Diegetic

by kenophobiaa, Lokidd, nenkaii

Summary:

A musical minibot meets an infamous mad doctor, and curiosity gets the better of both of them.

Notes:

This is an AU where Pharma is alive, and Wheelie has joined the Lost Light. Don't think too hard about it.

Chapter 1: Meet the Medic

The lack of security on the Lost Light was truly astounding. 

There were no motion sensors in a vast majority of the ship, Pharma had discovered. And there were absolutely none in his preferred hiding spot: the vents. 

Sure, they were cramped, and dark, and dingy. Cold air scraped unpleasantly against the delicate ailerons and flaps of his wings, and more than once he had had to pause, sit, and hug them close to his body to halt the stinging. He was also not enthralled about the dust that clung to his frame; it made him shudder and itch. He had no access to any washracks nor cleaning materials and it was bothering him immensely. 

Pharma, of course, was not supposed to be aboard the Lost Light. 

In fact, he’d bet a good chunk of shanix that if most any mech on this ship caught wind of him, he would be executed on the spot. His crimes were many and all vile. The acrid scent of energon from the various scrapes on his frame made his nose wrinkle, and he nearly stumbled forward.  His claws scraped the floor as his servos tensed. 

Ambulon haunted him to this day; the fear in those wide optics as a madman severed his body in half. Energon splattered him, the walls, Ratchet, First Aid, the soldiers, the floor, too much, far too much. That smell. It was a mess that he had taken glee in at the time, but now he only felt… Well, he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Inklings of betrayed terror whisper across the expanse of his grimy plates. But it didn’t matter anymore, right now he was completely and utterly alone. There were no other EM fields nearby, he knew this, so why did he feel like there were thousands?

His hands catch on a panel under him and he falls forward, chin smacking the cruel metal floor. A tinny sound reverberates through his rectangular prison and he briefly tunes out of reality to fully flop. His wings are pinched painfully against his shoulders.

Wheelie is sitting in his habsuite, spaced out and staring out the window. The view from the Lost Light was perfect for letting your mind wander while you ignored your responsibilities. He had some personal projects to work on- and it was his turn for trash duty. Plus he had promised Mirage he’d visit. Oh, and he needed to drop off that gift for Swerve…

The twang of the vents makes him jolt, and Wheelie stands to peer up at where the sound came from.

“Why do I feel an overwhelming sense of doom and gloom?” He mumbles to himself.

So much for being quiet. Pharma slowly drags himself several feet to a series of slats and peers downwards, jolting when he makes eye contact with an orange minibot. He’s rounded around the edges and his maintenance is entirely too lax. One of his arms is also a protoform grey, dull and unpainted. His optics shine autobot blue- (Pharma’s personal favourite, not that he was biased) wide eyed and startled by the medic’s presence.

“Who the hell are you? And what are you trying to do?!”

Wheelie pouts lightly as he puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head. Pharma just blinks at him. He assumes he looks menacing enough already– with optics that surely stood out in the darkness of the vents– but this bot did not seem to care.

Pharma considered his options.

He could kill this mech, hide the body and hope it isn’t discovered quickly. Multiple risks; he could be found within joors. The minibot could press an emergency button, alerting everyone immediately, before Pharma could make the killing blow. His servos clenched.

He could simply flee. It would most certainly see the crew alerted to his existence immediately. His chances banked on the limited knowledge he had of the ship’s HVAC system. It was unlikely he’d be able to run from anyone who came in after him, anyways, due to his large size in the cramped vents. His claws dug into his palms. 

He could use relative isolation to his advantage. Based upon the small mech’s distinct lack of disgust, he did not know of Pharma’s atrocities. It could see a delay in the report of his presence, give him a chance to move in close, and perhaps a tool to use if all went exceedingly well.

His servos relax and he grins. 

“Would you like to meet me? I promise I am harmless to the general populace.”

Not a lie, if you consider the ‘general populace’ to be anyone who hasn’t been around a scalpel wielding Pharma during one of his episodes. Which- out of all sentient beings in the universe- was definitely a small percentage.

“Oh- Sure! I love new friends! You should get out of the vents anyway, too long in there and you get the bends.”

“Hm. Sure.”

Pharma reaches forward and curls his fingers around the edge of the opening, pulling it away with the screech of metal on metal and letting it clatter on the floor of the vents. He pokes his head out and grins. 

“Hello, little one.”

The orange minibot smiles and waves. He definitely did not know of Pharma. “Hello! What have you been doing up there, though?”

“Exploring. I have been looking for someone.”

He crawls out, dropping to hit the floor in a crouch before rising up to his full height. The minibot seemed momentarily stricken, and for good reason: Pharma towers over him. “What’s your name?” He asks, voice dripping with amusement. 

“I’m Wheelie. You’re tall, really! Now you should introduce yourself to me!”

Wheelie’s fear is quickly replaced with curiosity as he studies Pharma. White panels dusted with debris from the vents, hands that flexed and twitched, piercing eyes– what a strange mech! 

“And you are tiny.” Pharma ignores the inquiry towards his name, reaching out to press a clawed digit to Wheelie’s forehelm. “Did you seek me out alone?”

“Alone? No, you’re the one who’s in the vents above my home! Why are the vents where you choose to roam?” Wheelie is a little put-upon, but he’s still smiling as he tilts his head away from Pharma’s digit to see him clearly. 

“I was looking for someone,” Pharma hesitates to describe who, “but I could not pass this opportunity up. Do you always speak in rhymes?” His head tilts in the same direction as Wheelie’s, with a much more malicious grin.

“Yeah, I rhyme all the time. I hope you don’t mind.” Wheelie looks away from those glinting fangs, although it’s less from Pharma’s unsettling expression and more that he’s self-conscious about his rhyming habit.

“No no, it’s quite… sweet.” He doesn’t really mean it, but he knows a little bit of flattery goes a long way. Wheelie does not pick up on this lie– but he does assume it’s out of pity more than anything else.

“Who are you looking for? I can ask for them on the comms for sure!”

Pharma shakes his head. The idea of being connected to this ship’s comms is appealing, but right now nobody can know he is here. “I appreciate the offer, but right now–” He leans forward again, a little bit too close. “I’d rather get to know you.”

“Get to know me? You’re the one that’s more interesting, silly! I don’t know if you’re malicious, much less your name– that’s suspicious!”

