and most were ill-kept. It seemed to be mocking everyone with its false opulence, including Ratchet himself.

Typhus sat first. “All right, kid,” said Ratchet. “Lay it on me. What did he say?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “I didn’t mention you called.” He leaned forward. “Ratchet. The last time he saw you, he had a panic attack.”

Ratchet grimaced. “I… yeah, I can see that. Is he… well?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Typhus said. “Certainly better than when he was in Garrus-10.”

Ratchet nodded, like this pleased him, like he had a right to be pleased. “I’ve been speaking with Minimus,” he said, and Typhus learned that he could be betrayed, that betrayal could come from anywhere. “We looked over his case. We think he’s on track to be released.”

“But Pharma is legally MIA,” he pointed out. He hadn’t realized he’d thought about it until he said it out loud. “How will you explain his disappearance for four thousand years?”

Ratchet sighed. “That’s why I need to speak with him. When the Circle of Light convicted him, they hadn’t planned for, well, release. A lot of records were altered during his case.” He looked at Typhus. “Including you. That’s why you were marked as forged, not made; Pharma got to keep his life on the condition that he disappeared. It doesn’t look good when the CMO-in-waiting commits a war crime.”

Typhus was astonished. “He was the CMO-in-waiting?”

“We didn’t have that term, back then,” Ratchet told him. “But I went to Delphi looking for someone to take my post. And that someone was Pharma.”

Typhus looked down at Ratchet’s hands. They were in loose fists on the table, smelling faintly of harsh cleanser. It looked right on Ratchet’s wrists, but Typhus was imagining, disturbingly, of dismembering them. How much would it hurt, if he chopped them off?

“You didn’t take Pharma,” Typhus said. “You took his hands.”

Maybe he expected Ratchet to deny it. To play dumb, to pretend that it had been a misunderstanding. He did not expect Ratchet to smile wryly, and say: “Yeah. I did.”

That was when Typhus understood violence. He wanted to cut these hands off of him, he thought. He wanted to tear Ratchet to pieces and make him rot for four thousand years. “Why?” he asked. 

 Ratchet patiently walked him through his account of Delphi, one magnitude more detailed than Velocity’s. “He had been stealing organs for the DJD,” he said, miserably. “Had been killing patients for them, too. And instead of asking for help, he just… kept killing them. He made a whole plague, Typhus. A rust that nearly killed everyone on Delphi.” He sighed again. “And then the whole business with Tyrest and Ambulon… there was nothing more I could do.”

“You wanted him to walk free?”

“No,” Ratchet said. “Our hands weren’t clean, Typhus. No one’s hands were. If the war tells you to kill someone, you kill them. But we don’t kill patients. We certainly don’t kill them on behalf of the DJD. He had to pay for what he'd done.”

“What did he do, exactly?” Typhus’s logic module was working overtime. It was arranging the data faster than he could think. “If I recall, the DJD were brutal executioners of Decepticon defectors. If Pharma hadn’t complied, wouldn’t Ambulon have died? Wouldn’t they all have died?”

Ratchet looked at him like he’d never thought of that before. “You’d know better than me,” Typhus said, suddenly gaining momentum. “You fought them on the Necroworld. Did Tarn seem inclined to mercy? Was he likely to take only Ambulon—who would have died a long and painful death—and leave an Autobot medical facility to operate on their home planet?”

It was a very simple supposition, Typhus thought, whose only precondition was that Ratchet thought well of Pharma. To entertain the integrity of his CMO-in-waiting after four million years of dutiful practice. “Ratchet,” Typhus asked, as if possessed. “Why did Pharma go MIA on Messatine?”

Ratchet told him. It was very clinical, Typhus thought. Ratchet had admitted that he was playing the sympathy card, that he had been lying to stall. His face twisted when Pharma did the same on the cliff, as if noticing a horrible likeness. “And then he fell,” he said, as if unsure of the words coming out of his own mouth, as if it was the first time he saw himself in the mirror.

“You thought he died.”

Ratchet said nothing.

“Ratchet. Did you think that he died?”

“I didn’t think about him at all,” Ratchet said, bewildered at himself. 

And then Typhus knew: Ratchet was Pharma’s friend, but Pharma wasn’t Ratchet’s. That, or the friendship had been a fabrication from the beginning. What kind of friend didn’t listen when the other was begging? What kind of friend left the other to die?

“Ratchet,” Typhus said, feeling angry in a giddy sort of way. “Did you take Pharma’s hands and leave him to die?”

Ratchet could not answer him. 

“Tell me about Luna I,” Typhus said. 

Ratchet did. It was both more strange and more straightforward than he expected. The Pharma on Luna I, he realized, was closer to the Pharma he knew. “And then First Aid took a shot at him,” Ratchet said, “except he missed. Ru… Skids, maybe, or someone else—they took the gun away from him. And then they put Pharma in prison.”

“Did it hurt?” Typhus asked.

“What?”

“Did it hurt when he took your body apart?” Typhus didn’t know what he was feeling. It was something ugly and sinister and painful, but he didn’t care. Ratchet hurt Pharma, so Ratchet deserved to hurt. “As much as, let’s say, cutting off someone’s hands? Falling from the top of a spire, maybe?”

Ratchet looked like he was trying not to think about it. “He was torturing us, Typhus,” he said, like it was important. “He—he killed Ambulon.”

Quid pro quo, Typhus wanted to say, except his voice module wasn’t working. Neither were his limbs, he realized. There was a throb from inside his chest, and then there was nothing.

Chapter Text

Typhus woke up in pain.

“Oughhh,” he moaned. It felt like something was tearing apart his spark from the inside. “Owww.”

“He’s up,” someone said, in a piercing and ringing sort of voice. His hearing was back, Typhus thought, except it was awful; everything was much too loud. “Get First Aid. Quick.”

Typhus wasn’t really aware for the next part. All of his nerve nodes—his interior power systems, his generator, his hydraulic monitors—were all telling him that something was wrong with his spark, and that he was in excruciating pain. They must’ve moved him somehow, because when the pain chips finally kicked in, he was in another room entirely.

First Aid sauntered in. The sound of his footsteps made Typhus dizzy. “The buffer wore out,” he said. “I’m going to shorten our timeline.”

Typhus sat up and noticed Pharma. He was sitting on a slab across from Typhus, looking like he hadn’t slept for days. “Wait. How long has it been?”

“Since you had a spark surge in Ratchet’s office? Three days.”

Three days! What about Pharma? What was he doing for three days? Did they make sure he had enough energon? “Oh,” he said. “Are we doing the reading now?”

“We have already done the reading,” First Aid said. “And tried reinstalling the buffer on you. It didn’t take. Your spark is already rejecting the spark casing, albeit slowly. Installing a buffer now would only accelerate frame rejection.” He crossed his arms. “We can only pray that the factory makes it in time.”

Pharma made no notice of First Aid at all, Typhus observed, though they were both painfully aware of one another. “Okay,” he said, as quietly as he could. His own voice was too loud for him. “Um. Am I staying at the hospital from now on?”

He certainly felt that he should. If he couldn’t even speak without a headache, then Typhus didn’t see how he could go home.

“Ideally,” First Aid said. “Though, something tells me you won’t be letting him go so easily.”

Letting who go? Typhus wondered. And then Pharma flinched. Of course, Typhus thought. Pharma, who had stolen organs for the DJD, would never be allowed in a hospital. If Typhus was to stay here, Pharma would have to go back to Garrus-10.

“Typhus,” Pharma said, sounding very tired and very small. “Be reasonable.”

“I’ll turn off my audials,” Typhus decided. It was the only way. “So we can go home.”

“For a month?” First Aid said, loudly. Typhus winced. “Sorry. Typhus, you can’t be deaf for a month. You’re at high risk of spark implosion. If you disturb your power output—”

“Yes, I can,” he murmured. It was better than having Pharma go back to prison. He would have to ask Minimus to increase Pharma’s range, so he could go get energon without Typhus. “It’s only a month.”

Both of them looked at him like he was insane, and maybe he was. Typhus couldn’t imagine his life without music; unable to wake up to the hum of the city, to work along the rhythm of the road, to ease into the quiet reveries of the Speakeasy. But it was harder to imagine his life without Pharma.

He took a breath in, a breath out. And disengaged his auditory systems.

First Aid was saying something, but he was too late. Typhus could no longer hear him. He was probably warning Typhus about his spark, seeing as how he just got a burst of pain in his chest. Pharma had turned to face him, but he didn’t say anything. He looked at Typhus like he was feeling… something. Definitely something.

First Aid produced a paragraph of beration in record time. Typhus was a little impressed; he was learning new words. At the very bottom, First Aid had put down his comms.

::Hello?::

::You slug-brained, moronic, dumb piece of analog,:: he began. ::Do you know how dangerous that was?::

::Um. No?::

First Aid visibly sighed. ::You could have died.::

::Okay.::

First Aid showed Pharma the comm message. Pharma visibly sighed.

::Well, whatever you do, don’t turn it back on again,:: First Aid commed. ::The reason it’s so dangerous is because sensory systems take up significant power. Any fluctuation in your power consumption—yes, even decreases—can cause another spark surge. So for the love of Primus, Typhus, don’t.::

Typhus was perfectly content to let them handle the rest. First Aid and Pharma were discussing fiercely about something, but they looked more conspiratory than argumentative. They spoke some, then turned on the datapad and spoke some more. 

::Typhus,:: First Aid commed. ::We just called Minimus. He waived the proximity restriction until your surgery, though Pharma still has to spend the night in the same place you do. He says that he is sorry to hear about your spark surge, and otherwise wishes you well.::

::Okay,:: Typhus replied. ::That sounds like Minimus.::

::I’ll comm you your prescription.:: First Aid sat. He looked like he needed it. ::Though you’ll do just fine following Pharma’s instructions. He’s provisionally in charge of your health until your surgery.:: He gave Typhus a nasty glare. ::You cannot be trusted.::

Half an hour of this-and-that later, Typhus was free to go. It was very late, closer to morning than night. They were getting home on First Aid’s private transport.

::Squawkbox already called in sick for you,:: someone commed, and after a few moments of pointed glaring Typhus realized that it was Pharma.

::Pharma! They let you have a comm?::

::It’s a corporate burner,:: Pharma told him. ::We thought it necessary.::

Typhus did a happy little wiggle, which Pharma gracefully ignored. ::He’s going to try and get them to prioritize, but a spark casing can’t be rushed. This one especially, considering your progenitor.::

He froze. Should he ask? ::My progenitor?::

::The Point One Percenter. Outlier sparks have different composition in their spark casing, and their frequencies are entire magnitudes removed from the usual variations. Suffice to say we don’t have enough data to make predictions. Thankfully, I had a sample.::

::Oh.:: That made sense, Typhus supposed. He was made from the sparks of two mechs, so naturally he needed both their spark casing frequencies. ::But… he’s dead.::

::Yes,:: Pharma commed, looking away. ::I have a piece of him. Had.::

They kept quiet after that. Typhus didn’t know why. He turned the words around and around in his head.

::Are you disappointed?:: he asked, once they were home.

Pharma, who had half-keeled over, shot up. ::What?::

::That I’m not a Point One Percenter.::

Pharma looked at him strangely, like he’d never thought about it before. ::Typhus, go to bed.::

::Okay.:: Typhus smiled. He felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. ::Good night.:: 

***

Squawkbox let them in an hour before opening, which Typhus thought was kind.

::Squirt.:: He set down the glasses he was cleaning to face Typhus. A bit excessive, if you asked him. ::You good?::

It took Typhus entirely too long to realize that Squawkbox had been worried. ::Oh! I’m fine, don’t worry! It’s not all bad; Minimus waived Pharma’s restrictions. He doesn’t have to stay within two miles of me anymore.::

Typhus liked Pharma’s company, but he liked Pharma’s freedom even more. Squawkbox was predictably dubious about his enthusiasm. ::Sure thing, squirt. Whatever you say.::

Squawkbox turned to Pharma, who was speaking to him. Seeing people talk and not being able to hear was really annoying, Typhus found. Squawkbox noticed his discontent. ::Just passin’ on some intel,:: he commed. ::Figured I should know what’s goin’ down afore shit hits the fan.::

They spoke for a long while. So long that the Squawkbox had to step away in the middle and open the Speakeasy, waving in his usual tide of patrons. Pharma waited with an air of unusual patience. Typhus wished he knew what they were talking about. It must be important.

With nothing left to do, Typhus turned his attention back to diagnostics. First Aid did say to keep an eye on it, even if Typhus felt that Pharma would notice anything awry before his own self repair did. Most of his fluids had been dumped and refilled, and all of the dust build up from working had been scrubbed off. Aside from the lack of external audio—and his traitor spark—Typhus was in perfect health.

He drooped a little into his energon. Squawkbox had once offered to set up an internal audio system for him, but he turned him down. It didn’t seem like something he needed. He wished he’d taken him up on it, now; at least he’d be able to go over his audio recorder while he was waiting.

Typhus froze. His audio recorder! It was—it was still on, miraculously, and working. The storage was a little over half its capacity, which meant that it had probably been on for the past three days. He dumped it to storage what, the night before seeing Velocity? Yeah. Yeah, that sounds about right.

::Squawkbox,:: he commed, startling him from his thoughts. Pharma must’ve dropped some bombshells, if he’s openly moping on the counter. ::Can you get my internal audio working?::

::Uh.:: He glanced over at Pharma, who was sipping on his fuel intently. ::Dunno, kid. Guess I have to ask.::

Pharma and Squawkbox spoke in their usual way, in which Pharma expressed displeasure and Squawkbox mostly took it and pivoted the conversation to where he wanted it to go. Sometimes they glanced at him consideringly.

::I suppose it’s unethical to let you wallow for a whole month,:: Pharma commed, glaring at them both. ::But you need to understand: any shift in his power needs, every dip and hiccup, will agitate his spark. And that’s if this supposed audio system is rated for him in the first place.::

::You don’t gotta worry about that, wings.:: Squawkbox gave them a lazy grin. ::Sounders mighta been the favorite, but I got to keep the toys.::

It was late enough by then that Squawkbox could call an early night. He locked the door, then carefully activated something remotely. Some sort of wave pulsed from the center of the Speakeasy out to its walls, fading as it reached its boundary. A privacy shield, Typhus recognized, one far larger and more complex than First Aid’s.

He led them into a backroom. It was partially underground, and thus much larger than Typhus expected. The entire room was lined with floor to ceiling with shelves, each bursting with crates and crates of equipment. It had occurred to Typhus, sometimes, that Squawkbox had a lot more going on than he let on.

Pharma looked suspicious, but Squawkbox quickly reassured him. He led them to a workbench where upon laid a heavy duty… something device, its panels set aside to reveal its delicate innards. It was, he thought, very generous of Squawkbox to have been working on it, even when Typhus had refused.

Pharma looked to have begrudgingly agreed. They quickly reassembled the device and put it into Pharma’s subspace. They were taking it home, he realized.

::Don’t worry,:: Pharma commed, waiting ahead of him in the orange of the street lamps. ::I’ll be doing the installation. You won’t have a hack like him rummaging through your head.::

Typhus thought he meant to do it in the morning, but Pharma immediately set up shop in the dining room.

::We should get you a desk,:: Typhus commed. All the furniture—save the bed in the guest room—was sized for Typhus. It was fine for eating, but clearly much more uncomfortable for the kind of work Pharma was planning to do.

::Hush. Move along.:: Pharma transformed his hands. Typhus tried not to feel some kind of way about it. ::Recharge to capacity, and clean out your defrag backlog. Doctor’s orders.::

::Oh, uh. Aren’t you going to sleep?::

::I,:: Pharma commed, turning back to the device Squawkbox gave him, ::have work to do.::

***

Pharma offered to install the internal audio system after breakfast.

::Uh,:: Typhus commed. ::Did you… sleep?::

Pharma waved his hand in the air. ::I napped. Well?::

They didn’t waste time. Whatever Pharma had done to the device, it was now only a third of its original size, and he was able to carry it gingerly onto a patch of desk that had been sanitized—Pharma had gotten hard cleanser somehow, somewhere—and wiped down. It smelled like a hospital. ::Go lay on your berth.::

Typhus did. It was a bit awkward for Pharma to maneuver, he realized, since there wasn’t much room near his head, but he made do. Within two minutes, his cranial panels had been cleanly and painlessly removed, the audio system ready to be attached to the processing augment module next to his brain module..

::This will hurt,:: Pharma commed, looking down at Typhus with a sort of professional determination that he found admirable. ::Not the device; Squawkbox has it tuned to your sentio metallico already. But your body will register my hands as a foreign substance, and it will try and purge the foreign nanites. Normally we shut this off, but it changes your power flow too much to risk.::

::Will it hurt you?::

Pharma ignored him. ::I need you to ping me your pain, one being barely there and ten being excruciating. If it hurts too much, then we’ll abort the procedure. I won’t have you flail about with your head open.::

Typhus held still. ::Okay.::

Whatever Pharma was doing, it must be very slow and considerate, because it didn’t hurt at all. ::Pain?::

::None. Uh, zero?::

Pharma didn’t actually look at him, since he was focussing on putting things into his head, but Typhus felt glared at all the same. ::Pain?::

::Zero.::

A few twinges later, ::Pain?::

::Zero.:: 

Pharma did glare at him then, and Typhus tried to give him the best likeness of a shrug without actually moving. Maybe something was wrong with his pain nodes?

::Pain?:: Pharma was pinching something; Typhus could feel it, dull and unusual, but it didn’t hurt. ::Zero.::

And then something did hurt. ::Ow! Seven!::

::Huh.:: 

::Is something wrong?::

::No. Refresh your HUD.::

Typhus did. ::Oh, it’s there!::

::Good. Let me fetch you something to test it out.::

After Typhus figured it out, he took out his entire audio storage. He usually cleaned them out every month, but had forgotten to in the wake of Pharma’s arrival. The peaceful hours he spent cataloguing music before recharge had disappeared as he filled them with thoughts about Pharma. His storage medium, thankfully, was very big; courtesy of Squawkbox’s leftovers from war.

He was instructed to rest while Pharma went for a flight. ::I’ll get energon on my way back,:: he commed, already transforming. ::Do stay put.::

Typhus went to work. Leaving his audio recorder on was a decision made in laziness. Whenever he heard something good, he’d be mostly occupied with, will, actually listening, and it wouldn’t be until it was too late that he’d remember to turn on the recorder. It used to be a pain, sifting for the miniscule good stuff from the sea of monotony, but now it was his life line. He didn’t know what he was about to do. But he knew he was going to do it.

Typhus isolated the audio from the three days he was unconscious. A lot of it was dead noise, or the ambience of a working hospital, but he was hoping to—there! A conversation! Typhus turned it up.

The sound of shuffling. Footsteps. A soft thump, like someone sat down.

“Pharma.” This was First Aid, though he sounded very different in the recording. Everyone did. There was only the quality of their voice and the cadence of their speech differentiating one speaker to another. No melodies of their personalities or its various fluctuating harmonics. It was all very dry.

“Well? How is he?” Pharma gritted.

“Still in the red. Ratchet just tapped out.” A pause. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

More shuffling noises. Typhus wished he could see them.

“Pharma,” First Aid said, forcefully. “It’s gone on long enough. Even someone as pathetic as you wouldn’t go this far.”

A clink. Another shuffle. “Good,” First Aid. “I have no idea how you snuck that through security. I think they'd appreciate a tip.” Another pause. “You do realize you might’ve just killed him?”

Pharma said nothing. 

“You could have given this to us months ago,” First drawled. Typhus imagined that something was in his hand, that he was looking at it while speaking to Pharma. 

