Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Senator’s lunches always make Glitch nervous. He can always tell that he doesn’t belong, and that no one else wants him there. Senator Shockwave only ever invites him because he’s a member of the school or, worse, sometimes because pity for the mech overcomes him. Glitch knows better than to think anything else; it’s not like he offers anyone in the school anything. All he can do is break things at inconvenient times. Still, the lunch is nice, and the music is good, and no one’s trying to insult him behind his back. This time. He’s watching Roller and Skids flirt in a corner, jealousy burning an awkward pit in the bottom of his tank. It’s not like Skids would flirt with him if Roller decided he was bored.

Glitch flinches when the Senator lays a hand on his shoulder, hunching over his claws. “Sir?”

Senator Shockwave grins at him, optics glittering. They’re a bright, cheery yellow this week, his paint a deep, lovely blue with delicate white accents. “So! I heard you used to be a performer.” He tilts his helm, wings flicking. “More than that, I heard you were a performer for the Vosnian Opera. Means you’ve got a pretty good set of pipes, right?”

“I – you’re asking if I could sing? No, well, yes. But I never moved beyond the choir before…” Before I lost my face. “I wasn’t very good.” The choirmaster had always said he’d lacked confidence. Damus had believed he was wrong until he’d lost his face. After that, he could hardly find it in himself to draw attention to his own frame in any way, let alone through the use of the only talent he’d ever had.

“Doesn’t matter. If you’ve got any skill for singing, I could use you in these negotiations I’ve got going on. You see, he’s a beast former, you know the type, they’re all so focused on the frame. If I could use your voice to charm him, use you to distract him, I’d get the trade deals I need to push through.”

“Right.” Glitch hunches up. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll mess things up?” He gestures towards his face, or rather his lack of one.

“That’s the best part! Skids will take your place on the stage! We’ll have you in the back, singing for him, and he’ll do all the bits requiring an expression.”

Glitch tries not to flinch and fails. His spark hurts at the thought of just being a mouthpiece, but he knows that his voice is all he’s good for. “Right, sir. Of course. I’m sure Skids is the perfect choice for this.” Better than he’d be, anyways, even if he had his face and hands back. Frag, even if he’d gotten the upgrade the opera had promised him.

He’s worthless.

The Senator claps him on the back with a single, sharp laugh. “Great! I’ll send you the clips of music I know the big lug likes.” Warmth spreads through where the hand touches his plating.

Glitch wilts. He’s never going to perform on stage again, not with his face, but isn’t this better than nothing? “Senator, can I ask who we’re performing for?”

“His name is Dezaras, leader of the Silverclaw beastformer tribe.”

—

It is only after several weeks of practice with Skids that they were finally allowed to perform. Skids was given an entire repaint, detailing, and a set of mods that made him look both painfully attractive and like he almost belongs out in the untamed wilds of Cybertron. It was clear why he was chosen for the part. Glitch gets a mask to hide his Empurata. It’s not an ugly mask, stretching from the top of his helm ridges and down to the bottom of his chin, turning the single round yellow light of his optic into something almost purposeful, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s only there to hide the fact that Senator Shockwave doesn’t want to show off his pet freak.

He’s fine with this. Glitch is just excited to get out of Iacon and meet some true beastformers. He’d heard of them while he was apprenticed in Vos, and more when he was moved to Iacon following his loss of status, but he’d never met one before. He’d heard that they were slavering beasts ruled by their coding, that they ate other mechs, that they were huge and terrifying monsters that would kill a mech as soon as fuel with him. He doubts much of it is true, but it makes them fascinating.

Arrival into the camp is just the start to the trip. They are greeted at the edge of the mechs’ territory by two winged mechs with lion-shaped helms, one with a curiously shaped chest piece. The one with the strange chest-piece smiles at them, motioning excitedly for them to follow. “Hello and welcome to Silverclaw territory!” Her – and he can tell by her voice that she’s a femme, though he’s only met one before – is bright and cheery. He can feel his face try to smile at her, but it just makes the missing mechanisms in his face ache in phantom pain.

The mech accompanying her sneers at the small delegation Shockwave had sent with them. “Impressive looking lot. Is the orange one a mini bot?” Glitch flinches, ducking behind Orion Pax’s frame. Roller snickers, then steps to the front of the delegation.