Wheelie doesn’t shy away from Pharma, taking the opportunity to observe the little scratches and dents on his helm. Wheelie figured it was the relative quiet that made him so fascinated. Usually he met people while he was doing something else, but now this newcomer had his fully undivided attention.

This interest confuses Pharma. He frowns, and his optics narrow. Was this little minibot doing some kind of test? “Ah, I promise I’m not malicious. As for my name… Perhaps in time, my little friend.”

“You’re weird. But I’m weird too. Wanna see around the ship? I can show you!”

Wheelie giggles again, and to Pharma’s surprise, bonks their helms together lightly. It’s a kind of physical contact that Pharma hasn’t felt in a long time, not violent, not controlling. He hesitates to compare it to a little kiss.

He reaches up to touch the spot they made contact, and something seems to shift in his expression. Perhaps Wheelie’s curiosity was contagious.

“...Yes, I suppose that would be...fun. But I do not wish for anyone to see me. I’m- er- shy.”

“Ohh, that makes sense. That’s why you were in the vents!” 

Wheelie hums and looks down, deep in thought. Swerve’s would be too busy, Visage too.The oil reservoir was closed after Whirl encouraged Pipes to see how long his straw descended into it and it got stuck. The medbay is too...clinical and also probably busy, the loading bay was boring, the observation deck was cool, but they were likely to come across another mech…

Oh!

Without another word Wheelie grabs the other’s hand and drags him out of the room. Pharma blinks in shock as his dangerous hands are grabbed carelessly. He does not pull away though, and instead allows himself to be led through the halls of the ship. Curiouser and curiouser.

“Where are we headed...?” Pharma asks.

“Hey, I’m trusting you, trusting me is the least you can do!”

They arrive at the stairs to the basement of the ship. Wheelie flourishes at the dark, decrepit entrance.

“Ta da! The basement! I come here to make music; it makes for fantastic acoustics.”

Pharma laughs. A dark, secluded place in the farthest section of the ship? He assumed Wheelie either had no survival instinct or was just stupid. Or suicidal. Perhaps all three. This minibot is a fool, a robin trapping itself in a cage with a very hungry cat. Pharma’s fingers itch, desperate to ruin his naive trust.

Pharma does like music, though, even if he doesn’t often get the chance to enjoy it. He’s… pretty sure he likes music. He used to, anyway. Liking things is a chore.

Wheelie starts down the stairs. “Looks like it’s just you and me, Mercy! Is it okay if I call you Mercy? It’s easy to rhyme with, you see.”

“It’s just you and I.” Pharma reaffirms, his voice a low hiss as he follows. The nickname, however, makes his wings twitch. “I suppose you can call me that, yes.” It’s not like you’ll have a mouth with which to refer to me soon.

It’s a bit of a walk, and Wheelie has to tap his little flickering headlamp to get it to work a few times. Pharma trails him. Really trails him, sticks close, poises his claws over the back of his strange helm, spreads them out to strike… And then Wheelie stops in front of a door that was barely registered in the low light. It’s a storage container that he swings open, entering with a hop and a skip. Pharma does not, in fact, swipe his helm off just yet– he can’t deny he’s a little curious as to why Wheelie led him here of all places.

Wheelie waves his arms a bit in the darkness and catches on a cord. He pulls it, and instantly the room is alive with beeps and hums. The light isn’t blinding, but soft and warm. The walls are covered in various switches, visualizers, screens, buttons, wires, knobs and lights all starting up and blinking and whirring. Wheelie steps over the wiring and speakers and assorted instruments on the floor as he’s done so a million times before. He couldn’t help but smile every time he was here. Sure, it was nothing fancy, but it was comfortable. It was familiar. It was home. 

The way the room thrums with electricity surprises Pharma. It’s alive, nothing like any medical facility he’s been assigned to. It’s not cold, not clinical. It’s warm and fuzzy, and his wings twitch against the energy. Looking around, Pharma notices that the buttons and switches and cords extend to the ceiling. How fascinating, did he do this all himself?

Wheelie, meanwhile, is flitting around the room like a dragonfly, weaving through the mess of wires and instruments. Pharma does not say anything, his spinal strut is bent with interest. He’s enchanted by the grace with which Wheelie moves about, knowing exactly where everything goes. He grins at this minibot’s little dance. Give him a bit of pity. A little bit of grace before you kill him. Adjusting a few knobs here, plugging in a keyboard and some other string instrument there, clicking a few buttons here… it’s almost like he’s completely forgotten about Pharma. That is, until he stops, dusts off a few keys, and looks up.

“Sorry to keep you waiting for me!”

Pharma straightens up and offers some sort of callous grin. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I have infinite time and patience.”

Though his voice is sincere, his words are not. What can he say– lies slip out like second nature at this point.

Wheelie flicks one more switch and there’s sound. An odd rhythm of clicks and whirs and the ‘tss’ of a cymbal make the percussion, and at first Pharma’s lip curls back to expose fangs, bearing his teeth in utter confusion. It’s not like anything he’s heard before.

Wheelie, tapping his feet to keep the rhythm, presses a button on what looks like a puzzle cube. Drums jolt to life, layered with the rhythm, and he finally places his hands on the keys. 

And then the music starts.

Smooth synthetic chords echo in the tiny room, and Wheelie dances on the keyboard, floating along with the sound. It’s eclectic, almost somber, almost hopeful- Wheelie didn’t really bother trying to define his “sound”. It was just what he was feeling at the end of the day. Every layer had a meaning, painstakingly tuned and adjusted until it mastered just what was ringing around in his noisy head.

Pharma’s wings slowly relax, drooping down. Oh. His stare tracks Wheelie as he flows graciously between all his little tasks to make this… well, Pharma hesitated to describe it as music. “Music” was the annoying noise that bothered him when he was trying to focus, or the less annoying noise that he didn’t mind or even enjoyed from time to time. This was different. He could pick out each layer of the sound, excise it, inspect it and then see how it connected to the melody like how protoform muscle and tissue and veins connected fuel tanks and power lines to the rest of the body.

After a moment he actually leans up against the wall next to the door and slowly slides down to sit, ending up in a sort of crouch in-between. Wheelie is laser focused, but smiles at the view in his peripheral as he plucks a few strings of that odd shaped instrument- it gives the low thrum of a bass. 

