Chapter Text
Not to toot his own horn or anything, but Fracture has a bit of a reputation around these parts.
You need someone to do grunt work? For a decent amount of shanix, he’ll do it. No shanix? That’s cool, just owe him a couple favours or give him something he can hock, and you’re square. Maybe it’s a bad business ethic, but it works for him. Really well, actually, more than he ever expected it would.
Or maybe it’s because he’s so damn easy. ‘Need a servo? Call Fracture.’ He should consider dropping business cards or something, since glyph gets around pretty quickly in the Dead End.
Lately, though, he’s been considering moving on to greener pastures. His current gig as a crash test dummy isn’t too bad — they didn’t get a lotta applicants, apparently, so he got the job easy-peasy — and the pay’s decent, if nothing else, but it leaves him a lot more banged up than he’d like.
Divebomb sure has a lotta complaints ‘bout the state of him, especially considering it leaves him an easy target for roaming thugs or patrolling Enforcers. So he needs to find something better.
And, when in doubt, he knows exactly who to turn to.
Grinning widely to himself, or maybe that’s the concussion talking, he thinks ‘bout the fistful of shanix shoved into his subspace. Not bad, eh? Enough to get Divebomb that trinket he wanted. Or maybe some more mods. The spikes are pretty cool, and he happens to really like the big pauldrons.
Even as he saunters through the streets, mechs give him a wide berth.
He likes to think it’s because he looks like a scary fragger. In reality, it’s probably because he looks looped out and everyone knows there’s no point shaking down an addict for anything.
His end goal is the club or, as it’s more widely known, The Club — pretty obvious name but, hey, he didn’t choose it. It gets the most pede traffic when Luna-2 is high in the sky, but it’s pretty much the only place in the Dead End that mechs go to when they want to feel a little better about their situations.
It’s not open to him, and the bouncers have express orders to kick him out on sight, so he slips in via the side door, which seems like a weird design flaw, but whatever. It works out for him, so… Yay!
“Heya, Shim.” He smirks as he saunters up to the bar counter.
Shimmerstick is too fussy to groan at the sight of him, but her smile seems to get tighter, almost pasted on when she gives him a quick once-over. “Fracture. As scruffy as ever, I see.”
“Aw, you know me. I always gotta be moving.”
“So, what is it this time?” She asks, disdain evident in her tone, even as she slides a cube of distilled energon with lead shavings over to him. And he doesn’t even hafta pay for it! He could, of course, but why would he tell her that? It’s free energon! “Information? Connections? Shanix?”
“Hey, I ain’t ever asked you for shanix!” He pouts, offended on his own behalf. “I got a pretty sweet thing going on, I’ll have you know. Pay me well enough I ain’t need to scrounge… much.”
“Ah, yes.” She sniffs. “What is it? A ‘crash test dummy’? Very respectable, I’m sure.”
“I don’t care one bit if it’s respectable, as long as I get my shanix at the end of the cycle.” He takes a drag from the cube, then swipes his glossa over his lipplates. “Yum. But I’ve been thinking…”
“A dangerous pastime.” She runs a rag over the counter, wiping up the stains. “Go on.”
“Ouch,” He says, not taking it to spark. Who cares if mechs think he’s an idiot? He’s still getting paid for it either way. “Anyway, I was thinking, I probably need to get a better job. This one’s okay, but that Doc is getting real annoyed seeing me every couple days for pain blockers and a processor reset.”
“You are a danger to yourself, more than anyone else. But,” She pauses, looking suddenly pensive. “If you’re really searching, I have something that might be of interest to you.”
“Really? Great!” He cheers boisterously, jostling his cube and spilling more drops on the counter — that had just been cleaned. “See, that’s why I always come to you. You always got something for me.”
“Don’t get too excited,” She shakes her helm, pointing an accusing digit at him. “It’s not a job. More of a… personal improvement, shall we say? But it will likely give you something to do that isn’t bashing your helm into a wall for some spare shanix. Give that poor Medic a break from dealing with you.”
“Eh,” He shrugs. “Can’t hurt to try. So, what’s this thing s’posed to be?”
“Meet me here tomorrow,” She says cryptically, adjusting her monocle. “The side alley, since it’s better the boss doesn’t notice you. I’ll vouch for you too, which will make things smoother.”
“You’re the best, Shim.” He claps a servo to her pauldron, before draining the last of his cube with a satisfied ex-vent. “Ah, that really hit the spot. See you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Goodbye.” She waves him off without looking, already moving on to the next client.
Divebomb’s waiting outside for him, perched on a streetlamp and looking appropriately ominous when glowering from the shadows. “You’re late,” He accuses, wings flapping. “No advance notice either. Running around in the dark, getting into trouble? You don’t know the meaning of the glyph ‘behave’.”
“Sorry,” Fracture holds his arm out for Divebomb to settle on. “Met with Shim. She told me some interesting stuff. Might be trying something new tomorrow. Wanna come with?”
“Yes,” Divebomb chirps. “Sounds exciting. Maybe you’ll learn something useful after all.”
“I sure hope so,” Fracture says. “Else I’ll hafta take up even more shifts to deal with the boredom, and I dunno if my processor can handle a whole deca-cycle of slamming into walls.”
“Little star,” Creator sing-songs when he bursts into Orion’s hab before Hadean has even fully risen yet.
True to form, Orion leaps out of his berth in a flurry of action, reaching a height that no normal mech would ever be able to at the apex of his jump, before landing on the floor with a thump and a roll into a low, crouched posture, dentae bared and finials pressed back in a threat display.
While Orion would never make a habit of purposefully mauling those who are undeserving, the picture he makes is enough to make a lesser mech stop in their tracks and re-evaluate the danger he poses.
But all Alpha Trion does is laugh heartily — more of a guffaw, really — as he sweeps closer to affectionately pet Orion’s helm, uncaring of the sharp points so close to his servo. “How cute you are! It does feel like only yester-cycle where I found you and convinced you to return home with me…”
“Creatooooor…!” Orion pouts; he’s an adult mech! Still, he lets himself lean into the touch the way he wouldn’t in a more public setting, indulging in his Creator’s affection. “Don’t scare me like that!”
He purrs throatily as blunt servos scratch around the curve of his audial, then has the wherewithal to feel a little embarrassed with how easily he is bought by some nice pets, like… Like a common cybercat!
“Bah,” Alpha Trion waves him off. “That was just a little shock, and you recovered quickly. If I really wanted to scare you, well… Not that I would. You don’t have to worry about that.”
Sitting up and stretching languidly, Orion asks, “What are you doing here?”
