Chapter Text
There came a certain point where Damus thought his self-esteem could not stoop any lower.
Evidently, he had been wrong. Life did always have a penchant for throwing things in his direction unwarranted to the point where he really ought to stop being so surprised by it.
Megatron had taught him how to use his ability; to control it and bend it to his will. But by performing a quick search of Tarn – the mech, not the city– on the Lost Light ’s database Damus accidentally fried part of the mainframe and sat there in shock until he was ushered to the medbay.
Perhaps for the best. Megatron and Nickel had refused to tell him of his counterpart no matter how often he pried, his requests met with variants of ‘you really don't want to know,' hidden behind a simple ‘all in due time'.
He realized only then that they were protecting him rather than trying to get him off their backs as he assumed. But he had to pry. He had to look and find out the truth. Self-control is not a virtue Damus possessed, and his curiosity often tended to overshadow rational thought.
He realized belatedly that the medic was talking to him. Awareness crept back into the corners of his processor and urged him to look at…
Nickel.
Odd. He could've sworn the medic around here was Ratchet.
“–Overdid it,” the medic’s tone indicated a lecture. A familiar one, guessed Damus, given how his processor told him she'd been going for a good few minutes now. He had the good grace to feel ashamed and inclined his helm.
“I apologize.” To whom? To Nickel? Wasn't she supposed to apologize to him, instead?
...For what?
Deceiving you, of course.
But was it really deceitful if she was trying to protect you?
Protect me? Wasn't she friends with that… Tarn?
No, it would do him no good mulling on these things lest he wanted to work himself into a deeper mental pit. He crinkled his optic at her in the vaguest hint of a ‘smile’, before he realized that–
He had a face again. The Lost Light now had access to the necessary components and offered him repairs as a reward for his loyalty. Something in his processor told him that it was horribly ironic, but he did not know why.
Nickel must have seen the turmoil on his face. Centuries without a face have made him far more expressive than he had been even before his Empurata and he reached up to cover his face in his servos. To his surprise, Nickel just laughed.
“Not used to that yet, huh?”
Damus dared to peek through his digits. He frowned. “Huh?”
Huh. Such a linguist, his thoughts mocked at him. Damus reset his vocalizer to correct his tone. “Ah, I– what did you mean by that?”
“Having a face,” Nickel said. “It's kinda cute. Seeing you lose control of your expressions.”
“Cute?!” Damus sputtered, horribly offended. Yes, he was smaller than average and had somewhat of a clumsy air to him, but– cute?! His paintjob wasn't nice nor soft to the optic and he had a tendency to be so awkward it bordered on being an actual hindrance to everything in his life, especially interaction.
But here, Nickel called him cute.
Compared to the other you.
Damus winced. He could not keep his earlier discoveries locked in a separate compartment of his processor and it took to the forefront again. He reacted physically in his discomfort and cringed away from Nickel’s grounding touch, scooting further back on the slab.
Through the cracks in his digits he saw how her expression fell. Nickel retreated a bit further back and rummaged in a drawer of tools. For appearance’s sake, or to busy her servos, Damus guessed. He could relate.
“So, you found out.”
He lowered his servos and dropped them by his sides. “Not everything.”
“Look, I–”
“You said you cared for him.” It was strongly against his ethics to interrupt mechs mid-sentence. Yet here he could not stand to hear more of her excuses and pressed on, optical ridges knitting together in an angry frown. “Did you?”
Nickel ex-vented wearily. “Yeah.”
So a simple ‘yeah' is all you get? Ask her. Press for more. You need answers, don't you?
Damus thunked his helm against the wall and offlined his vision. There was only one question he could think to ask. “Why?” Then, before she could misinterpret; “I’ve read files on him. Seen images. Of what he did. What–”
Nickel turned around and stared at him blankly. “Don't you care for Megatron?” Damus cringed back at the implications. Was it that obvious?
Or was it because the other him… had too?
Nickel didn't wait for a response. “He made Tarn. I guess you only see him as this… glorified picture of perfection, but I hate his guts. He's a fragging hypocrite, Damus, and the sooner you realize that, the better.”
Damus rose to defend his captain. “Yes, Megatron is not perfect, but is perfection not–”
“–In the eye of the beholder?” Nickel guessed. He wisely shut his mouth as by the looks of it and the subtle tremor in her vocals, it wasn't something she wanted to hear. Nickel approached, pausing only when she was by the end of the slab he had retreated to and slammed her servos down on the edge. “I have hope for you yet. He couldn't see through Megatron. Couldn't see that he didn't give a slag about any of us, and strung you– him along, and fucked off into tomorrow, that's what he did! And you call that a capable leader? A reformed mech? Bullshit.”
A foreign feeling washed over him. Damus realized it was fondness for the little medic, as if…
As if he'd known her as a close friend.
These feelings weren't his.
Damus recoiled and grasped at his helm. Agony overtook him and his systems stood on high alert, his HUD flaring with warnings of a possible intruder.
Nickel screamed something at him– at their surroundings, at a presence off-screen, but all that Damus could hear was a voice that did not belong to him, not to this him, and that he…
The world spun. Static gained on his vision and coated his environment in a sea of nothingness, until his audials too stopped receiving.
Something closed around his throat and he could not speak. The pressure of the vice-like grip threatened to crush him but when he tried to reach for the arm attached to it he clawed at nothing but air.
There was something– no, that's not right.
There was someone in his processor besides himself. Dread enveloped him and rendered his every process, every subroutine attempting to bring him back to consciousness completely useless.
He could only think of one thing.
“Tarn."