Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Don't panic. It's become the only thing keeping her going for over a deca-cycle. Don't panic don't panic don't panic. She trembles, everything hollow and empty inside her and she tries to think: What can she do? What hasn't she done yet? Her distress beacon goes unanswered, just like her pings and all attempts at communication. She should move on, try looking in another area but she's too afraid to. What if she missed them somehow? What if they're still down there, waiting for her to find them? She tries not to think that, after so long, someone could have moved them off planet, out of the system entirely. This was where she lost her mechs, this is where she'll stay until they're found again and runs the same search procedures she's run dozens of times already.

If she ends up becoming a ghost, an empty shell only capable of fulfilling its last directive, then so be it. That will be the price of her loyalty.

~*~*~*~

His steps are heavy, practically dragging as he's escorted down the long hall. Even without the inhibitor claw snaking around his chest, the cuffs and guards are unnecessary, more of a humiliation than anything else: all the fight had gone out of him the moment he understood what was happening. His body slumps, head low and none of that famous defiance glows in his optics now. He just shuffles along, quietly, until the thick doors pull back at the end of the hall and the room goes hush as he's put to the stand.

He doesn't dare look up to see all those faces staring back down at him, judging him, sneering, expressions full of hate and pain and betrayal. He shutters his optics and tries to keep the vibration of his engine even, tries not to focus on the familiar, measured steps that take their place opposite him.

"This tribunal will now come to order," he shrinks in on himself at that voice. He knew it was going to be Prowl even as he hoped it wasn't. "Springer, you've been charged with multiple counts of reckless endangerment, failure to obey orders, noncompliance to procedure and maltreatment which has resulted in a number of deaths both of those under your command and others."

Silence stretches for a moment but Springer's spark sinks. His lips cinch tight and he begs in his mind Don't do this to me, please, don't do it, don't do it but he knows it's futile.

Prowl begins reciting a list Springer knows all too well, the one filled with those he'd failed, whom his orders had gotten killed, "Rack, Ruin- died in failed mission on Argus. Rotorstorm- suicide following the battle at Simanzi. Ironfist- died from mishandling illegal weaponry, Redline..."

~*~*~*~

On the surface there is nothing about this mission that indicates it's anything but standard. Sure, Springer isn't there with them but Roadbuster is no stranger to taking command. There's nothing out of the ordinary with the intel, with the conditions, with anything at all but something is making Roadbuster uneasy. Not even the pre-battle banter of the other Wreckers, normally nothing but background noise to him at this point, is doing anything but making him more anxious. He studies the intel, goes over his plan and all his back ups multiple times and there's no glaring problems in anything but the feeling is still there.

Alarms suddenly blare. The speakers crackle before announcing a surprise Decepticon attack. Not even this is worrying, too used to plans having to be scrapped and rebuilt in an instant for it to unnerve him. The other Wreckers chuckle darkly to themselves as they do final checks on their weapons, joking demeanor replaced with detached professionalism and cold anticipation.

They turn to him for their orders and suddenly Roadbuster can't speak.

The air around them begins to grow heavy. "Well, RB?" Whirl asks, the blades on his hands tapping lightly against his thighs. "What're we doing?"

No, he can speak, he still has the ability if the slight click of static in his vocalizer is any indication. It's more like he's forgotten how to. The words won't form up in the connection between his cranial unit and his mouth component.

Frowns are beginning to pull at the edges of lips, optics growing dark. Twin Twist's drills begin to slowly rotate with tension and all of them are staring at Roadbuster. "What're our orders?"

His plan is there, the course of action so obvious all they really need is just Roadbuster setting them loose. But the words won't come to him, he can't pin them down and force them out and they keep staring and staring with optics glowing with annoyance.

Roadbuster's engine begins to stutter and dread is slowly eating away at the thoughts in his head and still he can't speak a word.

~*~*~*~

No one that actually knows the Wreckers would call any of them dumb. Intelligence, after all, is a factor in recruitment and each of them have to be extremely knowledgeable in their respective skillsets since they depend on each other. Because of this, none of the Wreckers are willing to call one smarter than the others. Privately, however, Whirl fancies himself among the more observant and logical. It's why he's thinking, figuring out the whys and hows behind his onlining to being shackled to a wall rather than reacting to it. He combs over his memories, analyzing the ones that are fuzzy and indistinct until they become clear.

His optic flares up and he tilts his head back as far as he's able, thoroughly disgusted at the conclusion he's deduced, "You've gotta be fragging kidding me."

~*~*~*~

Medics are something of a priceless commodity, especially so many millennia into the war. Those that survived for so long have several times more experience than they'd have in times of peace, skills far beyond what they had ever imagined for themselves. It's a cruel necessity and many medics lament the death and destruction that surrounds them. Though they chose a side, many refuse to fight themselves and those that do only do so in the worst of circumstances and with heavy sparks.

Sometimes Topspin thinks there's something wrong with him. He's never told the other Wreckers- they'd just say that it's necessary, that he does it to protect his brothers, the other Autobots, that they need a medic that they know can defend themselves. They don't understand that the act of fighting and killing comes easy to him and it shouldn't. It's something that goes against his core programming but he took to it as well as any soldier construct. When he abandoned his medical training to join the war effort it was with very little doubts. He feels as comfortable sighting down a rifle as he does wielding a scalpel and he knows that that's unnatural.

He skids to a stop behind a barricade where Broadside had dragged Twin Twist. The triplechanger's optic band flashes in acknowledgment before he heads back into the firefight and Topspin scans his best friend's body, categorizing the damages and plotting out his course of action as he pulls out his supplies. He works through his anger, ignores the need to find whoever did this and eviscerate them messily. That's also unnatural for a medic. He knows it but he can't stop the fury in the back of his mind, can only set it aside.

It's an easy fix. Granted there's a possibility of the wounds being fatal if they aren't dealt with and technically no field medkit is capable of handling this, but Topspin has jury rigged solutions for worse injuries. He can do things with a field kit that no accredited medical school could even dream of. He barely gives it any thought as he reconstructs pistons and gaskets out of scrap metal, rewires tubing to bypass shredded circuitry, welds together snapped struts to get limbs working again. It's all in a day's work for Topspin.

Except Twin Twist's levels are still going down.

"What-" he hunches over the driller's body, trying to find a leak that he missed. There, in the mess that he just rewired- but that can't be right. He's done that a thousand times before and there's never been a problem. He checks over the tube, the seals, looks for any cracks in the mechanisms, odd pressure readings. There's nothing out of the ordinary for this kind of wound but every time he tries to insert the tube it keeps leaking.

Something splurts at him. Hydraulic fluid is seeping out from the putty Topspin had used to patch up the crack in Twin Twist's hydraulic pump a stellar cycle ago. The cooling fans he'd taken from a Decepticon and installed are suddenly grinding to a halt, the flexiseals keeping Twin Twist's shoulder together are falling apart. The altered gearbox, the soldered circuits- everything Topspin has ever jury rigged in Twin Twist's body is all failing catastrophically and Topspin doesn't know what to do. He keeps jumping from one failed bit to the next, panic wiping his mind blank of everything. "No- nonononono!"

Twin Twist's engine is coughing roughly, not getting the power it needs to keep him going, the glow from his spark chamber is beginning to flicker and all Topspin can do is hold bits of him as he starts begging, "No Twist no please I can't I don't what do I do Twist please I'm sorry please!"

He begs until he's screaming, begs until he's grabbing Twin Twist's body and shakes him, begs even when his best friend is already dead.

~*~*~*~

Twin Twist peers down the hall absolutely befuddled. Then he looks down the other way only to be met with the same empty nothing. He's in Xantium's main hall. That is if her main hall is suddenly absent of doors or junctions and goes on indefinitely in both directions. There's no answer to his calls, his voice echoing lonely and loud and it makes Twin Twist shudder. He hates being alone, never is unless it's necessary. He doesn't know where the others are- he doesn't even know where he is. Should he start walking? Does it matter which way? His scans aren't giving him any indication of which direction is better. At his shoulders his drills rotate anxiously, tempted to bust his way out but he doesn't know what's on the other side of the walls.

"Well," he says to no one, "one way is as good as the other."

~*~*~*~

He's shoved to his knees, arms being pulled back until the servos protest and hands grip him tightly, keeping him anchored in place. It's not Sandstorm's first rodeo as a Decepticon captive but that doesn't make him any happier about it. The memory of his last stint still puts a nauseous roil in his tank and this time he doesn't have Roadbuster to draw attention away from him.

Stay calm, he tells himself, stay focused. Maybe they'll remember what a pain I was last time and just shoot me. Not likely, he knows, but he can hope whoever caught him decides the safest way to deal with a Wrecker is to kill them. At least he hopes the reason why they brought him to such a large room is because it's easier to maneuver a dead body out of than the small holding cell they had him in.

Doors behind him whisk open, tread an unhurried rhythm that circles around in front. Sandstorm looks up at the mech blocking the light, the cold, impassive mask and red optic band, the creature on his shoulder that spreads its wings and hooks its beak in preparation and suddenly Sandstorm is back in Stanix- small and helpless and at the mercy of everyone around him, remembers the voice that whispers to him, "We'll make all those terrible memories go away" even as she charges a line of 'bots eager to do worse. Wipe and re-wipe until they strip him of everything, until all that's left is corrupted files and circuits too threadbare to hold a code.

He can't move. He can't speak. He can only stare in frozen horror as every microchip, every synapse, everything inside of him screams STAY OUT OF MY HEAD.

~*~*~*~

Space is gorgeous. There's always something going on either from the objects in it or the various civilizations on those objects. If it wasn't for the sea, Broadside's greatest love would be space.

He's not so much in love with it at the moment, though. Of course the view is amazing- the incredible colored streams from a geomagnetic storm interplaying with the periodic flashes of a lightning storm below. Unfortunately that's part of the problem. Broadside hates doing atmospheric re-entry on a good day, let alone having to do so in these conditions. It's part of Springer's plan, though, and Broadside is loyal to his leader.

The solar winds are getting stronger, making him wince as his instruments fluctuate briefly. Broadside has a moment of panic- he can't lose his coordinates. He'll be flying blind through those storms- he needs to know exactly where he needs to go or he could end up slamming right into the ground.

The thought brings flash backs of his first attempt at atmospheric re-entry. The terror swells up in his internals, the pain and fear, the helplessness, the panic as he came screaming through the sky brighter than the sun with friction threatening to tear off his wings and g-forces rattling his plating.

Don't. He tells himself. Don't don't don't don't. You can do this. You have to do this. The entire plan hinges on you being able to pull this off.

Broadside tries to lose himself in his link to the data net, letting the information flowing from his teammates distract him. It's just a passive connection, bouncing off Xantium so the Decepticons can't pick up his signal but right now it's the only thing keeping him from dwelling on traumatic memories. He clings to the chatter, feeling the thrumming of his spark slowing, evening out.

Springer pings his command: [Now!]

Broadside's engines flare up-

A strong solar wind crackles over him and all of his connections are wiped clean.

~*~*~*~

Everyone clusters around the war table, jostling each other as they throw out ideas for the upcoming battle or just banter with their teammates. Being the smallest of the Wreckers it's occasionally difficult for Scoop to get a good view of the table before Springer's briefing starts and everyone settles down. He's stuck behind Whirl this time which wouldn't be so bad- the shockingly slender fragger that he is -but Sandstorm's stabilizer and fan does a good job of filling in the gaps. So Scoop sighs and waits- there's no point in trying to move either of them, they'd be the first to give anyone a hard time outside of battles just to amuse themselves.

Finishing up the hushed conference with Roadbuster, Springer revs his engine to get the others' attention. They quiet, looking to their leader expectantly and Whirl and Sandstorm shift just enough for Scoop to get a clear view of everything. "Alright, mechs," he tells them as Roadbuster flicks at the table interface to bring up the map, "we'll be splitting into three groups. Whirl, we're keeping you in the rear. A lot of these 'bots are so young their welds are still hot and we'll need someone with experience to help coordinate air and munition strikes."

The helo sighs, crossing his lanky arms. "Fine, but I'm not sparkling-sitting any of the scraplets."

"If the rest of us do our job correctly, you won't need to. Topspin and Twin Twist, you're with Roadbuster. You three will be on the front so take your hardest hitting weapons with you. Broadside and Sandstorm are coming with me along this ridge here," the section in question enlarges. "We'll be using mortar fire and precision ranged weapons as well as calling in strikes from the rear."

"What about me?" Scoop asks, "Should I come with your group as your rear guard?"

"With the three of us sighting down on the valley," Broadside says, "a 'con could very easily sneak up on us."

"I can keep watch," Scoop says, louder this time.

Sandstorm talks right over him, "We should bring some sentries with us. They'd at least be an early warning system."

"I checked the armory already, they've got some we can use," Springer replies, completely ignoring Scoop's increasingly insistent 'hey!'s.

They keep talking, seemingly unable to hear Scoop as his voice raises until he's practically shouting. His hand darts out to grab his closest teammate- Whirl -and his hand goes right through his waist. Scoop pulls his arm back so fast he stumbles backward, vents stuttering. "What... what in Primus's name..."

He's shaking as he tries again- and again with Sandstorm, with Twin Twist and Roadbuster and he can't touch any of them. He can feel the war table under his fingers, can press his palms against the various panels and consoles around them but when he tries with the other Wreckers it's like... like they're not there. Or like he's not there. There's only a minimal amount of resistance, a slight tingling sensation like touching a compressed pocket of air.