“Yes, he is, but only barely, and he’s got a lot going for him otherwise. Where’re we heading?” Roller makes an excellent shield for them to hide behind, and the delegation does so.

“You’ll know when we get there!” The femme chirps. “Come on, we have to hurry before the herd comes through!”

“Herd?” Glitch mumbles as they all transform down.

The mech falls back to run beside him, great wings tucked against his frame. Glitch can’t help but slow down to watch him, the way his frame moves, and the fascinating ruffle that his feathers make as the wind moves through his feathers. Feathers! He’d only seen them on costumes before. They make him think of his time in the opera, and how much he misses it.

“Herd,” the mech laughs. “You’ll see.” He pulls ahead again, helm thrown back.

Glitch engine strains as he tries to keep up with the group over terrain too rough for his build, bumping and jostling along at an aching pace. Roller falls back to drive alongside him. “You sure you don’t want to take the drive in my hold?”

“I – I’m not an invalid,” Glitch hisses. “I’m not going to ride inside you like I can’t use my own four wheels!”

“Okay, okay, I was just trying to be nice. You’re looking a little dented, is all.”

A rock pings off of Glitch’s undercarriage. He eyes Roller’s hold. No. No, he was better than that. If he let Roller drive him to the tribe, he’d be called worse names than Glitch. “I’m fi-!” The word breaks off into a squeal as what had looked like a dip in the road turns into a ditch, sending Glitch aft over helm across the dirt.

::Impressive distance!:: Windcharger crows, turning on a dime to race back and help Glitch to his peds. “You okay? You flew, like, half a klik in the air!”

Glitch opens his mouth to tell the mech that he’s okay to go on, but can’t; standing on his left ped left him so suddenly in pain that he lost all the air in his vents at once.

“I guess that ride’s not a choice, huh?” Roller pulls up, sinking low on his treads. “Hey, Pax, help me load him up. We’ll have to have their medics take a look at him when we reach the tribe.” Glitch sinks in on himself, shoulders hunching up around his audials as Orion Pax stops and pulls back. He can feel mechs’ annoyance with him, with the impromptu break, and with his poor driving. He’s always screwing up.

“Hey, Glitch, you okay to wait until we reach the tribe for medical?” They don’t really have a choice, but it’s a nice question.

“I’m fine. It only hurts if I put my weight on it. I think I might have snapped a strut in my ankle.” He squeaks as Pax scoops him up, holding him gently as Roller opens the back door of his hold. “I – I don’t need to be carried!”

“It’s easier to just carry you.” Pax settles his aft on the edge of Roller’s hold, and Glitch carefully scoots himself inside of it. Roller smells like cheap fuel additives and old polish, and it makes Glitch wrinkle his nose up even as he’s relieved to take his weight off of his aching ped. “You good?”

“Yes. Thank you, Orion.” Glitch stares at his peds as the hold’s door is closed and they start moving. Roller doesn’t even try to talk to him. The hold is hot, and dark, and the bumping means that he can’t even settle down and take a nap. He curls up on his side in the hold, holding his knees to his chest as they bump and crash along the path to the tribe. By the time they finally stop, his entire frame is aching.

Roller transforms around him, and much to Glitch’s eternal consternation, his first introduction to the tribe is cradled in Roller’s arms like a weakling. He studies the collection of mechs with no little fascination, taking in the strange collection of feathers, fur, and scales that decorate the frames of the beasts. Some of the mechs are still in altmode, slinking around at the edges of the group, or sitting primly among mechs on two legs. Others seem to be more animal than mech even in their root modes.

It’s truly fascination, and his worries his claws against each other as he studies them with a canted helm. Would they talk to them about their traditions, maybe? Exchange songs and stories with him? He hopes so, even if as an Empurata he doesn’t have much hope for it.

The biggest mech, and, he notes with a flush, the most attractive of the collection steps forward. The spines and feathers around his neck are raised, and his four orange optics flare bright as he takes in the city mechs that had deigned to visit him. “Welcome to my territory, Mechs of Iacon. We entreat you to join us for a feast.” His optics study each of the mechs in turn, alighting on the leonine mechs that had accompanied them with strange intensity. “I heard one of your number was injured on their journey here. I’ll take him to our medic while my second shows you to your tents.”

