Chapter Text
His earliest memories were faint, blurry things, occasionally spliced with serrated edges that managed to wound him even in the present, yet they were still all soaked in an insurmountable flood of hunger and the sensation of drowning in its resulting fragility. They hadn't been able to access any of their memory files; he didn't know why, but he was thankful for it, nonetheless. He was sure the others were too. If the ones who rescued them had known, truly, what had happened to the rest, they likely would have sent them all back to that Primus-forsaken place.
Combatron, mockingly called the “Apocalypse Planet,” was a volatile place at the edge of the Autobot Commonwealth: dust-ridden, irradiated and subject to acid storms at a moment’s notice. It was a product of the Great War, but it hadn't been extended the restoration efforts that the Hub did to many others. It, instead, had its own…unique uses that he only knew the basics of. Combatron was his original planet. He never thought of it as his own, though. None of them had, not even their caretakers.
There weren't any other bots around his stage of development, so he never really had much company besides his fellow batch mates. In fact, there were not many bots there at all, and the few that were weren't up for conversation, especially not with a difficult-to-control group of rowdy sparklings. They forged themselves with much sturdier material—however haphazard and clearly nonprofessional—than Bumblebee had seen since. Not even Bulkhead stood a chance against any one of them. He wasn't resistant to acid like they were.
It didn't leave him lonely or anything. There were fifty of them at the very beginning—a piece of it all meticulously planned to get the highest odds of success, of course. He just…wanted something else. Something he couldn't identify. He never had the chance to find out what it was.
The happy—if they could really be called that—memories stopped there, and, after that, pure, simple chaos.
He hadn't heard much about the issue at first, just bits and pieces of a discussion between his caretakers about a “supply chain sabotage” while he had been eavesdropping alongside B-292, who he had urged into joining so the yellow bot wouldn't be the only one at fault. However, the information only became relevant when their energon rations got smaller by the orbital cycle, eventually withering down into nothing. A few of them, the more perceptive ones—B-127 was not among their fold just yet—put what he and B-292 mentioned together with the recently vanishing supply, coming to a conclusion that scared most of them to their core. All of them had been through difficult times: watching one of their own being eaten through by the acid rain during their earlier stellar cycles, thinking of himself to be fortified enough to withstand it, or another that was swallowed up by the ground itself when trailing behind the others, never to be seen again, but nothing to this grand of a scale. They ran out of energon, and nobot knew when it was going to come back, if it ever did.
They were trapped with nothing.
The panic from many of his batch mates managed to infect B-127 as well, viscous, dark and distrusting. Being informed by their caretakers of the situation—scarily close to what the others had predicted—only heightened the mass hysteria that had begun to permeate the atmosphere. The brightly coloured bot wondered if he was going to die like this, starving at the lack of resources beyond his own control, before he was able to do anything with himself.
Fortunately, a select few were saved from that cruel fate, him included, but it wasn't without major sacrifices. One of the most rambunctious of them, B-119—who B-127 had, in the past, gotten along rather well with—hadn't quite gotten the memo. The light blue mech continued to be just as energy spending as he had been before while the rest of them, for the most part, lied low, cautious and scared of what this new situation could bring and what terrors it could produce, only limited by their processors’ sheer capabilities. ‘Somebot’s simulation matrices clearly hadn't been fully developed yet,’ he sneered to himself, watching the light blue mech zip around and play as if nothing were wrong, mostly alone but sometimes with batch mates he managed to wear down enough, not a blip in his processor.
B-119 collapsed only ten stellar cycles—a pure guess on his part—into their energon drought, exposed, and what happened next was the true genesis of it all. They couldn't really be blamed for it. Desperate for any type of sustenance, and driven half mad from its lack, nearly all of the remaining charge units in the area converged on the blue frame. The scene was all blunt denta and clumsy digits trying their best to tear apart pieces for themselves and lap up any energon that remained, pushing and shoving the still living metal that got in their way, the frame below them losing more and more colour at every swipe.
B-119 might've pleaded with them, anguished cries or weak bids for mercy; he doesn't remember. Oddly enough, that part of the memory tends to buzz with visual and audial static whenever he's prompted to revisit it. They wouldn't have listened to him anyways.
From a distance, they were an undulating, screeching mass of mismatched plating vying for scraps and tearing apart one of their own ruthlessly, energon spilling from their intakes, covetous. Looking at it like that, he understood why the caretakers didn't corral them any further after that point. He probably would've run too.
Most of it spilled onto the dusty ground because of the sloppy work, but a small minority that had semi-followed in the excitable mech's pede-steps, ignorant of the situation’s true direness before, didn't let that deter them, scooping up the muddied substance and forcing it down their intakes with choked gags. They weren't going to be next.
