Top of the Food Chain

by spicymotte

Summary:

On their journey, the crew of the Lost Light discover a mystery - a human being abandoned on a wrecked Galactic Council cargo ship.

After the initial shock, it turns out that these giant robots are very friendly and will take good care of you until they can drop you off in a neutral zone. All would be well, if it wasn't for Whirl, who decided that he has a claim on you. He's quite interested, as you're surrounded by very mysterious and possibly illegal circumstances...

Notes:

a love letter to my pretty, murderous princess: Whirl <3

Chapter 1: Rise and shine!

 

"This is exciting."

"It's not exciting, it's scary." Velocity shines down one of the empty corridors where space junk and random objects collect. "I curse Rodimus for sending me along. Field experience, no thank you!" 

"You just don't know how to have fun." Whirl continues down the corridor, looking with interest at the frozen blood on the walls. 

"Lotty is right, it's creepy," Nautica interjects. She follows the other two bots, a datapad in one hand and her wrench in the other, held like a weapon in front of her - just in case. "It's like one of Swerve's horror movies from Earth. And all this... organic material that I don't think should be outside the bodies of these creatures." 

A mocking snort escapes Whirl's fans. "You're both such stick-in-the-muds."
 

The search inside of the wrecked space cruiser takes longer than expected, but at least there's a lot to see: completely broken down systems, every deck full of organic bodies that have either met their maker in battle or through the failure of life support, and a silence that is truly something out of a horror film. Here and there, severed power lines flicker, the frozen organic corpses float gently in the weightlessness, and the ghost ship seems to want to prove that it's to be taken seriously. 


"What do the long-range scans say?" Velocity puts a hand to her helmet to radio the Lost Light. "Is the signal still there?"

"Affirmative." Ultra Magnus' voice sounds distorted - probably because of the failing gravity drive, which turning the entire ship into a single anomaly. It won't be long before the altered gravity levels affect the sparks from the away team, so time's running short now. "Weak, but present. The quantum signature is still there."

"Next time Brainstorm should come himself and not send me," Nautica chirps as she sneaks past a frozen corpse and presses herself against the wall. Her expression betrays her disgust. 

"I'm keeping an eye on the anomaly."

"I- You're listening in on the frequency?!" Nautica hisses immediately. "You might as well have come with us yourself!"

"Ohh, you're not going to like this." Whirl draws attention to himself at the end of the corridor by slamming his claw against the doorframe of one of the warehouses. He seems to be enjoying this carnage, discovered by the Lost Light in the remains of a Galactic Council ship behind a gas giant. A battlefield, a massacre, a bloodbath. "A real mess." 

"The signal’s coming from here." Velocity holds her own datapad a little higher to locate the source of the signal. She takes a few steps, finally stopping next to Whirl. "In here."

"Cool." He bends down to enter the room; the whole ship is definitely not built for robots their size, so everyone present is in constant danger of banging their heads. All they can do is bend down and hope not to dent their head. "Oh man, it must have been crazy in here. Look at all the blood!" 

"Ew--" Nautica stops at the door frame, but Velocity dares to follow Whirl into the room, illuminating the scene with her light. 

It's true - this storeroom is a bloodbath. While the corridors of the wrecked spaceship are piled high with bodies, this room is little more than a giant pile of, well, mush. Whatever organic life forms were present must have been pulverised to a frozen pulp.

"Makes me a little sad that we've missed all the fun." Whirl kicks a piece of frozen something with one of his long, thin legs, and it floats a few metres through the weightlessness. He follows the part of the body with the yellow eye and makes an interested noise in his metal chest. 

"I know the Galactic Council doesn't like us, but let's face it... this is really bad," Velocity says, looking around with the help of her lights. "Those poor bastards don't deserve it."

"Well, I disagree." Whirl begins to push a large pile of organic material away from the centre of the room. The sound, a crackling and crashing, underlines the frozen state the lifeless remains are in - organic creatures on a stick. "Here."

"Yup, that's it." Velocity comes closer. A kind of capsule emerges from the mess, undamaged and covered from top to bottom in blood and body parts. "The signature comes from here, from this... pod." She scratches over the metal with her hand - typical Galactic Council materials. Silver, precious metal, space resistant and yet with an extra alloy. This special, thick alloy seems to weaken the signal coming from the capsule. Valuable cargo. 

"We've found the source of the signal." Velocity tells the Lost Light again. "It's some kind of survival pod, I think."

"Active?" asks Ultra Magnus through the distorted reception.

"Seems so." She waits for a reply, a brief silence on the line. She makes eye contact with Whirl, who just shrugs and starts scratching at the pod as well. His claws don't cover quite the same area as Velocity's hand, but he manages to expose the top of the pod while they wait for Ultra Magnus' instructions. 

"Oh?" Now the former Wrecker leans further over the pod, tilting his heavy, narrow head to one side. He leans down as close as he can to see inside the pod; he has uncovered a viewing window, blood and ice crystals convincing of the cold around them. He is now extremely interested in what he sees and absentmindedly clicks his claw.

“What is it?” Velocity notices his interested behavior. When he focuses his attention on something like that, it must be either extremely freaky or really cool. She also leans over the pod. "Oh- oh dear." Her hand presses the small panel on her temple again to communicate with the Lost Light. ”Okay you big decision makers, time's up - we need to take the pod to the Lost Light right now.”

“Negative. We don't know what this thing is. It's definitely not safe –“ Ultra Magnus tries to brush her off immediately, but Velocity continues to press the issue. 

“Rodimus, we need to take it to the ship right now, before the life support on this thing fails too,” she says, knowing that the captain has been following the mission from the very beginning. “There's a human in the pod.”

 

* * *

 

"I'm so glad to be out of there!" Nautica complains, shuddering at the thought of all that blood and guts floating around in weightlessness. "Decontamination may be unpleasant, but I'm glad to be clean again!" She glances over at Velocity, who is wiping the last of the decontamination gel off her chassis with a microfibre cloth. "And? How's the status?"

"The pod is still active. Ratchet is taking care of the passenger inside," the medic replies. "He has way more experience with humans than I do." 

At the other end of the medibay, the now-clean pod is hooked up to a series of monitoring devices and cables to measure energy fluctuations. Ratchet and Brainstorm are deep in conversation, with Ultra Magnus standing behind them like an ominous statue. He doesn't seem too happy about the fact that his report is about to be 30 pages longer than usual.


"Hey Lotty - what do you think the Galactic Council would do with a human in stasis?" Nautica asks quietly. "And why was the ship attacked?"

"Beats me." 

The two watch as Brainstorm and Ratchet continue to debate, each obviously having a different opinion to the other. That, and the stoic look on Ultra Magnus' face, gives the whole medibay a very tense atmosphere, one you wouldn't want to throw more high explosive material into.

"So - where are we standing? Gimme the news." The next stick of dynamite enters the room with a smugness that has blinded many a star. Rodimus seems to be in high spirits, making his way directly to the newest addition to his crew, eyeing the pod with only half-interest.

"The pod was sealed when the away team found it," Ratchet explains patiently. "Life support was already failing. However, the organic person inside should suffer no permanent damage."

Rodimus makes a thoughtful sound and nods in understanding. "And it's a human?"


At this question, both Brainstorm and Ratchet make a strange noise. 

"Yes and... No," Ratchet continues his explanation, looking at the data he and Brainstorm were able to extract from the pod. "It appears to be a hybrid."

"A hybrid?" Now both Velocity and Nautica are approaching the group. "Artificially created?" 

"Probably." Ratchet picks up his datapad and reads from it. "Carbon-reinforced skeleton, advanced atmospheric processing and enhanced neural signals. They're considerably larger than normal humans, about the size of a chinoid - or, say, the size of our captain here. Humans don't usually grow that big."

"So it has 'bio-lab' written all over it..." 

"Isn't that against Galactic Council's laws?"

"It is, yes." Brainstorm taps something into his own datapad. "Any form of artificially created hybrid or biological crossbreeding - including biological weapons - is strictly forbidden. Illegal since the Genetic Wars, as far as I know." 

"But that doesn't explain why the Galactic Council ship was attacked and destroyed," Rodimus interjects thoughtfully. "According to your report, most of the casualties were in the room where the pod was. The soldiers were protecting it. So this hybrid must be either very valuable or very dangerous."

Ultra Magnus makes a low noise, somewhere in the depths of his chassis. "I would guess the second. We should get this pod to an outpost as soon as possible."

"I agree. We don't want to provoke an aggressive act from the Galactic Council." Nautica sounds worried, and rightly so; the Council has developed a strong hatred for mechanical life-forms that has only intensified since the war for Cybertron. "They might end up thinking we attacked the ship." 

"Then it is decided. We will fly as close as possible to the nearest neutral outpost and leave our passenger there," Rodimus announces, nodding encouragingly to those present. “Another organic life saved. We rock!”

"And until then, we keep them in stasis." Brainstorm opens a panel on the pod and plugs in his datapad. "The device is set precisely to the needs of the kind-of-human. Temperature 22 degrees Celsius, atmosphere 19.5% oxygen and 54% humidity. If we keep the pod running, it won't be a problem at all."


"Hey, I hate to interrupt, but... that just got taken care of." Ratchet lowers his own datapad as he leans over the pod. "They're waking up." 

"What?! Impossible--" Brainstorm starts to press on the pod's input panel, but to no avail. Frustration is written all over his face as the others exchange ominous looks. "Why did the stasis break, this can't be...!" 

"I'll switch the medibay to organic parameters," Ratchet sighs and goes to the wall to enter the new settings for the life-support system there. "I don't know nearly enough to put an organic species back into stasis without killing them. The only thing we can do is adapt to their needs until we can drop them off."  

"Absolutely not, I'm against it." Ultra Magnus speaks directly to Rodimus. "We don't know how dangerous this man-made life form can be. It's a huge risk to even let it out there!"

The captain of the Lost Light makes a thoughtful sound in his voice box. Ultra Magnus is not wrong, not at all. There are many reasons for concern, from the threat of the Hybrid to a trap set by the Maulers or the Galactic Council itself. On the other hand, the Lost Light is an entire starship full of highly advanced and capable Cybertronians. And if this human is a fugitive or a prisoner, then they must follow through with their good intentions and help. 

"I think we can handle one human, artificially created or not," Rodimus decides after a moment's thought. "But we'll keep an eye on them and quarantine them here in the medibay for the time being. Will the altered life-support settings affect us?" He addresses the question to Ratchet, who just shrugs vaguely.

"We are far more resilient than organic species," he says. "Living with elevated humidity and temperature for a while won't kill us. Even though it's kinda itchy in the joints." 

"I'll inform the crew then." Rodimus turns to leave. "We don't want anyone to get scared if they suddenly come across a meat bag here in the medibay. And we won't be able to extend the atmospheric change to the whole ship -"

"Not to mention the paperwork," Ultra Magnus grumbles. "Or the risk management." 

Ratchet has completed the settings in medibay and a low hiss signals that the air and temperature in the room are changing. Nitrogen, oxygen, argon and carbon dioxide are mixed to create a breathable atmosphere that is non-toxic to humanoid organic beings. The humidity is initially raised to 60% and the room temperature to 22 degrees Celsius. The mechanical beings won't notice the difference, at least not in the short term. Without these changes, however, any organic being on board the Lost Light would simply suffocate. 

"Let's hope they're not sick or injured and that's why they're in stasis," the medic grumbles as Brainstorm activates the opening mechanism with a few keystrokes and a - rather forceful - override of the pod. The device exhales the stasis atmosphere with a hissing sound and slowly opens, releasing the occupant completely. "I have far too little data on organic medicine to be able to do much. And no suitable material."

"And what about food? And water?" chirps Velocity. "They'll need something to replenish their energy levels after such a long sleep, won't they? And I read something about the different hydration levels of organic species being essential for survival." 

"We could ask Swerve what he has." Nautica rubs a small notch in her chassis while thinking hard about where to get organic materials. "Water should be doable. But the other stuff? Pfff, ask me something easier." 

Both Velocity and Nautica fall silent as something moves in front of them. The human takes a deep breath as the capsule opens completely and the rest of its atmosphere dissipates. The bots wait tensely for something to happen - but the chest rises and falls again, and so on. A steady, strong rhythm.

"Hey, they're not dead!" Brainstorm says, patting himself on the back for doing nothing more than backing up the pod's data and opening the thing. Ratchet pushes him aside without comment and begins a check with the tools at his disposal. It won't be a 100% accurate status like a Cybertronian, but he can at least get a rough idea of whether this hybrid is in a stable state. 

"All right, now get out of here before the stasis wears off completely. This is just asking for a shock when they wake up and see a bunch of giant bots. Come on now, off with you."

 

 

---

 

The first thing you notice is that your body feels incredibly heavy. Every muscle seems paralysed - until you start to wiggle them gently and tense your chest muscles. Breathing comes naturally, but with each tired breath, more of that strange metallic smell comes into your nose. 


It smells of iron and copper - like a handful of change, to be precise. 


Opening your eyes seems impossible at first. Immediately your eyelids close again, but the underlying fear that comes with the confusion of stasis forces you to try again. Not knowing where you are is a good incentive to not surrender to the sweet melody of a long post-stasis nap. 

"Fuck..." You hear your own hoarse voice and cough to get rid of the accumulated mucus in your throat. All in all, you are not dead, at least not as far as you can tell. Your arms and legs are still there and you can move your fingers and feet. There is no pain, except for the joint pain you get when you lie down for a long time. Could be worse, right?


Although... someone is in the room with you. A blinding white light obscures your vision, but you can sense that someone. Tall, very tall in fact, and quite bulky; the pod vibrates slightly with every step this person takes. 

"Where- where the hell am I?" you struggle to say. Bracing yourself on your elbows is the first step to sitting up and finding out what's going on. The last thing you remember is... nothing. Mist. White clouds, counting sheep and a deep sleep. There's nothing more than stasis, everything else just seems to be gone. Is this part of the aftermath? Is this normal when waking up from such a deep slumber?

"Do not be alarmed," a deep, strange-sounding voice answers. A voice distorter? Or is this person wearing a protective suit? Whatever it is, the voice sounds strange... metallic. Digital. 

"What?" You blink against the light, your eyes slowly getting used to functioning again. Shit, how long have you been in stasis?


"WOAH!!" As soon as your brain has processed the information and shown you who is standing to your right at the pod, your body comes to life. Almost instinctively, you slide to the opposite side of the pod and cling to the edge, pulling your legs up against your body. 

"I told you to not be alarmed." 

"I, um--" A mechanical. Of all things! "Sorry, I..." 

"It's all right," he tries to reassure you, raising his hands to prove he's not a threat. "You'll be fine. We found you on a Galactic Council ship."

"We?" you ask, eyes wide open, and immediately look around. This - infirmary? - is almost completely empty, except for this giant red robot and another turquoise one in the corner. She gives you a slight wave as you look at her, and that alone is enough to send a bucket of ice-cold fear down your spine. 

"Oh, look, the heartbeat is rising," the turquoise robot says in a warm, feminine voice, pointing at one of the displays at the wall. "A physical response to an emotional state?"

"Velocity, please..." The robot standing by your pod sounds annoyed. "Later. And you-" He turns his gaze back to you, talking now in a much softer tone than he used with the other bot. "Really, we're not going to hurt you. We found you in the wreckage of a ship - inside of your pod, with life support failing." 

"I-" You don't remember any ship. "Okay?"

"You're aboard the Lost Light, a ship manned by Cybertronians," he continues. "I'm Ratchet and this is Velocity."

"Hi." She greets you again, and even though she seems really nice - this is all a lot more than your nerves can take so soon after a long stasis. One nervous sweat follows another, along with the realisation that you are somewhere in space, on the ship of a mechanical species, and apparently all alone. 

"I'm really having trouble processing this," you finally groan, dropping your face into your hands. "I don't even know - I have no idea what I'm doing here!" 

Velocity approaches the pod with a very warm expression on her face. "Don't worry, everything will be fine," she assures you confidently. "Do you remember what you were doing on that Galactic Council ship?"

"No." You shake your head. "I have no idea. I just know - well, I think I know - that I wanted to go back to Earth."

"Earth?" Ratchet and Velocity look at each other briefly, then the medic continues. "We're very far from Earth. In an entirely different part of the galaxy, in fact."

"It gets better and better!" you whine dramatically, glancing around the medibay as inconspicuously as possible. Everything looks so... sterile. Not in a medical sense, but in terms of interior design. The beds are nothing more than bare metal tables, including the one your pod is on. It looks more like a spaceship workshop than a medical facility. On top of that, everything is considerably larger than the environment you're used to, and when you're standing, you barely reach the robot's shoulders. All in all, it's a pretty shitty situation.


With a faint hiss, the door to the medibay opens, causing Ratchet and Velocity to immediately tense up. 

"I said stay out until we come and get you-!" Ratchet begins immediately, but the giant blue robot that has just entered the medibay raises a hand to silence him. 

"I need the Hybrid's full name for my report," he says, completely unperturbed, turning directly to you. "Name. Now."

This is too much. The hulk of a robot leans over to you before the two medics can intervene. His intimidating aura is the spark that ignites all the explosive material in your brain, causing an emotional short circuit. 

Fight or flight. 

With a yelp, you grab the edge of the pod and swing your legs over the edge. At first your tired muscles can't catch you, but the adrenaline makes short work of your weakness, pumping a fresh surge of energy through every fibre of your body, including the muscles in your legs. After two or three shaky steps, the adrenaline then really kicks in and you dive under Velocity's arm and towards the door. With a wild pulse in your veins, you run out the door and into the hallway. 

"Well done, you big--" you hear Ratchet behind you, but then the door closes and the voices are muffled. 


The floor is freezing cold against your bare feet, and the loose stasis clothes don't retain as much body heat as you'd like. But the strong impulse to flee in the face of such a confusing and frightening situation is far too strong to be ignored. So your body moves purely on instinct, and you sprint down the corridor. At full speed, you skid around the next corner, almost running into another bot. This one is much smaller and blue and white - and he's at least as scared as you are. 

"Wah!!" He raises both hands, whether to ward off the impact or to appease you is unclear, but you duck down next to him, manage to barely avoid a full on crash and continue running. 

"Sorry!" Your ingrained politeness still commands you to call after him over your shoulder.

"I-- it's okay!" you hear him reply, but this is immediately followed by the heavy footsteps of more bots trying to catch the human -  to catch you.


The current corridor is long, very long, and some of the other corridors lead into the depths of the ship. This ship must be huge, the way this corridor stretches out in front of you. Gigantic by human standards. But diving into one of these dark corridors is probably not a good idea - who knows if it might lead to a dead end. 

Where are you even running to?


The metallic-smelling air burns your lungs, but your legs just won't stop running. Escape is such an ancient, primal instinct that it cannot be easily turned off. Instead, you keep tripping over your own feet as you flee. Is there a shuttle bay here? Can you hijack a ship and get out of here? But where would you go? 

"Please stop!" Velocity's voice can be heard somewhere behind you, along with the rapidly approaching footsteps of your pursuers. "You'll get hurt!" 


Yeah, no way in hell you'll just stop.


With a surge of renewed determination, you force your legs to run even faster; like a greased lightning bolt, you fly over the cold ground, and after a few seconds of this sprint, you feel a runner's high take hold of you; suddenly, it's no longer a problem to maintain this speed. Your muscles don't burn as much as before and even breathing is easier. Once you get the hang of it, it's almost fun to run free as the wind. 

"Gotcha!" Suddenly another bot shoots out of one of the corridors - almost twice your size and grotesque looking. A single yellow eye and two huge claws are the first things you notice, and the first things you are likely to perceive as a threat. With breathtaking speed, the robot's body moves down to grab you with at least one of his claws. Instinctively, you dodge downwards, narrowly avoiding his grasp; but he immediately follows your movements, right claw shooting after you. 

It's a gamble, but you let yourself fall onto your back, using the momentum from running at full speed to slip between his long, thin legs and quickly get back on your feet behind him. 

"What the-" He turns to you as you - driven by adrenaline and the rush in your veins - flip him off and disappear down the corridor he just came from. A very strange, yet interested sound comes from his metal chest and before you know it, the new robot is running after you. 

This crew member doesn't seem to be as nice as Ratchet and Velocity: Without a word of consolation or a friendly request to stop, he comes after you like a bird of prey. In the darkness of the corridor, the single yellow eye glows ominously and shakes with every step he takes. A loud, piercing clank of metal on metal accompanies his every move, and it's immediately clear that it was a mistake to provoke him in a twinge of arrogance. This bot is no nice doctor, but apparently a killing machine! 

"Finally, some fun around here!" you hear his gruff voice behind you, echoing off the corridors. The sound of his body crashing on the ship's material is deafening and awakens a deep fear in you that probably goes back to the first humans: A large predator is hunting me – fear, panic, running away! 


Faster. You have to run faster. 


Your inner voice cheers you on as the adrenaline slowly but surely begins to drain from your system. You won't be able to keep up this sprint for much longer, and then - what? What will you do then? With a dangerous giant robot on your heels, which you have just grandiosely teased into participating in human hunting season? 

Though apparently you’re blessed with luck - in the dim light of this corridor, you can see a door coming towards you - a place where you can lock yourself away from this guy. Safety, at least for now. 

"I wouldn't do that if I were you!" Of course, he immediately sees through your plan to barricade yourself in the next room. He slows down, but this can be a trap to stop you from doing what you're about to do. So instead of listening to him, or even turning around to face him, you slide to a stop in front of the huge door and hit the panel on the side. It's a control panel, marked with signs you can't read - probably robot language. 

After a failed attempt or two, punctuated by an annoying beep that denies you access, the door opens with a loud hiss and you hurry into the room that stretches out before you. It looks like some sort of reservoir filled with a black liquid that smells suspiciously like oil. 

The door closes, beeps to confirm, and you lean your back against it - a brief feeling of relief and security in your chest. Unfortunately, this only lasts a few seconds before you finally exhale and let all the air out of your lungs. When you breathe in, nothing happens. 

Nothing at all.

No oxygen. 


Immediately, a hot wave of panic shoots through your bones, freezing every muscle in your body. There is no atmosphere here for humans to breathe. There's nothing here, just like in your damned lungs. Instinctively, your hands go to your throat as you gasp for air like a stranded fish, but nothing enters your body to compensate for the lack of oxygen. 


The door. 


Your hand finds the inner panel with the controls, but this damn alien language can't tell you how to open the damn door again!


Beep. Denied. Beep. Denied. Beep-


"Gotcha! This time for real." The door opens behind you and a claw grabs your waist. An irresistible force pulls you backwards and the door to the reservoir slams shut again. The momentum causes you to fall backwards, but the robot that dragged you out of the deadly room doesn't catch you - instead, you land on your head on the floor, and in addition to the sharp pain in your lungs, you now have a throbbing headache. 

"That was fun." The bot's voice no longer sounds threatening, but mildly amused, as if he had just won a hand of cards and was trying to play down his big win. Though something tells you that he's not a humble guy. "Hm. You look a little pale around the nose."

Coughing and still gasping for air, you raise your hand to hit him as he leans over you - but the adrenaline has completely worn off and it's just a weak flick of your arm. His yellow eye watches this feeble resistance and blinks briefly, wondering if your 'attack' was a joke or not. 

"I'm not a doctor - not that I have any altruistic tendencies to begin with - but I think you should be taken back to the medibay," he finally decides, and you feel his claw slip under your body and lift you up with an ease that is almost laughable. Like a rolled-up carpet, he wedges you under his arm and moves back in the direction you came from. The quiet whirring of his mechanical body is oddly soothing, but the throbbing in your head and the nagging pain in your muscles override any possibility of rest. 

"Velocity will patch you up." You hear him say as you fight off the nausea and dizziness, probably caused by a mild concussion from your rough landing - or the fact that this guy wobbles a lot when he walks. "This is great. I've always wanted a human pet!"

Wait.

Pet?

 

Chapter 2: Make yourself at home

 

"Sorry, this is all we could find." Velocity hands you a cup of water, made of a strange material; metal, but it immediately adjusts to your body temperature and is not cold at all when you touch it. That's... pretty cool. Better than the bioplastic on the space stations, which for some reason always tastes slightly of raisins.

"Thank you." With greedy gulps you empty the cup in one go, only now realising how incredibly thirsty you are. The water tastes a bit weird, but it doesn't matter when you're that thirsty.

You sit down on the table where your pod used to be. Someone has taken it from medibay - according to Ratchet, it was Brainstorm, who is interested in the retro cryogenic technology used there - and you wonder if you might need it again. Hopefully Brainstorm won't break the pod. Now that you think about it... Isn't it technically yours, since you were found in it?

"May I ask what your species eats?" Velocity asks, leaning against the table beside you. "I've tried to look it up, but... well, let's just say our databases aren't very well stocked with information on organic beings. At least not in detail." 

"Oh, I... I'm not picky, I guess," you reply, about to lift the cup to ask for more water - until you remember that these Cybertronians certainly don't have toilets. Ah... that's going to be an awkward question when you need to use one. How are you even going to describe this bodily function to them? Waste disposal? Better be careful with your thirst. "Do you have anything on board?" 

"This. Swerve ordered a subscription of Earth's greatest hits a while back, and this was included." She hands you a small box of peanut butter chocolate bars. Oh.

A box full of chocolate bars is definitely not ideal and will lead to deficiency symptoms in the long run, but hey - at least you're not starving. Even if a hearty, warm meal would be much better right now. 

"How long until we reach an outpost?" you ask as you rip open one of the wrappers of the chocolate bars and take a bite. The bar tastes musty - it's probably a few weeks or even months old. It's best not to think too much about it and just keep chewing. Calories are calories. "If you're worried about the supply, it seems to be taking a while." 

"Correct." Velocity agrees, nodding over to Rodimus, Nautica and Ratchet, who are discussing something together, occasionally glancing over at you. "We have a quantum drive, but we have no idea what it will do to fragile beings like you." 

"Probably nothing good?" you make a half-hearted joke, but it's only to hide your nervousness. How long will you have to stay on this ship? And with this balanced diet of peanut butter and chocolate? Oh God, if this turns out to be a thing that lasts for weeks, then...

"We'll find a solution," she assures you kindly, placing a cold, heavy hand on your shoulder. Velocity is kind and sensitive in the face of this uncertain situation - she seems to have a knack for putting a positive spin on things. You want to believe her, but a kind of lead ball forms in your stomach, spreading heavy doubts like poison in your chest. Being stranded here all alone does certainly not put you in a good mood. 

The door to the medibay opens with a soft hiss and two more new bots enter. One is rather small with prominent eyebrows, and the other has broad shoulders and a yellow visor. After a curious glance in your direction, they join in Rodimus' conversation, while you slowly but surely grow tired of being in the spotlight. You'd much rather have some peace and quiet. A well-deserved nap. In fact, you'd even curl up under the table right now if it meant some peace and quiet.

So much excitement, all because you were found in a pod. Yet you have no idea how you got there - or what you were doing out in space in the first place. There is only emptiness where there should be memories, and only vague suspicions of where you belong in this galaxy. Something in your core tells you that you want to go home - but where is home? Humans belong on Earth, don't they? 

Thinking about this brain blackout only fuels this underlying insecurity, so you decide to rather eat a little more of the chocolate bar than continue to spiral. 

"Hello." The small bot approaches you after a short conversation with Rodimus and introduces himself politely. "My name is Rung. I am the psychiatrist aboard the Lost Light. This is Chromedome, an expert for memories, so to speak."

"Hi." The bot with the yellow visor greets you warmly. 

Rung continues: "Ratchet told us you were having memory problems and we wanted to offer our help." 


You look back and forth between them, not quite sure what to say. A psychiatrist? And a memory expert? Okay...

"Okay," you speak this last, not very intelligent thought out loud. "I understand your probably well-intentioned intentions, but please don't be offended if this is all a bit much at once."

"Understandable," Rung agrees, adjusting the fit of his glasses on his nose. "That's why we thought we'd introduce ourselves first - so you can get used to the idea of getting help from both of us if your memories don't come back on their own." 

"Okay," you repeat, and you can literally feel your brain clinging less and less to the ability to concentrate with each passing second. The aftereffects of the shock of what happened today are beginning to show. Add to that the long stasis that still sits in your bones, eating away at every fibre of your muscles like rust. All this makes the body heavy, the mind slow, and increases your irritability enormously. 

"What happens now?" you ask the obvious question into the small group of bots that surrounds you. "I have no idea what's going on, there's hardly any food or water for me here and, to be honest, these clothes -" You tug demonstratively at the stasis T-shirt, which is no more than a thin piece of fabric designed to serve as a decent covering. "It's not very warm. And I'm tired and I want to sleep."

"Considering we saved you from certain death, that's a lot of complaints." The small group grows as Rodimus, Ratchet and Nautica join you; as captain of this ship, he has a certain aura about him that makes an impression. But an impression doesn't change the bad mood that sets in after such a strong surge of fear, excitement and fight or flight hormones in your brain. Waking up in the middle of nowhere, being chased and almost suffocating... You're in a bad mood, to say the least. 


"Okay, before this escalates--" Velocity immediately steps between you and the rest of the group. "This is a patient, so I demand leniency." 

"It's all right," the Captain reassures her in his strangely trustworthy manner - after all, Rodimus is in charge here for a reason. He knows when to be firm and when to back off. "We'll find a temporary solution to all this. No need to worry or get irritated." 

"We agreed not to use the quantum drive until we know how it affects your body," Ratchet says to you. "In the meantime, we'll prepare an isolated habitation suite for you. We can't leave you here in medibay for days."

"You'll get regular check-ups from me," Velocity chirps. "We don't know how long you've been in stasis, and the lack of data on organic beings means we can't do a deep scan yet. So everything is provisional until we get to the nearest space station." 

"The nearest station is Doxa 07," Rodimus continues. "It's not a Galactic Council station, so we can only stop there for a few hours before they detect your biometric signature - but they might have something to keep you alive until we reach the next neutral outpost."

They're really trying. 

No matter how bad your mood, these Cybertronians really do want to help you. They're making a detour to get you to a safe place, and now it's a stopover at a station that's not under the control of the Council's enforcers. Not the kind of station you go to for a nice Sunday stroll. A handful of bots are working their processors overtime to help you. A little more gratitude might be in order. 

"Thank you," you say weakly. "Really." 

The answer is a friendly nod from Rodimus, as well as Rung and Nautica, and a grunt from Ratchet. Everything you thought you knew about mechanical creatures seems to be wrong - these guys are friendly and helpful, not the murderous robots portrayed by the Galactic Council. 

"Come on, I know a place where we can put you up." Velocity replies with a gentle smile and holds out her hand to help you up. She seems to be the nicest of all the people here, so you let your guard down and take her hand as she leads you out of the medibay. 

 

* * *

 

"Well- this is it." Velocity opens the door to the habitation suite. "Not very spacious, but it should do." 

Curious, you take a look inside - and are greeted by a bunch of boxes, canisters and junk - and dust. Lots of space dust. This is nothing more than a storage room - and you're going to sleep here? 

"The Lost Light was built before the war," your companion explains, starting to clear some of the boxes from the room. She lifts them with ease, but the loud crash as she sets them down on the floor shows that these crates must weigh a lot. Probably enough to crush you. "Back then, some brave individuals still hoped to befriend organic species. Even the builders of this ship." She stacks the crates in the corridor while you offer to help, but you can already guess the answer. "And some rooms have been added to accommodate organic life. With their own life-support systems and, well, the other comforts you need." 

Slowly the room empties out and in the darkness you can see what looks like a desk - and a sort of bunk to sleep on. Another small door in the room leads, you hope, to a small bathroom, or at least a toilet, because then your biggest worry will be moot. Who would have thought that space travel could be so uncomfortable and awkward?


"There's my pet!" Whirl struts around the corner as Velocity continues to clear the small room. "I wondered where you went."

"Not a pet," you mutter quietly, but he completely ignores your words. 

"Oh, hey Whirl - make yourself useful." She tosses him a dirty cloth that was covering a pile of small boxes, then nods at the mess in the hallway. "This all needs to go into storage."

"This is the storage," he replies dryly, struggling to handle the cloth with his claws until he finally gives up and makes a crumpled ball of it, tossing it carelessly to the floor. 

"A new storage room then," comes Velocity's voice from inside the dark room. 

"This whole deck is already full of junk." He's standing in the doorway of the habitation suite as you pick up the fabric from the floor. It's a very soft fabric, finely woven, and if you knock out the dust, you could probably use it as a blanket. Well, it's a start. "And if it was up to Mr. Clean, aka Ultra Magnus, we'd just shoot all this stuff out the airlock."

"Yeah, whatever. Try the quarters next door." 


At the medic's suggestion, Whirl sighs dramatically and trudges over to the next door to punch in a code. He sticks his head into the now open door and makes a short 'mhm' somewhere in his body. "Huh, whaddaya know - found a new storage room already. Pet, help me carry." 

"Not a pet," you repeat your words from earlier, now wrapped in the cloth you picked up from the floor. It's better than standing around in a thin shirt and baggy trousers, even if it's just a stopgap - like everything is at the moment. "And I don't think I can lift these boxes."

"No? Let me see." His claw grabs the arm holding the blanket in front of your chest and pulls it forward - his gaze scrutinising to see if your muscle mass is really so small that you can't even lift light boxes like these. 

"Hey-!" The metal of his touch burns hot on your skin, and a bolt of lightning shoots through your body as he pulls your limb towards him with force. Something inside you rebels against this touch, signalling a danger coming from him, and your body responds to this attack on its own. With a fluid movement, you twist your arm inward and downward simultaneously, allowing you to escape his grip; at the same time, your open hand grabs the joint where his claw is attached, turning his entire arm outward. Involuntarily, his shoulder joint gives way, and the bot lets out a painful hiss that sounds like the exhalation of an overheated vent. 

"Agh-! What the...!" The further you twist his arm, the more sounds of surprise and pain escape the mechanical body. Your grip is iron and hardened steel - and certainly not what you would expect from a fragile human. With a rumble, Whirl finally breaks free of you, with a dull crunch somewhere in his arm and a look in his one eye that is unmistakably full of surprise and a certain morbid curiosity. 

A surprise that you share. Why your body can move so quickly and how you managed to escape the bot's grip is a mystery that both of you fail to solve. Every muscle is tensed in anticipation of having to defend yourself - even though there is no danger from these two robots. At least none that you could consciously perceive. 

"Scrap, how did you--?" Whirl mutters, carefully moving his arm, which seems to hurt. His thoughtful gaze wanders from his claw to your shocked face, which says: I've no idea what that was either! 


"Hey, what's going on out there?" Velocity comes out of the habitation suite to your left with another crate. "What was that noise?" 

You open your mouth to answer, but Whirl is faster.

"Just got a little spasm in my shoulder hydraulics," he says, nodding at one of the boxes in the corridor. "It's not so easy to move boxes with these-" He clicks both claws meaningfully. "Slippery, if you know what I mean. Hard to find a good angle."

