Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Deep in the bowels of an energon mine with a name composed of more numbers than I cared to remember, a cacophony of sound rang in my audials. The hum of power-lines, the thundering roar of power tools and the reverberations of metal on metal created a familiar din as I pressed my jackhammer deeper into a portion of crumbling wall. It was by the light of a wall-mounted mining lamp that I saw it, the faint shimmer of blue that all Cybertronians lived and died by– energon . Feeling a grin beneath my mask, I dug further, carefully pushing centihic by centihic, wary of the volatile nature of the ichor of my species.

Too eager at the prospect of potentially unearthing a fresh vein of energon, of not going hungry for just one more cycle, I ignored the dull, growing whine of my jackhammer as I tried to press it just a little further, grinding through layers of metal. It was terribly quick to remind me, however; with a crack , something gave out and made an honest attempt at finding a new home in my optic, burrowing into the lens of my mask.

“Scrap!” I winced, falling flat on my aft from shock and fear. A servo rose to the damaged metal, but paused, hovering, hesitant to reach out and touch the offending screw, terrified of making whatever damage I’d suffered any worse.

“Talon!” shouted Rammer. A teammate and friend, he was quick to rush to my side, heavy footfalls signaling his approach. “Scrap! Are you okay?”

“Dunno,” I gasped, dull digits tentatively trying to grasp at the obstruction to my vision, “It look like I still have two optics?”

Rammer sighed as if the weight of Cybertron was his alone to carry, pinched the end of the screw, and plucked , audials deaf to my yelp of shock and expected pain. “No energon. You’re fine,” he said, flicking away the bit of detritus. 

“Slagger.” I responded, leaning against a reflective support column and noting the lack of damage to my optic as I flicked my mask up. The lens of my mask, however, was a lost cause, and gently scraped out. 

“Gonna have to go to Swindle and get him to fix this.” I said, idly fiddling with the busted tool.

“Oh, you’re going to go to Swindle to fix the jackhammer .” Rammer bit out.

“Ram-” I started.

“No.” he interrupted, cutting the air with his servo. “No, listen , Talon. You-this-” he growled out, before stopping. “Your right arm is practically hanging dead whenever you aren’t doing something that needs both servos. You’re always limping whenever you think we can’t see it– don’t try and hide it while I’m looking at you.”

“Rammer.” I cut in, putting my good servo on his shoulder, “We barely have the credits-”

“What if the next time kills you?” Rammer says, gripping my shoulders as his optics blaze with worry. “You keep on trying to walk things off, and push them off for later, and- and …what if you just die next time?”

“I’ll go.” I sigh, gently resting a servo on Rammer’s forearm. “I’ll go today, the second I step out of the mine.”

I step past my friend, and rub at the spot where I had been mining. Broken metal fell away to reveal not raw energon, but the dull blues of lesser, mundane metals. I could feel my denta clench as I realized I nearly lost an optic for cobalt . The errant thought of punching the offending metal came to mind, but the painful click from my clenching servos told me otherwise. 

“Ugh. Whatever. Shift’s over, right?” I asked.

At Rammer’s nod, I picked up my jackhammer, letting out a tsk as I noted the damage. The lens was one thing. Down in the mines, those tended to wear down the quickest, from the exposure to all the grit, dust, and metal shavings. Pit, I could replace my own lenses, if you gave me a mirror, But there was only one bot in the area that could get the parts I needed for a price I could afford. I’d have to take this to Swindle. Swindle .

Trekking along back up the tunnel, we came upon our team’s cart, and I winced at the haul. 

“Just barely at quota.” I huffed.

“But it’s at quota!” Came the lazy call from Chromia, pick resting on her shoulders.

“Yes, but-” before I could continue, a screech filled the air as a bat-like mini-con swooped in and perched itself on Chromia’s waiting arm.

“ -the Great Work for Cybertron can never cease, not for a single moment, not from a single caste. -click ” Echoed Soundwave, a recording from a sermon long past, before continuing, “ -But-dreary-hands-make for-horrid works!- ”

“C’moooon, Talon! ‘Wave is right. It’s the end of the shift, we’ve got enough to meet quota, and we’re all tired. ” Rammer said, gently knuckling at my shoulder. 

I could only roll my optics, before thumbing the elevator’s call button with a smile. My team cheered, heartened at the silent promise that work was done for the cycle. As the team filed into the elevator, Soundwave crawled into his deployment space in Chromia’s back—standard routine for returns to the surface. More teams joined them, drifting into the industrial-sized car in groups of threes and fives and fours. Every stop on the slow, plodding climb to the city above allowed more mechs and femmes entry to the elevator, but the stifling silence that surrounded every exhausted bot that joined us on the ride never lifted.

Finally, the elevator rumbled to a stop, and the massive doors opened to the gleaming underside of Lower Kaon, and the bots started filtering their way out.

“Alright,” I addressed my team. “Rammer, you’re on cart duty. I’m taking this busted up junk to Swindle, and Chromia .”

“Yeah?” Spoke the demolitions femme, scratching the space between her optics while blatantly ogling the tool rack.

“Don’t.”

“Pft. That was one time. Once !”

“Don’t see why you let that freak order you around,” someone muttered.

“And I don’t see why I haven’t knocked out the rest of your denta, Skids!” Chromia shouted, immediately wheeling on the green bot.

As she cocked her pick back, I grabbed it closer to the head. She whirled back around, practically snarling, only to pause at the shake of my head. She turned again, only to see Skids’ retreating form. Huffing, she came up beside me while Rammer transformed, hooking himself to the cart.

“Rusted scrap head. Don’t know why you don’t just go into the arena and pound their helms into the dirt and don’t ,” she interrupted as I began to talk, “give me another one of those council platitudes, or I’ll get Soundwave to play the greatest hits of Kaon’s industrialcore all through next shift.”

“Because that’s exactly what they want. What they all expect .” I uttered, a worn servo rubbing over where my spark rested. “But going and picking a fight won’t change anything. Being a beastformer doesn’t net me a lot of options by default, Chro. I choose to swing, and maybe I do get the immediate satisfaction of some peace and quiet, the blessing of hearing myself think. But I don’t know what happens after . So, I’d like to think I’m choosing peace, and another day, even if it’s in the mines.”

“That’s a load of scrap.” Chromia said, kicking a chunk of Cybermatter down a pathway. “You’re better than half the bots here. Pit, you might even be as good as me!”

“High praise.” I aired dryly. “But seriously, I have to get this to Swindle-” I rattle the jackhammer for emphasis, “-and I don’t mean to trouble you, buuut the council is airing again tonight and-”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll ask Soundwave to record this one, too.” She cut me off, waving off my request.

“You two are the best.” I responded, making a finger gun with a dull snap of my off hand.

“And don’t you forget it!” She called as I jogged off. 

To most outsiders, the layout of Lower Kaon would have been a confusing mess. A winding collection of swerving turns, dead ends, meaningless walkways, and very, very long drops—they’d be right to call it such. Pit, I’d been scuttling around most of Lower Kaon since my optics booted up for the first time, and I still had to pay attention in places. There were dangers at every step; “tolls” manned by Functionaries, gangs eager for scrap and willing to overlook where it came from. But there were more tunnels than any opportunistic outfit could man. More spaces to walk. To think.

It used to be, these were the places I would go to think. To contemplate the unfairness of it all; a second chance at life—a real, one-out-of-I-don’t-even- want -to-guess, bonafide bit of divine intervention, but in the worst way. I used to hate it, being one of the worst regarded Cybertronian subtypes, at the absolute bottom of not just a social hierarchy, but one that was mandated by both the only forms of government and religion that Cybertron knew. Well, that, or wig out over being dropped into a metal body completely separated from anything I’d ever known.

But living longer changes things. Eventually, I settled into my new skin like it was the only one I’d ever known. And, sure, being a beastformer in an incredibly stratified society where one of my only pleasant options was to dig through the planet’s metal for energon that rarely ever made its way to me wasn’t pleasant , but…it was a living. I was so far away from the politics of Iacon and the Functionist Council that the most I ever caught was typical anti-beastformer discrimination if I wasn’t watching where I was going. But after ten thousand vorns, it became one of those things I learned to live with. Like a scar, or a limp. Besides, being in a hole in the ground wasn’t so bad when you were in it with friends. 

Regardless of my musings on chance and circumstance, I eventually made it to Swindle’s repair bay. 

“Hey, hey, he-heyyy! If it isn’t one of my favorite customers!” The repairmech said, looking up from some two handed contraption. “Can I interest you in a–”

“In order; no, no, not today, a new left lens, some repairs, and this.” I interrupted the amateur inventor and would-be salesmech, placing the jackhammer on the table. 

“You know, far be it from me to tell you how to spend your hard earned shanix, but you’d-” Swindle began, looking over the tool.

“I’m just not in the mood today. How long?” I interrupted again, crossing his arms.

“The lens, barely a click,” Swindle responded, shaking a box. Knocking on the jackhammer, he continued, “this, call it, eh, half a cycle. The rest of you? Pull up some seat.”

Parking it in an empty chair, I idly flinched as a patch attached itself to the back of my helm, before something in my chest settled as the pain in my knee and servo just…stopped. I very purposely tried to not think about where Swindle could have gotten his hands on mnemotech, and idly looked to the nearest screen while he took to soldering and mending the damage I had accumulated. Honestly, the process was fascinating to observe, but I was more focused on the sudden appearance of the banner for Functionism on the screen.

“Oi.” I uttered to Swindle while he was setting some type of piston in place. “There was an address today, wasn’t there?”

“Hm?” he intoned. “Oh, yeah. One sec, lemme put that on.”

