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Fort Max sat on his recharge slab and told himself that he was being an idiot. He had to right to be upset -- not now. Fort Max had always known there were recordings.
The facility had been a prison, after all, before Overlord turned it into-- into whatever he’d-- whatever you would call that hell that he'd--
The facility had been a prison. Each room had recording devices. Audio and at least one camera. Necessary for proper accountability. They always ran, and they were always recording, and the system had enough hard drive space to store hundreds of years’ worth of audio and video, if necessary.
Plenty of space for three years, two months, and ten days.
Fort Max remembered the little red light in the corner of the room he’d spent most of that time in. A glimmer in the dark. He’d become painfully aware that he was being recorded whenever he did something especially shameful, at least at first. The first time he begged. The first time he tried to bargain. The first time he'd sobbed.
At a certain point, it had stopped mattering.
And then that of Decepticon grunts had stood near him, laughing over things Fort Max was sure they hadn’t been there to see. His mind had been thick and slow with the haze of pain and the cold, merciful distance of dissociation. Had they been there after all? Was he already this far gone? Was he hallucinating or dreaming? But--
Oh. They must’ve been downstairs watching the security tapes.
And that realization had crawled through Max, slow and cold, settling in the pit of his abdomen and making his near-empty fuel tank churn and try to purge.
They’d been watching the recordings and the live video feeds. Even the times that Max had been mercifully alone with Overlord, without his dying, tortured co-workers or laughing audience participation from the Decepticon troops… even then, he’d been--
No. Some part of Max pushed that information away. Shoved it down into the back of his mind and buried it there. Turned their laughter into more meaningless noise.
And Max had kept it buried. Hadn’t thought about the recordings at all. Not until Rewind had shown one to him, projected on the wall, and Max had been thrust back there and then, everything falling apart around him, hopelessly out of his control, another friend murdered before his eyes, and Max--
Max inhaled slow and offlined his optics. He forced his hands to unclench. They trembled, curling back into fists as soon as he stopped concentrating.
Max hadn’t thought about the recordings since then. He hadn’t talked to Rung about them, either. Not exactly.
Rung had tried to bring it up, once. Max had gotten so locked-down inside himself that Rung had spent the rest of the session just trying to get him to answer to his own name.
The recordings were out there. They hadn’t been destroyed at the source, at Garrus-9. Someone had made backups and was passing them out or selling them. People were watching them. Decepticons, mostly, but maybe Autobots too. After all, Rewind had gotten copies. Rewind had seen--
Had seen the worst days of Max’s life. Had seen atrocities that never should have happened. Had seen Max broken. Had seen-- but Max couldn’t think of the specifics without curling in on himself, without the back of his intake getting tight and undigested fuel rising up.
The recordings were out there, forever beyond his control. People were watching what had been done to him, and getting some sick joy out if it.
Overlord had gotten pleasure from Max’s pain, from Max’s violation. And others were getting pleasure from it too.
And there was nothing Max could do about it.
In passing, Red Alert had mentioned punishing Rewind for smuggling “snuff films” on board, back when he was still on the Lost Light. Something on Red’s face had twitched, and Max realized what that meant as he awkwardly went quiet and walked away. A cold feeling, prickling up his back and settling in.
Red Alert had seen the recordings too. Had seen enough to know what they were, at least.
And now Max, the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, sat alone in his room on Luna 1 with his fingers digging dents into his palms and his fuel tanks roiling, crushed under the weight of everyone who had seen him breaking and broken, trying hard not to throw up.
Max knew what he should do. He couldn’t bring himself to move -- couldn’t manage to even uncurl his fists or shift the pulled-in set of his shoulders -- but he knew what he should do, if only he could gain enough control over himself enough to do it.
He should call Rung.
Rung had given Max his number. He’d pressed a datapad into Max’s palm and smiled and told him that he was only just a call away. Max still had the datapad, safe in his desk drawer, the number written in Rung’s own handwriting with a stylus.
Just the thought of that calmed Max. Just the memory of Rung’s hand against the back of his, holding him still -- somehow that was enough to ground him, just a little. His mind let go of the repeated, spiraling thoughts about the recordings and settled on that.
Slowly, Max unclenched his hands.
It took him a very long time to rise, and when he walked, he was clumsy and unsteady. He knocked a few things off his desk opening the drawer.
Max looked at the datapad for a long moment before finally, gingerly lifting it. It was small. Rung-sized. The handwritten note was personal and immediate.
Max remembered all the times he’d watched Rung’s hand move during their sessions. Max had never known anyone else to take handwritten notes. They'd stopped teaching handwriting at some point the war. It was an odd habit. It seemed foreign and old fashioned and strange.
Fort Max sat heavily at his desk. He looked at the datapad in his hands.
If Fort Max called, Rung would answer immediately. Fort Max was sure of that. Rung would answer even if he was busy -- even if he was asleep.
Fort Max could almost hear his voice. Patient and kind. A little worried. A little sad.
And Fort Max wanted to call. Wanted to, but couldn’t.
He knew what Rung would tell him to do, if Rung were here. He could almost hear the words. Be present. Breathe.
Max sat still. He forced his hands to unclench around the datapad. He breathed.
He looked at the number, written in Rung’s familiar handwriting. He kept breathing - slow intakes of air through his nose and mouth and vents, slow, controlled exhalations. His body shook - weapons systems all activated for nothing and eager for violence that wasn’t going to come.
The recordings were out there. Recordings of his worst days. Recordings of things that never should have been recorded -- never should have been committed. Like the recordings, the acts themselves couldn’t be erased. Couldn’t be undone. Another thing forever out of Max’s control.
But Max was still here. Still here, and even if he couldn’t erase the past, he could keep living despite it. He could keep moving forward. He had already kept moving forward. He’d been through worse. He could handle this.
With shaking hands, Max typed out the numbers on the datapad manually and waited.
Rung’s voice was calm and welcoming and familiar. “Max?” he asked, pleased, a little worried, infinitely kind. "I'm glad to hear from you. How are you?"
Max exhaled, bowed his head, and closed his eyes.