Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Artist (Pluto!)

The research station was supposed to be safe. That was what they had all been told, it was what they had been lead to believe. It was a simple job – get in, pack down, and wait out the months when the planet was out of communications ranges before they could go back home again. They’d been given the required supplies, they’d been given the training and the materials they needed – shit, they’d even supplied them with stasis pods should things go tits-up with supplies and they needed to be able to reasonably ration them.

It was all supposed to be so easy, but it had all gone oh so very wrong, and by the time they’d noticed it was too late – all that was left for them was to shut the hatch and wait out the storm.

Day three.

It’s been a while since I saw the main star – it came out to welcome us on our first day here, but it had vanished when we woke up on our second day and it’s been hidden ever since. It’s a binary star, not unlike our own – it’s been fascinating watching the way the colour of the sky changes as they move through the sky. It’s so familiar but so alien. Our sky back home is pink and blue, but here it’s orange and green.

I’m glad I’m here. We’ve all just come off of a battlefield rotation – turns out there’s not much rescuing for a rescue team to do when the war is this intense. It’s more clean-up crew, which was starting to get extraordinarily depressing. Hot Spot says that he’s fine and he’s glad he could do what he could to help, but I can still tell he’s bothered by the smell of corpses. He’s not very good at hiding it. So, given we didn’t have much else to do and we’re already predisposed to not try to kill each other when locked up inside with each other, we were put forwards to go to a remote planet and begin to clear it out and salvage what data we can before wiping it off the map and pretending we were never here. Apparently there’s some data here that’s of interest to the scientists back home, but it’s so remote it’s hard to access for most of the year that we’ve been sent to go collect it and bring it home. It’s not worth maintaining the research station, apparently. Resources better used for the war efforts back on Cybertron. If you ask me, I’d much rather we used our precious resources to fund research and bring some semblance of peace rather than war, but it doesn’t seem many feel the same way.

Perceptor has been very useful. Anything we’re sending over to him, he’s directing us to do exactly what we need to do. He’s even trying to teach us what to look out for in determining if it’s of any good to them, anticipating when we go out of range in a weeks time – we’re all trying our very best to pay attention so that we can be as efficient as possible and get off of this planet as soon as it comes back up on the scanners back home again.

It’s such a weird planet. The outside world is inhospitable. Life lives underneath the thick ice, insulated from the brutal cold above and warm enough for small organisms to thrive. I haven’t seen them, but I’ve been told that they’re there. It’s too cold for me to go out and take a look – I’d freeze to death before I even reached the bore hole the original scientists used – but it’s still so fascinating to think about. Every time I walk I think of what could be underneath me.

We’re still finding new places in the base. The original blueprints were useful to a certain point, but none of us are architects and we don’t know how to properly read them. We can see voids and spaces that we think are rooms but don’t seem to have any doors, and there are rooms where we thought voids were, so we’re relying a lot on the emergency escape plans on the walls. There’s one on nearly every corner, in every hall – they must have been very prepared here. The environment is hostile. I’ve never been anywhere like it.

There’s a shield that activates to cover us. Groove’s managed to coax the weather station back to life, and it’s working away hard for us and telling us when the next storm is. Judging from its readings, the next storm is due around the same time as the planet goes out of communication range, so Hot Spot and Blades are working fast to try and make any repairs the communication unit needs before it hits, and repair the structure its housed in. We’re all taking shifts to move ice and snow to build it up against the structure for extra insulation against the cold – one group harvests the ice, one moves it closer, and one stacks it up and builds the wall. I’m busy looking at some kind of anti-freeze we can use to try and buy us some more time to send a message should the storm come before the final check-in does. The guys back planet side know that there’s every possibility we might not make it in time, that our final check in might be one of silence – they’re fine with it. They don’t expect anything to happen to us. This sector is a dead one. Nothing ever introduced itself to the researchers, the researchers never saw anything, and nobody ever goes this far our unless they’re truly desperate. We’ll be in a much better shape than any potential Decepticon threat will ever be. Blades is almost hoping that someone will come knocking, if only for something else to do. We can all tell he’s starting to get a little bored, but what else can we do?

Streetwise is already thinking of things we can all do once we’re in lockdown together. Games – he’d found lots of cards and half-complete board games – stories, odd jobs around the base. I know I’ll be seeing the most amount of downtime unless one of us gets sick – I don’t anticipate us coming to blows any time soon. The atmosphere is good. We are feeling very positive.

Day nine

There is something here with us. I don’t know what, but I know we are not alone and I just can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched by something.

We go out of range tomorrow at 13.86 sharp. Whatever that thing is, we can’t let it go undetected any longer – we need to tell them we’re not alone here. Blades thinks it’s the isolation starting to get to me. Streetwise hasn’t found anything – he keeps looking, he believes me, but he can’t find anything. Hot Spot has said that we don’t mention it unless we can prove it – it’s a complete waste of resources if we tell them we’re not alone and then they come and find that it was just the sound of the near constant wind messing with my processor.

I get it. I agree with it, to a point. I understand. But it’s still upsetting and feels a bit dismissive.

So, instead of thinking about how I can feel optics boring into me, and my things keep going missing and moving around, and we’re lower on energon than we should be and the supplements are missing and my tools are going and

The anti-freeze has gone well! It buys us an extra five kliks. That may not sound like much, but it’s totally game-changing for us. Five more kliks means an extra board could be nailed in, it means time to pile up more snow and ice, its a few extra precious seconds if you become buried. This is especially precious considering the storm is here – we can hear it and visibly see it on the horizon – and it helps us a little should the central heating not be as powerful if energy gets diverted to the shield.

We hope that’s not the case, though. Blades doesn’t like the cold very much and nor do I. We’re allowed to have one of us be grumpy. We’re not allowed two.