“- but enough empty platitudes, my fellow children of the Fatherworld. ” Came the digital tone of the Converner, One-of-Twelve. “ As many of you know, despite the efforts of the Mining-Class, energon production is failing to meet the demand, due to the perfidious actions of rogue military class elements and fragments of ancient Quintesson invasion forces, alongside deranged class traitors. But we are Cybertron! We are mighty! It will take more than deranged beasts and apostates to halt the ever-grinding gears of our progress! Which is why we, the council, and our most esteemed theoconomists have an announcement to make. For the first time in epochs, we are adding to the Grand Taxonomy, en masse!! Through the study of ancient history and the processors of our greatest scientists, we have recovered the secrets of spark-splitting, which we will use to boost the mining and military castes! We do this with the blessing of Primus, for what else can the pursuit of function do but venerate the All-Maker and his Hand?! Through form, function; through function, purpose; through purpose, Primus!”

I mouthed the motto by habit, but my processor was racing. “But…where’s the energon going to come from in the short term?”

“The disposable class, a little from the military, and, er, construction and mining. Sorry, T.” Swindle answered, resting his servo on the terminal.

“I-it…it’s no problem, Swindle.” I responded, idly checking my mask’s transformation before letting it slide back. “How much did the jackhammer cost?”

“Consider it covered.”

“…Thanks, Swindle.”

“Don’t mention it,” Swindle said as he turned his back to one of his longer term projects, before rapidly turning again “I mean that,” he added with a jab of an accusing finger. “Don’t.”

I threw up my free servo in a playful plea for peace as I left the shop. 

Maybe it was the anxiety running through my processor at the thought of buckling down for another stint of rationing. Maybe it was my developing bad mood from how sluggish I was, feeling the effects of stretching out my rations to account for being a beastformer, not to mention one who had a teammate with a high frequency spark. Maybe it was something else, something almost forgotten. Something fleshy, and small, and angry. But the glaring faults of Cybertronian society became even more glaring at street-level. Every other corner held an eagle-eyed Functionary practically waiting for somebody to step out of line. Every third corner held an even shifty-eyed merchant, hawking wares of dubious legality, quality, or both. 

Deeper, in passing alleys, I could see them , too. Empties . Cybertronians who, by misfortune or ill-circumstance, were failed by the system, failing in turn to meet their bare minimum energon requirements. They were so desperate they were willing to strip nearly to the bone in an effort to conserve power, removing every last possible expenditure of energon and being willing to go to any length to get more.

Rather than risk focusing on any of that, I tore my head to the left and immediately looked down to my pedes at the even more painful sight that awaited me. An Empurata victim. If Empties were the result of the negligence of the system, then the Empurata stemmed from its malice. Officially, Empurata were criminals—thus marked and recast to ‘better fit.’ To be forcibly focused on serving Cybertron through their function.

In reality, they were even lower on the totem pole than beastformers like me. And I hated that fact, the fact that even I, a mech that was the object of so much disgust and disdain, had someone that I was supposed to look down on, and see as the untouchable that others saw in me. Moreover, I hated the fact that I was too much of a coward to do anything, to even say anything. I just walked , no different to the poor bastard on my left, or the bot ahead of us, or the Functionary across the street. We were all just perfect automatons , living our lives on rails for the benefits of mechs that we’d never see.

I actually had to blink when an alert sounded in my head, and a series of warning glyphs with a diagram of my right servo told me “kindly stop that, you mechanical moron.” Okay, it didn’t say that. But still, I unclenched my servo, noting the absence of a specific whir -ing noise.

Great. Something else to take to a medic. 

Ha. Like I could afford a medic. Swindle was about the height of medical care I was ever likely to see.

Eventually, I managed to plod along to the quarters where the miners were held, and the suite where my team was. ‘Suite’ made it sound so nice, but in reality, that was just the term nicer, fancier bots used to make it sound less like designated slums. In reality, each ‘suite’ was a room with three berths, a docking station for mini-cons, and the absolute minimum in terms of amenities and space to not be considered a prison cell. Hell, I was sure that there were nicer prison cells regardless. But that was besides the point. 

Derailing any train of thought I had regarding rations and future budgeting was the fact that there was a new, fresh berth bolted in place.

“Caught the broadcast.” I told Rammer, who was fiddling with something on his pad. “We getting a new teammate?”

“Yep,” Rammer reported, not even looking up, “We’re scheduled to meet him right before our next shift.”

“On the job training. Joy .” I responded. “At least tell me that we’re still on budget on energon?”

“Yes, actually.” Rammer said, and I could hear the surprise in his voice. 

“ Alright . Alright, alright, alright .” I said, slotting my jackhammer in its cubby so I could fiddle with a piece of scrap I mashed together. 

“Al- right . So, team,” I say, dropping the junk to the side and clapping my servos together, “I realize that even with the new addition, things are currently looking–”

“Sub-optimal?” Rammer interrupted.

“Bad.” Chromia added.

“ -like-a load of- ” 

“Not great!” I say, interrupting Soundwave before he can finish that particular, familiar, audio clip. “Not great , I know, with the cut backs we have to look forward to, but , we just have to keep pushing through. With a fresh face on this team, and the minor surplus that comes with that, I know that if we push beyond just the quota, we’ll be riding high for a while . Now, who’s with me?”

Chromia let out a huff before nodding. “Alright, yeah, I’m still with you.”

“Go team.” Rammer said, half heartedly pumping a servo.

Soundwave just gave a type of whole body nod, which I guessed was good enough. 

“Alright! Now, I say ener–” I said, before wincing as a truly loud noise interrupted me.

TWEEEEE came from Soundwave’s faceplate before he cut himself off, leaning into a light pat from Chromia. “Thanks, ‘Wave. And no, Tal, we still aren’t doing a catchphrase.”

“You are all so booooring .” I said, walking to my berth. “Alright, I’m recharging so that tomorrow is over sooner.”

“Mmh. Might be copying you soon.” Rammer said, rubbing at his optics. 

“Might as well.” Chromia added, while Soundwave simply dropped from his spot on the ceiling to where his port was.

I checked out to the idle sounds of the city, shepherding me away from my varied worries and away to a fitful recharge.

Chapter Text

We arrived at the mines early the next cycle so that we could catch an early lift down before everything got too crowded. When we piled in, there were the usual few early-birds that we ran into now and again, mostly from different crews, as well as a new face—a brightly-painted bot, silver with yellow accents that bordered on gold, waved a servo.

“Hello, I’m D-127 of Kaon! Are you Mining Crew B-16?” He asked the simple question so eagerly, I could have sworn I saw stars in his optics.

“That’s us, little dude!” Chromia said, thumb pointed at her own chestplate, before reaching over and hooking the rookie around the neck, pulling him closer. “C’mon! walk and talk!”

While Chromia and Rammer were busy making conversation with the rookie, I idly put one pede in front of the other, treading a path I had been walking for millenia, prepared to trudge my way deeper and deeper into Cybertron’s cavernous depths. I hadn’t spent ten thousand cycles just breaking rocks. During my off hours, I had thumbed through every Orion, every Convoy, and every blasted combination of ‘Wave I could think of. How many Orions could there possibly be employed under a hall of records, after all?

A lot. It turned out, there could be a lot . And almost as many wrestling heels named after some variety of Megatronus or His various titles, besides. Regardless of that, I had thrown out things like ‘continuity’ years ago. The Chromia that I know bears a resemblance to her IDW counterpart, while Soundwave was a more animalistic version of his Prime rendition, and a bat based mini-con to boot. Rammer… he was just Rammer. The black and white paint job didn’t help place him at all. What’s more, it’s hard to think of these people as future “heroes” or “villains” when I’ve had to help corral more than one of them while they were shitfaced off of contraband high-energon.

For such a little guy, Soundwave sure moved fast.

My reminiscing was cut short when my optics landed on the team’s newest addition. It was perturbing . He was small and had the profile of any Bumblebee I could manage to remember from the corner of my optic, but notably silver . The way his armor covered his head, his chest—it just screamed at me. In the back of my mind and at the base of my spark, there was a gnawing sense of dread when I looked at the kid. Granted, he had all the wide-eyed wonder in his eyes of a sparkling , so I might as well stick to just keeping an optic on him in the future.

“And who are you?” D-127 asked, breaking me out of my reverie. 

“Oh, uh, Talon. That’s me. Talon.” I answered, shaking my head.

“Well, that’s more interesting than the first two people I met. They were D-126 and D-128.” D-127 responded, idly twisting the pick in his hand.

Well then. That’s just about one of the saddest things I’ve heard in a while . 

“Well, it’s not all winners here, either. Rammer is called that because he kept on driving hood first into the walls.” I gossiped, ducking a swipe from a jumping Rammer. “Chromia–she used to be blue-er–takes care to keep that shine you see, which is always fun to accidentally catch with a mining grade light down here. And, well, my digits used to be sharper.” 

I heard the distinct sound of a T-cog click ing and whirr ing, and watched Soundwave clamber out of Chromia’s back.

“Whoa! What’s that?!” D-127 exclaimed.

“- Whoa! What’s that?!- ” Soundwave echoed back. 

“He’s Soundwave. Don’t let his size fool you, he’s just as much a Cybertronian as the rest of us, even if this mini-con takes just as much energon as the average Cybertronian.” Chromia replied as she waved vaguely at D-127. 

“His audials are a cut above the rest, too.” Rammer added. 

“That’s cool,” D-127 commented, “Can the rest of you do anything like that?”

“Nah. Rammer and Chromia turn into a couple of cars,” I responded, before gesturing to myself, “and I turn into something the Grand Taxonomy calls a wyvern.” I emphasized my lack of wheels by allowing one of the wings at my hip to detach and wave.

