Chapter Text
If one thought managed to prevail over the persistent throbbing of Bumblebee's chassis, it's that this absolutely, 100%, stinks.
And way more than usual, by the looks of it.
Pain is all that surrounds him. It hovers above his processor like a star-belt, orbiting his helm like moons and slicing through his every waking motion in bright, boiling streaks. Partly split wires and circuits flicker and snap, grossly pulsing to the spark-beat that thunders beneath his chest-plate; armor of itself bitten at by shrapnel, fragments, and other explosive debris.
The atmosphere — ash-ridden, sulfuric, relentless — assails his ventilation systems all the while, tumulting and laboring and hissing lowly, a repellant weapon wielded by a force unfamiliar. With what little clarity he can filter through to unclog his workings, he's eternally grateful.
If he has to be honest, though? It… scares him a bit more than he wants to let on.
The entire sensation is raw, bitter, unyielding, and something about his left side tugs at the remainder of his frame to fall apart with it.
To simply retreat into an offline bliss — in his crouched state, he struggles to repress such reaching temptations, and soon he's about wholly keeled, face-down in the ground and curling his digits deep enough into the soil to maintain a sense of strength.
His HUD alerts singing their loud, beeping tunes aren't much help either despite their purpose, likely not taking restful ignorance as a good enough answer to… whatever just happened. But it does do its good by keeping him the least bit vigilant; if all for a few brief moments.
And for Bumblebee, a 'few brief moments' is all he should really need, (at least by his own standards), but as another attempt to get up proves futile, though, and sends him crashing back down on the ground, it becomes clear that he's going to need much longer.
Well, the efforts by now are only draining his endurance anyway. He knows better than to push himself. Too much, at least.
It depended on what you considered 'too much'.
…
Waiting here didn't do anything though.
A solid cycle passes before he's able to recollect his bearings and weigh his odds.
He could keep sitting here, and call and wait for back-up (like he ever did that if he could help it), but– gah, who knows how long that would take.
Besides, as surprising as it was on the battlefield — where dead frames and collapsed buildings provide a morbid but usually sufficient cover — there's little hiding from the keen senses of Con. At the slightest thrum of a spark, it was on-sight. And Bumblebee would much rather go out blazing on his pedes than be 'rescued' by the undesired party. Especially right before the others show up. That was worse.
Anyway, they've got more important priorities. This is a whole war we're talking about.
It was that, or he could actually figure out how to get up, and avoid the disappointment aspect altogether.
…Which would leave him equally if not more susceptible. Actually- no- way more. He was just asking for it at that point.
Bumblebee groans and wracks his processor. Frankly enough, the first option yielded far less immediate danger and required just a bit less luck. If it's the only practical advantage he has, then it's his best bet.
But he's still just an enormous target laying here. Without a means of reflex, advantages mean nothing. He has to do something, something to compensate. And quick.
After some time, and with the uneasy passage of thought, a next course of action wedges itself into his processor. It's not perfect, not at all by a long shot, but he's not going to wait around and second-guess himself any longer than he already has.
Oh this is gonna suck.
Briskly he emboldens it, gritting his denta and bracing– Ready, set–
Bumblebee shifts, giving blind-optic to the two, three more error messages that blip onto his HUD and a fresh new jolt of pain as he twists to lay on his back-plates.
ScrAP-
He bites back to urge to scream, his vents humming and shuddering as he slaps a servo onto his chest-plate, trembling and grabbing at grooves and ridges. A deep ache swells within his processor and spreads to the rest of his systems in cold, slithering cyber-vipers, numbing his fuel-lines and daring to shut them down completely.
Half-triumphant regrets still only manage to stay as so, as rational thought quietly flitters back and resurfaces. Although it added another thick layer of risk, the knowledge that he could now better fathom his surroundings — see to what would've earlier been an unforeseen attacker — quells whatever rest of his doubts flourishing in the discomfort. At least no one could shoot him in the back-plates now.
From here on out, he can find the nearest pile of parts or rubble, crawl on over, sneak in his comm and then– yeah. Yeah, that'll work.
It still doesn't erase the pain however, nor the fact that his perception of the world is still quite limited. And given he just made a move, too, he probably shouldn't bring any prolonged attention to his area by continuing so quickly.
He… he just needs to rest a while. Just for now. He'll be fine.
He's patient, he's strong. He's a scout.
He'll be fine.
Bumblebee dims his optics, both to conserve energy and for good measure, and focuses solely on stabilizing his venting.
.
.
.
An explosion.
.
Bombs, high-class.
.
.
.
Scream, cut off, gunshot.
Another explosion.
.
.
.
He really needs to move.
Time dissolves into a smelting-pit, sluggishly dragging him along for the ride, and he still can't quite bother to protest yet; his long-awaited reunion with reality a frustratingly slow process.