“I was almost done,” Pharma croaked. It was so quiet the recorder barely picked it up.

First Aid snorted. “What, working on another plague?”

Typhus could hear Pharma crumple in the silence. It was the ghost of a sound, so light and ephemeral that it could have been imagined. But it wasn’t. He knew it was real.

“I don’t care what you do with me,” Pharma said, and he sounded so weary that Typhus thought they were back in Garrus-10, back on that slab where Pharma had his spark chamber open. “Save him.”

“I intend to.” First Aid reset his voice module. “Whyever did you keep it for so long, anyway? You couldn’t have anticipated this happening. Was Tarn that dear to you?”

“No.” Typhus wished he had been conscious. He wanted to have been there, to have held Pharma steady in his arms. “No. I didn’t—I thought he only needed mine.”

“Well, we only had yours. Historically speaking, made mechs were always Point One Percenters. Once you start treating his spark like an outlier, these readings start to make sense. You would know.” A pause. “It’s good, then, that he was digging around. If he hadn’t, we would have never brought you in, and the casing transplant would have had to go ahead with an inferior sample. There’s no need to open your spark chamber, now.”

“He was digging around?” A scuffling noise. “What do you mean—what did he—”

“Velocity told him about Delphi. And Luna I. So did Ratchet.” Shuffling noise. “Pharma?”

Pharma was breathing hard. First Aid sighed, then zapped him. 

“He’s stabilizing,” First Aid said, sounding almost bored. The recording ended there.

Typhus didn’t understand. What did they mean, an inferior sample? What had Pharma kept? How was Tarn a part of all this? Was Typhus supposed to have been an outlier? Was that the mistake? 

He played it over and over, straining for the barest hint of sound or implication. There were too many things he didn’t understand, too many things left unsaid. Did they take Pharma’s frequency? Was he going back to Garrus-10? It was upsetting to think about, so Typhus tried to calm down with music. It didn’t work as well as he hoped. He missed Pharma.

It was late when Pharma returned, though he did return with gifts. ::Here,:: he commed, shoving something dense with circuitry into his hands. It was a music player, one distinct from those already in his possession. Most of his hauls were leftovers from the war; stuff Squawkbox discarded or sold for change in scrapyards. Average music players were too delicate for his hands.

The music player Pharma bought him was that very picture, sleek and dense and engraved with colored crystals. ::Pharma! I can’t take this!::

Pharma glared at him. ::You don’t know how to use it, do you?::

Typhus let Pharma snatch it from his hand. He fiddled with it and set it on the window sill, next to the rest of Typhus’s clunky music equipment. It couldn’t have looked more out of place. 

::Check your HUD.::

::Huh?:: Typhus did. ::Oh! It’s wireless!::

It also had exceptional sound quality, which was a nice bonus. You could never tell, with these prettier audio players. ::Let me check on your internal audio.::

Typhus’s internal audio was fine, and apparently rated for satellite calls. ::It was the only one that was suitable for your frame type,:: Pharma said, like a liar. Typhus knew Squawkbox. This was something Squawkbox would do. 

That night they took their fuel in peace, with Pharma criticizing Typhus’s poor attempts to decorate and Typhus mostly nodding along. He liked that Pharma was thinking of this place as home. It sounded like he would want to stay.

***

While Pharma was out stretching his legs, Typhus stayed home and compiled all the audio he had. Conversations with First Aid and Minerva, with Minimus, with Velocity. With Ratchet.

::Squawkbox,:: Typhus commed, a little conscious of how often he was calling on him, these days. ::You free?::

Squawkbox was free, actually, like he had planned to be. ::Squirt. Is the audio system doing okay? Wings doesn’t have to come and get a replacement, does he?::

::Oh, no. It’s already installed.:: It was also getting a bit late. It had taken Typhus quite a while to put everything together. Where was Pharma? ::I have something you might want.::

::Yeah?::

::Please don’t, uh, misuse it. Here.::

Before Squawkbox could get through the enormity of Typhus’s clips, Pharma returned. ::I hope you haven’t been stomping around. The audio system will be misaligned if you jerk around too much before it integrates.::

To Typhus’s delight, Pharma had followed up on his complaints. He produced an upgrade module for the cleaning drone Typhus used, a few small speakers that attached to the corners of the living and dining rooms, and several tasteful and understated home decor.

He was now looking at the couch with open disdain. ::How attached are you to this… formation of ottomans?::

::I, uh, I just picked things that could handle my weight?::

And then Pharma was truly angry, though he tried not to show it. ::Fine. We will be replacing them.::

They had their fuel without incident. Typhus asked about Pharma’s day, an attempt which he curtly diverted. 

::Tell me a story,:: Typhus tried. He was getting sleepy. A day spent slogging through audio files wasn’t his idea of fun. Well, it usually was; but dialogue was fairly dry as noise went. No recorder was ever able to capture the resonance of presence.

::I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,:: Pharma said, cleaning out their cubes. ::I never did anything interesting in the war.::

::Then tell me something from before.::

He leveled Typhus with a long look. ::Fine. What else are we to do anyway?::

::I suppose I can tell you about the supervisor one. Hm. Well, doctors aren’t meant to be drafted into search and rescue duty—for the surveyors that go out of city limits to see if we can lay the foundations down for a new district, a new spire, some such. That sort of menial labor is for students and residents, though I’m sure Ratchet’s never gotten one.:: He sipped his energon. Pharma was a delicate eater, Typhus noticed, when he wasn’t starving. ::Well, I ticked off a specialist one day. He wasn’t on shift, you know. He’d reached that stage on specialist where you can forget about actually practising and just advise and fix the odd bolt every other year. I was quite stupid back then, so I didn’t know. Naive little Pharma wanted to learn more about spark transfers—that department was quite competitive back in the day, and needed three recommendations just to apply—from a mech who was employed on his name.::

Typhus didn’t like the way Pharma was talking about himself, but he didn’t say anything. ::So when I became confused about him contradicting himself—he said that natural spark resonance was possible and impossible in the same breath, can you believe it—he, well. He demonstratively chastised me in the cafeteria and told me that ‘jets were better suited to the outdoors.’ So I got assigned search and rescue for twenty years.::

::Oh.:: Typhus wished suddenly that this quack had survived the war, just so he could find him and snap his neck. ::Um.::

Pharma didn’t notice his disquiet. ::But that’s not the kicker. No, the kicker was the supervisor.:: He took a sip again. It reminded Typhus of that small, airborne animal on Earth, the kind that fluttered off if you got too close. ::He had it out for me. Extra chores, double shifts, not telling me anything and leaving me stranded out of the building that one time… But it was all well and good. He’ll get what’s coming for him.::

The story was very entertaining. It had involved Pharma defying a series of conflicting orders to save three surveyors across two years, one of which has been a Disposable left behind by his very concerned owner.

::Dominus Ambus,:: Pharma commed, having engrossed himself enough to be parading around the room. ::That was the mech our dear supervisor had slagged off. He got his data slug back, and then he was asking why it had taken us so long; why had we brushed him off, why did he not receive any updates, the sort. Well, I was the one speaking with him. A punitive task for disobeying, you see; no one wanted to tell conjunxes and amicae that their loved ones were gone. It had an incredible wait time, but Dominus was the same sort of bullheaded as his brother, so naturally he was there. And I told him everything.:: Pharma looked thoughtful. ::Very risky, admittedly, but by then I was convinced I was going to lose my license anyway. Continuous insubordination was not a good look for a jet.::

Dominus had been Pharma’s savior in this story. He sued the station with Pharma’s testimony, banned the supervisor from the city, and single-handedly opened the door to let Pharma study whichever speciality he chose.

::A happy ending,:: he declared. ::And bedtime, for us both.::

Typhus turned the story around and around in his head, unable to sink into recharge. He was so angry, and so sad. He wished he had been there, that he could have saved Pharma, that he could put himself between every cruelty that had been cast upon him. But he couldn’t. 

In the quiet hours of the morning, Squawkbox commed him. ::Squirt. We need to talk.::

***

Pharma left early the next morning to look for a new couch. Typhus took this as a chance to meet with Squawkbox. He felt like he was sneaking around, even though nothing he was doing was wrong. It felt like it, sometimes, when he didn’t tell Pharma what he was doing.

The Speakeasy was closed, this time. Squawkbox asked him to come in through the back.

::Oh, uh,:: Typhus commed, not at all prepared for how severe Squawkbox looked. ::Okay.::

Squawkbox asked for a port the moment they sat down. ::So we can talk,:: he clarified. ::Don’t get it twisted.::

Typhus recalled several stern and thorough warnings he received in the first century of his life on why letting people plug into you was a very very bad idea. He… trusted Squawkbox, he decided, even if this was a bit unexpected. If there was anything wrong with him after, Pharma could surely set it to rights.

“Woah.” It was weird, hearing himself talk after a few days of silence. He could feel Squawkbox at the other end of the line; it was like touching someone, except they were doing it with their delicate bits on the inside and not their tougher bits on the outside, which he supposed was exactly what they were doing. “This is weird.”

“Typhus,” Squawkbox said, gravelly. “Do you know what you sent me?”

Typhus fiddled with his hands. He wasn’t really sure what he’d been doing, sending those audio clips to Squawkbox. It had felt like the right thing to do. It still did, even if he didn’t know what he was hoping to accomplish. “Um. I’m guessing you didn’t like it?”

Squawkbox gave him a full body sigh. “What you sent me, Typhus, was evidence. Evidence that can destroy the lives of every brass in the medical field.” He poured himself a drink. High grade, the good stuff. Typhus stared. “Frag it all to Unicron. You don’t know what they did, do you?”

“They hurt Pharma,” Typhus said. It was the only thing he was sure of. They hurt Pharma and they got away with it. 

“Yeah,” Squawkbox said, sounding actually grieved. “They did, squirt. They hurt him real bad.”

And then Squawkbox went on. “You know about medic hands, don’t you?” Typhus shook his head. “I guess you wouldn’t. It’s a pretty Functionalist topic, and it’s one of the few that slipped the cracks and lives on today. Can’t criticize somethin’ that’s true.”

Typhus had been peripherally aware of Functionism; it was impossible not to be, when its surging and waning shaped the lives of those around him. “You know us Cons had jets. Lots o’them, with firepower to boot. They kept pumpin’ them outta Vos even after the factories began to sink the city. We needed them on the frontlines, to lay down their frames for the commanders on battleships and generals back home. The mortality rate,” he said, taking a hard swig from the bottle, “was one ‘n three, the first day.”

He looked into Squawkbox’s eyes. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe him, it was just… unbelievable. “Oh,” he said.

“Yeah. ‘N the only thing keepin’ your twig of a carrier from gettin’ pulverized by a Voxian null ray was his hands.” Squawbox pulled up a data chart. “See here? Medic hands were so loved they ranked them on percentiles. Cold constructs never rated above the 40th; propaganda, probably, seein’ as I know Flatline an’ his pair certainly ain’t forged, but those top rankers? The 98’s and 99’s? Forged. All of ‘em.”

This was a publicized roster, Typhus realized, with real names. It had the official Greater Iacon Medical Academy seal on it, complete with the date of publishing. Squawkbox clicked on the 99th percentile, revealing two names: Pharma of Iacon; Ratchet of Vaporex. 

“Oh,” Typhus said. 

“I went lookin’ through Gary-10’s logs last night,” Squawkbox said. “Now, y’can’t be tellin’ that to no one. An’ promise me you won’t do nothin’ rash after seein’ it.”

“I promise,” Typhus said.

Squawkbox sent a video file through the hardline. This must be why he asked for the port, Typhus thought, so it wouldn’t leave a trace.

The footage was grainy. Typhus faintly felt Squawkbox in the background, watching it with him. The titanium walls of Garrus-10 were as timeless and their rooms were similar. It was the scene of a standard prison visitation, two chairs separated by a glass partition in the middle.

The mech to be escorted in was an empurata. Typhus couldn’t tell what his altmode was, though he supposed it wasn’t important. The guard led him to the chair and left. A few moments later, Ratchet of Vaporex walked into the other door.

“Whirl,” Ratchet said. The audio was poor, but workable. “How are you holding up?”

Typhus vaguely remembered a flier by that name in the Memoir; he tried not to let it irk him. That Ratchet valued his friend of two years over his friend of millenia was not his concern.

They exchanged pleasantries. Whirl was, as Typhus gathered, not exactly suited for peace. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Ratchet said, once Whirl finished regaling him on the improved amenities in Garrus-10. “Listen. There’s something I’d like to give you.” 

He took a box out of his subspace and opened it. Typhus couldn’t see what it was from this angle.

“It’s my old pair,” Ratchet said. “It wore out after the war, but I fixed it up as best I could. It’s not as precise as it used to be, but it’s good for just about anything except surgery.”

His pair of what, Typhus almost asked, but then he understood: Ratchet was offering Whirl his old pair of hands. Hands that wore out after the war, he said. Hands that were clearly not attached to him any longer, seeing as how they were laying neatly inside a box. But if that’s the case, then whose hands were on his wrists?

It hit Typhus, then, what Ratchet had done. He didn’t know what he was thinking before; that they had done it for fun? For cruelty’s own sake? It had made sense at the time; everyone had been trying to hurt Pharma. But to have taken his hands from him, to have cut them off and stolen them, as Velocity said, to keep them on his wrist and use them as if they had never belonged to someone else—was evil. To have taken Pharma’s medic hands, the same hands he used to save lives, to work, to dodge the draft with a mortality rate of one-in-three on the first day. His hands.

In the background, Whirl was politely declining the offer; Typhus was bewildered. Did it not seem suspicious to him that Ratchet had a spare pair of medic hands? Did he know? Did he not care?

The recording ended there. Squawkbox was looking at him, concerned. 

“You promised,” he said.

“Yeah,” Typhus said. “I did.”

There was something forming in his head. He wanted to get Pharma his hands back. He wanted him to be able to buy medic paint. He wanted Pharma to throw out his gently-used ottomans, to regale him with a thousand stories from before the war. He wanted Pharma to be happy. He wanted Pharma to be free.

“Squawkbox,” Typhus said. “I think we should do something inadvisable.”

“Yeah,” Squawkbox replied. “I think we should.”

Chapter Text

Between Typhus’s curfew, Pharma’s watchful eyes, Squawkbox’s night job, and the impending surgery, there wasn’t a lot of time to make their case. Thankfully, Squawkbox had found them a good lawyer.

“Xaaron,” he said, extending a hand in greetings. Typhus recognized him. He was a regular. “Legal consultant to late Primes, war councils, and the Lost Light Internal Legal Affairs Committee, which I’m told is relevant to the case.”

Xaaron was helpful in more ways than one. While he was incredibly savvy in the known-hows of legal jargon, his most useful asset was his proficiency in dissecting the complexities in spheres of influence. He’d had his license stripped and reinstated in triple digits and was still here to laugh about it.

“The Orator will appreciate the paperwork,” Xaaron said, after they’d finally hashed everything out. “But I will be frank with you. This will not be a contest of law. Technically speaking, Pharma was incarcerated under a temporary council that has since dissolved, and there is precedent for waiving life sentences under these circumstances. Don’t worry about First Aid’s complaint to the Orator; whatever accord they struck is entirely personal. If this was purely a question of freedom, we would have already won.

“But,” Xaaron continued, “you want Pharma’s hands back. You want him to be restored to full honors among the Autobots. That is entirely uninvolved with law; it is a contest of allegiances. Allegiances, I remind you, that you don’t have.”

Typhus and Squawkbox exchanged a look. Xaaron was right. An outcast ex-Con and a post war labourer weren’t liable to have allies. “Which is why,” Xaaron said emphatically, “we must appeal to theatrics.”

Xaaron gave a few stirring examples from the Lost Light— time consuming, but very worth getting his message across. If Rodimus could get six people killed on launch, if he could duplicate the ship itself with all the members on board, if he could deceive his entire crew about a monster in their basement, then he and Squawkbox could win this. “The strategy is simple,” Xaaron said. “You must declare the whole of the Autobots as your enemy, and put everyone else on the other side.”

Typhus was confused, but Squawkbox got it immediately. “O’ course,” he muttered. “Bulls against bulls.”

It was all the time they had that day. Pharma had come to pick him up.

::Pharma,:: Typhus asked, once they had started on dinner. ::Would you want to be a doctor again?::

Pharma didn’t appear to have received the message, except he must have. He kept sipping on his fuel as if he hadn’t, two astrolitres at a time. ::Pharma?::

::I will never be a doctor again,:: he commed. He was looking down at his cube. 

::Oh.:: Typhus knew he shouldn’t push. That this was private, for Pharma, that it was rude to have brought it up at all. But he needed to know. ::I mean, just hypothetically, if you could—::

::Typhus.:: Pharma met his eyes. ::Please.::

Typhus stopped pressing. It would have been cruel.

That night, Typhus worried. There was still evidence against Pharma: the plague he released on Delphi, the patients he killed. Ambulon. But what worried him most was Pharma himself. Would he agree to go on trial, to offer testimony in his own defense? Typhus felt strangely certain that he wouldn’t. And they could not do this without Pharma.

The next morning, as Pharma was instructing him on the installation of a new couch, Typhus wondered. Could he convince Pharma? He didn’t think Pharma was fond of going back to prison, but he also didn’t think Pharma would fight. He never spoke back to First Aid. And he had avoided Ratchet entirely.

::Typhus,:: Pharma commed. They were almost done assembling the whole piece. ::Set that down. Lower your spark output as gently as you can, starting with your vent capacity.::

Typhus tried to obey, but he wasn’t fast enough; the surge hit just as he laid down the strut in his hand, painful and searing and loud. Pharma was doing something in the background, though he couldn’t tell what. He could only hold on.

::—with me? Typhus?::

He might have groaned. He didn’t know; all the sound in the word had been replaced with pain.

::Typhus, I need you to respond. Flash your optics if you can hear me.::

Typhus flashed his optics. It sent a trickle of current across his face, just on this side of tingling. 

::Ow,:: he commed, once he was able.

Pharma said nothing at all. He was looking down at Typhus with a sad sort of strain.

::It’s okay,:: Pharma said, cradling Typhus’s head in his lap. ::It won’t be long, now::

***

Predictably, Pharma was on house arrest during Typhus’s procedure.

::Procedures, actually,:: Minerva helpfully added. ::You need three major surgeries to complete the spark transfer, plus two small ones in between to handle the, well, everything else. It’s going to be across two days, plus three for observation. Another two for recovery. After that, you should be free to go.::

They stocked up on energon, so Squawkbox wouldn’t have to take time away from the very important lawsuit that Pharma may or may not go along with. Typhus didn’t want to leave Pharma alone, but the case was more important. It was only a few days.

::It really is a simple procedure,:: Pharma commed, though he looked more worried than Typhus. ::First Aid’s hands are good enough. You’ll live.::

The next little bit was probably supposed to feel important. The surgeries, the anesthesia chip, the quaint hours in between where he was barely conscious. But it wasn’t. It was painful and uncomfortable, but otherwise entirely unremarkable and boring. It was time away from Pharma that he could have spent with Pharma. An annoying but necessary detour.

When he had come to, Velocity was there, along with his hearing.

“Morning!” Oh, but her voice was loud. Ow, ow, ow. He grimaced. “How are you feeling?”

“I thought this is what nurses are for,” Typhus muttered. Was that his voice? Why did he sound so different? “Did they change my voice module?”

Velocity reassured him three times that they hadn’t, in fact, swapped anything but his spark casing. “And you get to keep it! See, it’s right here.”