“ That’s cool ,” Soundwave preened in the background.

“Well, that’s still more interesting than me. I just turn into a mining laser.” D-127 added, kicking a stray chunk of metal.

“That’s plenty useful!” Rammer chimed, “S’no wonder you’re down here!”

“Pop quiz, rookie,” I said, wrapping my knuckles on D-127’s shoulder, “What do you know about working in the mines?”

“Well, there were a lot–” he started before getting interrupted by Soundwave’s incredibly obnoxious buzzer noise.

“Wrong!” Chromia interrupted, popping up to his other side. “The manuals say a lot , but it’s really important to note that they weren’t written by actual miners.”

D-127 cocked his head in confusion. “If they aren’t worth anything, why were we made to read them?”

“Pardon the fools,” Rammer called from the back, “They like trying to have a little fun in spite of the work. The manuals aren’t terrible , but they lack any lived experience. A lot of vets like to groan about having to train up the rookies, because half of that involves unteaching them some of the things they picked up from the manuals.”

“ -Boring- ” echoed Soundwave.

“I’d like to turn in at quota today, you little hellion.” Rammer snarked with a pointed finger.

“Ignoring those two, just stick by us, and you should be fine.” I said, before shooting one finger up. “One thing. You hear stop, you stop . Energon is dangerous in it’s raw form. You hit it wrong, and Boom! You got that?”

“Yessir!” D-127 shot off.

“Not a sir.” I said, tapping him on the helm. “I’m Talon, and you’ll get a name as long as you stick around, too.”

The rookie nodded eagerly, and gripped his pack a little tighter.

Eventually, we reached the beginning of an unexplored section of the mine we had been assigned to. With the knowledge of D-127’s purpose, Soundwave directed us down deeper to a less developed part of the mine. The rookie transformed with a series of clicks and thunks into an automated mining laser, and pressed against the wall, activating with a harsh Thrum! The chance for conversation drowned out by the hissing and cracking from the laser boring into the earth. Before long, the rookie reached the end of the distance he could reach in his mining form and had to revert to his root mode. From there, the rest of us set into the metal, hacking and hammering away. Although our ability to scour the walls for energon was diminished when together, we made up for it in our machine-like ability to press forward, deeper into the metal. By the time our desire for a sip of energon outweighed our ability to dig, we had extended the mine shaft by mechanometers.

As we all sat to rest, D-127 piped up again. “What’s the rest of Cybertron like? I didn’t see much between ignition and being escorted to the mine.”

“Weeeell…” Rammer started, before realizing he himself, did not have much to go off of, “It’s big? I dunno. Never thought any of us would be in a position to have to explain our home.” 

“That’s ‘cause your head’s fulla loose gears.” Chromia retorted, lounging against a slanted rock. 

“ -Big-dolt-composed of-nuts and bolts- ” Soundwave added.

Ignoring a spat I’ve heard more times than I cared to remember, I drew myself closer to the rookie so I could explain what little I knew. “Alright, so, the first thing you need to know is that here in Lower Kaon, everybody mines. Well, that’s a bit of an overstatement, because there’s also a bit of industry to support the miners—entertainment, maintenance, so on—but it’s mostly about the mining here.” I emphasize with a wave of my servos, “And in Upper Kaon, it’s mostly industry. Taking the energon, and all the raw materials we find looking for it, and making some fairly impressive things. That’s how it is all over Cybertron. Not the Upper/Lower bit, that’s just Kaon, but every city is dedicated to something. Iacon trains theoconomists, Tarn trains the warrior caste, so on and so forth. But we’re miners. We aren’t really meant to learn much beyond that, or the newest developments in mining tech that we’re eventually supposed to use.”

“…Really?” the rookie asked after a moment, “Was it always like that?”

“No. From what I picked up, it used to be pretty bad,” I responded, drawing on the things I managed to read or overhear, “The old empire used to be pretty wasteful before the council took over. Apparently, there was a war, and we did bad enough that the council decided the Senate was at fault, and took matters into their own servos. They did keep a few things from the old regime, though. Like alt-mode exemption.”

D-127 drew forward, and I felt prompted to explain. “Alt-mode exemption is supposed to be the reward for a great service rendered to Cybertron as a whole. But it’s really just a pipedream for miners.”

I rocked forward as Chromia slammed into my side. “Yeah, but it’d be nice to do something else for a change. I’d rather be breaking down bots in the arena than harvesting metal here.”

“I don’t care what I’d do, as long as I’d get to go fast.” Rammer added.

“ -tall- ” Soundwave deemed to contribute, before tacking on, “ -breaking down bots in the arena- ”

“Pit yeah , lil’ mech!” Chromia said, gently fistbumping one of Soundwave’s wings.

“Alright, dreams are nice and all, but we’ll never get anywhere by just yapping around,” I interjected, clapping the palms of my servos to my knees before standing up. “C’mon, let’s get back to work.”

“C’mon, you great big nerd, tell the newbie what it is you’d use your fresh start on.” Rammer called out, arms crossed and smiling.

“Look, it doesn’t–” I started, before realizing absolutely none of these jackasses would let me go until I said it out loud. “ Primus . Look, okay, fine. I want to be a librarian and work in a records hall. Maybe in Iacon, but here would be fine.”

“Ha. Nerrrrd . But you’d visit, right?” Chromia teased, finally standing up with her pick.

“Yeah, yeah. Now, hurry up and get to digging so that we ca–” Whatever train of thought I had was immediately derailed by the dull thunk that came from my jackhammer striking into the earth. 

Wrenching it back, I slowly motioned for Chromia and Rammer to start digging where I had stopped. As they struck, more and more broken metal gave way to reveal a refined, purple material underneath, almost like hull plating. 

“This…this shouldn’t even be remotely possible.” I managed to get out. “This mine has been in operation for cycles . Whatever this is, someone would have had to have called it in!”

“Maybe we’re the first!” D-127 exclaimed, “I mean, uncovering a lost ship, that’s got to be some kind of great service, right?”

“ -call it in?- ” Soundwave added.

“No! We should make sure it’s really something, right?” the rookie interrupted before I could say anything.

“Rookie’s got a point,” Rammer said.

My digits drummed along the handle of my jackhammer while I worked my jaw. “Alright.” I said, before pointing at Rammer, “Rammer, start here, dig back to the entrance ‘till you run out of metal. Soundwave, go with him. Keep an audial out for anybody approaching. Chromia, with me, expanding here in a grid. Rookie, get to blasting.” 

“Alright!” D-127 exclaimed as we got to work. 

As the hours wore on, it became rapidly apparent that whatever this was was bigger than any civilian transport I had ever seen. Rammer had to stop due to the plating meeting the entrance to the branch they had started working in, with no sign of stopping. Pit, eventually it reached the point where even I could have transformed comfortably. All the while, the rookie was blasting along.

Groons passed in wordless exertion, breaking apart Cybertron’s core as we unearthed the anomaly together. Tools growled, picks sang, and D-127’s mining laser never let up its roar. I raised my jackhammer again to continue chipping at the wall of metal, when something I couldn’t identify—some sound beneath the familiar symphony of the mines, a scent unfamiliar to the depths—caught my full attention.

I stopped cold. The feeling of my plates twitching quickened the cycle of energon in my conduits. Chromia had stopped, too, catching a returning Soundwave on her arm. The mini-con played a sound back at her, something akin to a rumbling noise. I had worked in these mines since I could remember. I had seen cave-ins and sudden disruptions from plate movements deep, deep down. Something in my spark told me this was neither of those things, but it was screaming at me to turn and run anyway.

“Yeah, no, frag this.” I said, before addressing everyone. “Alright, everyone, pack it up and move.”

Chromia and Soundwave fell in the moment the words passed my denta, long used to trusting my word and my gut. A mine was like a living organism, in a way. Technically, given that Cybertron comes from Primus’ body, it was. The most important thing about working in a mine was learning not just to live and move around what was happening in there, but what could happen. Volatile energon reactions, sudden plate movements, anything could necessitate the immediate hauling of aft. If it could happen down there, you needed to be ready for it, because if you were caught in the middle of a disaster, you were about to be buried under kilotons of rubble and metal at best.

Chromia and Soundwave passed by me, and my processor stalled for a second. The kid . 

“Rookie!” I shouted, “It’s time to go!”

In response, D-127 blasted into the rock harder. “No! There’s something here!” he responded.

The metal rocked beneath my pedes, and as I fell to the floor, the plating started to glow where I had touched it.

“Get your aft in gear, rookie!” Chromia hollered.

“Hang on, I can feel it! I’m close to something!” D-127 responded, before transforming as the pulsing of the ground seemed to hurry in frequency. As he dug his servos into the loosened dirt, Chromia stepped forward, hand raised to pull him after her.

What happened next, I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Not a quartex from now, not centuries or millennia would I ever forget what it looks like when someone gets ripped apart by sheer, unbridled energy.

It all happened so slowly. The plating beneath our pedes no longer pulsed, but hummed with a steady, solid blue circuit pattern weaving through it. At the same time, the hole D-127 had stuck his servos in emitted a bright green light. He winced before turning to look at the source of his discomfort, seemingly ignorant of the way he was glowing . In those seconds, when he was still a person and not a collection of atoms blasted into debris, I could practically see his circuits, his frame , through all his plating. From then on, all I could remember was light . Light, the sound of a T-cog activating–mine, maybe?–and screaming.

Primus, the screaming.