Not knowing what he can possibly do Scoop just stares as his teammates gear themselves up, apparently forgetting that Scoop ever existed at all. He holds himself tight and small, making sure not to get close enough to touch anyone. He doesn't know what's worse- seeing but being unable to interact with the other Wreckers, their heading off into a fight while he's utterly useless or the possibility that he's been so inconsequential to the entire team that they don't even notice that he's not there.

They file out of the room and Scoop screams after them.

~*~*~*~

Eight lights.

When this started there had been eight lights, each humming out the vibrations of those connected to it. They had been strong then. Powerful. Indefatigable. The strength of their sparks as steadfast as the strength of their arms.

They're faltering now.

All do, in time. Some have managed to regain their rhythm in the past but these... One is likely to overcome, one or two others have the possibility as well. The others are weakening, giving out more and more static as time stretches on. Except for one who had succumbed almost immediately, the light extinguished and giving off nothing but a scream of the damned.

It's the guilt. The fear. Of being forced to see themselves and realize they aren't worthy. So few are. And those who aren't will be purged from the galaxy.

Chapter Text

Twin Twist sighs, walking down that endless hallway. He doesn't know how long it's been- his chronometer hasn't changed since the first time he thought to look at it -and the only reason he knows he's going anywhere is by the panels that line the floor and walls. He even made a mark on one (for which he apologized for if this is some strange corridor inside of Xantium) and had yet to pass it again so it's not an enclosed loop.

He's exhausted. Not physically, he's just lonely and tired of being alone. He wonders where the others are, if they're okay or if they're stuck somewhere as well. Are they trapped? Hurt? Looking for him? He wants someone there so badly, even as just a voice on the comm. Something to make him feel like he's not alone.

The driller keeps walking, the hope that this hall will end and someone will be there waiting for him spurring him on.

~*~*~*~

There had been a voice, Whirl just barely remembers, that said the Wreckers were to be judged and if they found themselves lacking, they would be erased. Not seeing anyone around to judge him and the phrase having been 'found themselves', it's obvious the ones judging Whirl is the helo himself, likely over any guilt or faults he feels he has.

Well, he's pretty shameless. There's no actions he's taken that he feels guilt over- at least not enough for him to give up his life -so it must be his faults of which there's only one he can think of that occasionally gnaws at him from the way he ignores it. He stamps down the resisting spike of pride, lifts his head up and tells the empty ceiling, "I can't do this alone. I need my team to help me."

The shackles pop open, dropping Whirl the scant few feet to the ground. He searches the empty room around him before heading to the door and finding it opening automatically for him.

This is disappointingly easy.

~*~*~*~

Panic flares bright through him and Broadside scrambles to recover the data, to reconnect to the net but several relays have been (impossible, this is what he's built for!) fried. He needs to go. Springer needs him but he's so slotting scared. He feels small and insignificant next to this huge planet and its storms. It feels like it's ready to swallow him whole. If he falls, he'll barely leave a mark. If he falls, he'll just be a flaring trail in the sky and a furrow in the ground.

He doesn't want to fall. He doesn't want to fall. He doesn't want to fall. He floats, silent and still, and doesn't want to fall.

~*~*~*~

He's still wrist deep inside Twin Twist, trying desperately to bring back light to the empty spark chamber.

"Spin..."

His head jerks up just in time to see Roadbuster fall to his knees. Something like smoke is starting to curl around Broadsides plates, Whirl is stumbling on his pedes, sparks flash in the gaps of Sandstorm's side, Scoop just crumples to the ground. And Springer is standing in front of Topspin, energon trickling out of the seams of his face, the seams of his armor. Then it starts cascading down, coating him in waves and pooling on the ground. His right hand disintegrates before Topspin's optics, then the entire arm just falls, the joints blackened and crumbling and he knows what parts of him are failing, knows he's the one responsible for them failing, for Springer's optics turning the same dead gray Twin Twist's did. The same color the other Wreckers are turning.

"What have you done?" The words are soft, bubbling out of Springer's lips not in an accusation but a betrayed plea. "What did you do to us?"

Springer falls into the pool of his own energon, making it splash against Topspin's armor and the medic sits there- horrified, terrified, wishing his own internals would destroy themselves so he'd no longer be surrounded by the bodies of his teammates, his family.

Topspin digs his fingers into his face and screams.

~*~*~*~

A second light goes black, leaving nothing but wailing static.

~*~*~*~

There's nothing he can do. He can touch things- inconsequential things -but that's the limit of Scoop's abilities. He can touch panels but he can't interact with them, he can touch doors but the sensors won't open them for him, he can feel objects that are placed down but can't pick them up. He can pound and stomp and hit but no one reacts to any kind of noise he makes. No matter how he wracks his cranial unit, he can't come up with any solutions, any theories as to what happened or how to solve it. What's the point if he can't do anything? Why exist at all if he's useless? What possible purpose does his life have if this- following others around like some harmless phantom -is all he's capable of?

He follows the triplechangers anyway. What else does can he do? He follows and is rather surprised at how quiet the trip is. As they approach the ridge they make plans for various escape routes but other than that it's generally silence. They could be talking on a tight link, Scoop supposes, and he's just unable to feel the subtle buzz of it. He wants to talk to them. He wants to banter and tease, play word games with Broadside until Sandstorm grumbles at them to shut up or crushes them in competition. He wants to see Springer grinning from the corner of his optic, quietly enjoying the easy camaraderie between his mechs. He wants to be part of this so badly he nearly halts mid-march and gives in to despair.

But he pushes on, as quiet as the larger Wreckers though it makes no difference in the end. He sets up next to the others, able to observe the valley while under cover. He powers up his weapons array, holds his rifle at ready and keeps an optic scanning for any retaliation. When the battle starts he sights in, compiling a list of coordinates even though he's incapable of calling in any strikes. There's nothing he can do but Scoop does it all anyway. Because he's a Wrecker and if there's even the slimmest of chances he can make a difference, then he will make it.

~*~*~*~

A light goes dark but there's no static, just silence.

No matter. It had been expected.

~*~*~*~

Scoop's engine splutters and coughs, vents heaving in protest at having gone from dormant to battle ready in a nano-klik. His optics flit wildly around him, trying to figure out what's going on, what happened to the others, why is he suddenly alone? He flinches at the feel of something tugging at his head and realizes it's a cable someone had stuck inside a port. He sneers in disgust and anger at the violation but he can't twist his neck around enough to tug it out. Scoop tries the bonds that are keeping him in place, then shimmies a bit in order to get better leverage. They may be big enough to hold him, but they're not built for Cybertronians and it doesn't take too much effort to tear free.

He pulls out the cable and quickly steps away, turning to look at what confined him. The set up is remarkable just in how unimpressive it is: simple, adjustable binds to keep him upright and a cable that disappears into the ceiling. There's a single light that shines down on the spot in stark, washed out lighting and when Scoop looks around he finds a solitary camera that's pointed where he'd been kept.

So someone had caught him- possibly some, if not all, of the others. That much is obvious, but the camera means they're still watching him. Scoop waits, tense, but he can't sense any alarms or anyone coming to get him back under control. Does this mean they just left him here? Or do they want him to try to escape? Scouting out the rest of the room gives him no information, everything but the cable and binds are in an extreme state of disrepair, probably hundreds of years old- an impressive feat when few races live a fraction of the length Scoop has.

There's a door and Scoop approaches it cautiously, hyper-aware of his empty hands and emptier weapon holds. He doesn't know who caught him, but they're certainly something to have been able to empty out all his compartments. The door stays silently closed and it takes a moment for him to find a panel to the side, then a couple moments longer to figure out how it works. He wonders at the size-difference between the door and the buttons on the panel, the former almost as large as the ones on Xantium, the latter small enough he can just barely press it with the very edge of a finger. Either whoever this was built for is huge but with tiny hands or they're somewhere around mini-bot size and the place was built to store much larger things.

Scoop peers cautiously into the hall, as empty and still as his current room, and ventures out with his sensors on high. If whoever this is actually caught any other Wrecker, Scoop will make sure it's the last mistake they ever make.

~*~*~*~

Worthless. Every single room is worthless and there's so little variation that if Whirl wasn't paying attention he would've thought he'd just been going into the same one over and over again. It's annoying and frustrating and Whirl can't wait to find whoever caught him so he can shoot them in the face. And also that he can find a rifle so he can shoot them in the face. Though stabbing them with his hands makes a decent fallback, he supposes.

He's stopped counting the rooms by now, instead trying to map out the place as best he can. He's not the best navigator on the team, but having some idea of the layout is better than nothing. Whirl's so used to just passing through the rooms that he almost misses one that has a similar restraining setup that his had. And that the shackles are broken. He studies the shackles, using his own arm to gauge the size of whoever it held- bigger, but not by much. The most likely suspects are Scoop, perhaps Topspin.

Whirl strides to the door with longer strides and a satisfied glow in his optic. He knew he'd find the others eventually.

~*~*~*~

Twin Twist is starting to get so sick of this hall he almost never wants to be in Xantium again. But this isn't her, he knows. There's no response to his words or comms, nothing to ping against, no hitches no matter how much he beats on the walls. No warmth in the soft vibrations to keep him company when no one else will.

He grumbles to himself, promising to put his drills through the chest of whoever is making him resent Xantium.

Suddenly a whirring noise rumbles through the hall like a giant mechanism that's been activated. A movement causes his head to jerk up and Twin Twist's spark goes cold. The ceiling is opening up, splitting down a seam running through the middle of it and in the gap: space. Eternal, overwhelming, empty space.

Panic shoots through his cables, vents rattling, tanks quivering at the sight of all that cosmic nothing and Twin Twist almost misses the sound but he catches it because it's something his fear of space conditioned him for. The sound of power generators failing.

Blind desperation has him running even though there's nowhere to go and nothing to grab hold of. But he runs all the same because he doesn't know what else to do and he can't get his mag-plates to activate. He can feel the artificial gravity lessening, bit by bit. Each pound of his pedes on the deck propelling him a little bit farther, a little bit higher and he's so light now, everything inside of him is so light and it doesn't even feel like he's real anymore.

One last stride and the deck is gone from below him, all his flailing and crying can't stop him from clearing the walls and he spins, helplessly, out into space.

~*~*~*~

What is he doing? What the hell is he doing? Broadside watches the tops of the clouds and doesn't know if the flashes of lights are from the storm or from battle. Either way he's far beyond it all, afraid but safe while everyone else is fighting for their lives down below. A fight they're probably losing because he's not there to back them up like he's supposed to be.

His engines quiver, warm but not quite starting up yet.

He hates himself. He hates himself so much for being too scared to put his life on the line. As if he doesn't regularly do so every time he picks up a weapon.

How is this different? How is this any worse? How can he call himself a Wrecker if he can't get his aft in gear and go? They're family. He never hesitated to risk his life for any of them in the past but why can't he do it now?

They need him. They need him and he's letting them down and who knows how many are already dead because of him?

Broadside steels himself, internals clenched tight, and flares into the atmosphere.

~*~*~*~

No matter how he twists, how he attempts to shrink in on himself, Roadbuster can't escape those optics boring into him.

"Tell us what to do." He can't even keep track of who's saying what; they're all demanding him, judging him. "Why won't you say anything? Can't you even talk? Say something, how hard can that be? Stop trying to be difficult. Just say what you need to say. What's wrong with you? You're just wasting our time. Stop being so weak willed and just do it. This is just pathetic. How are you supposed to lead us if you won't say anything?"

They're right. He can't speak when he's too afraid of what his own team will think of him, when their demands for direction blank out the words from his processors. What use is he then? How can Springer depend on him if Roadbuster can't fulfill his duty as second? What good is he to the team if he can't even get out orders anymore?

Roadbuster's hands tighten on his weapon. He spins on a heel and marches out the door, not bothering to see if anyone's following him. He doesn't expect them to after he's let them down, but he'll salvage what he can of himself and the situation. He may not be able to speak his orders but Wreckers have always valued actions over words and, like Springer, he will lead from the front.

~*~*~*~

Three more go dark in quick succession but only one spits out static. The possibility was anticipated so there's no need for concern. Instead, it's the two remaining lights that are intriguing. Both are faded, struggling to keep flickering, lasting longer than any had before.

But it won't last. They're weak and each dark stutter lasts longer than the one before. In time those lights will be extinguished and justice will be done.

Chapter Text

Just how sprawling is this place? He's been wandering around for cycles already, trying to keep his search as systematic as possible but not all the doors are working properly and there's patches of vibrations so strong he can feel it in his struts, some strong enough to make Scoop's sensors scream at him. It's annoying having to adjust them so much, sometimes multiple times while crossing one room, but the alternatives are to leave them as is- not an option as sometimes they hurt too much to even think -or dial them way down- also not an option as he has no weapons or ideas as to what else might be around. Not that he's found anything, not even a sign that the other Wreckers are even here. Just dead bodies and broken equipment and he's not even certain if there's another living being around at all.

The errant thought lances across his spark. He's a sociable mech, certainly, but Scoop has never been the type to get worked up over being alone. Now, though, with his fear of being useless and dismissed still burning raw in his head, he can't help a feeling of despair slowly creeping up on him. What if the others aren't here? What if he's alone? They'd come for him. Right? Springer never leaves anyone behind if he can help it. But... what if they don't know where he is? What if they never find the place? How long will they look for him before they decide to give up?

They would give up eventually. They'd have to when a higher priority mission comes down the pipe. And Scoop isn't a high priority. Just a mech whose life is basically forfeit because of the group he joined. They'd eventually see him as an acceptable loss and move on and Scoop will still be wandering these halls until the entire universe forgets he ever existed in the first place.