“I realise it has been quite a while since we’ve been able to spend some quality Creator-Creation time together,” Alpha Trion moves to examine one of the holo-polas he’s pinned up on his wall, lingering on the one of him and Jazz and the statue of Nova Prime in the Crystal Gardens. “I sought to remedy that.”
“I’m on shift today.” Orion reminds him, absentmindedly rearranging the covers on his berth-nest. “And you have two meetings today.” One of which is with a Senatorial aide…!
“I told Codexa to reschedule,” Alpha Trion confides, a little smirk on his lipplates; satisfaction at having (semi-successfully?) pulled the steel wool over Codexa’s optics. “I told her I had more pressing matters to attend to. I won’t tell if you won’t.” Never mind that she probably already knows anyway, having been the one to manage Alpha Trion’s schedules for longer than Orion has been alive.
Still, it’s a little embarrassing to have his Creator change things around for Orion’s benefit. Mechs tend to forget that he’s technically Alpha Trion’s ward. Ideally, he’d like it to remain that way.
Too many higher-castes see him as a way to his Creator. They come up to him during fundraisers and events, smiles on their faces, but he can smell the dishonesty on them. He doesn’t like it. There are too many layers to citymech life and, even now, he still can’t fathom why everyone feels the need to disguise their real emotions. Doesn’t it just make things harder? He’s not used to having to dig so deep.
It’s confusing. Does he respond to their glyphs, or their body language? If they lie to him, does he call them out on it? Should he smile even if their glyphs are hurtful? Laugh at the expense of another?
He must have been lost in thought for quite some time, because Alpha Trion’s fond chuckles break him out of his reverie. “Does a simple ‘yes or no’ question require this much pondering? Or is it truly so embarrassing for you to spend time with your Creator now that you are of an age?”
“No!” Orion yelps. “It’s definitely not that! I was just… surprised?”
“I’ve been busy of late,” Alpha Trion says solemnly. “But I see now, that it is no excuse. You are not a newspark anymore, yet you are still my Creation. I thought… we might do something fun together?”
“I’d like that.” Orion says earnestly. It surprises him to learn that, somewhere along the line, he grew tall enough to no longer need to crane his neck all the way back to meet his Creator’s optics. Yes, Alpha Trion is still a full helm taller than him — but the distance between them is not so immense anymore.
“Wonderful,” Alpha Trion beams. “Thank you for indulging an old mech such as myself, little star.”
“It’s nice to spend time with you again, Creator.” Orion shyly bumps his pauldron against Alpha Trion’s arm. “I feel like I haven’t seen you as much. I… missed you.”
That is, of course, in part due to his own crusade in the Dead End. It’s reached a point where he spends almost fifty per cent of his time there, half a cycle for three cycles every deca-cycle, where he has to spend joors in the washracks scrubbing the scent of cygar smoke and stale energon that still clings to him; faintly, but enough that his hypersensitive olfactory can pick it out without even trying.
The guilt eats at his spark.
He still can’t let go, balancing on the edge between the two halves of his life, trying to have it all without giving up one or the other. It’s too much and too little all at once — the heady feeling of making a difference as Convoy, and the acceptance and knowledge hidden in the shelves as Orion Pax.
Alpha Trion smells of nothing but joy. “My little star,” He croons, squishing Orion’s cheekplates between his servos, ignoring the slurred protests he gets in response. “Age has not changed you at all.”
“I’d hope not,” Orion says, a little miffed, when Alpha Trion finally deigns to release him from the stranglehold of affection, rubbing at his cheekplates with a mild grimace, imagining how the protometal must have warped under those strong digits. “Um… So, where are going?”
Alpha Trion brings a digit to his lips. “It’s a surprise!”
Out of all the places Orion had expected Creator to go to, the rooftop of the Citadel had not been one of them. Yet here they both stand, the breeze whipping around them, the mechs milling in the streets below looking as small as proto-Insecticons from their vantage point. “Creator…”
“What? I did say it was going to be a surprise,” Alpha Trion chuckles, not at all perturbed by the death-drop edge a few mecha-meters away from him. “And you were surprised, weren’t you?”
“Well, yes,” Orion gestures to the view in front of them, gorgeous and terrifying in equal measure. What a time to learn he might be afraid of heights…! He skitters backwards, ducking behind Alpha Trion’s larger frame to hide, seeking safety and reassurance. “I just… didn’t expect us to end up here.”
“Are you afraid, little star?” Creator teases, sitting down, his frame creaking as he does so.
“It’s not natural!” Orion protests hotly, finials flicking. “I’ve never been this high up before, even before I came here. Why are there no railings? There’s nothing to stop you if you… fall…”
Perhaps he shouldn’t be thinking about it too hard. If he fixates on his fear, it might consume him, and he does want to enjoy this rare moment of freedom with Alpha Trion for as long as he can.
“As long as you keep away from the edge, there is nothing to fear.”
Orion huffs, but plops down onto the roof, made of smooth tiles to match the rest of the Citadel. There are no servo-holds, so he flicks off the claw-caps on one servo, just in case. “Why are we even here?”
Creator hums. “I wanted to show you something, Orion.” He says cryptically. The use of his designation — and not a nickname — makes Orion sit up; it’s rare Creator sounds so serious when talking to him. “Something that may be… shall we say, hard to explain? Not without an example or two, at least.”
“Okay… What did you want to show me?”
Alpha Trion raises an arm, and Orion snuggles up next to him, tucking his helm in the junction of Creator’s pauldron, feeling like a newbuild again. “When you look, tell me: what do you see?”
“I see… um…” Orion shutters his optics. “Everything looks so small from here,” He pictures the distance between him — up on the Citadel — and all the other mechs down below, going about their cyclical lives, unaware of those who lurk above them. “Even though I know it’s not.”
There’s a bit of awe there now, mixed in with the fear. Is it possible to feel larger than life? Because he does; he wonders if this is what the mechacondors experience, soaring above the cloud cover.
“Exactly,” Alpha Trion reeks of pride. “Do you know what makes the difference between a good leader and a great leader? It’s all a matter of perspective. A good leader sees the big picture. But a great leader is able to do that and treat those under his care like equals. The distance does not dull their empathy.”
“Is that what you wanted to tell me?” Orion asks.
“In a sense,” Alpha Trion agrees. “You’re still young. But things are… changing faster than anticipated, and I fear that you may face hardships down the line. I don’t want you to lose sight of who you are.”
“Oh,” It’s easy to forget sometimes, just how long Creator has been alive. He has seen Cybertron torn down and rebuilt; experienced the Quintesson Wars, its subsequent aftermath, and lived to tell the tale. In comparison, Orion has only lived a fraction of that. “But I’ll have you to remind me, won’t I?”
“I won’t always be there, little star.” Alpha Trion reminds him gently.
