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Bumblebee always had a knack for sensing EM fields. For as long as his memory files have been active, he’s been able to pick up the electromagnetic waves spilling from a bot’s plating; it didn’t matter how tightly kept the field was to their protoform, Bumblebee just knew .
Knew that they were sad, happy, angry, or whatever else they might be feeling. Emotions weren’t always clear cut. Most of the time, they were a mix. A muddled up mess of anything and everything running through a bots processor at any given point in time.
There have been very few times where he’s been unable to pick up an EM field, main one being the entirety of bootcamp. It was a requirement for new cadets to have field dampeners due to the impression that lousy EM field control can lead to field training distractions and disasters. The dampeners were only taken off for EM field specific training, which first-vorn cadets didn’t get much of. That was for more experienced trainees.
He hated it.
He hated not knowing what the other cadets were thinking. Feeling. It made his plating crawl and his cables itch. Processor running a thousand miles a breem as he examined their faceplates and body language, desperate for any clues. For all he knew, everyone was out to get him. Not just Sentinel, not just Ironhide, not just Wasp. Everyone .
He couldn’t read them and it was suffocating.
But, oh well, it’s over now.
His dampeners were off, removed when he and Bulkhead were removed from the academy.
As much as he wanted to be in the Elite Guard, he couldn’t help the relief flowing through him when the dampeners were removed and he could breathe . The world was no longer after him. He was free.
Then, they crash landed on Earth.
Reading fields was one thing, what protocols they triggered in his processor was another. For the most part, they were just there. Just existing, hovering around the bot they stemmed from and occasionally reaching far enough for his sensors to pick up. Background noise. Something that could be brushed away and forgotten with practice.
Then, there were cries for help that made his stabilizers move before his processor caught up, heading towards the source. Pain, hurt, suffering, panic. Protocols drifted across his HUD with lines he’s never seen before. Protocols that triggered coding he didn’t know he had, making him act not like him.
It felt wrong. It felt right. It felt confusing.
And it all started in Detroit.
Prowl nearly offilining sent code cascading into his system that was long dormant in his processor. He had to help, his frame needed to help. Prowl was hurting and Bumblebee had to do something, the raging code just hasn’t decided on what, yet.
Then, Sari plugged the key into Prowl’s plating and the ninjabot was fine. Bumblebee’s newly onlined code still swam as it sorted itself within his files, but the urge to do something had faded to a trickle.
Same thing happened when he sensed Optimus’ field dim and extinguish. Saw his grey frame in a crater, surrounded by crack and broken pavement. Bumblebee’s frame itched to move, protocols he didn’t understand taking over his HUD, then Sari appeared with the key and Optimus was good as new.
His new code didn’t fade to a trickle, though. It was a stream, babbling through his processor, slow flowing but strengthening, slowly eroding the banks around it.
It made his plating crawl with something he couldn’t quite place.
The next few weeks on Earth, Bumblebee wasn’t quite sure how to handle himself and the new coding.
He wasn’t about to ask for help, either.
So, he meandered around, doing his best to ignore the EM fields surrounding him, stabbing at his sensors when they used to be nothing more than static. The two near-death experiences had left the team tense, despite the relative relaxation they had afterwards.
“Anxiety” was the best way he could describe it. And Bee couldn’t tell if it was his or his team. It forced the stream to widen, an influx of code wanting to make him do something that he could still not yet place.
He started to follow Ratchet around.
Despite the hubbub in their early cycles here in Detroit, the medic’s field had been consistent. For the most part, it was apathetic. If it wasn’t apathetic, it was most likely annoyed. It was familiar and nonimposing. So, despite the medic’s grumbles, Bumblebee stuck to his side like a magnet.
“Bumblebee,” Ratchet sighed one morning as he dug through some of the cabinets in the medbay. Bumblebee laid on the med-berth behind the older mech, arms under his helm to support it and stabilizers crossed, pede absentmindedly tapping in the air. The minibot hummed an acknowledgement and the medic continued, “Why are you here?”
Bumblebee’s optics traced the ceiling tiles for a bit, following the seams until movement caught his eye and he started watching a small spider move along the wall. Why was he here?