Desolation washes over him, taking the strength out of his body until he slides against the wall and to the floor, until he's curled over himself like a wretched ball of pathetic misery. He's nothing. He's a waste. He's not worth grieving over let alone remembering.

Scoop presses his palms against his optics and bites back the wail trying to bubble up out of his spark.

~*~*~*~

Frustration is welling up in Roadbuster's- unfortunately -empty hands. He's sick of this place, of feeling like some experiment being made to run mazes for someone else's detached enjoyment. A door sticks and he shoves it off the railing and into its frame with more force than necessary, leaving it crumpled more than anything. He has to duck through the opening, which is not an unfamiliar action in all honesty but right now it's just one more annoyance piled atop a mountain of them.

He doesn't know how many rooms he's gone through, all either empty or stacked with inactive bodies both organic and mechanical- sometimes hybrids -in various states of decay. Like storage areas, each in their distinctive piles. It's almost comprehensible in its own horrifically organized kind of way. The first Wrecker Roadbuster comes across, thankfully, has not yet joined the dead though coming across it is so sudden and anti-climatic that, for a moment, Roadbuster doesn't even recognize him. Topspin is mounted against a wall in the same way Roadbuster had been, the same cable feeding into his head and static races across his optic band. With urgency and care, the combat vehicle unhooks the cable and manacles and Topspin falls against him.

He lays the jumpstarter on the ground on his back, static still darting and Roadbuster doesn't know what to do. Why isn't Topspin onlining? He shakes him. Smacks lightly at his faceplates. Then harder. Topspin doesn't flinch or move. His scanners aren't medical grade, but what they come back with says that, asides from his cranial unit overclocking, the jumpstarter is unharmed. Even with the rate of overclocking, there's no reason for him to be offline.

"Topspin," Roadbuster shakes him again. "Topspin, get up! I need you online." He ignores the panic that's building up in his wires. Panic won't help anyone, especially when he's having a hard enough time trying to plan what he should be doing at all. This isn't a battlefield, not like the ones he knows best anyway. Roadbuster knows his use is limited outside of a fight, but Topspin is versatile. Creative, energetic, always knowing just what to say and do to help others- if the rest of the Wreckers are in this same state, he'll have a better idea of getting them out of it than Roadbuster will. "Come on, I need you. I can't help the others on my own."

The blue optic band flickers briefly. Roadbuster's fans stutter- what did he react to? The idea of being needed? That someone was suffering? He can't help the small curl of satisfaction: warrior though he is, Topspin is absolutely a medic at his core. "Get up, Topspin. We have to save the others." He doesn't know what to say. He's never been good at speaking, has never been one for motivational speeches. If only he was Springer instead. Or even Scoop or Sandstorm. Twin Twist is closest to Topspin and Whirl has the uncanny knack of being encouraging in the bluntest way possible. Even Broadside is a better choice, never saying much but knowing how to pack meaning into each word. But Roadbuster is just floundering, even when there's no one there to judge him and how absolutely perfect that the possible survival of the Wreckers depends on his ability to speak.

"Please, Topspin. I can't do this. I don't know how. I don't know how to bring anyone back. I need you. We all do. You're the only one that can do this. We need you. You have to come back. You have to save them. Please. Topspin, please."

His optic band flickers rapidly, then goes dark.

~*~*~*~

One of the screams abruptly cuts off.

It's an anomaly. Not an unheard of one, but one that requires investigation.

A wall of screens come up showing each room and each creature being judged. One has gotten free. That's not odd. Nor is the fact that it's attempting to save one of the others.

The oddity is that it appears to have succeeded.

~*~*~*~

Topspin's optic band flashes on again and he groans but Roadbuster's engine remains frozen. He's got his teammate functioning again which is a mission accomplished inasmuch as there can be one. However, as the ranking officer at the moment, that also means that he's the one in charge. Which isn't a problem were it not for how far out of his depth he feels and the memory of being stared at and judged wasn't so fresh.

"Roadbuster?" Topspin's optics recycle and suddenly he's gone rigid in Roadbuster's arms. "RB? You're- wait, how're you- but," he grabs the combat vehicle, forgoing attempt at wit and Roadbuster can feel the faint tingle of Topspin's invasive medical scan. "You're not hurt. Your systems haven't failed." He traces along the armored seams of his side and Roadbuster knows exactly what he's looking for: the scratches of the wound Topspin had patched up not a mega-cycle earlier where an energy sword had run him through.

Distance is easy. Professionalism is easy. Rules and doctrines and operating procedures- that's all easy. But this isn't a firefight. It's not a rescue mission or infiltration or anything that falls in even the outlying bounds of his expertise. Roadbuster can tell from the path Topspin's hands take across his body that the jumpstarter had been subjected to the same thing he had: being forced to live through their most vulnerable fears. Topspin needs his support- the others, most likely, will need his support, but Roadbuster isn't able to give it to them because he doesn't know how.

He panics, tries not to show it, and pulls Topspin toward the door, grip probably bordering on painful but the only thing Roadbuster can think of is to find someone else who's better at saying the words needed. They need to find Springer who can make things better through sheer personality alone.

"RB- hold up! Where're the others?"

Roadbuster hates that he can't even answer that.

~*~*~*~

The door opens and he doesn't notice. The footfall, however, he feels more than hears and it takes a moment for Scoop to recognize it. He uncurls from himself, just in time to see the red flash of Broadside's optic band as he looks away.

He doesn't see me, he thinks and wonders, briefly, if maybe he didn't escape that nightmare world after all. He tries to speak but can't get out more than a lull of static. The huge triplechanger is moving away and Scoop can't get his body to work, is trying to force more than clicks out of his vocalizer and finally sobs out quietly, "Broadside..."

The gray head snaps toward him and Broadside just stares. For a moment Scoop thinks it's just a coincidence until, "...Scoop?"

The relief makes him sob again, body shaking too much to get up but it just takes four long strides until Broadside is there, kneeling down with his hand tender against an orange shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Scoop grabs Broadside's hand and clings, nodding miserably and unwilling to part from the familiar heat and vibrations of his large teammate. Broadside sighs but he doesn't pull away. Instead he brings his other arm around to cradle Scoop against his chest. It's not the first time he's ever had to hold one of his teammates to him, reaffirming that they were here, alive, persisting, calming whatever emotion had jostled loose and wild.

It doesn't take more than a few kliks before Scoop's cycling air out of his vents like an acceptance. "I'm okay." He pulls back, still hesitant to let Broadside go completely but he's back on his pedes again, looking more like himself and less like personified despair.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, just... talk to me for a bit?" He feels a little guilty asking for that. Broadside isn't much of a talker though, unlike Roadbuster, it's less to do with anxiety and more he just doesn't feel compelled to speak unless there's something important to say.

In a situation like this, the mission was always a good topic, "Have you seen anything useful?"

"No. Just, well, basically the same things that's in here." Scoop waves a hand around and then realizes he was having an emotional breakdown next to a half decayed body. Gross. "You're the first anything I've seen that's functioning."

"I haven't seen any signs of the others. What was the set up like when you came to?"

"Shackled to a wall, cable running from the ceiling and jacked into my head."

"Same here." Broadside looks around as if there's something in visual range for him to consider. "I saw similar set ups, but nothing that would fit any of the others."

Scoop stares for a moment. "I... didn't even think to check that." Though it's a completely obvious thing now that he thinks about it. He noted the odd discrepancy between the doors and controls and the bodies he's come across have been in all different shapes and sizes so of course the shackles would have to be adjusted to fit them. "I might've seen signs of the others and not even realized it!"

Broadside turns to him, optics hard under the red visor. "Don't. This place is screwing with our heads and it's not your fault for being affected. It's trying to break us down, but it's not going to keep us down, alright?"

The payloader stares back for a moment before softly asking, "How do you know this place is messing with my head?" Broadside shifts, looking a little uncomfortable. "Did it mess with yours, too? Did it show you something? Something that hurt you?"

The silence between them is strained and Broadside can't even look at his teammate. That makes Scoop draw closer but Broadside pretends not to notice, hoping if he ignores the question, so will Scoop.

"Side..."

It really comes as no surprise that it doesn't work.

"Side, what did you see?"

"You first." It's unfair and immature but the triplechanger doesn't much care. Even if it's a fear he knows the other Wreckers are aware of, admitting it makes him feel pathetic and ashamed.

Scoop's engine grumbles uncomfortably. "I wasn't necessary. You didn't need me. You didn't even notice I wasn't there. I couldn't touch anything, I couldn't speak. And everyone just went on like I never existed. You went into battle and... no one needed me."

"What did you do?"

"I went anyway." He looks up at Broadside, optics wide and blue and Broadside can see pain in them. A spark-deep pain of someone constantly having to justify his place on the team. "Just in case. Maybe it was selfish, going because I hoped you'd need me, but-"

A large hand dropping on his head cuts Scoop off and Broadside rubs his thumb over the ridge of his helmet, gentle and warm. "Good," he says when Scoop looks out at him from under his palm. "Necessary or not, I'll always be glad to have you at my back." Sometimes he thinks Scoop is the bravest one of them all because he never stops trying.

He can feel Scoop's internal temperature rise at the praise. Broadside drops his hand and says, "I had to do a blind atmospheric re-entry. No comms, no vectors, no data of any kind." Scoop openly winces on his behalf but Broadside can't help the reflexive self-disgust as he says it. He's nowhere near as noble as Scoop, altruistic and compassionate even in his fear. Broadside's is just a pitiful, insignificant, selfish phobia.

A small hand grabs at the inside of his wrist. "What did you do?"

"..." He shifts his arm slightly, just enough to catch Scoop's hand in his palm and hold it because he needs to. "I did it. Because Springer needed me to."

The orange mech smiles at him warmly. "That's why we know we can always count on you."

~*~*~*~

Okay, this is just getting ridiculous. Whirl should've seen someone by now. He's come across signs of them, heard movement and sounds that, when he follows, lead to broken equipment and doors forced off their tracks. He can even swear he's had a couple of them on the edge of his sensors- whenever they decide to act properly anyway. But no matter how fast he moves, he can't seem to keep up. There isn't room for him to fly around, restricting him to run after those phantom signals- and if there's one thing Whirl hates doing it's running -but no one's replying to him on any channels or when he calls out so he has no choice.

It's also helping to work him up into annoyance, edging almost into something like anger. How can they not hear him? How can they not notice him? Are they ignoring him? No- that's stupid. Why would they do that? It's not like they don't need him. If Whirl isn't around, who will they get to fill his spot? Blades? Evac? Highbrow? Blaze Master- okay, he'll actually fit the creepy psychotic teammate void fairly well but the point is when it comes to skill, none of them can measure up. Replacing him because he's dead is one thing, but willingly leaving him behind? No. The Wreckers aren't that stupid and Springer isn't that kind of leader.

Whirl doesn't know what's going on. Maybe a fight or something. Or maybe their sensors are more messed up than his. He just knows that the team needs him too much to just leave him behind and that spurs him to move faster

~*~*~*~

If there are two things Topspin rarely is, it's at a loss for words and uncomfortable around others. And yet, despite his natural personality, he feels them both pressing down on him as the silence between him and Roadbuster stretches and he can't think of anything to break it, all his conversation attempts rarely getting more than a curt, monosyllabic response if it gets anything verbal at all.

Roadbuster has never been a mech of many words. Topspin knows this- everyone knows this and the Wreckers have always managed around it just like they did all of their foibles. But over the centuries the combat vehicle's reluctance to socialize with the team had loosened. He had reached a level where he no longer watched quietly from the sides but joined in on conversations, added to the banter, even cracked jokes on occasions. The other Wreckers are always quick to say he's part of the team no matter how little he spoke but there's no denying it feels more integral when he does. Like he trusts them, that he's comfortable enough not to be self-conscious or on guard with just the team.

But he's suddenly so quiet- even more than Topspin remembers him ever being -and it's like he's closed himself off. Whatever it was he saw made him unable or unwilling to speak freely and that puts Topspin more on edge than he already is. And the vibrations in the hall they're currently in is like an itch in his cranial unit which isn't helping his disposition any.

His salvation- for lack of better terms -comes in the form of another captive set-up, this one with Sandstorm in the middle. Topspin jogs over to the triplechanger without a word, optics roving over him for any wounds. With a snarl, Topspin pulls the cable- carefully but immediately -from Sandstorm's head, leaning in to peer into his optic band. Static races across it, garbled with white noise and momentary glitches.

"Was this how you found me?" Topspin asked. Roadbuster's engine revved in an affirmative. "He's not responsive."

"You weren't."

"Well, how did you get me out of it?"

"I asked."

"You asked. And I just woke up?" Roadbuster shrugs and Topspin just stares at him, knowing there had to have been more to it. But Roadbuster is looking uncomfortable- moreso than Topspin has ever seen him so he just shakes his head and lets it be. As much as he wants to find Springer again, he's not looking forward to seeing his reaction to Roadbuster's current disposition. While he's always been protective of his Wreckers, he's especially so of Roadbuster and, in all honesty, Topspin doesn't blame him. He doesn't get affected by anything minor and the combat vehicle would internalize every little thing if Springer wasn't there to coax the problems out of him. "Alright, let's talk him back, then."

They unhook Sandstorm and Roadbuster's hands are on his shoulders. After the last manacle is torn off there's a pause and then Roadbuster shifts back, taking his hands away and Sandstorm is still standing, stock still, against the wall. Topspin frowns. He grabs one of the triplechanger's hands and lifts it. When he lets go, the hand remains in place, hovering in the air.

