Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's a nice day.

Well, that was relative. Had you asked Ironhide about the weather, he'd probably start raving and shooting up one of the practice targets as he methodically told you exactly how wrong you were. Mirage would probably scoff, sigh, and maybe say something cryptic about the old days when he was a noble and the gloom hadn't encompassed the planet. Elita One would share a story of her courier days, of shuttling through the busiest sectors of Iacon and seeing the place so full of life. Optimus Prime would perhaps sigh and give you one of those small, rare smiles and maybe, just maybe, you'd be privy to a quick story. Ratchet wouldn't hesitate to send a wrench in your direction.

Bumblebee would know, for all of the above had occurred at one point or another since officially joining the Autobots' ranks.

Necessity seemed to be a common theme these days. The youngling hadn't understood why Megatron was so eager for violence, ergo his ideology had shifted towards the Autobots. The Autobots were reluctant to let someone so young join, which led to a mass debate among the commanding circle and some very mixed opinions. Because of the deliberation, Bumblebee hadn't received training until after his first encounter with some Vehicons (and getting the scrap kicked out of him). That, in turn, led to the "kill or be killed" way of thinking and landed him in his first self-defense classes with Jazz. He'd passed easily, pushing himself to learn as much as he could in as little time as possible. It wasn't that he had a desire to fight - of course not, he was a pacifist at spark - but the need to help. They fought for freedom and a new age, yeah? He could do that, anything to stop the carnage.

Alas, his size and age still played a part in his assigning. There wasn't anything demeaning about being a courier and if he was honest with himself, he took pride in his job. Long-distance communication was unreliable as lines were too easily tapped, especially by Soundwave. Dear Primus, no wireless (or wired) form of communication was safe from the saboteur. Word of mouth became the most protected way of delivering information. There was a huge risk factor involved, but Bumblebee was willing to take it. This was important.

That's where he was, driving across the debris-strewn expanse between Kalis and Iacon. It was still in Autobot territory and considered one of his safer missions, but hey, he felt like he was doing something. And he was! Reporting back with a large list of the Autobots' energon supply was very, very important. Although nobody had said it out loud, Bumblebee was smart enough to put the numbers into context. Stores were low, lower than he'd ever remembered seeing, and that was a huge problem. Hopefully, Prowl would have some kind of solution, if only to get them by until the next energon deposit was claimed. Instincts, however, told the youngling that the issue was never going to disappear. It'd get worse and worse and then what would they do? First thing's first, they had to figure out why there was an energon shortage because Primus knows the scout teams would've popped up with something before it got to this point. Whatever was happening, it was bad.

But Bumblebee wasn't one to focus on the negatives in life, no matter how numerous those may be. So he continued to drive, see how far he could push himself before his engine really started straining, and enjoy one of those rare days where in the right light, Cybertron looked like it had color again.

 It didn't come as a surprise when the energon rations were minimized. Obviously, there had been a notification and an explanation and everything made sense according to frame size. Nobody ever felt completely full (and probably never would again), but they wouldn't feel drained. That was the main point, as the frontliners needed to keep their strength up and the couriers needed their stamina. Bumblebee was more than willing to accept his part of the cut. He was smaller and didn't need as much fuel to begin with, so what was another cube to him? This was fair and as he slowly ingested his cube for the day, savoring every drop of the valuable liquid, he couldn't help but think he'd received too much before. After all, that slight pang in his tanks was normal, right?

But as they approached the first deca-cycle of new system, even he had to admit something wasn't right. Every cycle or so, his vision would pixellate. It barely lasted for a klik, but the frequency of the glitch was hard to ignore. Then there was that weird feeling where his gyroscope felt misaligned and he found himself listing too far to one side. It was hardly noticeable and half the time, Bumblebee didn't realize he was doing it. That sensation went hand in hand with the overall lethargy that had set in. Although he'd never talked to her much, Arcee almost always shot him concerned glances if they were in the same room. He'd shrug back with that little half-smile, half-smirk on his faceplate before returning to whatever conversation he'd been a part of.