It wasn't the best strategy, as they purged all the excess dust later, but the energon did seem to be properly siphoned by their tanks. After all, there didn't look to be much energon remaining in the clotted substance that came back up. Following behind them, he checked just to make sure, searching for any signs of pink, but, unfortunately, it was a boltless endeavour.
More importantly, it ticked up their fuel levels, from danger of shutdown to teetering on the edge, at least for the fastest of them. They stared at each other with wary optics, some set firm and resolute while others—the ones that refused to get their servos dirty or were too slow—reeled back, afraid. B-127 was in the former category.
In only the next few solar cycles, the location was a skeleton of its former self, silent and eerie. The caretakers had taken to barricading themselves in the main wing while his batch mates all scattered wildly around the area, and for good reason. A few of them were on the prowl, himself included. It wasn't enough.
The stellar cycles moved at a desperate crawl, help nowhere in sight and left to their own devices. Nobot had attacked yet, tension still thick as a steel cord, but, at this point, word of the “feral” charge units had made its way to the remaining inhabitants of the planet. It wasn't a good idea to go after the older bots anyways, B-127 thought, too experienced and tough, willing to take out sparkings for their own survival, and he was proven right again and again. A few of his now-dead batch mates—the arrogant, prideful ones like the victim to the acid rain—were found scattered around nearby buildings, holes blown through them and bled of most of their energon thanks to gravity, already soaked layers deep into the ground, unsalvageable.
Like that, they were so small. So weak. Pathetic.
It deterred the majority from even coming close, fearful of retribution, but B-127 was not one of them. The small bot knew opportunity when he laid his optics on it. He snuck by each area under the cover of darkness, dragging the dead frames as far away as he could get them from any potential stalking units that viewed him as an easy target. He was surely leaving marks that led directly towards the building they had all matured in, but the whole complex was vast and winding. If anything, he wanted them to try. Even if they did manage to find him, he would make sure they didn't spill to anyone else.
B-127 happened to be aware of something the rest of his batch mates weren't. After all, recognising things he shouldn't was one of the few benefits to being the resident screwloose of the bunch. He knew there were little pockets of energon that remained in their systems, closed circuit systems that hadn't evaporated just yet, but it was difficult to get through to them as he was now.
They might still be young, barely matured, but their plating had already solidified, and the padded insulation did no favours when trying to tear off sizable chunks in order to get at the more valuable insides. B-127 went through a bunch of scenarios in his RAM, staring blankly at his blocky digits, anger welling in his optics. The harsh blue lights reflecting off his servos dimmed as they narrowed, considering something downright dangerous. They could be…sharper. Harsher edges to more easily wedge beneath already damaged surfaces and inflict deep cuts to provide him with the appropriate leverage. He pulled at a weaker point on one of the frames, the sturdy structure ruined by the large hole-like gouge that marred his chest plate. It tore, and he tumbled back, almost tripping over another frame. He grasped the sharp piece instinctively as if it were something to steady himself, but it only served to slice unevenly through the first tiny bit of his plating, gasping at the barely-there sensation.
He clutched it hesitantly in his jittery servo, bringing it closer to his unoccupied one, digits splayed in a grim offering. It was slow work, amateurish in nature. B-127 had to manually shut off his voice box halfway through the process so he wouldn't give away his position. He filed and filed and filed. It hurt. His servos were shaking uncontrollably, vents coming out in shallow pants and the steam that had billowed out along with it curled around his intake, possessive and choking.
Finally, it was done. His sensors were rubbed raw and ragged, the pain dry and sharp, yet his sensation disappeared entirely in some areas, leaving behind a puzzling tingle that leached out from his broken sensors, corroding his processor with a mix of conflicting information. They had been abraded to rough, asymmetrical points, but they would do for now. He didn't have the luxury to polish his work. B-127 ignored the sting that constantly zipped through his frame as he pulled one of the dead frames closer to himself, heaving now after such a marginal effort, his plating rattling as if it were to fall off, like a mech about to join the scrapheap. He couldn't tell if it was the critically low fuel warnings or his escapade in self-modification that started it. It didn't matter.
Digging his newly sharpened digits under the gaps in the frame—he wasn't sure who this one was, his death robbing him of any individuality he may have had—he tore with desperation, tossing separated pieces to the wayside in his hunt for what he craved for, needed, even. The stagnant pink liquid, burbling with impurities, stood out starkly in the dull internals of his circuitry. His glossa flicked outward in anticipation, optics dim, yet empty of the hollow that had been present before, if only temporarily.