It wasn't like he was missing something, right– he- he knows to stay clear of the watchful optic just by pure instinct but…
There's an actual reason deep down. He had been doing something really important, he swears. It was dancing around his processor all slyly, just out of reach, just like the vessel that shot out into–
A sense of dismay leeches into his circuits.
Out of reach. Space.
The…
His mission. The Allspark.
The Decepticons.
…
Scrap.
If he doesn't get help in the next, say, few cycles? Well wait — scratch that — he already spent those few cycles trying to feel functional again; there's absolutely no way he hasn't been caught by now.
If not now? Really really stupid soon.
Ohhhh scrapscrapscrap oh Primus–
How- how long had he been out? He's in enemy territory — forces ought to be sweeping through and eliminating survivors; searching for answers, clues.
This place is far from simply dotted with stragglers and scavengers. He's utterly surrounded and he won't be getting anywhere if he–
What does he do? Play dead in plain sight?
It's just the same thing all over again. Cons are thorough; they never miss.
He's sure as scrap-metal.
Ughh…
With a long, exhausted huff, Bumblebee presses himself further into the ground. Way to go, Bee, he thinks, cursing his incompetence. Good luck trying to bull-scrap your way out of THIS heap.
…
A sigh. No, no, he's better than that.
Come on, he bites. No use in complaining about it. You screwed up, yeah. Now fix this.
He yanks feverishly at his processor once more, trying his might against the terrible ache to remember his multitude of casualty lessons.
Okay… okay so if he's going to have to spring back into battle, trying to identify his ailments comes first.
Yeah. Fun times.
His HUD alerts might shut up as well, so that's always a bonus.
Through each scan, nonetheless, the sense of stability remains temporary at most. As injury after injury — inconvenience after inconvenience — is registered, a fresh swarm of nervousness begins to flutter in his spark, and a large part of him begins to hope that his systems are all but overreacting.
Because, sure, he does feel about fit for the scrapyard, but c'mon, he's- he's Bumblebee! Top of his class; one of the greatest scouts among the Autobot ranks; the underdog turned newest war-hero! There's- there's no reason for him to be felled so easily. He can take a few baddies, he isn't…
Oh, who is he kidding?
Well, even if it is the whole Decepticon army, he can at least still stand, right? Go out blazing like he wants? At least with some dignity left.
The diagnostic finishes, and he cracks something of a laugh, cynical. He'd be wise to remember that hope tends to be rarely met nowadays. Making out anything amidst the clouds of smoke surrounding him was hard enough, but now it grows apparent that his left optic has gone faulty. His entire left half, actually, alongside a shattered knee-joint and a terribly twisted arm. Clearly, his systems were not, in fact, overreacting.
Can't even imagine the amount of ways the medical branch would patronize him for this.
…If he even got out of it–
Shut. Up.
Another scream rings in the distance, another audial-splitting bomb, shot, missile — and Bumblebee can't help but flinch as the racket starts closing in proximity.
He should probably–
CLANG.
A deep, gravelly growl suddenly emits from beside him, followed by a thud thudthud before something takes pleasure in ripping him away from his ground security; seizing, jerking, hoisting him up high into the air.
A razor-sharp grip now locks firmly around his neck, cutting into cables, shoving his helm at an angle and turning his jaw sore. His helm and vision do somersaults, swimming and sweltering with splotches as the world glides — he can only barely suck in a gasp of air–
All before the crooked frame of a Con looms into view.
Megatron, he realizes, has him dangling by the throat.
Wh-
No. No no nowait this- this isn't supposed to be happening this isn't– he's down, he's down, that's not- that's not what he meant– he- he hadn't even–
There's zero point in putting up a fight. He knows instantly, beyond a shadow of doubt, but instinct still overshadows logic much too quick, and soon he turns restless, his servos twitching, at last obeying his will to the only possible physical degree — and with his left side still rendered useless, his right arm lifts up, scratching, swatting half-blindly, digging into and against the steady pressure.
The attempt is pitiful; if anything it starts to get worse, hopes of alleviation now nothing but a play of bargain as it builds and grows and clenches and–
He's saying something. Both of them, something. He's fighting for his spark but he swears there's– or maybe– no, they're talking to each other but clearly he just doesn't comprehend it. There's a buzzing in his helm and a snarling face — ticked off, at him. Usually, Bumblebee would feel proud, if not for the thinning of odds.
A splitting, punctuated scrEechh of metal– and he cries out, a blistering, burning anguish rupturing from inside the crook. The edge of a claw carves itself into the side of his neck, a glowing, shredded trench to solidify its grip, and something hot rises in his throat pipe until he gags, energon spitting and sputtering from his intake.
Megatron glances down at the shimmering life-blood, disgusted. At the same time, though, ever on and through a twisted, thorned scowl, he looks sickly amused, optics lidded and piercing a horrible tone into them.