It was small and round, somehow dense with echoes. Like a smelter that had recently been burning, a generator that had only just shut off. He cradled it in his hands. It was a lot tougher than it looked. For some reason, Typhus had the impression that spark casings were soft, somehow. He had a violent need to show it to Pharma.

“I feel fine, I guess,” Typhus replied, when she asked again. Now that he was fully awake, the sounds were multiplying. What had sounded like soft acoustics in Velocity’s office had evolved into some sort of rolling sound, wavelike. Did Velocity change? Or did his audials? “Can I get a cube of energon?”

Velocity excused herself and let the nurses do their work—something about doctors and special cases and being sworn to secrecy. Typhus bore their rote examinations with as much grace as he could gather; he knew he was something of a curiosity. When they left he called Squawkbox.

“Squirt!” The sound of the Speakeasy was in the background. That sounded different, too, somehow. “How you holdin’ up?”

“I’m fine. Things sound a little weird. How’s Pharma?”

As if waiting for this question, Squawkbox told him all about Pharma in the few days that he’s missed. “Kept me up all night when they were actually movin’ yer spark,” he gruffed, audibly pouring someone a drink. “Walked me through all the gritties. Even took a sip of engex, if you can believe it.”

Typhus can believe it, and he was unbelievably flattered. It was always nice to have proof that he mattered to Pharma. That they mattered to each other. “Is he there? At the Speakeasy?”

“Wings hadn’t slept ‘till doc gave us the all clear,” Squawkbox said. “Bet he’s in recharge about now.”

They had some small talk before hanging up to let Typhus rest, even though he felt fairly energized. He hadn’t noticed how lethargic being deaf made him until, well, now. He wasn’t bored, either; there were so many new things to hear. What used to be faint, unison buzzes were now clear, ringing tones. It was as if he had been submerged all this time and only just surfaced. 

First Aid found time to see him. “Typhus,” he said. “Velocity told me you’re doing well.”

There was a mild ache in his chest, though First Aid promised that that was just the new spark casing settling in. “Your spark is still blue,” he said, almost in apology, “but we’ve compared your pulse to readings of Point One Percenter sparks, and it’s nearly an identical match. Every marker is there, save for the color. You might even develop outlier abilities. We’d like to keep observing it, just in case. It’s not every day we see a mech with specs like yours.”

Typhus didn’t feel much different. His hearing got better and his spark was hurting less, but he was otherwise unchanged. If First Aid wanted to attach a monitor to his spark, then that was his business. He only wished time would flow faster; that Pharma could be here.

On the last day of recovery, Typhus woke up in a panic. Something was wrong. 

“First Aid!” he cried. He wasn’t supposed to yell in a hospital, probably. “FIRST AID!!”

A nurse was quick to arrive. He was saying something Typhus couldn’t hear over this thunderous… something. It was closer to silence than it was to sound, closer to a force than an urge. He needed to get to Pharma. And in order to get to Pharma, he needed First Aid.

Eventually the nurse was scared enough to actually call First Aid, who looked to have been about to head home. “Typhus? What—“

“Unhook me. Now.”

First Aid looked at him, dumbfounded. “You’re in recovery,” he said, as if Typhus’s audials weren’t pulling him painfully outwards. “Typhus, you need to calm down.”

“No.” He was pawing at the device, trying to see if there was an easy shutdown lever. “I’m going. Something’s wrong. With Pharma.”

It felt more and more true as he said it. Pharma. He needed to get to Pharma. He needed, he needed—!

“Okay,” First Aid said, taking the cables from his hands. “Okay. Calm down. I can unplug you, but you have to stay put. We can get someone else to check on Pharma.”

Typhus stayed still so First Aid could detach the cables. Then he stood up and marched out.

“Typhus!” First Aid was too surprised to stop him. “Where are you— get back here! ”

Typhus ignored him. He needed to see Pharma. Something was wrong. Wrong!

First Aid put his foot down just as Typhus barrelled out of the hospital. He had jumped from the fifth floor. “Stop!”

Typhus pushed him aside. He needed a transport, one large enough to take him. Quickly. Quickly.

“Okay,” First Aid said. Typhus wished he would shut up. “Typhus. I’ll come with you, all right?”

“Transport,” Typhus said, glaring as hard as he could at First Aid. He didn’t know how to make him understand. “ Now. ”

With First Aid’s transport, they were able to get to Typhus’s hab in record time. It was just fast enough. 

“Typhus!” He was holding First Aid and diving into the door. Pharma was right there! “Put me down! What—“

Typhus came to a stop in front of the guest room’s door. He was certain Pharma was inside. “Pharma!” he cried. “Pharma, are you okay?”

No answer. Typhus tried the door. It was unlocked.

Inside, Pharma was resting. He had sorted his usually haphazard stack of datapads into a neat pile, with one open and set aside from the others. On the bed, Pharma looked peaceful, and for a moment Typhus thought he was wrong, that he had dragged First Aid across the city for nothing.

First Aid leapt out of his arms. “Oh no you don’t,” he said, grasping at Pharma. And then he took out jumper cables from his subspace, attaching himself to Pharma. “You don’t get to die on me!”

Maybe Typhus should be horrified. Maybe he should be sad. But as he stood there watching First Aid desperately trying to save Pharma, Typhus realized that he was calm. He had expected this, he thought; had heard it through the thick of the silence. It was the tail end of an exquisite and inevitable melody. 

“Slag!” First Aid was the one yelling, now. “He’s not—frag it all to pit, work with me —”

He walked to the datapad that was still on.

Typhus, it read. If you’re reading this, I’m dead. 

I’m sure this is a highly disappointing outcome, given how much you put into getting me out of there. Well, I’m here to disappoint you more: you shouldn’t have bothered. It would have been easier on both of us.

This isn’t your fault. It was always going to end like this. I’m not a good person, Typhus. Maybe I had been, at some point. Or maybe not. You shouldn’t hold out hope. I don’t know what you found out that day or why you had been so upset when you came back, but it was probably true. Don’t let that soft spark of yours convince you otherwise. 

There’s no point in trying to remember me. First Aid hadn’t. Ratchet hadn’t. There is no overlap between the people who cared about me and the people who are happy. You’re a good person, Typhus. You deserve to be happy. I couldn’t give you anything; your protoform had to be donated from a factory castoff, and your startup databank scraped from open source libraries. I couldn’t even give you paint. It was—it was all I could think about, that year. How I would source your protoform from the warmest, most adaptable deposit in Iacon, that your sentio metallico would come with antivirus preinstalled. I would have made sure the base coat was properly applied, that you wouldn’t be itching and flaking until we got primer. I wanted to hold you.

It’s too late now, isn’t it? Don’t be too sad. I’m not worth it. It wasn’t my spark casing they needed, you see; it was Tarn’s. I just happened to have a piece of him. They knew you’d be an outlier. They knew you were special.

I wish I could have given you more. I can only make sure you’re free of me.

P.S: The money is yours. I spoke with Minimus, he’s confident that you’ll be able to access it once I’m dead. Do whatever you like with it. Throw parties. Buy houses. Retire. Do consider commissioning some custom furniture; your lower back struts could use more support.

P.P.S: Do what you like with my body, but, ah, if First Aid wants it to, let’s say, saw it in half, let him have it. He’s earned his revenge.

P.P.P.S: Make sure to hand the spark burnout cure to Ratchet. He can take credit so long as he swears to not patent it. 

He looked up from the datapad, feeling removed from all this, somehow. His head was getting loud, getting louder, getting so full he thought it might burst. He couldn’t breathe.

“Typhus,” First Aid grunted, panting heavily from repeated spark resuscitations. “Is there—energon?”

“Yes,” Typhus said. If Pharma had done this last night, then there should still be one more cube, for today. 

“I need it,” First Aid said. “His spark is stable, but I don’t have enough fuel to keep his brain module from deteriorating. Go.”

Typhus rushed downstairs. There were more cubes than he thought; Pharma only drank two out of the seven. He hated that he had been away from Pharma, that he hadn’t been there to eat with him. He hated that it was useful now.

First Aid didn’t bother with his mask once Typhus brought them all upstairs; just stuck a siphoning nozzle in the cube and pushed the other end into Pharma. He burned through all five within a minute.

“It’s not enough,” First Aid muttered, so angry and quiet it could only be to himself. “It’s not—do you have refined energon?”

“Yes,” Typhus said, reaching for Pharma’s nightstand. There, in its single drawer, was the cube of double refined, sealed and untouched. “Here.”

There was nothing left to do but watch as First Aid transfused the last of the fuel, face drawn in concentration. Typhus strained to hear Pharma past his own despair. He was so quiet. So quiet.

Finally, finally, First Aid straightened. “He’s going to make it,” he breathed, sounding like he barely believed it, himself. “He’s… oh, thank Primus… ”

And then First Aid was crying. Typhus wasn’t sure if he should do something about it. He didn’t want Pharma to wake up to this mess. Gingerly and without touching any of First Aid’s integrated tools, Typhus lifted him from Pharma’s side.

“He was going to die,” First Aid gasped. He looked as if his entire world had collapsed into itself. “He was—he wasn’t even going to—”

“Here,” Typhus said, handing Pharma’s suicide note to First Aid. It would make him feel worse, probably. He wanted it, he realized; he wanted First Aid to feel bad. He wanted them all to feel bad.

What had been a steady trickle widened to a spout of tears as First Aid made his way through the note. “He was working on a cure? ” He sniffled, then made gagging sounds. “We didn’t—I didn’t—”

“If he died,” Typhus said, feeling very evil, “he would’ve died knowing you thought he was pathetic.” 

First Aid bent double on the floor and wept into his hands. Typhus, only half a room away from an unconscious Pharma, was entirely unsympathetic. He deserved this. They all did.

Slowly, as if tinting the edge of a dark horizon, Pharma stirred. Typhus could hear his unwillingness, his stubborn need to escape. He was too weak to combat whatever First Aid had pumped into his system, however. A few minutes later, Pharma was wide awake.

“First Aid,” he rasped. “Ha. I should have known.”

“N-no,” First Aid said, uncurling from his stupor on the ground. “D-don’t move! Don’t strain yourself! I barely got you stable.”

“You couldn’t have just left well alone,” Pharma said. His eyes flickered to Typhus. “And why is he here? Are you so incompetent you couldn’t keep a patient in the hospital?”

“He—he saved your life,” First Aid said. “I don’t know how, but he knew. He knew what you were doing. What you almost did.”

Typhus stomped over to Pharma. They didn’t meet each others’ eyes. Typhus leaned down on instinct. He wanted to hold Pharma, he thought; he wanted to hold him and never let go.

“Rest,” he said instead, pushing gently on Pharma’s forehead with his own. “It’ll all be over soon.”

Pharma opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t. When Typhus lifted his head to look at him, he was already asleep.

***

Generally speaking, Typhus thought attempting suicide was a private matter. When First Aid called Ratchet to tell him why he needed the day off, however, Typhus didn’t stop him.

“Yeah,” First Aid said, wetly. His voice was wavering, like he was trying not to cry. “Yeah. I know. Oh, I know.”

Typhus called Squawkbox. “Hey, Squirt,” he said, sounding as if he just woke up. “You ready to get home?”

“Squawkbox,” Typhus said, as gently and succinctly as he could. “I’m at home. Pharma tried to kill himself.”

There was a strangling sound on the other end, like Squawkbox was trying to keep his two components from separating in a fit of panic. “Huh?”

“Don’t worry, he’s fine now.” Typhus closed his eyes and listened. The pulse of Pharma’s spark was still there, tranquil and weary. “First Aid managed to save him in time. He’s resting right now.”

“Typhus,” Squawkbox said, standing up. “Are you okay? Can I… hang on. I’ll be over.”

He hung up. Typhus let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Trust Squawkbox to know what to do.

“I called Minimus,” First Aid confessed, when he was finally off his receiver. “He said he’ll come as soon as possible. I… I’ll stay, I think. In case, well. In case.”

They awkwardly sat on the half-assembled couch in the living room. Pharma hadn’t let him touch it after the spark surge. He didn’t feel like finishing now; what was the point, when Pharma wasn’t here?

“I’m sorry,” First Aid choked out, once he was done staring into space. “I didn’t… he was always a good doctor,” he settled on. “He was always a damn good doctor.”

Squawkbox arrived with a few cubes of energon. “Had to settle my shipments,” he said, apologetically. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Typhus replied, watching as Squawkbox put them on the dining table.

There wasn’t room on the couch for another mech, so Squawkbox split into Squawktalk and Beastbox and climbed into Typhus’s lap. It was rare, having the two of them like this.

“We’re here, squirt,” Squawktalk said, a pitch higher than Squawkbox would have. “We’ll always be here.” Beastbox grunted in assent. Typhus let them press against him and sunk into the staccato of their strange and ironclad bond.

Some time later, Minimus arrived. “Excuse me,” he said, politely cleaning his feet before stepping in. “I hear that he is stable?” First Aid nodded. Typhus was busy feeling the hum of the cassettes against his plating. “I fear it might be insensitive, but I hope we can discuss our plan going forward,” Minimus said.

Squawktalk opened his beak to object, but Typhus got there first. “No, it’s fine,” he said, gently squeezing the two cassettes in his lap. “Pharma needs help. I want to help him.”

Minimus opened with a lengthy and detached spiel about mental health and the related effects of prolonged imprisonment. Typhus got the feeling that he gave these a lot; maybe he should be indignant, but he wasn’t. It was nice having someone’s obstinate normalcy to lean on.

“He’s stirring,” Typhus said, when Minimus had finished his list of state-approved psychiatrists. Minimus looked to First Aid, who did not object. “I’ll go get him.”

Pharma was much more coherent this time around. “Typhus,” he said, glancing over at his datapads. “You didn’t—ah, you did.”

Typhus glowered at him. He was angry, he realized. “I showed it to First Aid.”

Pharma flinched. “That wasn’t—oh, what does it even matter. Fine! Go air my exhaust! I couldn’t even kill myself right. How much lower could I possibly sink?”

Typhus wanted to shake him. He took a cube out of his subspace instead. “Open your mouth.”

Pharma obeyed. It would have been nice, under different stars; Typhus gently tilting his head back, slowly pouring the energon into his mouth. Some parts of him were glad that he was eating, even under duress. Some parts of him were smouldering in rage.

“All right,” Typhus said, once the cube was gone. “Everyone’s waiting. Ready?”

Pharma looked like he wanted to go back to sleep. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Typhus needed no further instruction. He held Pharma as comfortably as he could and carried him down.

Squawkbox had assembled himself, and the group had more or less gathered into a loose circle. Someone had snatched two chairs from the dining room for them. Typhus set one aside and sat in his chair. He did not let Pharma off his lap.

Minimus reset his voice module. “First Aid, if you could begin?”

“R-right. Um.” First Aid didn’t seem to know where to look. “Pharma’s… chosen method was a slow acting cooling reaction that would have, ah, gradually stalled his spark if we hadn’t intervened. It’s… ” He took a breath, apparently finding it difficult to continue. “Well, it’s…”

“It’s meant to be painless and unassuming,” Pharma finished for him, “and only possible if the coolant and fuel lines have been misadjusted and formed thrombosis in one of the five major artery lines that directly supply the spark.” Typhus shifted so Pharma’s wing didn’t press against his hard chest plate. It looked uncomfortable. “And now that Primus, Unicron, and all the primes that be have decided that I can’t die in peace, you’re all going to make me do a physical before tossing me back in Garrus-10.”

“You’re not going back there,” Typhus said. Calmly, like it was true. Because it was.

“We.” First Aid took a shaky breath. He was trembling. “We, we’re going to look you over and make sure you’re okay,” he said, as if marching up a steep and treacherous hill. “And then we’re going to get you help. Outside of Garrus-10.”

Pharma raised a pointed eyebrow, but did not comment. “He’s right,” Minimus said. “We have no plans to send you back to prison. The only issue, of course, is the fact that you made an attempt on your own life under Typhus’s protection. Under normal circumstances, this would make his guardianship suspect.”

Squawkbox glared at him, but Minimus put a palm up before he could speak. “Under normal circumstances, I said. As it stands, I believe it would be beneficial for Pharma to continue his parole under Typhus’s guardianship. So long as he attends mandatory counselling sessions with state-approved psychiatrists, of course.”

Pharma, for the most part, did not argue. Typhus felt that this was because he was staring down at him unblinkingly the whole time, but maybe he was repentant. Maybe he understood what he did wrong.

First Aid and Minimus left first, the latter promising to send the contacts of his recommendations and the former agreeing to a house call. Squawkbox lingered in the hallway, hesitant.

“It’s okay, Squawk,” Typhus said, still looking at Pharma. “I think I can handle this one.”

“Oooookay,” Squawkbox said, looking between him and Pharma. “Uh, call me if things happen, yeah?”

Typhus locked the door after him. Then he turned back to Pharma. 

“Typhus,” he said, softly. “I—I’m—“

He picked Pharma up and brought them to the washracks. They both needed a rinse. “Are you listening?” He was being uncooperative. “I’m trying to that that I’m—“

“Shut up,” Typhus said, tugging Pharma around so he could get at his back. First Aid had prioritized efficiency over cleanliness, and a few places where he’d spilled energon on Pharma were starting to congeal.

Pharma didn’t say anything as they washed. Typhus enjoyed the silence. There was nothing to listen to but the fizz of water and the hum of their sparks. It was meditative, almost; he found he rather needed it.

They went to bed after drying off. Pharma was unsurprised to be made to sleep with Typhus.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as they were both falling asleep. Typhus heard, and did not answer.

Chapter Text

After First Aid’s strangely attentive check up with Pharma, Typhus brought him to the Speakeasy. It was a quiet night; the regulars were huddled in their private corners, leaving the counter mostly free. Squawkbox and Xaaron were waiting for them.

“Broken the news yet, squirt?” Squawkbox was cleaning glasses again. Typhus was beginning to suspect that these glasses weren’t dirty at all, that he was just going through the motions to keep his hands busy. 

“No,” Typhus said. “I was planning to do that tonight.”

Pharma tensed. “What do you mean, news?” He glanced around. “What are you—“

“Pharma,” Typhus said, as firmly as he could. “There’s something we’ve been working on. I’d like to have your input.”

Squawkbox and Xaaron did the actual explaining, which left Typhus to gauge Pharma’s reaction. It was poor.

“No,” Pharma said. “You can’t.” He huffed, as if finding this whole thing ridiculous. “It won’t work. What do you think they’re going to do, cut them off his wrists and give it back to me? This is pointless.”

“No,” Typhus said. “It’s not.”

“It won’t endanger your parole,” Xaaron explained. “If anything, putting it under the public eye can very well pave the way for others in similar predicaments. Legal fees and your time aside, there’s nothing to lose.”

Pharma swallowed, tense. He looked like he had everything to lose. “And if we do push it forward and present my nonexistent case to the board, what do you think will happen? That they’ll reinstate my license? That I’ll be ‘restored to honor among the Autobots?’” He tried to snort, but it came out more of a wince. “There’s no use picking at old wounds.”

“Yes,” Typhus found himself saying, suddenly livid, “there is.”

They all looked at him. “We have to try,” he insisted. It was the principle of the thing. “You heard him. It doesn’t hurt your parole, and we have time. Primus knows we’re not short on money. Pharma, are you really willing to let them get away with it?”

Pharma crumpled. “They already have,” he said, in a small voice. 

“What if you did it for me?”

They stared at him. Typhus hadn’t meant to say it, and he certainly hadn’t meant to say it like this, but it was exactly what he wanted to say. “Pharma,” he said, softly, “would you do it for me?”

Pharma said nothing.

“Please?”

