Work Text:
WARNING NOTICE - URGENT
From: Lt. Darkwing of Sectors 1-20
To: Lt. Dreadwing of Sector 20-50
Date Received: XX/XXX/XXXXX
Violation: Destruction of property and violation of codes c34 and d56.
Subject: Acclimation of new Sector; B-127
Request: Transfer of the Cogless miner B-127 of Sector 20. Effective immediately.
Comments: Miner B-127 has a known history of destruction to his peers and vital sectors of the mines he’s worked in. It has been unanimously agreed upon that B-127 is unfit for such responsibilities and incapable of working alongside other mechs – for the sakes of all involved. Transfer to the lowest sectors is advised, preferably in an area with minimal movement and little exposure to anything noteworthy. If needed, the creation of an all-new sector has been brought to the attention of Sentinel Prime and will be put into effect if so desired. All incident reports have been logged and categorized within the system.
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Request #fCe205: Approved.
“My, oh my, oh my. If it isn’t B-127. Lemme guess; another transferal? Really? Not even waste disposal could keep you out of the way? I’d say I’m shocked, but-”
It’s a familiar spiel full of tired and true words. Nothing he hasn’t heard before. But the thing about speeches is, his audials have gotten so used to such tirades that he’s sorta stopped paying attention a few klicks ago. Somewhere around the part where they decided to talk about that time he accidentally set off a detonator in a mine tunnel that was sorta maybe not so empty after all. But that was an honest mistake! It could have happened to anyone. And sure, maybe he should have checked a little more thoroughly to make sure he was okay to proceed, but whatever.
It might have been the first time such a thing had happened in Sector 20, but surely it would have happened eventually, regardless of his being there.
Either way, he knows when it’s best to shut up, hence his tuning out. ‘Sides – it’s a little hard to focus on the talking mech while they’re walking and going down all kinds of elevator shafts. They’ve long since passed Sector 40, leaving him a bit giddy and confused. Everybody knows there’s only forty sectors, so just where are they taking him?
“—if Primus really did intend a purpose for every bot made in his image, I’d sure like to hear his reasoning for you.”
Okay, rude. But he doesn’t really have a comeback for that – not when it’s, well. The truth. Nothing’s been a good fit for him, not even waste disposal. And that’s like, the easiest job ever! It’s the lowest of the low, and yet somehow, he’s managed to go beyond rock bottom. He’s tried to fit in, to adapt to the job given to him. He tries so hard. However, he’s once again left with a bright red mark on his record, two bots flanking both of his sides as he’s led further and further into the heart of Cybertron. He’s not even sure he’s ever heard of another bot going this far down. Then again, he’s never heard of someone being demoted as much as himself, either.
The mech—what was his designation again? Wing something, right?—gives him a sneer, all sheer ire. It’s obvious everyone here knows Bee hasn’t been paying attention, yet nobody bothers to comment on it.
Not worth the energy, whispers a voice of the past.
He does his best to ignore it, obediently cramming himself into another elevator with them, tanks lurching as they go down, down, down. There are a few bots they pass on their way, all of which avoid making eye contact with him despite his friendly waves.
‘What’s that about’, he almost asks, before remembering his current predicament. Mechs like these don’t take too kindly to questions. It always seemed to get worse the further down he went as well. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll have someone to work with that’s less of a bastard than these three.
Their walk continues until the lead mech finally stops, corralling Bee into a rather lackluster room. The walls are rusted, the air smelling of all kinds of corrosive metals. Everything is so muted, even the roar of the incinerator flames. Not only that, but Bee has yet to see anyone else in the closed-off space.
“So…” he trails off, still looking around in the hopes of something changing. A futile effort, but one he takes his time with, nonetheless.
“So?”
He almost throws his hands into the air. Almost. “Is this… it?”
A roll of the eyes. Exasperation practically oozes from the gesture. “Is your processor that screwed up from so many hits to the head? Of course this is it! What made you think we’d trust you with something more complex than digging through junk?” The mech has a hand on his hip, looking sorely out-of-place. His paint is too glossy for such a barren, soot-filled room. His question is clearly a rhetorical one, but his stance seems to be begging Bee to even try to answer it. Take the bait, it says.