He couldn’t tell Docbot that “Yeah, everyone’s fields are so loud and it’s making the new code in my processor go wild. Did I mention I noticed new code and protocols? I swear it’s not a virus, I think. Anyway-”
“Kid.” Ratchet spoke again, causing Bumblebee’s helm to turn. The mech was no longer looking into the cabinets, opting to, instead, focus his attention on the yellow minibot.
“Needed some quiet.” Is all Bee said.
Ratchet stared at him for a minute after that, brows furrowed and confusion in his field. Then, his optical ridges shot up with a flash of recognition followed by a lingering echo of pity.
Irritation laced Bumblebee’s own field. What the hell is the pity for? What is the old mech thinking? That he was in need of some sort of sympathy card or something?
The minibot hefted himself off the berth with a huff, “I think I’m gonna go for a drive.”
By the time Ratchet uttered a “kid, wait!”, Bumblebee was already out the door.
It was a nice day for a drive.
When he returned that night, Ratchet didn’t say a single thing to him. The pity was still there, however.
Bumblebee decided to steer clear of the medic for a while.
“Bumblebee, what are you doing?” Prowl asked from just outside the medbay door. They had just back from a battle with Blitzwing and Lugnut and the yellow minibot had made a B-line straight for the medbay.
“Stealing my supplies, that’s what he’s doing.” Ratchet grumbled, pushing his way past Prowl and into the bay. He grabbed the minibot by his torso and pulled him back from his precarious position on the countertop, riffling through the top-most cabinets.
“Hey!” Bumblebee squawked, squirming in the medics hold. His pedes touched the ground and Ratchet went back to sorting through the mess Bumblebee made of his organization system, “I was doing something there, Docbot!”
“Yeah, making a mess.” Ratchet huffed, skimming through the supplies to see what’s missing, “Not a dent on you and yet you make a mess of my supplies like you’re the one dying.”
“S’not for me.” Bumblebee muttered, optics darting away and arms crossing.
Prowl moved to lean against the doorway, “Then who’s it for?”
Bumblebee shot a glare at the black-and-gold mech.
It’s true, it wasn’t for him. It wasn’t for his team, either. They were a little sore, sure. A few superficial dents here and there, but nothing life-threatening.
He shouldn’t even be worrying about them. He’s not a medic, afterall. He’s had nothing but the basic medical training all cadets are first to go through their first semester, and he didn’t even pay attention to half of it.
Yet, his subspace was heavy with stolen medical supplies.
“Leave it,” Ratchet snapped, setting the supplies back neatly in the cabinet, “He can’t help it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Bumblebee hissed. He could help it! Whatever this was, he could help it.
Ratchet shot him an unimpressed stare.
“Do enlighten me, Ratchet.” Prowl spoke, having, at some point, fully shifted into the medbay and now standing against the far wall, “What can’t he help?”
“It’s not any of your business.” Bumblebee snapped, stomping out of the medbay.
Optimus sat at the computer system, monitoring…. something. He didn’t look like he was monitoring much of anything, really. Bulkhead and Sari sat on the couch. The TV was on, but the volume was down so low that it might as well have been a silent film. The curiosity oozing from the fields in the room screamed eavesdropping.
Nosy! All of them were nosy!
Bunch of gossips.
Sure, it was probably a bit much to snap like he did but, damn it, it was agitating. Something was agitating. And he had a pretty good idea of what that something was.
The little stream of coding had eroded the banks until it was a river. The protocols screaming in his processor were more noticeable than ever, and he had a pretty good idea on why.
Not that he wanted to share with the class, of course. Though he was pretty sure Ratchet knew exactly what was going on. A mech as old as he was could surely put two-and-two together and Bumblebee was sure he had figured it out weeks ago.
A glimpse outside told Bumblebee all he needed to know. The sun was setting, leaving an orange-ish hue fading from the sky. Perfect time for a drive. So, without much of a word, he made his way outside and set off into the sunset.