Orion Pax coughs into his fist. “I assume you’re Dezaras, then? I’m Orion Pax of Shockwave’s Academy. My companions and I are grateful for the hospitality.”

The mech grunts. “Good. Leozack, show the mechs to their tents. You,” his wing points in Roller’s direction. “You, follow me with the gimp.” He doesn’t miss the way the little masked mech flinches, biolights dimming.

Glitch can’t believe he’s already made a bad impression on the tribe leader. Less than ten minutes in his presence and he’s already got a new nickname: gimp.

Gimp.

Better than Glitch, at least.

Chapter Text

The medic isn’t impressed by him. Glitch is settled down on a berth made from woven grass and stuffed with something not quite soft enough to make a proper pillow, and the medic bustled in like some tiny little bat out of the Pit. She has a tiny wheel. He wonders how she manages to balance on it.

“I don’t know how you managed to break yourself already, but I don’t think it’s fun to make me fix you before you’ve even gotten a chance to let these dolts show you something dangerous.” She snaps, and he’s startled to hear a Colony accent on her lips. “What the frag are you getting up to?”

“I – I tripped.” He hunches his shoulders, staring down at his claws. “I think it’s just a strut in my ankle. If you give me something to wrap it I’ll be fine.”

“I make the medical decisions here.” She drags his leg up, poking and prodding at things and ignoring his pained squeals. “You snapped the strut. Snapped the damn thing, how’d you even manage that? You’re going to need to be off your peds for at least a week.”

“But the show-!”

“Can go on without you.”

Glitch can’t exactly tell her that it can’t, not when they’re trying to pass off Skids as the singer instead of himself. “Will I be allowed to use crutches?”

The look she gives him is scathing. “We don’t have the sort of things you fancy city mechs do; it’s going to take a week for the welds I’m gonna do around your ankle to set properly. You move, the strut moves, and my welds end up crooked. You want crooked welds?”

“…no?”

“Then no. You can’t use any damn crutches. Have the big guy carry you around if you gotta move so bad.”

He makes himself smaller, if that’s even possible, curling up on the little mat. “Right.” Glitch couldn’t possibly make Roller do that.

From where he’s settled in the corner of the hut, Dezaras grunts. “I’ll keep him to your orders, Nickel. I know his kind. He won’t listen until he’s snapped the strut again.”

“You can’t do that!” Glitch yelps. “You’re the chief!”

He hums softly, the sound low and rumbling deep in Glitch’s struts. “I’m the alpha. I do what I want.”

Glitch ducks his helm, suddenly embarrassed to have told him off. “Of course. I guess. I just…” He waved out hand about as if it would explain everything in his mind. It was a very explanatory hand gesture, but Dezaras just stared, four optics bright. “Right.”

Dezaras looks to his medic, who shrugs. “I know that look. Go on, pick him up. You can take him back to his company now. Nothing more I can do since the welds’re all placed.” The mech nods and swoops in to scoop him up, wing banging roughly against Roller who’d gone to do the same.

“Hey! I’ll carry him.” Roller holds his hands out demandingly. “I’ve got this, give him back.”

Dezaras doesn’t even acknowledge him, just turns and waltzes out of the tent. Glitch covers his face with his hands and tries to feel mortified, but he can feel his spark scraping against the inside of his spark chamber. Primus, why wasn’t he allowed to roll himself around on a cart or something? This was demeaning.

But apparently Dezaras didn’t think so, because he tramped right on through the camp with Glitch in his arms, casually pointing out things of interest and greeting mechs. He only slows once they get to the collection of tents near the camp’s central fire. “This is where I leave you.” He rumbles. He picks the third tent from the center, marked with a red sash around one support pole. “Here. This one. You will stay in this one.”

Glitch frets. “I – I’m supposed to be staying with Skids. I’m his assistant? For the show?”

The mech hums. “No. No, I do not think you will. Staying here will be better.”

Clacking his claws together, Glitch considers how smart an idea it would be to keep arguing with the alpha. “No, it’s – okay, it’s okay, I’ll stay here.”