"You're just trying to get out of helping me," Velocity replies, shaking her head slightly. "Come on, swing your legs. I've got other stuff to do."

There is a brief but intense eye contact between you and Whirl; he briefly assesses you and what has just happened. Unusual is probably the tamest word to describe this situation. However, he's reluctant to tell Velocity about it. Why? Is he protecting you, or does he have his own ulterior motives?

"What's in the crates, anyway?" he asks Velocity, as nonchalantly as if nothing had happened. "Weapons? Grenades? Something else equally destructive?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"A big one, actually - it decides whether or not I steal those crates later in secret."
 

As they continue to tidy up and talk, you tiptoe barefoot through the corridor and into the now empty habitation suite. You open and close the hand that just held the bot in check under the closest scrutiny of your gaze. Nothing seems to be different - no pain, no tingling, and no sign that you are suddenly developing superpowers. Radiation poisoning? Or one of those space parasites using you as a host, while granting you crazy powers? 

One more thing to worry about - time to make a list. 

"There, that's it." A few minutes later, Velocity walks in with an encouraging smile and Whirl in tow, giving you an unintelligible look behind her back. Surprisingly, he doesn't say a word. "There's no one else living in this part of the ship, by the way. Sorry, but we have to keep you in quarantine for a while at least."

"It's alright! Thank you," you reply, and it really is. You have your peace and quiet here. 

"Have a look around and if you need anything, let me know." She pushes Whirl out the door, enforcing the decision to leave you alone for now. "I'll come back for a checkup later, okay?"

And with that, the door closes with a soft hiss - and you are alone. For the first time since you woke up in that stupid pod, you feel like you can actually breathe. And as you do, you experience your first moderate coughing fit from all the dust in this room. Yeah, alright - this place has obviously been a storage room for millions of years. 


The living quarters are small, almost too small for you. A desk to work at, a bed and several shelves built into the walls to store your belongings -  even though you don't have any. There is a thick layer of dust on every surface, as if no one has ever been in here with a feather duster - which is probably the case. The small door leading to an adjoining room is actually a toilet; at least that's one less thing to worry about. No one could have imagined that the biological and mechanical differences between the species would be so significant and obvious. What else, you ask yourself, will be encountered in this clash of cultures? 

As you fall onto the bed, a thick cloud of dust flies through the air; a thousand tiny fluffs that now have to find a new place, driven away from your body, which sighs pleasantly at the softness of the bed. Every fibre of your being breathes a sigh of relief, now that you're alone and not surrounded by a horde of giant robots arguing or looking at you strangely. Just the infinite silence of space, punctuated only by the small sounds of this spaceship; the whirring of machinery, the pulsing energy conduits behind the wall panels and the occasional thud of giant robot legs above your head. What is above you, beyond the ceiling? Other living quarters where these mechanical beings live and lead normal lives? 

A normal life.

With the best will in the world, you can't remember what your normal life was like before all this. Did you have a family? A job? How did you end up in this pod on a derelict ship? Does anyone miss you?

So many questions, and not a single answer in sight. Maybe there's a point in talking to Rung and Chromedome; they seem to know what they're doing.

And then... Whirl. That strange bot crawls into your mind like vermin. Why your body reacted so violently to his touch - which didn't even hurt - is another question that remains unanswered. Something inside you knew how to move to loosen his grip and even counterattack: your body made the decisions all by itself, without even involving the brain. A violent autopilot. Maybe you should tell Velocity about this? Be honest and upfront?


You pull the blanket that is still wrapped around your shoulders over your body and prepare to take a nap. There is nothing like sleep to get away from unexplained mysteries. And if the friendly doctor does come back later, you want to be at least a little less irritable. 

But as you drift off, your thoughts turn to Whirl, who was staring at you with a very strange look behind Velocity's back. What the hell was that about?

 

Chapter 3: Pull the pin and watch it blow

 

"I have to say, this is fascinating." Velocity watches as your heartbeat is reflected from the scanner onto one of the screens on the wall. "And you don't feel any of it?"

"My heartbeat? No. Only when I concentrate on it." 

"Wow, that's..." She continues to watch the graphic display showing the busy work of this organic machine inside your chest. "So cool. Really, really cool." 

After she has picked you up, you are back in the medibay. The nap has worked wonders, and the bad mood has given way to a certain curiosity. The doctor is studying the data from the scan and occasionally asks you questions that you can't answer. No, you can't feel the blood flowing through your veins. How long you can survive without sleep, you'll have to try and find out. Is a resting heart rate of 100 beats per minute normal? No idea - but her obvious high spirits are infectious.

"Hey, Lotty-" Velocity beamed at you, had been assuring that you can call her by her nickname, unlike many others in the crew. "Is there any way I can wash up?"

Taking a deep breath, you can clearly smell the days-old sweat on your body. No one knows how long you've been in stasis, but it's certainly been more than a few days. Weeks, probably. And not a single hot shower or bath in all that time!  

"Wash up?" she repeats thoughtfully. "Of course. Though you look pretty clean to me."

"It's uh- invisible dirt," you try to explain. "And it helps us organic species feel good to get rid of it regularly." 

"Oh! Right, well then - come on, let's go to the washroom," Velocity suggests. "It shouldn't be too busy at this hour, as most of us are working. I'll go with you, so it won't be so scary - sounds good?"

"You guys have a washroom?" you ask, before you can even decide whether the question is rude. "I mean-"

"Yes, of course, we get dirty too." She stretches slightly and taps her chassis with a soft 'clink!'. "And not too little! I also want to wash off the remains of the decontamination gel, it's really sticky." 

"Oh, OK." A hot shower sounds really nice - even a bowl of water and a washcloth are acceptable in this condition. Anyway, the main thing is to feel comfortable in your own skin again.  


No sooner said than done.

With gentle determination, Lotty pushes you out of the medibay and manoeuvres you through the belly of the Lost Light. You pass other bots going about their business, but curious glances are not uncommon. Like an exotic animal, you stand out from the crowd of colourful robots, so much softer and more fragile than the rest of the crew. It's hard to not feel small and insignificant as an alien species on this ship. 

"Oh, and by the way, this is Swerve's Bar." Your companion nods at an open door as you pass it. "It's sort of the social epicentre of the ship. If you want, I'll take you there later and you can talk to people, enjoy yourself. Get a bit of normality in, you know". 

An evening in a bar? You're not sure if that's what you want. 

"Yeah, maybe," is the evasive answer. Or maybe not.

"And if we go down here, we'll come to an intermediate deck with the communal washroom and some storage rooms." The smell of water and something sweet greets you on this narrow intermediate deck. The humidity here is definitely higher than on the other decks, probably due to the adjacent washroom. And to your relief, it seems to be deserted. 

"Here." Velocity pushes you gently into the room and pulls a cloth from one of the shelves. "For polishing- I mean, for drying yourself up. We also have polish, but I don't know what that would do to your skin..." She continues to rummage through the small shelves at the front of the washroom, looking for something that wouldn't be highly irritating to organic skin, and finally finds what she's looking for. "Ha! Here. Soap to wash off oil stains." 

You're handed the polishing cloth, a small bottle with white contents and see a satisfied gleam in her eyes. Though as you look around this large, tiled room, you feel a little queasy.
 

This is an open bath. There are cubicles at the end of the room that offer some privacy, but the large sink on the wall suggests that they don't have much of a problem with nudity here. Defining nudity is probably a difficult thing for robots to do anyway. 


"You can just put your stuff here," Velocity says, nodding to the shelf opposite you. "And-- Oh, now what?" She pulls a small communicator out of one of her subspace pockets and narrows her eyes slightly. She types something in, but lets out a deep, rumbling sigh. "I'll be right back," she says to you. "Emergency. Won't take long though!"

And before you can protest, she shoots out the door, closing it behind her. Now you're alone in the washroom, with no one but the growing shame hanging over your shoulders. What if someone comes in? Is there any reason to be ashamed of your body at all, when it is so fundamentally different from anyone else's on this ship? Isn't this feeling of insecurity something you can get rid of right here? 

You take off your clothes. First the thin T-shirt, then the equally thin pants. A few changes of clothes would be great, now that you think about it. Anything would be fine, as long as you had something fresh to wear - but you don't have that luxury. So the only thing left to do is fold your clothes neatly and store them on the shelf.

Fortunately, the air in here is warm and almost stuffy, so at least you won't freeze. The sink on the wall is very low and there are a couple of small seats in front of it. So you can scrub your alloy, or, well skin, in peace while chatting or just relaxing. You've got to hand it to the robots - they're not averse to a good round of relaxation!

You place a towel and soap on the sink and hold your hand under one of the giant water jets. Immediately, water shoots out with impressive pressure and collects in the basin. After a quick check with your hand, you realise that it is actually pleasantly warm, almost hot. And to be honest... the feel of the water on your skin is so good. The soap doesn't smell particularly inviting, but it washes the clammy smell off your body and does exactly what it's supposed to. Feeling clean frees your mind. A good idea from Velocity, you have to hand it to her. 

Unfortunately, the sudden hissing of the door shatters this moment of relaxation and, judging by the metal steps, someone is coming in.

"Oh- I, uh-- hi." 


Wait a minute. You know this bot. It's the same little bot you almost ran into this morning! 


"Hey," you greet back, playing it cool, but you can't stop your arms from protectively covering your chest. You sit stiffly on the little seat in front of the sink, your upper body still wet and full of soap. Damn, this is awkward.

"I can come back later," the bot seems to sense your discomfort, or maybe it's just written all over your face. You want to say yes, but something's holding you back; you're a guest on this spaceship. You should act accordingly. 

"No, um..." Words. How did words and saying them work again? "Velocity had to go, so she left me here so that I could freshen up after stasis, and obviously I'm doing that, and I- I mean, you don't have to -" Holy shit, that's a disaster of a string of words you're muttering. Pull yourself together! "Please. You don't have to leave just because of me." 

"Oh. Okay." The blue and white bot grabs a polishing cloth and a bottle of pink cleaning fluid and sits down beside you at the sink. He hesitates. "Do you mind a bit of company? I can go over there if you like."

"No, I think company sounds very nice," you reply immediately, making a welcoming gesture with your hand. 

"By the way, I'm Tailgate," he introduces himself. "We've already met." 

"Yes." By now, your flight seems almost ridiculous and embarrassing, as everyone is so nice here. "I almost ran into you. I'm sorry, by the way." 

"It's okay." He picks up a wire brush from the edge of the sink and starts scrubbing himself with a scratching sound. "Must be pretty scary waking up among so many strangers."


Your arms leave your chest, reassured by the casual tone of Tailgate's voice. See, it's not so bad. You're fine. No one's judging you, except you. 

"Hah, yeah. It was... quite a shock," you admit meekly. "I've no idea what I was doing on that wrecked ship, and now I'm here."

"I know the feeling. I missed the whole war because I was stuck in a hole. Six million years, just gone."


Oh, that's... Six million years? You can't keep up with that, not by a long shot. 


"You look good for someone who's been around so long," you try to joke. "Not like six million years at all."

He chuckles. "Thank you. I like the markings on your back, by the way." He points to your torso. Looking over your own shoulder, you can see what he means: your bare back is adorned with a pattern of spots, not unlike a leopard's. Like a line of freckles, these markings run down your back, a pattern as unique as a fingerprint, and disappear at your tailbone. "Do all humans have them?"

"I think so," you reply, stretching to get a better look - not easy. It's a good question. Is this normal for your species? You can't remember. "Unfortunately, I don't know much about my life before I woke up here." 

"Oh, then you should talk to Rung," Tailgate says as he struggles to get to his back. "He helped me a lot when I found out I had missed millions of years. Had a bit of a breakdown."

The psychiatrist. Apparently he's a competent bot, judging by the recommendations about him. A visit to him might be worthwhile, especially if you want to alleviate some of your anxiety. Either that, or a heavy drinking binge that kills enough brain cells to silence the nervousness in your body for a while. Hm, the idea of the bar doesn't sound so bad now. Can you even handle Cybertron booze? Probably not. 


"Do you need help?" you ask cautiously, as Tailgate continues to sigh and fails to reach a spot on his back. 

"Please." He hands you the wire brush and turns to sit with his back to you; after a second's hesitation, you scrub the spot he can't reach with his short arms. The material of his body is... warm, warmed by the hot water. You can feel the microscopic dents and scratches with your fingertips, as well as the seams that testify to the fact that these robots can change their shape. You've never seen that in real life, but it sounds pretty cool. 

"Is that too hard?" you chirp, and Tailgate just shakes his head. 

"Oh, not at all. I'm not made of aluminium." Hm. That's probably the robot way of saying 'I'm not that fragile'.


"Who have you met so far?" he asks into the silence and the soft scratching of the brush on his chassis. 

"Er, well..." You think. What were their names again? "Ratchet, Velocity, Rodimus, that giant buzzkill Ultra Magnus-"

Tailgate laughs. "Yeah, he's a bit special." 

"Then there's Rung, Chromedome, Nautica... Oh, and Whirl. I think he's really weird." 

"Whirl?" Tailgate asks over his shoulder. "I have to admit, he's one that takes some getting used to. But he's a good friend if you can get past his gruff exterior."

"Really?" you ask, pausing. "Him?"

The small bot nods. "A very good friend, actually. He may be a bit grumpy and violent, but he's someone you can have a good time with."


Seriously? That guy? 


"He chased me after I met you. And he calls me his pet." You decide not to mention that you nearly broke his arm. "I think he's weird."

"Sounds like him, yeah." Tailgate sounds cheerful. "Give him some time and you'll see. He can be really nice, in his own Whirl kind of way."



Shining like a freshly waxed spaceship, Tailgate gets up and starts rubbing himself down with the polishing cloth. After washing the rest of the soap off your body with a torrent of water, you do the same, although the rough cloth must feel much better on metal than on skin. All in all, though, you feel much fresher than you did before the little wash. The world looks very different now, better and not as bad as initially thought.

"Oh Primus, I'm so sorry it took so long!" Velocity stomps through the door just as you pull your shirt over your head and pluck it into place. "You wouldn't believe how whiny some bots are, you'd think-- Oh, you're done already."

She has guilt written all over her face. 

"It's okay," you reassure her with a friendly glance at Tailgate. "I had good company."

At this praise, a flattered flash of light goes through the little bot's visor, as he mumbles something and seems to wave you away shyly. He's definitely someone who's beginning to change your mind about this spaceship full of mechanicals. Everyone has been friendly to you - apart from the weirdo Whirl - and you get the sneaking suspicion that things might not be that bad after all. So far, every problem has been solved without much back and forth. All it took was a little faith on your part. 

Talk about prejudices clouding your vision!

* * *

 

Back on the deserted deck where your habitation suite is located, the sounds of the ship fade away almost completely. The roar of the engines that keep the ship running is now just a soft purr that can be felt subliminally in the floor. If you listen closely, you can hear distant mechanical voices and footsteps, and even the occasional laugh. The Lost Light vibrates with life and social diversity that the buttoned-up crews of the Galactic Council and Federation could learn a thing or two from! 

To your dismay, the door next to your quarters is open. In the hallway are boxes, some opened, some still closed. You remember that someone had threatened to steal these things from the storeroom. 


Oh no. 

"Pet!" Whirl pushes another box out into the hallway with a loud scraping sound. When he sees you, the light in his eye flickers briefly, almost as if he were genuinely happy to see you. 

"Not a pet," you reply, and enter the code for your habitation suite. But before you can leave his company, he blocks your way to your quarters by stretching his arm out in front of the door. This gives you a good look at the mechanics; his blue alloy shows a number of scratches and dents, some of them quite deep. They show that he's someone who doesn't shy away from confrontation. Well, obviously, because he stands in the middle of the doorway and leans down so close to you that you have to tilt your head back slightly. 

"What do you want, Whirl?" you finally ask, unable to follow Tailgate's advice and give your opponent a fair chance. He's just too annoying. 

"Glad you asked!" he says immediately, as if he'd been waiting for this question. This can't be good. "I could use some help." He clicks his claw while you grimace. 


What is he up to now? 


"What do you need my help for?" you ask suspiciously. "What can't a big robot like you do on his own?"

"Quite a few things, actually." He lets go of you and retreats from your personal space. A sound of amusement rumbles in his broad chest, a deep and easily overheard chuckle. He's planning something, you can feel it. "Follow me."

Reluctantly, you follow him into the habitation suite next to yours. It's dark in here, lit only by the small lamp attached to the bunk on the wall. The boxes that used to be in your quarters are now here, taking up most of the room, except for a small path through the mess the bot has already made. 

"Over here." He stomps ahead, accompanied by the sound of metal on metal with each step. "I'm pretty sure there's something interesting in here." He points to a barrel, secured by a delicate lock on the lid.

"How do you know?"

He snorts derisively from one of his vents. "Because it's an anti-Whirl lock. I can't open it with these." He waves his claw demonstratively. "Rodimus is unfortunately very skilled at hiding the good stuff from me." 

"Probably for a reason," you grumble, inspecting the lock anyway. A complex sliding lock. Easy to open with fingers, but impossible to open with claws. You look up at Whirl. "And you'll leave me alone if I open this thing for you?"

"Maybe."

You sigh. "Fine." It only takes a few seconds to slide the three shafts into position to release the lock. There is a click in the mechanism and it falls to the floor with a clatter. Admittedly, you are also curious as to what is inside this barrel, if it has been specially secured. 


"Oh ho! Jackpot!" As you lift the lid, a wild assortment of weapons greets you. There is a jumble of small handguns and larger calibres, grenades and knives. An arsenal in an inconspicuous barrel. Whirl is obviously thrilled with this valuable find, and grabs a heavy weapon as long as your entire arm. "I knew there had to be antimatter weapons on this ship somewhere!"

"Antimatter weapons?" You reach for a pistol yourself and something inside you begins to stir; the weight of the pistol in your hand is as familiar as your own name. The sister in another form, a friend whose cold material nestles against your skin as if your hand was made for it. With a smooth, casual hand movement, you load it and check the power level: fully charged. So familiar, so natural. An extension of your arm in metal. Only now do you realise how much you have missed it. 


Your movements are being watched. 

Whirl is still leaning over the barrel, but his watchful eye is entirely on you. He notices how naturally you reach for the weapon and how familiar you are with its use. He also notices how your fingers caress the handle of one of the knives with a softness that makes him growl. It's almost sensual. Almost. 

With a sudden, swift movement, he knocks the highly dangerous antimatter weapon out of your hand. Sparks flash as metal meets metal and you use your knife fromt he barrel to keep his claw away from your face. Instinctively, you lean into him, holding the knife in front of you with both hands, but despite your strength, you are no match for a huge bot like him. 

"Hey, what are you doing?!" you can only spit indignantly as he pushes you against the wall behind you with sheer force. His cockpit crushes you against the cold metal at your back as he twists the knife away from him, leaving it useless in your right hand, which is held away from him by his claw. You are pinned against the wall in under three seconds, writhing and with a flicker of hot anger in your throat. "Son of a bitch! What are you doing?!"

"Just testing a theory," he replies, leaning over you so that the frame of his head almost touches your forehead. He pushes his knee between your legs, lifting you off the floor so that your feet leave the ground. He's got you pinned against the wall in a situation that tightrope walks the line between dangerous and erotic - well, it would be erotic if you weren't so pissed off that he'd tricked you.

Squirming won't help much; he's naturally superior in brute force. His left claw holds the knife in place while the right slowly but surely draws fine lines across the skin of your neck. The point of his claws are sharp, as you would expect, and with a little more force the invisible lines become red ones, engravings in your delicate skin. 

"What's your damn problem?!" you hiss, eyes spitting venom, but it doesn't impress him at all. Calculated and cool, he continues to watch the reaction of your skin as he runs his sharp claw across it; a barely visible goosebump that can't decide whether it's from anger or pleasure. He doesn't answer, but pushes his knee a little higher, favouring the slight heat that begins to build in your stomach. A perfectly normal reaction of your body to the friction of metal against cloth, you tell yourself. 

"Asshole!" you spit out, causing a deep vibration to run through his body; he chuckles. The insult rolls off him like water, which only increases your own anger. It doesn't help that his claw now runs along your chin, high up your cheek, stopping just short of your eye. 

A cold tightness settles around your chest as Whirl lifts the tip of his claw, leaving your skin and moving only a few millimetres away from you. Your body rejoices as his grip loosens slightly, giving you a chance to retaliate for this affront. 

Your right hand, holding the knife, lets go of the cold hilt. The knife starts to fall, but you jerk your knee up and at the same time pull your hand out of his grip. Your knee hits the knife, which finds its way back up - and your now free hand grabs it. All of the sudden there's a sharp weapon between you and Whirl's body and the rage he has kicked up, which serves as an explosive mixture. Why your body knows how to move is not clear to you, but does it really make a difference? 


You know where to aim. Where his weak points are. Your instinct knows how to score a critical hit with a single blow. You don't know why, but you just know. Predator and prey. A force that cannot be resisted, one that moves every muscle as if by itself, without your consent. 


So fast that Whirl can't react in time, the knife shoots up and with a crunch, the metal sinks into his long neck. The blade slides easily into one of his transformation seams, between two segments at the base of his neck. There is a cracking and hissing sound, and with a flick of your wrist you twist the knife in the wound, drawing a sickening gurgle from his chest.

As the knife exits the wound, a glowing liquid squirts out; Energon. You must have hit a main energy line. 

Whirl lets go of you instantly, stumbling backwards and clawing helplessly at the gashing wound that now adorns its neck. More Energon flows out, staining his body and dripping onto the ground. A deep hiss escapes his body, a low cry of pain mixed with a distant expression that you can't quite place. 

"Shit!" A sudden, icy clarity descends on your brain as you finally realise what you've just done. Your body's autopilot takes a step back, allowing for a clear thought, one moment of common sense. Shit! You immediately throw yourself forward and reach out to press your hands to the wound. The slightly warm and tingling Energon flows over your fingers, clinging to your skin, drawing a fine trickle down your arm and then dripping from your elbows onto the floor. 

"I'm sorry!!" You stare up into Whirl's yellow eye, your own eyes wide. "I didn't mean to! I don't know why-" 


Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

 

Chapter 4: It'll be fine

 

Rodimus leans back in his chair and taps his index fingers together with a soft click. He's thinking, emphasised by a deep 'hmm' from somewhere in his chassis. A captain who needs to think carefully about what he's putting his crew through. Or maybe he just wants to delay his answer for dramatic effect, who knows. 

"The security risk is enormous," Ultra Magnus continues his report. "Docking at a station like Doxa 07 for a shopping spree is reckless, downright stupid."

"And yet necessary," Rodimus replies. "We can't make an offer of help and then back out."

"An offer I didn't like from the start," Ultra Magnus immediately clarifies. "Long-range scans show the Galactic Council's scouring the remains of the destroyed ship. They're searching for that hybrid, Rodimus. We can't use our quantum drive because of this non-human. We must drop them off. Now."

The captain of the Lost Light hesitates. The simplest solution would be to drop you off and leave. Just because he found you doesn't mean he has to babysit you. The wiser course of action would be to leave you to your fate on Doxa 07. Even though this space station is a lawless zone and doesn't tolerate humans, selling them on slave markets instead. That would be the easy way out. 

"We're not just going to leave them there," he says finally. "End of discussion."

Ultra Magnus makes a sound that can only be identified as a growl. Of course he's not happy with this decision. Besides, his concerns are justified - and Rodimus knows it.


"We'll put together a small team to act as a guard," the captain suggests. "Go in, buy what they need, and get out. No one gets hurt. Easy as pie."

"Easy--" The second-in-command is about to gasp into his cooling system, but he's content to punish his captain with a heavy silence. Expressing his displeasure in words has never done him any favours in the face of Rodimus' daring spirit of adventure. Although silence is unlikely to change that unwavering spirit. 

"It has to be a small team, so it won't attract attention. Rewind, Velocity and Whirl."

"That's got to be the worst team you could put together," Ultra Magnus grunts, breaking his vow of silence. "Velocity doesn't have the experience to be on a small team in a hostile environment like Doxa 07. Taking Whirl to a lawless space station is obviously a bad idea. And you only send Rewind down to get archive material."

Rodimus gets up and begins to pace behind his desk. "I trust them. Velocity has a way with people. Rewind has an eye for things others miss, and Whirl is the bot for the rough stuff when things go wrong." 

"And the Hybrid?"

"They have to tag along to tell the team what they need. We'll disguise them, it'll be fine!"

Ultra Magnus makes an incredulous sound from deep inside his body; this trip to the space station is obviously getting on his nerves. It's not just a security risk, it's a stupid idea all around. If the team is caught, there will be consequences for the entire ship. Doxa 07 is a space station armed to the teeth, full of mercenaries and criminals, surrounded by ships that are just itching to take on a Cybertronian ship. 

"Rodimus..." he begins, but the captain is not having it.

"It'll be fine," he replies to the justified concern. "You have to trust them, Magnus."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"This is some damage alright." Ratchet stretches Whirl's neck a little further to get a better look at the wound. "What exactly did you say happened?"

"I walked into a door," Whirl says. "Tripped and fell. Accidentally impaled myself. Pick whatever excuse you want to believe." 

The Doctor snorts in annoyance, but pulls out a set of mechanical surgical instruments and sets about repairing the damage to his patient. Whirl, meanwhile, is visibly in a good mood, sedated with some strong tranquilliser chips. Lively and in no apparent pain, he repeatedly taps one of the monitors showing his Energon flow. 

"The main energon line is damaged," Ratchet grumbles, already cauterising it so the ex-Wrecker doesn't lose any more of the precious fluid. "And the hydraulics are affected as well."

"'tis just a scratch," the patient chirps happily. "By the way, I could’ve done without the painkillers."

"Maybe- not me though. Don’t need a complaining bot in my audio receptors while I’m trying to work here." Ratchet grumbles, while his skilled hands are hard at work repairing the damage you've done. 

"Oh, I wasn't complaining. This is fun."

"Shut up."

 

"Okay, this looks good." Velocity wipes the last of Whirl's Energon from your arms with a rag and examines your skin carefully. "You don't seem to have any reaction to direct skin contact with Energon. I didn't expect it, but, well, you never know. You organic beings are a bit sensitive when it comes to chemicals."

"Yeah, I guess that's true," you agree, checking your forearms for any redness. Fortunately for you, there is nothing to see; apparently Cybertronian bodily fluids are not toxic to humans.  

On the other side of the medibay, on the treatment table opposite the injured Whirl and the annoyed Ratchet, you are being examined closely by the young doctor. The other patient's 'blood' has run down your arms and could only be removed with a wet cloth. Luckily, Lotty's concern that the Energon might cause skin irritation was unfounded. 

"How did this even happen?" she asks quietly, hiding her words behind the hiss of the cauteriser. "You stumble in here with him, bleeding like he's been decapitated." 

"I-" You don't want to lie, but Whirl won't reveal what happened, and you can't either - the fear that this will be seen as an attack on a Cybertronian is enormous. And then you'll be abandoned on the next planet with nothing but a distress signal and, if you're lucky, a breathing apparatus. "I found him like this. Down in the storage room.” 

"He's always getting himself into trouble," Velocity sighs. "I wonder what he's done this time." 

Well, that's a good question. You're not sure yourself what happened in that room; he pushed you too far, he wanted something from you, and then your body just - reacted. The feel of the knife in his mechanical neck felt so good that it's the most vivid thing you remember about that whole situation. The sharp blade scraping against the metal of his body... the sound alone has burned itself into your brain, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. How is it that this act of violence against Whirl has such an erotic aftertaste? 

"Let's let Ratchet do his job." Velocity helps you up from the treatment table and nods towards the medibay door. "Come on, I'll show you the rest of the ship. And we'll stop by Swerve's if you like."

A quick glance back at Whirl is even returned by him. You should hate him, the bastard who put you in this situation. But instead, surprisingly, it doesn't really bother you. It has just triggered the mystery of why your body seems to be adept at hand-to-hand combat and knows what to do to defend your own life. It gives you a sense of security, the strange feeling of being in control, at least a little. All thanks to that son of a bitch over there waving his claw at you as he floats somewhere between the stars thanks to the tranquilliser chips. 

The hint of a smile is his reward, and somehow you get the feeling that this whole thing has created some kind of bond between you. In a very strange, confusing way. 

"Hey, Doc," Whirl croaks as the medibay door hisses shut. 

"Hmh?"

"How does that doctor-patient confidentiality thing work? You can't tell anyone about anything I tell you?"

The doctor pauses for a moment, then continues working on the wound. "You act like I'm Swerve. I'm offended." 

Whirl makes an amused noise in his chassis, but then falls silent. Thinks. A wound like this, left untreated, would have been absolutely fatal. A direct hit at a critical point, a lucky shot so to speak. The blade hit the thinnest part of his alloy and severed one of his Energon mains. He also took a not insignificant hit to his neck hydraulics. Were it not for a nearby medibay, he would be scrap metal by now. 

Was it really luck that guided your hand? No, probably not. 

"Ratchet," he says slowly. "I think we might have a bit of a problem."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Swerve's is still relatively empty. It will be a few hours before most of the day shift bots have finished their work and are looking for some relaxation, so the choice of where to sit is pretty much up to you. You join Lotty and Nautica at the bar. The little barman, Swerve, comes straight over to you and leans against the inside of the bar with a broad grin. 

"So you're our passenger," he welcomes you. "Swerve. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," you reply, looking around. Behind the counter are a few tubes of glowing liquid and a large screen on the wall. A small serving robot moves to the corner of the room and brings other guests their drinks. The seats are a bit hard for your taste, but you'll have to live with that. All in all, a nice, cosy bar. 

"So. I suppose you can't drink Engex?" the bartender asks, polishing the metal of the bar with a cloth that could be a little cleaner. 

"I don't think so," you reply, glancing at the tubes of colourful liquids behind the bar. That stuff can't be good for your guts. "Do you have anything else?"

"Lemme see-" Swerve ducks behind the counter and noisily rummages through some crates. Little by little, the counter fills up with all sorts of things: A bottle with some sort of bulb in a brown liquid, a dark bottle with no visible contents, a kind of ball that is also opaque but makes sloshing noises when shaken - and finally a bottle that could almost be identified as whisky, were it not for the fact that the liquid moves by itself as if by magic. 

"Oh, and this." He places a dusty bottle on the bar and runs his finger over the label, then makes an unimpressed noise. "1869 Château Lafite. Whatever that is."

"Sounds human enough to me," you say, and a large square glass is handed to you. With a pop, the bottle is opened and the claret-coloured liquid pours into the glass. It smells tart, somehow fruity, with a strangely bitter note. Not that you know much about wine - or even like it that much - but a little drink promises to put the day's memories in a more pleasant light. What a fucking day.

Waking up among strangers, a wild chase followed by the stabbing of a crew member... What a fucking day indeed. It only reinforces the unbelievably strong feeling that you have to get home.



"Oh, hey, there's Rewind and Chromedome," Nautica nods in the direction of the bar's entrance. "Come on, let's sit down together." 

And just like that, you are being dragged from the uncomfortable bar stool to the corner of the bar, where there's a table with enough room for several people. And suddenly you are trapped between Velocity and Rewind, almost squeezed between two hard, cool bodies. You feel very small and somehow a little... lost. Out of place. 

"How do you like it here on the Lost Light?" Rewind asks, sensing your discomfort. His voice is a little subdued as Chromedome and Nautica argue quite loudly about the outcome of some intergalactic sport, and Velocity tries to keep her friend from using her wrench to tell Chromedome which team is better. 

"It's... pretty lively," you answer honestly. "A lot happened today."

"Yes, I heard about your chase." He seems amused by the incident. "You're faster than Whirl? That's quite impressive."


Oh, he has no idea... 


"Yeah, I guess so." A conversation. Rewind seems nice, but what to talk about? Ask him what's his job on this ship? What his hobbies are? You have little to no experience in dealing directly with mechanical species. Are there any rules of politeness? "Um, I-"

"There's no need to be shy," he assures you. "Everyone here's actually quite nice, so don't worry about it too much."

"I feel a bit strange being the only organic being on this ship," you admit. "So fragile."

"I can imagine - or, well, not really. Which is kinda the point, I guess." His words make you chuckle, and admittedly - apart from that crazy Whirl - everyone has been really nice to you. Well, Ultra Magnus is an exception. But just the fact that the Lost Light is visiting a notorious space station just to get some supplies for you; the people here are far more accommodating than any Galactic Council crew. They even invite you to their table to drink and laugh with them. They are very welcoming, exceptionally hospitable and go out of their way to help you. Perhaps it's time to worry less and just go with the flow. 

"I think I need to refill my glass," you say, having downed the tart, fruity wine in one gulp. With renewed vigour and a sense of motivation to enjoy the evening, you climb over your seatmates to get out of the corner booth. Much smoother than you expected, you work your way out of the booth, glass in hand, determined to have at least a little fun tonight. Maybe everything will be fine.


It'll be fine.
 

Meanwhile, the bar is filling up. More and more bots are arriving here after their shifts, sitting together and drinking the colourful Engex while laughing and discussing this and that. When the bar is full, the atmosphere is sure to be exuberant; this ship seems more like a home than a place of work. That's actually... really nice.

"Hey, Swerve-" You reach the bar and lean lightly against it. "Do you have any more of that wine?"

"Sure." The little barman grabs the dusty bottle of red liquid and uncorks it. "Are you sure you don't want some of this though?" His other hand holds up the bottle with the mysterious bulb floating in it.

"Absolutely not, but thank you." You look around the room: the tables are filling up, and even though you hardly know anyone, it's very nice to see that the social aspect of this species is so well developed. The anti-mechanical propaganda of the Council seems to be wrong about Cybertronians. 

"Your loss." Swerve pours you more wine. "But hey, what do I know about the taste of hybrids."

"Hybrid?" you ask, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Well, they don't know yet what genetic material you're made of," the bartender continues, while you make a confused face. "So who knows what's going on with you and your taste buds! If one genome argues with the other--"

"What the-? Genome? What are you talking about?!"

"Oh Primus." Suddenly the little bot gets even smaller as he realises his mistake. "Oh scrap. You don't know. They haven't told you."

"They didn't tell me what?!" you continue, leaning over the counter so as not to lose sight of Swerve disappearing behind it. He, on the other hand, looks away, but there is no one there to save him. Only his dirty bar rag is there, and he clings to it for support.

"Well, that you're not a real human-" he spits. "Just a, uhm- a hybrid."

"That's-- no." You fall back from the counter, your backside hitting one of the barstools. No, that's not- that can't be true. A hybrid?


You are a human. You look like a human. You know you're a human.

 

Chapter 5: Welcome to Doxa 07

"A Sleepwalker?" 

"Impossible." 

"Quite possible, actually." 

"They don't exist. It's just a conspiracy theory, just like the Shimmer." 

"I mean, we did have a Sparkeater on board..."