Orion has been determined to ignore the looming idea of Creator going Immersant. It only happens to mechs who have nothing to cling to and, despite his tendencies to wander off and ditch work for long periods of time, Alpha Trion has never shown any dissatisfaction with his current lot in life.
It’s true that age can be a burden. Maybe he’s being selfish, but he doesn’t want to lose his Creator to an avoidable pain. Though they have had many vorns together, he would like many more to follow.
“Not for a long time though, right?” He prods, just to make sure.
“You never know…” Alpha Trion begins, but he cuts himself off hastily when he sees Orion’s displeased glare. “My, you do look so much like Codexa when you do that. Very well. For as long as I live —”
“— hopefully, a very long time.” Orion interrupts with a frown, optical ridges drawn together.
“Yes, yes,” Alpha Trion ex-vents, but he cannot hide his fondness. “For as long as I live, which will hopefully be a very long time, I will be there, should you ever have need of me or my advice.”
“I’ll always need you, Creator.” Orion assures him.
“You’re still young,” Alpha Trion says, a repetition of his earlier statement. “The future is not set in stone. But I have faith in you, Orion. You’re a good mech. Just like y —” He cuts himself off hastily, devolving into a set of spluttering coughs that he covers with a large servo. “Pardon me.”
Now Orion is curious. What was he going to say? “Like…?”
“Like our dear Codexa,” Creator finishes smoothly. “She has strong morals and cares a great deal for those under her care. You could have chosen much worse role models, little star.”
“Right…” Though he knows that wasn’t what Alpha Trion had originally meant, Orion, frustratingly, cannot get a read on any hint of hesitation or, well, anything that might signal that he is being lied to. He ex-vents quietly, deciding to just…let it go, for the time being, even though it rankles at him to allow such an obvious attempt at deflection pass by unremarked. “Creator? Will you talk to me?”
“Of course, little star.” Alpha Trion pets his helm, taking care to avoid his sensitive finials. “How does the history of this very Citadel sound? I know of a few tidbits that might amuse you greatly.”
“That sounds nice.” Orion snuggles closer while Creator’s low, soothing voice washes over him.
Orion rides the high of his outing with creator all into the next deca-cycle. Both Swing and Shimmerstick comment on how giddy he looks — according to Swing, he ‘smiles like he just got blitzed outta his processor on the finest nickel-tine the Dead End has to offer’.
Speaking from experience, Orion presumes.
But he’s in such a good mood that he’s even more obliging then he usually is, so when Shimmerstick makes a request of him — rare, because she’s a very proud mech — he agrees in a spark-pulse.
“There’s this mech I know,” She says, sounding surprisingly hesitant. “He’s looking for something to fill up his time with, and I’m hoping to keep him away from becoming a runner just because he’s bored. I told him he could join your lessons, but I realise I didn’t clear it before-servo. Would that be alright?”
“Of course,” Orion shutters his optics at her. “You don’t have to ask. Why wouldn’t it be alright?”
She shrugs, a surprisingly fluid movement. “I felt like I should.”
“This isn’t only my lessons,” He says gently. “I rely on you and Rook, and you both are teachers just as much as I am. We wouldn’t have all this if it wasn’t for you. This is your calling as much as it is mine.”
She looks away. “You might change your mind when you meet him.” She warns.
“Even if we don’t get along, I’m not in the habit of refusing aid to mechs based on my own personal opinion of them.” He insists. “Bring him along for the next cycle anyway, I’d still love to meet him.”
“Alright,” She agrees. “I will.”
Truth be told, he forgets about Shimmerstick’s promise to bring about her…friend? Protégé? Whatever he is to their gathering. He just gets so busy at the Archives, preparing for an overhaul of one of the unused sections, and everything that isn’t pressing matters slips his processor completely.
He can’t afford to go to the Dead End during that deca-cycle, not with all his focus stuck on cataloguing buried datapads and rearranging the shelves in the older areas of the Hall of Records.
It’s at times like these that he’s exceptionally grateful for Shimmerstick and Rook, both of whom have taken on the task of arranging classes in his absence. Shimmerstick is well-connected, one audial always to the ground, while Rook is steadily proving to be an excellent team player.
The two of them work well in tandem, filling in the gaps left by his inability to attend. He’s proud of them; their improvement is proof that what he’s doing is working, and that makes it worth the risk.
When he finally manages to sneak off to the Dead End next, it’s been a deca-cycle and a half since the last time he was there. On the plus side, he has both a crate and a subspace full of old datapads that no one will miss, and he’s downloaded some advanced texts on art history for Rook, a purportedly popular action holo-novel for Swing, and an collection of Iaconian plays in script format for Shimmerstick.
Pulling up to the curb, he transforms back into root mode and hauls the crates off of his trailer tack.
“Convoy!” Swing greets with a grin, suspiciously bright. “Been a while. Was almost starting to think that you’d ditched us.” His cheerfulness does not waver, but there’s something wary in his tone.
“Of course not,” Orion says, with a gentle tap to that bright orange helm. “I just got busy.”
“Cool,” Swing says, easily falling into step alongside Orion as they make their way inside. “Not that I care, but it’s been real quiet without you. I actually finished an entire holo-novel on my own, yanno?”
Orion beams. “Well done!” He praises. “I knew you could do it. Did you like it?”
“Eh,” A lopsided shrug. “It was okay, I guess. A bit too glyph-y for me. It had some pretty trashy romance, but I kinda liked that. The advisor guy was pretty funny actually. I was kinda rooting for him.”
“Well, I’ve brought some more datapads with me,” Orion hefts up the crate in his arms. “So maybe you’ll find something you enjoy. I can offer a few recommendations if you want.”
Swing pauses. “Think our tastes run differently, big boss.”
“The offer is always open,” Orion says. Then, as he walks into the main room, he pauses to take in the collection of mechs milling around, digging through boxes full of old datapads or practicing glyphs with the strokes of a stylus. Every optic turns to him when he enters. “Oh. Hello, everyone.”
“Convoy!” Shimmerstick bustles over to him, taking the crate from his hands. “It’s good to see you.”
Following behind her is a purple and grey mech with large pauldrons and armour that ends in spikes. A mecha-condor is perched on his helm and his red optics take in all the going-ons with curiosity.
“Hi, Shimmerstick,” He smiles. “Good to see you too. I see things have been going well?”
“Oh, yes,” She bobs her helm. “I don’t know what I would do without Rook, he’s such a great help — unlike some mechs.” She throws a dark look at Swing, who just offers a lazy salute, not a care in the world. “Speaking of, I’ve been meaning to introduce you. This is Fracture,” She gestures to the new mech, who waves. “Fracture, this is Convoy. He’s the one who set up this entire thing.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Fracture. I hope these lessons can help you however you need.” Orion says genuinely, before turning to the mecha-condor. “And may I ask for your name?”