When Blitzwing and Lugnut first landed in Detroit, the unwanted code in Bumblebee’s processor became more erratic than ever. It felt like his processor was burning with how much the code tried to bulldoze its way forward, protocols trying to overtake his frame and block his HUD.
Every hit landed on them or his teammates sent his processor scrambling for purchase. To do something to help. Something he wasn’t familiar with yet his frame deemed it an old friend. It was almost painful. It was distracting.
While his new protocols went off with each time one of his teammates were injured, even activating on the rare occasion when Lugnut was hurt, it was always active around Blitzwing.
It wasn’t hard to tell why.
The triple changers field was as erratic as his faceplates. Changing on a dime, constantly. Angry, amused, apathetic, curious, etc. So many emotions that it was enough to send Bumblebee’s helm spinning.
The most notable thing, though, was the pain. Blitzwing was in pain. He was hurting. His field screamed panic, pain and suffering constantly.
Bumblebee’s new protocols didn’t like that.
A voice in the back of his files whispered tales of dying soldiers who didn’t deserve to be alone as the energon fled their fuel lines.
Tales he wasn’t a part of but sure as slag felt like he was.
His protocols stayed active after that first fight. He kept doing things he couldn’t quite explain but also could. Like his processor was trying to keep up with what his frame already knew. He tuned into his team’s EM fields, assessed their frames after each battle, and, if they were hurt, he’d basically shove either Ratchet to them or them to Ratchet. When the medic was down, Bumblebee did his best to administer first aid.
It was a shoddy job at best, but Ratchet didn’t say anything besides a grumbled “thank you”. Bumblebee’s protocols congratulated him on the successful mission and they all went on with their day.
One of the things that his protocols insisted on was a nightly patrol. It was especially hard to ignore after a battle. When he started to insist on taking up the evening patrol slots, Optimus was hesitant. Ratchet eventually convinced him to agree and it took all of three seconds for Bumblebee to be spinning his tires and racing through Detroit.
The first place he would check would always be where the fight had been that day. If there hadn’t been a fight, he would check a previous battle site. He hadn’t known what he was looking for, at first, anyway. It wasn’t until his second or third patrol did it click.
He was searching for EM fields, scanning for energon, and searching every nook and cranny that could have been looked over.
He was searching for bodies.
And, boy, did that send a shiver straight to his protoform.
It was on one of these patrols that he caught the briefest graze of an EM field against his own. It was far away, but it was loud . Loud and in pain and Bumblebee had to go and do something to fix it.
It was Blitzwing.
The warframe was sitting on a forested overlook, facing the city lights of Detroit.
Logically, Bumblebee should have been afraid. Aggressive, maybe. Call for back up, definitely.
Yet, he didn’t.
Instead, the minibot had cleared his vocoder, making the Decepticon jump into a defensive position.
He should have been running for his life as the twin cannons started to glow with a fiery charge, yet he stood there, as calm as a bot could be with their spark running a million miles a minute in its chamber, and asked, “Can I sit here?”
And, to his surprise, Blitzwing had raised his cooling cannons back into their resting position and said “Sure.”
Bumblebee would be lying if he said it wasn’t a very tense city-watching session. He was halfway expecting the triple changer to go “ Sike! ” and kick him down the cliff at any minute. It never happened, though.
Eventually, Blitzwing stood up and left without a word. The next fight, it was like nothing had happened. Bumblebee suspected it would never happen again.
But then he caught a brief feeling of that pained EM field the next night and found Blitzwing overlooking the city again.
It became a common occurrence. Most patrols would end with him and Blitzwing overlooking the city. Besides the bare minimum greetings, they didn’t really talk much.
Not until one cool winter night while they looked out towards the glowing blanket of fog that was Detroit.
“Why are you here, minibot?” Blitzwing had asked, optics never leaving the city glow. Even on a foggy night, the pollution kept the stars from revealing themselves. How sad.
Bumblebee didn’t know how to answer. He didn’t have a concrete reason for being here. Just that he protocols told him to be here and to…. Well, he wasn’t sure. So, he just simply said, “Because I want to be.”
Blitzwing huffed at the mention, faceplate shifting into something more cruel, “That’s a bunch of bullslag and you know it. You vultures are all the same.”