For a moment, Primus alone knew how long after, I came to; my own body screaming at me as every diagnostic report in my systems came back red. I was in my alt mode, and down to a single, cracked optic. I felt a dozen servos push at me to drag away something–someone–from underneath. There was more muffled speech, but I was barely cognizant. Too weak to turn and look in any direction. Eventually, blessedly, another notification came from my internal systems; my body was engaging emergency stasis. I let myself slip away, and the last thing my shattered optic could register was the baleful green glow, the lingering emerald radiance that served as the only evidence of the explosion that had killed my team.

Chapter Text

Click click click

Click click click

For a moment, it was all so still. The mine. Them. The rookie. Something had been happening; something was going to happen. But that was then, and what was going to happen was imminent, but it wasn’t now .

Click click click

Click click click

Now, there were feelings. Frustration, because the rookie just wouldn’t listen . Protocols were there for a reason, and the protocol for a destabilizing mine was to move . Hope, because for all the rationalizations through sermon or self-debate, I desperately wanted nothing more than to escape the mines, to rise up to something greater. And fear, because just behind the rookie’s eager face is something malevolent, burning, hating .

Click-click-click click-click-click

Click-click-click click-click-click

Imminent becomes now, and now is bright. Bright and loud and painful . It is loud and bright and painful and there’s screaming and I couldn’t tell if it was Rammer or Chromia and it was only when I slammed into the floor from a medical berth and the screaming finally stopped that I realized that it was me.

Something in my processor wailed at me to move past all the amber warning signs flooding my vision, and I felt my back slam into something as my mind began to catalogue. Two doors, one big window, and as more details became apparent to me, it became readily obvious that this was not the medical room I was used to. For starters, the standard white and red decals that littered the room are actually visible, and in some places, the room seems to shine. Secondly, while the place wasn’t overflowing with supplies, the shelves and cabinets were still stocked with things I had never seen. 

It was a stark contrast to the medical centers I had become used to. Perpetually overpacked and under-supplied, one was better off in a machine shop than an actual medbay. It wasn’t strictly allowed, but desperation, shanix, and personal connections worked miracles when medics were thin on the ground.

The fear and panic subsided just enough for the pain to worm it’s way in. I winced as I looked down, seeing my body was covered with med-clamps painted an optic-searing hazard-orange. An instinctive attempt to twist my chassis around was met with lancing pains. The backs of my legs, most of my main chassis, even my neck and left optic, judging from the raised surface I felt, all had similar med-clamps bolted down tight. If I squinted, I could see a faint build-up of dull, crusted energon around the borders of the clamps. Given that that was supposed to be inside me, in combination with the dull sense of pain that permeated my entire body, was a very strong indicator that whatever injuries were underneath those clamps weren’t great.

The fact that I still had wings was a miracle. Even if they were weighed down up to the limb with more med-clamps, at the moment. 

My internal train of thought ran on and on, catching on each injury, whirring in wonderment at my survival, and was only interrupted when I realized someone was trying to speak to me. It took a moment for the internal roar of static to settle so that I could actually understand what was being said.

“Sir? Sir, do you know where you are?” The words came from a white medical bot with red detailing.

“Primus, not another one of them .” I heard from somewhere else, but opted to ignore.

“Medical center. There-there was an explosion. I remember what happened before, and a little bit of after, but that’s it.” I offer weakly, “Then I woke up here.”

“That’s not uncommon. Really, it’s only half luck that you’re still alive. Your positioning wouldn’t have meant anything if it weren’t for the fact that you’re such a robust variant of beastformer.” The Red-on-White medic mentions. 

They had looked ready to continue, but whatever they had been about to say died in their vocalizer as The Castigator himself, Twelve-of-Twelve, came into the room. There was a great shuffling of noise as everyone immediately moved to try and kneel, regardless of their state or ability. The three of us were quick to bend the servo, as The Castigator was well renowned for his enthusiasm for sharing his methods for reducing Cybertronians to states that could charitably be categorized as “alive”... And for how quick he was to add to the number of such mechs from the stock of those that did not show sufficient scorn for those that would try to “buck” the social order, or those that did not show due deference to a member of the all-governing Council.

Nested in the back of my processor was the fact that most of those flagellated bots had what looked like beastformer kibble on their persons.

“Stand proud, Children of Cybertron. For I come not this cycle in search of the Heretic or the Subverter, the Dissident nor the Functionless.” Twelve-of-Twelve bade the room as he steepled his digits.

I winced, as the rapidity of kneeling so that I wouldn’t be found wanting in the eyes of an utter lunatic, and then suddenly rising again, was enough for my body to see fit to remind me that I was still incredibly injured, as my armor and exodermis chafed.

“Will M41-C012, otherwise informally known as Talon, stepforward?” The Castigator beckoned, with illusions of disdain perforating his otherwise flat tone near the end.

With a rapid intake of air to alleviate the growing heat in my systems, I stepped forward. “That would be me, your Councilorship.” 

“Step forward with pride, for you have been afforded an auspicious opportunity!” The Castigator chastised while throwing his servos up with vigor. “For it is a rare opportunity indeed that a menial such as yourself is graced with so great an honor as an Alt-Mode Exemption.”

There was a skip in my… well, in my everything, as I stumbled forward. I could hardly process what I had just heard. “Your Councilorship!” I said while noting the tensing of the Functionaries at the door, and adopted what I hoped was a sufficiently subservient posture. “I mean, your Councilorship, what about the rest of my cr–”

“ Irrelevant .” Twelve-of-Twelve’s glare chilled me. It wasn’t one of hatred, exactly, nor was it distaste. It was one of almost incomprehension—as if he could not fathom how a mere insect, an animal such as I had dared to ask him for more after being granted such an honor, and yet he was certain that he did not like it one bit. “As is stated within the laws of Cybertron,” he continued, tone far less grandiose and performative now, “those of lesser castes become irrelevant to attention, while one is to wait for the higher castes to approach them. In this moment, granted to you by your Exemption, you are in a transient state, waiting to be set by your choice. Though, for your own sake, I suggest you choose something that is suitably within your capabilities.”

“Well, I had always wanted to work in the Hall of Records–” Was all I managed to get out before the councilor clapped his servos.

“Data management?” The Castigator interrupted, cocking his mono-optic, gear shaped helm. “A mere metal-breaker, and you wish to go into something as…intellectually stimulating as clerkdom? I had figured you would want something more in line with your physical stature.”

“Yes, well, Your Councilorship, it has always been a dream of mine—” I started.

“Yes, yes, very well.” He said, interrupting me with a wave of his servo. “I shall release you once more unto the care of these fine medics, where upon the completion of your care, you shall be delivered a datapad containing the finer details of your new station.”

He turned to leave, before turning back and flatly intoned, “Have a blessed cycle, and a most auspicious career.”

I had tried to say something, but I was interrupted once more by Twelve-of-Twelve’s abrupt turn, as well as the swish of his cape, as he left the premises. 

My optics could only shutter at the bluntness with which my request, the life altering moment that many could only dream of, was regarded as a mere momentary speed bump by such an authority.

******

Eventually, I was guided back to a medical berth to be tested and monitored over the course of a half-dozen solar cycles. I had tried to ask about my teammates, my friends, every time a new mech or femme came in to treat me, and was rebuffed each time; the medics were far too focused on their  tasks. Or, in a few more blatant cases, simply dismissed me out of hand, unable to believe they’d been lowered to repairing an animal of all things.

However poor their berthside manner, the aloof Check-Up and the far less kindly Red Alert were excellent medics. Most solar cycles were spent laying down someway so that they could de-couple a med-clamp and poke and prod and solder away at my ‘internal’ wounds. ‘Internal’, given that without those clamps, they’d be anything but. 

The wounds to my armor were a different story. Some of the minor injuries, like the archipelago of metal up and down the back of my legs, could be relied on to seal on their own—so long as my body had the appropriate metal supplements with which to close said wounds. The several mechanometer long gash on my chest, on the other servo, was another story. Starting about a servo-span to the left of my spark, it traveled and opened to the left, widening to the length of my own forearm before finally stopping. It was beyond disconcerting that I could even just barely see the faint glow of my own spark whenever they removed the clamp to seal up any damage. The wound itself was sealed by setting a mesh in place and adding living metal to the edge of the wound, layer by layer.

It looked like intensive work, and I’m sure it was, but by the Pit, was it boring to sit through. The medics themselves were hardly conversational, more focused on closing my wounds. Which I was deeply grateful for, of course. But it was just. So. Boring. I didn’t realize how much I could miss some things until they were startlingly, viscerally absent. There was no absent chatter about whatever rumors someone had heard about the world beyond the mine, no one to begrudgingly huddle with around a jailbroken datapad and watch illegal gladiator matches with, no idle chirping or noises that almost sounded like music. Nothing but the welding of metal, and the occasional highly-technical conversations that I was implicitly excluded from.

Finally, with my major injuries sealed, I recieved that datapad, and with it, my dismissal from the medbay, which I would later be informed was the main medbay for Cybertronians of my new status or similar. The trip from the medbay to my freshly-assigned suite wasn’t very far, but the location was all new to me—new buildings, new pathways, and fresh faces and frames on all sides as I meandered my way through unfamiliar streets—so it felt like my head was going to pop off of my neck from how much I was swiveling it around. I was a stranger in my own city.

At some point, I had looked down while making my way across a much better-managed bridge than I was used to, and I saw a flash of something down below. I had to pause for a moment as I looked, before the new perspective clicked in my processor, and I realized I was staring at Swindle’s shop. Even with my optics focused to the maximum, I could only just barely make out the glyphs, and in that moment, I realized; At some point, I had stopped looking up. 

No. That was wrong. I realized that I had been so far down for so long, that it would have never mattered if I looked up. Because I never would have been able to make this one bridge out through all of the pollution, and the glare of foreign stars that only occasionally made its way down to the streets of Lower Kaon.