The mecha-condor — large and imposing, with red and purple plating that must have been brilliant when he was in his prime and a sleekly curved helm — flaps his wings as a sign of greeting before he answers. “My thanks for taking care of this fool. My designation is Divebomb. And you are Convoy.”
“That I am,” Orion agrees. “It’s nice to meet you as well. Will you also be joining the lessons?”
Fracture opens his intake, only to be cuffed in the head by a great sweeping wing, and falls silent.
“No,” Divebomb says decisively. “What need do I have to learn the glyphs of mechs? I speak the language of the wildnerness.” His optics drill into Orion’s own. “You understand.” He says decisively.
Orion stiffens, but forcibly relaxes his stiff plating and hums noncommittally before turning back to Fracture. “Well, we’re glad to have you. Shimmerstick vouched for you and I trust her judgement.”
“Thanks, boss! Look forward to working with’ja. Please take care of me, and all that!” Fracture grins, throwing an arm around Orion into an almost-hug. From his disadvantageous position facing forward, helm titled to avoid those spikes, Orion hears more than sees the hiss that Swing lets out in response.
“I’m sure we’ll all get along.” Orion says. “Er…”
Shimmerstick ex-vents, looking for all the world like she has a helmache. “Let him go, Fracture.”
“Yeah, Fracture,” Swing jeers. “Let him go.” In the resulting silence born from confusion, he hooks his remaining arm through Orion’s, dragging him away from the other two. “Come on, big boss. Let’s go check out those holo-novs you were yapping ‘bout. Maybe I’ll even find something I like.”
“Alright,” Orion says, a little bemusedly. “But can you slow down a little bit? The room isn’t that big.”
Fracture’s gotta admit, he didn’t really have high hopes for whatever ‘lesson’ thing Shimmerstick had been yapping about. Sure, learning new stuff might be useful, but it’s no good if his processor keeps getting banged up and he loses out anyway, right? Besides, why does a crash test dummy need to read?
He’d thought she might’ve been joking at first, that the ‘reading lesson’ was code for some sort of drug running thing, but that’s stupid, because Shim keeps her olfactory outta that sorta business.
So, yeah, his expectations were in the gutter with the rest of the Dead End.
But, you know, he wasn’t expecting Convoy. The guy is a citymech through and through — it’s obvious in the way he looks and acts. No Dead Ender smiles like that at a stranger; look at the wrong mech too long, and you might as well get a blade in your optic, quick and easy. It’s just how it is here.
He’s pretty brave. Er, for a citymech anyway. Or maybe bonkers is the right glyph. You gotta be to keep coming here, teaching Empties when the Enforcers are on one side and the crazies on the other.
Still, Convoy’s gotten the respect of some Dead Enders. That shouldn’t mean much, because any guy can pretend to be decent and any guttermech worth their energon knows how to roll over and play nice with citymechs, but the others greet him like he’s one of them. That means something.
Not to mention, he’s good to Divebomb! Most see him as more Beast- than -former, but he’s just as smart as any other mech. Maybe even smarter. Convoy doesn’t do him dirty like that, though.
Convoy, Shim, and that one guy, Rook, it’s clear that they’re the main ones. The head honchos, the leaders. They set everything up, conduct the lessons and stuff. Convoy’s too nice sometimes, so Shim deals with the rowdy ones. Rook’s a good teacher even if he is a bit short-tempered, but that orange bastard keeps everyone on the tips of their pedes, making sure that they can never get too close.
Divebomb doesn’t like him, thinks he’s got bad intentions.
But Fracture thinks he’s pretty okay, actually; he always hovers nearby, smoking a cygar, whenever he’s practicing his writing and gives him advice whenever he fumbles a glyph.
He used to only come to lessons whenever Shim invited him to tag along but Convoy said that he was welcome on his own too, and Swing’d told him he didn’t need to cling to Shim’s pedes like a newbuild, so that was basically an invitation into, like, the cool mechs club? Kinda? Which is nice.
So, he’s not that stupid, right? He can tell that there’s a pretty big difference between the part-timers, the mechs who show up for a few lessons, then grab a datapad and dip — and the regulars.
The regulars are the ones who know each other by designation, the ones that come and leave in clumps, that come to every lesson even though they don’t really need to. Maybe it’s habit, maybe because it gives them something to do? Who knows. There’s only a servo-ful of these guys, but they make it count.
Shim might’ve been a regular at one point, but that’s not the case anymore. She and Swing and Rook are, like, the main group. The ones that know Convoy, the ones who basically inspired the entire thing.
Sure, Convoy is just a genuinely nice guy, but there’s a difference between knowing him and knowing him. He’s patient and will answer any question you ask if you need help, but it’s not the same. Shim is the best example of this, because Fracture knows what it looks like when she’s familiar with someone, and she’s clearly familiar with Convoy. Even if it’s only been a couple of mega-cycles, they’re close.
“Is there something on your processor, Fracture?” Convoy asks kindly.
“Whuh?” Fracture shakes his helm, snapping himself out of his daze. Scrap, he was in the middle of a lesson. “Nah, nothing much. Got a li’l bit distracted, sorry. What were you saying?”
“I was just explaining how to correctly attach sub-glyphs for context,” He says. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, no worries,” Fracture grins, teeth sharp. “It’s nice to have something to do, yanno? Thanks for letting me join your gig. Even if there’s no shanix, it’s not all bad.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying this.” Convoy smiles. “No one should decide what happens to someone else based on circumstances outside of their control. If I can help even one mech, then I’m happy.”
“You’re an okay guy, Convoy.” Fracture decides. A bit optimistic, sure, but that’s not always a bad thing; Divebomb often tries to convince him to head off into the wilderness and live there with him, but Fracture likes shanix. It’s not a bad life he lives right now, but it could always be better.
Sometimes he forgets that. It’s nice to have a reminder.
Convoy shutters his optics. “Oh… Thank you?” He says, vocaliser rising in pitch at the end as though he’s asking a question instead of making a statement. Fracture simply laughs and doesn’t elaborate.
It’s one of those rare cycles where only Orion and Rook remain behind at the end of the lesson.
Swing is off doing Primus knows what, Fracture dashed as soon as he could — late to his job, apparently — and Shimmerstick had to get back to The Club before she was missed.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Orion asks. “I thought you’d go with Swing.”
“No,” Rook mutters, hefting a stack of three boxes into his arms. “He’s gonna get high out of his processor and try to pick up some poor chippie to pass the joors with. Doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time, so I might as well stay here with you. Might even learn something new out of it.”