I haven’t mentioned this to my team yet, but I don’t think it’s just the wind I can hear. I can hear something else howling out there – it’s not a mournful sound, or the whistle of air through the mountains or other geological structures we’re surrounded by. It sounds more… organic. Forceful. Like it’s coming out of something rather from something. Hot Spot is already treating me like I’m made from glass and is glancing at the stasis pod as if weighing up whether or not it’s worth putting me in it to keep me asleep for the duration of our isolation which I don’t like very much at all. He’d definitely encourage me to use it if I said anything.

So I kept my mouth shut, even as the sound of it got louder.

We were looking through datapads by what used to be the geology lab, the hidden optics burning into the back of my neck, when Streetwise and Blades came back from their turn scouting for new areas reporting a new area. A basement.

Nobody had mentioned a basement. We’d checked the blueprints, each clearly marked with a floor – no basement. No subterranean area, no underground – there wasn’t anything suggesting a basement.

But here we were, staring at the hatch. I felt the back of my neck prickling, whatever was watching us was watching more intently than ever. I swallowed hard as I stared down into the darkness underneath the hatch. It didn’t feel like it wanted us to go down there.

I said as much. In different words. Words that made it sound like I’d come to that conclusion myself. We should focus on the research, on getting together one last message to base and getting our final instructions before we did any kind of exploration. The responding argument was that there could be something down there that they needed to know of, so we should go down and check it out.

So we did. And I hated it. The air felt thick and heavy and murderous. Something awful had happened down there – I could smell it. Old energon. I know the smell well. I’d been surrounded by it on the likes of Delphi training with Pharma, on battlefields, in the field hospitals I’d trained and taught at, when going with Streetwise to investigate illegal and abandoned Decepticon research institutes and sites of suspected war crimes.

Streetwise could smell it too. We shared a horrified look.

Neither of us will recharge well. It’s our turn now, but we’re wasting precious time by filling in our own respective journals and avoiding letting our optics grow too heavy.

I don’t want to dream.

Day ten

I WAS RIGHT.

WE ARE NOT ALONE.

Hot Spot and Streetwise came back inside like they’d seen a ghost. Hot Spot wordlessly pointed to where they’d cleared the cabling running between the communications hut and the main station, and there was a section where the snow was more churned up than anywhere else.

There was an axe cutting through the cabling. It had been damaged by something well thrown.

It started an argument. A lot of I told you so’s that I’m not proud of left me, but I felt vindicated. Vindicated and smug. If they’d listened, maybe we wouldn’t have been unable to send the communication. We’d have been more alert, more aware.

We were not alone, and we had no way to tell anyone.

I knew how to fix the cable. Fortunately, our biology was quite similar, and fixing broken cables was not a taxing task for me. I could do it in my sleep. The difficulty came in keeping me out there long enough to fix it and with making sure whatever it was that threw the axe couldn’t do it again while I was out there with my head over it.

Hot Spot went with me. He brandished it like a weapon as his optics scanned the skyline and scoured the roof, any hidden spots someone might be hiding in. I felt my extremities slowly freeze over, the white hot welder in my hands not enough to keep them warm.

Repairs were at 10%. I wouldn’t make the repair in time to re-establish communications.

I couldn’t feel the optics on me again, but I could feel my team staring at me as if waiting for me to come up with an answer, with reassurance that I could be faster. The reality of the situation was that the metal was cooling faster than I could melt it, than I could get it to reconnect to where it needed to be. I wasn’t fast enough, the wind was too strong, and the temperature was too low. Everything was working against me, and 10% was the best I could manage.

The check-in came and went.

We had a half ration of energon, and thought hard about what we wanted to do next.

I wanted to continue packaging up what research we’d already found into the crates and pile them up ready for when pick-up came. If we all stayed together, then whoever it was would find it so much harder to pick us off one-by-one. There was a reason they hadn’t done it yet. We out numbered them, we out muscled them. Hot spot studied the blueprints, identifying where all the mysterious voids were. We were to avoid rooms that were surrounded by them, to limit our operational spaces to the places where there was nowhere for anyone to hide. They had an upper-hand. We weren’t going to give them a chance.

I’m writing this from the room we have all piled into, the door partially barricaded with crates of research. Soft furniture has been dragged in along with all the blankets and weapons we can find, anything we can use to defend ourselves when their guns run out of charge. Hot Spot had pressed the axe into my hands and told me that even if I didn’t want to use it, it was still good for me to appear to be a threat. Pharma had said the same thing to me. Delphi saw a wide range of patients – Autobots, Decepticons, Autobots who should have been Decepticons, and unaligned mechs, some of whom didn’t even know there was a war. I’d decided when I’d taken my oath as a medic that I would never harm anyone. This would be perceived as weakness to those seeking an opportunity to hurt someone, so I’d need to look like I wouldn’t be worth the trouble, that’d I’d give back as good as I got. He’d made me carry a taser at all times, and a gun when we had particularly troublesome patients.

It had felt like lead in my hands, a blight hanging at my hip.

The axe didn’t feel much different. I’d twirled it around to get the weight of it, to try and get my mind to not think it was so heavy, when I noticed something on it.

Paint transfers.

Dark grey paint transfers.

None of my team have dark grey hands. For some of them, they’d have to rub it on certain parts harder than is reasonable to transfer the paint, and I just don’t understand why any of them would have done this, which only leaves one thing.

I was right. We are not alone. And whoever it is has dark grey hands.

Chapter Text

Artist (Pluto!)

There were three things Vortex had been able to gather.

First, they did not know that they weren’t alone on the planet.

Second, they didn’t know that there was more to the base than what was above the surface.

And thirdly, they should really listen to their medic more.

The cute little red doctor had been able to hear him. A medics systems were so much more sensitive than those of their counterparts, each of their senses higher than average to better care for their patients. They could hear things nobody else could, they could feel things more delicately and more precisely. Small changes in electromagnetic fields felt like gentle drafts to most but to medics they felt like strong gusts. The difference between total spark failure and a hiccough.