He dipped a single digit into the priceless resource, its disgustingly fluorescent pink sticking to it like melted metal. He admired it for a cycle or two, mesmerised, before shoving it near his intake without any further preamble, pouring it down the orifice, starved. He didn't care if it was safe or not. It slid down tantalisingly slow, the impatient charge unit swallowing in an attempt to get it to his tanks faster. It settled at its own pace, laden deeply despite the truly minuscule amount. B-127 churred quietly to himself, and, with a precision he didn't know he had, he tore out the entirety of the metallic organ that held it so carefully, its top jagged from his earlier ministrations. Guiding it to his intake with the little dignity that remained, its edges caught on his dermal mesh, splitting it like a knife to mercury, a few droplets of energon beading at the opening.
The thick substance followed the flow of gravity to its new resting place with unending grace, and B-127 hugged his midsection tightly in joy, compressing the sleek black mesh that coated it after he dropped the now useless vesicle, its clatter muted. A silent, manic smile rose to his face plates, unbidden, at this wonderful discovery. He gazed back down at the dissected, unmoving figure below him, scrambling to peel more swathes of plating off—care the furthest thing from his processor—finding every last hollow that contained energon that hadn't managed to escape, scavenging all that he could. Eventually, the oil deposits ran out of organics to exploit, and he knew he had to stop, no matter how starved he was. Energon would be hard to come by, and he needed to keep his energy levels up as much as possible, not greedily fill his tanks to bursting at the first sign of good fortune. He was out of the danger zone anyways, so he needn't go further until he reached that point again.
After exhausting every microlitre of the neon lifeblood in the span of a mere servo full of stellar cycles—he thinks—the small mech was at a loss. He hadn't seen a single living bot in so long—his chronometer had died on him early, one of many nonessential functions shutting down for his own survival—so he didn't actually know how much time had passed after those first few stellar cycles. His frame was demanding sustenance again, and he had no way to satisfy those cravings. The disemboweled frames scattered around him, a gruesome display, had nothing left to offer. ‘Maybe…?’
Without thinking any further, he snatched a torn piece off the ground—part of the pauldron, he believes—and attempted to force it down, biting hard. It was too large, and his denta were much too flat to do anything but dent it. A huff left his intake as he threw it petulantly away from him, clanking against the unshined wall. The minibot felt the sound reverberate throughout his frame, even the tips of his digits tingling at the disruption, and he froze, straining his audials to check if his tantrum had been heard by anybot else.
His vents hitched, wheezing as foreign pede-steps came closer and closer. The terrified bot shakily stood up, optics flickering around the room for a good place to hide, but he stopped after realising his action, disgusted with himself. He can't cower now. Not after what he did to himself to give him just that much more of a fighting chance. However, he still had to be smart about it. The thuds echoed around him, trying and failing to box him in, paralyse him even. Steeling his sensors, he settled himself just to the side of the entryway, lying in wait, claws flexed and trembling in anticipation.
The noise ground to a careful halt, only small shuffles remaining in an awkward attempt to stay hidden. It didn't work. At the first glimpse of pale green plating, the newly modified charge unit struck, a new claw digging deep into his side and filled with the terrible urge to bite, which he succumbed to. The other mech was screaming. He stuck a servo in his mouth to stifle the noise. The cool coloured minibot choked on the intruding digits, whipping his helm around wildly to dislodge it, but the sharp points had already pierced through the back of his intake, warm rivulets of energon leaking out as a result. He wanted to send his charge through his denta to stop the other from his irritating writhing right at the source, but he knew he couldn't pull it off; at least, not as he was.
The mesh was nearly ductile on his glossa. It wasn’t too terribly unpleasant, given the odd circumstance, and he considered doubling down on the foolish action for a nanoklik, the minute amount of pride he had left trying and failing to hold on. With a deep sigh, he relented, pulling his helm back with no hurry in his movements, denta having left an impermanent imprint, but nothing lasting to the deceptively tough material. B-225 didn't seem to notice or care, far too caught up in gargling unintelligibly around his digits, limbs grasping for purchase but unable to find a good angle to strike back. Both servos clenched further, drawing a tiny whimper from the pale green mech.