He doesn’t say anything else as the flap to the entrance is brushed aside, revealing a spacious, round room with a pile of bedding near one end, and what looked like storage near another, and a place for a fire pit at the center, under a hole that allowed light and air in. It was nice. Rustic.

Glitch is pretty sure that it’s going to be awful staying here. Especially when Dezaras lays him down very gently on the bedding, hand ghosting gently over Glitch’s broken strut. “Stay. That one that is so obsessed with you will be here soon to tend to your needs. A servant?”

He blinks. “Oh – no, no. He’s… He’s a schoolmate. I work with him.”

“He seems attentive for one you only work with.”

“He feels… responsible. For all of us. Senator Shockwave asked him to take care of us, since he’s the strongest. Orion Pax is our leader, though. He just tends to get caught up in his own head. He’s a thinker.”

“A thinker. Then what is your Senator Shockwave?”

“Senator Shockwave is… a visionary. A good man. He took me after…” He touches the edge of his mask with his claws. He can’t talk about his face, now. “After I lost my home.”

“So he cares for you.”

“For all people. It’s why he’s a senator.”

The mech hums, feathers bristling. Glitch can’t help but stare. They’re handsome. What would they feel like…?

“You think of him as a sire.” The suggestion is abrupt and not truly welcome. Glitch fiddles with the – the fur? – of the bedding. “You do. He cares for you. You are loyal to him.”

“I’m loyal to him.” Glitch agrees. “I’m from a hot spot – I was Forged. I don’t have a sire.”

The mech makes a short, dismissive sound. “All mechs have creators, even created ones. He is obviously yours.”

“I…” He doesn’t want to think about what he’d had before. The mentor he’d had before, in Vos. “Think what you want.”

The mech stands, wings spreading widely. “I’ll see you at the fire circle tonight.” There’s obviously no option for saying “no”.

“Tonight.” He lets his clasped hands fall to his sides. Tonight. He’s not sure if he wants the mech looking for him there.

The mech sweeps out, and Roller shoves in after him. “Primus, I thought he was going to steal you away to some corner of the camp! Why did you go with him?”

Glitch shrugs. “I… I didn’t know how to say no?”

Roller huffs. “You gotta learn, mech.” He leans down, hauling Glitch into his arms. “C’mon, the others wanna figure out what we’re gonna do now that we’re here. You good for it?”

Glitch hisses in pain, curling around Roller’s arms. “I… yeah. I am happy to help.”

He leans his helm back against Roller’s arm, sighing. He doesn’t want to talk about the things they’re going to do, or how they’re going to trick the alpha into caring about Skids. He’s not actually sure it’s going to work, anymore.

The mech was too strange for it. He was kind to him. Skids was too good to act like him to get the alpha’s attention. The plan wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t.

Roller pats his back. “Good. We need it.”

Chapter Text

Glitch knows that Orion Pax doesn’t like the plan. “It’s not what the senator intended.”

Skids snorts, peds up on his little fur-mounded berth. “It’s what we’re going to do to get the job done.”

“But seducing someone…”

“You’re saying that like he isn’t a hot aft.” Skids laughs, stretching out on the berth. “He’s got those wings, Pax, I can’t say I don’t want to get my hands on those. And it’s not like I haven’t done this before. Mechs sell of their frames all the time.”

“But –“

“It’s my choice, right?” He sits up, frowning at Orion. “There’s nothing wrong with fragging someone, even if it’s just because of what they can do for you.”

“You’re not someone to be bought and sold, Skids!”

“I should get to choose what and who I am!” He rolls his optics. “Even if that’s someone who sleeps with someone else for shanix.”

Orion works his jaw, optics narrowed like he’s thinking of something complicated. Roller coughs into his fist, drawing the attention of everyone in the tent. “I don’t think it matters what Skids wants to do with Dezaras,” he explains blithely. “Considering the fact that Dezaras is only interested in our little Glitch.”

Glitch startles, hands twisting together as he jolts upright. “He doesn’t!” No one does. He’s an Empurata. Only sadists and white knights could ever have interest in someone who’d undergone the procedure. Someone who was so clearly a bad person.