And it was the cute little red doctor who had the most of his attention. The fact he was the only one who had realised he was there aside, he certainly hadn’t expected to be seeing him again. What was such a sweet mech doing this side of the galaxy? They were in the shadows, where Decepticons dumped those they wanted to leave forgotten. He scratched sharp claws against the wall, leaving hairline scratches, the tiniest of grooves. Nobody else would be able to see them but First Aid. It would drive him to madness.

Maybe he should see if he wanted to play again before he drove him really mad. Or would he be even more fun to play with if he was genuinely off his rocker? Tantalising. He didn’t know which one he wanted more.

Approaching pedesteps had him quickly hiding and switching his systems into stealth mode. His visor switched off and his optics dimmed – his vision wound up obstructed, but he didn’t need to be able to see clearly to see First Aid round the corner and freeze when he saw the scratches on the wall, to visibly sag. His grin stung, his face not yet healed from the injury he’d received before he’d ended up in stasis in the prison. It tugged painfully as his grin spread wider still when the medic whirled around to search his surroundings, looking around wildly for an answer he wasn’t going to be getting.

First Aid whimpered as he came up blank.

Primus, the sound was like fine wine.

“Do you think this is any good?”

“Let me see… Oh, I think this is the manual for that terminal First Aid was struggling with. Hey, Aid!”

“Yeah?”

“Come take a look at this - is it any good for you?”

“Yes, this is exactly what I was looking for! Thank you so much!”

Vortex picked the dirt from under his claws and in between the joints of his hands. He dug the sharp tips in deeper than he should have - his frame quietly protesting at the intrusion - as he listened to them talk, blissfully unaware of who was quite literally in the walls eavesdropping on them. Blah, blah, blah. Booooooring. It was all technical talk and gossiping over datapads, nothing that gave him any indication of what the war was doing or their travel plans or even, god forbid, what the current status of the Decepticons was. They’d changed their leader at least five times in a vorn once, it wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest if Megatron had been disposed again, and Starscream had declared himself leader again, only to be promptly overthrown by some other loser. Again. Ad nauseam.

He felt a dull twinge in the back of his throat and sat up a little straighter.

What the pit was that?

It passed as quickly as it came, and so he promptly filed it away into the cluttered corner of his mind titled ‘to think about later’ and turned his attention back to the studious little Autobots in the other room.

Vortex knew them all. Not through anything like friendship, no - nothing of that sort - it was more like because he’d been getting into fights with them for vorns. Whatever battlefield his team was on, an easy bet was that this team of goodey two-shoes would be on it too. Which meant that Vortex could name each one, he knew which part they formed, he knew what job they did, and most importantly: he knew how to hurt them.

Hot Spot. He’d been run over by him more times than he cared to recount - their leader had taken to the instruction to keep him from getting airborne with great enthusiasm. It was infuriating and excruciatingly attractive at the same time. If he wanted to decapitate the Protectobots, he’d go for Hot Spot. They floundered without their steadfast leader, struggling to keep themselves together - Blades was their point of attrition. What was it with helicopters? Blades gave them all a bad name.

But if he really wanted to hurt them, to dismantle them internally and to have them all on their knees and at his mercy - he’d go for the medic. He’d go for First Aid. The mech was weak and couldn’t fight for himself in the slightest, preferring to call himself a pacifist to deflect from his lack of strength and skill. He was also adorable, and it was only too well known how much he liked cute things.

First Aid was almost never alone, though. They seemed to go around in groups of two or three, always staying together. It made it hard for him to execute the parts of his plan that would have him making them question their sanity and making the valuable mistakes that would help him wake up the others. He gnawed the inside of his cheek.

“What do you think they’re up to back home?”

Vortex sat up a little straighter.

“Probably watching reruns of soaps. I bet they’ve banned Wheeljack from his lab - we’re usually the ones digging him back out after he’s blown himself up again.”

So Wheeljack was both still alive and being a menace to lab safety statistics, then. That was strangely reassuring - he hadn’t made anything capable of killing himself yet.

“Unfortunately not. Last check in I asked for an update, and he’s currently in Ratchets tender care. No legs.”

The dry delivery of the line had Vortex stifling a giggle. He was lucky that the wind outside was so strong - any noise heard could easily be attributed to the weather.

“Again?”

“I’m glad I’m not there. Ratchet gets so grumpy when it’s Wheeljack.”

“You do too.”

“I do?!”

“Yep.”

“Oh, absolutely. Don’t you notice how nice Blades is to you whenever Wheeljack’s in medbay?”

“You’re joking.”

“We’re not.”

There was a screwdriver sat in his subspace, stolen from First Aid when he wasn’t looking to open up the walls he was currently skulking around in. He took it out and twirled it around in his fingers before carefully lining it up with the edge of his plating of his thigh and slowly sliding it up underneath. It stung sharply, and he had to force his engine to not make a happy little noise as the intrusion danced deliciously across his sensor net.

Come on. Come oooooon. Give him something to actually work with, something that he didn’t have to file away for later!

The inane chatter continued for another two excruciating joors before something happened.

“Hey, guys.” A new voice came with the sound of an opening door. “We’ve found a basement.”

Oh shit.

Vortex had mapped every inch of the research station that he could. He had only found one basement. The basement he’d been in.

The prison.

He followed the group as best he could, audials strained to keep track of their conversation. He couldn’t let them get near his team, he couldn’t. They were still vulnerable, their sparks still too cold to operate their frames - he had been the only one to manage to get warm enough to regain consciousness. He waited for them at the hatch, listening as they debated whether or not to go down.

They went down.

The bastards. The stupid fucking imbeciles. He waited until the last mech was halfway down before he emerged from the wall and followed after them, slipping into the shadows and making a beeline to his team. Fine, fuck it all, fine. His hand had been forced. He’d have to meet them there, to meet them half way.

He watched as they went in the opposite direction to where his team was, following the marks on the floor. That suited him just fine – perfectly, actually – as he slipped down the passageway that wound around the perimeter of the research station above. The temperature dropped the further from the entrance he got, and by the time he’d reached them condensation was beading thickly on his plating and a chill was starting to settle in his joints.