He sounds surprisingly bitter but, buried deep, Orion can smell frustration and sadness. Not for the first time, he reflects on how Swing and Rook are a very strange pairing — polar opposites clinging together.
When the curiosity gets to be too strong, he voices this. Rook snorts.
“Nah,” He says. “We’re not ‘together’, or whatever you’re thinking. Swing’s not the kinda mech who likes labels, you know? It’s all convenience. We’ve just known each other for… a long time, that’s all.”
“That makes sense. You two are really familiar with each other.”
“Yeah, I guess?” Rook shrugs. “Swing was already a regular by the time I arrived, but he kinda… I dunno how to put it. Gave me advice, sorta? Anyway, it helped me get my helm on straight.”
“Advice?” Orion is skeptical, though he tries not to be, and it shows in his tone. “From Swing?”
Surprisingly, Rook huffs a laugh in response. “Right? It sounds so unrealistic. But, honestly? It was pretty useful stuff. He told me to manage my expectations — life here’s slag, and it’ll keep getting slaggier. If I live while thinking things might get better, then I’ll just end up disappointed forever.”
That does sound like Swing: nihilistic on the best of cycles.
“But you don’t agree with that, do you?” Orion isn’t sure why he says it, only that the glyphs slip out before he can stop them. He busies himself with tidying up to avoid meeting Rook’s surprised optics.
“Huh?” The shock quickly turns defensive. “What’s it to you?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Orion placates. “It’s just that you… er, never struck me as the type to keep expecting the worst. There’s nothing wrong with having hope for the future.”
“Uh, did you forget where we are now?” Rook gestures at their surroundings with a servo. “You know what they say about us in the cities, right? We’re not even mechs to them, we’re just gutter trash. Even if I got lucky — like, insanely lucky — there’s still no way the big mechs’d let me do what I want to do.”
Something about that sentence… “What you ‘want’ to do?” Orion murmurs, mostly to himself.
Rook tenses. “Forget it. I-I shouldn’t’ve said that.”
His panic is palpable, and it’s affecting Orion too. “No!” He yelps, startling Rook, before he course-corrects and hastily lowers his vocaliser. “No, it’s okay. I… don’t fully agree with Functionism either. It’s not fair to force mechs to do something they don’t enjoy, just because of their alt-mode.”
After staring at him for a long moment, Rook ex-vents. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You spend your free time teaching Empties how to read.” Then he frowns. “You’re kinda crazy, you know that?”
“‘Freedom is the right of all sentient beings’.” Orion quotes. He still believes it.
“That’s nice, but openly defying the Functionist system isn’t a good idea,” Rook says grimly. “I’m not gonna stop you, but you should be more careful. This is a pretty reckless thing you’re doing, Convoy.”
Now it’s Orion’s turn to shrug. “Mechs who live in the Dead End are still mechs. They deserve the same rights and privileges we have in the cities. Look at how far you guys have come! All you need is the right kind of encouragement.” His fervour only grows with every glyph out of his intake. “Maybe if the Senate sees this, they’ll realise that Functionism doesn’t have to be the only way of living. Things can change.”
But even before Orion has finished his impassioned monologue, Rook is already shaking his helm. “No way. The Senate is the damn problem. You know how many mechs they send here, just because we don’t want to do our assigned function? They don’t give a damn about us. We’re just numbers to them.”
“That’s not true!” Orion protests. “They’re our governing body, they must care about us. Functionism was just a way to do damage-control in the aftermath of the Age of Wrath.”
“Why are you defending them?” Rook gives him a disgusted look. “I thought you said you didn’t agree.”
“I don’t agree with Functionism,” He corrects. “But that’s not the Senate’s fault. The Council…”
“If the Senate really cared as much as you say they do, then I wouldn’t be here at all,” Rook retorts hotly. “Just because I didn’t want to hurt people, they decided I might as well rot in the gutters!”
“What?” Orion is taken aback.
“My alt-mode is a weapon-type,” Rook says, but he’s hunched in on himself. “So, obviously, there’s only one path for me. But I didn’t want to become a fragging Enforcer. I just… wanted to be a teacher.”
“Did you try to petition for —”
“Of course I tried to petition for a function change,” Is the snappy reply, but it’s not malicious. Just pained, like dredging up old wounds often is. “Got rejected though. So I just didn’t transform at the precinct. Eventually, my supervisor got tired of me and had me blacklisted. And then I ended up here.”
Orion hesitantly rests a servo on Rook’s pauldron. He worries he’ll be shrugged off, but he isn’t. Clearly, the younger mech needs some support. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” He says quietly.
“It’s whatever. I’m over it.” Rook says, clearly not over it. “So, yeah. That’s why I don’t believe you. If the Senate cared, they wouldn’t force mechs to hurt people just because of our alt-modes. It would be so easy to accept my petition, but they let me slip through the cracks, just like so many other mechs.”
Not for the first time, Orion considers how sheltered he is. He knows that, logically, with his alt-mode, if he had been sorted the regular way, he would have ended up a manual class.
But he, to quote Rook, got ‘insanely lucky’. Alpha Trion’s influence allowed him to never have to face that kind of class-based oppression. Everything he knows is second-servo information; he’s privileged. For him, nothing has to change. He could just shutter his optics, bury his helm in the sand, and pretend.
He can’t though. That’s not who he is as a mech.
He’s never been good at being comforting. Sometimes he gets his wires crossed, his signals mixed. Still, he tries. “I’m sorry that the people who were supposed to help you hurt you instead.”
Rook says, “Well, it’s not like I’m the only one. I’m just another designation in a long list.”
“But it shouldn’t be like that,” He insists. “Someday, maybe things will get better. No, don’t look at me like that!” He sees the skeptical expression on Rook’s faceplates. “There’s nothing wrong with having hope. If you want, you can even take it as encouragement: live long enough to see change happen.”
Though there is no outward indication of it, Orion can smell something brewing under the surface. He can’t pick out the exact components, but he can tell a shift has occurred for Rook.
Then, Rook steps backwards, breaking away from Orion’s gentle hold. The moment has shattered.
“Maybe,” He says noncommittally, gaze darting away. “We’d better get to cleaning up, I don’t wanna stay here too long. Being this close to a precinct is making my plating fluff.”
Taking it for the dismissal it is, Orion agrees. “Alright. Thanks for staying behind to help.”
“Can you, errr…” Octane tries to wipe at his misaligned olfactory, then fumbles and brushes across his dentae instead. His other servo is on the doorhandle, as though he was planning an escape, but he’d been slouched against the frame since they’d started, like he forgot partway through. Hah. Fraggin’ loser, got hopped up on his own juice; amateur mistake. “Can you smoke me a blunt?”