Bee remains quiet.
Finally, the Wing-something-or-other mech rolls his eyes again, giving up his charade as he tosses something. “Whatever. Here. You’re gonna need it if you’re to be working with the flames so close.”
The smaller mech struggles to catch it, dutifully ignoring the snorts of the guards as he fumbles it a few times.
Small frame, small processor.
Tendrils of past insults brush past the edges of his processor, ghosting along the different networks and working their way down before settling somewhere near his spark. An indistinguishable scar that only he can spot. The sounds are so loud as he stares and stares at the object in his hand.
It’s a helmet, all covered in soot. Nothing at all like the fancy metal those in the upper sectors are able to be adorned with. Nothing at all like the sturdy metals that thud loudly as the other mechs take their leave, abandoning Bee to his duties with nothing explained. Maybe if he had paid attention he would understand better, but.
Idly, he traces a finger over the panels of the helmet, gaze lingering on it before turning to the single conveyor belt trudging along on rusted wheels. Despite popular belief, B-127 isn’t a defective bot. He knows what this is. It’s a task that nobody else wants – not because it’s difficult, but because it’s so mundane and devoid of stimulation it can stagnant a processor to the point of offlining from sheer boredom.
It's the perfect job for someone like him who is unable to do the simplest of things.
“Okay… I can do this.” He grips the helmet he was given a little tighter, conviction burning bright in his spark. “I’ll just work hard and prove myself. Yeah! That’s it. Nothing a little optimism can’t fix. Surely they’ll see what a hard worker I am and everything will be okay. I’ve got this.”
With that, he gets to work.
B-127 wakes up early, not minding the slight stiffness to his legs as he stretches out from the small space reserved for his recharging.
There isn’t a set plan or a list for him to check over like there had been for waste disposal, but that’s okay. He’s sure he’ll figure out the odds and ends of this job in no time. He’s always been rather quick on his feet.
Well. No. That’s a lie actually; he’s always been the slowest of his peers. But he makes up for that with, um.
Anyways. Work. Yes.
Pacing the length of the room, he finds the best spot for being able to pick out things undeserving of being burned to nothing and gets to work.
He wakes up.
He stands.
He lines up to the belt.
He waits.
He watches the piles of trash slip by, optics threatening to offline.
His vocalizer is practically begging to be used.
But there’s no one else here to listen, or to bounce back with some kind of remark. The doors he was led through haven’t been opened in a long, long time. He’s spent too many days staring at the panels, willing them to just move. Even just enough to make some sort of noise he hasn’t grown so painfully accustomed to.
So far: nothing.
He wakes up and gets started on the day.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He wakes up.
He-
The monotony of his days is much like the belt of trash. It continues on and on with little change. Every now and then he gets a comm message from one of the upper sectors, but that’s pretty much it. He’s nothing more than a cog in the chain of production, and even that’s a rather generous way of putting it.
His vision temporarily flickers, the reason unknown. He thinks he might be trembling, but he isn’t sure. It’d be ever so easy to blame it on exhaustion, but from what? There’s nothing strenuous about a job like this. Hell, he’s lucky if there’s ever anything heavy thrown in with the rest of the junk. Every solar cycle is practically the same as the rest. There’s even a small groove marking where he normally stands, the peds of his legs easily sliding into place.
In the beginning, he had tried to find ways to entertain himself. He’d always gotten written up for being chatty, but the appeal dwindled after some time. It just didn’t mean much when he’d basically be talking at a wall. Not that that used to stop him before, but at least then there were other mechs to tell him to quit it. Now there’s nothing.
Tactile is another word that came to mind when thinking of B-127 as well. Maybe that’s why they came up with this odd sector that nobody seemed to ever talk about. It’s certainly enough to drive someone mad.
He inhales. He eyes the conveyor belt and its miscellaneous items. Watches the discarded, unwanted items go by. Feels the heat of the flames brush against his face, as if beckoning him. His fingers are twitching and it’s all he can do to keep them at his sides.