Looking between Orion and Glitch, Roller continues. “Dunno what for, I’m not psychic, but no mech – especially not a mech like that - personally carries an injured newcomer to the medic unless they have some sort of interest in them. And that’s interest he hasn’t shown in Skids. Didn’t even look at him when he came in to the camp.”

Orion’s mouth presses into a thin line, and Skids leans forward in his chair. “We’re not gonna use Glitch for this. He’s probably –“ He looks at Glitch, optics narrowed – “You’re still sealed, right? You’re sealed, you can’t do this. You don’t have any experience.” His tone isn’t cruel, but Glitch hunches his shoulders anyways. He knows that it’s considered childish to have gone so long without having his seals removed, by himself or someone else. It’s embarrassing to have it said so plainly now. It makes him feel not good enough.

“Maybe. But I can – I can do whatever’s asked of me. I’m already singing your song, aren’t I?”

“This is different.” Orion intones. “You’re less suited than even Skids is to this sort of mission. It would cause you great harm.”

“I’d be fine-“

“There is no question of whether you are or are not going to seduce Dezaras; the answer is no. It is whether we will pursue other avenues to ensure his agreement to our plans that are in question now.”

Glitch stares at Orion, something hot and aching burning in his throat, like he’d swallowed a hot coal. “But…”

“You cannot do this. I will not put you in a place to force you to.”

Then how are we supposed to?

“So we continue with the show, and we hope it’s enough.” Trailbreaker says, voice soft and low. “Even if it’s a pretty sure thing that he’ll say no.”

Orion looks at all of them, blue optics clear and piercing as the noon sky, and nods. “This is all we can do, in the face of adversity and question: we can trust that those in power will choose to do the right thing.”

- -

There’s something to be said for campfires. Glitch doesn’t have a lot of experience with them – he’d never spent any time in the Wilds to prompt the need for them – but as he’s carried over and settled beside Skids by Roller, he can appreciate the warmth it gives off, and the sweet, spicy smell of whatever they’re burning.

Skids knocks their shoulders together gently. “He’s watching you.”

Glitch’s helm whips around to where Skids is looking, blue optics meeting yellow. Then Dezaras looks away, addressing the mech next to him. “No he wasn’t. He was looking at you.”

“Mech, if he was looking at me then I’m a tin can in the Dead End. He only looked away when he saw you looking at him.”

“Probably because he didn’t like me looking at him.”

Skids wraps an arm around his shoulders, and with Glitch’s bad leg he can’t help falling against his shoulder. “Just let the mech look, Glitch. Let him look and want you. We’re supposed to be close, anyways - you’re my voice coach after all.” He snickers. “I heard we were getting fed roasted mech animal before. You ever fueled on mechanimal before?”

Damus shakes his helm. “It was a delicacy in Vos.” And Vosnian choir singers didn’t get fed delicacies. If he’d ever made lead, maybe a patron would have fed him fine fuels like crystal sparrows in sweet sauce, but he never had.

“It’s Chryso-Boar. Some sort of crystal eater from the area. Apparently it can convert energon in its frame.” Skids sounds fascinated. “I’m planning on learning how to cook from the camp cooks. Might see if I can make it when we get back to the academy.”

Glitch tries to look fascinated. He likes listening to the sound of Skid’s voice, anyways, and that has to mean something, right?

Eventually mechs come around with plates of fuel heaped high with something steaming, or bowls filled with colorful things. The Iaconians are given little iron slabs and sharp knives with handles wrapped in leather by the first mech of the tribe that they’d met, along with glass cubes that Damus assumes is for energon. The cube is roughly formed and heavy, with a green tint to it. Balancing the plate and the cube together is difficult, but he manages it by perching the plate on top of one thigh and holding the cube in the opposite hand. It’s not like he can fuel on the solid fuels anyways. He’s just not capable of it - even if he were to take off the mask hiding his Empurata, he has a narrow intake tube without a mouth - and after a moment he puts the platter on the ground where he won’t have to juggle it.

When the mechs come around with the serving dishes, they take one look at his discarded plate and move on. Skids manages to charm them all into giving him fuel, and his own is piled high before long.

The energon bearers make their way to the Iaconians last, each holding large, soft-sided jugs under one arm, the long necks supported by their other hands as they tip the open mouths forward to pour the energon into waiting cubes. It’s a rich purple, so dark it’s almost black, with a soft glow to it. When the femme reaches him he holds up his glass, and she pours barely a finger width’s into the glass. He stares at it mournfully.