“What?” Bumblebee responded dumbly. What the scrap was this mech's problem?
“Your type searches battlefields for the dying, flocking to them like a hoard of hungry scraplets. You’re an omen.” Blitzwing hissed, visor glowing red hot, “Well I’m not dying. So you can frag off.”
The minibot could only shutter his widened optics a few times. His type? An omen? What the hell!
“Better watch what you say, Blitzbrain.” Bumblebee snapped, pointing a digit accusingly at the warframe. Who cares if the mech is easily twice his height. The amount of disrespect he was just shown, for simply sitting next to him, was ridiculous, “I’m just trying to be nice and give you some company.”
“It’s never just company with you casualty bots,” Blitzwing seethed, leaning close enough that the tip of Bumblebee’s digit knocked against his cockpit glass and the minibot could feel the heat pouring from his plating, “You’re always lurking around the dying. Staying with them until they offline. Then you drag their gray frames back for harvesting.”
“What the hell are you talking about?!” Bee exclaimed, taken back by the implication, “I’m not here to tear you apart. Drag you back to who knows where. Do I look like I could drag your frame? What the heck even is a “casualty bot” anyway?”
Blitzwing leaned back a bit, frown becoming less pronounced and faceplate shifting to blue. A monocle zoomed in and out, examining the yellow minibot.
“Curious,” Blitzwing mumbled as he continued his skeptical observation, “You do not know your function?”
“Of course I know my function!” Bumblebee defended. Technically, he was in charge of communications and electrical components on spacebridge repair. That was lame, though. Instead, his platting raised ever so slightly off his protoform as he puffed out his chassis. With a grin on his face and a thumb pointed in his direction with a sense of pride, Bumblebee stated “I’m an Autobot scout.”
Though the triple changer’s blue faceplate wasn’t known for showing much emotion, the amount of “unimpressed” radiating through both it and his field was strong. With a whirr , a sharp red grin creeped across his face.
“You must be extremely bad at it then!” Blitzwing cackled, “A little Autobot scout fraternizing with a Decepticon.”
Bumblebee’s faceplate heated, “I’m not fraternizing! I just don’t want to sit through one of Ratchet or Optimus’ lectures, okay? Plus, you’re one to talk.”
“I’d rather not be reprimanded for my, ah…” Blitzwing’s icy faceplate returned and his optic flicked to the upper right, digits around his chin guard, “My traitorous ways.”
“Then we’re at an impasse.” Bumblebee concluded with a shrug, “I can’t tell my team about you and you can’t tell your team about me.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Blitzwing agreed, turning his attention back to the city. The fog was starting to thin and individual lights were beginning to reveal themselves. It was silent for a moment before Blitzwing piped up again, “You sure you don’t know what a casualty bot is?”
Bumblebee sighed, throwing himself back on the grass dramatically, pedes swinging over the cliff's edge, “Never heard of it a day in my life.”
That seemed to be enough to please the triple changer.
For a few more hours, they could sit and watch the night lights of Detroit.
It’s been a few Earth months since he and Blitzwing had their little chat. The pair continued to meet up at their little overlook, enjoying each other's company, whether it be through silence or conversation.
Bumblebee wasn’t sure when it turned into something… more . At the start, it was comfortable silence and pleasant conversation. At some point, it migrated into warm embraces and tender kisses. It was a gradual shift, something that just happened over time.
Not that Bumblebee was complaining.
He wasn’t sure when he started to like Blitzwing, but he liked him. Really liked him. Loved him? Maybe… they haven’t gotten around to telling each other that. Perhaps they never will. At least, not when they still had to fight each other on the daily for the sake of their own respective factions.
Their little battles had turned somewhat into games. A game of chase. Despite its appearance as a life-or-death situation, they never really tried to hurt one another. Accidents happened here or there, but it wasn’t anything sinister. A game of cat and mouse. An act.
To Bumblebee’s relief, the EM fields that were driving his processor bonkers had once again simmered into background noise. Most of the time, anyway. Serious injuries still had his protocols spinning with the need of assistance. To give first aid or fetch Ratchet. Maybe even try to drag them somewhere safer if the battle was still raging.