B-127 could feel the heated energon sliding down his digits stuffed in the other's intake, slowly coalescing into droplets and falling deeper into his tanks. He hungered to taste it, but haste would lead to waste, as someone said to him in the past—the face plate, voice and name attached to it something he couldn't recall. He wrenched the frame closer to him, their plating sparking against each other at the resulting friction, as he held the pale one up so his pedes were forced to dangle and sway, putting him at even more of a disadvantage, the concept of escape now a mere fragmented memory. The smaller bot's upper stabilisers twitched sporadically at the nearly unbearable added weight, but the yellow mech refused to back down. Pressing harder into the inside of the increasingly frantic minibot’s intake, his other servo unlatched from his side, digits retreating from where they had pierced plating. He dragged his pointed digits up the other's frame, scratching off agonisingly sheer bits of his plating, before settling on the outside of his neck cables, resting. A suitable threat.
He pressed down hard.
The yellow charge unit heard the telltale groan of metal emanating from the mech in his grasp, and he pushed further, sinking his claws in as well. The outside mesh broke easily underneath the newfound sharpness, exposing delicate circuitry that fizzled and sparked with a pink-blue glow to it. Could that also provide him with energy? His glossa tingled in anticipation and, finally, finally, he sharply twisted his servos in opposite directions, cleanly cutting the main energon lines to the processor.
Dropping the slowly dying frame unceremoniously and licking at the energon that lingered on his servo, now withdrawn from the gasping intake, B-127 bent at the knee joints to stare blankly at his batch mate, watching his optics sputter. The remaining functional bot, satisfied with the other's pitiful state, then reached for another sharp piece of metal from an already torn apart frame, clutching it tightly before turning it on himself, opening his intake hesitantly and stabbing brutally at his flat denta set, clumsy and wrong.
The light fizzled from B-255’s optics shortly after, face plate painted in horror.
B-127 sat, with crossed stabilisers, next to where B-255’s frame had rested, most of him entirely gone with only a few puddles of viscous black liquid—the unprocessed parts of the metal—that remained. A knee joint bounced intermittently as his digits tapped at the metallic ground in an eerie rhythm. His newly forged denta did exactly what he made them for, providing him with the ability to make use of all the dead had to offer, as long as there was some charge that remained in the frames.
The tapping shifted to erratic, processor becoming more frenzied. He had already tested his new weapon on the dead charge units that used to surround him, not nearly as sufficient at replenishing his depleting stores, a majority of the pieces coming back up intact. He needed to keep them running for longer.
It was clear his denta could pierce straight through their insulation, denta tending to clink against each other when he dedicates himself to biting down, leaving the highly conductive circuitry exposed for his own devices. He could go even further. It would make things easier for himself. He needed all the advantages he could get on this desolate, deteriorating planet.
Grasping at that same section of metal plating—one of the few things he hadn't at least attempted to consume, the other pieces too small to accomplish anything—he turned it towards himself once again. Placing it against the interior insulation that snugly wrapped the fuel lines and cables in his intake, he began to saw into the tough material. He made the first incision—uneven and crooked—as far down as he could, only stopping when the angle made it impossible for him to continue. Extricating the foreign tool from himself, he replaced it in favour of his own digits, delicately grabbing the newly made flap between a few of his clawed digits and pulling. Some of his actual fuel line went with it, energon pouring out in its wake. Panicked, he transformed his servo into one of his stingers and sent a bolt of electricity through, shoddily closing the wound and completely melting the sensors nearby, numbing the sensation. Bringing himself back to a moderate level of awareness, he continued on like that, tearing out portions of his lining and quickly welding the damaged cables and lines back into place until he was left with a pile of rubbery mesh on the ground, bits of jagged metal stubbornly holding on to most of the pieces, and no feeling in his intake.
B-127 ran his glossa over his newest self-modification, making sure he didn't damage anything through feeling for energon now that the location couldn't react to any stimuli. Additionally, he was unable to see his work accurately in the dull metal walls that surrounded him, as only the outsides of most buildings were plated with gold. He had no idea how many of his batch mates, or other bots, were out as of now. It wouldn't be safe to take such a chance.
He flinched as he nicked the sensitive appendage on the serrated edge of his denta with ease, the energon in him oozing out, viscous and dark. He didn't do anything about it besides shut his intake entirely. The tear was inconsequential enough. After all, there's no loss if none escapes.
He passed by yet another empty room, its furniture in complete disarray. His old refuge had worn out its usefulness fully, and, since he now has a missile locked on his back plates somehow—perhaps they heard the wails and pleas for the embrace of death after he lured the next three to his location—he had to keep moving. Not like there was anything in there anymore, anyways. Nothing of use to him.