Despite being such a layered melody, it doesn’t overwhelm. In fact, it makes the tumultuous thoughts in Pharma’s head slow and fade into white noise. It’s a much-needed eye of the storm (Not that he’d ever admit it), something he hasn’t experienced in a long time.

Unfortunately, he does not experience that peace for long.

Chapter 2: Diegetic

At first, Mirage had no reason to follow through with Red Alert's request to “find Wheelie.” He had a job to tend to, drinks to be made and regulars to wax poetic to. Mirage, however, is also incredibly nosy. Too nosy for his own good, and if Wheelie was missing then clearly something was up. Especially when he had promised to visit today.

Mirage knows Wheelie is a very social mech. That much is obvious with his whimsical rhymes and constant requests to stick around or help. So if he’s not in any of the well known spots– his hab suite, Swerve’s, the lounge, the mess room– and if he’s not answering any calls, then that means something is wrong. To have Wheelie away from others sounded concerning enough. Sure, every social butterfly needs their alone time, but they’d still be answering their comms, and wouldn’t they spend that alone time at the very least in their hab suite?

Mirage had to find out. He was good at this kind of thing– it was part of his job.

For the most part, Mirage has kept his search to the upper section of the Lost Light. It’s only when he gets to the basement that the concern actually starts to sink in. There was no reason he should be down here- what with how ominous (and uneventful) the lower decks were. A sweep here, he tells himself, and if nothing then we start getting others to assist. Check the oil reservoir and the brig, maybe. He can’t help the creeping unease that’s crawling up his back.

The unease gets worse with every corner he checks and every hall he shines a light through. He almost wants to ask someone else to search. There are plenty of bots actually on shift that could do the heavy lifting.

And then he stops, turning to ensure he hears it right. Music careens through his audials.

It’s enough to have Mirage jogging down the hall towards the sound. It’s so him, so Wheelie-sounding that certainly he was okay– but he still had to make sure.

He skids to a stop when he sees the open door, light bleeding down the dark corridor from a room of utter volume and sound. He spots Wheelie immediately, one with the music, and minutely sighs in relief. Everything was okay.

The spell on Pharma is cut short the moment Mirage walks through the door and Wheelie stops the music. He immediately determines Mirage is mildly familiar, but generally unimportant. The silence makes his limbs tense again. The fuzz in his processor returns.

"Wheelie, I had been searching for you.” Mirage sighs, walking further into the room. “Certain... bots had been worried. It's good to see that nothing has become of you." 

He doesn't notice the other bot looming behind him.

Wheelie waves at Mirage with a smile. “Hi Mirage! Sorry if you spent a while looking for me. I made a new friend! I’m calling them Mercy.”

Wheelie gestures at Pharma gleefully, who has risen to his full height as a lurking shadow behind Mirage. Mirage, meanwhile, furrows his optical ridges.

“Mercy…?”

His eyes follow Wheelie’s gesture, rising to see a tall, lanky bot. Strangers tended to come and go on this ship, it didn’t surprise him to meet someone new. But he scans up, higher, and as the mold of this “friend” takes shape, dread starts to seep through his lines.

That’s not a friend.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He hisses, stepping back into a protective stance between Wheelie and Pharma. Mirage is not armed- he has no weapons to whip out. He wishes he did. For now, though, his gold optics glare daggers through the threat on the wall.

Pharma laughs, grating and low, as his claws flex.

“I am here, unfortunately for you.” A low snarl vibrates from within him, and he mirrors Mirage’s stance. Pharma’s plates fluff up and his wings flare out. He towers over both of them.

Wheelie, meanwhile, stutters as he stares between the two of them. He begins to say something, but the words die on his intake.

Mirage had a lot he wanted to say to Pharma- but that could wait. He’d rather throw this bastard into a brig than have Wheelie remain in harm's way. The adrenaline is enough to have him lunge at Pharma, straight towards his abdomen, shoving him against the wall with a violent THUD.

Pharma was about to spit something back before the blur of blue crashed into his chassis, and he squirms and struggles under Mirage’s weight. Clawing at whatever he can reach, Pharma keens and writhes as he lashes out with all the strength he can muster. Despite his thrashing and the blue paint caking under tourmaline nails, he can’t quite throw Mirage off. He had lost control. Just a few moments ago he had this stupid, naive little bot right where he wanted him, and now it was all crashing down- literally. Several boxes and instruments tumble and break and snap under the weight of both of them.

A pede to Mirage’s chest is what gets him off of Pharma, a heavy puff of hot air coming from his vents. Pharma snatches the opportunity to stand as his opponent doubles over in pain, and he grabs Mirage’s helm to knee him in the face. It SLAMS with the loud crunch of a broken nose. Pharma hadn’t fought in a long time, and this was giving him that high, that energy he’d gotten so used to. It was the same kind of electricity he felt when someone’s spark was in his hands, so vulnerable, so easily crushed.

Mirage does manage to shove Pharma’s chassis as hard as he can, and they both stumble backwards. Mirage knows this is futile- he’d get out eventually, but as long as he can give Wheelie time to run, it would do.

Wheelie, however, is not running. Something does finally come tumbling out of his intake though- 

“Mirage? Mercy? What’s going on? One of you, tell me!”

For the first time since meeting Pharma, Wheelie sounds terrified. Pharma does not spare a glance back at Wheelie, who is slowly backing away, but the panic in his voice sends a jolt of adrenaline through his spark. He feels that weird grin creep up his face- the kind of smile that doesn’t meet his eyes.

Mirage spits some energon out of his intake as he holds his nose. “This mech could hurt you! He’s already hurt multiple bots on this ship, we cannot have that happening again!”

Mirage had heard stories about Delphi. He remembers First Aid’s somber tone when he recounted the memory of a coworker– a partner– dying in front of him for some sick joke. And to think, Mirage saw Pharma in such a different light before then.

“I haven’t hurt anyone yet, you cretin, you got in the way!”

“Yet, Pharma! YET .” 

Mirage takes stock in the situation, scanning the room. As soon as he’s mapped out a route the blue-white grid of his ability activates, and he shimmers out of sight. Pharma seethes, thrashing out with his claws where Mirage used to be uselessly. He’s not exactly sure what this is- cloaking, or teleportation, perhaps- so his hackles are raised defensively. His head whips around to spot any kind of movement that would give away Mirage’s location.