In retrospect, writing all of those nuances (read: symptoms) off as nothing wasn't his shining moment of intelligence. Lying on the floor of the rec room with five or so nervous bots around him wasn't exactly his idea of a "hello." He'd gone on one of the longer courier routes (Altihex to Iacon...a bit hazardous as well now that he was really thinking about it), gunning it the whole way in order to get the information to Optimus Prime as quickly as possible. Looking back on it, he'd been lucky to make it through the debriefing without falling out of his chair, but hey, his luck did run out in the same cycle.

"Give him some space!" Ah, he knew that voice. Cliffjumper, always to his rescue. It was endearing and he couldn't say he disliked the treatment. "Bee, can you hear me? C'mon, talk to us." There was a servo on his helm and his shoulder pauldron and that was something Bumblebee took comfort in. Off to the side, he could hear someone run off, probably to get First Aid or Ratchet. He didn't need a medic, why were they so worried?

"Yeah," he ground out. Did his voice always sound that rough? "I'm fine, promise. Sorry, I don't know what happened..." Just as he started to push off the ground, the red mech held him in place.

"I think I have a pretty solid idea," Cliff responded, an undercurrent of concern in his words. Bumblebee had known the warrior long enough, he knew those idiosyncrasies, and what he was hearing made him nervous.

"You're ok, right?"

"Mech, why are you worried about me? You're the one who took a faceplant."

...Huh. So it would seem.

"Well played." He didn't quite know what he was thinking when he said that and orns later, he still wouldn't recall. All he could remember of the incident was a very hazy trip down the corridor and then waking up in the medbay however many cycles later.

What he could clearly remember was the wrench smacking him right between the optics.

"OW! The frag was that for?!" were somehow the first words out of his vocalizer. It was reflex alone that saved him another blow. Primus, when Ratchet got angry, his aim became deadly accurate. Maybe they should just get Ratchet to fight the war for them. Give him an endless supply of wrenches and even Megatron would crumble under the sheer power of Ratchet's "no frags given" attitude. It was a formidable weapon.

Unfortunately, Bumblebee was on the receiving end.

"For being a slaggin' glitch!" Ratchet hollered, forcefully shoving a monitor in front of the smaller mech's faceplate. Cerulean optics spiraled, setting themselves to the correct aperture and zoom in order to read the contents. Before he could get a question out, the medic continued. "You're a smart kid, so I don't understand how you could do something so fragging foolish! Out of all the foolhardy, wrongly altruistic things to do!"

Whoa, whoa, back up a klik. Bumblebee couldn't even bring himself to raise an optic ridge. His expression remained one of shock and terror, lip plates trying to grasp at the right words appropriate for a rebuttal. Out of all the thoughts running through his processor, he could only summarize his confusion with an incredibly eloquent, "What?"

Ah, there it was! The signature Grumpy Medic Optic-roll! Maybe he could finally beat Cliffjumper's record of twenty-three in a row now that he knew just how to instigate that reaction. His musing were cut short by a charcoal digit pointing to a specific line of stats. "Bumblebee," Ratchet said almost a little too sweetly for the frustration permeating across his EM field. "What is this?"

Basic medical training kicked in and Bumblebee found himself trying to straighten his posture. There wasn't much he could do, the berth was tilted upwards so gravity and physics kind of did the job for him. "It records a bot's energon levels, barring innermost energon since that's not exactly necessary unless in a life-or-death situation."

"Good, good, and you remember how to read the chart?"

Bumblebee didn't like where this was going. "Yes?"

"I didn't ask for a question."

"Yes."

"And what does your chart read?"

The younger mech's optics whirred softly as he looked over the numbers, glossa sticking out of the side of his mouth. Very, very quickly, that pensive look morphed into a mix of bewilderment. That couldn't be right, he'd been feeling fine! He'd been functioning...ok, maybe slightly out of normal parameters but really, what was normal in a war zone? Even he didn't know, and he'd grown up like this!

He let out a nervous chuckle, doing his best to shy away from the still fuming medic. "Aaaaaaaaaah, I'd rather not say. I mean, w-why would you need me to repeat what you already know? Redundancy, right?" he offered, looking as innocent as possible.