Bumblebee meets it head-on with the deepest glare he can muster, swallowing thinly and quivering in the grip as it adjusts and digs and tightens somewhere else. It's pulsating, throbbing, searing there beneath his helm just like a fiery tourniquet, a steady stream of blue puddling into a metal cusp, down his chest-plate, dribbling to the scrap-littered ground. His ventilation systems stagger as he weakly writhes to sustain himself.
Despite it all, he almost grins.
Very very almost, where in his place.
He's supposed to be afraid, he thinks, as he feels little by little his systems start to fail. But he's never really… been scared of death, strangely.
If he really thought about it, the positives outweigh the negatives.
Not in a depreciating sort of way of course, but it's all just cause and effect in the long run. Because whatever sort of end this brought, as gruesome and as… awful as it was, he'll rest easy knowing that it will only serve to fuel the spirits of his fellow Autobots. They'd be… sad, probably yeah, but then they'd use that. Determination to fight, to never give up.
The war might just end a bit earlier then.
So, maybe it's just him, but the stare-down is a dare, a plea if you will, to see just how miserably the warlord could fail. Fail to see fear in his optics as they ought to… flicker out in what's… likely quite soon but- but hey, relatively if he isn't– relatively it still won't be such a terrible thing to–
CRACKle-
Gag static scrEAM–
Energon pours and gurgles from the corners of his intake, helm jerking upward, chassis gone limp, and Bumblebee loses his bravado just as fast. The claws cram deeper into his neck cables — excruciating; slicing through wires, severing fuel-lines, seizing its prize deep down below and crushing — and, as his resolve begins to crumble at such a similar, startling pace, he can't help but feel a resurging sense of anxiety.
Why isn't he just getting it over with? Why does something feel so terribly utterly wrong despite this already being wrong and what is that horrific sound he's making and–
The realization hits him with a paralyzing pang of dread.
There's a new objective now, isn't there? Megatron isn't trying to kill him; fast, at least, he's- he's–
No.
No.
His optics shoot back down to bore into the warlord's, and he's met with nothing but a ruby expanse of sadism; carelessness contradicted only by the curling tips of a scarred intake.
He- he was having fun.
Megatron had every intent of basking in this moment, relishing in his suffering, and saving, terribly, a darker indulgence for later.
Something told Bumblebee that down the line, that indulgence, something intangible, unforeseeable, would all wind up back here; a point of reference, confirmation, that he would never doubt his malignity again.
It's a fast, crude turn of events. And just like so, with an ebbing viability and nothing much else to run on, Bumblebee is thrown into a rattling panic.
The warning signs, less than the issue now, seem to multiply and holler at him by the nano-cycle — damaged joints, dented armor, critical pressure — he's- he's entirely helpless. He knows it, they both know it; they both know he screwed up so awfully, and Megatron feeds on his fear.
Bumblebee cranes his helm downward and presses his chin as hard as he can into the hold, a small, desperate part of him hoping, wishing, praying it would minimize the damage. But with one rough jostle he's left to feebly gaze at his surroundings, smoking, warping, spiraling–
A small crunch fills his audials. It doesn't stop.
Louder. Brighter. Red upon red upon red upon red optics searing into his own then–
Then, like the flick of a switch, he feels it s n a p.
The world is set ablaze in white, electric agony. His sensors convulse and screech, and he's spasming, spinning, sobbing, shrieking but he's not, arms falling debilitated, dead to his sides. Everything, it cares not to cease for what feels like mega-cycles, circling over and over and over until his receptors begin to ring and his optics go dark, blurry, gears locking and refusing to decompress–
— before it melts to a shuddering halt.
Bumblebee slumps. Static fills his processor and his helm falls to the crook. Wave after wave of aimless, dizzying commands catch and gather just below the crown of his chest-plate, the strain wallowing there about his throat, creeping round and threatening to consume his entire being by the time it subsides. Twitching. Smothering. Lethargy.
His optics flicker off and on and off again, fighting to stabilize something, anything.
It's only with the dying peels of his strength, a pathetic, final effort, as he stutters his right servo upwards; a last ditch attempt to regain control, to try and pry Megatron off him. Dully entertained, the warlord lets him.
He fails.
Badly.
A long-gone fury, or whatever of it Megatron had left, is swiftly replaced by a low, malevolent grin. Hanging listless, tear-stained, and exhausted, Bumblebee feels himself be pulled closer, vision settling at the bottom rim of his optics, just clear enough to see the warlord admire his handiwork below.
And Bumblebee is scared. But strangely now not of the warlord — never of just him.
Plastered for all his sight to see, teasing him, berating him, was his diagnosis.
[Speech Synthesis Disabled]
As if his spark thought it could take it, it lingers in the gravity of it all for one, terrifyingly long moment — before it drops, twists, and burns a hole straight through his chamber. Aching.