Mirage knows what he’s doing, though, and expertly steps around the various doohickeys that have clattered to the floor to circle Pharma.

Pharma would never admit to it, but he's trembling. His plates rattle, meshing with the hum of machinery, the hiss of his own vents. He doesn't know what's going to happen, and that scares him— so much so that he doesn't use the advantage he has: easy access to a frightened minibot. Pharma’s head whips around, searching for the mech he knows is there. His wings can feel the air move, but it's a useless attempt; he's panicked, unfocused, and there are three of them in the small container.

“Stop hiding!” He growls, swiping in front of him.

Mirage wouldn’t be hiding in a moment, as he graphs out in front of Pharma, ready to lunge. Pharma laughs triumphantly- what a fool, jumping into gnashing teeth!

And then his talons swipe through nothing.

He doesn’t even have time to be confused because a weight slams into his back and sends him to the ground. Pharma’s wings knock over a keyboard as he falls, and it also hits the back of his head. His chin smacks harshly against the metal flooring. It’s infinitely harder to break free when he can’t reach that far behind him, especially with the pain and anger that simmered in his vision.

Wheelie is freaking out. Two of his friends are fighting- for seemingly no reason (or at least, a reason they won't tell him.) and they're knocking over all his meticulously organized instruments!! His expensive instruments!!!

The crash of his keyboard snaps him out of his frozen state, and he fumbles to click the comms button under his helm. 

"Mirage and my friend are fighting in the basement and- my studio- friend- end- and- just… help! Someone please! I don't know what to do… to uhh- uh uh… appease!" 

The messy rhymes are almost as mentally exhausting as not rhyming at all, but the sheer panic and adrenaline keeps him from breaking down. He’s pressed against the back wall of the little storage container, watching helplessly.

“ETA 5, Wheelie.” It’s Drift in his ear. Right, he was on lower deck patrol.

Pharma thrashes as Mirage holds his hands behind his back, unrelenting in his grip. He can’t gain any leverage, his pedes scrape uselessly against the floor as he kicks. His helm hits the floor, exhausted. He feels the sting of the killswitch again, feels his hands bound again, feels helpless again. 

They’re going to take your hands, slice them clean off, leave you to bleed out-

Systems ping him for the rapidly rising temperature. His writhing is weaker, but his claws still stretch and flex uselessly. He looks like he’s staring down the end of a blaster, and that wide alarmed gaze finally fixes on Wheelie as he stops moving entirely.

Drift, who had just arrived and was clinging to the shadows to get a visual, sees Mirage holding down a limp mech. He’s not one to turn down this opportunity, and he’s across the space slapping cuffs on this “friend” of Wheelie’s. He debates for a moment if he should cuff Mirage as well, but it’s not long fought once he gets a good look at the new mech.

Primus, does this guy have a habit of coming back or what? 

“Pharma.” The name is spat out. 

Wheelie makes eye contact with the downed mech. Pharma, huh? What a weird name. The way Drift slapped cuffs on him makes Wheelie flinch.

“Wait-” Wheelie tries to interject, but he’s ignored.

“You’re under arrest for…” Shit, a lot of things, probably, but right now– “trespassing.” 

Drift reminds himself for the four hundred and eighty third time that stating the reason for arrest is a normal, respectable Autobot thing to do and does not make him sound like an enforcer. (He’s better at lying to others than to himself.)

He glances over at Mirage and Wheelie, iron grip on Pharma’s locked wrists. “You both alright? Not injured?”

"Minor scuffs and scratches, that is all." Mirage tells Drift, crossing his arms and stepping away from the mech now struggling on the floor. It's a pathetic display that he grimaces and turns away from.

Now they’re both looking at Wheelie.

"I'm okay... I have been all day. But- but he's not... he wasn't trespassing... I invited him, okay? Why is everyone being hostile today?" 

Wheelie's voice sounded just confused now, a little frustrated. He hated being out of the loop.

Drift does not give in to the urge to sigh. “I’m glad you’re okay, Wheelie, but this bot’s hurt a lot of people. He’s not your friend.”

Drift hauls Pharma off the ground unceremoniously and presses a hand to his comms button. “One cell, solitary.” He glances at Mirage.

“Thank you. You’re dismissed.” And then they’re moving.

Wheelie is... unsure how to feel. He almost says something, almost tries to make Drift stay, tries to demand that he explain himself- but he doesn't. He just stands there, slack jawed with furrowed eyebrow plates. 

“Wait, but-” Why? Fly, dye, tie? Wheelie reaches out, but doesn’t have a rhyme to bridge the gap.

He trusts Drift and Mirage, right? But why weren't they explaining anything to Wheelie? At least something a little more than "he's hurt a lot of people." He watches as Drift hauls Pharma out, talking to Mirage over him like he's a sparkling. 

It's infuriating and upsetting and a bunch of other things Wheelie would love to express- but he can’t even move his legs right now. Everything was over way too fast.

Mirage, for a moment, starts to make his way back to Visages, but he stops halfway and gives Wheelie a glance from behind his shoulder. 

"I understand that you are very friendly, Wheelie, but there are some bots you must not befriend. Pharma is one of them. It's not my place to express why, however. You'll recognize it in due time." 

It wouldn’t feel right for Mirage to explain– as much as he enjoyed gossip, that wasn’t his story to tell. He turns around and continues his way back to his bar. Wheelie is about to reply before he’s silenced by the door closing behind Mirage. The slam echoes in the room. Not like he had a rhyme ready anyway.

Then he is alone, seething. 

He grunts and puts his head in his hands. They really were just treating him like an idiot. Yeah, why listen to that stupid, rhyming minibot? He never knows what he’s doing! Not that we’d tell him. Let him hide in his little makeshift basement studio to be forgotten again.

Eventually he sighs and looks back up slowly. Stop thinking like that. Stop thinking like that. Wheelie looks for something, anything to give him some sound or rhythm to re-center himself. 

A lot of it is broken- thousands of shanix worth of speakers and instruments all crushed and mangled on the floor. He could probably take some of it to Percy to be repaired, but the rest of it? The rest of it was garbage now. Minor scuffs and scratches my aft.

He crumples to the floor, picking up the little cube he used for the recording of the drums. It’s been completely smashed, and he slowly crawls to pick up some of the buttons. Wheelie does his best to cram them back in, but he finds it’s a fruitless task when it doesn’t even turn on anymore. He lets it fall and scatter on the floor again. Garbage. Tears follow suit.