"Oh," Topspin says, "that's bad." Roadbuster just looks at him in silent query as Topspin moves in closer to do an in-depth scan. The result makes his optic band go pale- this can't be right, something must be wrong with his scanners but they come back with the same thing again and again. He shifts his weight back on his heels and says tightly, "He's in a catatonic state." Roadbuster tilts his head at a questioning angle and the medic rubs at his helmet and says, "Whatever they did to him, whatever he saw in there, it triggered such a traumatic reaction his cranial unit severed connection to his body. He literally is incapable of processing outside stimuli."

Roadbuster's vents suck in air, looking down at Sandstorm's body as lost as Topspin feels. He looks at the hovercraft and Topspin answers the unasked question because he needs to hear someone speak and right now he's the only one willing to do it. "His cranial unit is active which, normally, is a good thing. But given the circumstances, it's likely rerunning the trauma that caused this. I was trained as an EMT- this kinda thing is way beyond my scope of knowledge, I've only ever heard of this. We need someone that can go in and break the loop. We need a psychologist, at the very least someone good with code."

"Scoop," Roadbuster says shortly.

Doubt twists Topspin's reflexive agreement. Of the Wreckers Scoop is the best with coding but security protocol isn't the same as what's in a mech's head and the memory of everyone falling apart in his hands makes him hesitant to go with 'close enough'.

The combat vehicle seems to sense this, asking gruffly, "Is there another option?"

"We'd have to jack into his head," and, knowing how Sandstorm reacts to that kind of thing, the very words leave a disgusted aftertaste in Topspin's mouth, "but I don't have any kind of support on me, we'd have to wait until we get to Xantium."

Who knows when that will be? Or where she even is? Roadbuster moves in closer to Sandstorm's, popping a latch in the back of his helmet that gives access to his cranial unit. "Jack me."

"What- RB, no. It's too dangerous to do this without a support system." The look Roadbuster gives him makes it obvious: he'll do this with or without Topspin's help. The medic sighs, turning to Sandstorm to flip his access panel up. Topspin pulls a reader from a compartment, unspooling the cables attached to it. "I'll be able to see what's going on, but this thing won't be able to help you if anything goes wrong."

He just grunts, jacks the cable in and rides his awareness through. It's an odd sensation, one Roadbuster rarely experiences and probing someone else's head is much different than hooking into a ship's systems. Crossing into Sandstorm's system is painful, codes flying by him so fast he can barely process what they are and it takes him a moment to realize how many of them are incomplete- ragged, like they were composed in a panicked rush to the point they're almost incomprehensible. The moment he tries to venture further he's hit with a wall of 'GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUT' that batters him with jagged code, forcing his awareness back and the barrage follows after, screaming the entire way and Roadbuster's cranial unit is aching like there's pressure, like his head is being squeezed-

His optics snap online and Topspin stands in front of him looking almost horrified. In his hands is the cable that had been jacked into Roadbuster. He looks up at the blue and white mech in confusion. "He forced you out of his head. He followed you into yours. Roadbuster, he... he was going to force you out of your own head."

Roadbuster puts a hand to his faceplates, groaning slightly at the ache in his processors. Hopefully the damage isn't severe- he'll have to get that checked out later. He pushes himself off the wall he doesn't remember leaning against, then he picks up Sandstorm and slings the catatonic triplechanger across his back. Without a word he moves on and Topspin follows quietly behind.

~*~*~*~

The list winds down, like a spool rattling on its spindle as the last of its thread spins out. Springer is hunched so far over he's all but bowing out of guilt. He trembles inside his armor. He hasn't been listening but he knows the list as well as he knows the faces of his own mechs and the way their time with the Wreckers have warped and changed all of them. His spark begs for it to end, for everything to stop, that he's sorry and he wishes things had been different, that he was better. In some weak, selfish part of him there's a twinge of gratitude at the thought that this will be over, that all the responsibility that's been suffocating him will be gone. He hates that it exists because he doesn't deserve that mercy. Not after all those he's failed.

"How do you plead?"

His optics lock on to Prowl and all he can feel is resignation, ready to offer up his spark casing there and now. Part of him always suspected something like this would happen, knows there are plenty of officers that wanted his laser core on a spike or his Autobot badge to grind beneath their treads at the very least. It doesn't surprise him in the least to see it's Prowl bringing the charges up. He'd always been such a stickler, constantly butting heads with Springer on every little thing. He probably jumped at the chance for this, dug even further to bring up every one of Springer's indiscretions and mistakes just to watch him-

Wait- no. That isn't right.

He stares long and hard at Prowl. Then he shifts his weight, spreading his pedes, shoulders set and square, chin tucked against his neck ring, daring the world and everything in it to come at him, give it their best shot, he's not going down without a fight.

His optics are hard and dark and very blue as he says with absolute defiance, "Not guilty."

Chapter Text

"He's not responding."

Broadside peers down at Twin Twist, offhandedly but irately shoving the cable out of his way. He and Scoop had both assumed that the driller would be fine once it had been disconnected but that's evidently not the case. He's not certain what to do now, if there's anything that can be done. He reaches out and rips the shackles off their mounts. Twin Twist sways for a moment before Scoop has him by the shoulders, propping him upright.

"I'll take him," Broadside says. "Hopefully Topspin can figure it out." Hopefully Topspin isn't in the same condition. Twin Twist is among the heavier Wreckers but all his weight is compacted so it's not much of a strain to carry him. Broadside cradles him to his chest, the halls just small enough he can't risk carrying him on his back without the possibility of running into something. More often than not, Broadside finds his immense size to be a double-edged sword.

They reach another branch in the hall and pause, both tired and weary and the new wind they had at finding Twin Twist is taken out of their sails because they don't know how to help him. Neither of them knows what they're doing, where they're going, what they should do and their wells of determination and endurance are scraping dry.

They need something to shore up their reserves. Something to give them hope. Some sign that they're reaching the end of whatever this is.

But neither hall is more promising than the other, just as all the others weren't. So they pick one at random and start again.

~*~*~*~

The sounds are growing louder and it does sound like a battle. That makes Whirl's engine thrum hot and he ignores the fact that it's from more than the idea of finally getting to fight something. He charges forward through the honeycomb of halls, sounds bouncing around him, disorienting and never getting any closer. Frustration builds inside his cable- not at all coupled with a slow growing desperation -and at that moment there's nothing Whirl wishes for more than the capability to simply break through the walls.

His legs piston, pedes skidding around sharp corners, sensors straining and he cycles through comm line after comm line, trying to find a working channel. He growls when the sounds start slowing and as the pauses between shots grow, he calls out for someone- anyone -to hear him.

In the quiet of the aftermath he's shouting, making any kind of noise that he can. Then there's a rumble. A familiar rumble of shuttle engines and Whirl boosts his vocalizer as high as it can go, screaming so loud it threatens to burn something out.

And then there's just silence.

~*~*~*~

Topspin rocks to a halt, twisting his head this way and that. "Did you hear that?"

Roadbuster says nothing- not that Topspin expects him to -and shrugs when the jumpstarter looks at him. They start moving again. They've been finding a lot of rooms with doors forced open and though there's good a probability that it came from possible previous abductees trying to find their way out, they're hoping it's a sign their teammates are nearby.

After a long stretch of silence, Topspin leans against a wall, hands braced against his knees and mouth twisting in uncharacteristic despair. Roadbuster pauses a few steps away and just watches.

"Is this even worth it? I mean- are we just circling around each other? Maybe... maybe we should just stay here. They'll come across us eventually, right? How big can this place be?" He laughs hoarsely and Roadbuster doesn't comment that they've yet to come across places they've already been in. Topspin knows this as well as he does.

His engine hitches and Topspin slides down the wall until he's all but curled into himself, hands gripping at the edges of his helmet, fans hiccuping as he tries to keep himself together. Roadbuster shifts Sandstorm around so he can sit with the triplechanger in his lap and quietly offers his shoulder for Topspin to burrow against.

They need to keep moving. A lot of the Wreckers' famous endurance comes from sheer momentum but... Roadbuster looks down at the medic curled at his side. A break won't hurt so long as they end up on their pedes.

~*~*~*~

It's so slight that Broadside misses it the first time. The second time he looks down and the third makes him halt, calling out for Scoop. By the time the payloader is at his side, Twin Twist has his face buried against Broadside's chest as if trying to seek out his vibrations. Scoop puts a hand to the driller's helmet and feels him pressing back against his palm.

"Twist? You okay?"

There's no reply but Twin Twist starts to shake. Just barely, a tremor as if his body is slowly remembering how to move. Broadside's engines hitch momentarily in worry and that causes a sound like a low whine to keen out of Twin Twist's systems. The large triplechanger kneels enough so Scoop can sandwich their teammate between them, letting the heavy rumble of his own engine reverberate through the driller.

Between them they slowly coax Twin Twist out of whatever suspension the cable had put him in. His head shifts and optics focus on one, then the other. "Side? Scoop?" He reaches out slowly, as if he's not certain this is all real, and grabs Scoop's arm. "You're... you're here?"

"We're here."

"This... this isn't space?"

Scoop winces and Broadside's grimace is hidden under his battlemask. Whoever it is messing with their heads knows exactly how to hurt them. "No. At least I don't think so. We haven't seen anything that suggests we're not on a planet."

Twin Twist shifts, pulling his legs out of Broadside's grip but keeping his teammates close to his sides. "The others?"

"Haven't seen 'em."

"Are you good to walk?" Broadside asks.

Twin Twist grips them tighter but nods. "Yeah. I'm okay." They start down the corridor again and neither of the other two move away.

~*~*~*~

Silence. Nothing but silence and Whirl is trying desperately to ignore the panic building inside of him, running through the halls, shouting in hope that someone will respond.

They left him? How could they leave him? Wreckers don't leave anyone behind! They couldn't have left! They need him!

"Someone answer me!"

He's always causing them problems, getting into trouble, starting fights for the fun of it. Of course they'd leave him behind. They just needed an excuse. Plausible reason. Why wouldn't they jump at the first chance to abandon someone that they can barely control?

"Anyone!"

That's how it always is. Because he never stops pushing his limits, pushing others' limits. Pestering them just to see if he can get them to break. Can he really blame them for abandoning him?

"Please..."

Whirl's never felt so alone in his existence. He's never felt so hurt or betrayed and he hates himself because he doesn't hate them for it. He just wants to beg for another chance.

"...come back."

The revelation is there, just below his chestplate, but he can't bring himself to admit it. It shudders and swells and it makes Whirl want to vomit, but it's there. It isn't even so much the truth of it that makes his processors burn as it is his reaction to it. The knee-jerk denial is so fierce it kicks his independency protocols to the front, making him aggressively dismissive of any fondness, any familiarity, any attachments. As if his teammates aren't worthy of respect. As if he can't enjoy the presence of others beyond his own selfish desires.

As if he wants to be alone.

The fear breaks along his circuits and Whirl's arms curl in to his chest as if it physically pains him to say, "I don't want to be alone. I want them here with me. I want to be wanted."

~*~*~*~

The light goes dark but doesn't scream. All but one are silent.

This will not stand.

~*~*~*~

They freeze, staring at the light in Whirl's optic like they don't know what's happening. Whirl just stares right back just as blank. Carefully Scoop reaches out a hand, "Whirl?"

The helo's body jerks, as if he jumps, flinches and turns all at once. It's incredibly disconcerting to see someone so self-assured as Whirl look trapped and panicked.

He comes to himself fairly quickly- or at least seems to. He asks briskly, "What's going on?" but flinches slightly when Broadside reaches out to disconnect the cable.

"We're not sure," Scoop says a little slowly, watching the way Whirl moves through the group as if he's afraid to touch them. "We don't know where we are, what happened to us, our gear, or Xantium. We haven't seen any of the others, either."

Being the highest ranking of the four- by dint of having once been an officer in the Security Force -Whirl is expected to take command. A position the others know he's not fond of but is still capable of filling when necessary. His tone is surprisingly clipped, almost cold, as he says, "Tell me what you've been doing and what you've found out about this place. There's a chance the others got themselves free, in which case if we're all wandering around aimlessly it's less likely we'll find each other." Whirl strides to each door, sticking his head out and checking what's on the other side. The other three exchange glances, uncertain what to think of this sudden terse professionalism but open their mouths to do as they're ordered.

They jump as Whirl starts shouting.

Scoop gets to him first, whispering furiously, "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like," he snaps back before calling out again, "Springer! Spin! Fragging answer me!"

"We don't know what else is out there!" Twin Twist adds, trying to pull Whirl away from the door.

He yanks his arm away, singular optic burning bright and he looks dangerously more unhinged than usual. "Then let it come. I'm in the mood to kill something real bad right now, so let it come and we can get this stupid slagging thing over with!"

Then, so faint it's barely audible, "Whirl? Is that you?"

They stare at each other, as if afraid if they ask, they'll realize it was just their imagination. Scoop is the one to gather the courage first, "Did anyone else hear that?"

Twin Twist steps out into the hall, "Topspin?"

"Twist! Where are you?"

They pile out into the hall, trying to figure out where the call is coming from. "We're- the slag should I know? We're in a hall!"

"Keep talking! We're on our way!"

Broadside pats his shoulder, pointing in one direction and the four of them start running, "Spin? Spin!"

"Hold on, almost there!"