He could afford to make some noise now they were down where it wouldn’t echo to them as loudly. Roughly, he shoved the slabs they were limp and lifeless on closer to the door. He woke up, and he was right by the door, where the room was warmest. Maybe, if the others warmed up enough, they’d wake up too.

He wasn’t strong enough to move them all by himself, and he was not going to be waking up Swindle. The bastard hated to lift a finger, and he was certain to make him do all the heavy lifting while he bitched about his posture and how he wouldn’t be able to make any credits from this shit. Damn it. Why’d they all have to be so big? So he chose the next best option – Blast Off.

He was tall, but he was spindly. He wasn’t dense and heavily armoured like Brawl was, he wasn’t packing all kinds of weapons like Onslaught was. He was as he looked on the tin – a space shuttle. Simple. And, since his armour was so insulating, maybe he’d hold the heat a little better. He didn’t know. He wasn’t a scientist.

He shoved the slab that held Swindle as far away from the door as possible, to get it out of the way.

No other reason.

There was nothing else to do but wait. Vortex activated his stealth mode again and crept down the hallway, listening closely for the band of Autobots. He’d made it back to the hatch to find it closed, so he slowly climbed the ladder and waited for ten kliks before popping it open and slipping back into the wall.

They would report this. They would report this, and bring the whole Autobot army down to their doorstep. Vortex didn’t want the whole Autobot army on their doorstep – he wanted Blast Off operational again so they could hitch a ride off of the planet in him. So, he did the most sensible thing he could think of.

He grabbed an axe from the store cupboard that contained all the emergency supplies and went to go cut some cables.

They’d missed their check in.

Scrambler scratched his chin, absently scrolling through channels. With how far away the planet was, it wasn’t unusual for some signals to have a delay - momentary obstructions with other galactic bodies, excess radiation events, electrical interference, weather conditions - all had an effect on how long it took the signal to come through. They were also no longer in range - if they’d mistimed it by even a minute, the signal wouldn’t ever make it.

Two hours passed - the maximum leniency period dictated by protocol. He studiously logged that no transmission was received and submitted the final report from this mission for the next six groons. The planet was low risk - no known activity from any aggressor in the sector, no known sentient life, and nothing of any particular interest meant it was a very low risk affair - and all other check-ins were of the same standard. All is well. We are on schedule for completion as planned.

The research and development department was starting to prepare for the arrival of the research materials and notes - apparently the Protectobots were salvaging everything they could. Scrambler wasn’t sure how they were so confident that they’d get it right, but what did he know? It would probably be fine. Besides, what would they fill the next six months with if not the research they were meant to be saving? They’d probably be experts by the end of it – they were certain to be bored out of their minds after the first groon with nothing but that to look at. He knew he would.

“No news?” Blaster leaned against the back of his chair. It creaked as it dipped down with the weight of him.

“Not a whisper.” Scrambler replied. “I’ve just submitted the report. Prowl would be antsy if I broke protocol and gave them any longer.”

“Nah, don’t sweat. We knew this was a possibility. Hopefully those boys are doing alright, I don’t envy them.”

“At least they won’t kill each other.”

“And nothing’s out there to kill them!”

Blast Off woke up faster than Vortex thought he would. He’d returned down once First Aid had gone to recharge, a fitful state that left him whimpering and twisting and turning. He wanted to watch, he oh so wanted to climb into berth next to him and hear him gnash his denta in his audial, to feel it shake through his chest and to his spark, but he had work to do.

He could faintly smell smoke, and broke out into a sprint.

It was Blast Off. He’d made a stack of flammables in the middle of the room and was using his own frame to bounce the heat back into the room. Swindle was online (Primus damn it), and Brawl and Onslaught were still offline but looking significantly more alive than they had joors earlier.

“I didn’t think you’d wake up that fast.” Vortex greeted him as he skidded into the room, slipping on the wet floor. “You sure kept that quiet.”

Blast Off grunted in response. “Where were you?”

“Spying.” He hopped up onto the berth that held Brawl and leaned his helm against his chest, listening for his spark. It was thrumming in there, but his frame still felt ice cold against his face – it would still be some time until he regained consciousness. “We’ve got a family that’s moved in upstairs.”

“Who is it? Do we need to bring them a house warming present?”

“A group of Autobots, believe it or not. We’ve missed a lot – did you know they built a lab up there?”

Swindle snorted in disbelief. “As if we’d miss that.”

“You’re welcome to go check yourself.” Vortex replied. Swindle took one look at the steam coming off of him and settled down more comfortably on the berth.

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

Lazy git.

“Suit yourself. They’re quite cute.” He plopped down next to the door, loudly splashing into the healthily sized puddle. “What’s the plan?”

“We wake up. We leave.” Blast Off replied dully. “You said there were Autobots upstairs? Do we steal their ship?”

“They don’t have one.” Vortex replied. “So, get this. They seem to have sent the Protectobots to go do some clean up. They didn’t leave them with a way off, just a pick up date.”

“You’re absolutely kidding me.”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Hmm. Let me think.” The yes, absolutely was clear as day in his tone.

Blast Off seemed to fall into a state of recharge as he sat by the fire, and Swindle seemed to be just as sleepy. Vortex frowned. Maybe he should see if there was a medical datapad somewhere – he doubted that he’d get away with stealing the medic away for a few joors to get them looked at. He didn’t remember being that tired when he came out of stasis, but then again, he was eager to get up and run, to get fluids moving again. Neither of them had the chance to do so yet.

But it was the quiet that let him hear it. The echo of footsteps, of someone trying their best and failing miserably at creeping down a passageway that was determined to signal their presence.

They were certain to smell the smoke, to hear the crackle of the flame. He’d need to go and redirect them, to send them on a wild goose chase away from this room. Vortex slowly stood, water sloshing underneath him, and crept down the hall.