He taps his fingers for some kind of relief. No wonder they treated him like a sparkling– He cried like one too.

Chapter 3: Quiet Again

Chapter by kenophobiaa, nenkaii

Summary:

Prowl is in this one.

Wheelie  — X/XX/XXX X:XX PM
Hey Prowl, can I ask something or would that be a foul?

Prowl — X/XX/XXX X:XX PM
You're already messaging me, so go ahead. What is it?

Wheelie — X/XX/XXX X:XX PM
Um... could I visit the new bot in the brig? I had something small I wanted to bring...

Prowl — X/XX/XXX X:XX PM
What are you bringing him? I'll need to check it over. I'll be at the entrance shortly.

Wheelie  — X/XX/XXX X:XX PM
A music cube, like the one I gave you! I'll be there in a second too.

Prowl — X/XX/XXX X:XX PM
Wonderful.

-

Wheelie patiently stations himself in front of the door to the brig, nervously fiddling with his cube. The past few days have consisted of reorganizing and fixing everything that was knocked over in his studio- and that gave him a lot of time to ruminate. 

This was all his fault. He wanted to at least do something to make it up to Pharma– even if he didn't know what was happening and Mirage or Drift didn't want to explain. 

Prowl arrives soon after, glad to see someone following protocol. 

"Thank you very much for waiting for me. I'll just need to run a scan on the cube to make sure there's nothing inside it– don't worry, I won't break it. While I do that, can you fill out this form please?"

He hands Wheelie a form on a datapad. Wheelie does his best to not fill out the form in rhyme– he really does– but he's only partially successful.

Prowl had talked to Pharma in the brig a few days ago; It went as well as it could have, considering he didn't get mauled. He hopes Pharma has calmed down a bit since then, and he's pleased to see the mech actually has a visitor. It’s no surprise to him that it’s Wheelie, because… well, it’s Wheelie. He could probably befriend a wild pack of sharkticons if given the chance.

Wheelie hands the data pad back to Prowl before lifting his arms up to be scanned. He knew this was probably the least dangerous thing on the ship, but he couldn't help but feel jittery as the machine did its thing. He was also just generally nervous about visiting Pharma. But hey, Prowl wasn't stopping him, so Pharma couldn't be that dangerous right now. Right?

Prowl scans him and swipes through the results with the efficiency of a mech who’s done this a million times. 

“Good to go. I’ll walk you there.”

Prowl talks through the rules as he leads Wheelie to the brig, a speech he’s practically engraved in his processor. 

“You’ll be in a single room, separated from the inmate via the bars of the cell. There is a desk on your left and a door to the cell on your right– do NOT attempt to unlock the door. You can leave at any time, and I will be outside for the entire duration of your visit, however long it may be.” Usually there would be a time limit, but Prowl estimated there was an 89% chance this visit wouldn’t be longer than 5 minutes.

They’ve stopped in front of the door now, but Prowl continues. 

“On the desk is a slot to slide items in– do NOT take anything out of your subspace, only the items you’re carrying are allowed inside.” He points very matter-of-factly to the cube. “In the event of an emergency, either press the button under the table or scream and bang on the door, and I will come in to get you. Questions, comments, or concerns?”

Wheelie shakes his head, looking towards the door. Unfortunately, he’s too short to properly see through the window on the top. He tries not to let it bother him. Wheelie’s never been in the brig, much less visited someone in there.

Prowl sighs. “And a bit of personal advice: Don’t push him too much. He can get tense under pressure. Just be safe and don’t reach through the bars if he seems upset– well, you shouldn’t be sticking your arms in at all, but… I digress.”

He opens the door to let Wheelie in.

The cell is larger than Wheelie expected, but how barren it is makes him sad. He notes that if he popped off his chest and back panel, he was small enough to squeeze through the bars. He should tell Prowl about that later. He'd probably appreciate that kind of security info. The temperature is making him feel numb. The outline of Pharma’s frame is barely visible in the shadowed side of the cell; He’s perched on the barren bed, arms wrapped tightly around himself and wings folded in.

“Happy camping.” Prowl says, closing the door so the two could have their privacy. 

It’s been a while since Pharma has had any visitors, which has driven him to take out his anger and upset on the cell around him. The walls are marked with scratches and scrapes, his hands are pockmarked with wounds, and his claws are dulled down to nubs. The blankets that were presumably on the berth had been piled up in the corner, dotted with energon from his bleeding hands.

Without any anger to warm him, Pharma feels… He still doesn't know how he feels. It’s not good, that’s for sure.

Wheelie approaches tentatively, cradling the little cube, and Pharma’s gaze flicks upwards. Oh. The minibot. Was he here to gloat, a week too late? He didn’t seem like the type to Pharma, but he narrows his optics.

“You. I almost killed you.” His voice is flat, very matter-of-fact.

Wheelie looks confused, tilting his head. It takes a minute to form the rhyme.

"No you didn't? I just showed you some of my music, and you listened to it…” The nervousness Wheelie felt before has just mellowed out into… Well, now he just feels kinda awkward. His brow plates are stuck furrowed as his gaze flits down to the cube he held. "Um. I hope it's not weird... I wanted to play more songs for you? It's kinda my fault you're in here, it's the least I could do."

He fiddles with the cube again and plays a few notes. Wheelie ignores the desk, (it's too big for him to sit at) and peers back up into the cell. Pharma's glowing eyes pierce the darkness. What would they look like up close?

This poor mech doesn't seem to realize that Pharma is a danger. For some reason, that amuses Pharma, so much so that he chuckles and straightens up. His posture is almost polite. 

"Oh, it is certainly not your fault... and I don't think I'd mind more music. I quite liked what you played when we met." ‘Liked’ is an understatement; it had him collapsed to the floor and docile, entranced by the way this minibot moved and the music that was being made. His wings twitch upwards with interest. 

Wheelie smiles, excited, and sits on the floor right in front of the bars. Pharma wonders if he could reach him; You know, if he wanted to grab the small mech and tear off a limb (or two, depending on how fast Prowl got in here). Not that the urge was there, but he figured it was only a matter of time until it bubbled up again.

He is indeed very close to the bars– Pharma could probably rip off three limbs if he was quick.