“Sorry, doll, anymore and you’d be fall-over overcharged. If you don’t mind waiting a bit we’ll get one of the servers to bring you by a cube of processed for you.” She pats his helm before moving on, tail swinging with each step.

He waits. Skids hands him a curly straw, and he sips the rich, purple high grade and watches the fire burn.

The sound of chewing fills the air. Skids is making soft, pleased noises with each bite, heaping praise on the fuel. “Might stay here just for what we’re fueling on,” he admits, swallowing what looks like a chunk of boar flesh.

Damus sighs, tank aching a little. The fuel might be concentrated, but it doesn’t solve the issue of there not being enough to fill his tank. He can’t even taste it. He watches the mechs around the circle enjoy what would have been considered delicacies in Vos, and tries to imagine how they taste.

He’s staring at the spit still spinning slowly over the fire when a shadow falls over him, huge shape looming up behind him. A cube drops in front of his face, rim carefully held by thick claws. The cube is full, and the contents is a pale, milky pink, like the energon inside it had been cut by a emulsion of crystal and oil.

Damus tilts his helm up, and he shouldn’t be surprised to see Dezaras looking down at him, but he is. “Is...”

“It’s for you. I noticed you hadn’t fueled yet. No one goes hungry in my camp.” He moves the cube in little circles in front of Damus’s face. “Take it. Fuel. You are far too small.”

Damus takes it with shaking hands. He can do this. He has to do this. He has to help the Academy get Dezaras and the tribes on their side. “Thank you, Chief.” It’s warm. He wasn’t expecting that. It heats the palm of his hands, not quite warm enough to steam but warm enough seep through the thick glass of the cube.

“Taste it. I have had some of your kind in my tribe before; they seem to prefer this mix to others.” Dezaras keeps hovering, and Damus takes a sip of it just to make him stop staring.

It’s... smooth. He can’t taste very much, the sensors in his intake are far more basic than even a mech’s who was forged with one, but the mix is smooth, and there’s an intense sweetness from the crystal emulsion that almost surprises him. The oil lends it richness and body, and the light energy mix doesn’t send him into overcharge when mixed with the high grade already in his tank. It’s, “Perfect. Thank you, Chief.”

Dezaras smooths a hand over the top of Damus’s helm. “I look after all the mechs in my tribe, little mech. Even the visitors. I will talk to the mechs in charge of fueling the tribe; there will always be an appropriate mix ready for you.”

The chief moves away from him, and Damus settles into the dirt next to Skids, content to sip the sweet fuel and watch the fire.

He doesn’t know the other Iaconians staring at him. He doesn’t noticed the tribe as a whole watching both of them.

Chapter Text

Glitch is escorted to his tent again by Dezaras, carried in strong arms and settled on the furred berth set out for him. The tent is chilly, but not so terribly so that he can’t sleep, pulling on of furs over his frame and letting his fans slowly cycle the air until it warms enough for him to be comfortable. His ped doesn’t even ache anymore. That medic was a lot better than he expected her to be; maybe he’ll even be able to perform like he’s supposed to.

She said he’d have to stay off it for a few more days, but honestly, he can probably start practicing the show with Skids again tomorrow. The show is just two days away, and by then the welds should be set enough. It’s not like he’s never performed while damanged before, anyways; the Opera all but requires that the show go on no matter what is wrong with the performers. He’d seen mechs dance on peds so mangled from the work they hardly looked like peds anymore. A snapped ankle strut is nothing.

The camp outside his tent is just starting to quiet as the rest of the beastformers head off to bed when the rest of his compatriots file into his tent. Skids doesn’t hesitate to toss back Damus’s blankets and snuggle into them with him, leeching off his warmth, and Damus shuffles to the side to give him room.

Roller kneels next to the pit in the center of the tent, pulling something from the small box next to it. A moment later he’s managed to start a fire, the gentle heat coming off it filling the small space. They relax slowly, perching on the edge of the berth or on small chairs that they’d brought out from the fire area outside. “So. Day three. Two more until we have to perform. Another week and a half after that when we go home.”