It was the medic. Now, now, that changed things a little. Any of the others and he wouldn’t have hesitated to lose them in the labyrinth, but First Aid? Oh, he was an exception. The medic stepped uncertainly, stumbling over uneven ground. His hands trembled as he held a gun that looked too big for him to weld, his frame shaking in the low temperature of the tunnels.

With a grin, he crept up behind him before suddenly stepping out in front of him, blocking his path forward.

Damn, he’d forgotten how short the medic was. He loomed over him, illuminating him in a red that overpowered the blue of his visor. The medic held his gun as if he didn’t want it in his hands, as if it were diseased. It would have been so easy to disarm him.

“Hey there, cutie.” Vortex teased.
“Vortex?” First Aid flinched. He almost dropped his gun. Vortex reached down to press it firmly into his hands.
“Don’t drop that now. You’ll be needing it.”

“It was you!” He breathed in what sounded like relief. “Oh, I’m so glad it was you. I was so worried it was some kind of absolute psycho or something.”

“That would have been simply awful.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Is it just you?” First Aid peered around him, unfazed. “Where are the others?”

“No idea.” He leaned in closer still, feeling the crackle of their fields against each other. “Willing to find out?”

The medic swallowed hard.

“Not particularly.” He quietly said.

“Why are you here?”

“I could smell the smoke.” The medic was frowning. “Why are you here?”

Vortex moved the medics hands so that his gun was pressed into his abdomen. He snaked his own free hand down, dragging the tips of them against the pristine white ones and imagined the tracks of dark grey he was leaving behind before settling a digit to be pressed against the trigger. First Aid didn’t have his own there – not from his interpretation of gun safety, but because he genuinely didn’t want to shoot him. It was oh so very sweet of him, and Vortex grinned, visor flashing.

“This is a prison, First Aid. Why do you think I am here?”

“What did you do this time?”

“We’re disobedient little boys, you see. Megatron probably had enough of our shit and decided to throw away the key.”

“It wasn’t because he found out, was it?” The medics field flooded with anxiety, his visor shifting in hue.

“Oh, no, no, not that at all sweetspark. It’s still our little secret.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” First Aid breathed a sigh of relief before his visor suddenly snapped into focus and anger crackled along his field. Vortex felt his rotors fly up in anticipation, barely suppressing a tremble. Oh, it was always so exciting when the medic got angry. What had he done this time? What had the medic processed now that he had cleared his ledger enough to allocate the thought processes to it?

“Why the fuck did you cut the cable?”

Oh, this would be good.

“You’d do the same if we were going to rat out your team.” Vortex pressed the flat edge of the blade he was holding against the medics throat. First Aid leaned away from it, optics flicking down to his wrist before looking back up at him.

“We didn’t even know you were here. Additionally, I wouldn’t remove the only way to get off of this planet.” He argued.

“Is it, though? Remind me what Blast Off is again?”

“Can he navigate through solar storms? Does he have room for everyone? Would he take everyone? Vortex, you moron! We’d have brought you home!” He angrily stepped back, almost losing his grip on the gun that Vortex maintained a firm grip on. “You wouldn’t have been left here!”

“I’d rather be dead than in an Autobots chains.”

“Oh shut it, you’d like it.”

“Aid.” Vortex purred. “I’d heard rumours you’d become more staunch in your pacifism. Maybe the rumours don’t hold much water?”

The medic let go of the gun and made to step back further. Vortex let go of the gun in favour of snatching his wrist, tugging the medic forward so they were pressed against each other. The gun loudly clattered to the floor, and he kicked it away.

“Now, just where do you think you’re going? I’ve been trying for so long to get you alone. Wont you humour me?”

“It’s been you?” The medic looked furious. “All this time, it’s been you?!”

“Who else would leave you sweet little messages?”

“I- I thought I was going mad! Nobody else could see it! Ugh! You really, really upset me! I hope you know that!”

“What a sad reunion this is. Here I was thinking you’d be happy to see me.”

He couldn’t stop grinning behind his mask. Hehehe, how he loved this medic. He made such a good chew toy, such a good little thing to play with. He was so fun no matter what he did, always giving a reaction, always leaning into him and silently begging him for more, always egging him on with every twitch and every gasp. The medic must have not even realised he was doing it – Vortex barely held his wrist. If he so much as twisted it, his grip would be broken and he was free to walk away. He didn’t have to lean into him, to mesh their fields together, to try and map their frames together. But he did.

First Aid’s visor widened, glowing bright enough to force out the red Vortex was casting down over him. “Uh oh.”

Uh oh?

Echoing, thunderous footsteps. The sound of someone running at full pelt.

Oh.

Uh oh. Yeah. That worked.

“Is that Vortex?!”

He spun the medic around in his grip, pinning them against his chest and making a show of pressing the knife against his throat. Still the blunt side so that he could really press it in, to make them wonder how far the energon would spurt when it finally pierced the metal. First Aid gasped, hands flailing as he went to grab onto his arm, fingers curling into his plating. He could feel his fuel pump hammering away in his chest, could feel the conflicting feelings in his field – the way he liked being held so close to him, the way he didn’t want his team there, the guilt at enjoying it so much and for leaving without saying a word to anyone. Annoyance at their conversation being cut short, at being caught. Static arched between them as he pressed their fields together, his own flooded with his own annoyance and delight.

“I think we all know the drill here.” Vortex said. The mech stopped, his red visor up high. Hot Spot, then. A shorter mech hung behind him with headlights and an outline that annoyed him. Groove – he always looked so irritatingly like Swindle.

“He’s the one who cut the wire!” First Aid’s pedes were scrabbling on the floor – Vortex was holding him up too high. He stood a little straighter, hearing the wheeze and the protest in First Aids spinal struts as his frame was lifted clear from the floor where the tips of his pedes could no longer reach with a whimper.

Fuck, why did he have to whimper. He needed to act tough. So distracting.

“Could you put him down?” Hot Spot asked. He had a gun trained right on him.