Of course, this possibility does not occur to Wheelie as he starts to play the cube again. It's a lot simpler of a song, but it's still got the layers of his usual style. He briefly wonders if Prowl can hear it from outside.

Wheelie nudges his wandering mind back to the music. Pharma clearly enjoys it– Wheelie remembers how it relaxed him back in the studio. And after hearing what Prowl had just said about agitating him, he wanted to do what he could to at least provide a little comfort.

Any lingering temptation in Pharma’s claws to maim Wheelie fades as the music plays. His shoulders drop. He wonders why the music makes his energon flow slowly, why it makes his body go slack, and why it makes him feel like he’s actually present again. But after all that clawing at the cell walls, he doesn't have the energy to delve into any kind of psychosomatic self-analysis at the moment. 

Very slowly, Pharma drags himself from the berth and to the bars to be closer to the music. His clawed hands curl around the cool metal and he presses against them. He could reach out and grab, but he simply does not. Briefly, the snake is charmed by the mongoose. A silly way to think of it, but it really did feel like he was being charmed. His sharp eyes stare intently at Wheelie’s hands.

Wheelie will no longer want to play his beautiful music for Pharma after he finds out what he has done. Despite knowing this, Pharma is docile and quiet, pressed up against the only things separating them.

Wheelie is enamoured by the curiosity. Nobody's really given him the time of day ever since he got on the Lost Light. Sure, he'd share his songs to anyone he could corner into listening to them, but he was sure most of them just considered it noise. Something to put on in the background, maybe, so they didn't have to do their work in silence. Their important work, which was more useful than Wheelie’s eclectic noise . But the fascination in Pharma's steely gaze makes a warm feeling bubble up in Wheelie's chest.

He doesn't have to look at the cube while he plays– he knows this one by heart– so his eyes grace over Pharma's hands. His claws have been filed down, and energon is seeping out of the cracked metal. He wonders if it hurts. 

Pharma leans back a little bit, eyes flickering over each part of Wheelie's face as if only now truly seeing him as more than a target. Not that the other knew he'd been regarded as such. 

Wheelie finishes the song, and looks up at Pharma. He's not really sure what to say, but he does offer a little smile.

"I like your music," is all Pharma says, wings flicking back into an alert position from where they'd relaxed. It's been a very long time since he'd been able to have a true spark-to-spark moment– Prowl had tried earlier, bless him– but he feels as if this situation has all the makings of what one should be. 

His processor is clear, and for that, he offers Wheelie his own little exhausted smile. Wheelie’s grin widens in response.

“Thank you! I’m glad you like it. Most people just… don’t care about my music. Well, they listen, but- they don’t- well… um…” Where’s the rhyme, what was the rhythm, what else rhymes? He grumbles and looks back down at his cube.

Some more clinking notes come out of the cube as Wheelie taps away. It looks like one of those complicated 9 x 9 puzzle cubes- with tons of little square buttons and one or two dials and switches that Wheelie expertly navigates. It doesn’t just relax Pharma, it re-centers Wheelie too. Let’s try again.

“Um… People like hearing, but nobody is really listening .” He nods to himself. There we go. 

“They don’t care? Mm.” Pharma frowns, tapping his thumb to the bars. Dried energon flakes off and clings there. That fact makes him just a little bit ( sad?) actually, because Wheelie’s music is wonderful. “Well I quite like listening to it. If they don’t take my helm off, I’d be honored if you… came back to play for me.”

That’s a stupid request; Pharma realizes it as the words slip out. But maybe this little bot was still too trusting– no, still too stupid– and he actually would come back.

“Of course I’ll return, with you being here- being alone isn’t fair, doesn’t make sense. I’m glad you hold my music dear- do you happen to play any instruments?”

Pharma notes the different rhyme scheme. Was it degraded circuits that made him rhyme so much? Perhaps blunt force trauma impacting the language module? Has something corroded the connections in his processor? Was this rhythm starting to grow on him?

“I don’t play anything, no. I’ve never had time for hobbies, between my job and my raging insanity.” It lands as a joke, even though it is not one. He knows he’s a ticking time bomb, and the thought crosses his mind: Maybe he should take several steps back to keep Wheelie out of the strike zone.

Wheelie giggles. It comes off as a joke to him, at least. "Raging insanity? You might be a little weird, but you're not insane to me." He shrugs. "It's okay, people also think I'm crazy." His statement is also not a joke, but he says it playfully, as if he doesn't care. He does. He cares so much that it's exhausting.

Pharma begins to laugh, shaking his head. Oh, this poor bot.

"I promise you that there's more to me than meets the eye. In a bad way. I have done things that would make you sick." That malicious smile creeps up on him purely out of habit. "I can see why they think you're crazy, being this close to me.”

Wheelie shrugs, looking down at the cube. He doesn't really know what else to say to that, so instead he plays another song. 

It's a sadder one, and the sounds of drips and drops he's blended into the background echo in the small cell. It was so hard getting words out. Music was so much more intuitive to him.

Pharma finds he doesn't fancy the idea of this warm little bot ever feeling the levels of hopelessness he has. Which is an odd thought for him to even have, considering he’s sawed someone in half. Lengthways. Even if it’s supposed to haunt you, try not to think about that for one day, will you?

Nevertheless, he listens quietly until it finishes.

Notes:

Do we fuck with the possibility that the Constructicons help him with rebuilding his studio. If Pharma is here is that really so farfetched. I think we can cook with this.

Chapter 4: Now and Then

Chapter by kenophobiaa, nenkaii

"That one was... sad. Why?"

Wheelie looks up at Pharma, a little surprised. Nobody's really asked him about the meaning of his songs, either. He understands why- it's a lot of little layers that someone would have to pick apart.

"I wrote it when I missed home. It gave me something to do instead of trying to roam. Got my arm bit off, for a while I couldn't play the song. Then I got it back, but since then I think it always sounds wrong."

Pharma had no idea what Wheelie was like before... before he rhymed. It relaxed Wheelie to know there weren’t any expectations. He gets lost in that thought for a moment, before pulling himself back to reality. He frowns.

"Your arm ripped off?" Pharma asks, raising his optic ridges in disbelief. That explains the difference in color of Wheelie's arms. That displeases him even more; he can't pinpoint just why it bothers– maybe it’s because he wants to be the one to take apart this minibot. 