They can hear the pounding of pedes, thrumming through the floor, names being called out desperately and it almost doesn't feel like it can possibly happen, that their team is on the verge of reuniting-

The jumpstarters nearly knock each other over at a corner and they're laughing and hugging before breaking off to check on everyone else. It's ridiculous how relieved they are to be together again, even the ones acting more standoffish than usual. They fuss over the still dormant Sandstorm, over each other, touching, holding, talking, trying to shove out the anxiety that grew in them without each others' presence.

"Where's Springer?"

And just like that the anxiety grabs hold again. Everyone starts talking at once even though none of them have anything all that useful to say, just blurting things out because if anything happens to Springer, they'll tear the whole place down and smelt every single scrap they come across-

"Hold it, hold it!" Topspin cries out, loud enough to quiet everyone down. "Alright, yeah- we gotta find Springer. But first things first," he turns to the payloader and says, "Scoop, we need you to jack into Sandstorm's head."

There's a collective inhale and the smaller Wrecker's optics flash pale, "What- I can't do that! Ignoring the dangers of jacking in without a support system and consent issues, he'll go ballistic when he finds out I did!"

"Do you have any other ideas on how to get him back? Nothing else is reaching him, we don't have a choice." Topspin all but snaps. It's not like he wants to do this either- no one knows better than him how much Sandstorm hates outside things being connected to his CPU, how much coercion and arguing goes into getting him to cooperate with even routine medical scans. There's a tiny spark of resentment that he's the one that has to debate this because for whatever reason Roadbuster won't but he squashes it. He refuses to hold someone's trauma against them, especially someone he respects so highly. "We don't know when we'll get back to Xantium, we haven't found anything resembling a medical facility and diagnostic scans show he's getting worse. If you don't do this, we could lose him."

Scoop stares up at Topspin, then at the erratic streaks flashing across Sandstorm's optic band. He looks to Roadbuster who dips his head and rumbles a soft, "Please," and Scoop sighs, rubbing at his helmet. "Alright, just... let me think for a bit. Red Alert suggested I do cross-training in psychological coding, but it's been a while. If he's this bad, going in myself will probably activate some extreme defensive programs. I might be able to do it while staying inside my own head- I won't be able to tell what's wrong and will be basically shooting code at him blindly and it won't stop him from coming through the connection, but it'll be less likely that I'll trigger a response." He rifles through what he remembers, compiling various scripts for easy access and execution. He holds his hand out to Topspin for a cable. "Let's go."

Chapter Text

He just lays there, painful chaos muddling with his head and he's gone through this enough times to recognize it for what it is: overrated specialists and their shoddy work. He waits, resigned and numb, until the files sort themselves out. Waits to find out what parts of him have been erased this time. There's no point in moving or fighting. He knows how this is going to go. Over and over, always the same, until his head refuses to record anything ever again.

The fear has long since burned out. No point in it when he knows it's inevitable and never ending. All it leaves in its wake is resignation. No one will help him. No one will save him. He's at the mercy of the whims of others. There will be no salvation and he just lays there and waits for it to start again. He hears something overhead, like jet engines. Sandstorm's hand twitches but otherwise he does nothing. Probably just someone coming to play with him, too impatient to wait for the wipes to his micro-chips to cool. He hates this. Hates his life, hates everyone in it, hates himself for being unable to do anything about it. Emotion wells up in his circuits, thinking how pitiful and disgusting he is, what utter trash for letting himself get used and never having the courage to burn down the world and himself with it. He can hear the rhythmic thumps of someone coming for him and Sandstorm curls up into himself. "Please," he whispers to into the floor. "No more." Someone's calling out his name and he offlines his optics and clenches he hands tight. "Please."

"Sandstorm- it's me. Come on, look at me. I came to get you out of here."

Slowly, suspiciously, his optics online and he looks up at the mech kneeling over him. For a moment it's a stranger, the face so unexpected that he can't remember. He uncurls, just a little. "Fireflight?"

Oh, that smile is like every cliche balm metaphor in every story but for a moment Sandstorm feels like he's saved. He reaches up, cupping the Aerialbot's cheek and says in amazement, "You're here."

Fireflight's hand slips over his, lacing their fingers together. "Of course I'm here. I came to save you."

Reality crashes down on him. "You're here. You shouldn't be here, Flight, you can't be here!" Fear makes Sandstorm scramble to his knees, grabbing Fireflight by the arms and nearly shaking him. "Get out! You have to get out of here!"

The smile is gone but Fireflight looks more confused than anything else. "Well yeah- and I'm taking you with me."

"No- you don't understand! You have to go before they find you! If they get you..." If they got Fireflight they'd do worse to him then they'd ever done to Sandstorm. Because he's too sweet, too kind, too willing to believe in others and Sandstorm can't let anyone touch him-

Hands, warm but firm, press against his chestplate and Fireflight smiles up at him again, full of trust and faith and a hint of the steel core everyone forgets that he has, "Then it's a good thing I have you watching my back, right?"

Sandstorm looks down at himself and wonders when had he gotten so big, so powerful. And then it comes back to him in pieces: the Wreckers, the war, the fact that he'd saved himself from this situation so long ago. They'd nearly taken those memories from him, made him believe he was helpless and Sandstorm almost wants them to come back, almost wants them to try to touch him- either of them. He's the one they should be fearing now. A smile curls under his battlemask, dark and dangerous and it makes Fireflight's smile grow all the more. "I'm right beside you."

"I know." Fireflight pulls back so they can stand and when Sandstorm pushes himself to his pedes-

His optics online.

"Primus below- you're back!"

Sandstorm stares at the faces of the other Wreckers peering down at him, flinches reflexively as Topspin swoops down on him. "Wha- what is going on?"

"Just hold still for a moment," Topspin says, "I need to run a diagnostic on you and then we'll fill ya in."

Irritated he pushes Topspin aside but only once- the medic is on a mission and he won't stop until it's done, even if he has to disable mobility to do it. He looks over his fellow Wreckers as Topspin works, some of them muttering some gratitude about Sandstorm being up, all of them looking relieved. Except Springer who Sandstorm notes is missing with a frown. And Scoop- who is spooling a cable while looking eaten up with guilt.

It doesn't take genius to know what that means and Sandstorm stares, long and hard, as something sick and broken curdles in his tank. "You jacked into my head."

"I know, I'm sorry."

Scoop looks absolutely miserable but it doesn't mean slag all to Sandstorm as he lunges, only to be caught in Roadbuster and Broadside's massive arms. "You used Fireflight to jack into my head!"

"I'm sorry! I couldn't think of anything else! You weren't responding to any of the safety protocols- triggering memories of Fireflight was the only way we could get you back!"

"Get me back? What are you talking about?"

Topspin joins the trio, pulling Sandstorm back so he can scan the triplechanger. "You were in a catatonic state. Something put you in a traumatic feedback loop and Scoop did what he had to to break the cycle before your processors burnt themselves out."

"I'm sorry," Scoop says again, still looking as small as he sounds, "I know you hate anyone getting in your head but it was the only thing we could do."

For a long moment Roadbuster thinks Sandstorm will got at him again and even if it was necessary, even if Roadbuster gave the order by proxy, he can't exactly blame the triplechanger for his reaction. Even if it saved him it was still a breach of trust and Wreckers are nothing if they can't trust each other. Sandstorm pulls back, stiff and furious, looking at no one as he says, "What do we need to do?"

It's not forgiveness. It's an acknowledgment that the situation requires his cooperation but little else. He won't forget what's happened, will hold it under his armor to fester and remind him how easy it is to be betrayed. The others can practically see his emotional state sliding backwards dangerously, back to when he first joined the Wreckers, when he used the coercion of his recruitment to keep his edges raw and guard up, when he didn't work with the team but complied for his own survival.

It's not just Sandstorm who's regressing, all of them are in one way or another: Topspin rarely voicing options in discussions, barely even cracking a joke, Twin Twist having to constantly touch the others, Whirl's abnormal silence as he stays even further from the others than usual, Broadside flinching any time something makes their sensors fluctuate, Scoop shifting a little too often, speaking a little too loud and Roadbuster's own inability to speak at all. They're falling apart at the seams and while Roadbuster doesn't actually believe even Springer can stop it- doesn't even think it fair, dumping all this onto his shoulders -he'll at least make the attempt.

It doesn't take long to get everyone up to speed given how much they don't know. They merge their maps together and, between the six of them, realize they've covered almost the entire structure. It's a labyrinthine mess that doesn't make any more navigational sense now that they see it laid out before them, a couple empty spaces scattered about suggesting rooms that they'd missed. But what draws their attention is the blank area in the center.

There's no indications of a doorway or opening into that area but all of them are willing to bet that whatever it was that took them is based inside. They dismantle one of the cameras along the central wall, confirming that it works and traces the cables to where it joins with hundreds of others. The central area must have some kind of security to monitor the cameras and the various set-ups they'd been in. They huddle in another room, finalizing their plan. If Springer isn't there, they'll be able to find him.

"How're we gonna get it?" Scoop asks. "All our explosives are gone."

"I could bust through the wall. Their make-up doesn't look like it'll be a problem for me." Twin Twist's drills spin at the idea though his expression is on the edge of a grimace. He prefers not to have to drill through solid metal if possible on the off chance it blunts his points or damages his equipment. But to find Springer and get the team out of that Pit-forsaken place, he'll do it without hesitation.

Sandstorm's finger taps against his crossed arms, "We don't exactly know what'll be waiting for us on the other side. It's incredibly unlikely someone brought us here and has these cameras set up only to bug out. And while we're not exactly helpless, whatever this thing is did manage to take us out while we were fully armed. Unarmed as we are, we're at a bit of a disadvantage."

"I might be able to help with that."

The Wreckers swivel around, optics brightening not only at the mech before them but also at all the goodies he has with him. "Springer!"

Their leader is all but swamped by their confiscated weaponry- every armament mount occupied, the largest rifles slung across his back and various firearms and melee weapon bundled under both arms. Springer looks like a one-mech storage unit ready to go to battle and his hard grin says the same. "Gents, it's time to kit up."

Broadside and Twin Twist take one bundle each, Whirl unhooking things from his back while Sandstorm, Topspin and Scoop start disconnecting the various mounts. When the missile launcher and phase repeater rifle come off Springer rolls his shoulders- mechanoid or not, Wrecker or not, lugging all that gear around is a strain. He begins pulling small firearms and various explosives out of his compartments, handing them off to Roadbuster as weapons get passed around to their rightful owners.

"How did you get this?" The combat vehicle asks with something almost like amusement.

"The usual way. Broke down every door I came across until I found all this and all you."

They gear up mainly in silence, focusing on making sure their weapons are in good, working condition. None of them feel the need to be boisterous or cocky. They're all angry and determined, ready for the hunt and snarling at the bit to be let loose on their target.

Springer looks at each one of his mechs and they stare back just as steady. He nods. "Move out."

~*~*~*~

The debris doesn't even have a chance to settle before the Wreckers are pouring through the gap, button hooking into the room with their weapons raised and arrays humming. The vibrations are even stronger in there, enough to drown out the natural thrum of the Wreckers' engines. The space is huge, even for them, and screens are projected above a range of panels along the far curve of the wall. There are no other entry points and all but three Wreckers, who cover the flank and rear, train their weapons on the one other being in there with them.

It's tall for a non-Cybertronian, willowy, its clothing like long drapery giving it the illusion of being even taller and thinner. Their sensors tell them it's some sort of techno-organic, but its exact nature is inconclusive. It tilts its head at them- the top splitting outward as either horns, antennae or headgear -as if curious. Springer, with his rifle tucked securely against his shoulder component, barks out, "Who are you and why did you bring us here."

"I have become the inquisitor," its voice is low, the rumble echoing through the chamber. "You have been brought here to be judged."

"Judged for what?"

"To see if you are worthy."

"Worthy of what?"

"Of continuing to exist."

Springer's hands tighten on the rifle's grips, tempted to just open fire and be done with it. From the growing growls of his team, he knows they won't say anything about it. "What makes you think you have to right to judge us?"

"I do not judge," the Inquisitor says simply. "I am merely the process. You are the ones that judge yourselves. And three of you have found yourselves guilty."

The triplechanger stares for one hard moment before snapping, "That is the stupidest thing I ever heard! The only one less qualified to judge us is ourselves!"

"There is no one that understands the context and intentions behind one's actions better than one's self."

"How many beings have you killed because of your fragged up version of judgment? How many good, decent creatures did you murder because they have a conscious or felt guilt for some perceived wrongdoing? How many criminals did you set free because they have no remorse for their actions? Did you think any of this through before you started this?"

"It is the will of the universe to purge those who are not worthy of continued existence."

"Well, you can tell the universe this: these mechs are under my command, they are mine. If anyone is to find them worthy or not, it's me."

"Judgment cannot be halted. Their sentence will be carried out." From the ceiling descends three objects on cables, their tendrils writhing like some sort of mechanical cephalopod. "Judgment has been encoded based on the guilt you three," the Inquisitor points to Twin Twist, Sandstorm and Topspin in turn, "have sentenced to yourselves. The rest may leave in peace."

Springer steps forward, pointedly standing between the Inquisitor and his mechs. "Yeah? And for screwing with all of our heads, I'm here to pass a little judgment of my own and you've been found guilty of royally torquing me off!"

It's just the slightest shift in stance, in the rumble of the room, but the Wreckers can recognize it for what it is: the Inquisitor is preparing for a fight and- Primus below -they will give it one.