For a moment Typhus thought he’d lost, that he'd pushed too far and was about to get snapped at; then Pharma deflated. “Do what you want,” he gasped, and said no more.

The days after were strangely busy. Thanks to First Aid’s generous resting order, Typhus was freed from work until further notice. Armed thus with time, he spent his waking hours pouring over records: Autobot records, Decepticon records, records publicized in response to a crisis, or conspicuously quietly into obscure databases. Along with the doggedness of Xaaron and Squawktalk, they were able to make a few significant discoveries.

“I think,” Xaaron said, four datapads deep into this particular archive, “we should request for a Testifier.”

“A what?” Squawkbox was strangely supportive about all this. Typhus was grateful, but he hadn’t thought they were so close that he’d keep hosting them in the Speakeasy. Veterans, Typhus found, were the kind to give you their lives before they gave you their time.

“A Testifier. It’s, ah, the remnant of a project I can’t talk about.” Xaaron shuffled in his seat. “In the years after the war, it was sometimes used to gauge a mech’s honesty. It’s not, as humans might call it, a ‘lie detector,’ but rather a determinant of truthful intent. In order to be deemed truthful, you have to say something you mean to be true, but it might not even remotely resemble what actually happened.”

“Thought you said we’d best be out quick-like,” Squawkbox said.

“Yes,” Xaaron replied. “And I still stand by that. I am proposing the use of the Testifier for two reasons. One, when a Testifier is approved, everyone has to use them. The defendant, the accused, and the Judge. Since our goal is to sway public opinion, it would be beneficial if we can catch them in a moment of doubt. Second, it would make Pharma appear more sympathetic, so long as he does, as you said, feel guilt for his wrongdoings.”

Typhus felt unsure. “I don’t know if he’ll want to talk about it,” he said. “I mean, we barely got him to agree with this in the first place.”

Squawkbox shot him a funny look. “Squirt,” he said, as if he was once again reevaluating Typhus’s awareness variables, “I think you can get him to do just about anything.”

Typhus felt that Squawkbox was wrong. Being quiet didn’t mean he was at all cooperative. Even now, Pharma refused to touch high grade. Certainly Squawkbox knew this? It wasn’t until Pharma had fallen asleep beside him that Typhus realized what he meant, what he believed: that Typhus could ask Pharma for anything, and Pharma would give it to him.

***

The day of the trial arrived quietly. They had a forgiving itinerary; Xaaron had gone ahead and arranged everything, then told them to take it easy between the two dates he’d chosen. “The second one’s liable to change,” he said distractedly, “but there are favors I’m willing to burn for this, so don’t worry about it dragging.”

Typhus and Pharma walked into the courtroom without fanfare. It was all very mundane and clinical, people walking about as if this was just another part of their day, just another bar in their score. He was nervous, he thought, rubbing his chest a little. It ached less when he put pressure on it. First Aid hadn’t been able to find out why, but since he was otherwise healthy, Typhus was discharged without complication. Maybe that was why he was so uptight.

It was very intimidating. The judge, dressed in Camien ceremonial gear, introduced herself as Windblade. “I understand that this is an unusual case,” she said, in a calm sort of voice. Her melodies were soft, with an undertone of something large and foreign. “Most of the cases related to the war had been dealt with in the first few centuries of the current justice system. As such, we have made accommodations in accordance to the will of your representative, Xaaron,” she gestured to him, “and other involved parties.”

Typhus looked around. He was somewhat familiar with the role of human juries, though he suspected that these weren’t quite the same. Xaaron had insisted on spectacle and, Typhus thought, they would likely get one. Among the stands was Velocity and Nautica, along with a few others he recognized from interviews with the crew of the Lost Light. It wasn’t so much a jury as an audience, Typhus observed, shooting a sideways glance at Xaaron. He hoped their lawyer knew what he was doing.

Xaaron opened with a long and roundabout tirade about war and fairness and circumstance; he was very good at talking. Even having been there to help him construct the case, Typhus found himself pulled into the story of Xaaron’s argument. The war was terrible, the aftermath was terrible, decisions they made in response to the terribleness were terrible. What had been a questionable case about wrongful imprisonment was quickly magnified beneath the lens of fairness; if Megatron had been granted fair trial, if his mercies had been weighed on the scale opposite to his atrocities, then was Pharma not entitled to the same grace?

“I will remind you,” Xaaron said, now reading from his notes, “that of the four million years we have put our bodies into violence, he had spent each one patching up patients, restoring their vitals and ensuring they’re in working order. He has personally saved billions of lives. That number is recorded in painstaking detail in the published medical records, available for all to see in the archives.” He paused. “I’ve been practising law since the Golden Age. In those days, evidence had to be pried off of data dumps and forgotten surveillance drones. It took me two weeks just to assemble a sentence in defense of a small maintenance bot. Do you know how long it took for me to find out that Pharma had saved each of the high command at least once?”

Everyone was listening, now. “Ten minutes,” Xaaron said. “He saved Ironhide in the Siege of Ballisto; Prowl, on the ambush of 59K-delta; Wheeljack, from an unnamed experiment; Jazz, from a bacterial infection; Ratchet,” he said, looking meaningfully at the witness stands, “from falling into the corrosive seas on Sigrath; Optimus Prime, from a fatal spark-pulverizing virus.” He paused again. The silences were getting more and more tense, ready to be strung and made into music. 

The opposing side spoke for a while, after that. Typhus wasn’t really listening. He was more concerned with Pharma, who sometimes flinched at their words. He looked tired. Typhus held him as subtly as he could. 

He hadn’t realized First Aid was speaking until he said Pharma’s name. “He was torturing us,” he said, “me and Ratchet and Ambulon. He… disassembled Ratchet’s frame from his Rossum’s Trinity. He, uh, he’ll have to be telling that part, I think. And... and then, Pharma cut Ambulon in half.”

It was clever of Xaaron, though Typhus, to have kept the tension unspent. First Aid had played his hand first. There was a human idiom somewhere about having the last word; he’d never felt it more poignantly than now, trading verbal blows in the lap of the law.

“I want to hear from him,” First Aid said, straightening. “I, I want to know. It was just us, on Delphi, two doctors and a nurse. He was an aft, but I always thought he meant well. I always thought he got along fine with Ambulon, even if they were frosty with each other. We were in it together, I thought.” He shook his head, as if shedding unpleasant thoughts. “He… he didn’t feel guilty when he killed Ambulon.” A grimace. “That was four thousand years ago. I need to know: are you sorry now?”

As far as speeches went, it was inexcusably clumsy, but it had the desired effect; everyone, as if puppeteered, turned to Pharma. Their attention was weighing on him like a rain of knives, like a thousand steely condemnations.

“Pharma,” Typhus said, very gently. Pharma was shivering in his arms, unseeing. But they needed him. Typhus needed him. “Pharma,” he said, rocking him slowly. “Come back.”

And then he could hear it: the uneven spiral of Pharma’s thought processes, the cascading memory files, the unending and terrible tune of his misery, all spilling out from an overfull glass. Typhus had heard of bones healing wrong, among humans; of wounds welded with so little accuracy that the body couldn’t remember its original shape. Pharma sounded like that, Typhus thought, as he walked woodenly towards the mic. He sounded like he came back wrong.

“An astute observation, First Aid,” he drawled. Typhus tried not to shiver from his awful voice. Something was dripping from it, something gone foul with pain. “Allow me to cut away your little delusions of redemption. Do you imagine that I am somehow a better person? That rehabilitation has improved my mien, that morals have sprouted from the depths of my node tree, that I have found within my mind some iota of remorse? Well, I haven’t. I am the same Pharma that you locked up four thousand years ago without trial. I am the same Pharma that killed one hundred and fifty six patients on Delphi. I am the one who cut Ambulon in half. And I am unrepentant .”

There was a loud beep somewhere in the background. It was the Testifier, Typhus thought. It hadn’t gone off a single time this entire hearing. “You’re lying,” Typhus said, so loud he could hardly believe himself. Except he could. Why—why would he do that? Why was he lying? What was so shameful about his remorse that he was willing to throw every ounce of sympathy out the window? “You’re lying!”

Pharma turned on him. “How do you know if I’m lying? You weren’t even alive yet, whelp. What do you know about me? ”

Typhus wished desperately to disprove him, to contradict, to claim otherwise and mean it. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t save Pharma from Garrus-10 for four thousand years; he couldn’t protect him from the war, or from Tarn, or from even himself. Who was he to Pharma but an unwanted castaway, a lucky break from his miserable tedium of conviction?

But he refused to give up. He still loved Pharma, even if Pharma didn’t love him. “Then tell me!” He was yelling, and likely out of turn. No one stopped him. “Tell me why you killed Ambulon!”

Something flashed on Pharma’s face, like Typhus had stuck a crowbar somewhere delicate and secret. “…Don’t you know? I lost my mind. Went absolutely bonkers. You can ask First Aid; he was there. ”

A loud beep. Typhus glowered at him. Truth was swelling within him in a painful tide of clarity, and it was all he could do to hold on. “Pharma. You sustained my spark while half-dead in the snows of Messatine. You kept me safe for twenty years in Garrus-10. You didn’t kill Ambulon in a moment of weakness. Why did you kill him?”

First Aid had pushed his way back to the mic. “He killed him because he hated him. Because he was a Decepticon.”

And then Pharma was undone. “Hated him? Hated him? ” He laughed. It was an awful sound, blunt and scathing. Typhus felt it scrape across the surface of his spark, as if willing him to understand. “Right, I hated him, of course! That’s why I took Tarn’s deal. One hundred and fifty six! That’s how many patients I kill on Delphi. I can recite their names for you, if you like. Flyhigh. Lickety-Split. Sweepminer. I’ve etched them all on my plating somewhere if you’d like a look.” He paused, smiling. “I hated Ambulon—you heard it! That’s why I killed them! Certainly not to keep us alive, oh no, no no no, not to keep Ambulon the Decepticon defector from the clutches of the DJD!” Pharma laughed and laughed. Then he doubled over, short of breath. The mic went with him. “I loved to betray the Autobots so much, you see, that I’d willingly open up my spark chamber for Tarn.” Typhus felt his oils go cold. He couldn’t keep watching. He couldn’t look away. Distantly, Typhus could feel Squawkbox’s pitying gaze on him, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Pharma didn’t notice at all. “He didn’t, let’s say, use the hundred tons he has on me to, oh, pin me on my own desk, oh no, and he certainly didn’t paralyze me with his outlier ability. No, no, no. I wanted it. I wanted to be sparked in the middle of a war, and I wanted to kill my patients. I wanted to stay there forever and ever!” Stillness. For a moment no one breathed. Typhus wished, hypocritically, that it was over. “Do you know how many distress signals I sent out? Seventy-one. Twenty-three to passing ships, eight to Autobot waystations, and forty—yes, forty —to Autobot High Command. No one answered. No one came.”

Typhus didn’t know what was happening, except it was, in fact, happening. “Oh, isn’t this swell? Since I have your attention, why don’t I tell you a story? Once upon a time there was little medijet on Messatine. He was very stupid, you see, and very evil, so all of his friends decided he should die slowly and painfully without the use of his hands. At first this was going well—his frame was reaching critically low temperatures, such that the energon within him was freezing. Unfortunately, that had also closed the wounds from the removal of his hands, and slowed a terrible, terrible plague he’d inflicted upon himself to a trickle. This was just enough time for another, larger, more evil mech to find him dying in the snow.” He chortled. “Oh, you’ll love this next part. I don’t! But you’ll love it. I know you will.” Pharma giggled in an excruciating sort of way. Typhus wanted to hold him. “The medijet thought he’d been saved! He had hands again! He was ready to be sicced unto the world for more evil! But his savior had other plans, you see.” Giggles. “He also had, oh, I don’t know, a killswitch that needed testing. Tyrest only wanted to kill certain people, you see, and what better test subject than the little evil medijet, who had nothing but sin?” The echoes of Pharma’s cackling was making him dizzy with powerlessness. There was nothing Typhus could do but let him keep going. 

“The first test—and that was the worst, because I had no idea what we were doing—would see his plating on the walls. Whoosh! Slam! Kabang!” He laughed, making gestures along with the noises. “It was all very dramatic. But that’s alright. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You’ll be delighted to hear that it happened again. And again. And again. ” No one stopped Pharma as he began to saunter about, mic in hand. No one dared to even blink. “Ah, where were we…? Ambulon? Ambulon. Yes, right. Well, you weren’t there, but I was: the moaning, the screaming. The pain in their eyes. I saw the equations, you know. I can guess how it’s supposed to work.” A guffaw. “And, well. First-hand accounts.” Suddenly Pharma was entirely sober. “The killswitch tunes to your spark. It holds it—almost gentle like, at first—and then it… grows. All the hardware, the software, the routines and the task queues—they’re all still working, still eking life out of their poor frames.”

He stared onto a patch of floor, as if in a memory callback, as if there were those bodies in this very room, reaching out to him for relief. “I flew down there to see what the screaming was about. There was nothing I could do for them. There was nothing to be done. The last one took three hours to die.” He turned back to face First Aid. “But yes, I hated Ambulon. That’s why I killed him.”

“You loved them,” Typhus said, because it was true. “You loved them and they left you to die.”

Pharma crumpled. “I thought—“ He swallowed. “I thought they were punishing me. That they would let me bleed a little before fishing me out and throwing me in the brig.” He swallowed. Typhus steadied him. He needed steadying. “I thought—they—they—”

“You loved them,” Typhus repeated, “and they left you to die.”

And then Pharma was crying. He cried like it was beaten out of him, like he could no longer keep hold of its great and terrible weight. He made ugly, pained sounds and ugly, pained expressions. He was no longer aware of the proceedings or the onlookers. It was so bad Typhus had trouble keeping him upright, even with both hands.

Xaaron reset his voice module. “I believe we should adjourn for the day,” he said, and Typhus didn’t wait to hear Windblade’s answer. He led them out of the room and held Pharma as he came apart.

***

“That was embarrassing,” Pharma said, once he calmed down. Typhus was brushing the dust out of the seams of his wings. He didn’t really need it, but it was something that relaxed him, even if he wouldn’t admit it. 

“No,” Typhus replied. “It wasn’t.”

Squawktalk had spent an hour after the hearing keeping an eye on them, leaving Beastbox to run the Speakeasy. It took more than a few assurances to get him to leave. “They know me,” Pharma said, flailing his arms about. “I mean, Ratchet and First Aid know me, and the rest of them know me by association. I can’t go to the next one. My spark can’t take it.”

“Mmhm.” Typhus wondered if he should go get them both some double refined. First Aid had given him priority access to energon in case of emergencies. They’d earned it, Typhus thought, and his appetite had grown since the surgery. “Tungsten or silver?”

“I think I’ll go for a bit of gold dust today,” Pharma said, shaking the brush off his wings. “I think we’ve earned it.”

Pharma was humming and reading a datapad when Typhus returned with their energon. He was doing that thing where his wings fiddled about when he was deep in thought. It could be just like this, Typhus thought, looking upon the scene with wonder. This could be the rest of their lives.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Pharma said, once they were in bed. “Sympathy is one thing. Reinstating my license is another.”

“I know,” Typhus said, feeling oddly happy. “Good night.”

***

The second hearing, as Xaaron so emphasized, was the important one. “We have the records from the first, of course,” he said, almost buzzing with anticipation, “but this is where it starts getting attention. All the crew of the Lost Light gathering for the retrial of an Autobot traitor? It’ll make headlines.”

If Pharma held any trepidation, he did not voice it. Not even when they entered the room and saw no fewer than three reporters among the stands. 

“You wanted this,” Pharma said, just before they began.

“What?” Typhus was confused. And then he got it: he was the one being nervous. It was odd. Typhus could usually tell when he was nervous. This was… closer to anticipation, as if he knew something was going to go wrong. Not dissimilar to that bomb in the Speakeasy, but not the same, either.

Windblade began her welcoming speech before Typhus could discern what it was. He tried to shake it off; he was the one who asked them all to be here, he knew. He was the one who had called Minimus for Nautica’s number, then called Nautica for Velocity’s. He was the one who made Pharma agree. They had all gathered here at his asking, ready to partake in a proceeding of his choosing.

“Despite these valid concerns over his unjust imprisonment,” someone was saying, “we still cannot allow a doctor who has elicited an inclination towards malpractice to have access to patients.”

“You’d give access to parts of him, but not to the rest of him?”

Everyone was looking at him, now. Typhus didn’t know why he did so out of line, though Xaaron didn’t seem put out. If anything, he looked to be egging him on.

The opposing lawyer wasn’t amused. “I beg your pardon?” 

“His hands,” Typhus said, “have been saving lives for the past four thousand years. I don’t see any of you taking Ratchet’s medical license away.”

Windblade and other such uninvolved parties were still confused, but the jury and the witnesses—the crew of the Lost Light —held still. There was no outrage among them, no uncertainty or suspicion. They knew. They all knew.

“Ratchet,” he asked, vicious, “whose hands are on your wrist?”

Ratchet stepped stoically forward. He was neither fast nor slow. The easiness of his gait irked Typhus. “Pharma’s,” he said. “These hands are Pharma’s.”

Beside him, Pharma snapped ramrod straight. All the cameras—there were cameras, he hadn’t noticed—focused on Ratchet’s unblinking face.

“When the war ended,” he said, “my hands were suffering from advanced form fatigue. No cure. No way of replacing them, either.” He huffed. “I went to Delphi to look for a new CMO for the Autobots. There was only one doctor in the whole world whose skill I considered comparable to mine. Still consider comparable.” He shot a look at Pharma. “And that’s when I walked headlong into a plague.”

Ratchet’s recount of Delphi was much the same as when he told it to Typhus. This was news to the world; Squawkbox had been certain that they covered it up to prevent bad publicity. Typhus found himself impatient for it to end. He knew what Pharma did. He knew how Ratchet had responded. And he could not care less what the rest of them thought about it.

“And that gives you the right to his hands?” he asked. Windblade wasn’t happy that the trial was being derailed, but no one else shared her opinion. “That gives you the right to cut it off from him and leave him for dead?”

Outrage thundered through the room. Pharma was quivering, but looking steadily at Ratchet. “No,” Ratchet said softly, looking right back. Typhus was somehow able to hear him over the crowd. “It doesn’t.”

“Order!” Windblade pounded her gavel. “Order in the court!” They quieted. “Ratchet, explain. According to the Autobot code, you are duty-bound to retrieve any missing or injured Autobot bodies, so long as you are able. Why have you not done so?”

“I offer no excuses,” Ratchet said, smiling faintly. “There wasn’t anything chasing us. We weren’t in any dire circumstances. I chose not to.”

“Wait!” That was First Aid. “I was there too! I didn’t look for him, either!”

“It was my call,” Ratchet replied. Typhus couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Were they fighting to fall for each other? Was that how Autobots were? Funny, Typhus thought that Pharma was not included. “I was your superior, I was the one—”

“Ratchet.” Everyone froze. It was Pharma, Typhus realized, who had spoken. “Why didn’t you come back for me?” He looked to have summoned every ounce of courage to say it. Even now, clutching at the base of the mic, Pharma was shivering.

“I don’t know,” Ratchet said, like an apology. “I really don’t know.”

Pharma leaned forward. “You were my only friend,” he said. It sounded like defeat, and a horrible admission. Ratchet looked to have been struck. Pharma stumbled away from the mic, steadying himself against the wall. 

Typhus had had enough. “Give him his hands back,” he said. “You stole it from him. He was—he was going to be CMO! If you had been there sooner, if you hadn’t left him to deal with the DJD alone, he would still have his hands! He would still have his life! ”

He could feel his spark pulse from anger. Ratchet had confessed. First Aid had confessed. Pharma had confessed. What more could they want? Why couldn’t they see? What was Pharma’s must be restored to him. It must!