"I believe it'd be best to hear it from a second opinion," Ratchet shot back. When it came to a game of wits, you didn't want to challenge Ratchet. At this point, it was best to concede before things got any worse.

"...14%." The number was barely out of his mouth before the screen was yanked back and Ratchet was angrily pacing in front of him.

"14%! Bumblebee, out of all the idiotic, dangerous stunts you've pulled in your life-cycle, this is by far the worst!" And there it was, the eruption. There was no stopping it now, so Bee settled for an eternal wince and a shattered ego. "You could have fallen into stasis out in the field, you could've slagged up a major system, you could've let yourself keep going and dwindle down into the single digits; you could have offlined because no one knew you weren't getting enough energon!" Ratchet paused for a moment and that, more than anything else, sent guilt coursing through his spark. The slightly hunched appearance, the fight leaving the older mech's optics...that was resignation. Bumblebee didn't want that. No, that was a bad look, that meant he'd seriously fragged up somewhere and honest to goodness put his life in danger without knowing. He wanted to comfort, but the medic wasn't done. "Bumblebee, I refuse to lose a soldier to something so fixable. You're not alone anymore."

They locked optics and Bumblebee could see the question the medic dare not ask. "Oh no, no, no, no," he mumbled, shaking his helm for effect. "Ratchet, I promise, it's nothing like that. I honestly didn't know and I thought I was getting enough. I wouldn't lie about that." It was true, he'd never lied to Ratchet before or any of the bots in the higher chain of command. It would take something devastating for him to even consider it.

His words had the effect he'd been going for. Ratchet relaxed for a moment before the fire returned. Restrained this time, but still there. "How could you not know? The warnings would drown your HUD before you were remotely close to a forced shutdown."

"You know where I came from, I've ignored any warning about energon since I was sparked. It's second nature by now." Every shred of confidence when spinning down the drain. He wasn't sure why he felt ashamed, but he couldn't seem to shake the feeling. Despite that, he forged on. "And I didn't think much of it since the new rationing system was specific for a bot's frame size and energy consumption. I trusted that what I was getting was enough...so why wasn't it?"

As funny as it was to see Ratchet in one of his "Eureka!" moments, the look of alarm was decidedly not. His servo reached for a datapad and Bumblebee could only assume it was the one containing his medical history. He watched as the medic quickly skimmed through the information before freezing. Optics skimmed the glyphs again and again, but of course, nothing changed. This was something none of the older bots had taken into account.

"Ratchet?" Bumblebee asked softly. "What's wrong?"

"Our calculations," the medic responded, two digits coming up to pinch the ridge between his optics. "I helped modify the rationing system. As CMO, it's my job to know how you all operate. What I didn't take into account for you was age."

"But I'm an adult," he supplied with confusion. He cocked his helm to the side with a small frown. "That shouldn't make a difference."

"It does. You may be of age, but just barely. Even though your processor's completed forming relays and developing mentally, your frame isn't. Primus, I should've known, you're not even in your last frame yet." With a sigh, Ratchet stated, "Bumblebee, you're not done growing."

There was one shutter, then two. "Hold up a klik, what?"

"Physically, your protoform hasn't finished maturing. Between that and couriering, you're not getting enough energon to sustain yourself. At least this is simple, I'll talk to Prime and Prowl about upping your rations-"

"You can't."

Whoever said silence was gold was a liar.

"...Excuse me?" There was the challenge.

"My last run had a lot of info about our energon stock," he recited nervously. When did he start playing with his digits? "It's lower than before and the scouting teams have had little to no success finding a sustainable deposit. The conclusion was that the ration system stay in place for as long as possible, and then there would be more cuts. There has to be another option. What if you got me past 50% now? I was lower than that before the cuts and I lasted a deca-cycle. I bet I could last longer if I was placed on the shorter runs too, maybe it would even out? At the very least, it'd take me longer to get down to 20%."