"Okay, can you all just shut up for a second?" Rodimus hisses in between his crew's discussion. With Ultra Magnus, Ratchet, Whirl, Brainstorm and himself, his office - habitation suite - is rather cramped, but it's hard to find a more private place for such a delicate conversation on this ship. "Whirl, are you sure?"

"Hey, I never said I was sure. I just said that this hybrid bears a striking resemblance to a Sleepwalker." 

"Who don't exist!" Ultra Magnus replies immediately. "The Galactic Council doesn't have lab-made assassins."

"Well, if I did, I'd spread the rumour that it's just a big conspiracy theory," Brainstorm interjects, but then quickly adds, "Not that I'm working on anything like that."


"Ratchet, what do you think?" Rodimus turns to the medic. 

He shrugs. "How should I know? The fact is, our passenger has been genetically altered. To what end and how exactly - I have no idea. I'm not a doctor of organic species, and even I have to admit that their genetic code is not exactly recharge time reading material." 

"Okay." Rodimus pinches the bridge of his nose. "Scrap. Let's say the hybrid really is a Sleepwalker. What's the worst case scenario?" 

"Supposedly, these Sleepwalkers are bred in labs and then implanted with artificial memories that support their killing impulses. They are used to assassinate high-level targets," Brainstorm explains. "Mechanical species like us are very popular targets."

"Sleepwalkers are killing machines," says Whirl, with a hint of excitement in his voice. "They're designed for maximum efficiency. I saw one in action once, and it was so cool."

"Whatever you saw, it wasn't a Sleepwalker," Magnus growls. "I doubt the Galactic Council can keep something that illegal and expensive under wraps."

"You'd be surprised what they can sweep under the carpet. Especially the illegal stuff." This is Whirl's dry reply, but now everyone is looking at Rodimus, who is sitting behind his desk, wearing his 'thoughtful captain' expression. After all, he has the last word and decides what will be done; a burden he wears like a medal on his chest and he now knows that this medal can quickly become a noose.  

"Are there any organic doctors on Doxa 07?" he finally asks Ultra Magnus. He nods. 

"Yes, there should be," Ratchet answers instead. "But it's risky. Doxa 07 is known for its slave market, where humans are sold at high prices. If we go in there with a creature that looks like a human, it could quickly lead to problems."

"Then we shoot our way out, no problem." Of course, this suggestion comes Whirl.

"You won't do that," Magnus interjects before turning back to Rodimus. "Shooting your way into or out of a lawless station, especially one like Doxa 07, will attract unpleasant attention. Besides, the people who run this station are not known for their patience and peaceful methods of conflict resolution. If you really want to pull this off, the team will have to remain completely undetected". 

"You heard him, Whirl, no shooting," the captain concedes. 

"Party pooper." 

"So we all agree: go in quietly, buy the essentials, find an organic doctor and get out. Mission accomplished, and no one gets hurt," Rodimus concludes the meeting. "With the doctor's data, we'll see what's wrong with our mysterious passenger. The perfect plan!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

You stare at the model spaceships, neatly lined up on a shelf against the wall. They are beautiful models, lovingly made, and they all depict ships that are most likely Cybertronian. A collection of memorabilia that either satisfies the owner's passion for collecting or is meant to cure a certain homesickness.

"I'm sorry Swerve was so hasty in bringing this up with you," Rung says next to you, as you glumly avoid his gaze. "And that he destroyed the progress we didn't even get to make." 

You remain silent. There is nothing to say. At least nothing productive. 

Rung continues: "Although I think your outburst was a little... emotionally charged. Swerve is used to his bar being damaged, but it's relatively difficult to replace all the glassware from behind the bar. Literally all of it."

Okay, admittedly, you already feel bad about taking out your anger with violence. But you had so many feelings building up yesterday that they just exploded after Swerve's mishap. The fact that the bar's inventory was reduced to a pile of junk and broken glass can be considered collateral damage, right? Where the strength to react with violence came from is a mystery to you - probably something to do with the fact that you're not a real person. This revelation alone has caused a million questions to explode in your head - and no answer in sight. 

"So." Rung lifts his datapad to see the notes he has made so far. "Let's go back to your memories. Your name?"

"I've already told you," you reply with the subliminal tone of someone very annoyed by the events of the last 36 hours. If he notices this covert aggressiveness, he ignores it. The ship's psychiatrist probably has a completely different calibre of patient, so you don't stand out as particularly hostile or dangerous. 

"Very good. Home planet?"

"Earth."

"What can you tell me about Earth?"

You sigh. The couch in his office is hard and definitely not made for organic beings. "Small blue planet, often described as 'cute'. Lots of water and the people like to eat hot dogs."

"And details?" Rung presses. "Can you tell me where you were built- I mean, born?"

"I-" You hesitate. You know you are from Earth. Your gut feeling is absolutely certain that you are from this planet. But when you think about it, when you really look for childhood memories, there is nothing tangible. "I'm not sure." It's not possible to determine exactly where you come from or what your parents' names are. Whether you have siblings, a cat, a budgie - there's just... nothing. 

"Sometimes memories are shrouded in some kind of fog," Chromedome chimes in. He sits in the corner of Rung's office, a silent listener and the expert who might contribute to this therapy session. "This happens to protect the mind, or because it is overlaid by something else, like a strong emotion."

"My strongest emotion right now is hunger," you say dryly. "When will we reach Doxa 07?"

"Soon," Rung assures you. "And might I add: I don't think you're taking this very seriously."

With another small sigh, you sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the way too uncomfortable couch. Of course you're not taking all this very seriously - who would? It's impressive that you're still being polite and haven't started taking apart the interior of this spaceship. No one could blame you for having a nervous breakdown, could they? 

"I'm tired," you lie, just to get out of here. You don't know any details about Earth, or where you came from; there's just a white void where memories should be. All you know is that you woke up here, surrounded by Cybertronians. And with the knowledge that mechanical species are dangerous and to be avoided. How you know this is impossible to say - but it's common knowledge in the domain of the Galactic Council. Although that fact turned out to be not entirely true, at least not according to the experiences of the last 36 hours. No one here has attacked you, quite the opposite.

And yet... it's all you know. That's your whole world right now: a spaceship full of sentient robots who like to spend their evenings in a bar or collecting model spaceships. Who care for each other, have relationships, and whose lives have been shaped by millions of years of war. 

"I see." Rung nods at Chromedome, who just shrugs. "And please, if you have any second thoughts about the trip to Doxa 07, come to me immediately. And I'd suggest we'll have another session after you're back from the space station." 

"All right." It's not really all right. You don't even know what to think anymore. Therapy with a million year old robot, yeah, sure, why not. It can't get any worse than this, right?

 

A few minutes later, the door to Rung's office closes behind you with a soft hiss. For a long second, you just stand there with an empty head and no idea what to do next. How to pass the time until you dock with Doxa 07? You have the choice between the long walk back to your habitation suite - this ship is ridiculously big and the corridors are endless - or the walk to Swerve to apologise for your freak-out the night before. Neither option sounds very appealing. The only option left is to wander aimlessly around the ship, hoping not to stumble into an area without a breathable atmosphere. It's still more exciting than sitting in your quarters staring into space though. 

The metal of the corridors, the material the whole ship is made of, is still freezing cold against your bare feet. The blanket that's been used as a cover for the boxes in the storeroom is still wrapped around your shoulders; it's a miserable feeling to be clothed in nothing but thin clothes and a layer of dusty fabric. Hopefully the space station will have some suitable clothing, as you don't want to freeze to death until you reach the next neutral outpost. 

Your way leads down the corridor, past many doors and a droning emptiness that seems to encompass everything. The difference to an organic ship is really like day and night: the Lost Light seems cold and uninviting. Is this perhaps because you are made of flesh and blood and not metal? Do the other inhabitants of the ship feel more at home here than you ever could? 


"Hah! There you are." A now familiar voice makes you turn around. Whirl appears in the corridor you just passed. It's strange that you didn't hear him, but let's be honest, you're so lost in thought that you probably wouldn't notice a turbofox biting you in the ass. "Velocity waits for us in medibay. Briefing and you'll get an accessory for our little trip." 

"Oh. Okay." You follow him after getting a very inviting look in your direction. "How's your neck?"

"All fixed," the bot replies, kindly matching your walking speed. He probably thinks you're slow as a snail. 

"I'm sorry, by the way. About the knife." 

"Don't be," he says nonchalantly. "I respect a good stabbing."

This elicits an amused snort from you, although he probably means it. His words aren't a joke - Whirl seems to be a big fan of violence and combat. However, according to the quiet whispers of the crew, this particular bot is... special. His nickname, Nutjob, follows him everywhere. Admittedly, there is something crazy about him, but he actually seems quite amiable. At least for now.

"I suppose you'll come with me to the station? Considering that Velocity wants to see both of us?" you ask as you walk together to the Medbay. 

He makes a sound that can be interpreted as a verbal shrug. So he doesn't know any more than you do. Or maybe Whirl just doesn't feel like giving the briefing in the corridor. 

"Hey, Whirl- what was that yesterday?" you continue, this time with a bit more edge in your voice. "Getting up close and all that?"

"Already told you," he replies dryly. "'was just testing a theory."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What's the result?"

Now Whirl makes a sound that makes his chassis vibrate slightly; he laughs. At least you'd think so. It's hard to tell with him, really. 

"I don't know." he finally chuckles, with a sideways glance that you don't fail to notice. "We're not done yet." 

 

Velocity is waiting for you in the medibay, along with Ratchet, Rewind and a bot you don't know. They stand together at Ratchet's workbench, which contains some interesting items - but now is not the time to ask what they do. 

"There you are." Velocity greets you and Whirl, taking you gently by the arm and pulling you over to one of the examination tables. "Come here, we can start right away." With no time for questions or protests, she pulls out a device that looks like the case of an oversized wristwatch. It emits a faint glow from the small lamps inside; it hums barely perceptibly and before you know it, she is placing it against your chest and the device unfolds metal straps that go around your chest and pull tight. 

"Hey, what the-?!" Your hands reach out to grab the device that clings to your torso like a mechanical octopus, but the doctor prevents you from doing so. 

"No, you have to leave that on," she explains immediately. "It camouflages your vital signs. All visitors to Station Doxa 07 are scanned on entry. Humans aren't considered a high value species there and are detained when they try to pass through the docking gates. With this cloaking device, you will be perceived as a Helassian".

"Not a high value species?" you ask, but then the bot you don't know chimes in. 

"Your species are like pets to many other species outside the Galactic Council," he explains. "Or slaves. Or food."

"Drift, come on, there must be a nicer way to say that."

"No, he's right," you agree, despite Velocity's protests. "I should know that if I walk into this station as a maybe-human."

"Here." You are handed a mask that covers the lower half of your face. "With a hood and a mask, no one can tell you're human." 

"And you can just walk in there?" you reply. "That's a bit unfair."

"Our species isn't exactly escorted into the VIP area, but we're allowed in," Drift explains. "Though us Autobots, on the other hand, have fewer friends there than the Decepticons."

"You've been there before?" you ask curiously. "You seem to know a lot."

Drift nods. 

"In my time as a Decepticon, yes. Now more than ever, the station is a collection of crimes against life itself - but even then, it was a place where you could get and order illegal things." 

"The plan is-" Ratchet pushes past Drift to address the small team. "You go in, get the errands done as quickly as possible, find an organic doctor who can keep his mouth shut, and then get out."

"A doctor?" you ask, looking nervously at Velocity. "Why?"

"We need a complete data scan and someone to interpret it," she answers your question. "We can't say for sure if the long stasis has affected your brain function and that's why you have memory problems."


Makes sense. 


"Where is Rodimus? Shouldn't he be telling us all this?" Rewind asks. "Or has he got something better to do?"

"He's on the bridge. Doxa 07 has a strict entry protocol, which includes the captain of the starship making a statement as to why they want to dock in the first place," Drift says. "You have to ask really nicely to be allowed to dock."

Whirl shifts his weight back slightly. "Sounds like I won't be able to fully express my personality today."

"That's true." Drift's tone becomes a little harsher, sharper. "We can't afford to attract negative attention."

"So why should I be the babysitter? Why not Cyclonus? His expression seems to fit the mood down there on the station." 

"Enough." Ratchet puts his foot down before this discussion between Whirl and Drift can escalate into an argument. He seems to know both temperaments well enough to defuse this powder keg before the bullshit even starts. "Rodimus put the team together. Period."

The two bots then content themselves with giving each other an annoyed look, and Velocity turns back to you. She takes the cloth you've been carrying since yesterday and pulls it over your head like a hooded cloak. An encouraging smile comes from her, she always does that somehow, trying to cheer you up with a warm smile. With her sweet and loving nature, she really has chosen the right profession to work with a patient as fragile as you. 

It's reassuring to know that she'll be with you on Doxa 07. Nothing can go wrong, can it?

 

 

* * *

 

 

The airlock of the Lost Light is large, but nothing compared to what awaits you when you dock at Doxa 07. The station's airlocks are swarming with traders and visitors - hardly any tourists, for obvious reasons - as well as mercenaries and soldiers. Your companions, just like you, are wrapped in brown cloth; according to Drift, it makes sense not to reveal themselves as Autobots. It makes it a lot easier for them to move around the station, as Autobots are often met with suspicion. Though there seem to be more than enough cloaked mechanical species here, you realize when looking around. 

Doxa 07 is huge. There must be several million beings on this space station, and it looks more like a city than a station in a binary star system. A dirty city, full of smells that offend your nose even under the mask that covers your face. 

"Stop." One of the security guards in the airlock that separates the dock from the station itself stops your team of four. "Which ship?"

"Lost Light," Velocity says. "Four people." 

"Hm." The security guard, who looks like an oversized toad in armour, looks at you individually. His gaze lingers briefly on you and Rewind, the smallest of the group. "Through the scanner. One at a time." 

Velocity, then Whirl, Rewind and finally you. The second guard checking the scans waves the first bot through, then the second, then the third - hesitating briefly as he evaluates your scan. The two toads look at each other, then at you. 

"Kinda small for a Helassian," one of them growls. 

"They're still growing!" Velocity chimes in. "We're here to- uh, to-"

"To sell them," Whirl steps forward and leans conspiratorially towards the two guards. "You make more money off them when they're young and adaptable. Easier to control, you know."

"Huh." The two seem to swallow this explanation and wave you on with an annoyed look. "The slave market is on levels 27-36. Don't let Grolkh fool you, he always tries to get the price down."

"Thank you very much." Whirl keeps pushing you forward, further and further, until you're out of sight of the guards.


There's such a dense crowd in this station that it's easy to get lost. Rewind and Velocity follow in a hurry, through the narrow corridors and past the mercenaries and guards just waiting for someone to cause trouble at the airlock. 

After a few hundred metres of corridors, pushing and almost getting lost in this flood of outlaws and merchants, the airlock opens into a huge hall, packed to the rafters with several levels of merchants and shops. It smells of sweat and dirt, of rust and dishes from many different planets; buyers and sellers bustle about the stalls, species you have never seen before in your life and may never see again. Thousands of people are here to buy or sell something - and to seek services that can't be found anywhere else. 

There's something to see around every corner, so you don't even know where to look first: the shops with all the colourful fabrics, the glowing liquids in containers of different sizes, the weapons that could probably destroy half an armada by themselves? Everything is so interesting!

"We must stay together at all costs." Velocity addresses the words to you and Rewind, the two of you most likely to get lost in the crowd. "The three of us will lead the way, Whirl will bring up the rear - Whirl?" She looks around in confusion when she can't see the bot. "Damn, where-- Oh, you've got to be kidding me!"

He's standing just three stalls away, in one of the weapons shops, already deep in conversation with one of the weapons dealers trying to sell him his wares. With an exasperated sigh, Velocity grabs you and Rewind by one hand each and fights her way through the crowd. "Come on, before he buys a Singularity grenade and kills us all just because he wants to avoid paying his tab at Swerve's bar."

Hm. This is going to be an interesting afternoon.

 

Chapter 6: In chaos, I'm free

 

Doxa 07 consists of several large halls, all of them packed to the rafters with vendors and connected by dark tunnels that funnel crowds of visitors through the station. It's a constant crush of people, as busy and nervous as a beehive. It's easy to get lost or disoriented here, but once you get used to the hustle and bustle, it's really interesting to look around. The range of weapons, technology, clothing and food on offer is not to be sniffed at - and you’re now equipped with a supply of 'survival food'. These are colorful little cubes that you can snack on, without having to worry about malnutrition. As the Lost Light has no kitchen, one can only dream of a hot meal for the time being. 


"How about this?" Velocity holds up another shirt to see if it fits. 

"Isn't this something for four-armed species?" Rewind asks, looking at the garment sceptically. "It doesn't look like it fits. And the pattern looks terrible."

"As if you have any fashion sense," she replies, a little offended, but puts the ugly shirt back on the shelf of the small shop you're in. It's hardly a shop, more of a niche in the alley where a trader has set up shop. You've already found some shoes and pants, now all you need is something for the upper body. Nothing too flashy, just comfortable and warm. Space clothes, as they say. 

"It was nice of the Captain to give me money," you say, looking at a pilot's jacket that looks a bit worn but is still usable. Not bad.

"You mean the money Drift gave you," Rewind clarifies. "He's filthy rich. Rodimus is notoriously broke." 

"Oh? So I have to thank Drift when we get back…" 

"The exchange rate from Shanix to Units is ridiculous, though." Velocity turns what can only be described as a ridiculous-looking hat in her hands. "300 Shanix for 5,000 Units, that's a rip-off." 

"The jacket along with the shirt, pants and shoes, please," you turn to the salesman. 

The salesman, who looks like someone's crossed a human with a basset hound, nods in agreement and holds out his three-fingered hand. "2700 Units."

"Expensive!" Velocity complains, but you make the deal anyway, with a certain sense of control over your life. A new set of clothes isn't much in itself, but it still gives you a tremendous sense of security and the knowledge that at least some decisions are in your own hands. Even if they're just used clothes that have probably been looted by scavengers. Who gives a shit, this is what you want to buy.

"Where's Whirl? Did he run off again?" The medic looks around as she stands in front of you, so you can quickly slip out of the stasis shirt and into your new clothes. "I swear, if he buys another gun, I'll shove it up his--"

"There he is." Rewind points to a stalls down the busy corridor, where the missing Autobot is standing at a knick-knack stall. He looks much more thoughtful than usual, with a claw on his helm and clearly interested in something. "Come on, let's pick him up before he finds the next arms dealer." 

The three of you catch up with Whirl, who, seeing you, hastily stows away his next purchase and lets out a fake sigh as soon as you're in hearing range. 

"Finally-" he snaps impatiently, though you suspect his mind was somewhere else. You wonder what he just bought. "Have you finished shopping? I'm getting bored. And when I get bored, then-"

"Oh, save it," Velocity replies, urging him on. "I'm not buying your psychopath act anyway. Everyone knows you're actually nice, in your own twisted way."

"Who said that? Give me a name and I'll let you off easy - maybe."

"Yeah, yeah. Keep walking." 

Shopping on this station is definitely... interesting, as expected. The banter between your companions is friendly and welcoming, which eases the tension in your body a little. The fear that something bad, something fatal might be discovered during the doctor's visit is greater than expected. What if your brain has been seriously damaged by the stasis? What if you’re going to die soon? Or suffer from amnesia forever? That's not the life you want. And the possibility of some bad news being hammered like a nail into your coffin today is very real. A little friendly banter and shopping helps to keep this nervousness at bay. 

“Here's a specialist shop for organic medicine.” Rewind tugs at your sleeve and stops to point to a sign hanging over a small, gloomy-looking shop. “Medical equipment, organs and organic medical services,” he reads from the sign. “Sounds like this is a good place to start.”

“It looks shady,” Velocity comments, but she also stops and signals to Whirl to stop as well. ”I mean, I know we need the data, but… are you sure we should go in there?”

You shrug your shoulders. It's obvious that you're not exactly keen on being scanned and examined by a stranger – but Lotty is right, unfortunately you'll have to go through with it in this particular case. And you're not likely to find a sparkling white hospital here on Doxa 07. Everything and everyone here is shady, which is to be expected from a station that is the central point for the slave trade in this part of the galaxy. 

“Well, I guess we have no choice. We're sticking to the plan-” Velocity says to the small group. ”We're here to have you checked out before the slave market sale, so look miserable.” You lower your posture so that you look subdued and intimidated. “Yeah, that's good, just like that.”

“And these.” A soft clicking sound later, you have a pair of handcuffs on your wrists and once again it's disconcerting how fast Whirl can move when he wants to. 

“You brought handcuffs?” Rewind asks dryly. “Why?”

“Why not?”

“Whatever." Velocity puts a hand on your shoulder and gives you a soft look. ”If it gets too much for you, just give me a sign, okay? We promised not to cause any trouble, but if we have to-”

Whirl squeezes between you two, and he gives you a quick but very mischievous look. “No worries,” he says. “That's what I'm here for! And if it were up to me, we would’ve had a little more action by now...”

“I think it's wonderful that it's not up to you,“ grumbles Rewind behind him, turning on his camera before you four enter the gloomy little shop. 

* * *

"Welcome! Oh-" The doctor in the white coat looks up from his small, black eyes as you enter. The door makes a slight hissing sound, and if the light outside on the station is considered dim - it’s even worse in here. Apart from a small lamp on the desk in the corner, the only light comes from the medical equipment, making it feel like entering a cave. How fitting that the doctor belongs to a species of lizard.

"The mechanics are on decks 38-44," the lizardman says, wrinkling his scaly snout slightly. "I'm afraid I can't be of much help to you."

"Oh, I think you can." Velocity steps aside to reveal you. You remove your hood and unmask at her slight nod, and the doctor's thin lips curl into a toothy grin. 

"I see." He steps out from behind his desk and looks at the group, his yellow eyes lingering particularly on Whirl, who is the tallest and definitely the most menacing of you. "Want me to inspect the goods before the sale?"

Velocity nods.

"Good. A simple check is 1500 Units, a deep scan 2000. Payment in advance." He nods his heavy head at a price tag hanging on the wall. The walls themselves are covered with images of scans and documents, with notes and everything else that makes this little shop - or practice? - look like a chamber of horrors. There's a large machine against the wall, which must be the Deep Scanner. Next to it are two treatment tables, some cupboards filled with medical supplies, and the whole place reeks of organic material and disinfectant. 

"Expensive..." Velocity grumbles again, but she pays the lizard and tries not to complain about the state of the place. She's right - this place really is shady.
 

"Up you go." The doctor swings his tail in the direction of the treatment table, which is way dirtier than you'd like it to be. Nevertheless, you follow the order he gave you and lie down while the scanner warms up with a loud, rattling sound. The machine is guaranteed not to be the latest technology, but rather what you would get for a fair price and as a second-hand item. Not that you would find the latest technology on this station, except perhaps among the arms dealers. 

A soft blue light moves over your body, examining every cell and atom to send all the information to the computer, which the doctor now turns to. The screen flickers on, he has to tap it twice before it shows everything correctly; it is a full body image of you. Organs, skeleton, everything is clearly visible - and looks good to your amateur eyes.

"They've been in stasis for a long time," Velocity says to the organic doctor. She glances at Whirl and Rewind, who are standing in the corner, keeping a watchful eye - and a camera - on the proceedings. "And we want to know if this had any negative effects on the body."

The doctor makes an indifferent sound as he looks at the monitor in front of him. It takes him a few seconds to answer: "It doesn't look like it. Although-"

"Although what?" Velocity asks immediately, stepping next to him to study the scan. She has a hard time hiding the concern in her voice, but the strange doctor takes it as concern about the sale price. "What do you see?"

The doctor gives her an annoyed sideways glance, obviously not thrilled by her physical proximity. 

"This is a hybrid. Artificially created," he says, then looks at you. "Highly illegal. Where did you get it?"

Whirl steps forward, a loud sound of displeasure in his chassis. "I don't see why you need to know." His claw twitches in the direction of the weapon he carries under the fabric that covers most of his body.

"Relax, robot," the doctor chuckles, unimpressed by the threatening gesture. "I'm not a law enforcement officer. I assume you intend to sell this hybrid here at the market?"

Whirl nods slightly. "Maybe. We've heard there's a good price for Sleepwalkers." 

The doctor shakes his head slightly. "Sleepwalkers, yes - but not for this one. Look." He shows Velocity the image of your genome on the screen. "They made a mistake when they created the genetic sequences. 30% human DNA, 10% Karot-Gernot, 10% Halien, 50% Lysian. And that's the problem. The Lysian DNA is too dominant." He gestures across the genome, then moves closer to your actual body. With his scaly hands - claws? - he lifts you up slightly. He handles you as if you were nothing more than a mannequin. An object; a commodity. You feel a little sick at the thought.

"Here. These are Lysian spot patterns that only come through when the genome has been processed without the proper care." He pulls down the collar of your shirt, revealing the leopard-like pattern on your neck and back. An uncomfortable shiver runs down your spine at his touch, and out of the corner of your eye you see Whirl move slightly. Just an inch - but ready to intervene.

"And that's bad because...?" Velocity studies your genome on the screen, visibly overwhelmed by the complicated data. 

The doctor sighs hissily, his nostrils widening slightly. "Lysians are naturally prone to telepathy. This also means that their brains are resistant to mental attacks - and the implantation of false memories, as is the case with Sleepwalkers." Now he turns directly to you. "Do you have memory gaps? Amnesia?"

You nod. 

"There you go." The doctor seems to be finished with his explanation and walks back to the scanner to store the data on a data chip to give it to your group. "It's the implantation of artificially created memories that makes these bioweapons so dangerous. Without a tragic past, they lack the bite to kill." 

"And that means what, exactly?" Rewind asks into the brief silence. "Am I the only one who doesn't understand what that means?"

"It means, my little mechanical friend-" the doctor says without looking up from his work. "That you won't get a good price for this thing. If you're lucky - 20,000 Units. Probably less."

Velocity helps you up from the examination table, leaving you with only a muffled roar in your ears. What this guy is trying to say is that you’re...

"Damaged," the lizard doctor says, handing the data chip to Rewind, who takes it and immediately stows it away safely. "Unfortunately, your goods are damaged. That's probably why it was in stasis. The Galactic Council disposes of unsuccessful work in the Delari system. They shoot them into the sun or a black hole, I don't know." Velocity, who’s standing next to you doesn't let go of your shoulder. A gentle gesture of support and affection that you can only partially register at the moment. 


Damaged.

"This thing is just an empty shell, a killing machine without a soul." The lizard turns off the scanner and shrugs slightly. "It's broken."


Velocity opens her mouth to speak, but Whirl is much quicker. In two long strides, he has crossed the room, his claw flashing in the dim light of the surgery, and the doctor is pinned against the wall, an angry Autobot just inches away from his lizard snout. 

"Listen, Dr. Death Wish." the former Wrecker growls from somewhere deep inside his chassis. "Your lousy patient care aside, you won't tell a soul that we were here, understand? Or else I might get a little rough. Been itching to let off some steam today and you look just like the lizard I needed." 

The doctor laughs crudely, unimpressed by the claw at his throat. He huffs and grins, his double rows of teeth gleaming in the soft light. 

"Relax, Autobot-" he snarls, choking back another laugh as the four of you look at him in surprise. "What, you think I don't recognise your kind? Oh, please - only you Cybertronians look that polished and factory-fresh. And a Decepticon would've killed me on the spot when I delivered the bad news." The grin widens. "You good guys don't kill organic species." 

Whirl growls, low and threatening, but then he lets go of the Doctor. Not willingly, though, because it is you who has put a hand on his arm, looking up into his yellow eye. Your gaze lingers for a few seconds before he finally lets go of the lizard completely and follows your silent wish. Enough for one day. 


I want to get out of here. 


"Let's go," Velocity makes a welcoming gesture to encourage you to leave - but your eyes fall on the scan on the monitor and a rage flares up, blinding you for a moment. Broken. Just an empty shell, devoid of substance. Is that what you are? Just a puppet created by the Galactic Council to fight mechanical races? To assassinate politicians? To start wars? 

Suddenly, like bitten by a snake, you regret stopping Whirl from teaching that lizard a few lessons in patient care. Not that the dodgy doctor is to blame for your plight - but something inside you snarls and drools, wants someone to suffer, to burn out that fierce spark of rage before it can eat away at you. Hatred, hatred of the Galactic Council is beginning to sprout like a weed, you can feel it. In the span of just a few days, your life has been turned upside down. Not that you ever really had a life. But isn't that even worse? All you've ever known is waking up among strangers and learning that you're not even supposed to exist? 

As the shop door slams shut and the three of you are back in the crowd, you can't help but shake Velocity's hand from your shoulder. The truth slowly dawns on you: 


I shouldn't exist. I'm not real. 


"Hey, are you okay?" your friend asks immediately. She's not the one to blame for the whole situation either, though her warm voice is not milk and honey right now, but sandpaper scratching at battered nerves. Kindness can't make up for this terrible fate, so it's not fair that she thinks a hand on your shoulder is an appropriate way to comfort you. 

Her touch when she uncuffs you, because the bluff has been called anyway, is almost unbearable. Being touched feels like tiny poisonous arrows piercing your skin and setting fire to everything in your body; the impulse to lash out at her is terribly strong. You want to hurt someone, anyone.


"Why don't you two go to the Lost Light?" Whirl suddenly says. "I want to go to another shop, and my pet here can help me carry."

"Whirl-" Velocity protests immediately, but he doesn't let her argue.

"We'll meet you on the ship," he says, placing a claw on your back to push you in the opposite direction, away from Lotty and Rewind. Away from the feeling that you are in a hot downward spiral and about to hurl ugly words at your gentle friends. It's strange that Whirl, of all people, realises this and stops you from imploding like a dying star. 

"Just keep walking," you hear his voice over the rush of blood in your ears.

Breathe. In and out. 

Your hands are clenched into fists, hidden beneath the fabric of your cloak. Every muscle is tense, your tongue heavy as lead. It's impossible to control this chaos of thoughts and fears, at least for now. Receiving life-changing information is one thing, but life-destroying? That's a whole other level of overwhelming. 


Whirl doesn't talk to you, he doesn't even look at you, but he stays close. It's almost as if he's making sure that he's always close enough, in case your hand wants to reach for him under the fabrics that cover your bodies individually. He stays close wherever you go, simply because walking seems to defuse the situation. Walking takes you away from the realisation that you are a freak, that you are defective, shouldn't even be here, that you do not exist.

Yeah, walking is good.

The overwhelming feeling of wanting to go home eats through your chest along with the anger; but there is no home. Nowhere to go. There is... nothing. 

"Ugh!" Driven by your barely contained rage, you don't look where you're going - until you finally run into someone. This someone is tall and wide and in company. Looking up, you see the toad-like face of one of the guards on patrol. 

"Oh, shit." You take an immediate step back, but this particular individual seems to have a very bad day. He leans towards you, and before you can pull your hood down any further, he has already caught a glimpse of your suspiciously human face. The toad nudges his comrade with his elbow and looks back and forth between you and Whirl. The guards on Doxa 07 don't seem to be very bright, but they're all the more vicious for it.

"Identification," the toad-man growls, holding out his armoured hand. "Now."

With a nervous glance at your companion, he hands over the ID chips Brainstorm made, which the two guards examine closely with a small scanner. 

"The IDs won't stand up to that security scan," Whirl says, moving slowly to stand slightly in front of you, shielding you from the two guards. The gesture is subtle, but you notice it. The Autobot's move is protective, and while you appreciate it - and it makes your stomach tingle pleasantly - it's unnecessary. Because right now you're out for blood, and it doesn't matter whose blood it is. "Any moment now, these two guys are going to pull out their guns and ask us, more or less politely, to follow them."

Fine. Let them do that, let them give you an outlet for what you can't find words for. Because you're feeling really bad right now, and you want to take your anger and frustration out on someone. Maybe this encounter wasn't bad luck, but a sign from fate that you really need to let off some steam? 

"The smaller one. His left knee," you murmur softly to Whirl behind your mask. "He shifts his weight to his right leg and moves his left leg in a weird way when he moves. That's his weakness." Your eyes flick to the second security guard. "The other one moves stiffly, barely moving his shoulders. If you're quick, you can take him out easily with a hit in the neck."

"Huh." Whirl reaches under the fabric covering his body, and a soft click reveals that he just turned off his weapon's safety mode. "You're really making yourself useful." He hisses softly from his fans, then you feel him nudge you gently - and hold up a smaller weapon from under the brown fabric. "You take the left one, I'll take the right guy?"

"Deal."

Your hands grab the pistol greedily, hungry for fresh blood, and it disappears under the fabric of your cloak, where you turn off the safety mode as well.

The way he proposes the attack sounds almost like an invitation to a romantic rendezvous; and right now, with that hollow anger in your stomach, you've never heard anything so tempting. What can you do but give in to temptation? No, honestly, you can't think of a single good argument to not do it.


The moment the two guards turn away from their scanners and back to you, you move at the same time as Whirl. As he raises his gun, you duck and jump forward. Your left leg finds a firm foothold, while you pull the right leg up towards your body and use all your strength to deliver a powerful kick to your opponent's knee. The sole of your shoe hits the side and the joint gives way, at a completely unnatural angle and with a truly disgusting sound. The toad-man howls in pain as your arm shoots forward, pulling the trigger of the pistol before your brain can give the command. A bang, a bullet, a hit.

Your muscles know exactly what to do and how to move to avoid the incoming attack from the second guard. His machete thunders down from the air and hits the hard metal of the floor, sparking as you drop to the side and pull yourself out of the swing with a half turn. Whirl is instantly in front of you, pulling the trigger on his own weapon, which fires a loud shot like a shotgun blast. The second guard falls backwards - you don't know if he’s dead or not - and the crowd around you immediately explodes into screaming and panic.

"Time to go." A metal claw grabs your arm and you are dragged into the raging crowd. People step aside for Whirl, who, like you, stands out by sheer size among the station's mostly organic visitors. Being tall can be convenient - in the sense that you can keep an eye out for incoming threats, but at the same time you stand out from the crowd to a certain extent. 

"Do you trust me?" Whirl shouts over the noise, causing a dry laugh to escape your throat. 

"Absolutely not!"

"Eh, probably a good decision," he admits, but then he slows down and pulls you with a firm grip over some crates stacked at the edge of the aisle. "You'll have to do that now, though." His claw leaves your arm, you continue to climb over the crates at full speed until you hear the distinctive sound of the Transformer's body changing - wow, what a sound - and finally Whirl switches to his alt mode. 

Too big for his cockpit, you have no choice but to jump from the tower of crates and land on the helicopter with a mighty leap to ensure a quick escape. The soles of your boots slip a little on the bare metal, but your free hand finds a ledge to hold on to. It's a bit like surfing - not that you've ever surfed before.

"Hold on to your skid plate." Whirl accelerates and, indeed, you have to hold on tight to avoid falling backwards. You're hit by a gust of wind as you fly through the gigantic market hall, and a warm wave of euphoria floods every corner of your brain.