Windblade gave him a sad look. “I understand your frustrations, young one, but changes are not so easily made. While it is true that Pharma has committed these crimes in an attempt to save lives, we cannot deny that he has been colluding with the DJD. Not only—”

“No.” Typhus gripped the table. “If you want him to pay for saving lives, then pay first with the lives he saved. Tell Ratchet to treat patients with his old hands. Tell First Aid to go back to Messatine and die.”

It was the wrong thing to say, but Typhus found that he didn’t regret it. Ratchet, for one, wasn't fazed. “Kid’s right. We’d have to go back and kill everyone cured of cybercrosis, too. Oh, and Cosmic Rust. Corrodia Gravis, while you’re at it. Atrophosia isn’t as fatal as it used to be, but I reckon there’s still a, what, one in a thousand mortality rate? And we can’t forget about Delta’s Malady.”

Typhus stared agog at Ratched. “Wait… you’re saying…”

“I’m not the one who made those cures,” Ratchet said, grinning incorrigibly. “Pharma was.”

After the room was done imploding, Windblade called for recess. Typhus went with Pharma to a private room.

“Is it true?” he asked. All five of those cures, from Pharma? 

“Hm?” Pharma was distracted. “What?”

“The cures. Did you make them?”

“Oh, that.” Pharma made a dismissive motion. “Yes, that was me. I needed something to do.”

Typhus hugged him. It was a little much, but he found he had too much unburnt energy. Pharma fit perfectly into his arms, anyway. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

When they returned to the courtroom, it was chaos.

“Ratchet!” Some bot was shoving a mic into Ratchet’s face. He was not alone; a small armada of broadcasters and related personnel were trying to pour in from the various entrances, undeterred by the disgruntled and harried security guards. “We’d like a comment!”

Ratchet was sitting in the witness stand, watching in a rather bemused and detached manner as Minimus lifted someone who had stepped over the boundary of the seat and threw them out the door. There was even someone to catch them on the outside. It felt very practised.

“Um,” Typhus said. “Uh.”

“I would appreciate some assistance,” Minimus said loudly in his direction. No, said to him. “Typhus, kindly help me kick these insurgents out.”

Typhus went up to them and pushed. Gently, so they didn’t fall over. 

“Excuse me,” one of them said. “I don’t believe you have the authority to kick us out.”

Typhus ignored them and kept pushing. The largest of the group was some sort of muscle car, which meant that he could more or less toss them three stories given the time and place. They were all displaced within the minute.

When he returned, Pharma was speaking with Ratchet in a hushed tone. Typhus stomped up to them.

“Whelp,” Ratchet said, not bothering to acknowledge Typhus, “that’s my cue.”

“What was he doing?” He tried not to shove into Pharma, but it was hard. “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing!” Pharma stepped back. “Come now. They’re ready to start.”

At Windblade’s feet were a few polished and angry people. They’d been speaking to her, he realized. “If there is no more evidence to be presented to court, I would like to announce my verdict.”

Everyone straightened. Not even Xaaron had something to say. “We have considered your plea,” Windblade said, her staff held high, “and we have come to a decision. While Pharma has indeed impeached on the Autobot code, he did so in defense of the lives of his patients and colleagues. In accordance with the Amended Policies four through seven, he is absolved of his misdeeds. So long as Pharma of Iacon shows no inclination towards unlawful conducts, he shall be freed from all previous sentencing and his parole terms shall be released. However, we cannot reinstate a doctor who has admitted to malpracticing on his patients.” She paused, looking meaningfully at Typhus. He was gripping the table again, he realized, hard enough that it was denting. “If you have concerns over Ratchet’s unlawful possession of Pharma’s hands, you may file a separate lawsuit against him, or settle out of court. Case—“

“ No. ” Something was bursting out of his chest. It was anger, probably. How could he make them understand? Pharma had done nothing wrong. He deserved to be a doctor. He deserved to buy medic paint, to have the cross drawn on his plating, to perform miracles in clean and well-lit places. He deserved his life back. “No, you don’t—“

There was a white pain. And then, nothing.

Chapter Text

First Aid was there when he woke up. He wasn’t sure how he knew—he hadn’t onlined his optics—but he did. He also knew that First Aid was sleeping. 

“Urghm,” he said. Possibly have said. Sounds were blending into each other in large, soft shapes. It was hard to keep track of himself. “Erughm.”

“He’s awake,” someone said. “Get Ratchet. Now. No, I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night! I don’t care if Megatron’s breaking out! Haul aft! Now!”

Slowly, as if wading through a deep fog, Typhus onlined his systems. Everything seemed to be in working order and, most poignantly, the constant ache in his spark was gone. He had quite literally never felt this good.

First Aid made his way to Typhus’s bed in the meantime. “Hey,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” he said, honestly. “Uh, what… happened?”

First Aid look at Typhus’s chest, where he noticed a tube of some sort attaching his spark chamber to… Pharma’s.

“Pharma!” Pharma was on a slab next to his, unconscious and looking worse for wear. He sounded small and spent, buried so deep he could only hear the echoes of echoes. “What—what happened to him!?”

“Shhh.” First Aid put a finger on his lips. “It’s late. Let me explain.”

The hearing had been five days ago, First Aid told him, and was held off indefinitely because his spark casing started to fail. “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, burying his face into his hands. “I was the one who contacted the factory. I was the one who did the procedure. You—you told me you were having pains, I just didn’t—I didn’t—“

“First Aid,” Typhus asked, grim and steady. “What happened?”

First Aid opened a port on his forearm. “It would be best if I showed you,” he said. “If, if you want to.”

Typhus had medical hardline done before, but it was the first time someone asked for it the other way. It felt indecent, a little. “Okay,” he said, because he needed to know. Because Pharma on a slab next to him, feeble and weak. “Okay.”

First Aid felt invariably different from Squawkbox. Where Squawkbox was pointed and abuzz with activity, First Aid was slow and uncertain. Here, First Aid said (thought?). He led them both down a dense memory file, one he had already prepared for upload. Come with me. 

It wasn’t as jarring as he thought it’d be. One moment he was in the room with First Aid, the next, he was First Aid, standing in the courtroom.

He was looking at Pharma. It was odd, seeing him from First Aid’s eyes. He looked taller, more daunting, but also more foreign. First Aid’s emotional subroutine was working overtime to label and relabel the data. Typhus could feel the various forces, the old pathways of hate and the new nodes of confusion, backed by a dense wall of pity. 

And then it happened. First Aid’s medical alerts went from nothing to everything: spark meltdown imminent, protocols for evacuation and crisis management battling for priority, the tools in his many systems all trying to boot. Typhus’s spark was pulsing blue, then white, then an off shade of green. He had already passed out, at this point, and was lying awkwardly on the ground. Pharma had tried to catch him. He was not strong enough.

“Evacuate!” This was Ratchet. “That spark’s going to blow!” Typhus begrudgingly agreed with First Aid’s gratitude for Ratchet’s reaction speed. He wouldn’t want Pharma to get caught in the blast. “First Aid, get him out!”

Who? And then First Aid lunged towards Pharma, and Typhus understood. 

“Pharma,” First Aid said, as gently and quickly as he could, “Pharma, please. I’m—I’m sorry. We have to go.”

Pharma was staring at Typhus’s unmoving frame. The whole room had cleared out by then; it was only First Aid, Ratchet, Windblade, and Minimus. All the ones too close and too responsible to up and leave.

“Pharma,” First Aid tried again. “We—”

“No,” Pharma said, walking towards Typhus. “No! NO! Over my dead body! ”

Typhus didn’t know what Pharma was doing, but First Aid did; he could follow Pharma’s intent as he stalked over to Typhus’s body, understanding each movement as Pharma opened his spark chamber. The speed with which Pharma laid his hands—his beautiful, dexterous hands—on Typhus’s spark chamber dangerously, beautifully fast.

“Support tubing,” Pharma said, which confused First Aid. Support tubing? As in spark support tubing? Where were they going to get a spark support tubing in—

“Here,” Ratchet said, having already cut it out of his frame. It looked painful; energon was leaking out of his seams, and he was patching it up by touch.

Pharma didn’t even look his way, just snatched it and made sure it was clean. He was opening his own spark chamber, First Aid realized, suddenly bathed in the unwanted halo of two naked sparks. “Ambus! Get over here!”

Minimus trudged over. His spark chamber was already open. “Ready yourself for loadbearing, Ambus,” he said, and connected Typhus’s green spark to his. Of course! The only way a Point One Percent spark could be stabilized with spark resonance was with another Point One Percent spark, and there was no spark as suitable as that of a load-bearer. It was genius. It was also untested and incredibly dangerous. If Pharma maneuvered this wrong—if his hand on Typhus’s spark had miscalculated the margins of error, if he was even slightly unfocused, if his skill as a doctor was anything less than prodigal—then they all die.

“Well?” Pharma wasn’t looking at him, but he was using his speaking pointedly at First Aid voice. “Where’s my tube, nurse?”

First Aid had a spark support tube on him, of course, but his was core-attached. If he removed it, he’d die. “Uh,” First Aid said.

Pharma sighed and turned to him. He gestured towards his own exposed spark. “Certainly you don’t expect me to expire mid operation?” he demanded, and First Aid understood. He extended the support tubing and attached it to Pharma’s spark. It was—uncomfortable. Usually mechs were tested for resonance compatibility before doing this but, well, needs must. Pharma, for his part, didn’t flinch. He barely seemed to have noticed at all.

He went in. First Aid had trouble seeing in the blinding light of three exposed sparks. He wondered how Pharma was doing it, with his worn and chipped optics. And then he realized; Pharma wasn't using his worn and chipped optics. He was completing the whole procedure by touch. 

“Pharma,” First Aid asked, “what are you doing?”

“Shut up.” Pharma leaned in. First Aid could feel his intentions across the tube, his desperate, lonely determination. He was, First Aid realized, trying to press his own spark against Typhus’s. That was why he’d set up the tubes; he and Minimus could serve as spark support in case their sparks tried to merge or repulse.

First Aid still didn’t get it. Typhus’s spark had rejected the new spark casing. What solution could Pharma possibly fathom, when a spark was about to burnout or explode? But he held steady. First Aid trusted Pharma, he found. He trusted the steadiness of his hands and the breadth of his knowledge. He trusted that Pharma could save this life.

He felt it as Pharma’s spark touched Typhus’s—and this was touching, not orbiting or merging or repulsing. It was theoretically possible, but practically unheard of; everyone’s spark frequency changed based on the needs of their frames, their health, and their energon consumption. It was statistically impossible to have two sparks in perfect ionic harmony. How could Pharma have known? Even with a slew of dedicated equipment, spark frequency still had the largest margin of error in all of medicine. There were simply too many variables.

It hit First Aid as he watched Pharma’s hand crept towards their joined sparks: Pharma was Typhus’s carrier. Typhus’s spark had been split from the core of Pharma’s, and had been held next to his for twenty years. Of course they were in ionic harmony. It was how Typhus had been made.

A ping for painkillers drew First Aid out of his thoughts. He approved the request without thought. And the second one. And the third. It wasn’t until Pharma had requested painkillers past capacity that First Aid cut the flow.

“Give it,” Pharma grunted, face scrunched in concentration and pain. First Aid could feel it now, across the tube. “First—give—I need it! I need it to operate!”

And that was when First Aid finally saw: there, in the crevice between Pharma’s spark casing and Typhus’s, was a hand transformed into a scalpel. Pharma was cutting away bits of his own spark chamber. The other hand was already welding them onto Typhus’s. He was doing a spark chamber transplant, right here, right now.

First Aid gave him as much painkiller as he wanted. It shouldn’t have been possible, First Aid thought, staring in fascination and horror. It was one thing to do a fuel pump transplant, even one that went four ways, and it was another thing entirely to be shaving off the cradle of your very essence while conscious and operating. It was unimaginable. It was impossible. And it was happening.

This miracle continued for some time. Somewhere along First Aid had run out of painkillers, but Pharma’s sensory nodes had already worn out, so that was no longer an issue. Sometimes it seemed Typhus’s spark would float out of his casing entirely—to get closer to Pharma’s, First Aid observed. Each time, Pharma paused and pressed his spark fully against Typhus’s, keeping it in its faulty casing.

“All right,” Pharma said, transforming the scalpel away. He was right; the spark was no longer rejecting the casing. It wasn’t stable, however. The bits of himself Pharma had welded on looked secure, but Typhus’s systems hadn't had them integrated. Left as it was, self repair would chip away the transplant and land them back in square one.

“First Aid,” someone said. It was Ratchet. “Can you restart his diagnostics?”

He tried, but the leftover charge from the spark surge overrode his equipment. He tried again. “Frag,” he said. Pharma did not perform sequential miracles for them to get caught out by a technicality. “Come on, fragging work with me…!”

Pharma put up a weary hand. “No. It has to be…” he faltered, short of breath. First Aid inched closer to keep him from falling over.

“Spark-initiated,” Ratchet finished. “But that would mean jumpstarting his brain module via spark contact. You'll need to connect via spark memory callback.” 

A spark memory was as precious as it was rare. For a memory to complete its circuit from sensory data to the spark, it had to be one of two things: impressed into a mech before their brain modules were attached—such as forged mechs when they first emerged from a hot spot—or made in the light of companion sparks, like the conjunx or amica ritus. Pharma had been with Typhus for less than a year while he suffered from a spark condition. There was no opportunity for them to make any spark memories together.

“Hold me up,” Pharma gasped, unspooling a cable. Both First Aid and Ratchet stared at him. “Plug me in.”

First Aid was already holding him up, which left Ratchet to pry open a port and plug Pharma in. It was weird, being attached to one mech via spark tube and another via secondhand hardline, as if feeling Typhus through Pharma. It was even weirder for Typhus, who was feeling all of this through convoluted second- and third-hand data banks. But they all held on. They were all seeing this through.

Pharma delved into the memory without warning. It was fast; he clearly recalled it quite often. All four of them were there: Pharma, First Aid, Typhus, and Minimus. They all waited with bated breath.

The memory began with a cube of energon. It was even smaller than the ones Typhus had gotten at the peak of the ration, when he saw people holding two cubes more often than one. Pharma held his gingerly, like it was his lifeline. He retreated from the mess—Minimus was disparaging at the state of it, something about breaking code—and went quickly and quietly into his cell. It was exactly as awful as Typhus had expected: a windowless grey box and a worn-out berth. A single surveillance camera was in the corner, which Pharma was pointedly aware of. He went to a corner and crouched down.

“Two astrolitres,” Pharma muttered, inspecting the cube’s six sides. “It’ll do.” Something pulsed within his chest. “Wait a moment, would you? I have it right here.”

And then—crouching even lower and closer to the corner—Pharma opened his spark chamber.

It was very private. There was a world of difference between letting a physician inspect your spark and doing it yourself in the privacy of your own space. Typhus could relate to the joint repulsion from First Aid and Minimus; he too felt like a voyeur.

“Come on,” Pharma said, softly. They could see his hands deftly maneuvering something. It was a major arterial line, First Aid realized, one that had been modded with a simple non-standard spigot. It was clearly done by Pharma himself, likely in this very room. He would’ve exposed himself to a myriad of infections, not to mention the delicate and time-sensitive nature of the operation. First Aid was as impressed as he was horrified. “Come on, you fussy little starling. Don’t make me wait.”

The three of them watched in wonder as a little blue dot floated its way around Pharma’s spark. It was beautiful in a way beyond words. Here was the root node of all cybernetic lifeforms, the most vulnerable and sacred organ, and here was Pharma’s gentle herding of a little life around his own, yet unborn. It was unbelievably intimate. None of them could look away.

“Hush,” Pharma said, eyes half-lidded. He took a small sip of energon, and the four of them watched as it slowly trickled down to the fuel line he’d closed. Then, with practised delicacy, he let a drop of it to the small light. “See? I have it right here. No need for a fit, is there?”

Pharma kept up the chatter as he slowly fed the sparkling. “Maybe you’d be a jet,” he said. “You could do well for yourself, if you play your cards right.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Go be a sharpshooter, or something. Or one of those blademasters from the Circle.” He paused and fed the light a little. “Don’t be a doctor, hm? Don’t turn out like me.”

Typhus felt their devastation in unison. It was the way Pharma said it, the way his words were laced with affection instead of grief. That it was a sadness that had clearly long since been whittled down to acceptance. “Ah,” Pharma said, and convulsed. There was an uncomfortable stretch around his spark, painful in an odd, bloating way. When Pharma looked down again, the sparkling had grown by perhaps a micron. “Calm down, would you? We need to keep quiet.”

And quiet he kept. The sparkling grew larger as Pharma fed it, and the convulsions in turn became more painful and frequent. He never made more than a whisper of sound. The walls, they were all suddenly aware, were foil-thin.

“You’re getting so big,” Pharma muttered, finally placing the fuel line back in its socket. “Eager to get out, are we?” And then there was the grief: the idea of separation, the knowledge that this sorry little companionship was not forever. “Don’t you want to stay with me? The world is such a big, bad place. You’ll be safe here. I’ll keep you safe.”

There were only dregs left in the cube, now. It must’ve tasted awful, but Pharma downed it without complaint. “Don’t worry,” he said. He was closing his spark chamber slowly, as if he didn’t want to lose sight of that little light. “I’ll let you go, when the time comes. I promise I’ll let you go.” He leaned back onto his berth, weary and spent. “It won’t be long, now,” he said. 

The memory ended. Typhus hadn’t quite recovered. Neither had First Aid and Minimus. The courtroom floor wasn’t as real to them as that rundown prison cell, where Pharma had been suffused with love.

“First Aid?” That was Ratchet. His voice sounded cold and jarring, as if it was from another world. “First Aid, I need you back with me. Whatever Pharma did, it worked. Typhus’s systems were able to restart. I need you to disconnect from him and swap Minimus for Pharma. Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” First Aid said, shaking off the memories. He was crying, he realized, and so was Minimus, not two feet from him. “Yeah. I can do that.”

That was where the memory ended. Typhus found himself back in the present. “Oh,” he said.

First Aid was crying again. He looked strangely glad to have shown Typhus the memory. And then he was sad again. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t save him.”

Typhus looked to Pharma. His music sounded incomplete, as if he’d spent something irreversible in saving Typhus, as if the perfect halo of his spark had been broken. “How is he?”

“Stable,” First Aid said. “But… his spark went below minimum critical mass. It’s all we can do to put him on life support.” He sniffed wetly. “He… might not ever wake up. Even if he did, he’d have to be attached to a pulse generator for the rest of his functioning.”

This was the part where Typhus wept, where he went white with grief and bent himself double above Pharma’s unmoving frame. But he didn’t. He felt perfectly calm, as if he knew Pharma would wake up, as if he could feel within the depth of his spark that this, too, shall pass.

“But other than that, he’s okay?” he asked. He put his hand on Pharma’s face. It was cool to the touch and a little dry. He needed an oil top up. 

“Well,” First Aid said, “his tanks are suffering from chronic under-fueling, his wings are in danger of suffering metallico imperfecta from lack of maintenance, and his joints are slowly falling into dormancy. But, yeah. Other than that, he’s fine.”

Typhus gingerly held Pharma in his arms. He was so peaceful, like this. Slowly and mostly by instinct, Typhus detached the spark support tube from his end. Then, from Pharma’s.

“What are you—Typhus! Typhus! ” Typhus tuned First Aid out. This was more important.