Over the few months he’s spent with Blitzwing, he’s learned a bit more about casualty bots and their purpose. What his model was originally built for.
Casualty bots were the name for minibots during the war. Frames manufactured to be small and unassuming, sent out onto battle fields in the dead of night to try and find wounded to save. Their coding was meant to be a source of comfort to the injured. A friend that was there to help, whether it be through administration of first aid or leading a medic in for more serious matters.
More often than not, those the minibots found were mortally wounded. To be found by a minibot was to be guaranteed death. While the dying mech or femme laid their begging for mercy, clinging to their sputtering spark, the minibot would just sit there and try to soothe. Their automated triage protocols had already deemed the bot a lost cause and now all they could do was wait for their spark to extinguish.
It was a lingering thought in the back of Bumblebee’s processor that maybe he wasn’t as genuine with Blitzwing as he thought. His protocols were still there, they were still active. They were always spiking around Blitzwing, whose field radiated constant pain.
Blitzwing had said the experiment that made him into a triple changer had broken him. Hurt him in more ways than one. Blitzwing was always very vague with the details and Bumblebee didn’t press.
He kept on ensuring Bumblebee that he wasn’t dying. That he was fine.
It took longer than Bumblebee would like to admit to realize the reason why.
Bumblebee’s protocols had triaged the warframe. It had deemed him a lost cause, a dying mech, and was trying to act on it.
Bumblebee hated it.
He was sure his feelings were genuine. They had to be. He liked Blitzwing and Blitzwing liked him. That’s how it works, right?
Even without his casualty bot protocols, he would like Blitzwing… right? He didn’t just view him as a dying mech in need of comfort.
Bumblebee shook his helm as he pulled off the gravel path leading through the forest. His transformation was quick, albeit somewhat clumsy, and he was quick to head into the treeline, servo already reaching into his subspace for any of the medical supplies that might be of use.
Blitzwing was already there, watching over Detroit. His wings flick as their sensors pick up the minibots presence and he turns his helm to him.
“I was starting to worry that you were lost.” Blitzwing said fondly, a hint of concern in his field.
Bumblebee plopped down beside him with a huff, “Ratchet and Prowl cornered me.”
The minibot took Blitzwing’s large servo into his own, twisting it so he could see the pink gash on the underside of his lower arm. Bumblebee had seen the triple changer get sliced with a piece of rebar in their battle earlier in the day. If it was three months ago, Bumblebee would have to be begging to treat this “scratch” for the sake of his own sanity. It took a while, but Blitzwing had relented. Now Bumblebee can fuss over any wounds he wants without much complaint.
“For what?” Blitzwing asks, watching the little yellow mech wrap the cut with more care than one would have suspected.
“They caught me raiding the medbay,” Bumblebee admits. Blitzwing tensing under his servos and the minibot quickly adds, “It’s nothing bad! Just annoyed Ratchet with the mess I was making.”
Blitzwing relaxes slightly, “As if you could make much of a mess.”
Bumblebee smiles, gently smoothing over the bandages before letting go of the warframe’s servo, “Don’t believe anything Ratchet says. I’m the most organized mech alive.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Blitzwing moves his servo up, cupping the side of Bumblebee’s helm. The minibot leans into the touch.
No matter the protocols, the casualty bot code, Bumblebee was sure of one thing.
He loved Blitzwing.
___
“What do you all know about minibots?” Ratchet asked the remaining members of the team.
Bumblebee had left about two hours ago and, if his track record was anything to go by, the little mech wouldn’t be back until sunrise.
“That they’re small.” Bulkhead supplied from the couch.
“And fun!” Sari piped up beside him.
“Annoying.” Prowl states from his spot standing next to the couch. After a few moments of consideration, he adds, “and fuel efficient.”
“Okay, not what I was hoping for.” Ratchet grumbles before turning his attention to Optimus over by the computer, “Anything you want to add, Prime?”
Optimus was silent for a moment, running through the files in his processor. As he finished searching, he spoke, “They started production during the war.”