This is fun!


"Where are Lotty and Rewind?" you call out over the sound of wind in your ears.
 
"Probably already back at the Lost Light," Whirl's disembodied voice answers. "Velocity isn't stupid. She knows it's smarter to get Rewind to safety first if there are any signs for trouble."

"Agreed." He's right, has has to be. Unfortunately, searching for your friends isn't an option at the moment: A shot from the crowd below makes it clear that the guards are on your trail. Your hand gripping the ledge of Whirl's cockpit tightens on the metal and you straighten slightly from the kneeling position you find yourself in on this extremely fast form-changing robot. It only takes seconds for your eyes to pick out the shooter in the crowd, and with a well-aimed shot - one you didn't even know you're capable of - the guy's head is gone. Yeah, that one's definitely dead.

"What do we do when we get to the airlock?" you ask your companion, who uses his alt-mode weapons to clear some more of the signs and junk from the narrow corridor you're entering. "They must have sealed it off. Roadblock." 

"Good point," Whirl replies, while you have to press yourself flat against his surface to avoid being decapitated by hanging metal parts in the passage you are flying through.


Damn, this is... fantastic. At least that's what the adrenaline pumping through your veins tells you. A chase, gunfights and the freedom that comes with it. A kind of control over your actions that is almost addictive. Everything that is happening right now is carrying you on golden wings towards emotions that you have never felt before; pure freedom, superiority and everything that falls into that category of crazy euphoria. Who would've thought that creating such chaos feels so good?!


"We could shoot our way out," you suggest, as hundreds of lights flash past you in the darkness and the passers-by below scream in terror. "Just- gun our way to freedom."

"You know, I'd like to say that sweet talk doesn't work on me-" The tunnel opens into the large hall that connects the airlock to the rest of the station. "But you seem to know how to talk to good ol’ Whirl." 

You laugh. A flirtatious laugh, even. Good heavens, what has got into you? And why does this hot rush of violence and adrenaline somehow turn you on? Well, at least it makes you forget that you're nothing but an empty shell. Doesn't that technically mean you can fill that emptiness with whatever you want? 

"Ready?"

"I was forged ready." 



Mid-flight, the metal beneath you shifts and Whirl reverts to his robot mode. With a loud crash, he lands directly in front of the airlock, where more than a dozen security guards have already taken position. You fall through the air like someone just threw you with all their might, body ready to roll to avoid the worst of the impact - though your companion seems to have calculated this landing perfectly and two strong arms catch you. Instead of looking at the enraptured look on your face, the Autobot immediately puts you back on your feet and grabs his gun to open fire. 

As expected, the airlock is guarded by security; they've set up a barricade of metal shields to prevent you from leaving the station. The Lost Light's undocking process does not appear to be complete - out of the corner of your eye, and through the large windows of the airlock, the ship is still clearly visible. But that doesn't mean there's no need to hurry. 

You empty half your magazine straight into the wall of toad-like guards in front of you, before Whirl steps in front of you and fires his own weapon. He throws a knife at you with his free claw - is that the one you stabbed into his neck yesterday? He kept it? As a souvenir? Oh... you wouldn't have thought him the romantic type.

While he continues to fire on the brigade in front of you, obviously enjoying himself, you pick up momentum by sprinting towards the guards to slip under their legs. Then, as soon as you’re behind enemy lines, your body jumps up and pounces like a wild animal on the back of the first guard closest to you. The flash of the blade in the red alarm light hits the walls in an almost beautiful play of light; a reflection that dances on the metal walls, a grotesque image of the bloody attacks that the sharp metal inflicts. Green toad blood splashes on the walls as you deftly leap from one enemy to the next, inflicting deadly damage to their weak points that your body seems to find on its own. No matter what people say - killing is easy, at least when it's genetically programmed into you. 

This, combined with the Autobots' constant fire, reduces the number of enemies to a third of their previous number - just enough for Whirl to catch up with you and the two of you to disappear into the airlock corridor. Shots follow, a grenade or two is thrown, and the shrill hiss of the airlock drowns out the hoarse, manic laughter that escapes your throat. All the tension of the day is simply gone, lost and drowned in the green blood of the toad aliens and the certainty that no one can simply categorise you as defective. Damaged and worthless, you've never felt more alive than you do right now. 

"The Lost Light's leaving." Whirl picks up speed, carelessly tossing the now empty weapon behind him. "'not a fan of running away, but I guess we should shift into a faster gear." 

You snort. Has he already forgotten who's faster of the two of you, at least on foot? 

"Last one to the Lost Light pays for the drinks tonight!" you laugh, letting your body drop the act of holding back and really show how fast these legs can run. You fly through the corridors like the wind, with the occasional sharp sound from a bullet that misses you as you flee, and the screams of the Doxa 07 security guards, where you will certainly not be tolerated in the future. 

 

Chapter 7: Bad influence

 

House arrest. Ultra Magnus has placed you under house arrest. 


For two days now you have been sitting in your habitation suite, lying on your back on the more or less comfortable bed, bored to death. After returning to the Lost Light with Whirl, you endured a tirade of lectures and threats from the second in command; you broke at least three different galactic laws, and he recited the Autobot Code from memory - because of course he did. Keeping a straight face was a feat in itself, but unfortunately the tirade ended in this decidedly boring state of doing nothing aboard one of the most technologically advanced ships.
 
The snack cubes you brought with you from Doxa 07 are your only companions. Stacking them and building little houses and castles out of them is all that relieves your boredom, along with a small datapad that Velocity smuggled in for you. 


Read and eat. 


That's your daily routine. The databases of the Lost Light are well stocked with all sorts of information about Cybertron, Transformer culture and the war - but it all reads very dry. The translation algorithm used by the Datapad has trouble translating the Cybertronian data correctly, so some words are foreign and you have no idea what half the data is about. Also, the information on organic species is very... sketchy. There are entries about Earth, which you greedily devour, but almost nothing about other planets, such as Lysiun, whose inhabitants make up half of your genetic make-up. 

But before your mind can return to the fact that you are technically a bioweapon, you sit up and suppress these sobering thoughts. What's the point of dwelling on the fact that you have no past and no future? It doesn't make the boredom go away, no, it just makes it worse. 


"Yo!" 

With a shrill scream, you grab the datapad tighter and, with a startled jerk of your body, catapult the snack cubes from the bed to the floor. With a soft clatter, they roll over the metal and scatter across the room as you pull your knees up to your body and retreat to the head of the bed, staring at the young woman who has just appeared in your room out of nowhere. 

"What-? How did you-?! Who--" The words fall from your lips, even if they don't form complete sentences. 

The young woman, on the other hand, is bobbing up and down on her heels, glancing briefly around your living quarters. Her blue-grey hair in pigtails, she wears an eye patch and an Autobot insignia belt buckle with her thoroughly modern, punk outfit. Wait, is that...

"Whirl?" you ask slowly. Something, you're not sure what exactly, tells you that this is, in fact, him. Hard to explain, but something about this young woman just screams 'Whirl'. If you had to put a name to it, you would say that this woman has the same aura as him. Chaotic through and through.

"Exactly." He gives you a broad grin and finger guns. "Just wanted to see what you were up to."

"Not much," you reply truthfully, watching as Whirl collapses onto your bed. After a moment's hesitation, you put the datapad aside and reach out to tap him on the shoulder as a test. When you touch him, you feel a slight vibration, barely perceptible to your fingertips. OK, so he's not really here, he doesn't have a human body that he can hide in the cupboard and put on when he needs to - but he's not a pure hologram either. That wouldn't be able to withstand your touch. 

"Holomatter avatar," he answers the looming question, slapping your hand away from his collarbone. "Magnus grounded me too. Luckily I'm a free spirit and can't be locked up." He gives you a sideways glance out of his one eye. "Not like a certain someone."

"Very funny," you reply, sitting cross-legged closer to him. Holomatter... That's really cool. "And you can project yourself anywhere on the ship? How does that work?"

He snorts. “Explaining it wouldn't make any difference. I mean, I doubt you have access to holomatter generators." He continues to look around your room, picks up one of the snack cubes scattered on the floor and inspects the colourful little cube more closely. Apparently he's not the type of bot to just strike up a conversation - you'll have to do that. Still, it's better than staring at the ceiling or out the window at the same old stars. 


"Why aren't we moving?" you ask. "Are the Doxa 07 guys still after us?"

"Nope," he replies, throwing the dice back down before falling backwards onto the bed again, kicking up a small cloud of dust. "As far as I know, there are problems with the impulse engines. We usually use the quantum drive to jump from place to place, but since this certain someone-" A sideways glance at you. "Would probably go pop during a quantum jump, we need to fire up the good old impulse systems properly before we can use them for any length of time."

"But we made it to Doxa 07, didn't we?"

"Yes, and we found that we had a Kakett infection in the main engines." He makes a nonchalant hand gesture at your questioning look. "Space bugs. They like to eat their way through Energon conduits. Makes engines sad."

"Huh." 

"So." Whirl straightens up again and almost pushes his face into yours. If you look closely, you can see that the hair isn't as detailed as it should be. But otherwise - pretty close to a real person. Not that you can really tell, considering that you're not even a human yourself. "Doxa 07. I have to say, that was fun." 


Hell, yeah, it was! You can't stop thinking about it: the adrenaline rush, the weapons, the hoarse laughter from your own throat. The excitement and the feeling of pure superiority, of winning. 


"It was alright," you say evasively. Admittedly, it's not easy to share that bubbling euphoria when you're burdened with the fact that you're a freak. This new fact about yourself is something that makes the fun taste... sour. An ugly aftertaste, knowing that you're nothing more than a tool. Made with an expensive chemistry set like a science fair project.
 
"Just 'alright'?! Oh, come on. We had fun, you and I." Whirl nudges you in a strangely encouraging way, causing you to sigh and collapse onto the bed as well. Your head hits the dusty mattress and with your eyes closed, those creeping doubts about your personality are buried again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, where they don't bother you, asking questions like: Do you have a personality at all? Or have you been put together like a model aeroplane? Obviously with cheap glue, because your life and your self-esteem are currently falling apart.

"I suppose we had fun-" you agree out of necessity, flinching slightly as you open your eyes again - Whirl has turned on his side and is now so close that his avatar's nose almost touches yours. His one eye is golden, and he looks at you with a look that is impossible to decipher. Somewhere between curious and annoyingly insistent, you suspect. Huh. You'd think the almost physical contact would be uncomfortable - but it's not. It would probably be more uncomfortable to be so close to his bot body. Even though there's something very interesting about his slim and slightly grotesque design.

"Can you feel this?" you ask, touching his cheek lightly with your hand. There is that static-charged tingling sensation again when you touch the holomatter avatar; a warm rush in the nerves of your body. But before you can transmit that touch to the pleasure centre of your brain, he grabs your wrist and makes a slight 'tsk tsk tsk' sound. 

"Getting handsy, huh?" he growls. The slightly playful undertone is not lost on you. 

"Just curious," you reply, turning your own hand inwards to break his grip on your body. Instead, you now grab his wrist, just to show how quickly you can turn the tables. This brings a slight grin to the avatar's face, almost as if Whirl is accepting a challenge.

With a fluid motion, he throws his leg over you and pushes himself up with the arm he is lying on; suddenly his avatar is sitting on your pelvis, pinning you to the bed with both hands on your wrists. The holomatter human doesn't weigh as much as a real person would - it's not flesh and blood, after all - but the warmth it radiates can be clearly felt through the fabric of your new clothes. 

Whirl's movements are quick and precise, as if he had done this a thousand times before. Unlikely, considering the Autobots' lack of training in hand-to-hand combat against organic beings. According to the datapad, which is perilously close to the edge of the bed, it was the Decepticons who turned on the organic species. Technically, you have the advantage, as you were made to fight. 

Whirl's avatar licks its lips slightly, an intimidating gesture that doesn't really hit the spot. A little too dramatic for your taste. Showoff.

So instead of going along with this nonsense, you push up your pelvis - wow, your body really does have well-developed core and pelvic muscles - and pull him up with you. Your feet find solid ground on the mattress and now you can throw yourself backwards over the edge of the bed. Like a young bucking horse, you throw off Whirl, your hands gripping the metal of the bed frame - with a flip you land on the floor, just like your visitor. 

With a thud, the he lands on his back on the floor and you're on top of him in under a second, the roles reversed and your own pelvis pressed into Whirl's. Your hands grab his wrists and press them to the metal as you use your body weight to push his hips down. After a silent second, you lean into his face with a sweet smile that comes from somewhere deep inside you. 


You're all mine now, you want to whisper. 


But you don't. Instead, the two of you stare at each other for no more than three, maybe four seconds before Whirl realises that he's not going to let you get away so easily. His golden eye narrows slightly and he struggles against your grip with much more force than you had initially suspected. Actually, yeah, it makes sense that something as insane as a holomatter avatar would be stronger than it looks. 

"Woah!" Whirl is obviously a quick learner, using the same strategy as you: He jerks his hips up to loosen your grip on his pelvis and throw you off. You're lifted up and he rolls right over to the side, throwing you off balance and landing on your side with a thud. For a split second, you both look at each other, confused, unsure of what exactly the point of this series of physical contacts is - until Whirl finally throws himself at you and tries to push you back to the ground. 


Oh, OK. So this is turning into a sparring match, is it? 

Your hands reach through his outstretched arms and find the collar of his avatar's vest. With all your might, you lift yourself off the ground, pushing forward against his own momentum to get him back on his back as warm holomatter hands try to stop you. Whirl hooks a foot behind your heel to pull you down, but it's too late and you both fall headfirst to the ground, right next the bed. Whirl's back on the floor again and you hovering over him like a dark omen, with a hot wave of euporia washing over all your senses. One hand grips his collar tightly, while the other is about to pinch his cheek as punishment for this nonsense - but instead your free hand makes a detour and rests on his pelvis instead. 

Again you press him down with your own weight, but this time your hand is also pressing down, trying to get some kind of reaction from him. Anything, as long as it's something. A gasp, a groan, a sigh - your body craves a sound, a feedback and confirmation of this extremely strange tension between you. 

He doesn't make a sound though. 


"Had enough?" you ask through clenched teeth. 

"No. You?" he spits in reply, words garnished with a wry grin. Oh, that bastard is enjoying this! You would be angry if you didn't find all this kind of... stimulating, too. Avatar or not, your thoughts turn to the possibility of carrying out this scuffle with Whirl's real body. Metal against bare skin is the first thing that comes to mind - an image that is immediately discarded in the depths of your brain. Not that your imagination will run away with you in the end. 

"You're so... weird," you laugh instead, leaning in a little closer so that the tips of your hair now tickle his cheek. 

"So they say." 

You can't figure him out. What's Whirl's fucking problem?! He shows up out of nowhere with his holomatter avatar and gets physical just because he can. Why though? Because he feels like annoying you? Obviously he gets some kind of perverse pleasure out of it, which spills over into you and pulls you under the surface of this dark sea that is his actions and thoughts. His madness seems to be contagious, at least for a special case like you. 

"What do you want here, Whirl?" you ask without moving a muscle. 

No answer. He hesitates, searching for words. Maybe he just doesn't want to tell you anything. Maybe the truth is a bit dicey, who knows. Or he doesn't know either why you've suddenly started fighting like wild, sweaty teenagers. But you know he won't give in, so you finally let go of his vest collar and put your hand on his avatar's neck instead. Warm fingers touch the spot where you attacked his real neck with the knife. It felt so good when the blade went into his body. 


The knife lies under your pillow. You imagine the tip of the blade sliding over the seams of his body and him making a needy sound somwhere deep inside his chassis. Fuck. Stop thinking about it. 


"What do you want?" you repeat the question softly. The tension between the two of you rises, crackling like a statically charged array, ready to spray sparks.
 
His mouth forms the words 'I don't know', but instead of giving the words power by saying them out loud, Whirl rolls out of your grasp to the side. You let go of his avatar and let him slip out from between your legs, your pelvis no longer pressing his hip firmly to the ground. He avoids your gaze, just for a moment, almost as if you just had hit a nerve; neither of you knows what the hell all this is about. Touch and instinct, the pure desire to prove yourself the more dominant one, even if it's not really your personal style. But apparently it is your style when dealing with this bot: you fight for the upper hand, just for the fun of it. And damn, it was fun. 

"Wanna go for a drink? At Swerve's?" Whirl finally asks, standing up and fixing his pigtails. 

"We're not allowed to leave our quarters," you reply, also getting up to straighten your own clothes and hair. "I don't want to make Ultra Magnus so mad that he dumps me on a random moon or empty planet." 

"I'm not talking about the usual opening hours," Whirl says, finally daring to look you in the face again. There he is again, the strange bot with the poker face that's really hard to read. "The bar is closed right now and most of the bots are recharging. But luckily I know a way into the bar that doesn't require a key."

"So you want me to sneak out?" you ask. "Come on, I'm a guest here! If we get caught, then..."

"Oooh, sounds like someone's scared!", the ex-Wrecker sneers. "Hey, fleshy, comes being a wussy with the weird bodily functions and the fragile spine?"

"I, you- I mean--! Shut up!" Damn, he's got you. A stupid provocation like that shouldn't work on you, but for some reason it does. Probably because something in your chest is telling you that you want him to think of you as the badass person who made a daring escape from Doxa 07. It's a self-image that sounds so tempting and wicked that you're actually willing to break Magnus' rules for it. Yeah, okay - you really want to be cool. You want Whirl to think that you're cool.

"Fine!" you agree, grabbing the jacket lying on the desk. "But we won't steal from Swerve - you'll pay. You have to anyway, since you lame duck reached to the Lost Light after me, remember? Our little bet on Doxa 07?"

"Whatever. What's a duck?"

"It's got a beak and wings and- Agh, I'll just draw you a sketch when we get to Swerve's." 

 

Notes:

having cool fighting powers comes with being a bit of an idiot and being very susceptible to Whirl being an ass, sorry I don't make the rules

Chapter 8: Booze, grenades and oopsies

Notes:

managed to update all of my current WIPs before I go and enjoy the holidays with my family :) wishing you all the best! <3

 

"Behold!" Whirl unlocks the door to Swerve's Bar by prying open the code entry panel on the side and ripping out two of the dangling wires. There's a crackling sound in the electronics and a smell of burning plastic - then the door opens with a soft hiss. "Ta-daa! Tips are greatly appreciated." 

"Really?" you ask with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow. "This is just- it's property damage." 

"A matter of interpretation, if you ask me. Step right in!" The bot enters the bar, closely followed by you. The small establishment is dark, except for the glowing Engex tubes behind the bar. Your shadows move across the walls as you both reach the heart of the room, and you step behind the counter as Whirl sits down at it. 

"One Engex," he orders you as you pull out the box of organic drinks. You frown and look behind you at the colorful tubes, unsure how to tap a drink from them. Instead, you reach under the counter again and pull out a bottle of bright green liquid. 

"Machobot's Finest," you read the label. "Hmh."

"Ohh! This is the good stuff that Swerve won't let you have for less than 20 Shanix a glass. Gimme, gimme!" Whirl grabs the whole bottle while you place a glass from under the bar on the table. With a demanding tap of his claw on the metal of the counter, a curly straw finds its way into the glass, too. You pick up the bottle of brown alcohol - the one whose content moves around by itself like the inside of a lava lamp. Actually... why not? Why not just be brave and test how much alien alcohol this genetically modified body can handle?

After opening the bottle, you smell the contents - it smells vaguely like whiskey. It stings your nose and has a hint of disinfectant. The swill will certainly not win any prizes for good taste, but it's enough to relieve boredom. Let's face it, what could be worse than endless boredom? You'll gladly accept organ damage from strange drinks if it means you'll no longer have to stare at the ceiling of your habitation suite.

 
"Ahh, this is the life," Whirl sighs, and his vents sigh slightly. "Some good high octane fuel and an empty bar without two dozen bots chattering away." 

You take a sip of your drink and have to stifle a cough; the liquid feels like spicy water in your throat and for a second you wonder if it was wise to drink an unknown liquid. But after the initial pain on your tongue and in your throat has subsided, the stuff actually tastes quite good - if only it didn't do somersaults in your glass as if by magic. 

"So. Tell me about yourself." Whirl nudges you with his claw as you lean your upper body all the way over the counter, watching the blobs float around in your glass. "I want all the gory details."

"Pff." You snort and take another sip. Warm. The drink makes you feel warm. "My only memories are of this ship."

"Boring!"

"Exactly my point." You look at the bot, then purse your lips. "Hey, tell me something... All the other bots have hands, except for that cat-"

"Ugh, yeah, that thing. Ravage."

"Ah, Ravage, I see. So, what's with the claws?" With the glass in your hand, but your index finger outstretched, point at his not-hands and get a narrowed look in response to that question. 

"Woah, that's a 20 drinks in question, and we're only on drink number one," the ex-Wrecker replies, and you can literally feel the door to his personal trauma slamming shut. "I'd have to be pretty drunk to spill my heart out just like that."

"You mean your spark."

"Figure of speech. I thought it would be charming to throw in a little something from Earth."


You snort again and pour yourself another. Charming. Yes, in a very strange way he really is. Explosive and unpredictable, probably even dangerous - but charming nonetheless. You like the fact that Whirl is a bit unhinged. It makes you feel a little more normal and not like a crime against nature. That thought alone is like a weight on your shoulders, forcing you to swallow the second drink in one big gulp. And a third right after that, why not. 

"Thirsty?" the bot asks mockingly and pours for himself as well. The little straw in his glass dances as the glowing green fuel sloshes around in it.

You, on the other hand, pull down the corners of your mouth. "This is bullshit," you then say, staring at the brown drink in your square glass, which is still putting on a show as a lava lamp. "Defective. That's what that stupid lizard doctor said."

"Oh, boohoo! Poor little human-thingie." You probably can't expect any sympathy from the bot, the way he mocks your depressed statement. "I'm not here to be sad, I'm here to get drunk."


Heh. He's right. 


"Hear, hear." You clink your glass with his, which he silently comments on with a confused tilt of his head. You have been programmed with Earth customs and a rough knowledge of the current state of the galaxies. Mechanical species are evil and not to be trusted. They have exterminated billions of organic beings. Yet here you are, sneaking off with a crazed Cybertronian and breaking into the ship's bar with him. What is wrong with you? 

"Tell me about your adventures," you ask your drinking buddy, as this all-consuming grief over a lost life that was never yours to begin with threatens to overwhelm you. "Take my mind off the bullshit."

"I never miss an opportunity to brag about being the coolest bot on this ship," Whirl chirps happily, starting at the beginning - the day Tailgate almost accidentally killed him by exploding out of a hole in the ground. 



* * *



"And Rewind shot him?!" 

"Right in the spark." 

"Holy shit." You take another sip of the brown beverage that tastes extremely good after seven drinks. Your words start to stick together as they leave your lips, and you keep brushing your hair out of your slightly flushed face. Whirl himself is leaning against the counter more and more now, his cockpit drawing scratches on the metal's finish as he throws himself halfway across the counter while telling the Lost Light's best-ofs. He's had ten drinks already, clearly in a good mood and eager to tell you how great he is. 

"But Megatron's here," you say, leaning conspiratorially towards the helicopter. "I saw him in the hallways, with the cat - with Ravage."

"That's because the Great Whirl-" He points at himself, as if it's not clear who he's talking about. "Did a spark transplant. Open chest plate surgery, baby!"

"You?" you ask, grabbing his claw for a closer look. "Bullshit. You can't even pick a lock with these."

"Of course I can," he replies, demonstrating that small tools suitable for delicate work are hidden in the tips of his claws. "'used to be a watchmaker. I know what I'm doing."

Wait, that means... "So you didn't need my help with the Whirl-lock in the warehouse?" your heavily drunk brain puts two and two together. With a lot of effort, mind you. "You son of a bitch, you lied to me!" 

He shrugs. "Oops." 

"But why?" you ask, pouring yourself a drink from the lava lamp bottle and spilling a few drops on the counter. "I stabbed you!"

"I suspected you were a sleepwalker," the bot replies, leaning back against the counter. "I wanted to see what would happen when you were cornered." Are you mistaken, or is his yellow eye flickering slightly? Is he drunk already? You're not drunk! Or are you? Well, maybe. 

"Pff. Yeah, right."

"I once-" He leans a little closer to you, a movement which you imitate - now only inches separate your faces. "I once saw a sleepwalker take on about fifty men with his bare hands. Crazy stuff, I tell you."

"No way," you breathe, resting your head in your hand, the elbow balanced on the counter. "D'you think I can do that too?"

"Let's find out!" Whirl jumps up, grabs the bottle from the bar, and grabs your arm with his other claw. "To the shooting range!" Before you can protest, you're being dragged along, barely having enough time to grab your own bottle of alcohol without spilling the entire contents on the floor. 

 

The corridors of the Lost Light are almost completely empty. Apart from your staggering footsteps and the low hum of the impulse engines, there is hardly a sound to be heard. The night shifts are limited to the Bridge, Engineering, and Medical, so the ship itself seems asleep. Rarely do you hear the footsteps of another bot in the corridors, and Whirl looks carefully around every corner before moving on. If you meet Ultra Magnus now, the punishment will be devastating, you both know - and that makes it all the more exciting. The boredom of the last two days is blown away in the face of such a fun night with that chaotic bastard by your side. 

"Wait." A claw stops you before you can stumble around the next corner into the hallway. You lean forward to see what's going on - and your mouth falls open. 

"Is that--"

"Yep."

"No."

"Oh yes. It's kind of an open secret."

Together, you watch as Drift and Ratchet emerge from the Medbay, so tightly entwined that it's hard to tell where one bot begins and the other ends. They're obviously having a lot of fun, the way Ratchet pushes the swordsman against the far wall of the Medbay and kisses him with such hunger it makes your own neck tingle. 

"This could... take a while," Whirl sighs behind you, and the claw that kept you from falling headfirst into the next corridor wraps around your waist and pulls you back onto your own two feet. "Come on, let's take a detour." 

"Is this common here?" you ask with a heavy tongue as you stumble after the bot. "To make out in the corridors?"

"Not if you ask Magnus or Megatron," Whirl replies, gesturing for you to be quiet in this part of the ship. "But Rodimus is much more free-spirited - probably because he likes to fraternize as well." 

A small snort escapes your lips at this remark, for you also see Rodimus as someone who wouldn't say no to a little fun. His red-and-yellow paint job and flame symbols indicate that he's more of a hothead than a cool tactician. But then again, he does have Ultra Magnus and Megatron to make up for his flaws, right?

"And you? Do you fraternize too?" The question just comes out, even though you didn't mean to ask it. 

"Uh- occasionally." Whirl answers you, but it doesn't seem to leave him as cold as he would like to make it look with his nonchalant tone. Considering that most of the crew is quite hostile towards him, you don't have to put two and two together to know that the helicopter is simply not very popular. 

"This is where Cyclonus and Tailgate live," Whirl warns, pointing to the living quarters to your right. "Cyclonus has the hearing of a Zircon crystal bat, so make sure to be--" 

The door to the habitation suite hisses aside as you two drunks sneak past it - the term 'sneak' being used loosely in this case.

A very, very grumpy face stares at you and your drinking buddy. Cyclonus's piercing gaze wanders over you two drunks, over the liquor bottles, and finally settles on you - you've gotten used to the strange looks by now, but this bot really does look very hostile. It's as if he wants to slaughter you with his thoughts alone. 

"Oh, hey. Out late?" Tailgate comes out from behind the purple jet, looking tired as he clings to his roommate's leg. The minibot sleepily waves at you, which you happily return - Tailgate is definitely someone you can't help but like. 

"You guys are very loud," Cyclonus growls, crossing his arms and lowering the corners of his mouth even further than they already were. "We're trying to recharge."

"Just ignore us," Whirl slurs, pulling you close to him with his arm and raising his bottle in a toast to Cyclonus. "We'll be gone in no time."

Unimpressed, the jet's face still looks quite unhappy. "You're obviously under the influence of Engex." 

"Just a little nightcap," Whirl immediately assures him, but of course no one believes him, the way his voicebox produces his words with a certain hazy static. "We're already on our way to some place where you two aren't. 'promise." 

"That way is the firing range." Cyclonus stands in the doorway to his and Tailgate's habitation suite like a steel beam, unbending and with an aura that can only be described as intimidating. Except for Whirl and a few others on the ship, he can intimidate just about any bot with it. "I don't think it's a good idea for you in your condition--"

"Anywho-!" Whirl pulls you even closer, as close as his cockpit will allow, and prepares to drag you along with him. "Good night, sleep tight, don't let the berth-scraplets bite!" And off you go, stumbling and getting drunker by the minute. Cyclonus' dark gaze follows you to the end of the corridor, as do Tailgate's words: "It's nice to see Whirl found someone he gets along with." 

"He looked so evil!" you chuckle as you arrive at the firing range just three corridors away. Then you gasp. "Is he a Decepticon?"

"Not anymore - long story, one that I didn't bother to remember - but he still looks like one." Whirl enters the code several times incorrectly, then finally correctly, so that the double doors to the range open, clearing the way to the hall where the targets are set up and where there is a small armory. "And a word of warning-" your drinking partner turns to you before you enter the hallowed realm of guns, more guns and even more guns. "Never call Cyclonus a Deception to the face. And don't ever say Tailgate is a small, club-footed speedster or you'll get flung through Swerve's bar." 

"Tsk. Speaking from experience?" 

"Let's just say-" Whirl leans in close enough that you can hear the low hum of his spark. A beautiful sound, so warm and alive. "I don't have to transform to fly."


"Okay, we know you can handle handguns," Whirl says as he enters the code for the weapons locker. He seems to know it by heart, because this time he enters it without a mistake. The cabinet itself is filled to the brim with all kinds of weapons, ammunition, grenades, and other gadgets you might need to either defend yourself or spread a little terror. All in all, it's more of an armory than a locker.

"And knives," you add, taking a proud swig of your drink. 

"And knives!" Whirl confirms, tapping with the tip of his claw where you stabbed him with the knife while looking at the contents of the weapons cabinet. "Here. Try this one." He hands you a long rifle with a narrow barrel; it's heavy, but surprisingly comfortable to hold. Once again, you are speechless in the face of your instincts, which take over immediately: you put the bottle aside and your hands begin to examine the rifle. With a smooth movement, you pull back the cover of the ammunition chamber and note with satisfaction that the rifle is loaded. Judging by the scope, this is a long-range rifle with ionic ammunition. Deadly in the right hands. 

"First time, let's say... 3000 meters." Whirl taps something on the console for the holomatter targets that appear at the end of the extremely long range. They are barely visible to the naked eye, but if you look through the scope, you can see them. As you lie on your stomach on the range, the rifle resting on its supports, you exhale a deep breath. 

"Don't be too disappointed if you miss," the bot next to you purrs, leaning slightly toward you, and you can hear the soft whirring of the spark in his chassis next to your ear. "We can't all be Whirls." 

With no air in your lungs, it's much easier to hold the rifle steady despite the alcohol in your blood. With unwavering calm, you pull the trigger, aim again, and repeat the process six times until all six holomatter targets are destroyed, leaving only a blink of blue, dancing sparks. The reward is a flood of endorphins that make your brain light up like fireworks. Whether this is something you've been genetically programmed to do - or you're just a bit weird and enjoy shooting stuff - remains to be seen. 

"You're kidding," Whirl grunts as he checks the targets on the console. "No, seriously - you're kidding. 'tis is a fragging new record."

"Well. We can't all be genetically superior hybrids," you grin, getting up to fix your jacket. Pride and a certain swagger surround you like expensive perfume, but it only draws a harsh snort from your companion. He's a sore loser, much to your amusement.

While you load a new ammo clip, Whirl fiddles with a grenade. He probably won't admit it, but the record you just broke while drunk was definitely his. Let him be offended - this achievement is a medal you can pin on your chest: Defective, but not useless. 


"Oops." A soft click and this single word of the helicopter make you look up from your work on the rifle. Before you can even open your mouth, an arm is wrapped around your waist and you are pulled to your feet. In a second, Whirl has dragged you into the armory and slammed the door behind you. You open your mouth to ask what's going on, but an almighty roar along with a violent jolt answers your question. The metal of the armory squeals and screams under the force being applied to it; a sudden heat pierces your skin, probably the aftermath of the explosion that just happened outside the armory. 

Suddenly much more sober than before, you cling to the bot's slender waist, because this locker is definitely not made for a bot and a hybrid to cuddle up in and escape a small inferno outside.

"What the fuck?!" you yell, trying to squeeze your leg between his long legs to make more room. Whirl himself has to duck to fit in here, while you lean against the back wall of the closet, with a whole row of handguns nudging your back, to keep his cockpit from crushing you. 

"Like I just said: Oops." 

With an annoyed sigh, you push his cockpit away from your face, regretting that you let him talk you into this nonsense. 

"So, what now?" 

"The sprinklers should start any minute now," Whirl speculates aloud, playing with the pin of another grenade dangling from the cabinet wall in front of his face. "Hopefully."

"Hopefully?!"

"I don't know if they've been repaired yet, after the last time something blew up in here."  

"Does that happen often?" 

He shrugs, which isn't easy to do with the two of you tangled up like Ratchet and Drift - only with less hot romance and more heat from the ion fire outside the locker. 

"Be honest, did you do that on purpose?" you hiss angrily. "Because I broke your record?!"

"No!" he protests vehemently at first, but then he makes a thoughtful sound. "Or did I? Who knows. I certainly don't." 

"You- I-- arghh!" You can't even get properly upset, there's not enough time, because the unmistakable sound of a door opening to the shooting range interrupts your train of thought. 

"What the-" Hearing those two words and a low, throaty growl outside the locker are enough to elicit a soft curse from Whirl. 

"Aw, scrap. It's Megatron."   

Chapter 9: It's all a matter of perspective

 

"Sneaking out. Property damage. Burglary. Theft. Unauthorized access to ion weapons. Detonating a grenade next to an armory full of ion weapons. All while drunk." With a loud clatter, the datapad is getting slammed onto Ultra Magnus' desk, his Energon almost foaming with rage. It wouldn't be surprising to see steam coming out of his vents the way he's puffing and grinding his jaw.

Behind him, Megatron stands with his arms crossed, along with Rodimus and Rung. None of them look particularly happy - except perhaps Whirl, who stands cheerfully beside you, nodding eagerly at each charge as if Magnus just listed his war achievements. You, on the other hand, are shrinking with each and every single charge, your shoulders already at your ears and your hands nervously fiddling behind your back. 

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't throw you in the brig." The second in command looks at you. "Both of you."

You hear a sigh. "How's the firing range?" Rodimus turns to Megatron, while Magnus keeps you and Whirl in check with a look as sharp as a thousand daggers. 

"Bad," Megatron growls. "But not lost. Lucky that ion grenade didn't blow up the whole armory."