Swing lifts his helm from the bench he had laid down on, one of his optics shuttering in delay. Even on cloud nine, he still holds onto his cygar like nothing else mattered. “Urgh… Whaaat?”
“Yeah.” He gestures at Swing’s cygar. Or one of them, at least.
“Okay.” Swing raises it to his intake and takes a long drag. His ventilation kicks in, spreading the fumes all throughout his frame, then stopping before they would normally be ejected.
For that brief moment that he held it, along with whatever else Octane put through the air, he felt like he was up with the clouds. Sometimes he dreamt that he was one of those fast flight frames, and maybe then he wouldn’t need to buy cygars anymore. Fly up and take a puff from the clouds… and maybe keep his job in delivery, if he was real lucky.
When Swing blows a spiral of smoke Octane’s way — an unimpressive party trick that only works on citymechs — the latter throws his helm back and kicks up his ventilation, taking in the fumes that Swing just ex-vented…which sounds gross but, by what little Swing knows about his main seller, the stuff he peddles comes from inside him anyway, so they’re already way past disgusting and firmly in overfamiliar.
Octane’s head tips to the right, falling on his pauldron. His optics are dimmer than usual as the nickel-tine kicks in, mixed with about a dozen other things that only Primus Himself can name, a specialised cocktail designed just for addicts. “A’ight. You can tell me now.”
“Huh? Tell you what?” Swing frowns, propping himself up on his braces, swaying slightly but trying to focus on the conversation. What the frag is this loser yammering about?
“Your new mech. I saw him,” Octane whines. “Are you breaking up with me?”
“Mech, what?”
“You said it on the comms! You said I was your one and only!” He exclaims looking like he is about to break into tears. Swing can’t tell if it’s just acting because he looks genuinely devastated. There’s a wasted talent, the damn mech should’ve become an actor in those slaggy holo-dramas or something.
“You still are! What the Pit is wrong with you?!” Sobering up ever so slightly at the budding argument, Swing pushes himself up to sit up properly — just so he can look Octane in the optics when they argue.
Octane points at him accusatorily. “Then who’s the other plug? You sick frag!”
“Who?!” Swing repeats, high-pitched. Is this some crazy fever-dream?!
“The big blue and red one that looks like a designer petrorabbit!” He yells, the accusatory digit drifting from Swing to the window. Octane’s probably zonked out on slag that he’s never even heard about.
In disbelief, Swing gasps. “Convoy?! He’s not my plug, mech!”
Surprisingly, that seems to pacify Octane greatly, and he slumps back against the door. But his expression tells Swing that he’s still not convinced. “Then who is he?”
When Swing opens his intake to answer, he comes up blank. Who is Convoy?
He’s a pretty nice guy, but he can throw a Pit’uva good punch if he needs to. He can read real fast. There’s a lot of datapads where he’s working at… Well, his accent doesn’t have that distinct Rodion drawl. He just…appeared one day. And keeps appearing — and when he disappears, he’s just gone.
There were always some things that didn’t match up.
Swing noticed early on, but Convoy was helping them, so he turned a blind optic. But so long has passed and he still doesn't know who Convoy is at all. Just what he does for them.
“He’s… cool?” He tries. “Nothing crazy. He’s just teaching me and Rook how to read. Yeah. He’s like my plug but for glyphs.”
Octane blinks. “So if you smoke the glyphs you can read them? You never tell me anything.”
Swing thought he was bad, but Octane is just in his own league up in the clouds. He sobered up enough to get up and drag the mech from where he was slouching against the door to the bench — having only one arm, he had to have his pistons real solid, so he managed to prop him up and open the window to let the smoke out of the room. Better to clear the air, or he’ll just be in-venting his own concoction.
It’s just not in his struts to care for others, he thinks, watching Octane’s helm tip on the windowsill. But he feels inclined to do it because Octane gives him the only thing that lets him power on through this.
He’s saved Swing from debts here and there, even haggled with Blackout’s turbodogs for a few more minutes for him to sneak out — not that he cares, since that’s his business, but he owes him some things on some bases. He’ll pay them, but mostly only so that he doesn’t ditch him.
Octane seems to have dozed off, ventilation slowing down and optics half-shuttered. Swing props his helm on the wide windowsill next to him, chin on his one brace.
The street below is almost black under the labyrinth of pipes that scale the Dead End like rust; they’re pretty high up in a block, so the air feels crisp in his dirty ventilation system.
Sometimes he looks at Convoy and thinks about how his life could have looked like if he managed to tick all the boxes. Two arms, smooth and shiny, all ten digits. He could replace his wheels when his got bad — they’re not ribbed for rough terrain, so they blunt all the time. And maybe he’d have a guitar in his servos instead of a cygar. He would read the package and ask himself who’d frag up their vents like that.
In a fit of something that he can’t quite name, Swing flings his cygar out the window. It clinks against the pipes it falls against, leaving little speckles of embers on its way down.
And then he wants it back again.
So he pilfers a freshie from Octane’s slack hold. The mech’s out cold, won’t miss a few from his collection — and, better than that, he’s got the fancy ones. Might as well put ‘em to good use.
Shimmerstick is not a mech prone to self-doubt, but lately she’s been wondering.
Was it the right idea to bring Fracture here? Then she immediately feels guilty for thinking it, because the alternative is him deciding that running for the numerous Dead End gangs is a lucrative way of making shanix, and then ending up getting shot for his troubles and offlining in some alleyway.
Perhaps she’s a bleeding spark, but she’s taken him under her wing and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t offer him a chance to look for something better.
Attachments are a weakness, here in the Dead End. Still, closing off your spark and living the rest of your life in solitude doesn’t appeal to her. Yes, maybe she’ll live a long time because of it — but it’ll be bitter and empty, so what’s the point? The lifespan of a guttermech, even one as comparatively well-off as she is, is short; prone to sudden, abrupt deaths at the servos of… Well, take your pick, really.
Fracture is blossoming slowly, she observes. He’s never been a shy mech, always up in your faceplates, but spending time with Convoy is doing wonders for his mindset. She’s happy for him, of course.
That being said, there are some…adverse side effects that she could do without.
For one thing, Swing has become even more combative and irritating. Oh, yes, when Convoy is there, he’s a precious little darling, always quick to demand praise for his miniscule achievements.
But during the cycles Convoy isn’t around? He’s a bad recharge flux to deal with. Rook is a Primus-sent gift in comparison, taking over the teaching role when Shimmerstick can’t, but that only adds to the problem. For whatever reason, Swing doesn’t like it when people get close to Rook or to Convoy.
She’s reminded of their little conversation… Primus, has it already been a few mega-cycles? Nevertheless, he’d pretended that he didn’t care, but his tantrums make it obvious that he does.