And then, from my place on that shiny new bridge, from my place halfway to the top of the Caste System that the Council had built, I looked up, consciously, for the first time in a while. And I was still in a hole .

That was all that Lower Kaon was. A hole, perpetually churning out energon. Though from here I could see just a little more, the barest hints of towers, and the glint of light off of distant metals…I was just a little higher up in the same damn hole.

Eventually, I made it to my suite. It was…smaller. Appropriate, given that I was no longer part of a team. But, still. I was conscious of how close my head was to the ceiling, and I instinctively unhooked my freshly reconstructed wings from my hips and pursed my lips at the fact that even turning to the side, I could only just unfurl them all the way. Everything that constituted as “mine” had already been sent up here, tucked away in a lonely corner, in one solitary box. I left it there as I made for my new berth, which was the same as the old one in every regard, with one exception.

It wasn’t mine .

Opting to rest until my next datapad came with instructions for what would come next, I tucked my knees into my chest and chose to rest. Letting my processor slow as I went to sleep, I idly noted that I couldn’t remember my optics ever blurring like this while powering down, before finally succumbing to the sheer exhaustion echoing in my processor.

Chapter Text

Cybertronians, according to studies forwarded by the Functionist Council, don’t dream. The processor simply powers down to defrag, and spins back up again when it’s time to go to work. Any hallucinations that occur between those two events should be reported to your nearest medbay, who will take it up with a mnemosurgeon, who will take care of it. After Topswerve came back from just one such appointment, everyone back at Mine Outpost Gamma came to the sudden and quick realisation that none of them had ever, in fact, experienced anything that would qualify as a “data hallucination”. 

‘And if anyone were to experience any such hallucinations,’ I groused to myself, ‘they would most certainly merely recount the glories of Cybertronian life espoused to us by the Council of Five, and have nothing to do with any potentially or definitely deceased comrades, friends, or any other such associates.’

‘No sir,’ I grumbled to the caricature of a Functionary in my processor as I work to peel myself off of the cold, hard floor, ‘That thrashing that last solar cycle was just me being overcome by a sudden bout of fervor for the cause.’

Standing, I took a moment to rub my faceplate as my free servo thumbed through my pad. I’d finally received the directions to my first job that wasn’t being a not-slave in the mines, and I would hate to make a bad first impression. 

Unlike my last job, which could be reached from walking to the entrance entirely on my own two pedes, my new career would require the usage of a shuttle . Now, I did happen to have wings, yes, and it is always an utter joy to unfurl and stretch them when I could, but, unfortunately, I did not meet the requirements of the frankly break-neck speeds that seekers could get up to. Thus, any and all instances of Talon Air™ would have to occur in places that wouldn’t result in my getting a fine, or worse, detained , for “obstruction of air traffic”.

Which was stupid anyway, I thought to myself. It’s the open air. You can’t obstruct it.

Since I had to take an entirely new route to a wholly unfamiliar location, I had to keep my helm on a swivel the entire time. Doing so not only kept me alert as to any potential robbers, part-thieves, or general haters of beastformers, but it had the added benefit of informing me of exactly two things. Firstly, there was a shocking lack of the poor sightlines I had grown accustomed to working around so many levels back down below. Secondly, people were incredibly quick to go and give me a fairly decent berth. I imagine it had less to do with any accommodations to my size, which had forced me to duck under most standard doors, and more everything to do with the fact that I was a beastformer who looked incredibly out of place for where they were. The more they looked at me as though I personally spiked their energon with crude oil, the less I felt like I belonged, or anticipated my coming workday.

Funny, that.

But regardless of the opinions of bots with processors too small to run Doom, I was going to get to my new job, and I was going to do it damn well. I muscled into the shuttle, ignoring some now-flabbergasted grounder’s attempt at shoving me aside.

Stuck in a glorified tin can, I did my level best to keep my wings tucked into my hips, and tried to ignore all these strangers while keeping an optic out for anyone of dubious intent. Finally, after what felt like forever stuck rubbing armatures with bots that wouldn’t stop looking at me, the shuttle stopped, allowing everyone to flow out. Exiting last, I idly rapped my knuckles against the frame, a stutter in my step when I heard the shuttle knock back. Rather than choose to reflect on the fact that there was an entire person whose circumstance of birth forced them to wind up flying the same, monotonous route every day, I checked my chronometer, noted I had plenty of time, and made my way to the archives on the double regardless. 

Finally after I reached the Archive of Kaon, I took a pointless–comforting, but pointless–breath, and went in, idly pleased by the fact that the doors actually opened. Marching past all the huddled academics and bored rich bots, I walked right up to the front desk, keeping a light smile plastered on my faceplate even as the attending data clerk, a bored slip of a bot, languidly glazed over me before directing his attention back to his screen. Clearing my intake, I produced a tablet, one with my note of mode-exemption and reassignment, and slid it towards the clerk. 

“Hmm?” He hummed, before doing a double take at the tablet. “Oh. Oh , they were serious.”

“Hi, I’m Talon.” I started, knowing the false cheer in my voice most certainly did not reach my optics. “I’m glad to be starting here today, and I can’t wait to get to know you.” 

“Uh, yeah. I’m…Swerve and…I’ll just…callthebossbotrightondownoneklick.” The mech said, frantically tapping at his station. 

“No need for all that, Swerve!” Someone called out. A blue and red bot waved from a descending, open-air elevator, a stack of pads under one arm.

“Hey-hey, Doc Shock!” The bot answered, piping up. 

“Shock?” I asked. 

“I do believe I’ve told you more than once to not call me that.” The doctor said, before turning to me. “Doctor Shockblast of Iacon. I research energy refinement and report directly to the Senate, and to the Council. All this,” he says, gesturing to the archive, “is a spare hobby. You are Talon, former miner, aspiring archivist, and shockingly punctual. Only logical, I suppose. I wouldn’t want to be late to my first new job either. Come.”

Abruptness aside, I fell into step. Hurrying after the doctor’s own paced strides, I looked around while I kept an audial tuned to his various explanations. It was no Grand Hall of Iacon, but the Archive of Kaon was still massive. We were walking at the very top, and even though I could fly, I was still leery of the fact that I could barely make out the ground. 

“Yes, do mind the lack of flooring. The fall won’t kill you, but the stop at the end might.” Shockblast deadpanned, a faint smile on his faceplate. “A bit of humor. But yes, the archives are rather sizable. It hardly matches the Archive of Iacon, but it’s still too large to effectively manage in one cycle, so teams are assigned to manage certain levels, and they alternate locations by deca-cycle.”

“For now, your job is merely organization,” he said, handing me off his collection of tablets. “However, as your employment continues, you’ll be expected to take up more maintenance responsibilities as well. As compensation, you are allowed access to the material located here in your off time.”

And then, I was left on my own. A horrible decision, really. Before Shockblast had left me alone, he had handed me some datapads that needed to be sorted. Seeing the distance on the map between me and where I was meant to put them, I failed to suppress a wince. Checking from left to right, I confirmed that there wasn’t anyone around to tell me to not engage in my latest harebrained idea. A phantom clang echoed in my audials from the amount of times my team had passed around stupid ideas, me included. 

Idly stepping to the opposite ledge, I broke into a run, hurling myself between the wide gaps in the shelves. For a moment, I hung there, suspended in the air. Before gravity could reassert itself and slot my tragic tale beside an Icarus who did not yet exist, my long-unused T-cog ground to life. Legs and limbs twisted and tucked, my head tucked in to make space for a neck leading to a predator’s visage, and my wings finally snapped into place, catching me in the air. For a moment, I stayed there, paused in the space between freefall and flight, suspended by roaring thrusters at more animalistic hips and subtler gravity manipulators tucked away within my wings. 

My wings beat hard, once, twice, and I perched on a shelf so that I could reorient myself. Bearing acquired, I hurled myself from a perfectly solid surface once more, something that would have been concerning for anyone lacking a literal wingspan. The only pauses in my wingbeat were the moments I took to just glide, cutting distance as the crows would. 

Freedom.

Pure, unadulterated, Freedom.

The Functionist Council and their legions of cronies could come up with a thousand-thousand regulations, but they would never be able to take this. 

Eventually, I came to land where the first set of pads was supposed to go. My hips swiveled around as my legs righted themselves back from digitigrade to plantigrade, posture righting itself as wings swiveled down and arms swiveled out, head liberated from that false neck. Calling up the lift so that I could actually start my job, I craned my head around while I waited, taking in the sheer monotony of the structure. 

So monotonous and identical was the building that all it would have taken to break the pattern was one shade out of place, one shape where it was not supposed to be. Peering down the narrow gap between this shelf and the next was one such shape, perhaps the only one. A panel, slightly askance, the faint glow of a datapad glowing through. Elevator still not here yet, I checked the coast once more before… allowing myself to fall between the gap, wings snapping out to aid my thrusters in stopping at the gap. 

Gently opening the gap, I noticed the pad inside was much more ornate than the dull gunmetal grey of the various tablets inside the Archive. Tucking it away within my own personal subspace, I rocketed back up, reaching the top at the same time as the lift carrying Shockblast.

“Oh, uh-”

The palm of a servo interrupted any attempt at an excuse.

“I understand the urge to stretch one’s wings, Talon,” Shockwave’s wings gently quivered for emphasis, “but please do take care to avoid damaging the archives. Though it may be a mere side -job, I strive to give it all the care of my regular work.”

“Of course.” I responded, smiling as my servo touched my chest, resting over my spark, and, just as importantly, the subspace where my fancy new tablet resided.

“I live to serve, after all.”