He can't– He's- losing in the battle for consciousness. He can't scream, he can't fight, he can't move. He can only watch in a blank horror as the leader of the Decepticons chides him, rebukes him, and rips away the one thing Bumblebee prides himself on the most. His… his…
"You."
Bumblebee latches onto the sudden word like a life-line, booming, resounding, listening not for its intent but in a desperation to drown out the volume of what he had just witnessed.
"You live to remind those around you that I can kill bots as I please —" Megatron sneers, baring his denta menacingly "— and grant mercy, as I please."
He's falling. Bumblebee doesn't realize it until he hits the ground, a faint prick, fading as soon as it appears.
He's right back where he was now. Simultaneously hurt beyond any sort of comprehension, and nothing but a hollow cadaver of static. He lays and trembles, and bleeds a pool of his own energon, trickling from his intake and neck, a cyan Sea of Rust.
And, for the first time, his gaze slack and cast above, the only other thing he feels is terror. Terror, infallible, unshackled by circumstance, seeing him.
The warlord towers over his mangled heap with a grimace, silhouette broken only by two glittering rings of blood-red valor. Pure malice.
It's- it's hypnotizing.
The gaze, the spell, defuses any if all irony in his colors; from a faded contender to a sick bright splatter of yellow amongst the monochrome wasteland around him. The dead, the lifeless husks brushing the edges, reaching out to him with vengeful digits. A sudden beckoning, like a thick slice of truth enveloping his processor, a strange momento of guilt and forgiveness all at once.
He isn't quite sure what to make of it. He just knows that his light didn't belong here, but neither had theirs, any of theirs, and the wormhole of a mutual thought process mingles below him with a rising purpose.
That truth: he was just like them. Colors, identity, stories — they wouldn't matter anymore. Data drives erased from storage. A page ripped from the archive. Unfinished. Unrecognizable. Forgettable.
It didn't matter who he was, what he did, who he knew. It didn't matter if he had failed or not.
He was going to die here, quieted, alone, slowly, and he was going to die scared.
With that, the hypnosis, he finally breaks. He begs his lesions to just turn him offline already. He prays, wills Primus himself to just take him — but he doesn't get a reply back. Not from Primus, anyway.
Instead, Megatron's voice mutters in his audials.
"Let that be your story. Tell it how you may."
It's almost as if he had sensed his desperation. Saw to the wormhole himself and respected its personal torture. Because this time, there's nothing left to latch onto; the warlord strides from the cliff-side and leaves the ground reverberating from his touch.
And yet, Bumblebee can't look away. In fact, it's like nothing changed, because all he still sees is red.
The fretting of his systems — the alerts, the alarms, the yields — his entire world burning and crashing and entangled in the silver-tipped talons of iniquity– everything, it's too loud, too bright, too much just too muchhecan't–
There's a release. A sudden click, disconnect, as though the world he once knew became all but a dull afterthought.
The realm is washed in a cascade of empty everything, and it leaves him disoriented; like a tingling weight beneath his optics, slowly sifting down to his spark-chamber in numb, electric plops. His chassis seems as though every wire and circuit had been turned inside out, regarding the droplets of awareness with really not much of its own.
Struggling to digest the shift, he tries to focus on something a bit more comprehensible; or curious, at least. It's presented to him that he floats now in an inky ocean, a void, completely bathed in a darkness with zero matter to grasp onto.
'Floating' being a light term, seeing as he can't seem to really move. It's sort of a… broad, endless sensation, though, and not like he's confined, oddly enough.
Just as oddly he invites the feeling, or… lack thereof. He realizes, then, that he feels nothing. Here, in this state, there's no pain, no fear, no panic. He feels… nothing.
Did.
Did he...
He questions it only briefly, whether this is the Well of Allsparks. He has no real proof. It's still safe to say he's a little disappointed.
Well. Nevertheless.
He would imagine that here, at the doorstep of freedom, the real world would finally leave him alone to fate. Surely, it could go find someone else out there to play with.
...
That'd be too kind. Of course it would be.
Shapeless tendrils spring from the black. Lack of movement abruptly turns cold and stiff like stasis as they coil around his arms, pinning him down, sinking his form deeper into the darkness — and from nothing to everything all over at once he feels his circuits pepper and pop with old, dwindling sparks.
A semblance of some weird re-initiation. A blinking screen filled to the brim with spontaneous flecks of pain, discomfort, emotion.
It- it was real. It was real.
Without bothering to think twice, he haphazardly resists, as he tries calling out to anyone, anything, to pull him back, to save him, he…
All he ever hears is a single sound. The echo, an airy buzz that escapes from the emptiness within him. It hums quietly, but for Bumblebee, it's the loudest he's spoken in stellar-cycles.