Or maybe it’s not care. Maybe it’s a possessiveness that comes as part of the price one pays for living in the Dead End — there is so little to begin with, that you start to covet what you do have. It becomes a matter of pride to keep the things you need close to you, lest you lose them and destroy yourself as well.
Really though, she doesn’t like thinking well of Swing, because then she might start to empathise with him. It’s bad enough that she sees him so often, if she starts thinking of him as one of hers… The horror!
Not to mention, he seems to have it out for Fracture personally.
One good thing about Fracture is the fact that he doesn’t let himself be dragged down by the emotions of other mechs, so he lets Swing’s bullying slide off of his plating like solvent on a cyber-duck’s back.
Rook is too familiar to chide Swing for his misbehavior so, as usual, the task falls to her to become the disciplinarian. On a good cycle, she has to resist the urge to bash his helm in at least twice.
This cycle is not a good cycle.
Having been a dealing with him as a general nuisance for the better part of four joors, her last straw is when he starts smoking his cygar inside, even though there are rules against that sort of thing — and a holo-poster tacked up by Convoy. It’s meant to be courtesy; so many mechs try to battle their addiction by devoting their attention to other things, and the ‘no smoke or drugs’ rule is enforced for that reason.
The acrid stench stings her olfactories and makes her throat cabling go dry. Not many know about her own struggles with nickel-tine, but it’s obvious by the minute twitches in her digits.
“Stop that,” She hisses, snatching the cygar from his grip. “There are rules to be followed here. Can’t you see the sign?” She jabs an aggressive digit into his chestplate. “Or are you simply blind as well?”
“That sign can’t stop me because I can’t read.” He says.
Bastard. “As if that excuse will work,” She sniffs distastefully, but the smell only invades deeper. Her hind-processor stirs, scrabbling for the barest hints of nickel-tine it can find. “Either listen, or get out.”
“You don’t control me.” He says with a cruel grin.
“I’ll tell Convoy,” She snaps, drawing herself up to her full height. Admittedly, her minibot status makes it hard for her to be intimidating, but she puffs out her plating, tilts her helm up to meet his gaze, and refuses to back down. “See how much he likes you when he realises what a little glitch you really are.”
“Do it,” He taunts. “You won’t.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“You’ll have to admit to him why you’re so scared of me,” He says lazily. “Don’t want him to think much less of you, or are you going to tell me I’m wrong?”
She hisses at him under her next ex-vent, knowing that he’s right — and hating him for it.
That’s the worst part about Swing. Despite his lackadaisical nature and his insistence on being a lone dire-wolf, he knows how to read mechs. He doesn’t say much of substance but, after some silent observation, when he does, he’s usually dead-center on the shanix. And he won’t hesitate to use it.
“You —” She struggles to find something to say, but no glyphs escape her frozen glossa.
“Cybercat got your glossa?” He taunts, offering her the cygar, knowing she can’t take it and knowing that she wants to. “Why don’t you take a drag than? Maybe you’ll finally chill out.”
“Something the matter?” Rook asks, interrupting the silent standoff that Shimmerstick, though she hates to admit it, is losing, with Fracture trailing behind him like a confused cyberpup. The height difference is almost comical between the two of them. “Swing, no smoking indoors. You know the rules.”
His timing could not have been better if he had been sent by Primus Himself.
“Whatever,” Swing says irreverently, already bored of the conversation now that there’s no fight to be picked. “Don’t get your cables in a twist. I’m done now, see?” He stubs the butt of his cygar against the wall, leaving smears of ash behind; a mark of his presence and a physical reminder of the altercation.
Rook cycles his optics. “Get over yourself,” He says. “I was in the middle of something.”
“Spare me a line,” Swing counters, equally annoyed. “Sorry I interrupted your precious time with Spikey here. Not my problem that Shimmer here can’t fight her own damn fights.”
“You’re such a glitch.” Rook proclaims. “Can’t let me have one thing, can you?”
“You need more than me?” Swing pouts, the haze clearing from his optics. He puts his servo over his spark. “I’m hurt, Rook. I thought we were for-life.” In spite of his harsh glyphs, a steady smile is growing across his faceplates, almost manic in the way he shows his dentae with every other glyph.
Is he…enjoying the argument? His EMF has flared out slightly and he devotes his full attention to Rook. She shakes her helm in disgust. Everything she learns about this little freak is against her will.
Shimmerstick takes advantage of the distraction to snag Fracture by the servo. “Come,” She says imperiously. “While he’s too distracted to remember that we’re still here.” He won’t realise that Fracture is present for him to take his irritation out on, not with the way he seems captivated by his dispute.
“Swing’s a pretty funny guy, don’t you think?” Fracture comments idly, helm still craned so he can watch the way Swing and Rook fire barbs at each other like this is a casual, cyclical occurrence. “You think he’d wanna hang out some time? He seems like my kinda mech.”
“What?” She says, appalled. “Fracture, you do realise he hates you, yes?”
“You’re funny, Shim,” He pats her helm condescendingly. “It’s just a weird hazing ritual.”
“No, I don’t think it is.” She says, flashing back to all the times when Swing looked to be one wrong glyph away from taking a, well, swing at Fracture, only to be stopped by Rook stepping in or by Convoy’s general presence. “I’m fairly certain that he desires nothing more than to rip you to shreds.”
“It’s just a mech thing.” He soothes. “You wouldn’t get it. You’re too stuffy for that kinda tussling, yanno? You and Divebomb are the same, I swear. Are you two my Creators or what?”
“Hm.” She says noncommittally.
If Fracture wants to charge helmlong into something as stupid as trying to strike up a, what, friendship with Swing, she won’t stop him. And the consequences of that? On his own helm, be it.
“So,” Swing starts as he steps over the threshold, a shifty expression on his faceplates. Instantly, Orion is on guard — as are both Shimmerstick and Rook, the only other two with consistent enough exposure to Swing to expect the worst. Fracture just looks bemused. “Don’t shoot or nothin’, ‘kay?”
“And why, exactly, would we start shooting?” Shimmerstick probes, but her hand is tight on the cane she refuses to go anywhere without, which Orion should probably be more worried about.
“This is a free set-up, yeah?” Swing says instead. “Open to anyone?”
“Yes.” Orion says firmly, because he will not compromise on that. No matter how dangerous that makes things, he refuses to back down on his stance. Thankfully, no one has tried to persuade him otherwise.
“Cool, cool,” Swing bobs his helm. “Anyway, I brought a guy.”
He steps aside to reveal a stocky mech, taller than Swing but less visible due to the fact that he’s lurking in the shadows of the jutting overhead alcoves. At the invisible cue, the mech moves forward so the flickering light can illuminate him for the benefit of those unaware. “Yo.” He says lazily.