Chapter Text

There had been a spot, back when I was a miner, that the team enjoyed frequenting. We could all tell that it had been some flavor of hangout spot, once upon a time. By the time Rammer had come across it, it felt unlikely the previous occupants would ever come around to contest our use. The more sizable among us–Chromia, Rammer, and I–would take up lobbing, beating together some accumulated loose scrap into something that could be argued was the shape of a ball. We’d all flitter between makeshift obstacles, steadily developing reflexes meaning we got better at catching with our servos than with our faceplates. Soundwave even found a way to participate, electing to exist just to make it difficult for the next person to catch or throw, like a hellish little Red Shell on wings. 

Sometimes, we’d all come together around whatever tablet of unofficial contraband had managed to trickle its way down to us. “Unofficial”, because while none of us were certain it was illegal per say, we definitely weren’t supposed to have them. It was half of what made them so entertaining, that and the way they oscillated between “actually kind of good” to “the strong temptation to gouge out my own optics”. 

Even when most of us were content to sit around and do nothing for a bit, Chromia would always be shadowboxing against the wall. I could close my eyes, and solar cycle by solar cycle, I’d hear the dull tinka-tinka-tink of her going at it against an old wall, getting faster and more complex each day. 

She wanted to be one of the best, she’d say. That she’d get us all out of here.

Caught in the memory of it, I snarled as I returned to my present reality, and slammed my fist into the wall again. That’s where I’d been for the past cycle, banging my servos into a wall to try and burn off the anger and confusion cycling ‘round and ‘round in my spark.

It had been that datapad’s fault. I’d sat on my berth, idle and bored, mildly tired from that first day of learning where everything was, how everything was supposed to work, and running around like a headless turborat to put everything back in its proper place. There wasn’t much in the way of conversation to be had with anyone else who was there. Most of the patrons who saw me were content to use me as a shortcut to returning the datapads they had borrowed. And true to Shockblast’s word, most of the coworkers I saw were off in the distance, working on other parts of the building, either scurrying around with their own stacks of datapads, or in the guts of the building. 

The bot behind the desk that I actually met with most frequently that day was Swerve, and he wasn’t much for anything approaching salient conversation. Typically, the only words he had for me were just requests to nab datapads far away from wherever he was. Aft-headed bastard.

At the end of the day, as I reclined on my berth, I idly recalled that datapad. Fishing it out of my limited hammerspace, I flipped it around to scan for when it had been produced, wondering just how old the style was. That had brought the first furrow in my optic ridge; I didn’t recognize the dating system. Typically, most things mass-produced were dated to place when they came from in the 145 thousand year scope of the rule of the Functionist Council. Even things produced before then had a similar date plastered on them. That this tablet had avoided such correction indicated that it was either very old, or someone had very much gone out of their way to prevent its discovery by the Council of Twelve.

Instinctively, I peered around the room, to confirm to myself that I was, in fact, alone. Turning back to my purloined datapad, I turned it on, only to see myself scowl pettily at the momentary delay in the empty, dark screen before it fully powered up.

The Functionist Threat

By Roadswerve

…When asked, Nominus Prime had this to say: “These so-called Functionists are nothing more than rabble rousers and divisionists; ideologues and dogmatists. Their “Grand Taxonomy” is nothing more than the oppression of innocent Cybertronians and arbitrary elevations of status based on old, outdated, and disproven studies. People of Cybertron, these ideals are not why Primus constructed us. They would see each and every one of you snarling at each other's very sparks while a privileged few reap the benefits of a perpetually limited supply of evergon. Not one Cybertronian has ever been made to break down mountains, to build up cities, to wage war or lead breakthroughs in the frontiers of science. Every task that has ever been dealt on Cybertron, even that of the station of Prime, has been attainable to anyone. We were made, each and every one of us, from the smallest minicon to the mightiest titan, as a shining example to the idea that all could be free, that all could be one !”

There were…more. So many more . More speeches by Nominus Prime, championing the ideal of Cybertronian equality, more denouncements of Functionism—not just from him, but from scientists, economists, priests. Then, history seemed to take a turn for the bloody; Troop movements, bombings, the decimation of entire cities. The history I had been taught told me that Nominus was a false Prime, a demagogue who used charisma and influence to bring riches to himself and his friends while all Cybertron suffered. That the Functionist Council had had to put down superstitious cults and rabid beastformers that had been set upon the populace. But by these accounts, Nominus had been genuine in his ideals, and admired by most, putting credits to denta and slugging it out on the front.

Trembling, I thumbed through to the last message, an audio recording:

This is Jetfire, scout for the 442nd Air Regiment. Kaon has fallen, I repeat, Kaon has fallen. We’re holding key points, like this archive, but it’s just not enough. I knock down one of those bastard functionaries, two more march to take their place. The posh bastards at air command have sounded a general retreat to Fortress Delta. Pit take it all; Silverbolt, you’d better be alive to receive this message in the first place. Coordinates enclosed. Jetfire out.

I’d tried to actually read the coordinates, but my optics just wouldn’t focus . For a brief moment as I set the datapad down, my processor was utterly blank. No, “blank” was wrong. It was awash with the static of seething, all-consuming fury . I had accepted my place, knelt like a dog before Functionist ideals, all because I thought that had been the way of things, that had been how this world, this second life, was supposed to be.

But I had been robbed. Me, and countless other Cybertronians had been consigned to die down in the energon mines all for the benefit of others that we would never meet, for-

SKREEEE

I jumped from my berth, landing on my aft with a clang and doing all of nothing for my mood. Moving to stand, I noted that I had been the cause of the noise, tracing a sharp digit over the light scratches I had left on the underside of the berth. I let out a huff as I placed the datapad back in my storage compartment and stormed out of my quarters, into the mid-Kaon streets. Stewing in my anger, I hadn’t noticed where my pedes were taking me until I realized I was at a ledge overlooking a familiar corner—three-thousand mechanometers below. It was that same corner that led to the old hideaway, if someone knew where they were stepping.

I clicked my denta, allowing myself to fall over the ledge. I let myself fall—watched the whipping winds and aerial Cybertronians part around my form, in freefall just long enough that I felt justified in burning my engines, hard . I lurched in midair, momentum and impulse warring, my frame groaned as speed bled away, the retro-burn enough to change my imminent smearing to a hard landing—but one that I could walk away from with barely a hitch in my step. I stalked forward, muscling through the ache lancing up my legs.

And that’s where I had been for the better part of a cycle, beating out a barebones rhythm from the wall, slamming my fists into it again— CLANG —and again— CLANG —and again—CLANG— SKREEEK. I winced as my fist came away from the wall, leaving an imprint of my knuckles in my own energon. Staring at my own servo, I could see how badly I had managed to strip away most of the plating, and how the energon seemed to bubble from the seams. 

Petulantly, I kicked away some loose scrap on my way to the monument to cubism we had the audacity to call a couch when we made it and let myself fall onto it. With a dull thud , I set my internal alarm to a few kliks before the first medbays were supposed to open, and let another turbulent sleep claim me.

******

Optics flickering back on, I groaned as I rolled off of the makeshift couch. I half-slid to the ground, only for several parts of my body to inform me that this was an unwise decision—through the lancing pains arcing through my legs and servos, and the yellow alerts blaring through my HUD. Attempting to clench my fist elicited a groan as I accessed my own personal hammerspace. Wincing, I set out the tablet that had incited my anger on the hard couch. Clicking through the information, I skipped through everything else to the encoded coordinates, only for my optic ridges to curl in confusion. 

“…for freedom is the right of all sentient beings.”

“Strength lies not only in the power of one’s actuators, but the power in their processor.”

“Primus is on the side of all who fight in the name of freedom, but superior artillery never hurt.”

Scoffing, I allowed myself to slump to the floor entirely. Scrapping spy slag. No, they couldn’t put the coordinates in the already hidden datapad, they had to disguise it as quotes, when practically no one was allowed access to the actual Covenants of the Pr-

“Wait a min- uff. Right. Medic. ” I interrupted myself mid-realization, body demanding actual attention. Dropping the datapad back into my storage, I winced my way out of the old hide away, pain lancing down my legs every step. Trying to move my digits was accompanied by not just pain and discomfort, but a scraping sound, and flakes of dried energon. Denta clenched, I eventually made it through the tedious shuttle ride to put me at the level where I would find a med-bay suited for me. Dragging my pedes the entire time, I eventually reached the door of the medbay and wrapped it with my forearm.

Answering the door was a passive and unimpressed looking red, white, and green mech with the medical symbol front and center on his chest. 

“Alright, come in and sit down.”

“Usually, there’s a lot more staring and questioning. Or outright hostility.”

The fins at the sides of the mech’s head thrummed as he answered, “Yeah, well, they sat me down and told me to fix bots, so it’s bots I fix. Besides, I doubt you’re stupid enough to go somewhere that’d kill you.”

“Heh, sure.” I winced as I laid down on the berth.

“So, how long you got ‘till your next shift?”

“‘Bout-” a quick flicker to the corner of my vision “-bout a cycle and a half.”

“Mh. Alrighty, where’s it hurt the most?” he inquired.

“Servos and hips.”

“What are you, honored ?” he asked sarcastically, sticking me with something before the sensation of pain went away. “Okay then, let’s- by the council , did you pick a fight with a wall ?!”

“…Kinda?”

“Fraggin’ kinda. It’s a miracle you can make a fist- and what the pit happened at your hips?! ”

“Gravity.”

“Okay then. Alright,” he started leaning on the berth, staring at me, “I can do these both nice and slow and good , or I can do one of ‘em quick and decent and the other quick . What’ll it be?”

“Hate to be late to my second day at the archives.”

His metal grille mask slid into place over the lower half of his face. “Quick it is.”

“ So… ” I started, unsure of how to continue a conversation without a name.