"I see." Rodimus rubs his shoulder thoughtfully and gives you a quick glance, which you avoid - this whole situation is beyond embarrassing. Getting caught causing trouble with Whirl, being dragged into Ultra Magnus' office by Megatron, and then being subjected to this high court of Autobots... You didn't exactly cover yourself in glory. So it wouldn't be so bad if Magnus really did toss you out the nearest airlock, then at least you wouldn't have to face this shameless embarrassment anymore. 

"No hull breach, which again suggests that the two have more luck than brain."

"What I don't understand, though-" The speedster captain makes a low noise in his chassis. "Why the hybrid did this. I didn't feel like - like they were causing any trouble until now."


"I- if I may interject here." Rung pushes himself between the two captains, with the aura of a bot that has been trying unsuccessfully to get their attention for the last 30 seconds. The two captains look down at the psychiatrist, who adjusts his glasses again in a nervous gesture. "I don't think this is an act of malice. On the contrary, I see this act of destruction as a failed cry for help." 

"A what?" Megatron, Rodimus and you ask at the same time, but you are silenced by a single look from Magnus. 

Rung clears his throat. "That's why I asked to be part of this interrogation." He puts his glasses back on after rubbing the lenses for a few seconds. "I suspect this is a breakdown of the hybrid's identity." 

All the assembled bots look at you as if you were just another grenade without a pin, waiting to go off. Uncomfortable. You feel like an animal in a zoo. 

"Look at all this from a different angle for a second: You wake up on a strange ship with no friends, family, or memories. Then you find out that you are a tool, a means to an end - and a defective tool at that! Just thrown away like trash! I don't even want to imagine how each and every one of you would react to that."

Now the Autobots exchange glances. Knowing looks that silently agree with Rung. 

"So." The psychiatrist steps forward between the captains and pauses before you with the hint of a warm smile. "An impulsive outburst or nervous breakdown is something of a rite of passage on this ship anyway. I have hundreds of such cases in my files. And, more importantly, Whirl detonated the grenade, not you."

"Guilty," Whirl chirps happily. "The only question is whether it was an accident or not, because I certainly can't tell."


"Your recommendation?" asks Megatron, who, after a brief, thoughtful pause, seems open to Rung's logic. 

"The identities of most sentient beings are based on certain foundations: a healthy body and mind, social relationships, recognition for work and achievement, a certain material security and standard of living, and certain values and ideals." Rung now turns away from you and back to Megatron, using his body to block the angry gaze of Ultra Magnus, who still looks like a relay is about to blow or an Energon conduit is about to burst. "So I recommend that you assign the hybrid a small tasks, partly as punishment for breaking the rules. In addition, a few sessions with me and - a strong social framework from now on." 

"That sounds to me like they're getting away with it," Magnus interjects, shaking his head. "And I'm absolutely against it. This is a deliberate violation of the rules, not a small mistake."

"Compared to some of the other 'small mistakes' we've had to deal with, like Brainstorm's time travel plan, a grenade going whoopsie at the firing range is actually pretty tame," Rodimus says, apparently not too impressed with what you did last night. Mildy annoyed at best. "Who among us hasn't done something stupid while drunk on this ship? I agree with Rung that a slap on the wrist is fine. And I'm the captain, so I'm right by default."

"The trip to the nearest neutral space station will take about a week - assuming we finally get the parasites out of the impulse engines." Megatron speaks directly to Rodimus. "If the parasite problems continue, even longer. Up to two weeks. A long time if you've got nothing to do." 

"So it makes sense to give them a daily routine," the speedster agrees. "And I also think a punishment for breaking the rules is appropriate."


"Then that's settled." Whirl puffs his engines and clicks his claws, then turns and shuffles nonchalantly toward the door of Ultra Magnus' office. "Great work, everybody! Fare thee well-"

"Not so fast!" Magnus pushes his huge body between Whirl and the door in a very practiced, fluid motion, with an expression that even the ex-Wrecker found somewhat intimidating. "You're not getting away that easy. Silt duty. Until I say otherwise." 

With an exasperated groan, Whirl throws his claws in the air. "Oh, come on!! A small grenade isn't worth fraggin' silt duty!" 

"You incited an organic non-crew member to disobey the rules and fire a dangerous weapon without prior technical instruction! And you detonated a grenade, as I suspect, willingly!" He leans in so close that Whirl has to crane his neck back to escape the piercing gaze. "You're lucky it's just silt duty." 

The helicopter's yellow eye narrows slightly, and it's obvious he's considering whether it's worth getting into more trouble by talking back.

"You heard Ultra Magnus, Whirl," Megatron ends the budding argument. "You brought this on yourself. And you-" This is the first time the giant ex-Deception addresses you directly - and boy, is he intimidating! "Working in the engine room with this piece of work of a helicopter is too dangerous for an organic being, hybrid or not. Archive duty." 

Archive duty. 

That doesn't sound so bad when you think about it, though you had hoped to serve your sentence with Whirl. His company feels good, somehow more familiar than anything else you've ever felt. Which, admittedly, hasn't been much in your life so far, but he's still your favorite company. Even though he's really annoying at times and seems to have a talent for getting into trouble.

"I'll let Rewind know." Rodimus moves toward the door to leave the office without paying much attention to you. Just a quick, don't-do-that-again glance in your direction and he's stomping out the door, his mind already elsewhere than on this breach of the rules. He may be charming and extraordinarily charismatic, but the important details, such as keeping this crew in line, fall to Magnus and Megatron. Rodimus himself is very casual about the whole thing, while the two more serious bots vacillate between harsh justice and a certain amount of being nice about it, for which you are grateful. At least you won't have to spend the rest of the voyage in the brig.
 
"And I'd like to give you a little extra help," Rung puts a hand on your shoulder and gives you that encouraging psychiatrist look. "Someone who's a good influence on people. A positive acquaintance will do you good, and who knows, maybe you'll even become friends- And for now, stay away from Whirl, okay? It'll do you good." 


Oh, that sounds... wait, is he telling you that you're not allowed to spend time with Whirl anymore?! 



* * * 



"Hi Tailgate." 

"Hey! Sorry I'm late!" The Minibot is barely a minute late, but apologizes with as much passion as if he had stood you up for hours. "Cyclonus and I had a long discussion about me switching shifts to meet you. He says you don't need a chaperone, just discipline - or a decent workload." 

"Maybe he's right," you admit, letting the little bot beckon you to follow with a wave of his hand. At the thought of the grumpy purple jet, you can vividly imagine him thinking that a good workout is a sufficient foundation for a healthy soul. "Work sounds good. I feel like I have ants in my pants."

"Ants?" Tailgate's orbital ridge rises slightly in confusion. 

"Earth expression, I think- uh, never mind. How does the archive stuff work?"

After a good nap, the alcohol is completely washed out of your system, and this afternoon on the Lost Light, you are assigned to help Rewind with his duties. Your new good-influence-companion, Tailgate, has been chosen to befriend you - social bonds would stabilize your condition, Rung says. You're supposed to make friends, and the best place to start is definitely the easy-to-befriend minibot. So now you have a job, a routine, and your first friend. Even if your first unofficial friend is actually Whirl, who you are supposed to stay away from. Bad influence on you, etc. Bummer, because it feels like you're already missing him.


"Rewind has built up an enormous archive," Tailgate explains as they walk through the corridors. "Apart from his internal archive, of course. He records a lot of video footage, but he says that the written database needs to be maintained as well."

"And that's where you and I come in?"

Tailgate nods eagerly. "Yes, exactly! I was supposed to be on the engines cleaning team, but I'm happy to get out of that job. Those worm-like parasites are disgusting, and there are so many of them!" His little hands are clasped together as he talks, and you can tell he's genuinely happy to have switched shifts. "I'd rather help Rewind sort through tons of data." 

"Yeah I'm sure it'll be fun," you try to sound at least a little encouraging. Because even though it's really great that the Lost Light crew is being so patient with you, something about the whole thing bothers you. You've been given the gentle and lovable Tailgate to stabilize you; though you don't feel unstable or dangerous at all. Maybe a little angry that your life is taking place entirely in the empty corridors of this spaceship, yes. Or frustrated that you have no family or home to return to. When they drop you off at the next outpost, you'll be facing a deep abyss of uncertainty and loneliness. No wonder you're not looking forward to it. All in all, the whole thing is just bullshit, no matter which way you look at it.

At least you had fun with Whirl last night. 

"Hello, you two." Rewind greets Tailgate and you as you enter the archive. It's a room on the same floor as Brainstorm's and Perceptor's workshops, so it's quite secluded and there are hardly any other bots in sight. Through the thick walls you can hear sounds that can probably be attributed to Brainstorm's current work, but it's so muffled that hopefully it won't bother you in the long run. Though if it does, it might finally be the push you need to dive head first into the oil reservoir.

"You're right on time." Rewind takes you to the back of the room, where a whole bunch of datapads are piled up. "Magnus gave me the manuals for every single device on the Lost Light, and he wants them all to be accurately transferred into our general database." 

"It sounds like he's trying to make our jobs harder," Tailgate laughs, but you just grit your teeth. Yeah, that's exactly what it sounds like. Now you have to spend your days manually entering the manual for cleaning drones and Energon dispensers into the database. Magnus did this on purpose. 

"What do you think? It's a lot better than sitting around all day or breaking and entering at night, isn't it?" Tailgate tries to encourage you with a slight nudge of his elbow on your hip. "Isn't it?"


Bless his spark, but with all this work, you wish you still had an ion grenade. This time you'd even pull the pin yourself! 


"Sure," you lie through clenched teeth and sit down on the floor to pick up the first datapad. The small screen greets you brightly as you turn it on, and then you realize... you can't read a word of it. 

"Oh, of course, right-" Rewind sighs, seeing the deep furrows of confusion and displeasure on your face. "It's all in Cybertronian. We have to use a translation matrix..."

"Which won't exactly shorten the working hours, I assume," you sigh heavily, knowing that Ultra Magnus and Megatron probably wanted to make this job even more punishing for you than it already is. What a mean and devious way to punish someone! Makes you wish you were back under house arrest...

"Here, you start with this." Tailgate hands you a pile of datapads, while in all the chaos he picks up an even bigger pile for himself. "I'll take care of the cleaning drones. That's my specialty anyway." With a smile in his voice, he taps on the writing on his arm, 'Waste Disposal'. "Here, if you turn this on..." He shows you a hidden menu on the datapad that translates the Cybertronian text into other languages. "Then you can choose your language."

"It probably won't be 100% accurate, but it's better than nothing," Rewind interjects as he creates clearance rights for you at one of the terminals. "And I appreciate the help. Chromedome hates this."

"I wonder why," you grumble, but then sit up more comfortably and look at the datapad in your hand. "Shuttle Type UX-01 Q6 Manual." 

"Oh, isn't that the brand new shuttle?" Tailgate asks, reading the title off the page from his place next to you on the floor. "Shouldn't this manual be on Rodimus' desk? Shouldn't he know how to fly our most advanced shuttle?"

Rewind chuckles. "I think Rodimus didn't feel like reading it and smuggled it here to get rid of it." 


Yes, that seems like something this rather unconventional captain would do. So far, you can't quite figure out anyone on this crew, especially the bot who's supposed to be in charge. The trio of Rodimus, Megatron, and Ultra Magnus seem to have the ship under control like a well-balanced scale, with the red-painted captain not the most important element. He is fun to be around though.



"I heard you and Whirl blew up the firing range," Tailgate says, working on a datapad manual for the self-cleaning buckets. "Literally. The explosion knocked me out of my berth. You should've heard Cyclonus curse! 'I told you, Tailgate, I told you they'd blow something up' haha!" 

"Hey, I didn't set off the grenade," you defend yourself. "That was Whirl, because I broke his record for sniping. First try."

"Really?" Tailgate immediately sits up a little straighter, with an aura of genuine fascination. "That's so impressive! If Whirl can do anything, it's shooting!" 

"Does he?" Your mouth twisted into a fleeting grin. "Well, he can't be that good if I was able to break his record just like that!"

"Big talk," Rewind laughs from his seat at the terminal across the room. "Don't let Nutjob hear that. Man, I never know if he's joking or serious when he threatens to kill someone." 

That puts a damper on your brief flight of fancy about your own gun skills. It scratches some kind of sensitive spot in your chest when the other bots talk about the helicopter like that. Every time others talk about him, he is portrayed as a completely crazy guy, which is not how you see him at all. Whirl is, at least to you, someone who's easy to spend time with, if you take his half-hearted threats for what they are: simply his way of interacting with other bots. And considering your initial suspicion of him, and the fact that you now want to defend him, surely other people can see him for what he is, too, right?

"I like him," you say, still looking at the manual in your lap, letting the words pass through your brain. "Tailgate was right when he told me about Whirl, he's really not a bad guy once you get to know him."

"Yeah, he's actually very nice," the white and blue minibot next to you agrees. "Even Cyclonus knows that by now. Even though he tried to kill Whirl at first. Long story-" he adds at your questioning look. "Whirl tried to blow himself up with what was left of a bunch of Sweeps, and Cyclonus caught him doing it, which Whirl twisted in such a way that Cycl- oh, never mind, like I said, long story." 


That sounds... interesting. And disturbing. There seem to be reasons why Whirl is the way he is. Which begs the question: Can you even begin to comprehend how millions of years of war ultimately changes a race like the Cybertronians? The violence and death must have left a terrible mark on all those bots. Wounds that will never heal. Who are you, then, to complain about being forced into this post-war world? What right do you have to feel as miserable as you have since your visit to Doxa 07? No matter how you look at it, you are better off than any of these bots. 

"Oh, by the way-" Tailgate nudges you lightly from the side. "Cyclonus wanted me to ask you if you would like to join us at Swerve's tonight. Only if you want to and don't have any other plans! I think it'd be nice. But he asked me not to say it was his idea- oh, uh, oops." The Minibot sighs slightly from his vents, because once again he couldn't stop himself in time and the sentences tumbled out of his voice box unfiltered. "Damn." 

"Sounds great," you immediately assure him, and it really does. An evening after work, together with friends in a bar whose owner you will probably have to apologize to before being let in. Still, it sounds great. 

"Oh! Awesome." Tailgate is obviously pleased with himself, as he radiates a warm aura like the light from a bulb. Even Rewind gives you a thumbs up when you look up at him with a slight smile, in response to the unspoken question of whether he and his conjunx will be there too. It almost sounds like the upcoming evening is going to be a lot of fun - though you're wondering if Whirl will be there. Hell, you hope he'll be there!

 

Chapter 10: Fragile and stripped to the core

 

After assuring Ten that you won't cause any trouble and apologizing to Swerve, you're even allowed to enter the bar.

The minibot bartender seems a little reluctant to let you in at first, but after some coaxing - which you're sure he just wants for the attention alone - he relents and serves you a drink. The bottles in the crate of organic drinks are all strange, and your drink seems to glow a little, or maybe you're just imagining it, but it's better than nothing. A sip from the square glass doesn't tell you which of the bottles the liquid came from, but it has a distant taste of peach and, oddly enough, paper clips. 

"So, how was your first day with us?" Tailgate asks, climbing onto the seat next to you and cheerfully waving Cyclonus over. The purple jet sits down with a look on his face as if someone wanted to kill him on the way over, but Tailgate has already assured you that Cyclonus just looks like that. Nothing personal.

"It wasn't as boring as I thought it would be," you admit, thinking about the past few hours, which were interspersed with quiet but interesting conversations with Rewind and Tailgate. You learned a lot about everyday life on the Lost Light, how things work here and what to watch out for: That it's best not to meet Ultra Magnus in the evening, or you might get a lecture about curfew and how it should be enforced on board. Or that you generally avoid Brainstorm's workshop when he's having one of his phases - phases that often contain large amounts of weapons-grade plutonium. Primitive technology, but full of possibilities, the weapons engineer always says. Or that you don't challenge Rodimus to a dance-off, because you're guaranteed to lose. 

"Have you finished the shuttle manual yet?" asks the little blue bot next to you. "It's so long! There must be hundreds of pages!"

"Not yet." With an inward lament, you think of the manual, which is your current task in the archive. It will definitely take a lot of work to manually copy it into the ship's archive.

"Still better than cleaning the drives-" Tailgate hums happily, swinging his legs slightly under the table. "And standing in those disgusting worms up to my chest plate." 

"We have been moving extremely slowly lately," Cyclonus says suddenly, raising his voice slightly but not looking up from his drink, which a small service bot has just brought him. "The engines are contaminated and that makes us slow. As does the presence of someone whose reaction to a quantum jump is uncertain." 


He doesn't need to look at you - everyone at this table knows who he's talking about. 


The jet then adds: "Almost as if we were being deliberately slowed down to carry out an attack." 

"Cyclonus!" Tailgate immediately complains when his conjunx voices this thought out loud. "I don't think they--"

"Not them." Now the jet's red eyes flicker towards you briefly, but with only a little aggression in them. "But someone else. We never found out who destroyed the Galactic Council's ship and killed the crew."

"But that doesn't mean that--" The Minibot snorts softly through his vents, seeming a little annoyed that Cyclonus is making such accusations. You, on the other hand, nod inwardly because he's actually right: Who destroyed the Galactic Council's ship? Do Rodimus, Megatron, and Ultra Magnus know? Are they keeping something from you? And if they don't know, then the uncertainty of the answer is all the more dangerous.

In the face of the angry Tailgate, Cyclonus sighs slightly with his body language. It's at this moment that it becomes clear just how much the white-blue minibot has his conjunx trapped in a tight grip, quite unconsciously and without evil intent.

"I didn't mean to accuse you of anything. Nor was it my intention to offend you," the jet says directly to you. "My apologies."

"No, you're right," you admit immediately. "I'm also wondering what exactly happened. And how all of this-" you make a broad hand gesture that summarizes the past week. "Even came about. Still can't wrap my head around it."

"And, uh - what are you going to do when all this is over? When we get to the next space station?" Tailgate asks, immediately back to his happy mood after Cyclonus' apology. "Search for relatives? Or investigate until you find out what happened? Or--"

"Tailgate." Now it's up to Cyclonus to stop the smaller bot. His gaze rests on you for a moment, before settling on the small minibot with an almost laughable softness. Aside from his permanent grumpy expression, Cyclonus seems to have an excellent sense of when the mood in a room is about to change; probably a side effect of being a warrior who must often rely on his instincts. In any case, he seems to be able to notice how your shoulders slump a little more with every word the little bot says. 

"Oh." Tailgate seems to have noticed that these questions are making you a little uncomfortable - because you don't have an answer to any of them. "Sorry."

"No worries," you reply immediately, though your hand grips the glass in it tightly. "I'm just trying to let everything happen as it will. No expectations, no disappointments, you know?"

That's only half the truth though, because you have no idea what you'll be doing once you leave the Lost Light. You'll be all alone, on a strange station somewhere in space, with not a single soul you actually know. You may be different from these robots in just about everything, but at least you feel a certain connection to this crew. You have truly no one in the Galactic Council territory, except maybe the criminals who made you. And you certainly don't want to meet them when they were about to shoot your defective ass into a black hole!

 
Trying to change the subject as quickly as possible, Tailgate points to Rewind and Chromedome, who have just entered the bar together. 

"Oh, look, there they are!" he exclaims happily, and before you know it, you're squeezed between Tailgate and Rewind, as well as Cyclonus and Chromedome. The four bots and you barely fit into the seating area in the back corner of Swerve's, crammed together except for Cyclonus, who takes up the rest of the space to sit comfortably.

Rewind, Tailgate, and Chromedome immediately start talking about the archive and how to proceed with it, while you silently sip your drink, wondering if the paperclip flavor in it might be toxic. You feel a little queasy, but at least you're not vomiting blood. Not yet. 

The bar itself is crowded: in the crowd you can see Velocity and Nautica waving at you, Brainstorm pushing past the bots toward the bar, Trailcutter chatting more or less animatedly with Swerve, and you even think you can see Ratchet's chassis colors somewhere in the crowd. All in all, there's a very lively atmosphere in here, with lots of laughter and conversation, the occasional gunshot, and loud yelling when someone wins at cards and the whole table realizes that someone cheated. Weirdly enough, it all makes you feel like you belong. 

Still, you're only looking for one particular bot. 


Whirl is nowhere to be seen in the bar. The blue of his body would stand out among all the other crew members, or so you'd like to think. That, and he's taller than most of the other bots here. But no, so far there's no sign of the helicopter you're supposed to avoid, but don't want to. In fact, the ban on meeting Whirl makes you want to do just that. Even if it means breaking the rules of Rung and Ultra Magnus. 

 

 

It takes almost two hours of watching the entrance and the bar with bated breath before the payoff comes: The door opens and Whirl enters, assures Ten that he's unarmed - and no, he can't remove the weapons from his cockpit - then pushes through the crowd of bots and orders something from Swerve. 

During this entire period of time, which can't be more than a minute and thirty seconds, you stare at him. It's impossible not to stare at the object of your desire. It's actually outrageous that you're forbidden from interacting with each other when it's so obvious that you get along so well. How could someone like Rung, who values friendship so much, make such a suggestion?! 


"Hey, are you okay?" Rewind suddenly asks - apparently you didn't answer a question that was asked of you.

"Huh?" Wow, a really good answer, doofus. "Uh, yeah, sure. Everything's fine." 

Whirl gets his drink and empties it in one quick gulp through the straw that comes standard with his drinks. He says something to Swerve and then turns to leave - does that mean he's not staying so you can secretly, or not so secretly, stare at him for the rest of the evening?!

And sure enough, the helicopter leaves the bar without talking to anyone. 

"I have to, um- go to my hab suite--" you stammer, not waiting for Rewind and Chromedome to make room for you, and dive under the table to emerge at the other end. Amazed and surprised looks follow this movement, apparently a bit impressed by how much organic beings can bend. "I have to, uh- you know, organic waste disposal, I'll spare you the gross details."

And then you're moving away from the table, feeling the burning stares of the others on your neck. Doesn't matter what they think, this is more important. It's a thousand times more important to spend as much time as possible with the helicopter before the crew drops you off at a space station and you never see each other again. The universe is huge, so the chances of meeting again by chance are basically zero.

 

Hurriedly, but not running, you follow him out of the bar, past Ten and stop in the hallway to look for Whirl. There's only an empty hallway to the right, so you turn around, your heart pounding as you see the desired figure at the end of the hallway.

"Whirl!" You immediately run after him, but you have to call his name again before he stops and turns around. You can't help but smile broadly, pure joy at seeing him. "Hi."

"Yo."


Silence from both of you. Okay, words. Talk. Just say something!


"So, how was silt duty?" you ask awkwardly, not sure how to get him to talk to you. But to your surprise, he goes for it. 

"Silty." Whirl points down at himself, his armor completely covered in a pinkish-red slime that seems to be extremely sticky. He nods toward the end of the corridor that leads to the other decks. "I'm on my way to get soaked and scrub this scrap off. It's like glue." 

Oh, okay. Sounds like he wants to go to the communal washrooms. No reason to stop him any longer from--


"What a coincidence," your mouth suddenly babbles without permission. "I wanted to do just that. Clean myself, I mean."

Your legs move and you catch up with him before your brain has time to react. What are you doing?!

"My hair still smells like the fire at the shooting range," you explain, ignoring the fluttering of your heartbeat, which is finally telling the rest of your body that you just smuggled yourself into a shared bath with Whirl.


This is a stupid idea. 


"Sure, why not. Some places are hard to get to anyway. And man, this quantum silt is so sticky."

Together you walk on, your half-empty drink from Swerve's still sitting on the table, and the others will eventually wonder where you are. They think you just went to your quarters, but maybe they'll eventually conclude that you went to lie down. 

"Why is there silt in the engine room at all?" you ask as you walk down the hall. "Shouldn't everything be clean back there?" 

"Nah. This quantum drive is a real dirt magnet," your companion grumbles, scratching his neck where some of the pink stuff has already dried. "I don't know why, and I don't really care, but somehow some kind of sticky red stuff keeps materializing around the drive. 'fragging hate cleaning that." 

"Is that why you got this as punishment? Because you hate it so much?" you laugh, and Whirl nods theatrically. 

"I deserve better than silt duty!" he protests Ultra Magnus' decision to give him this extremely unpopular assignment. "What's the big deal about blowing up the firing range, really?"

"Oh, I totally agree! We were just having a little fun."

"Yeah, right. I guess we were having fun." He confirms with an emphatic nod. It's almost as if he only now realizes that he actually had a very good time with you last night. The single yellow eye rests on you for a long moment, though you pretend to look straight ahead and not notice. Whirl seems to be thinking about the fact that the two of you really get along. Almost as if he's genuinely surprised to have found someone outside the Wreckers who understands how he ticks. 

 

When you arrive at the washroom, it's almost empty except for two bots you don't know, who give you a suspicious look as you gather up the supplies Velocity gave you last time. A polishing cloth, soap and, since Whirl mentioned something about help with scrubbing, one of those scratching brushes from the shelf. Looking around, you can already see Whirl at the other end of the washroom. He opens a door that can only be seen if you have entered this room at least halfway to the private cabins. You hastily follow the helicopter, past the bots who don't let you out of their sight out of sheer suspicion, and into a small hallway that ends in three doors. 

"I need to turn down the water temperature," Whirl thinks aloud as he opens door number three, and you follow him into a smaller room where the humidity and temperature are even higher than in the washroom itself. A deep, square pit - bathtub? - is the main attraction in this room. It's equipped with two large metal faucets, and on the wall is a small console where Whirl enters something. "I usually bathe in 90 degree water or oil, but..." He doesn't look at you, but you know his gaze would scrutinize you from top to bottom. "Well, let's just say you obviously have a different smelting point than we bots do." 

"Very accommodating," you scoff. But the half-smile in your voice quickly fades as you realize you should be getting undressed now that the water's coming in. Oh. Oh man. You somehow forgot - that Whirl will see you naked now, because your stupid mouth couldn't keep quiet. And why is this thought so exciting that the tips of your ears get hot and red?

"I can't wait to get rid of this- this slag." Without hesitation, the bot throws itself into the large pool, splashing the warm water all around, including you and your clothes; you're now soaking wet, like a dog that's had a bucket of water poured over it. Whirl emerges from the water and looks at you expectantly. "What are you waiting for? Is the water still too hot? Man, it's embarrassing how fragile you are, you organic-"

"Nuh-- no, it's fine!" you protest immediately, because the water feels quite pleasant - but the shame of being naked, bot or not, is still in you somewhere. Especially if you kind of like the bot. 


"Ahh, that's the stuff!" Whirl splashes around a bit in the warm water, dives under the surface, and you briefly wonder if these robots are waterproof - and if so, how exactly they do it. Do they seal their vents? Or are their insides completely waterproof? Either way, the questions help you stop thinking about being naked in front of Whirl and encourages you to take off your clothes. Folding your jacket and shirt, and unbuttoning your pants, easy-peasy.

Still, your heart's all the way up in your throat.

Then, after taking off all the different parts of your outfit, you test the water with your bare foot to see if it's still too warm. Okay, so, it's not boiling - but it's definitely hot. Hot enough to make your skin tingle and ache as you slowly slide into the pool. Admittedly, after your drunken escapade and the resulting body odor on your skin, this is a real treat. The warmth greets the organic body and completely envelops you the further you get into the water; it's the kind of comfort that only a hot bath can provide. 

"Too hot?" you hear Whirl ask as your lungs exhale a long, trembling breath, but you just shake your head and close your eyes to enjoy this moment of perfect warmth. You have submerged yourself in the hot water up to your chin, then lean your chest against the edge of the pool and rest your head on your crossed arms. A tiny bit of skin has to stick out of the water, otherwise it's just too hot; but the rest of your body remains covered in this warm, watery embrace. 

"I didn't know organic species soak themselves, too," Whirl says when you open your eyes to see that he's sunk to the level of the cockpit. "I always thought you guys just, I dunno, lick yourselves clean."

You snort with laughter. "That's what cats and dogs do. Animals."

"Aren't you technically an animal, too?"

"Good point. Maybe?"

"A pet, just like I said."

"Not a pet." 


For a moment, your amused back-and-forth gives way to the long sigh that escapes your chest, signaling that the hot water is doing its job: relaxing you thoroughly. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to join Whirl after all.

Whirl, on the other hand, scratches his neck and cockpit again. The silt from the engine room seems to be very hard to get rid of and you feel sorry for him, because opposable thumbs can beat those heavy claws in some everyday situations.


Alright, alright. Be nice and help him out.


"C'mere."

After a second's hesitation, he follows the beckoning wave and is greeted by your warm, soap-soaked hands. The palms of your hands are rubbed together to create a a bunch of pink bubbles, which are then applied to the warm metal by none other than yourself, with the most professional expression possible. Even when your fingers with the soap move over the silt, they almost stick, so effective is this stuff. Man, no wonder silt duty is hated!

"Can you- Thanks." Whirl lifts his head so that you can reach what is probably the closest thing to his throat. Without saying a word, he accepts the touch with a certain calmness, while your own thoughts turn in a very small circle: 

This touch feels... intimate. So intimate that you feel a certain desire to let your hands wander. Every single plate of his armor wants to be explored, every transformation seam carefully inspected. His body is downright grotesque, but in a way that is so fascinating that your own body responds with a corresponding attraction. Heat builds in your stomach and flows down between your legs, revealing the true intentions of your traitorous physique. 

"You really need to learn to control your field better," Whirl gasps as you lather him up and reach for the brush lying on the edge of the tub. 

"My what?" You look at him questioningly. 

"Your EM field," he replies, and - you could be wrong, but somehow his metal seems even hotter than before you soaped him. Is his core temperature rising? "Granted, it's really, really tiny," he lifts the claw out of the water, almost bringing the tips together to emphasize his point. "But still. Or are you doing this on purpose?" 

Your eyebrows knit in confusion. "I have no idea what you're talking about." 

"Your. EM. Field." He stresses the words as if talking to someone who is hard of hearing. 

"I don't know what that is!"

"Wait, seriously?" Now Whirl straightens up a little as the soap moves down his smooth alloy. "Oh. Hah, then this will be fun." 

"Explain it to me." Holding the brush with both hands, you begin to scrub the bot's neck - gently at first, then with more force - holy hell, this silt sticks like cement! 

"Okay, so- ohh yeah, right there-!" He leans into your scrub, while you roll your eyes in embarrassment at the sounds he makes. "See, this is exactly what I mean: I don't even have to look at you to know that you're super embarrassed right now!" He chuckles somewhere deep inside his chassis. "Most bots have an EM field that reflects their emotions. We can read each other's fields. It's just like that thing when you feel with or for others, damn what's it called-?"

"Empathy?" 

"Yes, that stuff. Between strangers or co-workers, it's common to keep the EM field close to you for privacy reasons. And among friends, you can be a little more relaxed about it, depending on the level of trust."


Your movements at the brush slow down as you become more aware of what this means. Lysians, who make up 50% of your DNA, are known telepaths. This means that you...


"And you just leave your field open to everyone! Well, admittedly, it's so weak that it can't be compared to any Cybertronian EM field. But still, if you'll get close to someone, it's like pouring your fleshy little heart out." The amusement in his voice is interrupted by an impatient grumble when you stop scrubbing, but you don't care right now.


Oh, oh no... Does this mean that anyone can read you like this?!


"Hey, relax." A hard claw taps you on the head to snap you out of this frightening realization. "You have to get pretty close to someone for them to feel into you. Like I said, your field is really weak." Then, with a slight static that can only interpret as a barely audible chuckle, he leans toward you. "But we're pretty close now, so-"

"Oh, shut up!!" you hiss, cheeks burning with the follow-up realization that you were just thinking about how you're somehow attracted to this particular bot. "Or you'll have to scrape this slime off yourself!"

This seems to be working because Whirl stops teasing and sinks back into the water, allowing you to get to the spots on his neck. With a resting pulse of 120, you continue to brush the dried silt off of him. But the thought that people on this ship can read you is very distracting. Do you always have to be careful when you talk to someone now? And, what if you- when you try to lie? Man, that makes everything so much more complicated! 

"I never thought I could have such an effect on someone," Whirl says suddenly, turning his back to you as you deftly guide the brush into the hard-to-reach corners of his chassis. His voice is very soft, and would easily be lost in the lapping of the water and the scratching of the brush on his alloy. But if you concentrate and feel your way into those words, try to imagine that he has some kind of - uh, well, some aura that betrays his feelings... then it's possible that a hint of honesty surrounds him. Naked honesty that you don't just share with a stranger. 

"What do you mean?" Your own voice is barely above a whisper as you pause from the movements of the brush and place your left hand at the base of his wing. He seems to tremble slightly at the touch. 

"I mean-" He weighs his words. A tightrope walk inside his processor. "It's not often that someone is attracted to me. I'm not exactly a Drift or a Rodimus. Or a Megatron!"


So he did notice your feelings of attraction! 


Your cheeks turn even redder, and you lean your forehead against his backplate, which holds the two pointed stabilizer wings. It's not intended to annoy you, that feeling in his aura - his field. It's a quiet feeling, soft and hard to identify.

"Well," you say quietly, watching the surface of the water ripple and throw tiny waves against your bare skin. "It's just kind of intimate, what we're doing here."

In response to a questioning sound, you seem to need to explain these words in more detail. 

"Organic beings... Oh, I don't know, taking a bath together can be a very intimate thing, you know." You try to put the feeling of being naked and vulnerable into words. "Not necessarily, but... it feels intimate to me, I guess." Oh man, when you spit out those confused half-sentences, they really sound more than stupid. 

"D'you feel... uncomfortable?"

"No!" you say immediately, pressing your forehead closer to his chassis to emphasize the word. "No, not uncomfortable at all. Just... it's very intimate. Being here with you."

Whirl resets his vocalizer. "If it helps, I find your body to be very soft, fleshy, and weird."

Luckily, that gets you out of this weird tension, and the laughing snort echoes off the walls of the bathroom. "I think your body is weird too," you laugh. "And angular. And hard." The hint of a smile plays around the corners of your mouth at the helicopter's successful attempt to lighten the mood a bit. When you lean your forehead against his chassis like this, you can feel his spark hum. "And... interesting." 

"You like throwing compliments around?"

"Only to bots I like. The ones I can have fun with." 

Now both hands grab the brush again and you take a deep breath of air, heavy with humidity and the sweet smell of soap. 

"And now back to the program, because this bullshit-silt is really incredibly difficult to get off. We need something like a pressure washer...", you sigh.

"In the back right of the cabinet."

"Oh, well, that's convenient - let's do this then."

Notes:

speedrunning this fic before the horrors (job deadlines) get my ass in January... wish me luck and tysm for reading!!

(We're currently at 55-60% progress, so the fanfic will probably be somewhere between 60-70k in the end :] )

Chapter 11: Liar to your own self

Notes:

Happy new year! Since I was busy with calming my dog on New Year's Eve by being super chill about the noise, I had time to finish the new chapter :)

 

"So, how have the last few days been?"


Rung wants to know if you met with Whirl. 