Eventually, he concludes, as more of his senses begin to stir and the world grows deafening, that he hasn't reached the Well of Allsparks. No. He's still back on the battlefield. Megatron must be trying to force him back online, to resume his torments.
Touching his processor and once lathered by the black, comes forth his old morale, muddled and entwined in a contempt long-since buried there.
Bumblebee decides that he won't let him win. At least, not with glory. Not this time.
The vindictiveness plows forward to the fore-front of his mind, allowing no other objections to prevail, and with it, he concedes. The instant he feels an inkling of self-control, he forces his systems to comply and boots online.
He knows full well the extent of his injuries — this might just end up being his true downfall, or maybe even some profound hallucination — but by now? He's just running on pure spite.
A brief lag, and he's thrust forward into the rest of himself. As he goes to recalibrate, everything still is unresponsive and static-y, at first, HUD blinking at him a speedy note of potential overheating.
Strange one to start with, considering, but…
One thing's better than none, he would suppose.
The success of the initial load fuels his confidence to light his optics next. Energy flits and courses through the surrounding wires, managing to win an occasional breach here and there — though ultimately, receives a bit less courtesy than its preceder. Taking it with offense too, it seems, because the following result goes incomplete. His audio receptors don't even make an attempt, and with one small falter he slips back into the darkness entirely.
…
He can do this. He can do this.
Bumblebee wouldn't be doing his name justice if he gave up. So he shakes down all his doubts and tries again, and again, until–
With little to no warning his vision crackles to life. A gleaming film of colors: shades of greys and aquas, blues and pinks, and even shades of…
Red. The cursed red is back, dancing across his HUD, and Bumblebee doesn't understand how or why but the fact makes itself known to him in a horrible instant — he must have been captured and taken prisoner by the Decepticons.
No- no, he refuses, he can't stop here, he already made it this far!
Swallowing down what tasted like saturated fear, he does what he can and squirms in the hold. The buzz scratches its way out of his throat once again, and pain prickles from the persistent lack, but he doesn't care.
With a force he didn't quite realize his broken chassis had, he yanks his right arm free, then the other, and topples forward with the momentum, falling off of what he assumes is a platform of some kind. It doesn't matter. The nano-cycle he grabs a hold of himself, he scrambles towards the exit, escape his first and only priority.
And, for a small moment, he thinks he's doing it — unaware until his face-plate makes friends with the nearest wall, metal bursting and bending somewhere. Frantically, he feels the material, and realizes with dread that he's in a corner.
He's trapped. He's trapped again and with no way out.
Panic begins to rebuild in his processor.
No no no nonO-
Bumblebee flips around to face his foes, one arm covering his facial-plating and the other shielding his neck. His chest-plate is burning, compressing, and caving in on itself with a weight; a pit crushing his chamber, swirling within his tank, and he can't vent he can't vent but he's heaving — everything's hot, bubbly, and as the blurry colors start to swarm around him he begs to amend his errors and just go back, back to his senseless confinement–
Something wraps– cuffschainsstasis- NO– around his arm and he shrieks. His back slams against the wall and he slinks to the ground, flattening himself as much as he can into his newest deathbed until his plating peels and scratches alloy.
His captors are calling a name out– their master-? their master no ohpleasePrimusno– but it sounds like– don'thurtmeagain– for a split nano-cycle it sounds like the way- the way Arcee would.
But- but no, no that can't be right. It just can't. It's a trick and he's been captured by the Decepticons and it's never gonna end–
The servo– servo-? it's a servo not- is it sharp- no– touches his arm again. He doesn't ever recall it having left but he continues to tuck and tremble and shake uncontrollably and he can't. vent.
And then he's buzzing once more — whether it's to comfort his overheating systems, or to try and attempt a form of communication with his captors, he isn't certain. What he is certain of though is that there's no way out of this scenario, no getting out of it– here to finish the job somehow be worse he's as sure as slagged–
"BEE."
At last. At last, a lick of clarity enters his processor at the outburst of his nickname.
Familiar. It's familiar, the voice, and within it a sense of protection and grace only few bots can hold.
Taking it as a cue, in some odd way, his audials finally begin responding.
It's quiet, hazy, dissonant, and save for his own staggered venting, he can guarantee nothing about his surroundings, not even as he's graced with newfound reception. But he's far from alone, that much he is sure.
He would've thought the event, too, to be rather… climatic, at least in its own right, but it's more or less simply a distinct shuffling in the room now that he concentrates, like something's to be anticipated.
Anticipating what? His move? No, he has to be missing something.
Why aren't they attacking? Why aren't they leaping out and shoving him back down into restraints– or- or maybe they were curious? About what he would do? He could show them exactly what but he's still hurt he can't see what if he's there and–
And… that's not…
He'd be taunting him. Any Con would be laughing at how helpless he looked now, too afraid to even glance past his own plating.
