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A new life.
That’s how Ratchet had described it. His words; not anyone else’s. That’s how the four-million-year CMO had called Tailgate’s bizarrely phenomenal recovery. Not a miracle and certainly not dumb luck. Just that: a second chance at being alive; a brand-new opportunity for the little mech to do something with his days.
“A new life,” he had said, evasively, “and all that implies.”
Now Cyclonus understood why the medic’s optics had refused to meet his own.
“And then—” Swerve was cut off by his own sniggers.
“What? Then what?”
Tailgate’s own voice faltered with laughter. He clearly didn’t understand what was so funny, but he was having the greatest of times all the same. Merriment flooded the bar. People were huddled in, on, around, and even under his table, trying to get a glimpse of him or talk to him: the concrete miracle and solidest proof of the Guiding Hand’s goodwill. The Lost Light was in an uproar over his survival. He was a beacon of hope, bright as starlight and real as the drinks in their hands. Tiny little Tailgate was, all of a sudden, their good luck charm.
“You edited a comma,” Chromedome said, “and saved us all.”
“He edited a semicolon, you uneducated dolt.” Whirl pinched the ex-mnemosurgeon’s jaw. Chromedome tried to bat him away and splashed his engex all over the table and himself.
“It was awesome,” Skids concluded drunkenly.
Everyone agreed with hearty cheers and incoherent hollers. Getaway slapped the theoretician in the back and swigged down what was left of his drink. Skids smiled and hid his head between his arms. Tailgate made a small twittering sound—the one young Cybertronians made when they still weren’t wholly capable of forming a fully fledged laugh—and the whole room let out strangled cries with different degrees of repressed delight. Atomizer actually reached over from across the table and rubbed his head zealously, commenting with a slur on the Minibot’s adorability. Tailgate laughed breathlessly and Cyclonus held himself back; it took all he had not to rip the impudent arm off its socket.
The celebration went on like that for a while. Mechs stumbled about and grabbed or held or nuzzled Tailgate, as if trying to rub a bit of his providence off on them. Some, in spite of their inebriated state, threw wary and even enquiring glances at Cyclonus before making their move on the little star. He silently remained next to Tailgate, sitting tautly and barely touching his engex, pretending to ignore the curious glances the small mech shot at him every now and again.
At one point, a small mech whose name Cyclonus ignored hung a slab of metal with NOT TODAY, BIG C! written on it. He didn’t find it amusing, but Tailgate loved it. All of a sudden, Tailgate tittered happily in his seat at a comment someone made and asked Swerve if they all could have another round. The bartender threw his head back and roared “YEAH!” so loudly that most mechs stood from their seats to applaud and whistle, swinging their empty or halfway-gone glasses. The euphoria in the room was contagious.
Cyclonus was about to go on a killing spree.
With the new round of drinks, the bar fell into a lull. Quiet conversation started to bloom in small groups and mechs finally dispersed to grab a seat and talk until they couldn’t think any more. Laughter remained, but it was subdued. Swerve manoeuvred around the place with a tray full of glasses, patting others and offering the beverages with a grin. A relaxed atmosphere was starting to take over the bar, sweeping out the hysterics in the process.
Tailgate fiddled with the rim of his drink. “I didn’t know I was so, um…”
“Awe—” Skids hiccupped, then offered, “Awesome?”
“Pretty ’markable,” Chromedome said.
“Cool,” Whirl stated.
“Oh, wow, um, I don’t really know about that.” Tailgate rubbed his neck, embarrassed at the compliments. “I just—It’s so difficult to picture all of those things! I don’t—I can’t really…remember.”
“Mech, we know.” Getaway patted his head. “But, trust me, you’re one grand tiny Bot.”
“And he’s only met you since, like, twenty minutes before you collapsed,” Whirl added. “Give or take. I wasn’t really there. Coulda been less. Or more. Whatever. Bottom line: trust him.”
“I’m not really sure I deserve your admiration, guys,” Tailgate said. “I mean, maybe the old me does, but I don’t remember anything or anyone now. It’s just not fair to you, admiring someone who can’t even recall your names. And I don’t feel all that heroic. I feel…normal.”
“You’re great,” Chromedome insisted. “Don’t sell yourself sh-short.”
“Someone’s stuttering,” teased Trailcutter.
“Shut,” Chromedome snapped, trying to point at the mech, “your thing, forcefield-face.”
“I don’t have a forcefield face,” Trailcutter said and turned to glare at Whirl. “Whirl, stop telling people I have a forcefield face!”