But then again, he thinks, turning his body around to get a better view of the place. It isn’t like there’s anyone to really care if he breaks protocol. There’s nobody but himself performing this made-up job that barely even qualifies as such. No one would grind their gears over some missing garbage. The only one that would have to know is himself, really. Well, okay, maybe someone would care if they happened to do an inspection, but what would they do then – invent a whole new Sector to banish him to?
That’s. That’s a real possibility. They could definitely do that.
He tries not to linger on that thought as he gets to work, arms already full of this and that.
It started out rather simple. Just a bot constructed of trash for him to talk to. It wasn’t because he was lonely, just. It gets a little hard to think when he’s got nothing better to do than sort through piles of trash. Having something vaguely resembling another mech for him to talk to helps. A little.
But then he started giving them names and personalities, started to tell them all about his day as if they hadn’t heard the same story over and over again. He felt silly and foolish and stupid talking to them, but he couldn’t stop. The words kept on spilling out like a fresh wound.
“Any day now. But don’t you worry, Steve – I won’t leave you. As soon as they come through that door with a promotion, I’m taking all of you guys with me. Nobody’s getting left behind on my watch, no siree!”
“…ge- si- mat-“
“…Yeah. That’s a good point. Maybe they’re just upset because of that shiny gizmo that got incinerated the other day. But there’s always tomorrow! I’m sure I’ll make quota then.”
Steve fails to spit out any static-filled nonsense this time, leaving Bee alone with the soft roaring of the flames and the all-too-loud whirring of his processor, sharp and a little uneven to his own audials.
The ground is somehow cold and unforgiving as he curls up a little tighter on the floor, once again craving the touch of another person. A living person that isn’t constructed from bits and pieces without a proper place in the world.
Tomorrow’s another day, he repeats to himself. Over and over, again and again.
Tomorrow is another day.
He wakes up.
He gets to work.
He goes to sleep.
Again, and again.
The energon portions have been a bit smaller than they were in waste disposal. It’s to be expected, but still. He feels a little sluggish, optics flickering in and out in a way that makes it hard to focus on the chrome slipping in and out, in and out. He can’t lay a hand down to help stabilize himself, though; it moves too quickly for that. All he can opt for is a little shake here and there to keep himself present.
At least the incinerator feels nice. Sorta. Being so close to the flames has its downsides, but it is… comforting? Is that the word he wants to use? Maybe. He’s not sure.
Because try as he might, it’s not nearly as warm as the feel of another bot beside him. It’s all consuming and abrasive, nothing like the warmth of a hand that molds to fit alongside his own. He can’t- he doesn’t-
He blinks. Flinches as the flames grow even hotter, smelting all to nothing.
Right. Work. He has to focus. He promised Steve and the others that he would behave from now on. Good, protocol-following bots get promoted. Bad, slacking bots get the boot. That’s how he got into this mess, so he has to focus up. It’s his only way out of here. It’s his only hope of getting to see another bot again before he inevitably offlines in some corner of the room.
Focus. He’s got this.
He wakes up. It’s another day.
He wakes up, and he works. It’s another day.
He wakes up, he works, and he-
There’s a loud bang. A loud, disruptive bang. It’s nothing at all like the mind-numbing sounds he’s memorized by now. It’s something different, something new.
It’s enough to pry his eyes away from the trash.
He-
He must be seeing things. It’s the only explanation. It’s- it’s just impossible. Maybe coming into contact with all this trash has transferred some kind of virus into his processor, making it glitch. Because there’s just no way there’s two bots standing before him right now. There’s no way he’s staring into the faces of two bots with their own living warmth and their bright optics. It’s- it’s-
He’s taking a step closer before he knows it, vocalizer racing a mile a minute.
They both look so confused, it’s almost funny. It’s been so long since he’s seen a face contort like that that it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to even process what could be making them so standoffish right now. Of course! Maybe the flames really have damaged his processor for good if he’s forgotten such basic etiquette.
For the first time in an unknown amount of it, he takes off his helmet, and he speaks.
“Hi! I’m B-127.”