But he knows, he swears the moment his optics meet theirs he'll be rewarded with a furious strike for his defiance. It's all a ruse to get him to lower his guard.
…Perhaps they have orders. Perhaps if they were waiting, waiting for someone else to arrive then- then he has time and he can- he can figure out how the Pits to get out of here, figure out just how he heard a safe voice in a haunting, smothering dome of danger–
Things- things aren't adding up but- but he can make them add up if he can just get his blasters to work– his comms maybe–? He–
"Can you look at me, Bee?"
It's that voice again. It's so… familiar still, but in a good way. One half of his processor screams at him to never trust it, to panic to hide, but–
"It's okay. Take your time."
Not even Makeshift could sound that way. It's enough blind, spark-feeling to give the benefit of doubt, and see what… what harmless sight he has to see because- because otherwise…
...
A length of fragile venting.
Okay…
Okay.
He grabs onto the last inhale in a spurt of just do it, and cautiously, and much slower than he thought he was able, he relents.
Once he lowers his arm past his optics, (and graciously isn't received with a punch or a gun-point), they rotate rapidly, shrinking, dilating then re-dilating, fixating on one item to the next. While they are still rather unsuccessful at giving anything proper shape, he can eventually manage to make out not one, not two, but three bots in the room. Their features remain vague; almost unrecognizable, in some ways. But that same feeling of safety still occupies the air — one he knows wouldn't come from a Decepticon facility.
It could just be the circumstances, though. Or still somehow a potential trick. He can't afford to fall for anything; not here, not at any time.
Gah, why is this so difficult?
"Hey," the voice reaches out. It came from the closest of the bots and the one still gently pressing a servo on his restless arm. "You with me?"
He flicks to the bot in question and flinches, impulse tickling his arm to raise again.
It makes sense that he should feel safe, right? If his spark refuses to let him hold any honest deep-rooted suspicions, then… he should trust it. Trust himself.
But the lack of visual assurance remains nothing but a nag in misleading his judgment. Agitated by this trend, he implores for the rest of his systems to please just cooperate, searching for at least one solid object to focus on. It only appears, that after many long cycles of calibration (and a gratefully patient audience), he finally makes out the form at head.
"That's it," the bot, his friend, sister, says soothingly. "Nice and easy, Bee."
A cloud of relief immerses him. That had been her, that- that is her. That's good. That has to be a good sign.
Unless...
His thoughts plummet back down to surface-level, deeper into another tunnel, spangled with gaps of truth that he still can't quite manage to reach. Confusion swims in his optics as he struggles to discern reality from recollection.
It feels like a puzzle, almost. A piece would slide into place if he forced it to, but it still never quite fit the shape, and would only leave the other pieces to be questioned.
Because Arcee is here, that's right, but… This is different. Everything, if this is… if this is about what happened earlier, right before everything went dark, then…
This wasn't how things panned out after the battle. It wasn't Arcee who found him. It was–
…
Why… why is he thinking that why does he know that?
"You're not where you think you are. You're safe. We're not on Cybertron, Bee."
Desperate to confirm her statement as true, (or really anything as true), Bumblebee observes the room. It definitely doesn't look like a place fit for Cybertron. The materials, the colors, the shapes — they're too foreign. But he's been in this place before, he can tell, even in its alien nature.
Arcee was right. This isn't their homeworld.
But, no matter if he's been here, that doesn't erase the fact that he could still be… somewhere even… potentially worse…
His vents grow unsteady once more. His optics switch to sweep the room in more detail, hoping to find a tell-tale sign or, surely, a second ally.
He looks again upon the bots behind the two-wheeler, and discovers a flashy scarlet and white paint the easiest to analyze first; a stark and vibrant contrast to the neutral colors of the room. Curiously, at the sight, he feels his spark flutter with a new dictionary of emotions, like a need to seek aid, to be reassured by them.
Almost as if they read his mind, the bot approaches, albeit a bit hesitant, kneeling next to Arcee.
Recognition hits him at once. This is Ratchet.
Another ally, yes, but…
Bumblebee in an instant finds himself becoming irrationally upset. Ratchet gives off a sense of empathy he can't quite seem to touch; a root of stability, stability he actually needs, but– he doesn't know why. Why is he so distraught why does this feel so overwhelming and why does it feel like he needs to cry–
It just… it doesn't make any sense. Ratchet shouldn't be here. He shouldn't… or couldn't, because…
…
No, it's too hard to think any more about.
It hurts both to understand, and to dwell on why it even hurts in the first place.
Well don't just sit there, he seethes. Do something, say something, you idiot.
From beneath his battle-mask, static hisses, crackles, and yearns to deliver a different sound, a need to convey at least something, something as it feigns the fact that rest of his systems are unbothered. Yells and screams for control are ever ineffective, would-be, and continuing only to drone outward instead, straining until it slips and falls back into the familiarity of a defeated whir.