“I said,” Chromedome slurred, “forcefield-face. There’s a…line thingy there.”
“Hyphen,” Whirl provided.
“Yes, that. Thank you.”
There were two things Cyclonus was having a hard time coping with at the moment: his listening to this conversation, and Whirl’s awareness of the existence of the word ‘hyphen’ and what it meant.
Trailcutter frowned. “My face doesn’t look like a forcefield.”
“Your visor does,” Chromedome quipped.
“You know,” Whirl squinted at Trailcutter, as if seeing him for the first time, “he’s actually got a point.”
The mindless conversation went on, and Tailgate laughed and snorted and then rightfully spluttered some of his drink when Whirl made an incredibly lewd observation. Chromedome reacted poorly to it and buried his head between his arms, noticeably upset, muttering something about Whirl being a liar. Tailgate looked as if he didn’t know whether giggling was socially acceptable or not by this point, so he slumped against his chair and looked on quietly. After some time, he cleared his throat.
“You know, I’m feeling a bit drained,” he said. “Nothing, uh, out of the ordinary! But the chief medic did tell me to take it easy for the first week, so I’ll be taking my leave.”
“But it’s your party,” Trailcutter whined.
“Awesome party,” Skids mumbled tipsily. “Awesome.”
“What’s with him and the word ‘awesome’?” asked Whirl.
“Well, what’s with you and the word ‘cool’?” Skids asked defensively.
Getaway sighed. “He’s drunk off his wheels. Just ignore him.”
“Anyway,” Tailgate laughed, “if you’ll excuse me.”
He jumped off his seat and left the bar, but not after having stopped at least twenty times to say that “yes, I’m calling it a night” and “no, I don’t feel sick”. He even had to hug a mech for a few minutes because he was so drunk, he thought Tailgate was going to his room to die in solitude. Cyclonus would hunt down that mech later and let it be known just how unacceptable it was to mention anything related to Tailgate’s death (especially in front of Tailgate) so close after dodging that bullet.
As if some sort of spell had been broken, Swerve refused to give any more free rounds and said it was time for everyone, not just little Minibots who came back from the dead, to call it a night. He lowered the lights and started collecting the drinks. Cyclonus witnessed the proceedings in silence; he had his fair share of respect for this side of the metallurgist-gone-bartender. As much as he liked his chosen function, Swerve had some sort of discipline: he knew when enough was enough.
Once the whinging and complaining ended, the bar started to empty. Getaway left with Atomizer and Skids, Trailcutter was carried off by Whirl (who made a patronising remark about drunken pupils that no one really understood), and other mechs retreated to their rooms to either continue the celebration there or pass out.
Cyclonus remained in his seat until he suddenly had the distinct impression of being observed. He looked up and locked optics with the only mech that had remained at the table with him: Chromedome, who was looking intoxicated but lucid. His yellow visor stood out like a bonfire in the bar’s dimness.
“Hey,” the ex-mnemosurgeon began.
“Whatever you have to say, don’t,” Cyclonus stated, starting to get up.
Chromedome’s hand fell on top of his. “Nonono, wait. Hear me out? I won’t slur.”
“No.”
“It’s important, I swear.”
“Your notion of what’s important differs from mine greatly.” Cyclonus slipped his hand out of Chromedome’s grasp, but sat down again all the same. He folded his arms and scowled at the tipsy mech. “Make it quick.”
Chromedome propped his head on one hand and looked down at his glass. “I just wanted to make sure you know you’re lucky.”
Cyclonus’ scowl increased. “Lucky.”
“Yes. I mean, I know you think it sucks right now and you probably wanna bash my head in for saying otherwise.” Chromedome took a small sip of engex and his shoulders slouched even further. “Sure, Tailgate not remembering anything is a real downer, I agree, but just—For one second, just be glad he’s here.”
“You think I should be grateful that this is the lesser of two evils,” Cyclonus said.
“Yeah. You’ve got a second chance, Cyclonus. Ratchet said so. ‘A new life,’ he said. I was there. And there’s nothing that says you’ve got to keep away or anything. Tailgate getting a second shot at life doesn’t mean you don’t get a second shot at being with him, so you should grab this second shot and make the best of it.”
“This him is not interested in me,” Cyclonus said cuttingly. “And I am not interested in this him.”
“Then why are you hurting?”