"Fine," you answer truthfully. "Working with Rewind and Tailgate is fun. Last night was movie night at Rewind's place. Some movie about a Matrix? And a guy with sunglasses? I didn't really pay attention."

"Sounds like a fun night." Rung sounds satisfied with the answer. He makes a note on his datapad and makes the sound he makes when he can cross something off one of his countless checklists. Working through the items on his checklists and tinkering with his spaceship figurines are things that make his spark sing; while you experience each of these therapy sessions like a cycle in the most boring hell imaginable.
 
"Yeah, it was... fun." Don't roll your eyes, that would be rude. Rung is genuinely trying to help you - although the last thing these appointments do is help. On the contrary, they're more likely to increase the urge to destroy something or repeatedly bang your head against a wall. 

"So who else do you hang out with? Have you made any friends or acquaintances?" Ah, he really wants to know if you're staying away from Whirl. No one has specifically forbidden you from hanging out with the Helicopter, but everyone's being extra careful to keep you two as far away from each other as possible. 

"Velocity and Nautica have invited me to repaint Velocity together," you say. "She's thinking of changing from turquoise to sea blue." Rung doesn't need to know that you politely declined the invitation. 

"Good. Very good." Again he makes a note. "So, any plans for what you're going to do when you leave the ship?"

Well, that's something you really don't want to talk about. 

"No," you answer. When your thoughts turn to this problem, nothing good comes of it: only a certain anxiety that eats through your ribs like acid. The loud pounding of your own heartbeat and a shortness of breath that's almost impossible to control. These thoughts about the future are something that haunt your brain until you fall asleep or, even worse, actively prevent you from sleeping - so it is essential to avoid these thoughts at all costs. 

"I see. Let's make this our topic in the next session then." It's nice that Rung is happy to jump on this problem, though you certainly aren't. 

"Okay." It's not okay, but you don't feel like lying on the uncomfortable couch anymore, raving about how you spend your evenings with your new friends. "In two days, as usual?"

"As usual," Rung confirms, giving you a friendly nod as you leave his office. You keep telling yourself, like a mantra: He only wants to help. He really means well, this quirky little therapy robot. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Hey." 

"Ah, the walking powder keg," you are greeted. "So, are you going to be permanently committed as soon as we get close to the nearest nuthouse planet?"

"Oh, shut up." At this time of day, the Lost Light's Observation Deck is one of the few places where you can get some peace and quiet - and where you can secretly meet someone. Someone you're supposed to avoid.

With a soft yet frustrated groan, you drop onto one of the benches in front of the large viewing window. This room is for looking at the beauty of the universe, even if it is mostly just bright dots on a black background. When there are no major attractions, such as a creation nebula as colorful as a rainbow or a wandering meteorite shower, it's empty and deserted. A good place to pass the time away from Swerve's Bar and prying eyes. It's pleasantly quiet and as private as you can get outside of a habitation suite. 

"The cards." You pull a slim box from your back pocket and take out a deck of playing cards. They are thin like paper, but made of a shiny material, with symbols on them that you had to learn first. It's an alien card game based on collecting as many cards as possible and then combining them to get the highest score. There is no astrophysics involved, but you do need a knack for keeping a balanced overview. That, and a good eye for counting cards.
 
"And a drink." Whirl nods to the floor next to the metal bench, where a glass is waiting for you and one for him. "Had to bribe Trailcutter to steal that organic stuff from behind the bar."

"Well, I'd drink Engex if it wasn't eating away at my stomach lining and corroding my liver," you shrug, setting your glass down on the bench and shuffling the cards to deal them evenly between you and your playing partner. 

"It's sad how weak your body is." Whirl sorts the cards he has been dealt, which he has to do with great care; the metal cards are not exactly easy to hold with two claws instead of hands. But if one escapes his grip, you always pretend not to see what symbol is on it. 

"Don't get cocky just because you almost lost all your hands yesterday." While you sit on the bench, the helicopter sits on the floor in front of the furniture, which isn't much room but is a relatively comfortable alternative to a table at Swerve's. The ominous glow of the universe in the background wouldn't be enough to illuminate your game, but right now the Lost Light is passing a star, casting a warm, reddish light into the room. A light that reflects differently off the different textures of your and Whirl's bodies; a bright, hard glow off his metal and a soft glow off your skin.

"Oh pluh-ease, I let you win."

"Of course you did," you coo, laying down the first small stack of cards you'll use to beat an 11th defeat out of the bot. "Face it, I'm just better than you at this game."

"Hah! You wish."

"No, I know it." 

Enough of teasing the bot - with Whirl you have to be careful how far you go. A playful back and forth can quickly turn into a serious spitefulness and an almost insane rage that ends with the metal bench under your butt being thrown out the window. Not good, because there is no survival suit to protect you from the extremes of space. So it's better not to push it too far. 

"You didn't answer my question," Whirl says after sorting through a small pile of cards. "Are you going to the nuthouse? Did Rung diagnose you with 'being a challenged individual' like he did with me?"

"Nope!" You make the 'p' sound pop. "But Rung keeps asking me what I'm doing and who I'm seeing."

"Of course he does." 

"I tell him about movie night, Nautica's book club, and Tailgate's attempt to convince me that he'd absolutely rock a huge rear spoiler."

Whirl makes a thoughtful sound. "Nah, he's too small for that."

"My point exactly."

Another gulp of your drink causes a strange stabbing sensation in your chest; but then you realize it's that tightness that always comes when you think about the future. That you'll soon have to say goodbye to your friend who's really bad at this card game.

"And he asks what I'll do when I leave the Lost Light." 

Whirl's claw twitches slightly and his cards wobble ominously, trying to escape his tight grip, but he holds his hand together with an iron will. "So?" he asks. 

"So what?"

"What did you say?"

The stars, stretched out in their entirety behind the red giant star, look beautiful tonight - an ever-moving veil of light that always accompanies this ship. It's hard to believe that in all these solar systems and their planets there isn't a single person waiting for you.

"I don't know," you admit frankly. "I don't want to think about the fact that I have no one in the whole universe except this crew. It's a real downer."

There is no answer, just some kind of comforting sound coming from Whirl. Quiet and from behind his cockpit, but very heartfelt and honest; straight from the spark. Almost as if he knew what it's like to be alone and to have no one but this crazy crew. Not that he would ever say it out loud. 


There are a lot of things that neither of you can or will talk about. Thoughts and fears you can't put into words. Things that are too deep to simply bring to light. Abysses that are lonely and full of echoes of 'ifs' and 'coulds'. Missed opportunities and the inability to reach out for a helping hand while drowning yourself. 


"Four full rows," you then present your collection of cards. "Look and be amazed!" 

"No way!" Whirl sits up and leans over to see the cards you just turned over and presented to him. "How are you doing that?!"

His frustration at losing another round is like a  hot, steamy shower for your ego, and after taking a big victory swig from your glass, you proudly puff out your chest. "Skill, my dear Whirl. That's pure skill."

 

Before he can accuse you of cheating, you both then hear the faint beeping and hissing of the door leading to the Observation Deck. 

No one knows you're here. No one knows you two are meeting in secret to avoid trouble with Ultra Magnus, Megatron, or even Rung. Every rendezvous is secret and carefully planned, like two spies from one of those old noir movies Whirl likes to watch. It's exciting and fun, but now you're in danger of being caught red-handed.

"Move, move!" you hiss, throwing yourself off the bench, playing cards and glass in hand, and landing on the floor next to Whirl, out of sight for the bots who just entered the room. Whoever comes in at that moment will only be able to see you if they walk around the bench, which is really just a metal block with a backrest. Until then, you and the helicopter are well hidden here until the intruders disappear again. 

"Who's that?" You don't dare look over the back of the bench, but you don't need to - though a soft laugh makes it clear who it is. 

"Haha, oh, Domey~!" Rewind, definitely. But judging by the sound of his voice, they're not here to watch the stars. 

"Ah, great-" Whirl growls quietly next to you, while he tries to come to terms with the fact that your extremities are now kinda tangled with his own. "Here of all places!" At your questioning eyebrows, he sighs softly through his vents and blows a bit of warm air into your face. "They've been going through this phase lately-- interfacing in public places."

"Interfacing-?" Oh. Ohh. "Wait, you bots can do that?"

Whirl moves his yellow eye in an arc that suggests he's rolling his eye. "Of course. Can't you?"

"Of course I can, I-" With a very firm 'No' in your mind, you stop yourself from finishing the sentence. In the position you are lying on Whirl, with your arms on either side of his helm and your own legs somewhere between his, you are not going to discuss in detail what you are and are not physically capable of. "But why- why here?!"

The bot shrugs slightly, at least as much as this position allows. "Like I said, they're going through a phase right now." 

"Ahh, Rewind-! Yes, please, right there--" The deep moan of Chromedome sends a shiver down your spine. How will you ever be able to look them in the face again when you're hiding here, listening to them interfacing?! Besides, this accidental voyeurism shouldn't turn you on that much, but it does.
 
"You're embarrassed." An almost disgusting smugness runs through Whirl's entire body language, and if he could, he would grin broadly. You're extremely close right now - you're on top of him in such a compromising position that it's downright shameless - and he seems to be curiously probing into your weak EM field again. Talk about rude. 

"Aren't you?" you hiss, as quietly as you can. 

"Nope. It's just interfacing, who cares." 


Your leg starts to fall asleep, so you move slightly to the side in the extremely narrow space between the bench and the window, but it doesn't help much. The body of the bot below you, he's lying on his back and props himself up on his elbow joints, is way too bulky in this very narrow space. Every move you make ends up with you bumping into him somehow, and you can feel his natural body heat from this proximity. It's actually quite interesting that these bots are warm instead of cold - it's just not something you want to think about right now. Later. Maybe.

"Your species and mine really do have very different ideas about privacy and intimacy," you barely manage as you struggle with several things at once: this position over the bot is very uncomfortable, so much so that your muscles are already starting to tremble. Somewhere at the other end of the room, Rewind and Chromedome are really getting it on; you can hear the soft giggles and sighs, the whispers and pleas for more. 

And on top of that, if you just get up and leave now, it'll be very embarrassing - besides, it'll be obvious that you're secretly meeting with that bastard under you. The bastard who's currently radiating an aura of self-satisfaction that you can sense even without an EM field. Man, you'd really like to punch that yellow eye right now. 

"So?" he whispers to you. At this close range, you can hear his spark hum quietly. "What are you going to do now?"

"I'm still thinking." More than a muffled reply is not possible. The muscles in your upper body complain loudly that they are in a state of constant tension, which is subtly distracting. Your throat tightens against a telltale dryness as a long, low moan comes from Rewind; suddenly giving Velocity a new paint job sounds really tempting, you wish you'd done that instead!

"Yeah, 'thought so." 

Suddenly Whirl lifts his leg slightly so that his thigh plate slides between your legs and gives you some stability, almost dragging a low moan from your very own chest. Though this allows the trembling muscles to calm down and a small amount of relaxation sneaks between the two of you. However, it doesn't erase the impulse to punch that jerk in the face. Put it on the to-do list for later. 


A deep, needy moan from either Rewind or Chromedome, it's hard to tell with a sound so deep and throaty, sends another shiver down your spine. A very familiar, if very uncomfortable, heat builds up between your legs, right where Whirl is holding you in a somewhat comfortable position with his leg. Resisting the urge to grind into him is more important than breathing right now. Don't do it.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say your core temperature is rising." 

A very attentive look is on your slightly shivering body, with a serious interest that is rarely found in the helicopter. Normally he's as nonchalant as he's chaotic, but now... now you have his undivided attention. The tip of his right claw draws invisible lines on the ground, shapes that only serve to help him focus on you. The fact that he stares at you with an almost burning fascination is enough to send a hot tingle down the back of your thighs. 


But no, you won't be conquered that easily.


"And what about you?" you ask with the hint of a smile, deciding against closing your eyes and listening to the sounds of the couple across the room, all while letting your imagination run wild. Damn -what if the bot underneath you was making those sweet, needy sounds?

"I can feel your cooling fans really putting in the work." You lean back slightly, slowly sliding down on the leg plate that keeps you upright. Your breath hitches barely audible. Keep it together!

"It's warm in here."

"It's not."

"Then it's because you give off so much heat."

"Liar."

The verbal sparring ends in a staring contest that neither wants to lose. To give in first is to lose, something that was established early on between you and Whirl, and defeat is not an option. It's an explosive mixture of malice, the blind search for some form of release from a state of free fall, and, in this case, unresolved sexual tension. 
This makes it all the more interesting that these bots seem to be very casual about sex. One could almost hope to find themselves in a situation like this, with just a little more privacy...


Unfortunately, this position becomes very uncomfortable with time. It still takes a lot of effort to stay upright above the helicopter's cockpit, a shrimp-like position that slowly but surely gnaws at your back muscles. Cramps announce themselves by tightening the strands of muscle, which means you're losing this mental tug-of-war. 

"Shit." Moving and rearranging might be loud enough for the two bots on the opposite wall of the room to hear you. Rewind's now high-pitched moans and whimpers, along with a very distinctive sound of two metal bodies colliding with violent impact, echo off the metal of the interior, doubling its obscenity; and somewhere between the unrestrained moaning and the clanging of metal on metal, there are very wet sounds that raise a lot of questions in you, mostly about robot anatomy and bodily functions.


It only takes a few more minutes to endure this uncomfortable physical position, with a cocky bot beneath you and muscle spasms throughout your upper body. With a last, desperate and relieved yelp, the actions of the two conjuxes come to a halt: The room falls silent, except for the exhausted roar of their engines and the heavy breathing of their vents as the two ride out their high. You yourself are still struggling with the iron will not to give too much importance to the burning heat between your legs, the tingling in your spine and the sweaty skin - even though you're failing miserably.

Whirl knows this, too, because his gaze is highly amused, while his EM field is barely perceptible. He won't let you guess what's going on inside; he sits on a throne of fragile arrogance that you'd like to punch out of his processor with bare fists.
 
To say anything now would give you away, as quiet as it suddenly is in here. All you can do is stare at him with a burning gaze while biting the inside of your cheek until it bleeds. Anger, embarrassment and need, truly an explosive mixture.

"Let's go freshen up." Chromedome's voice is much softer and more exhausted than usual, but full of affection and relief as well. 

There are footsteps, moving away, and then the hiss of a door opening and closing. 

"You're trembling," Whirl purrs as soon as the door closes.

"Because your cockpit is in the way and I'm sitting uncomfortably," you shoot back with a venom in your voice that's really just disguised embarrassment. To feel so attracted to this bastard, who basks in this kind of attention like hot oil, is a dent in your slowly but steadily growing ego. 

"It suits you." 


Somewhere between the pain in your muscles and the physical need to be grabbed by Whirl and fucked into the metal floor, a giggle mixes in. This situation is so absurd that you can't help but snort with laughter. 

You throw your head back and let yourself fall backwards, landing roughly on your behind, but finally relieving the strain on your back muscles. A sigh of relief goes through your upper body, the muscles relax and your chest vibates with the laughter that overcomes you. 

Whirl, on the other hand, straightens up a bit, obviously confused. 

"What? What did I say?"

Words are impossible to utter when you're laughing so hard, brain flooded with hormones that make the whole situation feel like the funniest fucking thing you've ever experienced. Laughing hysterically, you lean forward, holding your sides, tears in your eyes, unable to explain why all of this is so hilarious - because you have no idea It's just that everything that's happened in the last few days is so absurd, so crazy that all you can do is laugh.

"I-- Okay, wait-" you gasp, gritting your teeth briefly to regain your composure. You clear your throat. "I mean, you gotta admit, this is funny: we're hiding down here while Chromedome fucks Rewind's processor out, just because we're not allowed to meet - and I mean, why? Is Ultra Magnus afraid we're going to blow up the whole ship?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"And me- we-- We blew up a black market space station and threw it into chaos just because we can." The laughter turns into a wry grin, but with a hint of sadness in it. The happiness hormones make way for something you have kept buried deep since Doxa 07; but now it's shooting to the surface and about to overwhelm you. "And I shouldn't even exist," you continue. "I woke up here two weeks ago, and before that I was nothing but a failed experiment."


The tears in your eyes are no longer just tears of laughter.


"I'm not even a real person," you sob, and you feel the almost hysterical laughter turn into the realization that has threatened to paralyze you for so long. Icy darkness creeps under your skin, wrapping itself around every organ, feeding on how long you have closed your eyes to the cruel yet unalterable truth: there is no one in the universe waiting for you, for you are nothing more than a thing. A blunt blade that will never find its target. A useless shell, an empty vessel with too many cracks to fill. 

"Alright, that's enough. Come on, up you go." Whirl is suddenly standing in front of you, nudging you with a claw. For once, his tone is not casual or even teasing, but very deep and calm. His yellow eye rests on you, dimmed and with something that can only remotely be identified as empathy. And, for once, he opens his EM field and you are touched by a gentle wave of understanding for this situation that is so individual. But Whirl... he gets it. And he wants you to know it. 

"Come on, let's find something more fun than sitting on the floor listening to other people interfacing," he says as you let him help you to your feet. The gentle warmth of his field dissolves the sadness at the back of your neck, the loss of a life that was never more than a ghost, an illusion. An unattainable possibility, forever out of reach. 

"Like what?" you hiccup, wiping the tears from your eyes with your hands. 

"Hm." Whirl doesn't move the arm he used to lift you from the ground away from your body. No, instead, the metal limb moves from your upper arm, over your shoulder, down your back - and then wraps around your waist, pulling you a little closer to his own body. So close that the air from his vents whispers across your skin, leaving a pleasant warmth. "Want to put your close combat skills to the test?"

 

Chapter 12: Chasing the same thing

 

"Ah, Rodimus." 

The captain enters the bridge of the Lost Light, clearly less interested in the urgent news than anyone else. It's the early evening of the current solar cycle, and there is little activity as the night shift begins to settle in. In addition to the bots already present, Megatron, Ultra Magnus, and Brainstorm are on the bridge - and now the captain himself. 

"So, what's so important?" the red speedster asks with a rather bored look on his face. "I was in the middle of something when you called me."

"Of course you were." Megatron seems to have to pull himself together to keep his optics from rolling. "Anyway - Brainstorm?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it." He steps forward and sends a file from his datapad to the main screen on the bridge, using a soft 'ahem!' to get the attention that's already on him. "This is a star chart of the systems we have passed through in the last few days. And as you can see here-" He zooms in on the map. "There's a distortion that indicates a cloaked ship."

"Are you sure?" Ultra Magnus asks immediately, narrowing his optics and staring at the bridge screen. "Isn't this just a gravitational anomaly?"

"Or plasma residue?" Megatron interjects. 

"Could be anything."

Brainstorm makes an unhappy sound in his voice box. "It's a ship. With a cloaking device," he continues. "That thing's been following us. It's been following our exact course for about a week now."

"This is indeed too much of a coincidence." Rodimus steps closer to the screen and rubs his chin thoughtfully, as if trying to figure out what exactly it is that seems to be pursuing the Lost Light. The silence that follows grows longer and longer, ever stretching and becoming uncomfortable, until Megatron takes pity on the captain and addresses Brainstorm directly. 

"Can we identify the ship?"

"Aha! I already have!" The engineer quickly types on his datapad and sends a new file to the screen: the schematics for a spaceship significantly smaller than the Lost Light. "I was able to figure out the shape based on the curvature of space and compared it to our database. It's a Razor Cut C-37."

"Maulers." Megatron grinds his jaw hydraulics. "But we're not in Mauler territory."

"Why are they following us?" Ultra Magnus' vents hiss quietly. He appears calm, but concern is written all over his face - a rare sight. "They usually don't attack outside their own territory. And we have the advantage - their ship is smaller than the Lost Light. There can't be more than 100 Maulers on board. It doesn't make any sense" 

"They've been following us since we picked up the hybrid," Brainstorm interjects. "A few hours after we picked them up, this spatial distortion first appeared on the scans. And what's more--" He pulls a small piece of metal out of his subspace, not unlike a computer circuit board. "The survival pod was equipped with a tracking device. I deactivated it, but the Maulers have visual on us, so that didn't help at all." 

Rodimus picks up the piece of metal and examines it more closely, while both Megatron and Magnus look over his shoulder. 

"So it was a trap?" the captain asks. 

"The tracking device is Galactic Council technology," Magnus says. "I think the Maulers hijacked the frequency of the beacon and used it to track us."

"Do you think the hybrid is involved?" Rodimus asks, handing the device back to Brainstorm. "If so, then..."

"I don't think so," Megatron replies instead of Magnus. "I doubt they're robophobic or an evil genius. Misguided and lost, yes - but not a Mauler."


"An interrogation is still in order." With that, the second-in-command prepares to leave the bridge and immediately put his words into action. But before he can leave, Megatron stops him with a gentle wave of his hand in his direction. 

"Take Rung with you," the co-captain says. "I think it's in everyone's best interest to take it easy and avoid giving a hostile impression." 

Ultra Magnus hesitates for a moment. He's obviously considering whether or not to accept the co-captain's unsolicited advice. But then he nods, almost imperceptibly, and disappears from the bridge, its double doors closing behind him with a soft hiss. 

"What do you think?" Rodimus asks. His voice is quieter than usual, now thoughtful and obviously concerned that he may have made a serious mistake. "Did we... make a mistake by allowing the hybrid to be our guest?" 

"Honestly?" Megatron counters. "I don't know. But I have a feeling that everyone wants to use this hybrid for their own plans. Seems only fair to me to at least ask their version of the story."



* * *



"Oughff--!" With a thud, you land headfirst on the ground, the momentum throwing you backwards and into a half-somersault until you are abruptly stopped by the wall. With a groan, you rub your aching head and punch the floor in frustration, which is fortunately soft enough thanks to the mats spread out that no damage has been done. 

"Another win for the Wrecker!" Whirl cheers as he does a victory lap around the training room, gloating over your defeat. He struts back and forth like a rooster, presumably to annoy and incite you; because when you're emotional or angry, you make mistakes. A lesson he, of all people, should not be teaching. 

"Again!" you demand and get up, feeling a dull pain throbbing in your torso. But it doesn't matter, because the will to send this bastard to the mat is stronger than the pain. Immediately you're on your feet and running towards your opponent again. Your left knee aches and gives way as you attempt a daring leap that should catapult you onto Whirl's back - and it only takes a few seconds before you take a blow to the neck and land face first on the ground again. 

"Ugh..."

"Face it. I'm simply better than you." Whirl leans over you with an aura of smugness that only fuels the unformed rage in your belly. "I'm not even a melee fighter. I'm an aerial bot through and through, and yet I always land the winning blow."

"You were a Wrecker!" you pant, wiping the sweat from your face as you roll onto your back and stretch out arms and legs. Damn it. Every single defeat is like pouring oil into an open fire - and the fire just won't go out, no matter how hard you try to extinguish it with reason and deep breaths. "And you have millions of years of war experience."

"Okay, that may be true - but it's still really embarrassing for you, the genetically modified weapon, to get your aft beaten like that." Whirl sits down next to you with a thud, only to slump backwards and cross his arms behind his head. Looks like the sparring session is over - and you've taken quite a beating. Pretty much every part of your body hurts, which is a pleasant distraction from the mess in your head. Though being thrown around by a robot for an hour is definitely not something you would recommend to everyone. 

"Maybe." You cover your eyes with your forearm and sigh deeply; this whole day has been an emotional roller coaster. First the embarrassment of having observed Chromedome and Rewind's interface, then the emotional outburst on your part... Should Rung be right in the end and you really are unstable? And if you look at the past week, can you be blamed? No, probably not.

Still, the feeling of being on edge is unbearable: It feels like a thousand ants under your skin. It tingles. Everything tingles.

"What are all these notches anyway?" you ask, rolling to the side and resting your head on your hand to look at the bot. The ceiling and walls are covered with cuts and notches, slits and wounds in the metal of the ship. 

"Drift and Cyclonus often use this room for training and meditation," Whirl replies, following your gaze to the cuts on the ceiling. "It's a sort of sanctuary for concentration and silence. But I have the secret access code."

"How'd you get that?"

"I have my ways." He sounds proud, mischievous. "I have the access code to almost everything on this ship."

"Even Swerve's Bar?"

"Yup."

"So we didn't have to break in at all?"

"Nope."

"Then why did we?"

Now the bot turns to you and shrugs slightly. "Because it's fun." 

Against your will, this simple but completely honest sentence forces a smile on your face. Yes, the evening was pretty damn fun. Even when the firing range blew up halfway through, you still had a great time; every minute you spend with this chaotic bot is the best time you've ever had. Granted, there's not much to compare it to, but it's definitely fun. His company makes every day a little better.

You want to tell him that you're going to miss him when you leave the Lost Light, but that's way too corny. He's not the type of bot for that, and you don't even know if you are. All he gets is a soft glance, one with a certain warmth in it - that's about as sappy as it gets. 

"You're making yourself very vulnerable right now," you murmur to the bot, and your free hand moves over the rough floor mats, coming closer to his body, finally reaching the alloy of his cockpit. Metal that is so much warmer than you ever imagined. Almost feels like skin, so alien and yet so... alive. And when you put your whole palm on it, you can even feel the slight hum of his spark. So warm and so full of power. The tingling sensation under your skin spreads, moving up your arms to your fingertips. 

"Am I?" He doesn't sound mocking, not anymore. In the last hour, when he threw you to the mat after each attack, it was accompanied by a certain lightness and mockery in his words, but now... no, his voice sounds way more hoarse than usual. Teasing, but in a way that sends a slight tingle down your spine. 

"Your weak points are quite exposed to me," you reply, moving closer to him so that you can better touch the transformation seams on the side of his body and trace them with your fingertips. 

"And what would that be?" Whirl makes no attempt to move or escape your grasp. He's still lying on his back, wings flat on the ground, arms crossed behind his head. Though he doesn't take his eye off you for a second; he waits, curious to see what your hands will do to his body. 

"We've already discussed your neck at length." A quick glance up, to the place where Ratchet patched Whirl back together after your first close encounter. Today, you don't think of the incident as sour as you used to; no, it's more like the beginning of something you can't quite put into words yet. 


In a quick, fluid movement, you sit up so that you can lean your side against the bot. Your waist nestles into the helicopter's thin midsection, two puzzle pieces made for each other. Your arm creeps over his midsection and then rests on the other side so you can lean over him. Just a little, though enough so that you can still look up past his cockpit to his helm. You haven't had this much physical contact before - at least not on purpose.


This is exciting, your brain purrs.


"Here, this spot." Your free hand moves slowly over his alloy, so painfully slow that you can feel his fans kick into high gear. All the way up to where his left arm joins the rest of his body. "Your shoulder hydraulics are very flexible. But that also means that if I apply pressure at the right angle, I can easily lever your arm out. With a little force behind it, of course." 

"You don't say." Whirl's voice is at least an octave lower than usual. He even sounds a little excited at the prospect of you ripping his arm out. 

"That would hurt quite a bit," you purr, equally intrigued by the thought of showing the bot who's the boss. 

"I was a Wrecker, I've been through worse." 

"Are you sure about that?" Your hand leaves his shoulder joint, causing his arm to twitch in disappointment, almost as if the helicopter is fighting the impulse to grab you and pull you close. "I'm pretty sure I would find ways to torture you beautifully." 

Warm fingertips trace one of his transformation seams; such delicate lines, so vulnerable and sensitive. Perfect for ramming the sharp blade of a knife into, for here the metal is thin enough to yield. What a wonderful thing to fantasize about: To hear the sound of metal cutting metal as you find out exactly how interfacing between organic and mechanical species works. There's no denying it - you're attracted to this explosive bot beyond measure. So much so, in fact, that the slow-burning heat between your legs makes you think it might be more comfortable to shed a garment or two. After all, you're drenched in sweat from your sparring session, and that alone is reason enough, right? 


Suddenly the world shifts and you feel the floor of the room against your back - Whirl has sat up and grabbed you by the waist, pushing you backwards and onto the floor. Now he's resting one arm on each side of your head while your legs are trapped between his; the light in his eye is so bright in this dimly lit room that you have to lower your eyelids. I'm cornered, you might think, but this time it's more than welcome. A wonderful display of power and speed that underlines why you had no chance against the former Wrecker today. He's just that good. 

His EM field reaches out to you, flaring and eager to let you know that he's as interested in you as you are in him. A wave of his desire washes over your senses, multiplying your own needs and leaving a trail of hot fire in your mind. 

"You're not concentrating," he grunts softly. Oh, his voice drips with quiet amusement and thick, hearty lust. "You let me overpower you so easily." His vents hiss softly, indicating that his core temperature has risen to the point that his system is having to take measures to prevent overheating. It's good to know that a weird, organic thing like you still has such a definitive effect on him - this is truly milk and honey for your ego, which has taken a beating during this close-quarters training. 

"Maybe I wanted to be overpowered," you reply, and your hands find the base of his neck to draw invisible circles with your fingertips. Now that he's so close to you, you can see a fine seam in the metal where your knife hit his neck. The sight shoots an impatient tingle down your spine and you have to swallow against the tightness in your throat. 

The only way to soothe this feeling, this intense desire in your body, is to reach up, to grab his helm and plant a kiss on the metal rim. Your reward for this brave gesture is a deep growl from his engine, along with a heavy sigh from his fans; for a second, Whirl watches you closely, seems to weigh things, then lowers his helm slightly. 

"Do that again." 

And you do: a second kiss finds its place near his eye, then a third and a fourth. Your pelvis pushes up so you can wrap your legs around his waist and pull him down to you, to the ground, body grinding against his metal. His alloy has become hot, fed by a warmth that radiates deep from inside his chassis. It feels good, it feels familiar; Whirl feels familiar. His field keeps pushing forward, letting you know that your body feels good; a bit weird, yes - but so tantalizingly soft and new that curiosity and desire win out. 

A soft moan escapes your throat as his interface panel presses against your sex, reassuring you: yes, this is really happening. We'll now explore the benefits of inter-species interfacing. 

"Here they are." 


Or maybe not. 

The door has opened and Ultra Magnus stands in the doorway with an expression on his face that nips any desire in the bud. The bad timing of this crew is absolutely legendary and needs to be studied.
 
"Add that to the list of infractions," he says, noting something on the datapad in his hand. "Public canoodling in training facilities." 

Above you, Whirl makes a sound that perfectly expresses your own disappointment, and he vents a blast of hot air. 

"Great," he growls. "The fun police's here." 

Behind Magnus, you can see the smaller bot Rung, whose expression is always a bit difficult to read - right now it's a mixture of mild annoyance and a clear case of 'this will be discussed in the next session'. You're beginning to wonder if this day could get any worse - or more emotionally confusing. You've gone through just about every major emotion today: shame, lust, euphoria, and depression.

"You. Come with me." Ultra Magnus watches with a stony expression as you pull yourself out from under the helicopter and get to your feet. "To my office for questioning. We have reason to believe that you are working with a faction of the Galactic Council to harm us." 

"Uh--" In the face of such a serious accusation, your brain stumbles and struggles to find words. A quick glance at Whirl, who just shrugs, doesn't help either. In the end, you have no choice but to go with Magnus. Whatever this is about, it seems bad enough that Rung was sent along for moral support. 

You really have to stop assuming that things can't get any worse, because somehow the universe always finds a way to prove you wrong. 

 

Chapter 13: Late night devil

 

The door to Ultra Magnus' office closes behind you with a light breeze that ruffles your hair. You stand in the hallway for a moment, taking in the emptiness that always surrounds you in the endless corridors of the Lost Light. Such a huge ship, so empty and so terribly lonely. 

Or are you the one who's lonely? 

Well, no matter where these cold fingers come from, the ones which are currently crawling into your bones - the day is ruined and worrying about it won't help. After four hours of interrogation by Ultra Magnus and a few kind words from Rung, you're officially stamped as a non-traitor - a real stamp that goes in your file with Ultra Magnus - but you feel even worse than before. 

As if it wasn't enough that you're technically not even two weeks old, if you can put it that way, now you've been suspected of working with the Maulers. This accusation is quite logical when you consider the chain of events: the Lost Light crew discovered you and your survival pod in the wreckage of the destroyed Galactic Council ship, then it was revealed that you're not even a real human, and after your chaotic adventure with Whirl on Doxa 07, a Mauler assault ship is now pursuing the Lost Light. It's only logical to assume that you had something to do with it.

Still, the accusation hurts. It hits something deep inside you that you did not know was so vulnerable, so fragile and easily irritated. This small spark of a sense of community that has developed in the midst of this crew feels a little smaller now. And that pain turns to anger, as it always does with pain. 

Time to go to bed. Sleep away the anger and wait until you reach the space station in a few days. Then leave the ship and never come back, never be accused of betraying anyone again. 


Maybe it's better that way. 

"You look grumpy." As you turn the next corner, Cyclonus is standing there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest plate. That he of all people says that - the irony is almost enough to make you laugh out loud. 

"I'm in a bad mood," you reply. "Ultra Magnus suspected that I had something to do with the ship being followed by Maulers."

"A logical conclusion."

"Yes." The anger in your chest swells like the fur on the neck of an angry, wild dog. "Still, the insinuation makes me angry." 

He pauses a moment before answering. "Understandable." Someone like Cyclonus, who is basically considered a villain just because of the way he looks, can actually relate to your suffering. It's... oddly comforting. 


"It's rare to find you alone," you change the subject. You both know what you are getting at; where Cyclonus is, his conjunx, is usually not far behind. 

"Oh, I'm not alone." The jet looks to his left, where a small, white-and-blue minibot you have grown fond of sits on the ground in his shadow. Tailgate is crouched on the ground, legs drawn up, optics dark. "He wanted to wait until Magnus had finished interrogating you. But since he took on extra work in the archives today, he got a little tired and couldn't stay awake." 

"Extra work?" you ask, looking up at Cyclonus again. "Why?"

"He thought you'd be in a bad mood after the interrogation and might want to take tomorrow off," is the answer, which makes your heart sink a little. "So he worked harder today. To make up for it."


Oh, Tailgate...


"He never doubted my innocence for a second, did he?" you ask, watching as Cyclonus moves to pick up the minibot from the floor and carry him all the way to their shared living quarters. 

"Oh, please-" the jet snorts. "You're not the kind of spark who deals with people like the Maulers. You're way too soft for that."

The jet has never spoken so many words to you, or to anyone but Tailgate. And the tenderness with which he carries the minibot scratches at something in your chest that cries out for desire and tenderness. Yes, you want what they have. Love, intimacy, and a certain emotional closeness that sentient beings so desperately need. But how to find it? It seems impossible to understand where to begin. 

"Sorry Tailgate overdid it because of me," you finally say when you reach an intersection of corridors leading in different directions: Cyclonus and Tailgate to their living quarters, and you to the solitude of the remote deck where no one else is. 

Cyclonus shakes his head. "That's just the way he is. Thoroughly compassionate to those he cares for." Is it just you, or is there a hint of a smile playing around the corner of the jet's mouth as he looks down at the botin his arms? "That's how he got me. He just doesn't give up." 