Bumblebee knew he was right, so it wasn't much of a surprise when Ratchet gave in. After all, there hadn't been much of a choice. But Bumblebee felt much better about this decision, he wasn't taking from other soldiers who'd need the fuel more than a short-distance courier and he was out of danger in the long-term. Besides, First Aid gave the go-ahead as well. For a while, it did work out. The farthest he ever had to go was Kalis and he was functioning just fine. The pixellation was gone, his gyroscope wasn't acting up, and those odd dizzy spells were few and far between. Even when the rations were cut further, the plan held up.

Well, he thought it did.

Nobody really notices when they look or act exhausted. Bumblebee certainly didn't notice that he was dragging himself around the base and wasn't particularly bothered when his recharge cycle became disjointed and awkward. That, unlike earlier symptoms, was normal for him and usually happened once every two deca-cycles. What wasn't normal was the dimmer optics and the sagging doorwings. There wasn't a haze quite yet, but there was a persisting ache running across his frame that wouldn't go away. He'd been planning on visiting Ratchet again after downing his ration, but he never got a say in the matter.

When asking for a full account later, Bumblebee would learn that his wings spasmed moments before his optics went dark, his spark lost beat for maybe a second, and he went crashing to the floor in the middle of his debriefing.

 He wasn't fully processing, but he definitely wasn't offline. It was like floating between data streams (he'd know from countless hacking jobs and very minor programming repairs), but the data were all his and he couldn't make himself completely aware of his surroundings. If he was being honest, it was probably the most annoying feeling in the universe because that meant he fragged up and simply didn't know how badly he fragged up. Annoying. Yes.

"-shouldn't have agreed to that."

Ratchet? Oh hey, Ratchet! Yo, Ratch in the Hatch, pay attention to the wayward courier and explain stuff!

...Ok, he did not talk like that, where did that come from?

"It was not your intention to afflict Bumblebee in any way."

"Psht, of course not, I took an oath."

What did that mean? His mission went smoothly and he'd even managed to avoid Decepticons' Secondary Trine! That was an accomplishment! Why were they worried? Couldn't someone just answer his questions? Oh wait, the Grumpy Grumbles were back, he should listen.

"I have a solution, but it may cause more problems than it's worth...not to mention we have no idea how it'll affect a bot so young."

"You want to make him a scout."

"Did I say 'want?!' If I give him those protocols, he loses what protection he has as a courier! He'll be sent into the bowels of Decepticon territory, he'll have to learn how to resist torture! Optimus, that is the last thing I want for him."

Whoa, whoa, whoa...who said anything about torture? He wouldn't get caught. If Blurr couldn't catch him, no one could.

"Ratchet, as much as I would like to, we cannot shelter him forever. Bumblebee knows what is at stake, as do all of us. However, do you have an alternative in mind?"

"Only placing his spark in an adult frame, but he's nowhere near ready and with his systems so starved, I don't like those chances. At this point, I'm choosing the lesser of two evils and either way, he grows up too fast."

Oh no, he didn't like that tone. That was the "I'm Gonna Beat Myself Up For Things Beyond My Control" tone and by Primus, Bumblebee was determined to make sure Ratchet never used that tone again. Besides, he could actually do something as a scout! Being a courier was nice, but scouts were important for information gathering and, well, they were basically needed to win the war. He'd be helping directly. And Jazz had been eyeing him already, the saboteur was definitely interested in how he managed to pull off his hijinks.

Then, there was a tug. The binary began to come to a crawl and the voices faded back out. Well, that was all he'd be getting now and hey, he probably wouldn't remember it later. That's how medical stasis worked sometimes, pulled bots out for long enough to prove they were still processing alright and then pushed them right back after determining whether or not to squeal about a problem. Oh, hey, he answered his own question. Medical stasis.

"I trust your judgement, old friend."

"...I'll wait until he naturally onlines. He should have the choice."

Before he was pushed back into that blissful abyss of nothingness, he felt rather than heard a set of pedesteps slowly grow more and more distant. There was a servo on his shoulder pauldron and while the contact wasn't enough to rouse him into consciousness, it kept him aware for a second longer. He felt a light squeeze, heard the harsh ex-vent, and inferred the disappointment and bitterness. Neither was directed towards him, but he still wanted to fix it and say that things would be ok in the long run. The life of a smalltime courier was nothing to mourn.