“TZ-77H,” the dull medic continued past the quick blasts of a welding torch, “but most people just call me Wheeljack.”

“Talon.” I offered in turn.

I tried to let the silence be, interrupted as it was by the hum of various tools. I really did, but I couldn’t get that damn datapad out of my processor. I didn’t have to be here. Wheeljack didn’t have to be here. I could have worked at the archives my entire life, never having to suffer what I had. Wheeljack…I didn’t want to assume, but it was blatant he was terribly uninterested in the work he was doing. There was no spark in his optics, no joy, just the routine repetitions of a job learned by force. So, I decided to throw each of us a bone.

“Say, Wheeljack…”

“Don’t hold it in on my account. Not like either of us are going anywhere for an astroklik.”

“Yeah, I figured,” I uttered, exhaling as he swapped out the more minute bits in my servo. “Anyhow…do you happen to like your job?”

There was the briefest of pauses in the rhythm he had started fixing my servo, and I was incredibly prescient to the fact that I was at his complete and total mercy while down a servo.

“I mean…does anyone? You work at the archives. That’s gotta be borin’, staring at the backs of datapads all day.”

“Not really.” I responded. “Alt mode exemption. I started yesterday. Before that, I used to work the mines.” 

“So you’ve got some time.”

“Yeah, it’s just, it’s kind of… eh , if you get me. It’s what I always wanted, but I wish I had had more time to think it over.”

“‘ Eh ’, huh?” he inquired, sealing my second servo with a firm press. “Yeah, I think I get that. Tell ya’ what—” Wheeljack blindly groped for some tool while peeling away a small chunk of leg armor “—me and a few buddies like to sit around, shoot the scrap, drink; talk about our miserable lot in life. I could tell you when and where, and you could join.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he looks away from his work to point one energon stained digit from his servo between my optics, “This invite is a one-seater, though. Got that?”

“One-seater, got it.”

He finishes his work in silence, eventually sealing up my legs and tossing me something.

“Tungsten. Your servos are fine enough for stacking books, so that’s for your hips. Chew on one of those rods every cycle or so.”

I throw an O.K. symbol, only wincing a little. My plans after work settled, I made my way to the archive for the day.

Chapter Text

Around the middle of the shift, after having sorted some banal datapads on… something to do with maximizing energon extraction, I stepped away after shelving my last pad. Peering around, I noticed that my stretch of the Archive was empty. Vacant of any exhausted students or obnoxious apprentices, I ‘casually’ strode to the edge of the platform. Pausing at the edge, I stilled, creating one last window of availability. Hearing nothing, I allowed myself to slowly tumble off the edge, turning once, twice, before the air was filled with the sound of grinding gears and wings thrumming to life.

Idly, I glided to the back of the entrance desk, drifting over the platform and transforming as I landed, dropping down with a thud . Swerve, who had drawn desk duty again, was incredibly busy doing frag all before he scrambled up at the noise.

“ Primus and the nine!” He twisted around, gripping the table for support. “ You –how–awful. You’re terrible, that’s how.”

“How dare you,” I grinned, “I am down right pleasant . Usually.”

“ Hmph . ‘Usually’. Aren’t you supposed to be shelving datapads?”

“Got through my stack.” I rolled my shoulders. “Don’t we get breaks ‘round here?”

“Well…Yeah, I guess. I just didn’t take you for the reading type.” He trailed off for a second before his helm snapped back, “Not that I don’t think you can read! It’s just that I didn’t think that you, in particular, had an interest in-”

Blessedly, he stopped when I held my servo up. “I am willing to overlook every second of you slamming your pede into your mouth if you just drop it.”

“Mech, I love dropping things!” He beamed. “I’d drop my subscription to Modder’s Monthly, if they stopped having sales on spoilers!”

“ Riveting. ” A clawed digit came to an idle rest on his monitor. “Do you mind?”

“Oh! ‘Course not.” He hopped down from the stool, and for the first time, I noticed how small he was. Granted, the average bot, like Rammer and Chromia were, came to my shoulder. Swerve, by contrast, struggled to reach my sternum.

Taking his seat, I rested a servo on the access disc to the terminal and began to turn it forward and back. My searches were idle things; Energon mining, its applications, notable warriors. Innocuous things, in line with my own interests. Most of it wasn’t terribly compelling, but it was better than staring at the wall, and the occasional hidden gem made the efforts worthwhile. Not today, though. That day, there was nothing of particular interest—by design. There was only one thing I wanted to search for, and I intended to make it look natural. Left bored after scrolling through the biography of some half-famous pit-fighter, I decided to search for something by quote, instead. A quote I’d memorized the cycle before.

Opting for a semblance of subtlety, I searched only by half-quotes, filtered by the oldest instance. Outright searching with a phrase like “Freedom is the right of all sentient beings” may as well have been shouting out to the void about how much I hated the Functionist Council, and that I was trying to research methods of opposition, and ideologies unwelcome in polite society.

So, I had to search around the issue. Articles and essays on the subjects of freedom and equality, countless works penned by scholars and philosophers and even the rare insight by members of the Functionist Council passed me by. Scant overviews and brief readings set my faceplate to a firm frown, as page after page preached about the freedom found in clarity of purpose, in accepting one’s place in the Grand Taxonomy. My mouth set in distaste when I came across a butchered attribution to Onyx, a knight under Alpha Trion. My palm met the table with a thud as I held it there to prevent my fist from clenching in anger—and the slightest bit of pain lancing up my arm. Even still, I was aware of how my talons scraped against the flat surface.

The ‘noble beast’ in the library. A lie I had bought into so easily it made my denta clench just thinking about it.

“Hey, uh, you good, er , buddy?” Came from behind me. 

“Fine.” I managed to bite out. “Just forgot something, and tried to remember.”

“Oh, I hate when that happens. I’ve missed so many appointments that way that the only way I can keep them nowadays is by setting an alarm the day before. Reminds me of this one time I was almost late to work, practically ground the metal off my wheels with how fast I was goin’.”

“Is traction a problem for you?” I wanted to prevent any awkward silences for the meanwhile.

“Well, not really.” Swerve continued hopping up to the desk and knocking his boots against a cabinet underneath. “Not that you could imagine , with your, uh, wings and all, but things like traction and grit only really matter if you let them go unchecked for too long, or if you drive down bad roads, too often. You see—”

And I let him continue, and continue, and continue. For the whole precious half-cycle I was allotted for my break, I allowed Swerve to fill the air with his inane chatter. I nodded through each of his incessantly detailed points regarding wheel maintenance, and buffer preferences, and engine lubricants. And when his tangents strayed away from driving, I kept nodding along, letting him fill the conversation.

Eventually, blessedly, finally , my break had ended, prompting me to get back to placing datapads where they were supposed to be. In truth, the idea of being an archivist had… soured , somewhat. Beyond the near conspiratorial worry about whether the contents of almost anything in my servos was true, I felt like little more than a glorified gopher. But I’d take scurrying between the shelves over another tick of Swerve’s voice.

I darted around the shelves of the archive after that thrilling conversation. In the moments between, when my hands were empty and there was nothing to do but walk around and note any issues or poorly sorted data slates, I was acutely aware of the absence of… something. I knew I had it back in the mines; the surety that came others, there to watch my back. Friends that I could confide in, even just take pleasure in working alongside. Out of the cramped, packed mines and here in this spacious archive, I had never felt so lonely.

Eventually, the work cycle ended, and I prepared to morosely plod my way back to my suite—before remembering the prior obligation I had signed myself up for with Wheeljack. 

Rather than the right that would have taken me back to my quarters and my own lonesome company, I broke left, and headed back for the med-bay where Wheeljack had patched me up.

I managed to catch a hazy glimpse of his tailfins as he turned a corner and took a longer stride to catch up.

“Wheeljack!” I called out, turning the corner and nearly bowling over the mech.

“Oi!” he ducked back, “C’mon, mech, watch where you’re plodding those pedes! Primus didn’t give everybody your height.”

“My apologies, your miniconness.”

“Blow it out your aft.” He thumped the back of his servo against my chestplate. “C’mon, we gotta take public transit. It ain’t a place you can fly to, and I ain’t carrying ya’.”

“It’s those delicate medbay servos.” I fell into step behind him. “Try breaking metal for solar cycles. You’d be able to lift me no problem.”

“I knew there was something I liked about you,” Wheeljack gestured back, “Your sense of optimism.”

“ Hah .”

Reaching the transit station, there was the dull thud of metal as the hanger-on of another group shouldered past me, yet took a measure of care to angle around Wheeljack. He looked to the trio of heavyset construction bots, and then back to me with a furrowed optic ridge. I just shook my helm as subtly as I could. He seemed to understand my desire to drop it. Actually boarding the train was easy, only undercut by the silent antagonism and glares of the trio of bots. It was a stark contrast to days gone, a placidity forged by absence, rather than a roaring temper, barely leashed. Chromia, I could always rely on to give as good as she got on her lonesome, with crap odds to boot. Wheeljack was a medic, with a history unknown beyond his professional capacity and kindness. Who knew if he’d have my back if a scrap sprang up? Who knew if he’d manage anything worthwhile if he did?

“Talk about a tough crowd.” Wheeljack murmured.

“Folks will always find a reason to get mad.” I answered from my own seat, leaned forward.

“How’d you deal?”

“Had friends. One a bit more predisposed to violence than me.” I cupped one servo into the other as I thought about them.

“Sounds like they were good people.” 

“Best metal breakers I ever knew.” 

The train ride continued, Wheeljack’s helm occasionally glancing to his left, where Tweedles Dee, Dum, and Idiot sat around glaring. 

Eventually, the transit stopped, and Wheeljack knocked the back of his servo against my knee, motioning for me to follow.