Wheelie nods,then shoots back a question of his own. "What do you mean by things that would make me sick? I've seen a lot worse- unless swallowing planets is one of your tricks." 

Wheelie doesn't look scared, just curious. Maybe he was looking at Pharma with the same fascination that Pharma had when he played.

Pharma continues, voice low. "I've killed a lot of people, though I can't say I've swallowed any planets. I'm your classic case of doctor-turned-murderer. It's why..." he trails off and slowly reaches one hand through the bars, traveling towards Wheelie with his bloodied fingers outstretched. 

"You shouldn't be so close to me..."

It's a threat. He expects Wheelie will move back, leaving Pharma to smirk triumphantly and gloat in his fear. This usually works.

But Wheelie doesn't flinch. Instead, he takes Pharma's outstretched hands into his own, gently cupping them and inspecting them with concern. A grey backdrop to Pharma's intense blue and the pink energon that stained him. It makes Pharma’s spark shiver when warm hands curl around his own, momentarily chasing away the cold stinging.

Wheelie's hands are almost just as battered (and maybe even worse,) after years of general wear and tear. His left hand has visible pockets where stomach acid ate through the thin metal.

"Rhyme time- doctor and murderer. Why one but not the other?" He ignores Pharma's warning. 

Pharma stares downwards, perplexed by the lack of fear reaction. Their hands are vastly different and yet similar in the way that they're both roughed-up; he wonders what this mech has been through. Clearly a lot, to be so confident in handling him.  

"I was one, then the other," he says, voice soft. It looks like he isn't sure what to do, so he gingerly closes his fingers around Wheelie's, pulling his grey arm through the bars as if to study the union of their hands.

The sudden movement surprised Wheelie. A little “Oh!” Squeaks out of him as his arm is maneuvered, but he doesn’t pull away. 

His spark is beating out of his chest- he knows this is dangerous, he can see it. He can see the scratched walls and the dulled claws and the sharp teeth- but he just can't help it. He wants to reach out. Maybe it's curiosity, maybe it's philanthropy. Though, it's probably just plain old stupidity.

Pharma’s voice crawls into Wheelie’s audials. "You're scared . I can tell you're scared, and yet you're touching me. Allowing me to hold your servos. Why is that, Wheelie?" 

Sure, Wheelie’s scared. Of course he was. The only thing separating him from a self-proclaimed mass murderer were these metal bars and Prowl sitting outside. But curiosity and naivete overwhelmed any fear Wheelie had. So he looks back and shrugs with an unreadable, almost spaced out expression. 

“I don’t know, you’re the one trying to be scary, though. Do you want me to go?”

Pharma squeezes that little hand thoughtfully. His wonder is almost immature; like he hasn't felt another bot's servos before. And perhaps he hasn't for a long time. Wheelie is warm, a nice contrast from his own chilly plating. Does he want Wheelie to leave? 

His eyes narrow thoughtfully, fixing on the bot before him. "No, I don't think I do want you to go... but you should, because I can't control myself. You're lucky I haven't taken your hands off."

Despite the words of warning, one of Pharma’s servos pulls away from Wheelie's and wanders up his wrist, and then to his forearm, pressing his fingers into the unpainted grey metal. If you looked real close you could see faint marks of the orange paint that used to be there, caught in little scratches and dents. He's gentle but confident, and even though he smudges dried energon on Wheelie's metal, it doesn't deter him.

Wheelie tells himself that he’s not letting his arm get pulled in because he trusts Pharma; No, it’s because you’re stupid and careless. But he still doesn’t pull away.

“I can’t feel much in that arm anymore.” Wheelie murmurs. “Usually it just feels… numb, sore.”

“Oh.” Pharma runs his hand along some loose panels, and they rattle a little. 

“You seem smart. I think you’d need a good reason to start taking bots apart.”

“I don’t think so.” Pharma says, because he has no idea what else he could say. Prowl pushed, Delphi pushed, Tyrest pushed, First Aid pushed- He has often been just a bot defending his peace the only way he knew how. “I mean, I want to take you apart.”

It’s true only to an extent. He’s intrigued- he wants to know how Wheelie works, just a peek inside. See what makes him tick , see what makes him so fearless in the face of this infamous mad doctor. 

All of a sudden Pharma releases the minibot’s arm with a grimace, only now realizing what he’d just been doing. He returns to only handling Wheelie’s servos. He continues:

“Doesn’t that terrify you?”

"Huh? No... Why would that scare me though?" Wheelie tilts his head in confusion. He is relaxed in Pharma's grasp. "A doctor that wants to open up my body? That sounds like a normal thing to me. I'd want that, actually. To know what's wrong with me."

He tries his best not to sound dejected when he says that. As much as his weird brain module bothered him, now wasn't really the time to talk about it. Still, he doesn't really know what else to say.

Pharma's intake parts slightly at the silly question. Wheelie is misreading him entirely. Despite having evidence of who Pharma is, despite his very clear warnings, despite the scratches that marred the wall behind them, he still misunderstands. Is this stupidity or naivety? 

"I meant in— forget it. What do you mean, 'what's wrong with me'?" He squints, mouth pressing into a thin line that almost makes him look normal. "There's nothing wrong with you. I mean, other than your arm." And the lack of any survival instinct.

He grabs Wheelie's orange arm this time and holds it up, peering at it with scrutiny. "I may no longer be allowed to practice, but many of these are cosmetic wounds, you know. Not worth making a fuss over."

Wheelie laughs. "No, silly, up here." He taps at his helm with his free arm. "My rhyming is weird. And it hurts when I can't find a rhyme that's clear."

As much as he's gotten used to it, he still wishes he didn't rhyme. Wheelie wanted to be at least somewhat closer to being perceived as normal. Maybe Pharma would understand that. 

"I didn't always rhyme, y'know. That's uh... that's a story for another time, though." He looks away from Pharma's gaze, but still lets him inspect his good arm. It's indeed covered in dents and scratches and imperfections. He clearly hasn't gotten anything done in... at least a few hundred years.

"Oh. I can understand that might be stressful for you," Pharma agrees, carefully selecting what he wants to say. Even so, he hates that he sounds like a therapist. 

He doesn't care that much and yet he still listens. He notices the wave of calm in his chassis and chalks it up to a mixture of the lovely music and the fact that he wasn’t being pushed to talk about himself. 