The mech is chrome and purple with white accents, paint chipped all over, the heavy stench of chemicals clinging to him. He has small horns, a noticeable amount of kibble, and beady yellow optics.
A cygar rests against his lipplates and puffs of smoke escape him every so often.
Orion doesn’t recognise this mech, but his finials swivel backwards unconsciously. Underneath the tang of melted metal and bitter vapours, he can smell curiosity and interest. The latter is different to the former, because it rings faint alarm bells in his processor — he has reason to be wary of this mech.
“The frag, Swing?!” Rook explodes. “Why’d you bring him?”
Even Shimmerstick looks irritated, leering warily at the newcomer. “I’ve heard of you,” She says distastefully, her scent spiking with what basically amounts to back off. “Octane, isn’t it?”
“The one and only.” Octane grunts, spreading his arms in a ‘come hither’ gesture.
“I’ve heard of you too,” Fracture pipes up, optical ridge furrowed in recognition. “You’re that mech, the one that caters to all the gangs. They leave you alone ‘cause you deal fair.”
“No one gives a slag what you know.” Swing mutters, though he goes largely ignored.
“I see my reputation precedes me?” Octane grins. “Nice to hear I’m still relevant. At your service.”
“Shut up!” Rook snaps, before whirling around shoving his digit into Swing’s chestplate. Swing doesn’t respond, just stares at him coolly, which only seems to aggravate him further. “You brought your fragging dealer here? How do you know he won’t sell us out? He’s doesn’t care about anyone except himself!”
“I don’t care about anyone except myself,” Swing says loftily. “‘sides, he won’t rat on us.”
“How do you know?” Orion asks, moving forward to place a restraining servo on Rook’s pauldron; he doesn’t get shoved off, which is a testament to the younger mech’s fraying temper at the moment.
“Swing’s a valuable customer,” Octane says. “Plus, I might be looking to expand my, er, skillset. I don’t wanna spend my life selling on street corners when I could have my own place, yanno? So if I rat you out, I lose too.” He flicks ash from his cygar onto the cracked tiles. “And me, personally? I like to win.”
A ‘mutually assured destruction’ situation isn’t exactly Orion’s idea of a good start, but he can’t very well refuse when he’s already stated that his reading lessons are open to everyone. Primus, help him.
“There you have it!” Swing says. “A guarantee! We all good now, yeah?”
“No, we’re not all good!” Rook hisses, optics alight with fury. He grabs Swing by the wrist, halting the orange mech in his tracks. “You and I? We need to have a talk.”
“Ooh, scary!” Swing jeers, but lets himself be dragged deeper into the building.
“Maybe Swing gave me the wrong impression,” Octane drawls, tilting his helm in the direction of Swing and Rook’s disappearing backs. “I didn’t realise this was a ‘everyone cast a vote’ typa thing.”
Orion and Shimmerstick exchange a look. “It’s not…” He begins delicately.
She cuts him off. “We make exceptions for mechs like you,” She says bluntly. “Swing isn’t the best judge of character, so forgive us if we don’t like surprise additions. Especially if they’re your kind.”
“Ouch,” Octane says tonelessly. “All this about ‘my kind’, but we’re all the same here, aren’t we?”
His yellow optics land on Orion, who stiffens. A thinly veiled comment about his lack of belonging is evidence enough that Octane is aware of his less-than-humble origins. The question now: is he willing to hold the blackmail over their helms? It would be easy enough to use it against them.
“Don’t.” Shimmerstick says warningly.
He holds his servos up in a casual surrender. “I wasn’t saying anything. Just making an observation. Or is ‘my kind’ not allowed to do that too? What are you, an Enforcer?”
Shimmerstick’s plating fluffs out in offense. “I was simply giving you notice. Whatever your issue, mind your glossa. There is a time and place for such conversation, and this is not it.”
“Hey, so,” Fracture pipes up, unheeding the awkwardness in the atmosphere. “The lesson’s over, right? I’m gonna dip, is that cool?” He doesn’t wait for a response, already halfway out the door before he transforms with a screech of tires on the asphalt. The ragtag trio that remains is treated to the sight of a flashy purple and grey motorbike driving away, leaving a stream of exhaust fumes in its wake.
Orion wishes he could do the same, if only to get away from the potential fallout.
Before Octane can retort, or Orion can smooth over any ruffled feathers, Swing and Rook return; the former looks as lazily triumphant as ever, while the latter has a deep scowl on his faceplates and his chipped visor has slid down to hide his optics from view — a sure sign of his discontent.
“So? The verdict?” Octane prompts.
Rook turns to Orion. “You can’t let him in, Convoy. I don’t care if Swing vouched for him. I don’t care if he’s the fragging second coming of Primus. He can’t join. He wasn’t even invited!”
“Swing made me an offer, and I accepted,” Octane counters. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna do what’s good for me. So I think… that it’s in you guys’ best interest to work out a compromise. Yeah?”
Shimmerstick remains silent, as does Swing, which is rather uncharacteristic of him.
All optics fall to Orion, who shifts uncomfortably on his pedes. So he can either betray his morals, or betray Rook. Logically, he knows the right choice to make. It doesn’t hurt any less, knowing that he’ll be shattering Rook’s faith in him, however minuscule it may be, with his answer.
“I wanted this to be open to everyone,” He says slowly, testing the glyphs on his glossa, ignoring the accusatory stare Rook is giving him. “Because the Senate wouldn’t let it be. They would restrict it based on how they classify mechs. If I say no based on the mentality of ‘us versus them’, we’ll be no better than the Senate. Who are we to decide who gets to do what? So I… agree with allowing Octane to join us.”
“I knew you’d say yes, Convoy.” Swing says with a grin. “‘s just good business.”
Rook’s expression is hard to parse from under the visor, but Orion can smell the resignation and bitterness on him. Shimmerstick’s lipplates curl up, yet she makes no move to contest his decision.
“Good choice,” Octane nods his approval. “Lesson’s over for this cycle, yeah?” He ex-vents a puff of smoke, not waiting for an answer. “S’pose I’ll be seeing you mechs around real soon.” He turns to leave, and Swing follows after him, chatting amicably as they both take drags of their cygar in unison.
And then it’s just Orion, Shimmerstick, and Rook left, standing in the doorway in silence.
“Rook…” Orion begins hesitantly, unsure whether he’ll be rebuffed or not. “You know I value your opinion, and I trust that you have our best interests on your processor, but I…”
“I should hate you for this,” Rook says lowly. “But I can’t. You know why? You’re so damn real. You care about each and every guttermech, even when you don’t have to. So, even though I don’t agree… I won’t fight you on this. Because you’re better than the Senate. Just… don’t prove me wrong about that.”