“Walk beside me, how about that?”

“Touching.” I aired dryly.

In the corner of my optic, I could see the three bots standing up to exit at the same time. I looked at Wheeljack, but he held up one digit and made a call sign with his other servo.

Suddenly, he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to a left turn, which the height difference would have made amusing if it weren’t for the given circumstances. The minute humor I could find slowly dried up as it became readily apparent those three construction bits were actively looking for us.

“Hey hey, don’t worry, trust the process.” Wheeljack said, more to the open air than to me.

“Look, ‘Jackie, I’m flattered you care this much, but it’s not really looking good for the two of us.” I mutter clenching my servos as I hear their footfalls getting closer.

“Look, just-” abruptly, he turns on a dime. “Look, do you fraggers MIND!? Me and my friend here were fixin’ to grab a drink or three.”

“Yeah, we mind!” The lead thug–Idiot–called out. “You weren’t planning on taking that useless freak to the Halved Cube, were you?”

“The damn mechanimals should stick to their troughs!” Tweedle Dum added to the boisterous approval of Dee.

“Can’t we all just get a drink in peace?” It was oddly disappointing to hear the confusion laced in his voice, the lack of understanding, how foreign the hate was to Wheeljack. It meant that this was new to him—maybe not intellectually, but it was something he’d never seen in person before, an ugliness in our society he’d never known. Though, a small part of me was glad to see another Cybertronian fail to understand the “rationality” behind the discrimination derived from Functionism.

“Pit no!” The lead thug answered! “I’m not getting anything with a pitspawned mechanimal!”

“Look, I can wait for him, or get something and leave, or whatever, but can my friend and I just leave in peace?” I bit out.

At this, the trio all shared a set of spiteful grins. 

“Nah,” Tweedle Dee spoke. “See, it seems you’ve forgotten where you belong, freak. We just wanna help you remember.”

My servos clenched.

“Wheeljack, stay behind me.”

“But—”

“They are as tall as me with more actuators to boot, stay. Behind. Me. ”

There was something about the way they moved that scratched at the back of my processor. It occurred to me, as my mind raced, trying to figure out the best way to protect myself and keep Wheeljack safe; hunting. These bastards were hunting me. The same way a pack of middling predators would try and herd in more agile prey, overwhelm their superior opponent with sheer numbers, these scrap-brained bastards were encircling me, banking on the hope that I wouldn’t turn tail and ditch Wheeljack to save myself the trouble.

Unfortunately for me, they were right. I had never been the type to cut and run.

Just as the lead thug prepared to take another step, a voice called out from behind me.

“What’s this? Topspin needs his two stooges to feel brave?”

“Thank you, Primus, and Nova, and…so on.” Wheeljack belted out.

If the bots across from me were built for construction, the mech suddenly at my left looked purpose-forged for breaking things. His sportier associate to my right, by sheer contrast, looked skinny. Slim. Built for speed above all else.

“B-Breakdown?! What’re you doin’ here?” Tweedle Dee exclaimed, his slow, predatory approach reversed as he began to back away.

“Well, me n’ Red here were minding our own damn business, when a little birdy told us that someone was bugging one of the only wiry bastards I happen to like.” His right forearm shifted, a hammer taking the place of a servo, which he slammed into his open palm. “As you can imagine, I took offense to that.”

“Mind your own damn business, you bolthead!” the now-named Topspin exclaimed, pointing. “This doesn’t concern you at all!”

“ Wrong .” The red-and-white femme to my right interjected. “Not only were you going to smear Wheeljack, but some random beastformer, too. Why? All because you were built too stupid to think for yourself?”

“You bucket of slag, I’ll–!”

The femme cut his threat short by shifting her servos into sawblades, revving the wheels at her shoulders to double the animal roar of the weapons. At the same time, Breakdown slammed his hammer down, into his servo again, the clash of metal-on-metal echoing with the heavy implication of violence.

I could only cock my fist back, waiting. Claws aside, I didn’t have much in the way of in-built weaponry.

The construction bots broke first. Topspin’s lackeys turned on their heels, transforming to burn metal and put as much distance behind them as they could. He could only look back in surprise at the lack of spine. There was hatred in his optics when his gaze locked back on me, his jaw seemingly chewing on vitriol before he thought better of it. He, too, transformed and sped away. 

“Hmph.” The red highlighted femme pouted, putting her saws away. “Punk-aft functionary-wannabes. They don’t even put their sparks in it anymore.”

“Yeah, Red Alert.” Breakdown’s hammer shifted back into a servo. “That tends to happen when you use a mech’s face to polish my hammer.”

Turning to face me, the mech grinned. “You must be ‘Jackie's new pal. I’m Breakdown, I work in demolitions. The walking chop-shop is Red Alert.”

Said chop-shop nodded her helm in recognition. “Yo.”

“I’m Talon. I appreciate you sticking your neck out for me just now.” I hold out my servo.

“Jus’ doin’ what anyone would do.” Breakdown responded, clasping my servo firmly.

“Not many ‘anyone’s out there.” I responded.

“And that’s a damn shame,” Red Alert rolled her head towards the bar. “But maybe we could mope about it over a drink, eh?”

“We’re going, we’re going." Wheeljack answered, stepping forward.

Making our way to the bar, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that our mad dash had landed us in the area. The cramped locale where Wheeljack and I were bailed out by his friends was just two streets away from our destination.

The bar itself was rather empty, groups spread through the space in small, private packs, all conversation kept quiet. We got our Energon without issue, and settled down at a sequestered table. Once everyone was seated, I turned towards them.

“I meant what I said, earlier.” Sipping my standard ration, I continued. “Not many would stick their neck out for a beastformer. Too risky, and not a popular thing to do around some parts.”

“ Feh .” Breakdown spat out, sipping medium grade Energon out of an amusing curly straw. “You’re right. It’s a damn shame, but you are. But you had some things goin’ for you back there.”

“Oh?”

“First of all, ‘Jackie over there is my buddy, and I trust him on a lot of things, including his taste in character.”

“Can’t say I disagree.” I rested my helm on my knuckles. “He keeps excellent company.”

“Heh. Flatterer. And second of all, I hate cheating slagheads. And stepping up to a medic and an archivist with three construction-grade bots? That’s the definition of unfair. No offense.”

“ Really feeling the love here, fellas.” Wheeljack muttered, gently stacking some cards in a pyramid.

Red Alert chuckled. “ ‘Daw, is da wittle spawkwing mad? ”

Wheeljack’s forearms slammed against the table. “I am older than you. By three stellar cycles ! ”

“And yet you’ve gone from the third tallest, to the fourth !” She chortled.

“That a common trend?” I asked over my drink.

“Fairly. Red Alert needles him about his height. Wheeljack grumbles because she finally changed her paint, and he doesn’t have any easy ammunition anymore.” The glowing liquid in Breakdown’s cube swirled as he used it to gesture to me in a casual, rolling motion. “Say, how come you’re sticking to the standard stuff? Defeats the whole point of a trip to the bar, don’t it?”

I shrugged. “New job. No friends, nobody to watch my back anymore.”

“Anymore?” Red Alert asked, before wincing as Breakdown introduced his sizable elbow into her side with a clunk . “ Fraggin’ –OW, mech!”

“It’s fine.” I waved my free servo. “There was a mining accident. We found a Point One Percenter.”

“A Popper in an enclosed space? Talk about a miracle.” Red Alert said, stretching off the punch.

“Explains why Topspin’s been in such a scrap mood. Well–more scrap than usual.” Breakdown said into his drink. “He’s been whining recently about having to deal with a partial collapse. Ironic, really.”

“Hardly fair, though.” Wheeljack added, crunching down on a crystal.

Red Alert’s servos thumped down on the table. “It’s more than ‘hardly fair’! It’s a bunch of scrap! You don’t want to be a medic, and Talon only got what he wanted after his friends died ! Breakdown and I are great at our jobs, and that’s because there’s always someone we have to carry the load for! I mean, Primus , I’ll do it, but I wish some people just got options !”

“Dangerous thinking.” I pointed out. “You remind me of a friend. And that’s a good thing. Maybe not for your health , but a good thing.”

“Okay, okay. Fascinating, insightful, really.” Wheeljack leaned in, the palms of his servos grinding lightly. “Small question. What are you going to do about it, Red? What can anyone do about it? I mean…it’s unfair from down here, yeah, but—but it’s the fraggin’ Taxonomy, yeah? There’s not much to do .”

“We could always just…” I shrug, “Ask.”

“Ask?” Wheeljack leaned forward. “You wanna just go around and ask people if they don’t like the Grand Taxonomy ?”

Somehow, that didn’t feel like much of a question.

“Well…yeah.” I nodded. “Worked with you, didn’t it?”

Something in Breakdown’s face pursed in thought. “Don’t see why it couldn’t work. We’d have to be especially careful, though.” He finished, turning to look at a sputtering Red Alert.

“Bu—ah—I—! I can be careful !”

Wheeljack nodded in concession. “Could work. Would have to be more tactful than Talon, though.”

“Bite me.” I said into my drink.

“Alright, alright, enough plottin’ and schemin’ into our cups.” Breakdown waved his servo. “There’ll be plenty of that later. Plenty of time left in the cycle, so what’s say we go see something fun ?”

“You just mean the arena.” Wheeljack countered, leaning into his servos.

“Well… Yeah? ” Breakdown responded, incredulous.

I swirled my energon cube around for just a moment before setting it down. “I don’t think I’ve gone enough. I’m down.”

Red Alert could only shrug while Breakdown clapped my shoulders. “Talon, buddy, you’re in luck. I’ve heard they got someone new, too.”