“Bingo.” Ratchet agrees.
“What does this have to do with anything?” Bulkhead asks, he and Sari not looking stoked by the prospect of a history lesson.
“Is this something to do with Bumblebee?” Prowl asks, revitalizing the attention of the two on the couch.
“Yes.” Ratchet leans back on to the wall behind him, crossing his arms as he begins his recount, “Minibots, back when they were first manufactured, were known as mercy bots.
“Mercy bots were coded specifically to aid in search and recovery of wounded Cybertronians. This included Decepticons that could later be taken in as prisoners. They would be sent out onto the battlefields during lull periods to scan for EM fields of wounded soldiers. Once they found them, they would provide first aid, help them to base, or fetch a medic to bring to them if the situation was dire. If a bot didn’t look like they were gonna make it, a mercy bot would stay with them to keep them company while they passed.”
Ratchet looked a little somber at this. Memories of crying minibots soothing long gray corpses and minibots refusing to go out into the field just to watch another bot die.
“What does this have to do with Bumblebee?” Optimus asks, finials perked in curiosity.
“Well,” Ratchet sighs, “I suspect that our recent conflict with the Decepticons have dredged up dormant coding. You’ve all seen how he’s acted since we’ve been on Earth.”
A chorus of nods, minus a confused Sari. They have all witnessed the change in their scout. He was more clingy than normal, especially after a battle. Despite originally being avoidant of the medbay and anyone or anything associated with it, since they crashed landed on Earth, he’s been practically magnetized to Ratchet’s side. Always hovering and watching. Sneaking medical supplies in and out of cabinets before going on the nightly patrols he insisted on.
He tried to keep a facade of nothing being wrong, that he was still the same old Bumblebee before the first Decepticon attack. Before they found the AllSpark.
“What can we do to help him?” Prowl asks, looking up and towards the medic, dragging his visor away from the floor he’d been previously staring at.
“Nothing.” Ratchet states with a pinched brow, “Once the dormant protocols have been reactivated, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. Not on Earth, anyways. Best to just act like everything is normal. Let him fuss a bit and go on his patrols.”
He didn’t have the equipment to deactivate the mercy bot coding plaguing Bumblebee’s systems right now. At least, not without seriously damaging the minibot’s processor.
From what he could observe, it didn’t seem like Bee knew what was going on in that helm of his. At best, he was confused and at worst, he was irritable. Ratchet couldn’t even imagine what it must be like to have protocols forcibly make themselves known without understanding what they are or why they’re making you do certain things.
They’ve seemed to have calmed in recent months. Why? Ratchet isn’t sure. His best guess is that they’re slowly reintegrating themselves in Bumblebee’s processor. Becoming part of the background rather than assaulting his mind.
The yellow mech still performed typical mercy bot duties but he didn’t act like his processor was melting while doing so. It was an improvement and he wasn’t going to pry until the kid told him himself or it became life-threatening.
It’s a shame , Ratchet thought. There was a reason why the mercy bot coding was placed into dormancy.
In the early stages of the war, mercy bots were deemed essential to troop success. A glimmer of hope to those wounded when a minibot came in the dead of night to bring them safety and comfort. As the war raged on and worsened, there were a lot less wounded to save.
Mercy bots were not programmed to deal with death, at least not very well. They had the programing to triage soldiers and comfort those whose spark was extinguishing, but that was it. There were no protective protocols in their processor to maintain their emotional stability. As the war progressed, the gray frames stacked higher and… well… there were only so many soldiers a mech could watch die.
He’s seen his fair share of deaths as a field medic, sure, but it wasn’t nearly as much as a mercy bot. A casualty bot. They were purposely sent out to find the dying and sit there with them. Ratchet, well… Ratchet was usually only brought to those that could be saved. It was relatively rare for him to sit there being forced to watch someone die. Being forced to watch someone die because of protocol as a whole different level of hell.
If Ratchet knew who came up with the base programming for mercy bots, they would rue the day. He’d make sure of it.
For now, though, he’d do his best to support Bumblebee as he navigated his new found protocols.