“Can you point that away from me?” Vortex replied. First Aid looked between them with a sense of urgency, hands gripping onto Vortex tightly.

“I’m okay!” First Aid said, his voice tight. “Don’t worry about me.”

You just don’t want me to put you down so you’re forced to put on an act about running to your commander, Vortex thought.

Hot Spot still holstered his gun, raising his hands to show that they were empty. Pathetic. Coward. Vortex had hoped for more of a fight, for an excuse to shed some energon.

“There, it’s away. The medic?”

Vortex rolled his optics and made a show of begrudgingly putting First Aid down.

“Run along home, now.” He patted him on the backside, the medic jumping and loudly squeaking, quickly scuttling over to Hot Spot and hiding behind him, peering around his bulk.

Huh, better actor than I thought.

The fire engine leaned down to talk to the medic, never taking his optics from him. Vortex got the same feeling he did when it was Onslaught cautiously watching him, the feeling of being observed by a watchful guardian who held the expectation of disaster, only much less menacing. A lot less menacing, actually – he got the feeling he’d give him a hug if he got on his knees and begged for it.

“How long have you been down here for?” Hot Spot asked, his voice echoing in the tunnel.

“What date is it?”

“Third groon of the twelfth vorn of Sol. Couldn’t tell you the exact cycle – with the storm, our chronometers are out of whack.”

“And you’re confident its the third groon?”

“Very.”

Vortex laughed. “The calendar still had a red chrystalnthemum on it the last I saw it.”

Hot Spot’s optics widened, and he finally tore them away from him to look at his medic, quietly whispering something to him. First Aid hesitated before nodding. Vortex rocked on his pedes, irritation flicking through him. What were they saying? What gave them the confidence to ignore him like this, to downgrade the problem he presented to the point where they felt comfortable enough to look away from him?

He glanced at Groove. The dosey mech was watching him like a hawk.

Ugh. How annoying – too many of them for him to feel comfortable trying anything anyway. First Aid would probably get all preachy about it too, throwing himself into the line of fire to say something about not hurting each other and cringey about all being mates or whatever.

Blah, blah, blah. Boooooring. He liked the medic better when he was being curious about his body, meticulously taking him apart and pulling and tugging away at his internals without a care for how it felt.

Hot Spot turned back to face him, straightening up to his full height. “And the rest of your team?”

“What about them?” Vortex innocently asked.

“Where are they?” Hot Spot patiently elaborated.

Vortex could feel his commander getting closer – he must have woken up. His rotors vibrated in anticipation of the coming fight, and he felt a wide grin tug painfully at his face.

“Would you like to find out?”

Chapter Text

The tension in the air could be cut with a knife.

Hot Spot stood tall in the communal area, his arms folded across his chest. Onslaught mirrored him, standing half a helm taller.

First Aid stared down at his pedes. He could hear the strain in the systems of the Combaticons - they’d been in hypothermic stasis-lock for quite a long time by the sounds of it, their internal fluids still too viscous for optimal operation. His hands flexed as his processor ran through their treatment options, how to safely warm them up to a more acceptable temperature, which supplements to prioritise when refuelling them.

Brawl sounded the worst. He was also the only one leaning against the wall.

Blast Off and Vortex had the healthiest sounding systems – Vortex had been up and about for much longer than his team had, but Blast Off was an enigma. Maybe it was because he was space-fairing? Didn’t space get really, really cold? But then wouldn’t that have meant he was immune to hypothermia? He wasn’t, he knew space craft weren’t completely immune – Cosmos needed to use special supplements for his missions, he could only stay up there for so long before he had to come back down and rest his systems. First Aid wanted to ask him, but he couldn’t catch his optic and quite frankly, he didn’t want to – he looked absolutely venomous. Like he’d just touched chewed up bubble gum under the desk and it was still wet.

But Hot Spot had been clear. They weren’t to receive any of their help until they had reached an agreement with them. So he sat there, feeling quite useless, and tried to focus on what they were saying instead of what his programming was instructing him to do.

“There’s no chance of you leaving this planet?” Hot Spot asked. “We don’t want a fight, we’d like to be able to continue with our work. I’m willing to pretend that we never saw you. I know you’re not a fan of the current high command, it could be your clean break.”

“No chance.” Blast Off replied. He sounded just as annoyed as he looked. “I don’t know what Vortex has already told you, but not in this storm. My navigation systems can’t even locate that mountain.” He pointed out of the window to where the outline of a great peak could be seen through thin wisps of clouds, a distant storm moving ever closer. “I dread to think of where I’d end up if I went out there blind.”

“What’s happened to it?” First Aid asked. He faltered as Blast Off turned to look at him, mouth twisted into a sneer.

“The solar storm’s happened. I can’t tell up from down right now.”

“Sooo are you like, just praying and relying on gravity right now, or-?” Blades started to ask. Streetwise smacked his arm, slowly shaking his head at him. Blades shrugged and turned back to Blast Off as if expecting an answer.

Blast Off looked at him scathingly. “I’m not dignifying that with an answer.”

All things considered, things were going a lot better than First Aid thought they would. He was convinced that it would end up with them having all of their supplies plundered, the Combaticons making off in Blast Off while they drew lots for who would be going into a stasis pod and who would be trying their luck down in the chill of the prison below to enter hypothermic stasis-lock and roll the dice on if they’d ever wake up again – and that was if they weren’t killed first.

Knowing that Blast Off couldn’t make it off planet certainly changed things. Vortex was busy sticking a screwdriver under his plating while Swindle watched in horror. Onslaught was always willing to cut a deal where it mattered, and this was no exception. And with that in mind, Hot Spot straightened his back and looked him straight in the visor.