He didn’t have a lot of time. The residual charge left by his own spark would sustain Pharma for a minute, maybe two, before his music broke its fragile loop and decrescendo to eventual silence.  

“Come on,” he said, not entirely certain what he meant to do. And then it happened: a slip of brilliant blue light from the seams of Pharma’s chest plating, his spark chamber opening with a slow reverence. “Come on, you fussy old jet. Don’t make me wait.”

Pharma’s spark was visibly dimming. Typhus opened his own spark chamber—ignoring the oddness of green instead of blue , the strange new shape of his casing—and pressed his spark against Pharma’s. The transformation sequence, he noticed, was a little different; the large panels that used to swing open from his chest were now folded away into his body. It felt right, like this.

“Hush,” he said. This close, he could feel the incompleteness of Pharma’s spark. It was like a cracked circle, an almost-whole, a perfect cube missing a silver at the top. A strange clarity seized him, an urge and compulsion both, and Typhus leaned impossibly closer. The lips of their casing fit exactly, he noticed, as if his own shape was an echo of Pharma’s, as if he’d made Typhus’s after his own. “See? I’m right here.”

Typhus pushed. It was delicate and nerve wracking, but he felt armed suddenly with a razor focus, like his sensors had been upgraded by magnitudes. Of course, he thought. Why not? Pharma loved him. Pharma had fed him from his own pitiful share of energon, had altered his own body to keep him safe. He had held Typhus’s very being with his hands and gave him gentleness. There was no calamity in the world that could shatter this truth. When he held that love in his spark, everything became simple. He had an excess, he thought, feeling Pharma’s melody with his own, and Pharma had a deficit. He only had to give his spark to him the way Pharma had fed him: one gentle drop at a time. Slowly, slowly, Pharma’s music got louder. The silver of space disappeared between the cracks of his spark, a broken thing made whole. 

Typhus leaned back. The shape was complete, and he was suddenly very tired. “First Aid?” he asked. Did he do it right? Would Pharma need more? He’d do it for the rest of his life if it was what Pharma needed. If it was what gave Pharma his life back.

First Aid was staring agog at him. “How did you do that?” he demanded, breathless. “Do you know what you just did?”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” First Aid said, pulling Typhus away from Pharma to look at his spark. “Stable. Healthy, even. The scarring on his casing is… repairing itself? Typhus, do you have any idea what this means?”

Typhus didn’t answer him. He leaned back and slept.

***

Squawkbox was by his bed when he woke up. “Squirt.”

“Squawk!” Typhus was happy to find that he was no longer attached to anything. He leapt out of bed and tackled Squawkbox. It felt as if they’d been apart for months. “Wait. How long was I out?”

“A few hours since your last stint,” Squawkbox said, patting him back heartily. “You have no idea the sort of scare you gave me.”

As it turned out, the scare Typhus gave Squawkbox was far less private than he thought. “Planetside just about exploded,” he said, handing Typhus a datapad. He didn’t have to look far; there, on the headlines, was Pharma and Ratchet. Autobot CMO Steals Cure From CMO-in-waiting, it read, followed by several titles of a similar tone.

“Wow,” Typhus said, glancing through them. “Guess we really did hire a good lawyer.”

Several articles were clearly out of date; the public, Typhus realized, was invested enough that new outlets were able to gain substantial viewership from incremental updates. The most recent had been a video recording of the second hearing from a high window. The scene looked very different from First Aid’s memories. Even knowing that he would turn out fine, Typhus couldn’t help but hold his breath when the blue-green spark in the video pulsed in an unmistakable attempt to implode. 

“Pit,” Typhus said. It was too far to see the expressions of the two medics and Orator, but he recalled the stoic and unbending determination First Aid had impressed in his memory. He hadn’t noticed how scary it looked from the outside. “That looks pretty bad, huh?”

“Yeah,” Squawkbox said, nodding vigorously and sarcastically. “Ya think?”

Typhus looked around. “Where’s Pharma?”

“Beats me,” Squawkbox said. “Haven’t seen him.”

He stood up. The slab Pharma had been on last night was empty and clean, as if no one had ever been there. For a moment he wanted to shout for First Aid, to shake him so he understood that they were not to separate, but then he knew where Pharma was: two floors down and a little to the left.

“I’m going to Pharma,” he said, and went.

Typhus didn’t bother knocking. “Pharma,” he said, opening the door. “Are you okay?”

Pharma looked entirely unprepared for Typhus to burst through the door. Ratchet sat across from him, smug. “Typhus,” he said, looking at him instead of Ratchet. “You should be resting.”

“Is he bullying you again?” Typhus asked. He felt like he could crush coronid. Ratchet was nothing in comparison. “Should I throw him out?”

Ratchet laughed. “This is his hospital,” Pharma said, exasperated and pained. “You can’t throw him out.”

“Take a seat, kid,” Ratchet said, handing him a cube of energon. “We may as well catch you up.”

Catching him up didn’t take very long. Most of it boiled down to the verdict: whether Windblade had technically already pronounced it or if it was unfinished, and whether it ought to be changed. Public opinion was on Pharma’s side, Ratchet explained, and so was he.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to step down,” Ratchet said, smiling ruefully. 

“Oh, I think I have an idea,” Pharma said. He was looking down, unwilling to meet Ratchet’s eyes. “Four thousand years, give or take.”

Silence stretched across the room. There was something complicated between Ratchet and Pharma, something too precious and too ironclad to be eaten away by the pain. “Pharma,” Ratchet said, bringing a box out from subspace. “I… ah, there’s no good way of doing this, is there? But I wanted to give them back. I should never have taken them in the first place.”

Pharma took the box with trepidation. Inside, Typhus saw, was a pair of hands. He looked back at Ratchet’s; they looked faded and worn, the shade of orange just a smidge too cold to match his current palette. “Oh,” Pharma said, like he was coming apart. “Oh.”

Pharma stared down at them for a long while, his emotional circuitry running so hot Typhus thought he’d melt his wire. He and Ratchet exchanged a look; they were both helpless to comfort him. Pharma had endured seven years with Tarn, ten months with Tyrest, and four thousand years without anyone. Weeping over his hands was the least he deserved.

 They didn’t comment on the way he’d grasped desperately at the box, as if he was resentful and grateful for it all at once; they did not comment on his uncontrolled wailing; they did not comment when he carried the hands all gentle-like and pressed them to his face, muttering furious nothings. It occurred to Typhus that Ratchet loved Pharma, and he was angry all over again. But he said nothing, the same way Ratchet said nothing. This was about Pharma.

“I want paint stripper,” Pharma said, once he caught his breath. Ratchet produced them from his subspace, which annoyed Typhus. He didn’t deserve to know Pharma so well.

With great impatience and care, Pharma stripped the hands of their orange and white, revealing beneath it a shade of blue that matched his chassis exactly, with highlights of the yellow of his cockpit.

“Ahh.” Pharma sighed. His entire body relaxed. He was seeing something else again, Typhus thought, even if he was looking at the hands. He was even smiling faintly. “There. Good as new.”

“Yeah,” Ratchet said, voice breaking. 

Pharma met his eyes, still smiling. “Yeah.”

“Pharma,” Ratchet said, with all the gravity and grief of four million years. “Will you ever forgive me?”

Pharma searched Ratchet’s eyes. For a long while none of them spoke. “You’re really sorry,” he said.

“I am,” Ratchet replied. “I think anyone should be sorry to leave their friend to die.”

Pharma looked down. He looked thoughtful. “I killed Ambulon.”

“Drift’s killed thousands of people in the war,” Ratchet said. “I still love him.”

Pharma said nothing. And then: “You really have no idea, have you? What he did to me on Luna I?”

“Ah,” Ratchet said, swallowing. “About that. There was, uh, footage. Of Luna I.” He rubbed his hands together. Something clicked, then his thumb started to tremble in place. “Lockdown had been spying on his employer, and since he was apprehended three hundred years ago, we have access to his recordings.” Ratchet squirmed. “It was… I’m sorry, Pharma. I’m so sorry.”

Pharma took Ratchet’s trembling hand into his own. “Advanced form fatigue, was it? Can’t say I’ve ever seen a case as bad as yours. You must’ve had warning signs. Couldn’t be bothered to order a cold constructed pair, could we?” He snorted. “Oh, who am I kidding. You were always so obsessed with your hands. All that fawning finally got to your head. And they say Ratchet couldn’t be bought with praise.”

“Literally no one has said that,” Ratchet said.

“It was excruciating, if you must know,” Pharma said, prying off the plating on Ratchet’s finger with methodical ease. “I was fairly certain I was going to die.”

“Oh,” Ratchet said, tearing up.

“But then I found out about the spark breakoff. Purely by accident, mind, when I was reattaching my chest panels.” He was weighing Ratchet’s fingers between his, examining his joints with a critical eye. His grip was gentle and firm. Typhus could almost remember being held by them, being herded around someone else’s warmth. “There was an attempt—oh, four, five months in? Tyrest finally turned on the kill part of the killswitch. He hadn’t calibrated it at all, of course; just turned the thing all the way up and pointed it at me.” Pharma transformed his finger into a delicate screwdriver and tuned up a few of Ratchet’s screws. “Momentary spark shutdown. I’m sure I don’t have to elaborate.” He tested the weight of Ratchet’s palm. “You’d think they had someone charge in with a restarter, seeing as how I’m, well, alive . Imagine my surprise when I woke up two hours later in there same spot, writhing in my own energon.”

“Pharma,” Ratchet said. He sounded like he was pleading.

“You should thank Typhus,” he continued, rubbing at a sore seam between Ratchet’s palm and his wrist. “A sparkling wasn’t as good as an ionic restarter, but it was good enough. I, ah, had to suck some of the energon off the ground. So I can crawl back to my medbay, you see. And then I restarted myself and slept like the dead.”

Ratchet looked like he wanted to vomit.

“He saved my life,” Pharma said, looking equally tranquil and haunted. He was staring unblinkingly into Ratchet’s eyes. “And I saved his. So we’re even.”

Their hands had somehow ended up intertwined, palms open and fingers pressing against each other with deliberation. “Oh,” Ratchet said, and wept. “ Pharma. ”

Typhus took the cue and left. His work here was done.

Chapter Text

“This is a medical breakthrough!” Velocity was unofficially invited to the case, given that she was the only other doctor on Cybertron who wouldn’t make a big deal out of anything but Typhus’s astronomical medical value. “A theological one, even. Life made from a Cybertronian spark! Well, two. Even without your outlier, a stable spark made from other sparks can lead to a whole new school of thinking.”

Typhus picked at the various music players set around the room. They still hadn’t figured out what his new organs were for, or what his ability was, aside from the fact that he definitely had one. Following his recovery, Typhus was subject to a rigorous and extremely slow-going set of tests. Thanks to First Aid and Velocity’s obsessive note taking, Typhus knew that he had cravings for silica powder, tungsten, nickel, copper, and gold, and that nearly all of it had been used to build a new organ right next to his spark. Unfortunately, they had no idea what it did.

First Aid was certain that it did something. “You brought a spark back from below critical mass,” he said, slurping energon loudly in the staff cafeteria. Typhus, by virtue of being closely involved with no fewer than three renowned doctors, was invited. “And that was when you were acting on instinct! Ratchet says it’s something closer to reflexive kinephilia, but I don’t buy it. It’s not like your altmode changed.”

Typhus’s altmode was still a heavy tank, though its appearance changed a little. The gun had gotten thicker, but the size of the muzzle became smaller. There were new sensors near the mantle, ones he did not know the use for, and the rifling had been changed entirely. They couldn’t find any ammo that fit. “Mmhm,” he said, drinking his second cube. So far, none of the medics objected to his and Pharma’s presence. In fact, he caught a few of them throwing Ratchet dirty looks. Typhus silently sent a prayer to Primus. All was not lost among the healers of Cybertron.

Pharma entered with Ratchet. It was clear they’d been talking again. According to First Aid, not even Bumblebee’s shrewdness could prevent the Amended Council from voting someone else as CMO in the next term. In fact, there was a small group of mechs—busybodies or activists, he wasn’t sure—who wanted Ratchet’s medical license revoked. The consensus, indeed, was that he would have already been dismissed, were he not Ratchet of Vaporex.

“Typhus.” Ratchet greeted him in his usual good mood. Velocity said this trend of cheerfulness was in fact not at all in character for Ratchet. Typhus begrudgingly believed her. Being around Pharma was a massive mood lifter.

Another change he rather disliked was how often Ratchet got fuel for Pharma. Pharma let him, of course; he seemed unable to resist Ratchet. It was almost irritating, how they made each other so happy. 

“Typhus,” Pharma said, like a soft and protected thing. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” he replied. “We still haven’t found anything, though.”

Pharma’s paperwork was already being processed, and his page had been updated last night. There was a photo of him now, freshly painted from an award ceremony in the Golden Age. The media fire had died down enough that Squawkbox and Xaaron could resume their day to day lives. Everything was going back to normal.

“Mm,” Pharma said. He was leaning a little into Ratchet. Typhus tried to be bothered. “Well, you’ll be going home tomorrow. I’m sure it’ll come up again.”

“Yeah.” Typhus agreed. He had much better control over his hearing, now; if he focused, he could hear Squawkbox tinkering with his bottles and knicknacks. It was weird, and a bit intrusive. He tried not to use it if he could. “Oh, um. Huh.”

Now that he was listening to that part of town, there was something exceptionally—resonant? Resonant—that was out in the open. Kind of. It was wedged between two hard things, but it felt exposed, somewhat. Typhus got the impression that this thing was important and potentially time-sensitive, but it could wait. He was fueling with Pharma.

First Aid whipped his head around. “What? What did you hear?!”

“Uh,” Typhus said. “It’s… round? And, uh, kind of in the ground?”

The ground was moving slightly, actually, as if it was pushing that round thing upwards. “It’ll be gone soon,” he said. He felt certain that it would. “In, uh, two-ish hours? Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”

First Aid took off his mask and chugged the rest of his energon. “We are going there,” he said, jabbing his finger towards Typhus’s face. “Now.”

Typhus looked back to Pharma and Ratchet. “What the hell,” Ratchet said. “I can’t work on anyone anyways. Let’s go see what this is.”

They took First Aid’s non-sentient transport towards that bright spot of music. There was anticipation in the air; now that they were going, Typhus could taste the want. It was a little like a gravity well, he thought, getting louder as they neared.

“Here?” First Aid didn’t argue with him, though he clearly wanted to. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Typhus was sure. “Stop.”

He hopped out of the transport as soon as it stopped moving. It was right here, a little to the north and a few meters down. He crouched down and started digging.

“Typhus?” That was Pharma. He was faintly aware of the three of them staring at him. “What are you doing?”

“Shh.” He was close, now. That round thing was getting closer. “You have to be quiet.”

Ratchet walked forward. “What—”

A trickle of blue leaked through the inconstant wreckage of Iacon’s outer boundary. It was a spark. “Aha! There you are!”

Gently, slowly, Typhus maneuvered the hole so that the spark could still remain as protected as possible. Something told him that it wasn’t fond of air. “Uh,” he said, looking back at the medics. “Tah-dah! This is the thing I heard.”

All three of them had an identical look of shock. “You can hear sparks,” Ratchet muttered, dumbstruck. “Of course! That’s not an echolocator in your chest—it’s a resonator!”

“Shhhhh!” The spark pulsed unhappily at Ratchet’s outburst. “Be quiet!”

Now that he was in front of the spark, Typhus could feel its song. It wanted so desperately to live. It wanted—something warm, something sturdy, something that melded well to its coarse work-song. Typhus almost reached out to touch it, even when he knew he couldn’t.

“Dammit,” Pharma paced. “I can’t get back fast enough. First Aid, can you stabilize it until I get back with a transporter?”

“Uh.” First Aid looked very put upon. “I, I don’t think so? My support tube is still, ah, recovering. I’m not supposed to use it for another month.”

The spark was coming out, now. “Two minutes,” Typhus said. He felt that they deserved a warning. Someone turned on their comms and the three medics went to panic in their private channel. Typhus left them to it and opened his spark chamber.

Pharma was the one who noticed first. “Typhus?” He should answer, probably, except he was a little busy. This close, even a whisper could disturb the music. “Typhus? What are you doing?”

Typhus wasn’t sure what he was doing, either. He was letting the song of the spark carry him. For a moment there was nothing but the mingle of blue and green—he was never going to get used to that, green was such a weird color—and then something clicked and extended from his spark chamber. It was pointy, a little, but it also had a circular cavity with which he was clearly meant to insert the spark. So he did.

“Huh,” he said, retracting the manacles and closing his chest. The new spark fit neatly into its own compartment next to his own. It had been the largest and most puzzling of the organs he gained after his recovery. He supposed the mystery was solved. “Okay.”

When he turned back to the medics, Typhus was surprised to find Squawktalk among their number. “Squawk? When did you get here?”

“I called him,” Pharma said, which puzzled Typhus.

“And at a good time, too,” Squawktalk said. 

He didn’t elaborate, so Typhus didn’t ask. The spark was pulsing impatiently. “Um, we’re supposed to do something with the spark, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Ratchet said, distractedly. They were using their comms so much that Typhus could hear the buzz from their receivers. “Yeah, kid. Why don’t we take this back to the building?”

Typhus had assumed that they meant the hospital. Thus, when they pulled up to another building in a different district of the city, he was a little confused.

“Hospitals don’t keep that much sentio metallico stocked,” Pharma told him. He was thinking in loud, bright tones. Typhus had never seen him so ecstatic. “Or of such high quality. Come on. Let’s not keep it waiting.”

The establishment—something something Forge, he didn’t get a good look—was clearly not expecting guests. Ratchet went up to the desk to argue with their receptionist only to get firmly turned away. Heh. “Typhus,” he gruffed. “Come here. Show him the spark.”

Typhus showed him the spark. “We found this thirty minutes ago on the edge of the Exodus plateau. I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I?”

The receptionist’s eyes flickered between the new spark and Typhus’s weird green one. “O-of course. I’ll call the blacksmiths right away. In the meantime, why don’t you wait in the ward?”

Once they were in the ward, the doctors wasted no time. They all cleaned their hands, readied their equipment, and told him to open up.

Typhus was a bit distracted by all the supplies around the room. He was certain he’d need some of them. For what, he wasn’t sure.

“I think we need a bit of this,” he said, pointing at a weird smelling metal. It looked heavy and goopey. 

“Carbon composite?” Ratchet picked at the pile. “For a flightframe, maybe.”

“And this.” The bins were very well stocked, and well-labelled. “And this, and this, and a bit of this. I think.”

“Typhus,” Pharma said, quiet and disbelieving. “Are you saying you know what the spark wants to be?”

“Uhhhhhhhhhh.” Typhus hadn’t thought that far. The new spark was very vocal about what it wanted, and he wasn’t so much as hearing it as much as it was blasting in his audials. “Maybe?”

All three doctors sprung into action.

“Copper, gold, carbon composite,” First Aid said. “It’ll need a T-cog, so we’ll need variants ZT through FX, but only if—Typhus! Go pick out the sentio metallico!”

Pharma brought Typhus to the sentio metallico. There were a lot of sentio metallico.

“This is the most delicate step of the operation,” Pharma said. He had a steely sort of look, like he was readying himself for an uphill battle. “Accuracy is key. There’s always a little bit of frame rejection when a spark first comes out the ground, since it doesn’t know what to do with a body yet. If they’re lucky, that would all be handled before they emerged. And if they’re not—if they’re born in post-war Cybertron, for example—then you’ll have to help them along.” Pharma looked consideringly at Typhus. “This is the part no one can help you with. It’s what makes or breaks a blacksmith. Go on. Take your pick.”