The noise broadens both shrill and low as Bumblebee curls into himself, lost, frustrated. He half regards that the old medic appears taken aback, almost, or reliving something, something he hates hateshates– and a strike of humility burns through him.
Following just behind however is a sudden, crashing wave of hyper-awareness, instinct, that sends shivers down his spinal-strut, and soon he finds himself re-lifting both servos to his throat, tugging at and tracing old weld marks with uneasy digit-tips.
How long had those been there?
He doesn't know if he's confused or concerned. Too many details are merging.
A moment passes — then it's like everyone comprehends something that he doesn't. With a slow shake of his helm, Ratchet reaches forward, gingerly taking one of Bumblebee's arms and coercing his defenses away.
He ends up not flinching this time.
"Easy, Bumblebee. You're okay. That's been rep–" Ratchet pauses, his visage furrowing in concentration before he replaces it with a more indifferent look — the one he would wear on the field when bots needed a confident reassurance, firmness, rather than further reason to stress. "—You're safe. No-bot will hurt you while we are here."
Bumblebee looks down. He wants to trust him, all the same, but can't help searching for that same truth within the rest of the occupants of the room.
With a similar hope from before, his optics travel behind the medic and two-wheeler to spot the third bot, large and green, rocking on his pedes nervously. Bulkhead.
It's fairly blatant that his nervousness is associated more with worry than fear, but it does little to put Bumblebee at ease.
Well- no- Bumblebee knows better.
It's no question that Bulkhead remains one of the strongest and most dependable Autobots he knows. He could rely on him for practically anything, (at least that the others weren't so keen on), and under his wing, Bumblebee is always certain he's safe. He takes solace in that thought.
So he… struggles to think. It makes enough sense. If everyone is here, then he must be back- back at the ba–
But what if he's wrong?
What if this– this could be a rescue. He already considered it before, but it could still–
A doorway makes itself apparent out of the corner of his optic, and in some strange instance, he sees a shadow, a figure standing there, waiting– by Primus, they're gonna get caught.
What if they get attacked and he doesn't– he has to- he has to warn them because the bot– there– the bot right there with his gun out is–
A double-take. He squints, readjusts, and there is no gun, and there is no…
Bumblebee looks up, and his spark jolts when he finds the Prime. They lock optics for a moment, then two, before the faintest whim of a smile traces the older bot's features; a rare commodity in this day and age, that is.
Against his will, Bumblebee feels the tension partly release at the gesture. But maybe… Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe he's just overthinking it. Maybe…
…
The tunnel collapses — the pieces of the puzzle at last conform into one solid, obvious shape — and Bumblebee feels foolish.
This was a rescue, alright. But not quite the kind he thought it was.
It makes… agonizingly perfect sense, now that he rationalizes it. Ratchet wouldn't storm the Nemesis on a mission with everyone else. Arcee and Bulkhead wouldn't be so calm or assure him he was safe. And Optimus wouldn't be standing in the doorway without his weapons drawn to protect them.
It.
It was a dream.
He isn't back on the battlefield, nor is he anywhere near Megatron (or any other Decepticon, for that matter). In fact, now that he realizes it, almost his entire HUD remains stable. No grave alarms are blaring, no dangers are present. He's sheltered here in what he now remembers as the Autobot base.
It was a dream.
It was all just one stupid, burning scrap-heap of a dream.
By the Primes…
Bumblebee lowers his other servo from his neck, a choking sense of shame and guilt flooding his systems. Shame for allowing his family to see him in such a state; guilt for causing them to be concerned in the first place. Bumblebee knows better than any bot in the room that this isn't something they can fix. They can't fight the nightmares away. They can't repel them with some wacky piece of technology. They can't erase Megatron's influence on his psyche. No. All they can do is sit idly by and watch as this… this idiot, this dumb mess of a bot, grapples his way through his struggles.
Everything. This was all. So. Stupid.
You're the one who's stupid, a voice, unfamiliar, deep down says. Why would anyone see you now? All you're proving is exactly what he wanted. Nothing. You're nothing. You're useless. No one should've helped you in the first place — you've done nothing good enough to make up for it, nothing worthwhile, nothing to stand your ground — you. Are. Noth–
No, shut up! Shut upshutup you can't be doing that — he yells back — you can't let that bring you down, you were doing fine– why now–? you can still be fine, you can't let them– you're a piece of scrap– no! You have to keep trying, keep going; there's no time limit– you will never be good enough– NO.
The tension resurfaces tenfold and he goes stiff, slamming his servos over his audio receptors. Instead he fixates strictly on his pedes, trembling, wrought with a slew of conflicted emotions.
Without even noticing, the water-works arrive.