You laugh, softly enough not to wake the Minibot. "That seems to be one of his best qualities." 

"Indeed." Cyclonus turns to leave, and you watch as he pauses for a moment, tilting his head slightly in your direction. "I'm sure Tailgate would appreciate it if you kept in touch after you left." 


You stand on the corner in amazement until they are gone. You hadn't even thought of that. Stay in touch. Something like a pen pal? Is that even possible when the Lost Light, with its quantum drive, will be able to make huge leaps again as soon as you leave the ship? 

"Stay in touch," you mutter to yourself, and make your way home to the lower deck, where nothing but boxes and dust await you. On the way, you occasionally hear the stomping or clattering of robot feet on the decks above you, voices at the end of a corridor you avoid, and the whooshing of impulse engines still being cleaned of stubborn vermin. The soundscape is soothing in a strange way, and you can't help but think that, given enough time, you could easily settle down here on the ship. 


Time. 


There is a lack of time and possibilities to pursue this idea. The conditions were clear from the beginning: The Lost Light will take you to the next neutral base and then fly on. It's nice that they took you at all. That they adjusted the atmosphere on the ship to your needs. That they provided you with clothes and food - even alcohol, so you can hang out with the others in the bar!

Still, you don't dare ask if you can stay. The answer to that question is clear: the quantum drive can't be used with you aboard, because it's possible that your body will go pop under the extreme stress. So why ask a question that will be answered with a no? 

When you arrive at your habitation suite, you close the door and the first thing you do is throw your jacket on the floor and stretch. The room temperature is pleasant, much warmer than the rest of the ship, giving you soft goose bumps on your upper arms. It smells of dust and metal, and through the large window on the wall you can see the stars passing by; all in all, it's not bad to have such quarters, but... it's lonely. 

Then again, it's probably you who's lonely. Two hundred bots on this ship and no one to ease the feeling of being lost. 


Well, maybe one very special bot.
 

The blanket on the bed coughs up a small cloud of dust as you flop down on it. Your thoughts immediately drift to what almost happened in the training room today, and finally it sinks in: You kissed Whirl. 


Oh, by the stars, why did you do that? 


Your lips tingle at the thought and your heart sings at the realization that he liked it and asked for more. If Magnus hadn't interfered, the two of you might have... 

"Oh man!" you snort and bury your warm face in your hands. Whether it's because of the embarrassment or silent euphoria, no one knows. How stupid to have a crush on a Cybertronian helicopter! And oh, how stupid to wish that Magnus hadn't barged in.
 


"Hey."

Your heart jumps into your throat with a violent leap as Whirl's holomatter avatar suddenly appears next to you on the bed. The young woman's body sits beside you, grinning broadly and leaning on one arm while her hand plays with one of her ponytails. 

"So?" he asks, falling backwards onto the bed and kicking up more dust from your blanket. "How was your evening with Ultra Magnus and Rung?" 

"Boring. Exhausting," you sigh and lie on your side, the tip of your nose only inches from the human face of Whirl's holomatter body. The one eye that is not covered by an eye patch is golden yellow and watches you closely. "But I got the okay that I'm not a double agent or a spy or whatever. Just a hybrid who gets used as a tool by some dickheads." 

"Huh. Sounds like a fun evening, sandwiched between Magnus and Rung." 

A snorting laugh escapes you at the thought, which is really grotesque. No, thank you.

"I had more fun with you in the training room," you whisper quietly. 

Oh, do you really want to go down that road? Well, your body wants it as much as your heart is pounding and your sex is throbbing. These words are somehow an invitation. Now it is just a matter of accepting it. 


"That's why I'm here." Whirl straightens slightly and leans into you; the holomatter avatar is not a flesh-and-bone being, of course, but he does radiate a certain tingly warmth. It's barely perceptible, but when it's as close as it is now, that warmth hovers over your skin as a fine tension. "The hell I will, and let someone like Ultra Magnus spoil my fun." 

And then a switch flips in your brain. It clicks and every caution, every little doubt is stored somewhere, just not in your brain. Your hands grab Whirl's avatar and you pull him towards you, without the slightest hesitation, and are immediately kissed in response. The holomatter Avatar is not as warm as a real human would be, but not ice cold either; the meeting of lips is accompanied by a slight vibration, a tingle that betrays the unusual nature of this body. 

He's immediately on top of you, supporting himself with both hands on the bed next to your head, just so you can reach up and take his face in your hands. Another kiss follows, awkward and erratic, as you would expect from someone who probably doesn't kiss organic beings very often. Still, he puts his heart into it; lips that are much softer than first suspected move hungrily against yours, and a cool tongue delights in your taste. Your fingers find dark blue hair, not quite perfectly rendered, but that's not what's important now. It's just that your fingers have something to do. 

"This is really weird." Whirl breaks the kiss to wipe the back of his hand over his mouth. His one eye glistens greedily, revealing that 'weird' is more of a compliment in this case than anything else. His wide grin gives him away as well. 

He doesn't wait for an answer, he bends down and starts biting your neck with his teeth, something that makes you gasp. Who would've thought one could use holomatter avatars for something like this?!

Whirl's hands are on your neck, then your shoulders, and finally your waist. He pushes up the fabric of your shirt, skin meeting holomatter again, sending a deliciously vibrating electricity through your body. Meanwhile, he bites red spots into your neck and kisses you again, so hungry and wild that you think it's the last thing he'll ever do. This bot in the body of a young woman fucks just the way he fights: Wrecker style. No matter what the cost, he throws himself headlong into the action. 

"Take that off." His hands tug impatiently at the collar of your shirt, which covers most of your torso. He can feel your body heat through the rather thin fabric, but it's only half as much fun with most of that soft, hot body covered. Here's where you have to agree with him. 

The heat radiating inside your chest, all the way down into your lower body, burns hot paths through every bloodvessel it flows through on its way down. You would never have thought there could be so much desire in one body, let alone the desire to sleep with this ticking time bomb of a Cybertronian. But there's something about Whirl, something special and something that connects you on a deeper level than superficial attraction. Probably a loud desire for chaos, lest the silence consume you. 

"I want your real body," you say as you pull the shirt over your head and watch with amusement as his avatar takes a closer look at the now exposed skin. "Whirl, come on."

"Of course you do," he purrs in response as his avatar's hand moves agonizingly slowly across your stomach to your chest. "You like me, admit it." 

"Obviously." The sharpness in that word, the sarcasm, fades as Whirl leans down and licks your nipple with his tongue. A sigh turns into an almost moan, which you just manage to turn into a deep exhalation. Oh no, he's not going to get you that easy. 

Your hand reaches up, finds the holomatter avatar's neck, and squeezes it; apparently these projections have some kind of perception of touch, because a soft gasp escapes him at the hard touch. Of course he likes it rough. 

With tensed core muscles, you lean up and press your mouth against his, biting his lower lip, only to be disappointed that there's no blood to taste on your tongue. And judging by the violent reaction of your body, which is greedily soaking your underwear, the rough treatment is exactly what everyone involved needs. 

"4501," you growl at the slightly open mouth above you. "My door code. Get your ass over here." 

With a flicker, the holomatter avatar disappears - but not without giving you a broad grin before the weight on your body disappears.


Oh wow. Oh wow, this is really happening. Holy shit. 


You quickly push the blanket off the bed, along with the useless piece of cloth that used to be your shirt, and wait with your heart pounding for the bot to appear. Anticipation, along with a certain nervousness and hunger, pump through your veins, along with the realization that you have no idea if interfacing between organic species and bots is even possible, or even healthy. 

But before these thoughts can bear fruit, the door clicks quietly and slides aside with a hiss. What the hell, that was 30 seconds at the most!

"How did you get here so fast?" you ask, confused at first, but then it dawns on you. "Whirl- Have you been lurking outside my door this whole time?"

Whirl, now in his full metal glory, wastes no time - he closes the door behind him with a push of a button on the wall console and is across the room in two big steps, at your side on the bed. 

"Maybe." is the only answer you get before he climbs onto the bed next to you and immediately sinks his helm into the hollow of your neck. 

"You're a weirdo." The words fall from your lips with more affection than you expected. Something that isn't only noticed by you. The reward for this lovingly whispered insult is that Whirl lifts his helm and then presses it gently against your forehead; it's the closest you'll get to a kiss from his real body. 

But before the bot can get comfortable on top of you, you wrap a leg around his slender midsection, push his arm away from above you, and with a crash, Whirl lands first on his side, then on his back - you both almost fall off the bed, but barely keep your balance. 

At the end of this sudden movement, Whirl is lying underneath you, a curious sound in his voice box, seemingly very interested in what this dominant energy of yours has in store for him. 

Your eyes drink in the sight: the bot that could probably break you like glass without even breaking a sweat is lying beneath you, ready to surrender to your sexual curiosity. His look is almost lascivious - even though you wonder when exactly you learned to read his non-existent facial expressions. But the way he stares at you... it makes you feel like you are being devoured.

Two predators, ready to attack.


A grotesque mixture of bloodlust and sexual desire for each other, despite the obvious differences. It's almost poetic. 


You lean forward, slightly to the side, to avoid the bot's cockpit, supporting yourself with both hands next to his helm. You plant several feather-light kisses on the edge of the metal, each more benevolent than the last, as the bot runs a claw across the soft skin above you. The tip draws invisible lines across your chest, wanders, and finally finds itself at your temple, brushing a strand of hair from your face. 

Some might call this tenderness, but it's much more than that: it's a sign of dominance, superiority, and everything in between. How Whirl manages to appear so dangerous in a movement that is so gentle and delicate is something to be admired, really. 

And yet, beneath this seemingly cool composure, the helicopter is so, so needy. You can hear the whisper of his vents, the ever-deepening hum of the sparks in his chest. And you - you can feel the heat in your abdomen, so sweet and seductive. Your underwear is already damp, soaked with your bodily fluids.
 

Thank Primus, the datapad Velocity smuggled you has built-in access to basic medical information about Cybertronians. This has allowed you to read a little bit about the situation that might await you; a situation you have wished for more than you care to admit. 

"Open up," you purr, pressing your knee against Whirl's interface panel.

His vents snort hard. "Say please."


Oh, that cocky bastard.

An irritated growl escapes from your chest and you reach under the pillow where the handle of the knife is waiting to be grabbed. In a quick, fluid motion, you pull the knife out from under the fabric and apply pressure, letting it dance across the alloy; a shrill scratching sound and a few sparks are the reward. The scratches that remain in the blue paint are as much a mark as the love bites his holomatter avatar left on your neck. 

You are mine, I am yours. 

"Open up," you repeat, pressing the tip of the blade into his neck - not enough to penetrate the thin metal there, but enough to make him hiss softly. Oh, how fun it is to test the sensors. Cybertronians feel pain, and the external sensors seem to be quite sensitive in some places. 

"I didn't hear a 'please'," the bot below you grunts, now much louder. 

Wrong answer. Your hand lifts the blade and drives it into the metal with a force that makes the nature of this punishment clear. The blade slides not into Whirl's neck, but into his shoulder, and he moans, loudly and definitely not just in pain, no. Lust dims his EM field for a moment, which then spreads out and hits you like a wave of hot water. You've never felt his field so strongly, and it's almost as if he's having trouble keeping it close to him; but that's good, very good. His lust is a strong incentive to continue. 

"Open up," you repeat, pressing the knee harder against his panel. If Whirl could grit his teeth, he would. Instead, he opens his intimacy panel with a soft click, and you marvel at the sight of his spike and valve. 


Oddly familiar, yet so... alien. 

"I like it," you murmur generously, knife being pulled out of his shoulder with a jerk. Blue Energon squirts out, with a slightly sour smell that can probably be equated with the iron smell of blood. The wound is not too deep, not too wide, so after a few seconds the Energon drips only slightly and you don't have to worry about sealing the leak for the time being. 

The blade moves further down, across the blue alloy of the helicopter, across his slender midsection and down to his hip armor. A quick glance is enough to confirm that this game is being enjoyed by both of you - and when Whirl exhales deeply from his vents, you know that you're on the same wavelength. 

"I like it very much." Your words are like hot oil for the bot, and the tip of the blade in your hand moves further down, all the way to the base of his spike. 

It's a beautiful spike. Dark gray, the same color as his midsection and neck, with yellow bio lights and deep grooves that promise a lot of fun. Slowly, with relish, you pull the tip of the knife up the shaft of the spike, the sharp metal catching in each groove with a slight click. And every time the knife sinks into one of those grooves, Whirl's hips jerks up, with sounds in his chassis that makes your sex throb desperately. He starts with a soft moan, gets louder and louder until he almost growls when you reach the very tip of his spike. 

Every sound the bot makes is music to your ears. Your pelvis begins to rub against the armor on his thigh, giving your clit a little of the attention it craves. You want to sink your own fingers deep inside you, into the wet entrance between your folds, so hot already you can feel it through the fabric of your pants. 

With a jerk, you jam the knife into a gap between his hip armor and leg joint, eliciting a wave of painful yet incredibly lustful moans. Whirl's pelvis presses against yours, so needy, so hungry for more. A drop of pink liquid is visible at the tip of his spike, and his valve drips onto your bed, just that greedy is the mechanical body for release. 

But not yet. His size is considerable, so jumping into cold water is probably not a good idea. 

Patiently and slowly, you get up and take off the rest of your clothes, keeping an eye on the bot. The knife in his hydraulics prevents him from moving much - good, that's exactly what you wanted to achieve. Let him wriggle in your bed like a fish out of water. 

Only when all pieces of clothing have found their way to the floor, you climb back on top of him and sit down right behind his spike. This sensitive part of the Cybertronian's body nestles close to your skin, at first glance definitely too big for your body, but a healthy can-do attitude surely has already crossed many borders in this galaxy. 

Without further ado, you dip a hand into your own wetness and enjoy the feeling of warm fingers at your entrance; so wet, so tight, and yet so eager to ride the bot until he offlines. First two fingers, then three - accompanied by the breaths your lungs have to process faster and faster. In between, your hand moves to your clit, knowing exactly what to do to bring you closer to orgasm. 

And all of this is being closely watched by the bot, whose Energon and transfluid are currently dripping onto your floor, forming a small puddle. He watches every movement of your hand inside you, every little touch on your clit that makes you sigh and moan so beautifully. 

"Allow me." Suddenly, two arms wrap around you as Whirl's holomatter avatar presses against your back. The avatar reaches forward, the hands landing on your stomach and immediately moving south until their target is reached. The not-quite-human fingers gently push yours aside and immediately replace them. One hand eagerly plunges into you, spreading its fingers to stretch the walls in preparation of what's to come, while the other caresses your clit. Every movement is designed to get you closer to your climax - Whirl listens carefully to your sounds, the sweet tones that completely capture his attention.

"So wet," Whirl grunts in amusement as he lies beneath you, watching his avatar make you feel good. He's right: your bodily fluids are an excellent lubricant, which he uses to push four fingers inside you, while rubbing your clit the same way you just did. Each thrust of his hand brings a new moan or gasp to your lips and he drinks in all these sounds greedily like a starving bot. His EM field is a whirlpool of pure greed and lust, of pain and the resulting desire to sink his spike into you as far as it will go. 

And who are you to deny that? 

Your hand reaches forward and pulls the knife from his hip - the blade now painted blue by Energon and accompanied by a sigh of relief as the foreign object leaves his body. The blade is rammed into the material of the bed with a violent thrust from you and you push yourself up. With one hand you take the spike and align it with your entrance - there's a brief eye contact between you and Whirl, which only intensifies the tingling electricity. 

And then you lower your body. Holomatter hands hold your waist, as you slowly lower yourself onto the giant spike. Whirl's avatar smears your own body fluids over your hot skin, making detours to your clit and spreading your folds as you close your eyes and breathe, enduring the initial pain of the enormous stretching of your walls. 

"Fuck, you're big," you choke out when he's halfway inside. 

Whirl chuckles. "Why, I'm flattered."

"Not a compliment," you hiss, but that's a lie. He feels fantastic. Huge, but incredibly good as well. 

"Relax." Whirl's avatar presses closer to your back and rubs your clit, while the other hand grabs your chin and pushes your head to the side to plant a desperate kiss on your parted lips. "You're a real fighter." 

"Shut up!" And then you finally feel the base of his spike. It's done. Now you can start to move slowly, pushing yourself off the bed with your knees and letting yourself fall, again and again, until a slow but steady rhythm develops. You've never been so full before and damn it, it feels ridiculously good, this balance between pain and pleasure. 


"Fuck--!" Your curse is smothered by another kiss from the avatar as Whirl's claws grab your waist and he pushes into you so suddenly that you see stars dancing before your closed eyes. A sharp pain shoots through your body as he repeats this: This robot has no mercy. Instead of allowing you to slowly getting used to him, he rams his spike into your body as far as it will go. Each thrust is an explosion of pain, but it's immediately followed by a fierce euphoria that takes over; it's a balancing act between heaven and hell, and after the first few thrusts, heaven definitely wins. 

"Ahh, Whirl-!" you moan as his avatar slides his hand between your legs again and rubs your clit over and over again. Those delicate touches, so purposefully aimed at your pleasure, together with the hard, unyielding thrusts... Every clear thought becomes a ghost, disappearing from the present reality and leaving you as a groaning, trembling mess.

 
This is the payback for the spilled Energon, you just know it. 


"So tight." Whirl's voice barely reaches you as he grabs you even tighter, ramming you onto his spike as if you were nothing more than a toy for his pleasure. "Frag, I could get used to this." Each thrust is harder than the last, driving you, along with the touches of his holomatter avatar, to the climax that is so tantalizingly close. The heat continues to build, trying to find a way out of your body, begging for release. 

"Ohh-- fuck!" There's no way to keep your dignity, so you lean back into the holomatter body behind you. The relentless rhythm and pace of the bot below you drives you on, further and further, and the knot in your abdomen grows hotter, tighter, more desperate - until you finally fall over the cliff, screaming. The first wave of pleasure washes over you in a flash of pure bliss, almost cramping your muscles, followed by more waves that drink every bit of pleasure and heat from your body. 

You vaguely notice the holomatter avatar behind you flickering and then disappearing - while the spike inside you continues to thrust, relentlessly and so deeply that you're guaranteed to be sore tomorrow. But the loud roar of Whirl's engine and the heavy breathing from his vents tell you that he, too, is close to release. It only takes a few more thrusts, each deeper than the last, before a deep moan from the bot shakes his chassis and the grip on your waist loosens slightly. 

But for now, you're just concentrating on riding out this high. Your hands find purchase somewhere on his body while your breathing tries to find a regular rhythm. Sweat on hot skin, panting, and a sense of deep relief are sensations that gradually come to you. Hot is the spike that's still inside you. And when Whirl removes himself from you, a very sticky fluid runs out and spreads between your bodies.

Fuck. Wow. 

Okay. 


Words you want to say but can't. The fog in your brain has not yet lifted and coherent sentences are still difficult to form. Your playmate also seems to be enjoying the moment before he removes his claws from you and sits up slightly. 

"Okay. So that was really weird," he grunts, not quite as nonchalantly as he would have liked. The static in his voice betrays how hard he overloaded. "Wet and weird."

"Yeah," you agree, leaning on his cockpit. Your muscles are shaking. "And good."

"Yeah. Pretty good." 

Okay, obviously neither of you can expect much more conversation from each other today. Sometimes you should just be satisfied that an orgasm was really good and leave it at that. 

You manage to pick up the blanket from the floor and climb down from the helicopter without losing your balance or falling off the bed. The wounds from which the Energon leaked seem to be not that deep - at least Whirl makes no effort to care that he's bleeding from two stab wounds. Why stabbing him with a knife turned you on so much is something for tomorrow. Everything can wait till tomorrow. 

"Lie on your side," you grumble, pulling the blanket over you and a bit over the bot. He does as he's told, turning from his back to his side and making a small sound of surprise when you put an arm across his slender middle. You press your face into the alloy of his backplate and sigh deeply. Satisfied, you might say. Less lonely, even. 

"What--"

"Shut up," you grumble as he makes a move and the grip on his waist tightens in response. "And sleep. Or recharge, or whatever."

"I-" He wants to argue, you can feel it - but you don't care right now. Whoever impales you with his spike has to cuddle and be the little spoon afterwards, period. "Ugh, whatever." 

With a last heavy sigh, Whirl pretends not to like the physical contact, but you notice that he leans slightly into your touch. 

 

Notes:

save a horse, ride a helicopter or something idk

Chapter 14: Growing pains

 

"Are you awake?"

"Of course I'm awake. I'm the hostage of an emotionally unstable genetic experiment." Whirl moves slightly, not to escape your grip, but to get a little closer to the warm, bare skin. Somehow you have managed to find a position that's comfortable for both of you in a bed that is meant for only one person. "Why? Are you going to hold Rodimus for ransom? If so, demand unmarked Units in a Stellaria bank account and a shuttle without a tracking device."

You snort with amusement. "You seem to know your way around."

"I've been involved in a kidnapping or two. Although I was rarely the hostage."

"But it has happened?"

"Occasionally. Even here on the ship." At your curious sound, however, he waves his claw slightly. "Long, bloody story. You should ask Rung, he loves to tell it."

"Hmm. Somehow I doubt that." 

A long breath escapes your lungs, more a quiet sigh than anything else. It's early, before the start of the morning shift on the Lost Light. The ship's interior is quiet and melancholy, like a thick fog that envelops all its inhabitants in tiredness and silence. Lying in bed with the ex-Wrecker feels surreal, like something that doesn't belong in this universe. It's a night that has brought a certain intimacy to the fore, a certain closeness. Heart to spark, so to speak. 

"What do you think of this Maulers business?" you ask finally, while a claw draws gentle circles over your hip, lost in thought and appreciation. The metal of Whirl's alloy takes on the warmth of the organic body, and you two nestle together so tightly that one might think you'd never been apart for a second in your lives. It's warm and beautiful, this moment. Fragile and special.

"I think we can handle a bunch of robophobic bastards," is the response. 

"What are they like? The Maulers?"

"They hate all mechanical species." Whirl's helm nestles against your chest as your arms pull him closer to you. Even if you told someone that this loose cannon had been talked into cuddling with you, no one would believe it. But, to your surprise as well, Whirl's actually really good at it. "Good fighters, I'll give them that. Sophisticated anti-mecha weapons. Well armored." 

"Hmm." Concern creeps into your heart. It doesn't sound like taking them on will be a walk in the park. 

"But you don't have to worry--" He feels the worry flicker through your weak EM field. "They usually leave organics alone."

"I'm not worried about me," you immediately clarify. "I'm worried about all of you."

Now Whirl straightens up slightly, and you can clearly see in his eyes that he takes that as an insult. 

"Because only the insecure hybrid can save us all. Yeah, right," he growls. "It's not like we have bots like, like- Cyclonus or Drift or, for frag's sake, Megatron on board. Or a very handsome Wrecker, mind you." His vents blow out a little air - it's an exasperated snort.

"Keep your ego in check," you reply, planting a kiss right on his faceplate, which also holds his yellow eye. At this teasing, he grunts and shrinks back with a deep sound in his chassis. 

"Oh, come on, right on the optic..."

It's nice. This is nice. 


A moment in the middle of the endlessness of space that belongs only to you and Whirl. A strange mixture of loneliness and the hurdles of self-discovery that your destiny brings; and in it is this chaotic Cybertronian, a surprisingly reliable constant in all this mess. He's the only one on the ship who accepts you for who you are. 

You actually expected it to be weird sleeping next to a bot. But it wasn't, not at all! Your sleep was soft and deep, interspersed with thoughts of how you could get used to such an arrangement. 

Two bodies that couldn't be more different, and yet so attracted to each other. Your fingers ghost over the metal and the fine transformation seams, drinking in the sensation. Every little notch burns into your memory, every little dent in Whirl's alloy. In return, his claw moves leisurely up and down your hip and thigh, then back and forth to your neck. Slow and appreciative, gentle and as hungry for a lasting impression as your own hand. 

It's a silent night, far removed from reality, which doesn't seem to exist at all in this habitation suite. This is your own little bubble, so incredibly fragile, but fortunately there's no one here on the lower decks to burst it. Down here, you can give in to the temptation to get emotionally attached to this crazy bot, and he can revel in his very own aspects that he otherwise tries so hard to suppress and deny. 


Yes, it's really nice. 

 

And as you cuddle up to your bedmate and close your eyes, perhaps to get a little more sleep, you notice a sound. 

A very low, subliminal hum that spreads through the metal of the entire ship. More like a vibration that seems to crawl through your entire skeleton; a sound so deep it makes the hairs on your neck stand up and say: This is not good. 

"Do you hear that?" you ask, sitting up. "Whirl?"

The bot sits up too and hesitates for a moment, then you hear a soft 'uh-oh' from him. 

"Uh-oh?" you ask immediately. "What do you mean, 'uh-oh'?"

"That sounds like the quantum drive warming up," he answers, getting up to go to the communications panel on the wall. He presses one of the buttons with the tip of his claw.

"Hey, Rodders, is there a reason the quantum drive is heating up? The one that could be, oh, I don't know, deadly to all organic passengers?"

"Whirl?" comes the voice from the intercom. "Why do you care? Are you--? Oh, you know what, spare me the intimate details, I don't want to know-" Rodimus' voice sounds broad and tense. Stressed. "Is the hybrid listening?"

Whirl looks at you, who's still sitting on the bed, listening wide-eyed and nervous. "Yes." 

"I knew it! Fraternization--" Ultra Magnus' angry tirade over the intercom is interrupted by the captain, who hisses a sharp "Shh, shut up!" and then speaks into the intercom again. 

"We have a problem. The Maulers ship is not just one ship - it was a scout. We've picked up dozens of Maulers on long-range scans. We need to get out of here now." 

There's a beep on the com. It sounds like an alarm signal that can be heard in the background of the bridge. "Get the hybrid to Brainstorm's workshop and into the survival pod! That should protect them from the potential damage of a quantum jump."

"Got it, boss." 

Whirl ends the call while you are already getting dressed and pulling the knife out of the metal of the bed. It finds its place on your belt, where the small holder for the knife is attached. The holder was a gift from Tailgate, since you can't just snap your weapons onto your body like a bot, and you don't have subspace pockets. But it was probably a gift from Cyclonus, who knows more about such things and is more likely to notice them - and Tailgate was just the messenger for this handmade soft metal holder.

It's strange, but this little thing feels like armor that accompanies you in this moment of uncertainty. A gift from friends. A talisman. 


"Let's go then." Whirl's invitation to follow him is interrupted: just as you put on your jacket, trying to control your inner turmoil, the lights turn red and a loud alarm sounds throughout the ship. 

Instinctively, you put your hands over your ears to muffle the noise. But a violent jolt through the ship makes you stagger and your hands find Whirl, who holds you upright with an arm around your waist. 

"What the--" But before you can finish the sentence, the words catch in your throat. The bow of a starship appears at the large window of the habitation suite, a ship which is considerably smaller than the Lost Light. The rust-red color of its hull contrasts sharply with the pleasant white-gray of the Lost Light, leading to the conclusion that it must be the Maulers. Inevitably, the thought of pirates arises, for whatever reason. Or mercenaries. Bloodthirsty in any case.

"This just gets better and better," Whirl growls, pushing you out the door to get to the deck where Brainstorm's workshop is located as soon as possible. "If Rodimus sounded the alarm, it means we already have some uninvited guests on the ship."

"So soon?" you call after him as you hurry around the next corner together. "But their ship is so small!"

"Maulers aren't stupid." It's strange when Whirl sounds as serious as he does now. No playful or sarcastic undertone in his voice, just the certain boldness of a Wrecker about to plunge into the next mission. But it's exactly this lack of humor and non-seriousness that makes you nervous. "The scout ship wouldn't dare come this close if they didn't expect reinforcements soon. These guys are extremely precise and tactically well trained." 

"So if they've already boarded the Lost Light, then-"

"Then we probably have less than 15 minutes before things really heat up around here," he finishes your sentence as you reach the next deck. "So off to your basket, pet. So you don't get all gooey during the quantum jump."

"Not a pet." This time there's no mischief in your words. No, you don't want to end up as a blob on a ceiling in the Lost Light. This proves once again that this ship simply isn't designed for organic life; quantum jumps are not impossible for organics, but without the necessary safety precautions for organics... Well, let's just say there's a good reason to be nervous.

 

You're scared. 

Not for your own life, no. More of what your presence means to the other crew members. If you had not been rescued from the wreckage of the Galactic Council ship, which was obviously a trap from the beginning, then there would be no fleet of Mauler ships after the Lost Light. That sword of destruction would not be hanging over the heads of the crew, sharp and deadly. If Rodimus, along with Megatron and Ultra Magnus, unanimously decide to flee, then the Maulers must be a serious threat. Probably merciless and absolutely lethal. 

Yeah, fear is a good word. Fear that you have put these bots, this crew - your friends - in danger. Just like on Doxa 07 and in the blown up firing range. 

The feeling that it is time to take responsibility instead of moping is getting stronger. So what if you're just the failed scientific end product of an empire and a tool to ensure absolute power? Your life sucks, so what? You're still breathing and you can make the best of it, no matter what. Just grit your teeth and refuse to go down - sometimes that's the best thing you can do. 

"Whirl." You arrive at a crossroad leading to three new hallways. The one to the right leads directly to the desired deck, and the one straight ahead does the same, but with a slight detour. In addition, loud noises that do not sound like Cybertronians can be heard from the straight path. "Fancy the scenic route?" 

The helicopter has also noticed the commotion in the corridor ahead of you and vents some hot air. "Tsk. Obviously."

"Over there!" The Maulers are organic beings, but somehow... they're also not. They cover their bodies with heavy armor: plate armor that could probably withstand a blow from a robot or a fusion cannon. Arms and legs are armored as well as their midsections, shells hard enough to protect the soft core. They almost look like bugs, with their round armor and helmets that don't reveal much except for a black indentation for the eyes. They look inhuman. Soulless. 

And they smell of something that can only be described as a mechanical corpse smell. 

The figures in the hallway may be a few heads shorter than you, but it's obvious at a glance that they've brought heavy artillery. Two dozen Maulers come at you and Whirl with huge guns that look like they could easily blow a hole in Megatron's spark chamber.

With a mighty thud, two of the soldiers at the front drop the heavy weapon to the ground, where it immediately magnetically clings to the metal floor with a loud click. 

"We have to be quick before they blow us apart with that HMG," you hear Whirl say next to you as you grab your knife. "Get a gun."

"Got it."

Oh, your heart sings. 

Excitement and adrenaline pump through your veins, dilating the vessels; blood reaches your muscles faster and supplies them with oxygen, making every movement easier than usual. Every electrical impulse in your brain speeds up, making the body's reflexes quicker. It's like a machine in high gear; this biological machine, designed to kill, relishes the opportunity to break free of its limitations and revel in what it was built to do.
 
You duck to avoid a grenade thrown by one of the soldiers in the rear. Four soldiers push forward from the group, slamming heavy metal shields into the ground, forming an impenetrable wall to protect the heavily armed HMG. It's a good tactic for getting a first wave of ammo into the prey, but you - you're more agile than the Maulers. Being faster than them, you take a generous run-up and dive over the metal shields with a jump. 

The soles of your shoes find the shoulders of one of the soldiers holding a metal shield. As you land on his shoulders, he lets out a frightened grunt and reaches for your ankle - but you're already on the shoulders of the next soldier, ramming the knife into the small slit between his helmet and his breastplate. Green blood spurts out, accompanied by a painful gurgling sound that is quickly drowned out by the angry screams of those around you. 


Heavy armor slows them down. That is their collective weakness. 


When someone like you, fast and without tons of armor, just throws themselves into the crowd, there's a certain element of surprise - what kind of madman would do that? 

"I'll be taking that, thank you." The knife cuts the strap of a rifle one of the soldiers has strapped to his back. Your hand grabs the rifle and immediately finds the trigger, releasing the safety - and you point the barrel directly at the opening in the helmet where the Mauler's eyes are. 

Yes, your heart sings and your muscles tremble with excitement and ecstasy. 


"Whirl!" 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it." With a loud crash, the bot throws himself directly into the group of Mauler soldiers, resulting in utter chaos. Soldiers get thrown through the air, shots fly down the hallway and bounce off the walls, but it's all happening so fast that it's all over in less than 30 seconds. Blood splatters across the floor: green, red, purple, and pink. The Maulers are a collection of mercenaries from different species. Insectoid, lizard-like, and humanoid, everything and everyone seems to be represented. And yet they all fall under Whirl's relentless assault. 

Cannon fodder. 

That's the thought that crosses your mind as the helicopter slams one of the soldiers into the ground so hard that it leaves a dent. These guys are just the vanguard, calculated as casualties before the mission even begins. The heavy hitters are still to come. 

You lunge at the nearest soldier, but in a moment of your own carelessness - or rather inexperience - he puts his hand around your throat and pulls you down. Hissing and spitting, you struggle, but the soldier, almost as tall as Whirl, is so strong that you have no chance against this brute force. Kicking at his chest and helmet doesn't help, the Mauler doesn't even flinch, until he finally swings and slams you against the wall with all his might.

Your back explodes with a sharp pain and something inside your skeleton crunches as all the air is pushed out of your lungs at once. There isn't even enough oxygen for a gasp of pain - but the rage and spite in your body helps - as does Whirl. 

The helicopter throws himself at the soldier, who's still pushing you against the wall with all his might, causing him to stumble. This gives you enough time to wriggle out of his grip and hurl yourself at him with an angry scream. Since your weight is nowhere near that of Whirl, the Mauler won't be bothered by this at all. That's okay though, because you can still plunge your knife into him and draw it through his flesh until the blade strikes a vital organ or blood vessel. 

With a few quick moves, you have scaled the soldier's chest like a mountain peak, and in a single, fluid motion, your knife finds its way into the slit of his helmet, where it hits bone at first, but then something soft, apparently very painful. The soldier screams, roars, and struggles, but he can't reach you again and finally staggers a step or two before falling backwards and dragging you to the ground. 

"Nice one! That's how you do it as a Wrecker!" Whirl crushes the advance team's heavy machine gun like it was made of cardboard, bending the barrel and carelessly tossing the now useless piece of metal to the ground. 

The ground is covered with a rainbow of blood and the bodies of the Maulers. You two have done a great job: in just a few minutes, this troop of about two dozen Maulers has been reduced to a bloody mess. A slaughter unlike any you have seen in your short life, but damn, it was fantastic. A hot, white rush of movement and violence, poetry of freedom and the power to decide what you want to do.

And then, a sudden realization hits you: Your heart doesn't sing because of the violence or the excitement, but because you can use your weakness - being a broken tool - to protect your friends from harm. Used by others, by different factions, you can still use these innate abilities to protect those you love. 

And in all the chaos, in the still-twitching bodies and the stench of metal and blood, there's Whirl, standing next to you, looking amused at the wild gleam in your eyes, your hand still on the handle of the knife stuck in your opponent below. 