Cyclonus narrowed his eyes dangerously. His relationship with Chromedome had come a long way from the mutual animosity they had shown towards one another at the beginning of the quest. The ex-mnemosurgeon was very much like Red Alert, in a sense: flawed beyond repair but still likeable. Nevertheless, their budding camaraderie didn’t give Chromedome any right to speak up so freely about his personal affairs.
“Don’t give me that look, Cyclonus. I’m not looking for a fight. I’m drunk right now, in case you haven’t noticed.” Chromedome raised his glass as evidence. “It’d go so not-okay for me.”
“If you’re not looking for a fight, stop having such an inciting attitude.”
“You know, “inciting” is kind of a fifty-shanix-word for me at the moment.” Chromedome’s visor flickered under the engex’s effects. “It even sounds a bit erotic.”
Cyclonus’ glare intensified. Chromedome shrugged.
“Hey, I’m just saying: you should be glad. If I could have Rewind back, with or without his memories, I’d be glad. Very. I miss him and I wish I had a second chance with him. But I don’t. And you do. And you look just so resigned, like you don’t even care about Tailgate.”
“He calls himself by another name,” Cyclonus snapped.
“Who cares if he does? Seriously, as if that changes anything?” Chromedome sighed. “He’s still Tailgate. Rewind went undercover hundreds of times in his search for Dominus Ambus. Sometimes, I wouldn’t even know what his name was, but he was always Rewind to me. And there were moments where I thought I’d lost him under all those layers of fake mechs he invented, and it was always hard work to dig him out of all those stupid personas he immersed himself into, but he was there. Why is Tailgate’s amnesia so different?”
“Tailgate doesn’t remember. Rewind shut his memories away willingly.”
“And you think that made it easier,” Chromedome said, so quietly that Cyclonus almost didn’t hear. “You think he had the consideration of placing a Trepan’s Trigger or some sort of failsafe for me to get him back. You think that, right?
“He never asked me to inject him. He always used illegal rewriting or suppressing programs on himself, and I had to save him so many times. In the end, he hurt me more than he would have if he had just let me do the job properly for him. Not because of the nightmares or the backlash. When I entered his mind when he was like…like that, he didn’t know me. He didn’t recognise me. Not even a little. Do you know how devastating that is? To be standing in the middle of your other half’s core and hear the echo of his very essence bounce off you as if you’re impermeable to it? A stranger?
“All I’m saying is,” Chromedome said, sounding more tired than he ever had, “if I could have an amnesiac Rewind back, I would have him back and work from there. Because my love for him and his love for me is stronger than corrupted memory data. The devastation caused by the temporary unfamiliarity is totally worth it, if only for the swarming feeling of perfection that comes when he finally knows me. I went through that hundreds of times; I know what I’m talking about. He’s my Conjunx Endura and you damn well know what that means.”
“We’re closing up, guys,” Swerve said, stopping at their table. “That means you two gotta scat. Don’t make me have to throw you out, because I can’t. You both are way too big.”
“Right, Swerve, we were just finishing up,” Chromedome raised a hand. “Gives us a sec?”
Swerve wagged his finger dramatically. “Just the one.”
“Thanks.”
Chromedome watched him leave and then, when the small mech was no longer within hearing distance, he turned to face Cyclonus fully. The jet’s optics twitched almost unnoticeably. He truly wasn’t fond of being in the receiving end of such scrutinising looks. He had nothing to prove; the act of inspecting him was a useless thing that only served to irk him.
But Chromedome’s stare wasn’t judging or calculating. It was calm yet stern in a way that made the wry mech look wiser than his years.
“Tailgate’s your Rewind. Don’t give him up so easily.” Chromedome stood up. “Else, you never deserved him.”
When Cyclonus entered their hab-suite, Tailgate was curled up on the windowsill and looking out. It reminded him of the day when they had found out about the cybercrosis. The star field had been different and their future had looked a lot bleaker, but they had felt safe in the quietness of their room. It had been a place to seek refuge and find it in the arms of another. Now the memories displayed in every corner were there to be seen only by Cyclonus; Tailgate had scrubbed them off his mind for ever.
The Minibot saw him in the window’s reflection and turned to him.
“Oh, hey. I didn’t know you’d be coming so soon, um…”
Cyclonus didn’t say his name, like Tailgate obviously expected and wanted him to. He simply stood there and waited to see if that blue visor would flicker with recognition, a spark of reminiscence, anything.
“…Cyclone?” Tailgate finished lamely.
“No.”