The Inquisitor's tentacle things catapult from their cables, sudden and faster than any of the Wreckers were expecting and they don't get off more than a few reflexive shots before they rocket passed the first line, too small for them to get a decent bead on. The first latches on to Twin Twist, flattening over his face and tendrils digging into his helmet. His body seizes up, fans stuttering and he crashes, stiffly, to the ground. Topspin manages to block the first tendril, but the rest burrow into his faceplates and he, too, falls. Sandstorm is knocked to the ground, panic and fear making him heave the shovel from his chest. Scoop rolls off, unmoving as the tendril creature buries its limbs in the smaller mech's head.

Roadbuster is at Topspin's side while Broadside drags Twin Twist towards the back wall. Both are too afraid of damaging their teammates to give the things more than a cursory pull. Sandstorm hovers between grabbing Scoop and shrinking away from him. "Get it off him!" He shouts at the impassive Inquisitor. "You said he could go!"

"He has taken your judgment in your stead."

"It's not his to take!"

"Then will you accept your punishment? Will you subject yourself to your fate?"

His entire body shakes. He wants to pull the thing off Scoop but can't move his hands, he wants to say something but is too afraid and his mind has gone blank except for the part that screams in terror nononononononono. Sandstorm hasn't hated himself so much in centuries and yet all he can do is kneel helplessly next to his teammate, too much of a coward to face his own demons.

A violent burst of gunfire tears through the room, ripping through the Inquisitor's clothes as it twists out of the line of Springer's fire, bending and dodging like some kind of invertebrate. The Wreckers' data net flares to life, all their tactical information and readings and communications funneling into it for shared, near-instantaneous access with Springer using himself as its hub. His mechs latch on to it greedily, the familiarity of the data net's flow, of the rush of battle overwhelming the uncertainty and hesitance that had befallen them.

They're falling into their positions almost before Springer can order them through the data net, Roadbuster and Broadside using their bodies to protect their fallen comrades, taking potshots at the Inquisitor in attempts to keep it in their teammates' line of fire. The Inquisitor moves like a lash, undulating between the bullets and it seems like it's almost entirely made of cloth from how much they're not hitting it. Someone manages to hit its horn, shattering the end with a resounding ping and that makes the Inquisitor spin and hiss- the first bit of emotion they've managed to draw from it. Then the vibrations in the room grows, intensifies, changes. Layer upon layer of vibrations until everything is rumbling and the Wreckers have to turn on their audio dampers. From hatches mounted in the wall tentacles shoot out, attempting to snare the Wreckers as the Inquisitor, revealing its own body to be made up of tentacles, attaches itself to the wall and climbs.

[Whirl!] Springer snaps.

[Pruning duty, I got it!] Whirl is the most maneuverable of the fliers, especially in tight places and he soars through the thickest of the tentacles, weapons blazing as he cackles over the data net. Springer and Sandstorm change into aerial mode themselves, chasing after the Inquisitor but between dodging a seemingly endless amount of tentacles and the Inquisitor's own agility, they can't seem to do much more than graze it. A carefully timed shot from Roadbuster severs one of the Inquisitor's tentacles and it hisses again. There's only space for a brief warning on the data net before more tentacles shoot out, this time aiming for the fallen mechs. The two largest Wreckers snarl, pulling out their close combat weapons as they wade into the thick of things, refusing to lose a single one of their teammates. Broadside has a vibroaxe in each hand and Roadbuster makes due with a heavy knife and electrocharging the plates on his knuckles and though they're a flurry of motion and focused rage and it's only a matter of time before one of the tentacles gets through.

"Scoop!" Sandstorm peels off from the Inquisitor, bullets slashing the tentacle to shreds, dropping Scoop into Roadbuster's waiting arms. The triplechanger transformers, slamming into the wall ped-first and slapping an explosive charge to it before leaping back into the air. The explosion only destroys a handful of the things, but it gives them a little extra breathing room.

Suddenly the Inquisitor stiffens, the tiny pinpricks of light in its head flaring brightly, "No- that's impossible!"

There's a wet gasp, the sound of dry retching and then one of the tentacle creatures is thrown on the floor. It flails for a moment, as if trying to right itself and Broadside's heel comes down on it until it's nothing but a smear. Topspin rolls onto his side, tanks heaving and he rips the shattered remains of his optic band from his face. Energon trickles down his faceplates from the gaping holes where the creature drilled its limbs in. Roadbuster wraps an arm around the medic's waist, half picking him up to keep him out of danger.

The vibrations are going wild, tentacles even moreso and Springer, momentarily distracted by Topspin's revival, yelps as one catches him across the tail rotor. He spirals down but Whirl is there to offer up a skid for Springer to transform and grab hold of, giving him the time to get his equilibrium back and into the air. Topspin hooks into the data net and his stream is initially slow and full of trash data that Springer shifts off the priority lines.

[What happened? How did you get out of that?]

The response is garbled and the Inquisitor is absolutely out to kill them all so the Wreckers focus on that instead. [Since everything's mounted into the walls,] Whirl bites out, narrowly escaping the crush of a tentacle, [there's gotta be manual controls at the panels.]

[Good call. Spin, you okay?]

[Good to go, Chief,] his reply is only slightly lagged but Topspin seems physically recovered.

[Alright- I'm dropping a flashbang. Broadside, you take Twist and Scoop out into the hall and block the hole. They should be safe out there. Spin, you look for those controls. Roadbuster will cover you. The rest of us will run interference.]

They ping back confirmation, dampening their sensors as Springer ejects the grenade so they can maneuver through the effects. The tentacles rear, some curling in on themselves as if recoiling, others lashing blindly but none of them are being guided, leaving them wide open for the three Wreckers to cut down while their teammates get into position.

When Topspin reaches the controls he tells them, [I don't know what any of these do so if I kill us all, it's not my fault,] and starts hitting things at random. The first batch of buttons doesn't seem to do anything at all, the next apparently controls the cameras for the monitors and the third just makes the lights in the room flash.

Suddenly Sandstorm says, [Wait- when the flashbang went off, I don't think the thing was trying to protect its optics. It looked more like it was being effected by the sound.]

Topspin grins despite himself- trust that wily triplechanger to catch the small details anyone else would miss. [It uses mechanical waves to communicate with its machines, not electromagnetic! That's why there's so many weird vibrations!]

The Inquisitor's attacks are getting more aggressive and Springer's forced to fall back to support Broadside. [What I wouldn't give for a sonic nullifier about now.]

[We don't need a nullifier,] even for Whirl his tone is cold and harsh, [we need an amp.]

Broadside heaves one of his vibroaxes before Topspin can even call for it, sticking it into the wall not far from the medic with a mighty heave. Roadbuster pulls it out with some difficulty before hefting it up for Topspin. The shaft of the thing is damn near as tall as the average Cybertronian- if this doesn't have the juice they need...

The Inquisitor seems to have figured out their plan, focusing its attacks on the duo and even with Whirl and Sandstorm dropping down to form a defensive line, the tentacles are overwhelming them. The Inquisitor makes its move, spitting mad, probably violently cursing them in its native language. But with a flare of his thrusters, Springer tackles it to the ground, bringing its focus from his teammates and to himself. For all its thinness the Inquisitor is shockingly strong, the grip of its tentacles actually painful and pulling Springer's joints in unnatural ways.

[Think I got it!] Topspin crows. [Don't have the ability to cancel out every frequency, so I'm just cranking it up and hoping it can't focus through the decibels. Hope your dampers are up!]

[Do it!]

Then everything shakes and Springer can feel the vibrations in his denta, can feel the waves like pressure against his spark and the Inquisitor howls (at least he thinks it does). The tentacles contract and Springer winces as warnings crop up on his HUD.

[The things are off!] Broadside calls from the hall.

Roadbuster snaps off, [Light it up,] and sparks ting off the Inquisitor, sheering off the remainder of its horns and tearing into its body, splashing Springer with its fluids. It has enough sense to fall back, retreating out of the fire as the other Wreckers charge upon it in defense of their leader.

Hands help him to his pedes just as a ping comes over the data net and Springer grins, a feral thing of someone who knows the fight is about to come to a messy end. "Hate to rain on your parade," he shouts to the Inquisitor in an almost conversational manner, "but I just got word from a higher power: you've been overruled!" Then, optics flashing and denta bared, he barks into the data net, [Jump us!]

The world collapses in the familiar pull of an orbital jump. Just as the Inquisitor and everything around it vaporizes in the harsh light of Xantium's most powerful cannon.

~*~*~*~

The world coalesces in the comforting presence of Xantium's primary hangar and Springer is barking out orders, "Any injured report to Topspin, someone get on the scanners and let me know when that glitch monger is good and dead. Unless there's any other life signs in the area, level the whole smelting planet if you think that's what it takes."

Xantium's lights flash, letting him know she's already unloading an unprecedented amount of ordinance on the area. No one steals her mechs and gets away with it. Her scans run over each Wrecker a dozen times each, the only way she can fuss worriedly over them.

Springer disconnects the data net and the sudden absence of information and the lack of strain on his battle computer is even sharper than normal and causes him to lean against the nearest bulkhead to keep his balance. Lights flicker at him and when Springer looks up, one of Xantium's armatures waves at him in concern. "I'm okay," he tells her but the armature continues to wave, bobbing like it's pointing at his side. The triplechanger looks down and finds he's leaking, finally paying attention to his damage report. Following his own orders- and under the watchful camera of his ship -he goes to Topspin.

The medic looks up from where he's fiddling with a wrenched joint in Whirl's leg. "Minor ruptures," he tells Springer as his scanners tingle through the green mech, "some parts in your shoulder need to be realigned. Your levels are really low. Everyone's is, but you're worst off right now."

"Any major injuries?"

"No. All basic repairs. I'm just getting Whirl mobile enough to get to medical on his own."

Springer shoots him a look. All Wreckers tend to be notoriously unwilling to go to medical unless absolutely necessary. In an extreme twist of irony, Topspin is the worst about it, preferring to fix his teammates just about anywhere else. Said it was a psychosomatic aversion though he's never explained to Springer the details. Springer's attention is drawn briefly to Broadside helping Twin Twist up, the driller pulling a hand from his face, grimacing at the energon coating his fingers. "Spin, how did you get out of that face-hugger thing?"

Topspin's hands freeze momentarily and when he continues to work he looks distinctly embarrassed, "I, uh... I panicked. I kept hearing echoes of what was going on and when I realized Scoop was down, that there was no one else that could get these things off... I had to get back. I was so desperate, so scared of what would happen to the rest of you if I didn't that I kinda panicked and pulled a Sandstorm."

The orange triplechanger cocks his head to one side, not quite sounding amused, "A what?"

"Every safety and override kicked in at once. They overwhelmed the codes those tentacles stuck in my cortex and I basically shoved them back through the connection ports where I kinda... followed them in until I shoved it right out of its own head."

The Wreckers look at Topspin, alternately impressed and horrified. "That's actually possible?" Twin Twist asks.

Behind his optic band, Topspin's gaze flickers momentarily to Roadbuster. "Yeah, that's why whenever you jack directly into someone's head outside of consensual circumstances, you either have a support system or you work through a proxy. Too much risk otherwise."

Roadbuster grunts, looking away, somewhat ashamed at his own recklessness. That's when he notices something odd, tilting his head toward Springer and tipping his chin in that direction. When Springer looks over, he frowns. "Scoop?"

The payloader doesn't seem to hear him, sitting, slightly hunched over his knees. His optics are wide and pale and it takes careful scrutiny but Springer can see his shovel trembling. Topspin goes to him immediately and when he puts a hand to the smaller mech's shoulder, Scoop flinches violently, looking half a nano-klik from running scared.

"Whoa- easy," Topspin soothes, pulling back and holding his hands up. The other Wreckers, wanting to make sure their teammate is okay, crowds instinctively but one sharp look from the hovercraft makes them shift back. Scoop's optics flicker between all of them in abject terror. "It's alright, Scoop. You're safe. It's over. We're home, we're all okay. You're safe, Scoop. No one is going to hurt you."

Slowly, like his struts have to be told to relax one at a time, Scoop calms, fans slowing and engine quieting. Topspin reaches for him again, slowly, but he gets no reaction when he puts a gentle hand to his helmet. "Scoop?"

The payloader lifts his head, almost like he still isn't sure what's real, and looks around until he locks on to Sandstorm's optic band. He knows. He knows what Sandstorm had gone through. He had been forced to relive it- the terror, the fear, the abuse, the knowledge it would be taken from him and he'd have to relive it all again -and now he knows all the things in Sandstorm that are broken and why. Scoop says softly, almost like he's lost, "I didn't know."

Sandstorms pulls away- from Scoop, from the others -humiliated and scared and raw, and he doesn't know what to do.

Seeing this makes Springer's spark sink into his tank, but that's not the reason he's feeling unsteady on his pedes. The rush of battle has worn off and he's starting to feel his injuries and the strain on his under-maintained systems. "Roadbuster, get in contact with Rung. We need to see if he has some time to-" the green flash of panic in his best friend's optic band causes Springer to pause. He looks over his team, all ragged, jittery, either clinging to each other or as far apart as possible. "Xantium, set course for the Hub. Twist, send a message to Prime, let him know we're unavailable and that I'll contact him in a joor to report in. I really need to refuel and defrag."

"Uh, Springer?"

Biting back a groan, he turns to where Twin Twist is tapping on a computer panel.

"You really need to see this."

Chapter Text

A deca-cycle. They've been missing for over a deca-cycle. Both the team's and their private inboxes are flooded with messages- worried, desperate, scared, growing moreso over the length of their disappearance -all having been received in the last breem. Going through their data there'd been some kind of interference keeping Xantium from getting messages in or out. Comparing that to their own timelines, the makeshift amp broke the interference enough for Xantium to get a lock on them and was destroyed outright when she leveled the place.