They all turn optics on Orion. He tries to look comforting.

“We haven’t even started convincing people to help us, to side with Shockwave. They’re only interested in keeping themselves safe.” Roller drops his helm into his hands. “Don’t know how we’re going to convince ‘em to help us.”

“Most of these mechs are mechs that have alreadt run from the cities and the Senate once, or are the sparklings of mechs who tried to run. They know how dangerous the cities are. If we can convince them that we can help -“

“We can’t. They think of us as city mechs, on the side of the Senate. They won’t trust us if they don’t think of us as one of them.”

“Will the - ka-BLAM! - performance help?”

“Maybe. Glitch’s voice is ... persuasive. I’m sure it won’t hurt.”

“And we use the time to get closer to the lower-caste mechs. Support of the populace and everything, right?” Skids wraps an arm around Damus’s shoulders, close enough to press their sides together. His engine purrs. Damus wants to wriggle away, but not more than he wants to lean in and enjoy it. He freezes, unable to make a decision, unable to chooose how to react. “And I’ll show Glitch how to make that handsome dragon of his want him.”

“We agreed that Glitch would not be seducing -“

“Not seduction. Just... tipping the scales in his favor.” His grin is a touch too wide to be honest, mischief hiding in the corners of his mouth. “He’s pretty, especially with that new mask of his.” Fingers tap the metal over where his cheek used to be, on the mask that makes him seem like he might have one. “The alpha already thinks so.”

“Skids -“

“I’ll do it.” Damus whispers. “I’ll learn. There’s nothing wrong with knowing.”

“It’s not right, offering you up like that.” Orion sighs. “We’ve already talked about this today. I said no.”

“And I’ll keep asking until you see that we need this, and you say yes.”

Orion looks exhausted.

“I ... Orion Pax, you know me. You know I’m -“ awkward. Stupid. Less than.. “You know I’ll need help if I’m going to convince Dezaras to trade with us, to help us. If he can help with that, then isn’t any lesson better than none?”

He grimaces. “No seduction. If you’re going to spend time with Dezaras, one of us needs to be with you. And you’re not to seduce him; you’re not for sale and I won’t let you think you are. “

“Yes, sir!”

Skids knocks their shoulders together gently as the conversation turns towards strategies on winning the populace over. “Well, as much as he knows about it, there won’t be. It’s not like you’ll have to do much to seduce him. You’ve half won him over already.”

—

Damus has always been an early riser. It was nearly a requirement when he was part of the choir, responsible for the upkeep of the backstage and the dressing rooms and the equipment, and the habit hadn’t changed when Shockwave brought him into the school.

It’s not a habit that was adopted by the others in his class. When he limps out of the tent it becomes clear that very few, if any, of gonna Dezaras’s people share the inclination with him. Other than a small group tending to what might be breakfast over the dying embers of the fires from the night before, the camp is all but abandoned. There’s a heaviness lying across it that tells of people recharging out of sight, a quiet stillness to the camp that he doesn’t wish to break.

He limps his way to the fire pit, ankle only twinging every one in a while at him. What the doctor doesn’t know, she can’t be upset over, and he has no plans to let her learn he’s on his peds and walking. Sitting down on the low benches, formed from what looks to be benches woven from crystal strands, around metal poles that must have been gathered from discards grown on Primus’s surface. It was too dark the night before to take note of their artistry, but he does so now, claws tracing over the intricate designs in the crystal fibers. It must have taken weeks to gather or dye so many different kinds, and more to weave them into such a pleasing design, and he can tell from the careful wear on them that they are something the tribe treasures.

“You want to learn how to make those?”

Damus startles, turning to look at the femme who’d come to sit down next to him. He’d hardly realized she was there. “You’d teach me?”

“Oh, no, not me. I’m awful at it. But you lot are sort of here for a cultural exchange, yeah, and I know a mech or two who’d be happy to help such a cute little thing out.”

“I’m not -“ he ducks his helm, claws coming up to touch the edge of his mask. “I’m not cute.”

“That’s not what the rest of us think.” She laughs, tossing her helm. “Come on, I’ll get you a cube for breakfast and we can find someone willing to teach you.”

“It’s fine, really -“

“You’re supposed to be learning from us, just like we’re taking from you. You’re going to let me show you how we do things here.”