“You’re lucky Vortex cut the communications system – if high command knew that you were here, they’d have cut their losses with this facility and left us to die. The risk is too great. However, if they find you here in a few groons time, my team unharmed and yours willing to cooperate, then they will view your return to Cybertron more favourably. Big ship. Lots of research.” He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the crates they’d been loading with datapads. “Lots of room for a few extra mechs who are willing to work.” Hot Spot reached out a hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Onslaught looked at the hand for a moment. He looked as though he wanted to slap it away before he reached out and shook it.

“The objective is to survive. We can discuss further once we are planet-side.”

Hot Spot beamed. Onslaught turned to the rest of his team and jabbed a finger at them, Vortex in particular.

“Behave yourselves. Especially you, Vortex.”

“I know not of which you speak.” He grinned widely. Onslaught gave him a withering look.

“Can I make a suggestion?” Streetwise raised a hand. He swallowed hard when Onslaughts helm snapped to face him, and only relaxed when the mech finally nodded. “We try and keep the numbers balanced.” He gestured between them all. “For example, if there are three of us in a room, there are three of you in the room too. So we can never out number each other.”

Swindle looked him up and down. “You used to be an enforcer, didn’t you? Iacon?”

“No. Kalis.”

“Still Autobot. It shows.”

“I think we’re going to have to work on your team not antagonising mine.” Hot Spot was looking sternly at Onslaught. Onslaught raised his optic ridge at him.

“Apparently so.”

He didn’t sound particularly bothered.

There were enough bunk rooms for them to have their choice of them. They had six berths each, three lining each side of the wall. They didn’t pick the rooms directly next to each other – they spaced themselves apart. Enough to provide privacy, to give them space away from each other.

First Aid knelt on the floor in the empty bunk room directly next to the one the Combaticons had claimed as their own and pressed his helm to the wall, his hands itching. He could hear Brawls systems struggling all day – only three of his five cylinder blocks were working. He heard Onslaughts engine making a strange noise, a whine that shouldn’t have been there. Swindle was coughing, choking up his intake when he thought nobody was listening. Blast Off had a dodgy knee. He wasn’t walking on it right, every step slightly off and the joint clicking. A sound so minute, a change so minor, nobody else would have noticed it but him. The space shuttle was hiding it remarkably well. He was trained to look out for this, his programmes constantly scanned those around him, searching for injuries, looking for jobs to do, to keep him busy, to keep him relevant. He’d spent the time since he’d landed on this planet doing something that wasn’t his core function. He’d spent groons before that only treating the dead. His coding was in overdrive, his processor buzzing with it. He needed to get his hands on them. He needed to fix them.

He frowned, doing a count. He could only hear four of them. Where was Vortex? He couldn’t hear a helicopters engine, the click of two sets of rotors, that irritating thing he’d been doing all day with the screwdriver.

“Hear anything interesting?”

First Aid jumped out of his armour, leaping to his feet and spinning around. Vortex was leaning against the wall, just by the open door behind him. He was smirking at him, and First Aid felt himself run through the five stages of grief in the time it took him to register how quickly his fuel pump was beating.

“Vortex! Where have you been?”

“Grabbing fuel.” He took a cube from his subspace and waved it in front of him. “They’re looking for you, by the way. Better think of a good excuse. They think I’m hiding you away somewhere to play with later.”

“You all need medical attention.” He frowned. “I’ll speak to Hot Spot and take a look at you all tomorrow. Blast Off shouldn’t be walking on that knee.”

“Oh? You noticed it too?” Vortex’s visor brightened. “Sharp optics, Aid. Just like a hunters.”

“I’m a medic.” He crossly replied. “Of course I notice it when others are hurt.”

He shrugged. “Same skill set, no? Picking out the weakest one to target. Same coin.”

First Aid didn’t know how to respond to that outside of outright indignity, but he knew that he’d raise his voice and then he’d attract attention that he didn’t want, so he frowned and looked away. “Just tell him to come by the medical bay tomorrow. I’ll be waiting for him.”

“They sure are keeping you busy, aren’t they?” Vortex lazily swirled his cube, watching the iridescence of the anti-freeze supplement suspended in the liquid. “Fixing that cable, fixing up us broken boys…”

“It’s through my own choice.” First Aid absently rubbed his wrist, his frame feeling sore from overuse. “Don’t make it complicated.”

Vortex raised his hands. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sweetspark.” He raised the cube to his lips and took a sip, and First Aid tilted his helm at the strange clicking sound. He swallowed again, the sound louder this time.

“Your intake’s damaged.” He said. “Put your cube down, you’re at risk of choking.”

Vortex braced his palm on his forehelm, keeping him at arms reach as he continued drinking the cube. “I’m fine.”

“Do you not feel that?” First Aid tried to push his arm away. “It’s clicking!”

Vortex shrugged. “No biggie.”

“Yes biggie! Sit down so I can take a look at it!”

“It’s only a problem when it starts hurting too much.”

“Does it hurt now?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Oh. Okay, that’s alright then.” First Aid relaxed against his palm and stood back, pretending to turn away from him. Vortex smugly smirked, pleased at a job well done.

He didn’t expect First Aid to suddenly turn around and tackle him. The cube went flying, the remnants spraying across the room and out of the door, splashing up the wall like an arterial spurt. Vortex hit the ground with a grunt, the medic pinning him down. Vortex glowered at him.

“I was drinking that.”

“Half of it wasn’t even making it to your tank, you liar.” First Aid spat back. He remotely scanned him, his wrist humming as he selected the right tool for the job. It would be an easy fix – something just needed realigning. He just had to get to it first, and Vortex was not in the best of moods any more – he would not be compliant. “I need to get into your throat.”

“Like pit you are-!”

His tools were starting to feel more draining than usual. His helm throbbed as his wrist transformed, his hand turning into a large pair of tweezers. “Please let me – it’s just a little tug!”

“No!”

His retort died in his throat – he’d wanted to insult him, to tell him that he was worse than Brawl, but his helm swam and his visor blurred out to static. The strength in his limbs gave out and he sagged down against Vortex.

“Oh, come on, what kind of trick is this?” The helicopter gave up all pretence of resistance as he splayed himself out, flopping down against the floor. “Come on. You win, you got me.”