The realization of what had just happened to him and his team, that they were very nearly lost forever, leaves Springer shellshocked for the amount of time it takes Topspin to repair his injuries, siphon fluids back to acceptable levels and push a cube of energon into his hands. Springer bullies himself into action, taking the next call- a search call, sweeping through frequencies in hopes of getting a return message -that comes in and finds a flabbergasted and relieved Rescue Patrol.

The idea that more Autobots could have been lost- may have already been lost -to the Inquisitor makes it difficult for Springer to respond to Stakeout's questions.

He gets patched through immediately to Optimus Prime who dusted off his flagship in order to help find the Wreckers himself. When Springer sees him on the viewscreen, the relief and worry is evident through his battlemask and all the other Autobots around him are trying not to look as if they're openly staring. He feels, of all things, guilty. "Springer- thank the Allspark! Is everyone alright?"

An overwhelming sense of shame burns through him. No. No, they're not alright. Nothing is alright. Each member of his team is on the verge of falling apart and the value they place in the team itself is the only thing that keeps it functioning. They've essentially abandoned their mission and even if it wasn't on purpose, how many Autobots have they failed? How many bases had fallen that shouldn't have? How many lives could Springer have saved if it wasn't for Inquisitor?

"Springer."

He looks up, vulnerable and raw, and Optimus Prime gives him a familiar look- soft, understanding, sympathy edged with regret for being unable to do anything to help. He means well but it makes Springer feel even lower.

"Send us your coordinates. We will rendezvous as quickly as we can."

"Yes, Prime."

"And get some rest," he adds, because he knows Springer won't otherwise.

Springer nods, makes the arrangements and does as he's told. His rest is a fitful one and he only feels marginally better afterward, but between their specialty energon and the code adjustments all Wreckers go through, all designed to keep them going efficiently for as long as possible, it's a familiar strain that actually lends some comfort. In the time leading up to Prime's arrival he checks up on his mechs, attempts to make a dent in the team's messages and keeps getting distracted with calls. News certainly travels fast and the moment he gets annoyed by everyone's good intentions getting in the way of his work, he has Xantium field the calls, giving her a list of names she's allowed to let through.

Once that's done, however, he can't seem to focus on the messages, staring blankly out at nothing until he ends up going through the armory, supplies, checking inventory, security, all the busy work he can come up with until Xantium lets him know Optimus Prime's ship is approaching.

The team works efficiently but that's just about all that can be said about it. There's little conversation between any of them, no jokes, no laughter. They know what to do and what everyone else will do but there's no camaraderie between them. Springer can't remember the last time they'd ever been so quiet outside of necessity and it makes him feel like a stranger, like everything is wrong. He wants to say something but he doesn't know how and so retreats to the docking bay to greet Optimus.

Prime boards with his cadre of officers and he and Springer barely get a chance to exchange greetings before Ratchet and Red Alert all but shove their way on, very firmly requesting that they be allowed to check over the Wreckers and Xantium's security systems respectively. Springer, knowing better than to argue, gives them permission and they storm off in a purposeful fury.

"You seem tired," Optimus Prime says neutrally, "did you get any rest?"

"Some."

Prowl, at Prime's side as always, asks crisply, "Have you written up a report?"

"No."

Though a doorwing flicks in irritation there's a patience in his optics almost like compassion. "Why not?"

"I don't really know what happened."

"are you able to do a debriefing?" Asks Optimus Prime, voice a soothing rumble.

Springer sighs, "I can try. The others have already told me all they know but, honestly, I don't know how much sense it's going to make."

The large mech nods. "Take a few cycles to think it over, try to relax some. We will hold a meeting then."

He wants to ask why the wait but- as Optimus Prime and Prowl move to Xantium's hall, joining those that boarded for repairs or just to see their friends that miraculously returned -he sees Arcee and Hot Rod waiting expectantly. Panic lances across his spark momentarily- he doesn't want them to see him, not like this. Their optics darken at his reflexive backstep and they approach him slowly. It isn't the first time Springer has ever backed away from them, when the price of leadership and war filed him down to just bolts and they wait within arm's reach until he remembers that they love him unconditionally. Then his head bows and his optics shutter and lets them take him in their arms where they'll protect him from the universe.

~*~*~*~

Of course he didn't spend those few cycles before the debriefing relaxing but Arcee and Hot Rod shadowed him as he worked, going from one side of the ship to the other, talking to the specialists who came on board to fix any damages done to Xantium and to upgrade her systems. He tracked down all of his Wreckers, some talking quietly to their friends, others locking themselves away. Springer knew all their ways of coping and made note of the ones that worried him the most. Then, after he met with Prime, Springer did it all over again and still Arcee and Hot Rod followed him. It feels like he's ignoring them even though he's just trying to distract himself and Springer can't help but feel guilty about it.

Like she knows his thoughts just as well as Springer himself, Arcee comes up to him, putting her arms around his shoulders and resting against his chest. "Don't you start. We knew what was going to happen."

"C'mon," Hot Rod prods him from behind until Springer gets into the seat in his quarters, "time for us to take care of you, now."

Slowly everything starts catching up with him: body aching, reserves empty, emotions churning. He'd taken care of everything, kept himself together through adrenaline and sheer force of will and now that he has nothing in front of him, no more tasks to take care of, his will breaks. He pulls Arcee into his lap and reaches blindly for Hot Rod until the younger mech is anchored to his side.

His first responsibility is to his mechs. That's how it always will be and they understand it and they wait patiently for their turn regardless. Springer doesn't know how he was so lucky to have found one, let alone two 'bots that didn't mind constantly being put second and he holds them tight and slowly falls apart in their arms. Their hands run over his back, whispering soothing noises to him and he lets all the stress, all the pain and worry that's been building up in him out, trusting that they'll put him back together again after.

"I love you," he tells them and he can feel them smile.

"We know. And we'll always be here for you."

He holds them even tighter. "I know."

The peace of mind doesn't last- rarely does when he gets this bad and a handful of cycles later Springer stands in Xantium's hall and even with her comforting hum it's too quiet. There's no shouting, no laughter, no sounds of pranks being pulled or retribution being wrought. Springer had already checked the common area and the washracks- the Wreckers' two favorite places to congregate and both are completely empty. Instead everyone is holed up in their quarters, half by themselves, half with someone else but the division is still distinct and there. He stands in Xantium's hall and it feels like he's back in that nightmare vision, on the stand, alone after everyone abandoned or turned on him.

"Springer?"

He turns and there's Arcee and Hot Rod in the door to his quarters. He wants to go back in with them, wants to lose himself in their presence and comfort but the state of his mechs tugs at his mind. He turns back to the empty hall and doesn't know what to do.

Arms wrap around him, one pair around his waist, another draped over his back and feeling those familiar vibrations pressed against him is almost enough for Springer to break down.

"It's alright," Hot Rod leans against his canopy, "you can go to them."

Arcee, with her head resting against Springer's chest, adds, "We'll wait for you. We'll always be here when you need us."

The words press against him like a kiss, "Come back to us when you're ready."

It almost isn't fair how giving they are. How understanding and patient. They know that the Wreckers will always be Springer's first priority and they accept it without complaint, without a hint of jealousy. More than that, they accept that his responsibilities strain him and after he's done worrying over his mechs, breaking his struts to ensure they're okay, that they have what they need, Arcee and Hot Rod will lay him down and smooth out all the stress, seal up all the cracks and patch up any fractures left in Springer. They'll cradle against him, tell him how much they love him and are proud of him, that they'll take care of anything he needs until he softens and allows himself to not be responsible anymore. They deserve someone better. Someone that can give them the attention they should have but instead they chose him.

Springer turns until he can hold them both in his arms. He can't do his Wreckers any good when he can barely keep himself together. They need help but so does he and, just this once, he decides to put himself first.

~*~*~*~

For how small Xantium is, it's fairly easy to avoid others if one is properly motivated without having to resort to recon tactics. Sandstorm knows that, eventually, he'll be found by someone wanting to talk about things but he'll drag that out every klik possible. And, given no one is allowed to go off ship even to do something like fly the tension off, he decided upon Ratchet's release to occupy the next best place: the observation deck.

It faces away from the planet, thankfully, but there are other planets in the solar system moving imperceptibly across his field of view. He can see distant moons only by the faint crescent reflection from the sun and the smudge of a comet making its slow, inexorable way closer.

It isn't so much space he loves, it's the flying. Defying gravity with a flash of engines and a roar that rattles his plating, watching entire worlds drop away as he flips and soars. It's a freedom and joy he'd never known on the ground and Sandstorm doesn't know how he survived so many thousands of years before he got his wings. He can still remember what it was like the first time he truly flew, how it felt like freedom, dumping all his problems and ghosts below the clouds, soaking in the sun and wind and joy he'd never known existed. Of course everything he left behind was still waiting for him on the ground- always waiting for him to return -but flying, for a few moments, made them inconsequential.

He sighs through his vents and lets his helmet thunk against the window. The thought of flying makes his spark ache. Even though he understands why, the grounding order still makes him feel trapped in Xantium. There's no escape here, just a delaying of the inevitable.

"Sandstorm..."

And there it is. The thing he's been dreading the most. Sandstorm sighs again but straightens and that's invitation enough for Scoop to come up quietly, so small and uncertain and looking like he's about to be pulled into his own head to be tormented by someone else's ghosts.

"Did... was all that... did that happen?"

He tries for indifferent because he doesn't know how else to react. "Don't know what you saw. But probably."

"That's... how could they?"

"Because it's business and because it gave them power." He turns to Scoop and goes for the throat because that's how he deals with things in his past. That's the only way when it refuses to stay hidden. "You worked construction. When you had metals you couldn't use, what'd you do with it? Sold it down to the next guy, right? Or you repurposed it into something you could use. Stamped out the sheets you needed and melted down the scraps over and over until you didn't have enough left to make even a single bolt. That's what they did with 'bots that couldn't fulfill their function: sold them to whoever was interested for any profit they could, used over and over until there were no more intact chips to write on, until their heads were empty of anything that wasn't base code."

"They were doing that to you."

"Yup."

Scoop looks furious- scared and furious and the little guy really is too nice sometimes, Sandstorm thinks. "You found out."

"Not all specialists were good at their job. Sometimes the wrong things got wiped, sometimes the memories came back," he shrugs.

"How did you cope with this?"

The bark of laughter echoes between them, bitter and hollow. "You think I coped? What part of this," Sandstorm throws out his arms as if he's indicating to his battlemask, his attitude, his reputation, the constant hyper self-awareness that once nearly crippled his personal relationships, the absolute everything that is his entire being, "looks like I coped?"

Scoop mutters, so low it almost gets lost in the rumble of his engine, "You're still alive."

"Living and coping are two completely different things. I survived, mainly through hate and anger, but that's not really your style." And it's not one he wants Scoop to adopt. "If you need someone to talk to, go to Smokescreen. He knows what it's like." And he's infinitely better about talking about it than Sandstorm could ever be.

He turns back to the stars and Scoop understands the quiet dismissal for what it is. The door hisses open and Sandstorm half turns, "Scoop!"

The payloader stops, one ped in the hall and Sandstorm almost doesn't know what he wants to say. He settles for a faltering, "I'm sorry."

The smile Scoop gives him is small and just as lost as Sandstorm feels. "Me too."

~*~*~*~

It doesn't take much to repair Xantium- routine maintenance due to neglect and some minor upgrades. Wheeljack is glad for that and not just because he'd hate to lose one of the few sentient ships left. Not having duties taking up his time means he can focus on the main reason why he joined Prime on the search.

Wheeljack finds his target in one of the smaller, more out of the way common rooms, hunched over a table with scores of datapads around him looking for all the world like he's about to fall over unconscious. Good thing Wheeljack had the foresight in bringing some energon along. The engineer sidles up behind Topspin and asks, "Whatcha up to?"

It's a testament to how exhausted Topspin is that his only reaction is to turn sluggishly. "Studying," the word is curt except that he's slurring.

"You look like you're about to bite it." He pushes an energon cube to Topspin, then invites himself to sit, retracting his battlemask to sip at his own. "What're you studying?"

"Everything."

Wheeljack peruses the pile as Topspin drinks, the glow in his optic band brightening. The pads are all full of medical texts, many of them used in training courses if he remembers correctly. "What'd you see?"

For a long moment Topspin says nothing, one hand propping his chin up with a fist, the other swirling what's left of the energon in his cube. It's not the look of someone debating if they should say anything but of someone debating how. Eventually he says, "I couldn't save anyone. No matter what trick I tried, the others kept dying. Because I'm not a real medic. All I'm good for is killing."

Wheeljack, like the other Wreckers, knows how much his position as medic means to Topspin, how seriously he takes his role. But, unlike the Wreckers, Wheeljack knows the doubts and regrets he carries. Not a medic himself, he's been around them long enough to know all the ways Topspin is exactly like them, all the ways he's not and how those differences sometimes eat at the jumpstarter.

So Wheeljack leans back in his seat and says, "Did you know Ratchet's been using some of those tricks of yours? He's been passing out some of your 'less idiotic', to use his words, processes out to those going on the field. And Fixit wants to discuss compiling your methods into a journal to submit to the Iacon Academy of Surgical Medicine next time the two of you are between missions."