He only registers this as the moisture drips down his face-plate, burning in rims around his optics; a plea for his spark to escape the battle that was his processor.
He… really hadn't expected to break down this soon, not from a silly little nightmare. Yet here he is, battle-mask doing the bare minimum to conceal his grimacing visage as thick beads of lubricant spill from his optics.
Stop it.
Fiercely he bats away at the tears, to hold back the impending collapse just a bit longer. It doesn't- it doesn't matter if it were a dream or a memory, he still promised, still vowed to himself that he wouldn't let the undesired outcome win. He had to be better, he had to show them he wasn't- wasn't– he- he had to–
"Bumblebee…"
Someone pities. And that's all it takes for him to bury his facial-plating into a knot of himself and sob.
His frame becomes pelted with tremors, the onslaught of just… everything — the fear, guilt, shame, horror, doubt — it all hits him like a tidal wave, threatening to careen him off the edge.
Bumblebee doesn't know how long he sits there. It's for longer than he wants, certainly, but it appears as though his audience hasn't left yet, waiting, either lost or confused or looking at him with utter disappointment–
They ought to just leave you now, it whispers. If you're so strong, then do as you always do, and figure this out on your own.
Disgruntled, he almost listens. He lets the request simmer within his vocoder, steadily forming and morphing and translating into an outright fact — before an unsteady weight clamps down on his shoulder-plating.
Without sparing a glance, he knows that it's Ratchet; all in his royal awkwardness attempting to offer some sense of comfort. And, while it helps momentarily, Bumblebee needs… more.
Spite was ever a strong thing anyway.
So he leans into the touch, frame partially supported by the wall and partially by Ratchet's servo. He knows that it's a selfish thought, (or maybe moreso contradictory), but there's… little else he feels he can do.
Whatever it was — his childish wishes catered to, an indulgence both cherished and despised — they still shouldn't be- shouldn't have to be doing this. He wasn't actively seeking it out, or awaiting some cavalry of sorts to save him from the deep end of his own stupid, helpless helm. He had been fine, in fact; everything had been fine until tonight, for some Primus-be-slagged reason — he just… needed– or wants–
Maybe he just doesn't understand how or why or what- what he feels is right. What he wants. He just doesn't know.
He… he never knows.
…
But then, there is more.
Another servo, he feels, much larger than the other, cusps his opposite shoulder-plate and the back of his neck, a heavy yet gentle hold. Security.
Then a smaller one joins the fray, unsure at first but then finding a simple lay upon the leg a good enough offer. Comfort.
In that strange instance, for some unknown reason, their presence suddenly begins to feel less of a side-effect and more of an intent.
"We're here, Bee," Arcee's voice enters the vast ocean of a million thoughts; an anchor, reminding him, grounding him. "We're here. You're safe."
"Yeah," Bulkhead joins in gruffly. "We got you, kid. It'll be okay."
It's not long after that Bumblebee feels his tensened gears finally start to relax. They release their burden out into the open air; the promise, a gasping exhale of reprieve.
In reality, nothing much changes, but now something, somewhere deep down, is turning, reversing in definition, clicking — and he clings onto the feeling with every last iota of his spark. With it, the remedy thrives, and he savvys himself with the idea that there is no reason to second-guess the integrity of his situation anymore.
And integrity by far is all he needs right now.
Shunning his qualms to the Pit, he drowns out most sense of thought, and allows himself to be vulnerable. He sinks against the supports and all but vents — dim lights, thrumming beats — until he feels the first servo resting on his shoulder-plating recede. As soon as it does, though, it's quickly replaced by a large thump next to him, and Bumblebee now sees Ratchet sitting by his side.
One by one, he watches as the bots settle down to his level, and he can't stop the fireworks; sporadic, fluttering embers of pure, base emotions, torching alight a world of ignorance towards a new-moon of blanketed despairs. One may graze above it, yet he may never truly know, because the fear, the panic, the guilt and shame — it all crawls to the back of his processor.
It might come back later — might, it will — but for now, replacing it are warmer feelings. Feelings of contentment, peace, love and understanding, just like those little flames, and that by itself is more than enough to overwhelm him.
Hot. Trembling again, now.
He vents once more, shaky yet cool to compensate. The effort proves much harder than before, though, and his chest-plate squeezes and tightens in protest.
That's… concerning.
Forcibly he widens his pipes, a common solution, to allow the air to better course on and level through. But for some reason it feels… harsh. Contaminated, almost. He nearly chokes on it.
Taking note, he carefully tries to slow it down.
In…
…Out.
In–
The next outtake abruptly sputters once, twice — before there's a sharp flash of blinding white, ringing, turning his chassis weightless.
All his previous rewards — sight, hearing, comprehension, bliss — they all promptly cut offline, go dark, and he falls limp against the nearest frame.