Typhus had no idea what a blacksmith was, but he could probably leave that question for later. “That one,” he said, pointing at the biggest pile of sentio metallico. 

Pharma frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Typhus said. The spark was pressing uncomfortably against its compartment to try and get at that sentio metallico. “I’m sure.”

“Open a port,” Pharma said, and plugged in. It was weird, being suddenly so close to someone you loved so much. Typhus wasn’t sure he had the words to describe the way his and Pharma’s music mingled. Pharma seemed unbothered. “Figures,” he said, and began to cut. He was, Typhus realized, using their connection to gauge the mass he needed. Typhus didn’t think he had the bandwidth to transmit that kind of information, but apparently he had.

“That would rule out variants YP and HW,” Pharma said. To First Aid, who was juggling an obscene amount of T-cogs. Pharma was pointedly not looking in his direction. “Ratchet, I think it’s—”

“On it!” Ratchet leapt at the parts. He procured long, sturdy joints, but none as robust as the ones the new spark wanted. “Uh,” Typhus said, unsure of how to interject.

“Bigger,” Pharma said. “This is either a warframe or some heavy construction alt. Inconel core, I think, and titanium struts. Solid.”

Ratchet grumbled something about his age and the relative mass displacement capacity of his joints, but went. Typhus followed Pharma to the central slab of the room. “No,” Pharma said, taking a cursory glance around. “Bigger, I think. Step aside.”

At the touch of a lever, the entire room transformed into a massive slab. All of the shelving somehow stayed stationary. “Wow,” Typhus said. “Cool.”

Piece by piece, they were able to assemble the skeleton of the mech. “A miner,” First Aid said, once they put in the parts together. “A big one.”

Typhus looked at the sentio metallico. It felt as though he should do something with it, but couldn’t. “Um,” he said. “Uhh.”

“Hush.” Pharma had taken over inserting the T-cog halfway. He had just finished setting it in. “Brain module?”

“Ready,” Ratchet said, looking down at First Aid’s hands fiddling with the cranial circuitry. 

“Typhus?”

“I, uh, I think I need to do the next part.” He covered his mouth. He didn’t know why he said that; he was in front of three world class doctors! But the spark was no longer just excited. It was ready to rip his frame in half to get to where it wanted to go. And if Typhus let it out, it would certainly overextend and burn itself out on even the most fertile piece of sentio metallico. The new spark, he felt, needed easing. And it needed to be eased by him. If only he knew how.

Pharma held him by the shoulders. “Typhus! Calm down. Tell me what you need.”

“Hands!” Typhus said. He needed hands. He could feel it: the new spark’s frequency conducted through his wires to his struts and down to his fingers, and from his fingers to the sentio metallico, molding it to imitate the heat of a hot spot. But it didn’t happen. The phantom warmth of his vision dissipated into his cold hands. “I need hands!”

He didn’t really know what he meant, but Pharma did. Something clicked across their connection—largely one way, but this was strong enough that Typhus cringed from its intensity. Pharma had made a decision. A painful one.

“Typhus,” he said. “I need you to hold still.”

He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t need to; Typhus could feel Pharma’s love from the hardline, his determination and sorrow. He didn’t ask why Pharma turned off his pain receptors at the wrists, why he was shutting off his energon pumps in the arms. He didn’t move as Pharma removed one of his hands, then the other.

“Pharma?” Ratchet was looking between them. He didn’t understand. “What are you doing?”

And then Pharma held still. He was looking at Typhus’s wrists; they were pink at the edges, but otherwise clean. 

“I’m sorry,” Pharma said, suddenly devastated. “I didn’t—I did that right in front of you. Why did I do that in front of you?”

“You don’t have to,” Typhus said instead. He had already forgiven Pharma. “They’re yours. You don’t have to give them to anyone.”

Pharma took the box out of his subspace. He always kept them there, sneaking looks when people weren’t watching. “You’re not anyone,” he said, attaching the sensors to sockets Typhus for some reason had. “You’re mine.”

Typhus had heard horror stories about frame rejection—legs not working during an air raid, thrusters giving out mid-chase, integrated guns firing in the medbay—but this was nothing like that. There was no dissonance, no sense of wrongness, no mismatchness or forced connection. The hands went on his wrists like they had always supposed to be there, like he was always meant to have Pharma’s hands.

He didn’t hesitate. The new spark wouldn’t let him. Typhus put his hands on the sentio metallico and willed it to change. And it did. Slowly, as if a blooming flower, the living metal morphed to the heated strut at the base of his palms, surrendering when he shaped them with his fingers. It needed to be louder, thinner; more prone to harmony and resonance. 

“Step back,” he said. The spark could wait no longer. Typhus transformed away his chest panels, the manacles barely keeping the new spark from its sentio metallico. “Hey,” he said to it. It wanted so desperately to live. “I have it right here. See? There’s no need for a fit, is there?”

There was a general gasp of wonder around the room, but he paid it no mind. Typhus needed to focus on the new spark. He had to use his hands to guide it to the sentio metallico. For a moment he froze; what if he failed? What if his unmodulated hydraulics fumbled the spark and it fizzled out on the ground? But he needn’t have worried. His hands—Pharma’s hands—remembered gentleness. They had handled a spark far more feeble and delicate than the one he had holding now, fed it lifeblood and cradled its light. Typhus let the motor memory set the spark into the sentio metallico and watched as it folded around the spark in an effervescent burst of light. For a blinding moment, everything was blue. Then, darkness.

He hadn’t noticed the spark—now in a spark casing—was falling until First Aid had caught it. “Station!” he cried. “Are the artery lines clear? Ratchet, I need—”

“Here,” Pharma said, reaching with an open palm. “Let me.”

First Aid paused, then handed it over. Pharma looked upon it with reverence, like something foul within him was coming undone. He installed the casing into its cradle, attaching the complex circuitry, pipes, and wires at a dizzying speed. Typhus had heard of medic hands before, but he hadn’t, well, seen them. Not like this, dancing to a punishing and faultless rhythm, flying between concurrent maneuvers while in resonance with the spark itself, each motion blending into the other. Words couldn’t do it justice.

“Energon,” Pharma said, when he was done. He looked up when none of them moved; they were all mesmerized. “Well?”

Ratchet was the one who handed it to him. “Show off,” he said, dripping with fondness.

“Mm.” Pharma stood up and admired his handiwork. “Well? Who's going to wake him up?”

The mech’s name, as it turned out, was Pulsar. He was very disgruntled that they had taken so long. “You’re going to make me miss it!” He was looking around for a way out. Thankfully, he seemed aware enough of his surroundings to abstain from property damage. Pulsar was so large Typhus wasn’t sure if he could stop him if he tried. 

“Whatever you’re missing, it’s not as important as your health.” First Aid was doing the factory check up while Ratchet filed the paperwork. He was not happy to have to work around a moving patient, particularly one so much larger than him. “Stop moving!”

Typhus found a large enough chair for Pulsar to sit in. “Miss what?” he asked, helping First Aid guide him into the chair. This close, Typhus could feel the density of Pulsar’s mass displacement. He had never felt so outclassed.

“That thing,” Pulsar said, pointing at the empty cube they fed him. 

Ratchet stomped back, Pharma in tow. “Those rusted two-bit incompetent bucketheads! They wouldn’t let me register him!”

Typhus listened peripherally as Ratchet complained about the energon rationing. “‘Don’t need a miner,’ they say. ‘Energon deficit,’ they say. Well, he’s already fragging here. What are they going to do, let him starve?”

“Energon?” Typhus asked, ignoring Ratchet. “Do you mean energon?”

Pulsar rolled the word in his mouth, not at all bothered with First Aid climbing up his shoulders to check his… actually, Typhus didn’t know what that was. “The blue stuff, right?”

“Yeah,” Typhus said. “Sometimes it’s pink.”

He nodded, as if this was a great knowledge that had been bestowed upon him. “Well, we’re about to miss energon, so if you’ll just let me go…”

“It does not matter if he’s not licensed if he’s already made a life! ” Ratchet smouldering into his comms, Typhus decided, would never not be funny. Pharma certainly thought so, even if he was trying not to show it. “My medical morality has nothing to do with this! You know what, frag this. I’ll be speaking to Bumblebee.”

Typhus tried not to laugh when he spoke to Pulsar. “What do you mean, ‘miss energon?’”

Pulsar stared at him like he was missing a motherboard. “It’s in the ground,” he said. Typhus nodded in encouragement. “And, you know, it sinks. But sometimes it rises. So you have to get it before it sinks.”

Pharma stepped forward. “Are you saying you can sense energon?”

Pulsar shrugged. “I mean,” he said. “It’s right there.” He pointed at a random spot on the wall.

The three medics exchanged a glance.

“Given the nature of his forging,” First Aid said, resigned, “it’s entirely possible that organo ephanosis happened when we weren’t looking.”

Pharma brandished his hands. “Open up.”

Pulsar inched back. “What are you doing?”

“It’s okay,” Typhus said. Pulsar turned to look at him. It occurred to him that Pulsar was drawn to him, a little, like he remembered being carried next to Typhus’s spark. “He’s just going to check something.”

Pulsar dubiously opened his chest panels. “But we really do have to hurry,” he said. “The energon will be gone in two days.”

Typhus held his hand as Pharma rummaged through his innards. “Oh, Unicron,” Pharma breathed, leaning back. “Primus, Adaptus, and the stars above.”

“What?” Ratchet took a peek. “Oh, frag me.”

First Aid patted Typhus on the back. “How does it feel?”

“Huh?” Typhus looked between them all. What was happening? 

First Aid turned to Squawktalk, who Typhus had forgotten was there. “You got that?” He looked back at Typhus. “You just made Cybertronian history twice in as many weeks, Typhus. How does it feel?”

Pulsar closed his chest panels and sat up. “Is there something wrong?”

Pharma paused his revelling with Ratchet to hold Typhus by the shoulders. “Do you have any idea—oh, who am I kidding, of course you don’t. Typhus, he isn’t a regular miner. His structural integrity is rated for the sub-mantle. He has a seismic transponder and a tectonic reverberator.”

“Oh,” Typhus said. “Does that mean he can sense energon?”

“No. Well, yes. But, more importantly,” Pharma said, almost manic in his glee, “he can make energon. So long as the planet's integrity holds up, he can trigger a zero-point meltdown that runs itself into a deposit within the century.”

First Aid was saying something about the end of the long drought, but Typhus wasn’t listening. He was listening to the bright crescendo of Pharma’s spark, swaying to its seraphic beauty. It felt like the slow and inevitable spiral of death had finally been broken, that Pharma had shed its too-small skin and come forward towards life. That they were finally meeting again for the first time.

Things quickly snowballed in the aftermath. After much yelling and some manhandling, Ratchet and First Aid were able to direct the congestion to the lobby. There had to be at least twenty people there, all clamoring and shouting over each other.

Pharma stayed put. “Typhus,” he said, turning to him with a soft look. ”Let’s go home.”

Typhus was suddenly certain that he would be happy for a long, long time. “Yeah. Let’s.”

Chapter Text

Jazz would have called it a problem with the chicken and the eggs

Jazz, by virtue of being one of the most talkative people in Typhus’s circle, has rubbed off a lot on him. This is why Typhus says eyes instead of optics, though for senses that are less interchangeable (e.g., the way Cybertronians perceive sound is very different to how humans perceive sound) he uses Cybertronian terms, like audials. Human culture is at this point considered somewhat niche, and Typhus’s lingo comes off as nerdy.

Typhus was also supposed to have a larger friend group, but I got lazy. It was meant to establish his non-stance on the war, but I think that he did well enough on his own, so they were axed.

“Yeah?” Typhus wasn’t sure what Squawkbox was talking about, exactly. He tossed some guy out the door, and suddenly he was a hero. He hadn’t even meant to do it. “Whatever you say, Squawkbox.”

A very Typhus move of all time, in which his investment in a relationship is somehow always less than the other party. Considering that he’s up against war veterans who had literal millenia to get comfortable with loss, I think we should applaud him for his sense of individualism.

First Aid was already in the transport when Typhus got in.

Please imagine that First Aid owns, like, a luxury extra wide white Jeep SUV, in a world where most people could transform into something that moves fast and/or has Rung scooters. He bought partly as a bid for presence and partly because he’s the kind of soccer mom who would.

The guard that escorted him in hesitated. “We abide by the Amendments,” he said, defensively. “You can look over the accounts if you want. Primus knows the Orator does.” And then, probably seeing First Aid’s murderous glare, he added: “It’s not our business if they trade it, okay? This is Garrus-10, not Garrus-9.”

Please assume that Lunabots, by virtue of all being Point One Percenters, took relatively little time to integrate into Cybertronian society. This would free up Minimus to start his reform projects while leaving us with some time between now and when Ratchet is diagnosed with late stage spark burnout.

Also, while the prisoners have stricter rations, they would be given enough energon to run all their essential systems once Minimus took over. This is an unseen plotpoint where Pharma is revealed to have been trading his rations to have more time on the dataport to put together the spark burnout cure. Alas, Typhus is too polite to ask about it.

He saw Typhus and stopped breathing.

Fortunately for Typhus, I have his appearance all thought out. Unfortunately for me, Typhus is too much of a numbnut to actually describe his own appearance. So I must supplement: given that Tarn was the Point One Percenter, he was able to pass on more information into the spark splitoff than Pharma. As a result, Typhus takes after him enormously. He has the same face as Tarn, a very similar altmode, and a very similar design in root. Where Tarn has two sets of treads on each shoulder, Typhus only has one (the other one is distributed on his back), Typhus’s shoulders are slightly wider and his torso is larger (for the extra organs), and he has one gun instead of two. He’s mostly dark grey with yellow highlights, and has red optics. Given that Pharma has his spark chamber forced open and immobilized, I think he could be forgiven for the mistake.

First Aid extended a long rod to 248b’s neck and zapped him.

In this verse, zapping someone out of a spiral is actually a proven treatment method. However, First Aid is being unreasonably heavy handed here. You’re not supposed to zap someone so hard in quick succession, and usually you warn the patient first.

“You,” 248b whispered, so quiet he barely heard it. “It’s you.”

I couldn’t sneak it in here, but the real reason Typhus was able to snap Pharma out of his spiral was because he leaned in with his chest—and in turn, his spark. His spark and Pharma’s spark recognized each other. It’s a bit of a stretch of what spark memory means, but ehhhhh if Pharma has enough leftover after death to possess a god I think I can fib it

When Typhus had mentioned a habsuite, he might’ve fibbed a little. It was less than, let’s say, a room in a building, and more of a comfortably sized condo. Hab was just easier to say. That, and Squawkbox had insisted. People his age weren’t supposed to have condos.

Another tidbit that got cut because Typhus was too obsessed with Pharma! Typhus received the condo as thanks for accidentally solving a relationship problem between a Camien couple (lesbians) and they happily got back together and decided that life on Cybertron wasn’t for them. They were exceptionally wealthy, so gifting the house wasn’t much of a loss.

He reached under the counter and produced a pay stub. His own, Typhus realized.

In this verse, there is no law that requires an employee’s knowledge/consent. There are laws requiring employers to pay employees at least a minimum wage, and on time. What Squawkbox did was entirely legal.

Typhus felt bad for leaving 248b alone for so long, but there was little use.

Pharma did have numerous depressive spirals and spent entire waking days in bed. However his dignity always made him get presentable for Typhus. But now you know!

In the end, 248b chose something as close as he could get to the medic orange. It was three shades deeper, since the other two shades were also reserved. He was now closer to a bright red which, Typhus realized, did not compliment the palate he picked out. The entire set had been made to pair with something lighter.

Pharma is fooling absolutely nobody btw, he still looks like a medic.

When Typhus had stared at him, agog, he huffed. “Don’t tell me you expect me to be cooped up here the whole time,” he said, nonchalant in a way that was deliberate. Like that had been a fear of his, and still was. “I do need some air.”

Another plot point that got cut. Prisoners with mobile altmodes are actually allotted an amount of free roaming time each week, so long as they’re not high risk or being otherwise punished. Pharma unfortunately in his typical unlucky streak has killed one of the other prisoner’s Amica or some such during his Delphi era, so he is ostracized and unable to fly due to bullying. There was going to be a subplot where Whirl takes pity on him and actually forms a bond with him (followed by Pharma trying to contact Cyclonus once he’s on parole), but I felt that that derailed the plot, so it was cut. It doesn’t interfere with the events of this story, so if you want you could imagine that it happened.

Landfill could tell. “Is this about the jet again?” he asked. Typhus ignored him. It was starting to grate.

Landfill actually has a platonic crush on Typhus just for being extremely positive and untouched by war. It is so slight that Typhus does not even notice. Sorry Landfill!

“Two miles,” 248 answered. He was very responsive these days. Maybe Typhus should tell him he loves him more. Food for thought.

I gave up on Cybertronian units. Forgive me.

The switch, Typhus observed, was permanent. 248b no longer spoke about his projects. He did everything else perfunctorily: drank all the energon Typhus gave him, allowed himself to be dragged out for flying. Not even Squawkbox’s juiciest war stories could draw him out.

I should probably mention that Pharma actually has an eating disorder. Typhus doesn’t notice because at this point he isn’t home a lot of the time, but Pharma is so used to starving himself that drinking too much energon (cough cough a normal amount) makes him puke. He does puke every time he ‘drank all the energon Typhus gave him,’ he just hid it so well there was no feasible way for Typhus to find out.

Pharma flinched like he’d been hit, though he was still smiling. “Oh, what’s the use.” He snorted. “The cybercat’s out of the bag. Yes, that’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”

In my defense, I did not expect to be name dropping him 18k words into the story. I had planned for him to tell Typhus in chapter two, when they were having a moment in the unlit livingroom (if you read reaaaaal closely you’ll notice that Typhus has asked him for his name exactly three times at that point). Unfortunately Pharma is a stone cold bitch and he did not want to say it, so here it is 10k words later.

Pharma fell asleep in his arms. He laid him carefully back on the bed and went to work.

Pharma actually did not fall asleep because Typhus loved him. He fell asleep because Typhus was hugging him, which brought their sparks closer and triggered spark memories for when Pharma was incubating him. The memories were so calming and euphoric that it knocked him out instantly. He fell asleep because he loved Typhus.

“Because she could be busy, or hang up, or not believe me,” Typhus said. Minimus’s name twice removed wasn’t much of a name at all. “And because I don’t want First Aid to find out.”

Typhus is very tactful! I feel the need to emphasize this. One of the biggest reasons he can make it just fine in the post-war world is because of his excellent handling of relationships. I gave him this trait intentionally to offset Pharma’s, well, everything, but it didn’t come out as strong as I thought it would.

Reconstructed from the records of the Battle of Necroworld, the image said. An approximate portrait of Tarn, the leader of the DJD. Original designation: Glitch.

Shit eating grin gif.

The next morning, he woke up angry. Typhus didn’t know what to do about it, so he didn’t do anything. He had his fuel across from Pharma, as they did every morning, and tried not to think.

Typhus is understandably distracted here, but if he wasn’t, he would notice that Pharma is lowkey trembling in the wake of his anger. It really does suck when your kid that you’re actually quite fond of looks just like your rapist.

“That’s my name,” he said. “Don’t wear it out. Listen, kid. We gotta talk.”

I think Pharma is the kind of person to change the way he talks depending on who he talks to; it’s not even conscious, he’s just poorly socialized and a big softie to the people he cares about (this is my interpretation of him, pieced together by a) that one sequence where Ratchet’ ghosts him despite Pharma being incredibly cordial when asking after him and b) that one line in Bullets where he teases First Aid and gently nudges him to work). What I’m saying is, he picks up speech patterns from Ratchet, and still falls back on them when he thinks about Ratchet. This isn’t something even Pharma himself catches, so I as the author have to beam it into your brain.