He knew where the caretakers were staying. They all did. It was obvious, barricaded shut and locked tight. Nobot could get into it, though, at least, not the conventional way. The yellow mech looked both ways to ensure he wasn't being followed, then slunk to one side of the hallway, his servos sliding down its surface, checking for something, as his optics followed suit. Finding a defect between the layers of the walls, he brandished his claws and tore the extra metal off, revealing a grate hidden behind. A grin grew on B-127’s face plate; he had known it was nearby. He was the reason most of them were blocked off, caught too many times in those cramped spaces spying on his caretakers or simply falling into a light recharge away from his batch mates. At the time, he had wondered why they had made the ventilation system large enough for a charge unit to fit inside, but most of the buildings were made based on the average sized frame’s standard specs, so he didn't question it much further.
Using his sharpened digits, the second cover was no match for him either, the grated surface ripped off the wall in its entirety, now a useless piece of scrap, before he crouched down and crawled into the opening. The darkness comforted him, and he resisted the strong temptation to shut off his optics and lie there for as long as he was able, but he couldn't. He was vulnerable in this condition—unable to cover his lower half—and he had a mission to complete. That kind of reward would have to come later, when the danger was gone.
He would never be safe.
The thin metal surrounding him groaned under his weight, the path sprawling outwards as he creeped forward. A crude map he had begun before the whole ordeal took up a quarter of his HUD, the previously travelled paths highlighted in yellow and places of interest in green—his two favourite colours at the time—while the few lingering unknowns stayed a stark black, empty and unaccounted for. He ignored the latter part. It wouldn't be needed for what he wanted to accomplish right now.
He was operating on autopilot, his processor much more focused on the noise surrounding him, in case somebot was following him. So far, it didn't seem to be the case, his audials only picking up his own movements and the filtration system that kept the acid from ruining the building's interior, and its inhabitants, of course. A stark rumble rang out through the enclosed space, and B-127 went rigid the nanoklik it registered, stabilisers trembling the slightest bit even while he locked them at the joints, struggling to support his unmoving frame at such an off angle. The horned minibot cautiously tilted his helm upwards, extending his audials’ range that much more, scanning for enemies.
Nothing happened, and the bright yellow bot vented out a heaving sigh of relief, so weighty that both sets of stabilisers gave out from underneath him, a thud echoing out and lingering in his audials as a result. It left him collapsed in the vent, which shook, with his plating flared out and a servo coming to muffle the sounds of any laughter that might escape him. It was just a defect in construction. He knew that. He had experienced them before. The hysterics rose to a nearly uncontrollable level. It reverberated back at him at every angle, mocking his weakness. He was going crazy.
He continued onwards, focus snapped back into proper place. Just a few more bends and he would be right where he wanted. He hoped he'd get there before they fell. The energon is still mostly salvageable at that point. However, even if they did, at least that way their caretakers would have so graciously left their starved forms on display for their charges, providing them with one last potential lesson: how each different frame type fillets.
Hushed whispers rose to his audials, and B-127 pressed his face plate into the metal grate to his side, picking up tone and individual words. Five separate bots, the same as it had been since the start. B-127 frowned at the implication. How were they all still functioning? “…contact…lost…been stellar cycles!”
“…mission failed?”
“Who CARES about the mission!” The smallest in the group suddenly blew up, the hidden onlooker recoiling at the increase in volume, audials ringing. “What about US?! It's clear now that those-those FREAKS,” the slight femme gestured wildly at the blocked off door, anions practically pouring out of her incensed frame, “would never have worked! This was a failure from the start, and we ALL knew it!”
“Now–”
“Don't try to reason with me, wrecker,” she spat out, the title like ingested acid on her glossa. “You know I'm right.” Silence was the only answer that greeted her. Nobot wanted to admit it. “See?! You all–”
“Wait,” one of the standard frames piped up, pronounced audial horns—quite similar to B-127’s own—tilted in the same way the charge unit had previously. “Do you hear that?”
The room hushed, distant thuds echoing. The wrecker frame, who had been in the back, stilled entirely before marching in front of the rest of them, upper stabilisers unfurled in a protective manner, speech curt as always, “They've finally begun collaborating. Stay behind me. You've seen how they get when they’re near empty.” The largest caretaker’s voice box crackled at the end, gaining a grainier tinge to it.
B-127 remained stubbornly hidden. He would have no chance taking on the wrecker alone. It was better to leave it to the ones who managed to resist the hunger long enough to work together. He wasn't that strong. Instead, he could pick one or two off in the ensuing frenzy. They didn't even know he was there.
The door caved inwards shortly after in a melted, multicoloured pile, followed by angry currents of red-orange and yellow-pink electricity, the former lining the walls, successfully caging them in while the latter was aimed directly at the wrecker's spark. B-127 chuckled deviously, a single word running repetitively through his processor. ‘Chaos.’