He flinched. “Right, uh, sorry. I’m not—I kind of suck at names.”
Cyclonus blinked but said nothing. Words didn’t come to him. There was nothing he could possibly say in a situation such as this. He could improvise during a battle, but to face the sole mech you ever cared about knowing he doesn’t remember you? Cyclonus was at a loss. He grunted and shrugged, then stomped to his recharge slab. The silence, as welcome as it may usually be, was almost unbearable. It was his Tailgate’s job to fill the quiet with sound. This other Tailgate—foreign, unknown, fake—didn’t know how to handle silences; he preferred stepping back and letting someone else take the lead.
“Um, is it…Typhoon?”
“No.”
“Storm. I’m positive it’s—No, wait. Stormy! Stormy? Uh, Thunderstorm?” Tailgate tapped his fingertips together, a jumbled mess of shyness and anxiety. “T-Tempestus?”
Cyclonus turned the lights off, lay down, and turned his back on the small mech. So, it was back to this. Back to sharing a room with a stranger, back to having no wish to intimate, back to feeling the emptiness and loneliness that came with being him.
He had been asked not to give the recovering mech a difficult time. Many people on board of the Lost Light had approached him to request that he be nice to Tailgate. He had ignored them. Nicety was not something he could manage, so he would simply stick to treating Tailgate the same way he always had. Or so he had thought. When the amnesia came to light, Cyclonus found himself adrift. Their relationship had been possible because of specific events they both had lived and shared. To rebuild from scratch with no solid foundation was simply unfathomable.
In all honesty, Cyclonus had nothing to provide for the small mech, and so he was letting this new version of Tailgate go. It would be best if he just detached himself now instead of fighting a losing battle. He had suffered enough in the span of the eons; he wished to steer clear of any avoidable pain.
Chromedome had told him to try harder, to seize the second opportunity he and Tailgate had been given. No one quite understood that ‘new life’ didn’t equal ‘second chance’. Going after a familiar frame wasn’t the solution if the person it contained was no longer there. To him, there was nothing or nobody to fight for.
Or maybe there was?
If they were forced to start from scratch, then there at least ought to be a starting line. He balled his fists. Chromedome had said that if he gave up on Tailgate so easily then he didn’t deserve him in the first place. Chromedome had also said that Cyclonus knew what it meant to be a Conjunx Endurae. And he did. It meant that no matter how desperately you wanted to give up, you simply couldn’t even fathom the idea of ever doing so.
Cyclonus turned and swung his legs off the slab. He wasn’t one to dawdle when he had the power to do something. Tailgate gave a little jump where he was nestled against the window, his visor glowing in the room’s dark. Cyclonus got up and turned the lights on. He remained there, unmoving and with his back turned to the Minibot. Tailgate said nothing, but his vocaliser kept buzzing with aborted lines of speech.
Cyclonus faced him. They were only a few metres apart but it felt like they were galaxies away.
“Say your name.”
Tailgate looked baffled. “My name?”
“Yes, your name,” Cyclonus confirmed. “Say it.”
“Uh, the new one or—?”
“Your name.”
There was a moment of silence. “Tailgate.”
Something piercing and white-hot blazed inside Cyclonus. It made him feel like his chest shifted and grew until it could house the whole universe. He strode across the room in three long gaits, finding a small pleasure in the way the Minibot didn’t stop looking at him square in the face.
Cyclonus looked at Tailgate. For the first time since he had learnt of the amnesia, he truly looked at Tailgate. He roamed his face, the well-known contours of the mask and how the somewhat boxy piece gleamed under the room’s light. They locked optics and there still was a lack of recognition in the bright-blue visor, but it didn’t seem to matter as much as it had before.
“Now say my name.”
“I don’t really know it—“
“You almost had it before,” he insisted. “Say it.”
Tailgate gazed up at him with wide optics. It wasn’t hard to see that he was terrified of hurting Cyclonus’ feelings. He had always done that: worry over foolish things like mishandling a brutal warrior’s emotions.
“Tailgate,” he murmured, “come on.”
The Minibot made a frustrated noise and looked down at his hands. “Well, I think you’re Cyclone, but you already said that wasn’t it.”
Cyclonus exhaled slowly, claws drumming against his thighs. He sat down on the windowsill, facing Tailgate. Outside, galaxies stretched themselves out to be admired, but they remained ignored.
“Try again.”
Tailgate wringed his hands and peeked at him. “Maybe…Cyclonus?”
It was a start.