Chapter Text
There has always been an itch present as long as Rodimus can remember crawling under his playing. Since before he was Rodimus; since his early days in Nyon running amuck.
And running he was. Or racing, anything that took away the itch. The sensation of cool air flowing over his spoiler was immaculate, not in the sense that it gave him a buzz or high, but rather because it felt right.
Climbing up high also seemed to help. So the empty rooftops of Nyon became his refuge, and home to the others who also burned with an intangible itch. They would dance and jump on the railings, testing each other’s balance, and one time Hot Rod slipped.
Even while he lay there on the ground below the buildings with three fractures and a concussion, Roddy laughed, because in those few moments the ever present itch receded. In its place arose a foreign feeling of true peace, and in his mind he was flying.
But of course jumping off rooftops is not a sustainable habit, and as much as it itched and burnt inside, Roddy didn’t jump again.
At least until Doubledealer.
Millions of years later, in the middle of a civil war, Hot Rod jumped again. This time not from a rooftop, but off an asteroid thousands of metres above the ground. Asteroid surfing itself provided a beautiful relief to his aching systems, but nothing compared to the feeling of free fall. Even if his T cog tried to engage with a halted jolt, and a brief moment of panic, it was still the most comfortable he’d ever felt in his own frame. The drop in his tank, the screaming in his audials, the burning heat of re entry; all of it was pure bliss to his starved instincts.
Another few million years passed and the war ended. Hot Rod, now Rodimus, was co-captain of the Lost Light, venturing into the stars with his amica Drift. He was also miserable. That may be an exaggeration, he thought, after all he has no reason to be unhappy. He has his friends and he has his mission, but all that still didn’t mask the unmistakeable itch.
It crawled through his lines, dancing in his fingers, his restless legs, and haunting his rechargeless nights. The asteroid surfing helped, but like an addict searching for his next big high it was never quite enough. Rodimus needed more.
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Off shift. Swerves. Too much dancing, and too much Engex, and yet not enough to ease the ache, never enough, and Rodimus burned.
Mindlessly he made his way through the crowd and through the ship to the loading bays. Faces became blurs as he passed, and his mind focused on one thing. The catwalks. When he finally made it into the gaping room, the tall stairs to the catwalk shone like a gleaming stairway to heaven. His legs aches and a sound echoed in his audials, but it was far off and unclear in his mind.
At some point he had stood up on the railing, like he used to do in Nyon. Vents quaking, and hands shaking, Rodimus offlined his optics.
He moved forward and he was falling.