He shrinks down as she stares him down, agreeing meekly. “We won’t be going far, will we?”

“No. I’m just gonna show you where the rest of the nonwarriors sit and craft. It’s just around the corner. They don’t like sticking around the fire pit too much - something about the smoke smell getting stuck in their craft materials, I don’t know. We don’t pay much attention to them.”

She hauls him onto his peds, grinning broad enough that he can see her fangs pressing indents into her bottom lip. He balances on one ped until she offers him a shoulder to lean on. “Here you are. I’m just gonna drag your aft to the communal pot and then we’ll head over to the crafts area. I’m sure they’ll just adore you!”

The cat - Damus is sure she’s some kind of feline alt - takes his weight easily as she leads him towards a small, cordoned off area. She smells like spicy things and heated plating, and one arm curls low around his waist to cup his hip. It steadies him as he limps towards the mechs and the large container nestled in the dying embers of the cookfire. As they approach he can almost smell it, thick curls of steam rising into the air like a beckoning call to all hungry mechs. The mechs stirring the pot have condensation on their plating, leaning over it as they are, fans running high. They give Damus and his new guide matching smiles as they reach for thick-walled, blunt edged green cubes.

“Oh, it’s rare to see a warrior up this early!”

“Usually you lot like to sleep in until after the sun’s come up!”

The femme snickers. “Usually, but I found myself a cutie and just had to wake up to entertain him!”

Heat floods Damus’s system, and he stares down at his toes.

One of the femmes, obviously older from the smoky croon of her voice, laughs. “Seems like he doesn’t realize how handsome he is.” She spoons some of the mix into a cube, topping it up until it’s almost spilling over. “Here you are, something to put a little pep in your step. A young bot as cute as you should have a little more energy!”

He takes it with trembling claws, tucking it close to his chest with a mumbled “Thank you.” Shockwave had taught him better, but Shockwave had taught him how to act at high society parties and not in the face of genuine kindness, and it’s hard to muster up the right words with the context so different.

He gets a pat on the helm and the femme he’s leaning against ushering him off again, this time past the first circle of tents. “Drink up, it’s good! I promise we don’t recycle energon from dead mechs like all those city-boy rumors claim.”

The fuel warms the palms of his hands through the glass. He pulls a thin, narrow straw from his sub space, dropping it in the energon and sliding the other end through an opening in his mask. They’re not the kind he’s come to prefer, with bright colors and patterns and strange, esoteric shapes, but it was custom designed to both fit through the grating of his mask and to be easy to clean without proper solvents, so it’s something that can’t be helped. He sips it slowly, the smooth, rich energon lighting up the basic sensors in his intake. The energon here really is better than it is in the cities.

The femme leads him through the line of tents just around the fire pit, and just past it, to another circle of woven benches. There’s a pot in the center, gently steaming under a heating plate with a collection of cubes next to it, and baskets of crystal fibers next to each of the chairs. There’s already mechs sitting in the chairs, carefully weaving together fibers in a collection of different shapes. The breath of frametypes surprises him - not because of the functions they’re meant to serve, but because there are so many functions that they could be serving. Several of them are larger models with inbuilt weaponry, clearly onlined to be warriors. Others are flyers, with crop duster or long-range alts that would be better used for passing messages between tribes. Only one or two of the mechs is of a frame type that he expected to see - a little disposable class datasticks, with pale pink plating and bright yellow optics, a boatbot in bright teal, and a thin mech with long, spindly claws.

The femme nudges him into sitting on a bench next to the boat bot. “Alright! Are you ready to learn how to weave?”

He looks between her hands, with her broad palms and elegant, long fingers, and then down at his mishapen claws. “I...”

She follows his optics. “Oh, love, you’re not going to be the first or the last mech I teach with claws instead of fingers.”

“But I can’t -!”

She curls her hands over his free claw, leaning close enough that he can smell the soft, crystal scent linegring on her armor. “Do not say that you cannot until I have shown you the ways in which you can, city mech. We will hear nothing less than that in our circle.”

“... alright. If, if you say so. May I ask your designation?”

“Esmeral. My name is Esmeral. And yours?”

“... Glitch. I’m Glitch.”