But he heard that last thought as he drifted off and he swore that he'd never make this bot sound that way again. He didn't like the hopelessness in the bot's tone. He'd fix that. Yes, he would most definitely fix that.

"I'm sorry."

Don't be.

In the end, Bumblebee chose to become a scout. A nagging feeling in the back of his processor - surrounded by medical stasis statistics and too much standby input data to be worth sorting through - prompted him to explain his reasoning as wanting to do more for the Autobots. Sure, not starving was a really nice thing, but maybe now he could actually make a difference in the war. That, and he'd finally get more advanced combat training.

So a few joors after his awakening, he was put back under and outfitted with the necessary equipment and coding for his unusual promotion. Upon the second awakening, he found every HUD warning about energon gone and though he was slightly below what would be considered healthy energon levels, nothing actually felt out of place. He felt fine.

(Well, as fine as a kid growing up on a war-torn planet could be, but that's a story for another day.)

"Bumblebee, I need you to pay attention to what I'm about to say. This is confidential information among Special Operations, the mods even more so. I can only say this once, are you ready?" There was a curt nod and complete attention was given to the medic.

"As I explained before the procedure, Special Operations has developed a specific set of protocols for scouts. While on longer missions, a subroutine may be activated that allows a scout to limit their energon intake and recharge time while still allowing them to perform at optimal levels. It is meant for dire situations in Decepticon territory. However, our use is...unconventional. Activating the subroutine should allow your frame to consume the amount of energon the ration system allotted for you without inciting another incident. Once we find enough energon to lessen or do away with rationing, you are to immediately report back to me so I can oversee your recovery. I can only attempt to predict what the longterm affects will be on your frame, but I've seen how this subroutine affects a scout. It's a grueling process and under no circumstances, should you attempted to terminate the program on your own. I cannot stress this enough. I trust I won't have to make it an order."

Straightening his posture, Bumblebee nodded once again. "You have my word."

After a moment, Ratchet ex-vented and nodded in return. "That's all I ask."

Eventually, another energon deposit was found and the rations were upped. By then, Bumblebee had completed what training the Autobots could offer and proved himself to be a capable scout. More importantly, he hadn't been knocked into stasis from energon deprivation again. It wasn't until he was eased off the protocols that the side-effects made themselves known. Or rather, one side-effect.

Bumblebee never saw a problem with it, even when up against larger opponents. He was clever, he could think his way around an obstacle and for the most part, direct combat wasn't a norm. For the most part, he was content with who and what he was. There wasn't much time to deliberate appearance. He just knew that he wasn't the most standout mech, but he could be considered aesthetically pleasing. That was enough for him.

Ratchet would stare when he knew the scout - no longer a youngling - wasn't looking. He'd dote on things that he could've tried, other solutions to the problem that were thrown out the window out of selfishness. He refused to let Bumblebee starve again. He should have cut his own rations earlier.

Optimus Prime would mourn the lives Cybertron had lost while remaining grateful for whichever lives he could save. Much like the medic, he'd taken a habit to watching their youngest with a close optic. He committed the candid moments to memory, remember how the scout's optics scrunched in soundless laughter as the human younglings teased and cheered over a board game. But regret tinged those moments as well, more so when Smokescreen arrived.

It had been such a long time since any of the older bots had seen a youngling mature. They didn't think twice about Bumblebee's appearance. He was as happy and healthy as he could be, given the environment. Once Smokescreen joined them, they had a comparison.

Bumblebee would never notice on his own. Even when someone told him, he shook it off with a smile and a laugh. So what if he was smaller? He didn't mind. His attitude didn't carry over to the others. The truth was, he was too small. He should have been larger. His protoform shouldn't have been as brittle. His frame should have been stronger.

But there was nothing anyone could do about stunted growth. It happened, it was over, it was permanent. For now, they had to make peace. The only thing keeping the guilt at bay was the fact that Bumblebee was alive.