"You're beautiful when you kill someone." His voice is rough and low, but you hear it clearly. His voice box is filled with admiration and it makes your chest glow with a soft, golden warmth.

"You old charmer," you reply, cooing and very flattered. "Is that part of the Wrecker's basic training? Tossing around compliments like free Energon?" With a disgusting wet sound, you pull the knife out of the soldier's helmet.

Whirl chuckles. "No, this is my personal style."

"Well, I like it." 

He offers you his arm, and you accept; he helps you get up from the dead soldier. His arm goes around your waist and you are pulled against his body until he lowers his helm slightly - and presses the brim briefly against your forehead. A gesture of absolute affection meant only for you. A kiss, short but so intimate, Whirl-style. 

Oh shit, you're really down bad, aren't you?

"Whirl? What's the status?" 

"Ah, scrap." Whirl trots over to the wall where the control panel is. It takes him a second or two to get the settings right, but then he can take Rodimus' call. "Hey Rodders. We just ran into a small group of Maulers and took them out."

"Frag." Rodimus sounds genuinely annoyed. "I thought I told you to- to get the hybrid in the damn pod! Now! I've got three big Mauler battlecruisers on my screen, and Magnus insists we're not fighting, we're leaving-- so get your engine in gear!"

"Tell Ultra Magnus he's a drag."

"He's listening."

"Ah, good. Ultra Magnus, you're a drag." With that, Whirl closes the comlink and looks at you expectantly. "Come on, sweetspark, what are we waiting for?"

* * *

 

Three decks up, you're met by Velocity and First Aid, who are dragging Doublecross toward the medibay. 

"Oh, thank Primus you're okay!" Velocity exclaims as soon as she sees you. "You need to get to your survival pod, now! We only have six minutes until we quantum jump!"

"I know." Your gaze falls on the injured bot. Doublecross has a huge gash in his chestplate, very close to his spark. Technically your fault, considering you're the one who started this whole thing in the first place by simply existing. "I'm on my way there now. Will you guys be okay?"

"Of course." Velocity puts a hand on your back and pushes you forward to get you to safety. "We'll be fine. And Whirl-" She turns to the helicopter. "You need to get to shuttle bay 03 right away. The Maulers rammed one of their ships right into the shuttle bay and all hell has broken loose. Cyclonus and Perceptor desperately need support. If we don't get out of here soon, it's over!"

"Already on my way," he confirms, and his claw taps you on the shoulder. "I'll be seeing you later, got it?" 

It sounds like an order, but you sense that it's more of a personal concern. A special way of saying that hopefully you will survive the quantum jump in your survival pod. You better survive this, or else. 

"Sure." is your simple response. "See you later."

"See you later." 

And then you start running towards Brainstorm's workshop. The ship groans heavily under the weight of an entire starship pushing its way in. You can't even imagine what shuttle bay 03 looks like: a whole armada of Maulers, gunfire everywhere and pure action. Exactly where you want to be. Right next to the bots that are risking their lives for you. You should be in the shuttle bay, but then you might get atomized or liquified in the quantum jump, so that's not an option right now. 

But who knows, maybe you'll get the chance in the future. 

The hallway leading away from the medibay leads to a passage that connects to the next deck. This is where you've been quite a few times by now, the place where you spent days with Rewind and Tailgate in the archive, entering manuals into the database by hand. You've talked and learned a great deal about Cybertronian culture and the war. About what it means to stick with the crew through thick and thin, to make sacrifices for each other. You heard the stories of the Lost Light and its adventures, the losses and the victories. How a crew has become a family. 

Having a family sounds really nice.


Your hands hastily enter the code for Brainstorm's workshop on the panel next to the door - Whirl told you the code, he really has the code for almost everything on the ship - but you are interrupted just as the door hisses open. Hard hands grab your neck and slam your forehead against the wall in such a quick and violent motion that you don't even have time to wonder who it is.

Stars flash before your eyes, a bright fireworks display that momentarily disrupts your sense of balance. The world spins and you groan, your hands pressed to your now diabolically hurting forehead. A dull throbbing is the only reality for a few seconds before you're being grabbed again and slammed against the nearest wall. Once again it feels like the floor bounces under your feet like a trampoline, making it almost impossible to stand upright until your shoulder hits the wall and you can at least stabilize yourself a little. 

Adrenaline clears the fog for a split second, allowing you to dodge the next attack and stumble a few steps back. In front of you stands a Mauler, about half a head taller than you, muscular, sinewy - and much thinner-armored than the guys you and Whirl crushed. His slow, deliberate movements suggest that he's more capable than the previous ones. More calculating, and probably someone who makes short work of a mission. Shit.

The Mauler says something in a language you don't understand. His words are hissing and aggressive, as if he were uttering a very nasty insult. Probably something between 'organic traitor' and 'mecha sympathizer'. You can even feel the burning glare through his helmet. 

"Let me through," you warn him, gritting your teeth and clutching your aching skull. Your free hand is already on the hilt of the knife at your hip, ready to defend yourself and not be surprised again. How foolish it was to let your guard down like that. A mistake that will not happen again. "Out of my way. Now."


As expected, the answer is a drawn weapon. 


You barely avoid the first shot of the fusion pistol, only by rolling across the floor and then getting back on your feet as quickly as possible. You almost stumble, the headache is unbearable, but that can't be important right now. Dodge, get to the pod, survive. A simple three-point plan. But what to do with this guy? Yes, that's the big question. Besides, time is running out... Guess it's time to grit your teeth and just go for it. Wrecker-style.

With a scream, you lunge at the Mauler, who shakes you off with a half-twist and raises his gun again. 

The shot hits the doorframe as you dive for safety in Brainstorm's workshop. You can take shelter among his projects for a moment and take a deep breath. The wildly beating heart in your chest is distracting, as is the ever-increasing hum of the quantum drive. The drive seems ready, just as the Lost Light vibrates with energy. Maybe another minute or two, then the Mauler's reinforcements will arrive and this ship will be in real trouble.

You have to end this situation, and quickly. 

The Mauler follows you into the workshop, weapon at the ready, of course, and clearly more competent than those other guys who were really just cannon fodder. This one is a fighter, a warrior against the supposedly so dangerous mechanical life forms. You have to be fast, faster than him. Or smarter, or just more devious. Whatever it takes to get the soldier out of this situation. Where is an airlock when you need one to eject an enemy?

The survival pod is still in the middle of the room, closed and offline, but unfortunately with an angry Mauler in front of it. Of course this wasn't going to be easy. The next idea was 'lock yourself in the pod and hope that the Mauler pops like a water balloon during the quantum jump' - which is also not working out. So much for plan B.


The workbench you are currently using as a cover is full of projects that have been started and left lying around, floating around in Brainstorm's processor. He won't mind if you borrow one of them, will he? 

The first thing your hand finds on the workbench is a cube. There is a button on it, but no indication of what exactly the cube does. Use it and see what happens is definitely a huge gamble when it comes to the engineer's work. He has a certain penchant for drama, and to be honest, you don't want to know what he's got in that locked weapons vault. Though admittedly, right now you actually could use an acid thrower or a turn-the-insides-out gun.

A shot from your pursuer's fusion pistol hits the workbench, just missing the edge where the back of your head is resting. 


Fuck. The Mauler comes closer. He hisses again in a language you don't understand. He sounds angry, as if this is a waste of his precious time. 


And what if this small, innocent-looking cube damages the pod? The stakes are high: your life and the lives of your crew are on the line. If three Mauler battlecruisers show up with thousands of those soldiers, then...


It's decided. Since plan A and B are out, plan C must be used. 

If you don't dare to do something stupid during an enemy occupation, will you ever? And since you brought a knife to a gunfight, a little dramatic advantage can't hurt.

You press the button and the cube starts flashing, slowly at first and then faster, from blue to red light, and you throw the thing over the workbench with a swing and wait for the surprising end of this experiment. 

And the end comes promptly: There is a loud bang, the wild roar of a detonation, and a sudden, tingling heat creeps over every surface in the workshop. The workbench protects you from the main explosion, though you still feel the whole ship tremble. Some small particles fly through the room, burning shreds of whatever are floating to the ground. The smell of fire hits your nostrils, of burnt plastic and something sour that smells like Energon. Brainstorm's projects are still shaking as you take your hands from your ears and cautiously look out from behind the workbench. 

Okay. That was an explosion, all right. But what kind of explosion is anyone's guess. In any case, the workshop looks like it's about to collapse completely. The walls next to the entrance are black and charred, broken inventions lie on the floor, and where the Mauler stood a moment ago, there is only a charred spot. 

Holy shit, the cube bomb vaporized that guy!

Oh. Oh, no. The pod.

You immediately stumble to your feet, barely managing to stand up, coughing as the smoke from the explosion enters your lungs. The survival pod seems to be still in one piece, but to be honest - it doesn't look good. Your fingers immediately touch the metal of the pod's outer shell, but the material is so hot that it causes instant pain. With a hiss, you pull your hand away and try to enter something on the control panel on the side of the pod. The material here is colder because it was not directly affected by the explosion. You cough again, the air in here is quickly becoming unbearable because of all the smoke. But the panel itself is damaged. Broken and dark.

Shit. You screwed up. 


The gamble you took with the weapons engineer's invention didn't work out, and you lost. Without the control panel, the survival pod won't open. The quantum drive is ready to jump and time is running out. Calling for help and then repairing the pod will take far too long. That's it. Game over.

"Hey, are you there?" A static noise and a voice startle you. Somewhere in this smoldering, almost burning room there seems to be a communicator. But where? The room is filling with smoke, so you can't stay here much longer. "Answer."

There! The force of the explosion has thrown a small communicator from the workbench, which now lies on the floor, flashing red. Your hands quickly grab the small device and after one or two failed attempts, you accept the call. 

"Yes, I'm here," you report, coughing up another stream of ash and probably tiny remnants of the Mauler from your lungs. 

"What was that? Internal sensors show a high energy output in Brainstorm's--" Megatron sounds as calm and professional as ever, but the walking powder keg Captain Rodimus immediately interjects. "Hey!! Who told you you can blow up my ship - again?!"

"Sorry!" you reply weakly, suppressing another heavy cough that makes your chest itch. "There was a Mauler here, but I took care of it! We can jump!"

"Are you sure? The systems register considerable damage in the workshop!"

"Initiate the quantum jump! Now!"

"Are you in the pod?" 

"Yes!!" you scream into the communicator. A lie. The pod won't open. But if the ship doesn't jump, everyone will die because of you. "Rodimus!! Do it, do it, do it! Right now, damn it!!!"

And then - then everything really hurts.

 

Notes:

Next chapter will be the last one! ✋😔

Chapter 15: We knew this would hurt

Tailgate waits patiently outside the door.

Whirl doesn't answer the first knock, or the second. But Tailgate knows he's there, because Whirl is nowhere else on the ship. He's been holed up in his habitation suite for days, refusing to come out. He says he's working on a project, though nobody knows exactly what that project is.

"Whirl, I'm not leaving until you talk to me."

It takes a few seconds, then the door opens and the helicopter leans against the doorframe.

"What do you want?" he asks curtly. "I'm busy."

Tailgate taps his fingertips together and nods. "I know," he says. "But I wanted to see how you’re doing."

"Fine. Goodbye."

But before the door can close, Tailgate braces himself against it and lets out an impatient growl that is rarely heard from the minibot.

"I know you, Whirl! And you are not well!"

"’course I am, Legs, now get lost." Whirl pushes him out the door with a little more force than necessary, causing the white-and-blue bot to stagger and almost fall over. Only by flailing his arms does he manage to keep his balance. "Rung was here, too. And Rodimus. Even Ultra Magnus, telling me to help with the repairs of shuttle bay 03. And I told them all the same thing: I'm fine. Now get lost.”

"You haven't- haven't even asked if they're okay!" The defiance and annoyance in the minibot's voice are new. He sounds very unhappy that Whirl seems to have no interest in how you’re doing. "Only Rewind and I and the medical bots are allowed to see them. You could at least--"

"At least what?" Whirl asks, just as irritated now. He leans slightly towards the smaller bot, with an intimidating aura that certainly betrays his inner tension. "You seem to forget, Panic Button, who pulled them out of Brainstorm’s workshop. And as someone who was at ground zero of that organic mincemeat party, I'm telling you: I don't have to ask how they are. The answer to that question is ‘not good’.”

"I-" Tailgate's hands clench into fists, clinging to the words that refuse to form a complete sentence.

"I know Cyclonus likes that you’re a colourful bag of all sorts of emotions," Whirl leans in further. "But I don't. I've seen what the quantum jump has done to them. It'll be a miracle if they survive. And I'm not interested in being blinded by false hope, Shorty."

Those were a lot of words to hide a lot of pain - but neither Whirl nor Tailgate fall for it. For a moment the two stare at each other, until Tailgate finally breathes a deep sigh with his fans and nods.

"It's only been a few solar cycles," he finally says with renewed hope. "Lotty says they’re not dead yet."

"Yeah, not yet," Whirl agrees, but now with much more defeat in his voice. He closes the door and Tailgate stays behind, knowing that he really does know Whirl as well as he thought. The helicopter is probably the most worried of all, even if he doesn't want to admit it.

 

* * *

 

"What's the oxygen level?"

"Holding steady at 91%."

"Has the muscle density regenerated?"

"Almost completely, yes."

"Good. It's on the up." A hand touches your arm, warm and gentle. It feels your muscles, testing them with gentle pressure. The hand is not mechanical - it's organic.

Then, other small hands touch you, hands that wrap your body in bandages and check the IVs, that gently squeeze your shoulder and run their fingers through your hair. Words are murmured, soft words of encouragement and the promise that everything will be all right.


Opening your eyes is not an option yet. It's hard work just to hold on to the occasional glimmer of consciousness and not drift back into the darkness. In this empty space, there is no time, no complicated chain of thoughts, just the feeling of small, warm hands that seem to be taking care of you.

Blurred fragments of memories flow through your fingers like fine sand. Explosions, fights and an evening with your friends at Swerve's. The feel of a cube-shaped glass in your hand, containing a drink suitable for organic beings. Then the weight of the cube-shaped bomb in your hand, blowing up Brainstorm's workshop. The heat of the workshop's fire on your skin, mixed with the memory of the hot air Whirl blows out of his vents as he lies in your bed.

And then you plunge back into the void, into that heavy sleep that buries you under its iron grip. There's no escape from these gentle waves that refuse to let you push your head through the surface of the water, gasping for air. This ocean is black and deep, with currents that gently carry your consciousness with them. There's no destination here, only the journey itself. An in-between world that dulls the senses and blurs vague memories with dreams.

Floating somewhere in this space, muffled voices can be heard. Familiar and unfamiliar voices speak to each other, far away and yet very close. They talk about the hybrid's chances of recovery.

The damage is considerable, someone says. But the chances of a full recovery are pretty good and by now permanent damage can be ruled out.

Someone thanks them for their help. And mentions how lucky they were to have met.

The voices are muffled, but the tone is serious. As soon as the hybrid is better, they have to leave. It doesn't feel right with so many mechanical beings here.

Of course, says another voice. Professional and without judgement. Rough and with that certain gruff undertone you know. Ratchet. That sounds like Ratchet.


Wait. The hybrid... isn't that you? Hybrid. Yeah, that rings a bell.


"Urgh..." Opening your eyes is an act of hard labour. Your eyelids are heavy and as soon as the bright light of the room hits your pupils, your eyes rebel with a sharp pain and close immediately.

 

Oh. Oh, fuck. Everything hurts.

 

"Whoa, okay, take it slow!" Velocity's voice echoes through the room, and in addition to a couple of small hands, her large, cool hands are on your torso. Your muscles move as if on their own, wanting to sit up and take in the situation, but they can't. Tubes and cables are attached to your body, holding you to the hospital bed you're lying on. Everything around you is bright and noisy, and the intense headache in your skull only makes it worse.

"Take it easy," Ratchet growls, his hand on the last free spot on your shoulder. Red. His red alloy is visible in the sea of white light. And behind it, more red. First aid? Probably. All these people, all this fuss just for you.

"Please lie back down." Someone is talking to you on your right, a warm voice that belongs to an organic being. A lizard woman dressed in blue, like a nurse, gently pushes you back onto the bed with her warm hands. "Your body is still very weak, love."

"What happened?" Your eyes wander aimlessly around the room. Now that they have adjusted to the light, the situation can be assessed more accurately. The room is bright and inviting, white with lots of plants on the walls and medical equipment around you. White and a fresh green are the dominant colours, giving an impression of lightness and confidence. Everything's fine, it's bright and warm and beautiful here.

Ratchet, Velocity and First Aid are in the room, and they have to bend down slightly to avoid hitting the ceiling.

This... this isn’t the Lost Light.


"Where am I?" Your own voice is hoarse and sounds like you have been smoking and drinking every day of your life. Deeper than usual and rough - but that is probably from the long sleep you have been in.

"On the flagship of the Vitalis fleet, the Silver Lining," Ratchet replies, stepping back so that the small pack of nurses buzzing around your bed can approach you and check your vital signs. "Lucky for you, we accidentally collided with the fleet after our quantum jump."

"Vitalis Fleet..." That doesn't mean anything to you, but Velocity on your right gently takes your hand and smiles her warm, sweet smile.

"It's a fleet of ships that provide medical assistance to anyone who needs it. We were very lucky to stumble upon them," she explains. "Without the help of the doctors here, we wouldn't have been able to do much for you."

"Lucky," Ratchet growls. "Doing something stupid like that! That quantum jump nearly killed you.”

Now it's all coming back to you. Right, the quantum jump. The last thing you remember is the Lost Light being attacked by the Maulers, you made your way to the pod and then it gets a bit fuzzy... but it hurt like hell, you remember that much. Like giant hands, violently crushing and twisting you, as if wringing out a cleaning rag. It's a miracle you survived.


The others in the room are nurses of various species, and a doctor who doesn't look so different from a human - if it weren't for the antennae on his head that move gently in time to his breathing. He reads something on his datapad until he finally lets out a soft 'hm' and turns to you.

"Pain?" he asks, moving over to the bed to shine a small lamp into your pupils. "Cramps? Dizziness?"

"Yes, no and no," you answer, allowing him to touch your stomach with his warm hands to check for any signs of internal bleeding. That voice... It was the one that told the bots that they needed to leave as soon as you were reasonably fit. "Is this a purely organic facility?"

He glances briefly at the bots, who remain silent. “Yes, it is," he replies coolly. "I allowed these doctors-" He stretches the word with an undertone you don't like. “To be in the room when you wake up. Follow the light with your eyes.”

You do as you're told. The Doctor makes another low 'hm' sound and types something into the datapad.

"The Vitalis Fleet was formed when the worlds were attacked during the Cybertronian War. For many generations, we have cared for those who couldn't escape the war. We take care of anyone who needs help, whether they're victims of the Cybertronian War or not," he continues, typing his report. "Organic patients only, of course. But the presence of your ship is causing a lot of nervousness and mental pain in this fleet, so your stay will be kept as short as possible."

"I see." You look at your hands. They still feel a little numb, probably from the strong painkiller. Your head is heavy and foggy, somehow feeling... distant.

"Your carbon-reinforced skeleton saved your life," the doctor says in his low, matter-of-fact voice. "Otherwise you would have been mush. We were able to reconstruct your organs and muscles, but your nervous system will probably be a little more sensitive than usual. All in all, you can consider yourself lucky to be alive."

"Thank you." You can't think of anything else to say, even with the best will in the world - your head's just so foggy and empty. "Thank you for your help."

"It's what we're here for. It's what our fathers and mothers were here for. And their fathers and mothers before them," the doctor says, casting a quick but not very friendly glance at the bots present. "To repair the damage done by the mechanical species."

The doctor leaves the room with the nurses. The tension is palpable, a crackling in the air. The people who work and live in this fleet of ships are obviously not happy about a Cybertronian ship suddenly breaking into their formation. Yikes.


"Oh man." You let your head fall back onto the soft pillow, only now realising how incredibly comfortable this bed is. Just the right amount of softness and pillows, and a mattress like that doesn't exist on the Lost Light. On the small bedside table to the right is a vase filled with a bouquet of fresh flowers, reminiscent of a summer meadow; together with the walls lined from top to bottom with green plants, this is a world away from the metal walls of the Lost Light.

"That was quite a shock," Velocity says, sitting down on the floor next to the bed, which seems far too large for this room. Due to your genetic modification, you are twice the size of the doctor and nurses, who are probably closer to human size. You probably have to be careful not to bump your head when you get up.

"What happened?" you ask again, looking around. "I barely remember."

"The quantum drive transported us to the other side of the galaxy," says First Aid, who is studying some documents on organic medicine with Ratchet. Probably your documents. Makes you wonder if they understand much of it. "Whirl, Lotty and Megatron went to Brainstorm's workshop and found you."

"It was-- It didn't look good," the young doctor next to you says, taking your hand again. “A lot of blood.”

"You were really lucky that we landed right in front of the flagship of this fleet!" First Aid agrees. "We were able to convince them to help you. Even though they're not happy that we're travelling with them until you're back on your feet."

"How long have I been here?"

"Ten solar cycles." Velocity squeezes your hand gently. "They had to replace almost all of your soft tissue that was damaged during the jump. At first, you were in a kind of primordial soup fluid that accelerated regeneration. It was-” She breaks off and Ratchet takes over.

"Messy," he says, continuing to study the protocol of your healing process. “And everyone was very worried.”

"About me?"

"Of course about you!" Velocity's voice sounds angry, as if she can't believe you would be so surprised. "No one is allowed to visit you except us and the Minibots, so none of the organic fleet members get scared! Everyone wonders how you’re doing... Honestly, you should have told us you were not in the pod. You almost died!"

"But--" Now you sit up a little. "We had to get out of there! I only wanted to protect you!"

"We would have thought of something else," First Aid interjects now. “Two hundred bots on the Lost Light, come on... We would have found a way to deal with the situation.”

"I didn't want to be a burden." With these honest words, you fall back onto the pillow, which your headache doesn't exactly thank you for, and sigh quietly. The painkiller has overridden the filter between thoughts and spoken words, so this sentence just comes out without thinking. "I just wanted to help."

"It doesn't matter now. What’s done is done." Ratchet has read enough and hands his datapad to First Aid. "I'll go back to the Lost Light and let them know you're awake. We'll probably leave tomorrow if you get clearance from Dr. Gashir."

"It's about time. We can't keep Megatron hidden in the cupboard forever," Velocity laughs, then adds: "We didn't tell the fleet that Megatron is part of the Lost Light crew. If we had, they probably would've destroyed us.”



Yeah, that makes sense. The cause of all the suffering that this fleet has been repairing for centuries would probably not be welcomed with a firm handshake.


"Can you stand?"

"I think so."

It takes a few minutes for First Aid and Velocity to untangle you from all the cables and connectors. They are a little unsure of how to use all the medical equipment, having only been given verbal instructions by the nurses. All this organic medicine is completely new to them, even though they try not to show it.

"Good. I think we can get back to the Lost Light soon, so let's practice with a little walk". Velocity helps you to your feet, your muscles trembling with the strain. "The doctor said your body will recover soon. And since we won't be tolerated here much longer, it's about time."

"Where is the Lost Light now?" you ask as you put on the to you provided clothes with Lotty's help. Every movement is slow and exhausting, but the desire to leave this strange ship grows with every second.

"They’re following at a slight distance from the fleet," explains First Aid, who is currently downloading the biometric data. “Not too close to bother these people. But close enough to be protected from the Maulers."

"The Maulers? They're still around?!"

"Yes and no. The Maulers have been tracking our quantum data and know where we are," he explains. “We need to make a few more jumps to cover our tracks."

Oh, so that's what the rush and time pressure is all about. With you on board, the crew can't make another quantum jump. They need to get rid of you as quickly as possible to evade the Maulers' armada. And given your close association with those bots, you probably won't be accepted back into the fleet. Your friendship with the Cybertronians brands you a traitor in the eyes of the organic inhabitants of the ships you currently travel with. Not to mention that you are technically an illegal experiment and have no claim to a place in this fleet.

So the next neutral outpost will be the final destination after all. And from there? Just gotta wait and see what happens.

 

---

 

 

"Thank you for your help." Rodimus sounds much more polite than usual as he thanks the Admiral of the Vitalis Fleet. You, too, bow respectfully to the grey-haired Admiral and his first officers as they see you off. Not because they appreciate you as guests, but to make it clear that the decision to save you was made out of pure kindness and should not be taken for granted.

"Yes, thank you," you say. “I owe you my life.”

The gruff Admiral snorts, but nods sympathetically. "The next station is about 40 hours away at impulse. Use the Vega system as a reference point and you'll get there easily."

"Thank you." Rodimus puts a hand on your back and pushes you towards the Lost Light, which has been allowed to dock with the flagship to say goodbye to the fleet. You wave to the nurses who have lovingly nursed you back to health over the past few days. It took almost two weeks to get you up and running again, but now it's time to finally leave the Vitalis fleet. Everyone on the Silver Lining, the giant hospital ship, has been extremely kind to you - but much more reserved with your friends. So it's time to end this journey now.

"Let's get out of here." Rodimus pushes you into the Lost Light’s shuttle bay. “Before they find out we're hiding Megatron from their sensors. Then all hell will break loose.” He leans down slightly towards you. "You almost blew up my ship twice - twice! You'll have to make up for that. Silt duty until you die of old age!"

"Sorry." You can hardly stop yourself from snorting with laughter at the absurd fact that you almost seriously damaged the Lost Light with an explosion twice. Okay, granted, the first time at the firing range was Whirl's fault. Still, you seem to have a knack for getting into trouble.

"Ah, well, It’s fine I guess," the captain sighs. “In the end, this was one of the safer adventures. No deaths, only a few injuries. I’ll even count it as a success."

"So, on to the next stop?" you ask as you walk together through shuttle bay 04 and take a quick look at the newest shuttle, the one which you already know inside out from your work in the archive. "To the Vega system?"

"Nah." Rodimus stops and turns to you with a questioning look on his face. "We're not going to let a bunch of stupid Maulers get us down! I mean, we've discussed it, Megs, Magnus and I - and we've asked the crew, too. Half the bots don't mind you staying. And most of the others don't care."


Oh. Ohh. "So you want me to stay?"


"Of course we do!" Rodimus seems surprised that you are. "I mean, I had a feeling you got along quite well with the others here. And to be honest, it would be a great help to have an organic mediator in case someone doesn't like our kind so much."


Wow, that's... unexpected. You actually had expected to be dropped off at the nearest space station and then wave goodbye. It would be a lie to say that this doesn't make you emotional.


"Cool," is all you can think to say.

"Cool," Rodimus confirms - then rolls his optics slightly. "Okay, don't tell the others I snitched, but they've planned a party for tomorrow night because you're not dead and all that. It's supposed to be a surprise, but I thought, hey, you might wanna practice your surprised face first."

A party just for you? Sort of a housewarming to officially welcome you to the crew. A gift. From these bots who have only known you for about a month and who have somehow taken a liking to you. As difficult as the beginning of this journey has been, you don't want it to end now. It would be really nice to stay here. With Velocity, with Tailgate and Cyclonus, Rewind and Chromedome, and... Whirl.

"But... there are so many Maulers after you," you say. "Thousands of them."

"We'll find a way to deal with them," the captain assures. "We always do!"

"It would be a lot easier if you could use the quantum drive."

"Nothing in life is easy." Rodimus walks around you, nudging you lightly again to keep you going. And with each step you take, you become more aware of what needs to be done.These bots are taking on another fight to protect you and keep you with them. It would be a shame if you didn't appreciate that. And you do, you really, truly apreciate them all.



* * *


The Lost Light is silent. No sound other than that of the impulse engines reaches your ears as you close the door to your habitation suite. There is no need to enter the code to lock the door.

You then tiptoe to the next deck, stopping at every corner to see if anyone is around at this late hour. Tonight is a night when no one should catch you making your way through the belly of the ship. The other habitation suites you pass are locked. Most of the bots are recharging, at their leisure, or at Swerve's.


Good. That makes it easier.


You pause in front of the medibay, thinking for a moment about if it's really necessary to make this little detour - but then open the door and go inside. The waiting room is empty, as is the large treatment room that follows it. You vaguely remember your first day, waking up among strangers. Strangers who are now all you have. Friends, family - whatever you want to call them. The short time you spent with these robots has brought you all together in a very strange, yet special way.

"There you are." Ratchet appears at the open door of his office. "I wondered when you'd sneak in here."

"You knew I was coming?" you ask. Of course he did. How foolish of you to expect otherwise.

"I'm not a bot forged yesterday, kid," he says, waving you over. "'been working with minds like yours for a long time - I know when someone is up to something stupid and dangerous. Here." He hands you a small box after you follow his encouraging gesture. "Your medication. I've written down Dr. Gashir's instructions for taking them and put them in there."

"Thank you." Not so easy, this undertaking. Leaving. "Would have been harder if Lotty had been on duty tonight. Or First Aid."

"Oh, Lotty was supposed to be on duty tonight," the old medic replies with a grunt. "But I told her we'd swap shifts so I could finish some paperwork."

You snort in amusement. This old bot really knows all the tricks - and you're still wet behind the ears. Of course, he knew exactly what you were up to, what did you expect? Outwit an old geezer like Ratchet? Never!

"Now get out of here before anyone notices."

"Right. And... thanks, Ratchet."

"No problem. Take care." And then he pushes you out of his medibay, leaving nothing to stop this last-minute plan. It's time to roll up your sleeves and stop relying on others. There's no point in pretending that you're not the architect of your own destiny. It's cowardly to convince yourself that you're just a passenger in your own life - so do what you want, damn it.

And what you want is to protect this crew by any means necessary.



Fortunately, the path to shuttle bay 04 is empty. The decision is made, but every step is difficult. You want to stay with your friends and especially with Whirl. Whatever is developing between you two feels warm and good, like a seedling stretching towards the light. You really want to stay, but it's more important to protect those you love. Even if it means taking a detour on your journey together.

Shuttle bay 04 isn't guarded tonight. The repairs to shuttle bay 03 have been extensive and tedious, so most of the crew have been reassigned to this task and are now enjoying a well-earned rest after a few days of strenuous repairs. However, you must be quick or your disappearance will be noticed.

With the small box under your arm, you are fiddling with the control panel of the shuttle bay door when someone leans over you from behind. The shadow is taller than you, and you already know who it belongs to.

"Are you going to stop me?" you ask Whirl, who is leaning against the wall next to you.

"No," he answers dryly. "Do you want to be stopped?"

"No." You put the box of medicine on the floor and stand up, looking at the helicopter with a determined expression on your face. "I have to go. For all of you, so you can cover your tracks with the quantum drive - but also because I think I need to find out who I am. Work through some things and let them go."

"An expedition into your own depths, then?"

"Something like that, yes."

He makes a sound in his chassis, deep and somehow... gentle. Sympathetic and approving. "I get it," he says finally, after a few seconds of collecting his thoughts. "It might have done me some good back then, too, if it hadn't been for a war that lasted several million years."

"Maybe." You don't know how to talk to him right now. What to say, what to say. Every sentence sounds stupid when you go over it in your head. It's so much easier to get drunk with the helicopter, or do stupid things, or fight together to survive. But talking... talking is very hard.

"How did you know I was here?"

"Because I'd do the same."

Would he though? Would Whirl just sneak out in the middle of the night? No, he would probably make a big deal of it, so that everyone would know that he had made this decision wholeheartedly and without doubt - while a certain nervousness and doubt plagues you.


Is this the right thing to do?


"Rodimus will be angry if I steal his new shuttle," you say, watching as Whirl enters the access code for the shuttle bay for you. He really does have the code for everything on the ship.

He snorts in amusement. "Oh yeah, he's going to be pissed. How do you know how to fly this thing?"

"I entered the manual in the archive," you reply, and now you can save yourself the trouble of breaking into the control panel to get into the shuttle bay. There it is: The latest, most advanced Lost Light shuttle, just waiting for you to hijack it and go on an adventure. "When I was working with Tailgate and Rewind. I left him a message, by the way - Tailgate, I mean."

"Tailgate will be sad to see you go."

"Just him?"

He dodges the question. "Nice suit, by the way." His claw taps your chest. The atmosphere suit, a lightweight version of a space suit, covers the rest of your clothes.

"Thank you. The people from the Vitalis fleet gave it to me," you say, smoothing the fabric of the suit. Advanced technology for organic beings in space. "It provides me with oxygen and keeps me warm in environments otherwise unsuitable for organic beings."

"Neato. But something's still missing." Whirl takes something out of a subspace pocket and hands it to you. Red and metal, about the size of your palm. An Autobot insignia.

You look up at him, eyes wide, but he just shrugs. Immediately, you clip the insignia onto your spacesuit and feel a wave of pride the likes of which you have never felt before. A sense of belonging that smothers any hint of loneliness.

"I've modified it a bit. You flick the little switch on the back and it sends out a signal, on a frequency which only this ship keeps a constant eye on," he explains. "And then we'll come and pick you up when you're done with your self-discovery stuff. Or when you've got a law degree or became an intergalactic popstar or whatever you've got planned."



Oh, Whirl.



A smile, big and warm, lights up your face. This Autobot badge is a beacon, a way home. When the time comes, you'll return to your crew.

There's a moment of silence between the two of you before Whirl resets his voice box. "And if you don't report back every now and then, I'll hunt you down, you hear me?"

"Understood. I'll stay in touch."

"So you're good to go."

"Yeah, pretty much."

Whirl vents heavily and pushes himself off the wall, wrapping both arms around you - to your very surprise - and holds you as tight as he can without breaking your ribs. Without any hesitation, you return the hug with all your strength and as intimately as possible. The hum of his spark fills the metal of his body and you could swear you hear the soft crackling of energy in this heart of his as you hold him so tightly.

He leans closer and presses the helm to your forehead, whereupon you stand on tiptoe and plant a fleeting kiss on the rim. The sensation of skin against metal, heart against spark, burns itself into your brain and will accompany you on your journey into the unknown. There's a part of you that can't wait to grow from new experiences, because it means you're getting closer to your true self. Every day you experience is another step towards the person you really want to be. Someone who is strong and unwavering in the face of difficulty.

But for now, time is running out.

"You always knew that I was more than what I was made for," you finally say, with a hint of love in your voice. Whirl makes an affirmative sound. Soft and gentle, like the warm feeling in your chest. "Yeah, about that... I'll tell you how I got these sometime." He taps you with his claw and makes you smile. Oh, you're really going to miss him. And - you're already looking forward to falling into his arms again.

"I'll be back soon," you promise. "See you later."

"See you later."

 

Notes:

You might want to do some soul-searching before you explore the universe with a crazy helicopter... But the two will meet again, for sure!

At this point I'd like to thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed my work! I had a lot of fun working on this side project and I'm glad I was able to finish it so quickly. Thanks again for reading!