"You don't have to tell me anything, but I'll listen." Pinching the metal between his mangled fingers, he expertly pops out one small dent. It's not much due to the sheer quantity that Wheelie has, but it keeps his hands busy. The fingers snaking under bits of metal makes Wheelie flinch briefly before quickly relaxing. It doesn’t hurt at all. 

Pharma is waiting for that moment when he snaps and pulls Wheelie's arm through the bars and clean off, when he wants to maim the little bot beyond recognition, but it never comes. He just wants to get these dents out, maybe buff out a few scratches. 

“Oh!” Wheelie whisper-yelps. Pharma massages at the cables in his wrist, and a tension Wheelie hadn’t recognized suddenly fades away.

"Your maintenance isn't up to date," Pharma mutters absently, pushing out another dent.

"Y-Yeah... I only got here fairly recently, and so far all the medics have been... busy." There was another reason buried somewhere in there, but he didn't want to approach that topic. 

"A ship without medics to spare," Pharma muses. His hands are surprisingly gentle still. He looks like a proper medic, his gaze focused and his hands moving with precision. All he's doing is pushing out any of the dents he can access, untangling a few wires poking out between plates, but it's still more than he's been allowed to do for ages.

While Wheelie keeps his arm still for Pharma, his other hand fiddles with the cube on the floor, and he starts playing a few improvised notes. It was a little twinkling music box sound, flitting from note to note, hesitant, but gentle, and hopeful. 

When Pharma finishes getting any issues that will go with just his digits, he lets go of Wheelie's arm and peers at him with the usual intensity. Wheelie now uses both hands to play the little random tune.

"This one sounds brighter. It makes me feel..." Pharma pauses, tapping the bars idly. "Good, I guess." 

Wheelie wasn't really sure how he was feeling now. He never understood how anyone could boil their feelings down to one word- sad, happy, frustrated, etc. To him it was always a messy jumble, represented by layers of a song that weaved together rather than just one track. He couldn't do more than just jumping from one feeling to another haphazardly right now, but that's okay. He'll dissect whatever he was feeling right now in his studio later.

"Yeah, I only ever play what I've felt or what I'm feeling. That way I don't have to think too hard about the meaning.”

Then there's Pharma, who doesn't know enough of his emotions to name anything more than good and bad, and to have to figure it out without assistance always has him frustrated and upset. Luckily Wheelie isn’t asking him to do that right now, so he simply settles on the broad emotion. Pharma shoots the minibot a grin with a little “Mhm.” and a nod.

“Do you want me to play more? I dunno if I'm being a bore..."

Wheelie is itching to play now, especially now that his hands feel a little better. But he's probably being annoying. Still, he looks up at Pharma expectantly, smiling. That weird gaze is growing on him.

Pharma nods quickly. Of course he wants Wheelie to continue. The lanky medic leans himself fully up against the bars, gaze fixed on the cube.

"Yes, do play more if it isn't too much of a bother," he says, head dropping to lean against the chilly metal. "It isn't boring at all. It... soothes me. I haven't yet felt like destroying your delicate hands, which is an improvement."

It's true— they've been within touching distance of each other for a while and Pharma has yet to do anything to hurt Wheelie, which is a massive improvement over his time with Prowl.

Delicate hands. Wheelie peers at his hands, flipping them, before shrugging. Yeah, that was accurate. He'd get them replaced... eventually.

Wheelie plays another song. He's been choosing less intense songs, not only because he doesn't want to overwhelm Pharma, but he also doesn't think it's something he'd enjoy.

He starts the percussion- a flat sounding set of drums that sound like they're full of sand- and sets it to repeat. A harmonica peeks in every now and then at the delicate touch of Wheelie's pinky finger. The synths he plays with the rest of his hands are low and dull, like a yellow ochre. He wrote it while he was stranded- when the looping, repeated days never seemed to end. Wheelie doesn't realize his face has dropped- he looks sad playing it.

Pharma listens to Wheelie's playing, surprisingly respectful and quiet. It's because he likes it, even if it's sad. It resonates with him in a way that music never has— though he supposes that he's never had time to indulge before. Experiencing the horrors had kept him busy. 

So much does it relax him that he slowly slumps against the bars, his helm fitting nicely between them, the space between so narrow that it catches it and allows him to have some semblance of head support. He's slowly being lured into sleep with the knowledge that he's strong enough to take Wheelie, but that he doesn't need to because bars separate them.

He's also pretty confident that nobody would come to play music to lure him into a false sense of security. 

And so the killer medic falls asleep, looking infinitely more peaceful than he had been the entire duration of their visit. Wheelie looks up when he finishes and smiles at the sight. He's glad he could help. 

Even though Pharma is asleep, Wheelie plays for a while. He's completely in the zone, tuning out his internal clock and just letting his thoughts wander while he taps the keys.

Who was this mech? Why was everyone so scared of him? More importantly- why wasn't Wheelie? Those sharp fangs, that leering grin, that piercing gaze- all things Wheelie should probably be scared of.  

But he looks up again to this completely different bot, sleeping soundly against the bars of this cage. Varta was scary at first too, right? And then they became friends. Bob looked scary at first glance, but he was really fun to play with. Maybe if he knew what all those hushed whispers people made at the news of his capture were about, he'd be scared too.

Wheelie doesn't know why, but he makes a promise to himself– right then and there. He won't be scared of Pharma. He’s been scared of stuff for as long as he could remember, so now he wanted to be brave for his new friend. Besides, if Megatron of all people got a second chance, why couldn't Pharma? 

He finishes yet another song and looks back up at Pharma- still sleeping. He didn't want to leave him alone, but he did need to recharge soon. Hmm... 

Grabbing a permanent marker from his subspace, he starts to scribble on the cube he was playing on. He's labelling the buttons with the symbols for rewind, pause, play, and skip. He draws a little cloud symbol and a refresh icon on one button, and writes "REC" on another. 

Feeling that he's labeled the buttons Pharma would need, he lets one of his recorded songs play and carefully slides the cube into the cell, next to Pharma.

Slowly he gets up and leaves, being careful not to slam the door when he exits.

Notes:

What started as a stupid Twitter roleplay has now evolved into this beautiful crackship. Thank you Leo, Dragons, and especially Hex for being lovely roleplay partners and co-writers :)