Typhus didn’t have the time to be confused before Pharma slid out his voice module—through a slit he had made, though it was so thin he hadn’t noticed—and placed it on a cloth on the table. And then he took another voice module—from his subspace, he realized—and slotted it in, so quickly that only a single drop of energon leaked onto his frame.

Okay, this is another semi-important plot point that Typhus just didn’t care about because he’s Typhus. When Pharma sparkmerged with Tarn, he was struggling so much he actually tore off a small piece of Tarn’s spark casing. Tarn was distracted by the sparkmerge and didn’t notice, and having a bit of his spark casing torn was really just a small drop in the oceans of pain he felt everyday. Pharma was able to keep this fragment as his private trophy by hiding it in the folds of his voice module.

His spare voice module is actually from a friend he made in prison. I made like a whoooole backstory for this unnamed guy but nooooooo Typhus didn’t want to get into it, so they never appeared. This mech was Pharma’s only friend in prison, and their death by late stage spark burnout was what pushed Pharma to start developing the cure. The voice module was consensually extracted as a memento, though it is kept secret from the guards.

To clarify, Pharma started off this story with his own voice module (Tarn’s spark casing fragment within), and after this surgery he has a friend’s (Tarn’s spark casing fragment now loose in his subspace).

Maybe it was wrong of him to leave Pharma alone. Maybe he should have stayed to reassure him, to comfort and hold him. But Typhus found that he couldn’t. He couldn’t face a Pharma who was, was trying to keep his spark from him, he realized, who looked at him and saw Tarn.

Pharma has as many and as severe breakdowns as you can imagine. He also actually breaks one of Typhus’s music players in a fit, though Typhus has so many music players—and was so distracted—that he never noticed.

Ratchet nodded, like this pleased him, like he had a right to be pleased.

I feel like I should clarify that I actually really like Ratchet. The dislike is entirely from Typhus.

Ratchet looked at him like he’d never thought of that before.

Not absolving Ratchet of him leaving his friend for dead after brutally denying him any sympathy, but in my personal opinion (and in this fic), Ratchet was in a horrible state of mind during Delphi. He had gone through a shitshow of a war and had a sort of cynicism so steep it sometimes tipped towards hatred. It’s only after he went after Drift that he seemed to recover some peace of mind. By that point I think if he thought through his own actions on Delphi, he’d be a lot more repentant. He did not, at least not in canon. Alas.

They kept quiet after that. Typhus didn’t know why. He turned the words around and around in his head.

Pharma at this moment was actually thinking about how him not revealing Tarn’s spark casing fragment would have doomed someone he cared about. He’s, like, mid self-loathing spiral. Normal Typhus would have caught on, but deaf Typhus was unfortunately handicapped.

Pharma did glare at him then, and Typhus tried to give him the best likeness of a shrug without actually moving. Maybe something was wrong with his pain nodes?

Sigh. Another kinda important plot point that Typhus didn’t notice. In his defense, Pharma should have said something. The reason that Pharma’s operation isn’t hurting him is because he’s Typhus’s carrier; since their sparks are ionically harmonic, their bodies don’t register each other as foreign. It may come into play later when, oh, I don’t know, someone needs a pair of hands.

“No.” Typhus wished he had been conscious. He wanted to have been there, to have held Pharma steady in his arms. “No. I didn’t—I thought he only needed mine.”

Here, you can imagine Pharma on the edge of tears. He had finally come around to the idea that Typhus was his. And, more importantly, that there was something unique and vital Pharma could do for him. Imagine his hurt when First Aid slaps him in the face with this.

Squawkbox asked for a port the moment they sat down. ::So we can talk,:: he clarified. ::Don’t get it twisted.::

I think everyone can agree that Squawkbox is the MVP in all of this, aside from maybe Typhus’s stubborness and incredible luck. If you didn’t expect him to be so invested in Typhus’s life, well, neither did he. I think two old worn cassettes assembled together would make an incredibly sentimental barkeeper, though, so here we are.

And then Squawkbox went on. “You know about medic hands, don’t you?” Typhus shook his head. “I guess you wouldn’t. It’s a pretty Functionalist topic, and it’s one of the few that slipped the cracks and lives on today. Can’t criticize somethin’ that’s true.”

In this verse, it is actually true that forged medic hands tend to be better than cold constructed medic hands. This is because all cold constructed body parts (even on a forged individual) suffer from extremely minute frame rejection. On a healthy frame, this is usually imperceptible, but for work as fine as a doctor’s, it matters. There was originally going to be a plot point where Typhus learned to ‘tune’ body parts to better suit their wearers (and thereby inventing a new medical technique to help ease frame rejection), but that was scrapped because I felt like it was running away from me.

And death shall have no dominion.

If you didn’t know what poem I was referencing, well, here. JRO isn’t the only one who can rip Dylan Thomas lines for his chapter titles.

Xaaron was helpful in more ways than one. While he was incredibly savvy in the known-hows of legal jargon, his most useful asset was his proficiency in dissecting the complexities in spheres of influence. He’d had his license stripped and reinstated in triple digits and was still here to laugh about it.

After finding Xaaron present at the trial where Tyrest decided cold constructs were evil, at a funeral rite Rodimus was holding on the LL, and on the L.L.I.L.A.C., I have decided that he is in fact the drummer from Coldplay. Like how is he there for all so many decisive moments and then somehow dip and have only, like, one line on screen. Incredible.

“Wings hadn’t slept ‘till doc gave us the all clear,” Squawkbox said. “Bet he’s in recharge about now.”

There was a scene that was going to happen between Pharma and Typhus before the operation that didn’t make the cut. Typhus was going to express concern over his mortality, and Pharma was going to assure him that if Typhus died, Pharma would be there with him so he wouldn’t die alone. This is why Pharma kept such close tabs of Typhus’s recovery. If anything went wrong, he was planning on flying over and staying with him in his final moments. The scene didn’t happen because Typhus was entirely unconcerned with his own mortality, but I think Pharma would have the same thoughts with or without it.

“I think,” Xaaron said, four datapads deep into this particular archive, “we should request for a Testifier.”

Since this fic is all about Pharma’s hurts coming back full circle to save him, I feel the need to clarify that yes, the Testifier is modified from Tyrest’s guilt forcefield.

Something flashed on Pharma’s face, like Typhus had stuck a crowbar somewhere delicate and secret…

… “You loved them,” Typhus said, because it was true. “You loved them and they left you to die.”

That entire segment came nearly unchanged from my plotting notes. The moment I finished it, I closed the notes and opened up a file to write. This baby wanted out of my head. And out it got.

Something flashed on Pharma’s face, like Typhus had stuck a crowbar somewhere delicate and secret. “…Don’t you know? I lost my mind. Went absolutely bonkers. You can ask First Aid; he was there.”

He definitely wasn’t in his right mind during the Tyrest arc btw, but he wasn’t so out of it that he would literally kill someone that he protected at his own detriment for years. It’s a combination of being horribly traumatized and betrayed by the people he loved, getting hurt all over again when Amulon called him “Doctor DJD” (he did that, go check it out), and then some sort of warped sense of mercy and vindication that pushed him over the edge. Pharma was put in a position where he needed to get revenge on Ratchet, but tbh I don’t think he’s very good at the whole revenge thing, and that and his doctor wires got crossed and came to the conclusion that ‘Ambulon is going to die anyway, why don’t I just kill him painlessly now AND get back at Ratchet.’ Anyways, that's my TED-talk.

There was a white pain. And then, nothing.

Shift eating grin 2.

This miracle continued for some time. Somewhere along First Aid had run out of painkillers, but Pharma’s sensory nodes had already worn out, so that was no longer an issue.

In case you were wondering, this is where Pharma got the spark casing scarring.

“You’re getting so big,” Pharma muttered, finally placing the fuel line back in its socket. “Eager to get out, are we?” And then there was the grief: the idea of separation, the knowledge that this sorry little companionship was not forever. “Don’t you want to stay with me? The world is such a big, bad place. You’ll be safe here. I’ll keep you safe.”

I was going to blast a lot more angst into this, but alas, Typhus. This part was genuinely so juicy I considered doing a Pharma POV just to get it out, but my love of consistency wouldn’t have it. Thankfully this is AO3 and I can do what I want, so I’ll just tell you the tea.

Pharma, abandoned and ostracized and unfairly incarcerated, treated the unborn spark like his only friend. It’s that scene in V for Vendetta where she said I love you, when all the weariness and anger and hatred washed away. He could hate the spark for its unfortunate conception, or he could choose love. In Pharma’s mind, the sparkling had been with him through Delphi, through the snows of Messatine, through Tyrest and even now through prison. It was his truest companion and would never betray him. Unfortunately it did leave him, and he did feel extremely abandoned until Typhus smashed into his life (do imagine cartoony Typhus shaped holes in the walls he walked through)

Several articles were clearly out of date; the public, Typhus realized, was invested enough that new outlets were able to gain substantial viewership from incremental updates. The most recent had been a video recording of the second hearing from a high window. The scene looked very different from First Aid’s memories. Even knowing that he would turn out fine, Typhus couldn’t help but hold his breath when the blue-green spark in the video pulsed in an unmistakable attempt to implode.

Squawktalk was actually the one who got that footage, at the risk of his own life. This flew right over Typhus’s head.

So far, none of the medics objected to his and Pharma’s presence. In fact, he caught a few of them throwing Ratchet dirty looks. Typhus silently sent a prayer to Primus. All was not lost among the healers of Cybertron.

A lot of people, Typhus included, expected Pharma to file a restraining order and sue him for organ theft of four thousand years. Pharma is unfortunately an absolute doormat and having Ratchet willingly grovel after him was more desirable than any retribution.

Pharma entered with Ratchet. It was clear they’d been talking again.

At this point Pharma (barring eating disorder and PTSD) is well and seeing a therapist, which Typhus knows but isn’t nearly as poignant to him as the fact that Pharma’s been spending time with Ratchet, again. Also, feel free to imagine any and all old man yaoi that may occur off screen as a result of the incredible intimacy of forgiving/being forgiven by your friend of millions of years after a massive falling out that involved both parties hurting each other and one of them having been wrongfully incarcerated and nearly died several times as a result.

Typhus looked back to Pharma and Ratchet. “What the hell,” Ratchet said. “I can’t work on anyone anyways. Let’s go see what this is.”

There was going to be a segment where Pharma develops and tests an experimental treatment method on Ratchet hands, but it got cut due to pacing. Highly disappointing to me in particular because I had the whole mechanic of the method planned only for the themes of the story to run off with the butterflies.

The method, if you’re curious, is inspired by Camien and Earth needleworking. Pharma takes a bunch of wires in one hand (that hand heats and pressurizes them so they’re exceptionally malleable), that wire comes out and goes through his teeth (he’s biting gently to adjust the pressure), and his other hand transforms into a pseudo-sewing machine and manually etch the new wiring into Ratchet’s hands (everyone OOOs and AAAs when the thread goes inside Pharma’s knuckle and comes out a sharpened fingertip). As you can probably guess, this method is incredibly labor intensive and time consuming. The goal was to make them talk (or hardline, since Pharma’s mouth is busy) while Ratchet has one of his most prized possessions at Pharma’s mercy and grace. Unfortunately it wouldn’t look very interesting from Typhus’s POV so it got cut.

There’s a personal headcanon of mine that transplanted body parts work the best if the donor and the donee have led very similar lives, so the motor memory doesn’t conflict. There was going to be a line in there where Ratchet admits that the only pair of hands that could have fit him without diminishing his skill was Pharma’s, but this didn’t contribute to the story or lead anywhere, so it was cut.

All three of them had an identical look of shock. “You can hear sparks,” Ratchet muttered, dumbstruck. “Of course! That’s not an echolocator in your chest—it’s a resonator!”

I feel like at least one reader would expect Typhus to vibe check Ratchet’s spark burnout, and to your credit it had been planned. I couldn’t find anywhere to wedge it in that didn’t mess with the pacing, so I’ll give you an abridged version here.

(In a room in the hospital; Pharma, Velocity, Ratchet, and Typhus are present)

Velocity, having just proven that Typhus could differentiate between healthy sparks and sparks that are hiding issues: Certainly we can rescue train him?

Pharma, unhappily: And what? Have people hound him day in and day out for a diagnosis? To make a machine out of his audials and sell its patent?

Velocity: Well, um, I think that’s a bit drastic. But before then, why don’t we actually confirm the range? So we can ascertain how many people he could check at once? Typhus?

Typhus, who casually was vibe checking the entire floor: Oh, um. I found another one, if you’re interested.

Everyone is interested.

Typhus, feeling a bit doubtful because this spark variantion was very, very slight: Uh, that one?

(He points to Ratchet, who is shocked for a moment before huffing and doing his “Bugger” bit. They check him out and confirm that he has early stage spark burnout. Drift gives Typhus a big ol’ smoocheroo on the cheeks for saving his Ratty. Pharma goes through five stages of grief of regaining his friend and almost losing him again. Tears are shed, affections are shared, etc etc Happily Ever After)

Typhus wasn’t sure what he was doing, either. He was letting the song of the spark carry him. For a moment there was nothing but the mingle of blue and green—he was never going to get used to that, green was such a weird color—and then something clicked and extended from his spark chamber. It was pointy, a little, but it also had a circular cavity with which he was clearly meant to insert the spark. So he did.

Another tidbit that I thought of but didn’t make the cut! This one is definitely canon in this verse, unlike some of those other ones which are maybe canon. By virtue of supporting two sparks, a carrier needs more energon than their baseline needs. If Pharma didn’t starve himself—and if he didn’t shut down all his non essential systems to minimize his own usage—then both of them would have died at some point during incubation. This is why Pharma’s optics are chipped until they’re replaced (imo Cybertronian self-healing should be able to repair minor chips and cracks in optics, otherwise they’d just be spending enormous amounts of time replacing lenses), which only First Aid understood in the flashback. Despite Pharma’s best efforts, Typhus was still born a runt. The spark casing failure that all Made mechs suffer a few hundred years into their existence is actually a natural part of their development, since the sparks obv couldn’t grow to full size sharing someone else’s spark chamber. Typhus’s spark took four thousand years to get to that point, because a) his carrier, the determinant of his relative spark strength, is not a Point One Percenter and b) Pharma was starved when he gave birth.

This wasn’t included bc, well, they don’t know. There wasn’t enough research into made mechs for them to find out, but I imagine it would happen whenever Velocity gets enthusiastic around Pharma and nudges him to start researching.

“I called him,” Pharma said, which puzzled Typhus.

Squawkbox and Pharma don’t have much to say to each other, but they do share an incredible and identical headache whenever Typhus Does Things. Also, Pharma never expressed it, but he was grateful that Squawkbox kept an eye on Typhus this whole time. And Squawkbox never said it, but he is disturbingly invested in his weird comrade-in-experiencing-Typhus not killing himself. This exchange was Pharma shooting him a text like ‘you gotta see this shit’ and Squawkbox dropped everything (and half of himself) to get there and see it.

“I,” Pharma said, suddenly devastated. “I didn’t—I did that right in front of you. Why did I do that in front of you?”

“You don’t have to,” Typhus said instead. He had already forgiven Pharma. “They’re yours. You don’t have to give them to anyone.”

Just to clarify, Pharma is being repentant on his ‘cutting his hand off to assert control over his own body’ bit, which Typhus has already forgiven him for. Typhus has not forgiven him for the suicide attempt, however.

First Aid paused, then handed it over. Pharma looked upon it with reverence, like something foul within him was coming undone. He installed the casing into its cradle, attaching the complex circuitry, pipes, and wires at a dizzying speed.

Something Pharma never said but both First Aid and Ratchet have guessed (but not Typhus! Dammit!) is that Pharma wanted to do Typhus’s birth himself. Not just in prepping the body, like he said in his suicide note. It didn’t happen. He probably had to tell someone near the end of his incubation, and then a blacksmith came with all the materials they could scrape up after the war (not much) for an in house birth. And then Pharma opened his spark chamber, experienced something incredibly dangerous and painful, and woke up in his cell, sans warmth of one extra spark.

He probably still opens his spark chamber to check, rubbing his modified fuel line obsessively as a comfort. In his darkest moments he probably felt that he imagined it all, that there was never a sparkling and he was just always alone, and now also crazy.

Also, another tidbit I wasn’t able to sneak in: given that his cell wasn’t entirely private, Pharma’s neighbors inevitably saw him fiddling with his own spark sometimes. They made fun of him thinking it’s a sex thing. Pharma never corrected them.

Pharma stayed put. “Typhus,” he said, turning to him with a soft look. ”Let’s go home.”

If you read extra ultra mega super closely, you’ll realize that Typhus has said "Let's go home" exactly three times in the story before Pharma says it back. Evil grin.

Honorable mentions!

To add onto the Pharma sews Ratchet’s hand back together scene, I envisioned them doing it in the Speakeasy, since it took so long and Pharma was unwilling to do it on Ratchet’s turf. Ratchet comes with a box of luxury crystal treats, the equivalent of a human chocolate box. Pharma snacks on it periodically until he eats the whole box, to which Ratchet’s response is to produce another box of crystals. Typhus is unhappy to see how smug Ratchet is over the whole thing. This was axed bc the scene didn’t happen, and because it conflicted with Pharma’s eating disorder.

A line that I really wanted to put in, had planned to put in, was pretty much chomping at the bit to put in but was unable to, goes something like this:

Ratchet stared at him. “Kid. You’re a forged blacksmith. ”

Typhus ignored him and looked to Pharma. “No. I’m a made blacksmith.”

(vine boom)

I can’t believe I forgot this, though thankfully the comments speculating on Typhus’s outlier reminded me. Typhus’s outlier is made to directly contrast with Tarn’s. Where Tarn’s voice can bend living metal to his will, Typhus has control over sparks (the only part of a mech Tarn cannot influence) that he can hear (as opposed to Tarn’s voice affecting people who can hear him). So far he hasn’t tried to control any of the sparks yet (aside from Pharma’s) and tbh he probably won’t ever attempt such a thing again. His influence over sparks depends on how far away he is from them and how well he can ‘tune’ into them. His powers, like Tarn’s, is also able to grow more powerful if he works on them. At the height of his potential, you can imagine him silently killing troves upon droves of people, snuffing out their sparks before they could do anything in retaliation. As an aside, even if this was war, Typhus would likely remain pacifistic until Pharma had been badly hurt/killed, at which point he will leave behind a row of bodies until he could crush the perpetrator's spark with his own hands.

Sometime in the future once they do actually have Typhus’s outlier figured out, someone (probably First Aid) will probably silently remark that Pharma’s act of giving Typhus his hands effectively neutralized Typhus. Even with his outlier, Typhus cannot engage in any sort of meaningful violence without damaging his delicate medic hands. He had prevented the rest of them having to defend Typhus, and protected Typhus from succumbing to violence. With his love.

Also, Typhus’s hearing is good, but not good enough to reach across the city to hear the Speakeasy. He was only able to do that because Squawkbox, someone very near and dear to him (and whose spark he subconsciously recognized) was in the Speakeasy. What Typhus was hearing was the Speakeasy as Squawkbox heard it. This is also only possible because Squawkbox, as the combination of two intel-gathering cassettes, have their hearing hardwired to their core. If their hearing didn’t pass through their cores, or if Typhus didn’t know them so well, then he would not be able to hear the Speakeasy.

All right, I think that’s everything. If there’s still something you’d like to know about this AU, just ask. I probably have an answer.