Topspin stares as if he didn't understand a word that was just said. It makes Wheeljack huff a bit of laughter through his vents as he reaches out to grab the Wrecker's hand. "You are brilliant, Spin. You've been doing things in ways no one else has done even when you were in the academy and sticking to institutionally approved techniques would be a waste of your talents. So maybe you're not wired like a conventional medic but honestly I don't think there's a such thing anymore. Ratchet's always been hot-tempered and rough around the edges even before the war, Fixit is nearly as handy with a rifle as you are, First Aid's been picking up some of Ratchet's bedside manner and Kaput is, well, you know what he's like.

"What I'm saying is you're as weird and neurotic as any other medic I know and, just like every great medic I know, you'll stop at nothing to save your patients." He smiles, vocal indicators glowing warmly, "You're one of the most compassionate 'bots I know. You've more than earned the right to be a medic."

The smile is very much unlike Topspin, hesitant and self-conscious but, like the jumpstarter, it's incredibly genuine. He twines their fingers together gratefully, "Thanks, Jack."

~*~*~*~

It's been simultaneously too loud and too quiet. Hearing everyone talking so easily around him makes Roadbuster's plating itch and the thought of being around others, the chance of them trying to include him in their conversation makes him nauseous. But being alone, in the quiet and solitude, causes his engine to rumble with anxiety. Like wanting someone to look for him but not wanting to be found.

Which, really, is kind of how he's felt about his social life from the moment he realized there was something outside of battle and planning for the next one. Always wanting to be a part of something so crucial while being too afraid to actually be a part of it.

"May I sit?"

Roadbuster's optic band flashes. The room is empty save for him, the only reason anyone would choose to sit next to him is- he shudders -to talk. He can already feel his vocalizer closing up on him, mind unable to come up with even a simple 'no'. Taking the silence as permission, Red Alert takes a seat one over from the Wrecker and settles in.

After a moment, the security director says, "We don't have to talk if you don't wish to. I just wanted to enjoy a quiet moment with you."

It's... an odd request but so long as he's not expected to speak, Roadbuster supposes it's alright. He sits, however, rigid and tense as Red Alert leans back, shuttering his optics and letting Xantium's omnipresent hum relax him. It takes a long span of time until Roadbuster begins to relax himself, worry bleeding out in slow increments. They sit in silence for nearly a cycle before Red Alert asks, quietly so as not to startle, if Roadbuster prefers to be alone.

The combat vehicle tenses again but... it's... not horrible, sitting quietly together. He shakes his head and they relax again. Periodically Red Alert asks some more questions, 'would you like any energon?', 'would you mind light music?', 'may I open the shutters?', everything said in simple, low pressure questions where the only input Roadbuster has to give is a mere nod or shake of his head.

Eventually Prowl asks if he can join them and rather than attempt to engage Roadbuster in conversation or, to his relief, carry one on with Red Alert in front of him, simply pulls out a datapad and works. Surprisingly Ratchets comes in not much later, giving a low exultation of, "Finally, some peace!" before occupying one of the few remaining chairs at the table, letting his thoughts wander as he stares out the window.

It takes some time for him to realize, surrounded by mechs, that Roadbuster feels relaxed.

~*~*~*~

It's slow going, trying to reach some sense of normalcy again but Wreckers are resilient. Broadside is bouncing back better than the others, his fears much more conditional and eases when he's focused on helping his teammates. He spends most of his time in Scoop's company, more to remind the payloader than he's protected here, and wanted. Topspin is getting more boisterous by the cycle, still more sullen than normal but quicker to laugh and joke. Sandstorm, eventually, begins intermingling with the others and though he's still reserved and his bite lacks its usual playfulness, it's not as acidic as he had been. Springer is rarely seen without either Arcee or Hot Rod but he's more focused, no longer scrambling for things to do because idleness feels like failure and Roadbuster, though still rarely speaking, can be found occupying space on the edges of crowds again.

They're all still a little shaken, still trying to remember who they were before fear broke them but there's a hope. Twin Twist, as much as he loves her, can't wait to get off Xantium and to a planet where someone's not trying to kill him or tamper with his head. She's been doing her best to help him- shuttering her windows whenever he's nearby, keeping her halls warm and vibrating in response to him and it does help some. But the fact remains that he's still surrounded by space and the only thing keeping him from freaking out about it is her artificial gravity. He does whatever he can to keep that knowledge in the very back of his head, trying to drown it out by talking with his teammates, catching up on gossip from the others, spending any moment he can in the presence of another.

It's on one of those rare excursions alone- Ratchet wanting to do a quick check on his levels, the stress that he couldn't escape making his systems fluctuate -that he sees someone that had all but disappeared the moment they returned.

"Whirl?"

The helo jolts, hands coming together, blades scraping slightly in a nervous gesture. For as skinny as he is, Twin Twist has never thought of Whirl as fragile until now.

"Hey- are you okay?"

Whirl's blades click as his head swivels around in jittery movements, like he's physically searching for something to say. His shoulders hunch, his head lowers and his solitary optic dims. Twin Twist never knew someone without a face can look so agonized.

Even thought Whirl has never been much for socializing, the driller doesn't feel comfortable leaving on his own like this. "I was about to meet up with the others in the mess. You wanna come?"

The helo rocks forward slightly, looking something like an aborted step forward.

"It's not the same without you."

Whirl's head turns to him and Twin Twist realizes he found his fear. He smiles warmly and holds out his hand. "C'mon. You've been scarce for a while, the others will be glad to see you again."

He hesitates still, body shifting like he wants to take the outstretched hand but doesn't know how to let himself. So Twin Twist grabs Whirl's wrist and, when it isn't pulled away, tugs the taller mech after him. He talks, mainly about things everyone can do to bring them back together without being any sort of high pressure event- play some games, maybe watch some vids -and asks Whirl about his opinion, suggesting something they'd all like because Whirl always knows the weirdest but coolest things. When Whirl finally answers, Twin Twist considers it a win.

~*~*~*~

They're not but two days out from the Hub when they get a message from Rung, back in his office and ready to see them. He calls, wanting to interview each Wrecker individually for preliminary evaluations and Springer is eager to give his authorization. Rung is damn good at what he does and though he's had more than one Wrecker permanently pulled from the roster due to being psychologically unfit, Springer would much rather have them somewhere they can be healthy and sane than a danger to themselves or the team.

The interviews don't last long- less than a cycle each -and after Rung gives Springer some advice on how to react to his mechs. True, it chaffs him a bit to hear it- no one knows his mechs like Springer -but he accepts it because Rung is the trained psychologist of the two and Springer is still trying to deal with his own problems.

It doesn't occur to him to consider how all this has affected anyone outside the group until Prowl calls him up.

The tactician goes right into the heart of the matter, just as he always does, "I've received the evaluations for everyone but Sandstorm."

The clip, professional attitude is achingly familiar and Springer can't help being a little blase in response. "He won't talk to Rung. Never has, never will."

"Smokescreen is unable to be pulled from his current mission and Sandstorm won't be approved for active duty without being evaluated."

"Based on the preliminaries, exactly how many of us do you think are currently fit for active duty?" It's a very slight, almost imperceptible freeze, but Springer knows Prowl enough that it's obvious to him. He grins but it's a pained, resigned thing that almost borders on nasty. This is their lot in life, the consequences for doing what they do and being who they are. Springer understand it but he resents it all the same. "That's what I thought."

"Rung is making the Wreckers his priority-"

"To get us stable enough to send us back out into the thick of it, I know how it goes." It doesn't take familiarity to see Prowl freeze this time and Springer lets the line of his shoulders soften. Prowl doesn't deserve that. "Sorry," the triplechanger says lowly, "I know it's not your choice." There's a war going on, they need bodies and few can do what the Wreckers do.

Silence falls between them. It's not an unusual thing, often times breaking in their terse conversations to give them room to think and respond. Springer has never had so many pauses for reflection in the middle of discussions but they seem necessary whenever he deals with Prowl. One of them will break the silence when needed. There's no reason to force it.

"I read your report." Springer says nothing, can tell by the angle of Prowl's doorwing what he wants to ask. He debates if he should be nice and tell him outright or if he should make him spell it out. "You believe this Inquisitor's equipment pulled from your memories to design the worst possible scenarios for you."

"Yeah." He doesn't doubt Prowl knows what his likely was about. He's seen Springer at his worst- has been the cause of it a few times -and he may not have the details but Prowl knows that it's a fear they both share. "Which, at least in my case, made it possible for me to break out of it."

"And why is that?"

"Because it used you."

"Of course," it's only from tens of thousands of years of familiarity that Springer can see the bitterness in the folds of Prowl's mouth, "after all, because it was me it must be wrong."

"No. It was wrong because it was you." The smaller mech looks at him, uncertain as to where Springer is going with this and Springer has to wonder just how rocky their relationship has been recently to make Prowl so uncertain. But then it was bad enough Prowl was used against him in his own mind, wasn't it? "Maybe I like busting your bolts a little too much, maybe I don't always try to see things the way you do, maybe I don't always remember, but I trust you. They used you to knock me down as far as possible, but I know you and I trust you. And that's why I knew it was wrong."

They just stare at each other for a long moment before Prowl looks away. But Springer sees the relief in his optics, the phantom shadows of a smile on his lips. "I suppose I shouldn't feel guilty for it then," he says airily.

"Don't think this means you can start riding my aft."

Prowl's drawl is dry and dismissive and it makes Springer grin to hear it, "I have far more important things to do than get anywhere near your aft."

It's easy to fall back into the millennia old banter- dry sarcasm and thinly veiled insults volley back and forth -and for the first time since the whole damn thing started, Springer doesn't feel vulnerable or fragile, doesn't feel like he needs to be taken care of. For the first time he feels positively normal.

~*~*~*~

Sandstorm is alone in his quarters after a day of pretending to be well-adjusted. It drains him more than it used to, but then back then he was also closer to well-adjusted than he is currently. A chime at his desk alerts him to an incoming message- he had told Xantium to redirect his calls from all but a handful of 'bots so he's not at all surprised to find it's Fireflight on the other end. But it does makes something in his chest settle a little easier, making his tone come out warmer than normal, "Flight."

"/I was so worried about you! I called the moment I heard. Well, the first moment I could after I heard- are you alright?/"

"I've been better."

"/I wish I could be there with you right now. I might've been driving the others crazy,/" the image on the screen smiles sheepishly.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to worry you."

Fireflight shakes his head, smile warm and relieved and Sandstorm tries not to think about that same smile that's etched in his head, the one that helped save him. "/I just care that you're okay. What happened? Is it anything you can talk about?/"

Sandstorm looks away. Those trusting, forgiving, endlessly patient blue optics are too much for him right now when all his emotions are still too close to the surface. He's silent for too long, Fireflight saying lightly, "/You're probably tired from what happened. I'll let you get some rest. Call me back when you-/"

"Flight."

"/Yeah?/"

"Do you... have some time?"

The Aerialbot cocks his head to one side. "/Lots of it. Is there something I can do for you?/"

Fireflight is in his head. Has gotten so deep under Sandstorm's chassis and into every aspect of his life that the mere memory of him has become a safety net. But memory is nothing like the real thing and Sandstorm says, "Talk? It doesn't matter what. I just need to hear your voice for a while."

The smile he gets makes his arms twitch, longing to hold that familiar weight and heat but the voice is enough for now. "/Skydive ran into a tree the other day and I had nothing to do with it this time! It was actually Silverbolt's fault and Skydive got so mad he refused to talk to him outside of mission-stuff for days.../"

~*~*~*~

In all honesty, very few of the Wreckers are looking forward to returning to the Hub- always populated with Autobots who are, on the whole, a nosy, gossipy bunch. The only ones who might be are Scoop and Topspin, possibly Twin Twist but then the three of them have always found comfort in social contact. But even they aren't too eager to dock. If it were only a couple of them having issues it would be a different story- the others could deflect or redirect attention from their teammates if needed, but all of them are likely to be swamped with questions and well wishers.

It weighs so heavily on Springer's mind- already exhausted from a day of playing catch-up on their messages -that he calls Optimus Prime for a meeting as the Hub comes into view.

Just as he's about to leave the bridge, the hailing chime goes off. "We got Ghosts on the line."

Springer groans, "Note to self: don't go missing for a deca-cycle ever again." He can't believe how many 'bots they have to reestablish contact with and all the schedule shuffling that has to be done. It's ridiculous and he wants nothing more than to curl up with Hot Rod and Arcee but he has to go talk to Prime instead. "RB- I'm leaving them to you."

Roadbuster freezes- just enough for Springer to notice -and Springer wants to much to go back to the Primus-damned black rock of a planet, dig up the pulverized bits of the Inquisitor, piece it together and atomize it all over again just for how much it caused his best friend to socially regress. That's not even getting into how it damaged the rest of his mechs.

He steps in close to the combat vehicle, hand resting on his arm, "It's okay, Roadbuster. She'll understand." Roadbuster hesitates but he nods and goes to take the call in a separate room. Not two deca-cycles beforehand Springer would've joked about how anyone that wanted to get close to a Wrecker needed to have the patience and understanding of a saint. Now he can't see it as anything other than proof of how messed up all of them are.

He dreads the thought that his best friend will never recover. He dreads that any of his mechs won't- the group has gelled so tightly, have spent longer together than any other iteration of Wreckers that a loss of one could unbalance them all. Springer doesn't know what's going to happen, how this is all going to end, but he knows this:

He will fight for what's best for his mechs, be it staying with the team or moving on to something else. He will fight for their safety and well-being and knows that they will do the same for each other. Because that's what all of them are: fighters. When things are at their most hopeless, that's when Wreckers show up, turning impending defeat into overwhelming victories. They fight for every inch of give and they fight for each other and that- when all else fails, when they fail themselves -is what keeps them alive.