First Aid groaned. He couldn’t see and his wrist felt too hot – he transformed the tweezers away. Vortex poked him.

“Aid?”

“I don’t feel good.” He whimpered.

“Go back to your team, then.” He poked him again, more firmly this time. “Go on. Up you get.”

They could hear footsteps – Vortex turned his helm towards the noise.

“They’re going to catch you on top of me. How ever will we explain?”

First Aid shook his helm, digging his face into Vortex’s shoulder with a groan.

“What the-?” Streetwise caught himself in the doorway – First Aid recognised his spark signature and could see the shadow he cast on the floor.

“I think he’s sick.” Vortex said.

Hot Spot had acknowledged that First Aid was starting to go a little nuts at not being able to complete his function, and his behaviour the previous evening had been chalked up to a combination of low fuel and high function drive. He’d been given a cube and a half to shove him up over the well fuelled threshold, and free reign of the medical bay.

Finally.

First Aid had promptly sent a report to Onslaught detailing all the problems he could hear with them. He stressed to them that given their long time in stasis it was important that they had someone give them a look-over, and he wouldn’t be able to completely fix everything he found – but he’d be able to take a look and do what he could for them. Onslaught had been happy enough, and Brawl had been the first to grace him. Brawl was the one he’d been most worried about – the cough had gotten worse overnight.

“Hold still.” First Aid gently instructed him. “You’ll feel a tingle – it’s just a non-invasive scan.”

Brawl looked at him suspiciously. “What are you scanning?”

“Your chest.” First Aid replied, gently placing a hand on his shoulder – he’d found in the past that it had helped with his more nervous patients to have physical contact with them, a gentle hand on the arm to ground them and steady their nerves. The especially nervous ones found it comforting to reach up and clasp his hand. He doubted Brawl would.

He didn’t. Instead, he held his breath as the scan went over him. The image on the display First Aid was holding flashed up bright red and urgent, and he fought to keep his field neutral as his mouth fell behind his mask.

How was he still walking?

“What does that mean?” Brawl jabbed a finger at the display. First Aid tried to find the words.

The rest of them didn’t fare much better. If anything, by the end of it he felt much more… comfortable, with having them around. Brawl was one firm shove away from falling apart. Blast Off was one hard cough away from his intake dislodging. And that wasn’t even getting him started on Vortex. They were in no shape for a coup or to fight back should their pick-up spark any confrontations. In fact, First Aid took it as a good sign – if they were incapacitated, they’d be much more likely to be rescued from the planet and brought back to Cybertron. Even if they were still prisoners, it would be a lot better back home than being stuck here until they figured out a way off before they froze to death for real this time.

He reported his findings back to Hot Spot and Onslaught. Onslaught immediately tensed, digits tightening on the datapad, and he had to pry them off one by one before shoving it into Hot Spots hands like it was a curse.

“Is this the truth? Or an attempt to make us look weak?”

“We both know that in a fight you’d wipe the floor with us while blindfolded. I’m not gaining anything by lying about what state you’re all in. Besides.” He glanced at his commander, the mech reading the report intently, “You probably weren’t in the best condition before you got here. It’s no surprise that you’re all on your last legs. Good thing that it’s just us on this planet, or we might be in trouble.”

The storm had arrived, and as per protocol, the shield automatically went up. The Protectobots watched with interest from the windows, clambering up onto the sides where they could to get closer. First Aid watched his breath fog the glass of the medical bay, quickly wiping it away as it obstructed his view. It was huge, a big sheet of solid metal that slowly blocked out the sound of the howling wind. The windows stopped shaking and whistling with each gust, and the snow settled in a thick blanket.

The silence was sudden and eerie. First Aid wiped away more condensation, thinking of the broken cable as he began to look for the signs of it, the markers for the wire as the snowstorm began to become too thick to see through-

Damn it. He pouted. Shield didn’t cover it. They’d still have to brave the storm to repair it.

Flakes fluttered down slowly from above, like petals falling in a gentle spring breeze.

… Huh?

His first thought was that they must have come from the roof, that they’d been blown off by movement. But who was on the roof? They weren’t meant to be up there at all. His next had been that it must have been the wind, then. But with the shield, there wasn’t meant to be any wind.

Fear gripped him. Did they have another intruder? One who none of them knew about? His breath fogged up the window, and he didn’t wipe it away this time.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Brawl commented. First Aid jumped, not realising the tank had joined him at the window. Brawl wasn’t exactly light-footed – he must have been… distracted. He felt a bit woozy.

“I think something’s wrong.” First Aid said, hopping down from the shelving by the window. “I’m going to find Hot Spot.”

“That looked fine to me.” Brawl followed him as he left the medical bay, quickly walking in the direction he felt Hot Spot in. For every two steps he took, Brawl took one – it must have been torture to try and match his pace.

“Snow’s still falling.” First Aid felt his voice tremble. “There’s either something on the roof, or there’s a problem with the shield. The shield being broken doesn’t sound like a problem, but it is when you consider the storms only going to get worse from here on out.”

Brawl grunted. “And someone on the roof?”

“Not one of us, unless someone’s broken the rules already. Can you feel your team up there? Because I can’t.”

His visor flashed. “I can sort that.” He sounded keen, his cannons twitching in excitement. He must have been desperate to blow something up.

Two pairs of feet were slamming the ground as their owners sprinted, four sets of rotors swinging in time. First Aid hesitated at the junction where two hallways joined as two helicopters skidded for the turning.

“Blades?!”

“Hey Tex.”

“They put you two together? Whose idea was that?”

“No idea, don’t ever do it again!” Blades yelled as the two continued sprinting. “Shield’s fucked! Something’s pierced it!” Vortex cheerfully announced as they sprinted away. It looked like he was racing Blades more than trying to get to his commander to tell him the bad news.

First aid felt sick. Then he felt worse.

“What do you mean it’s been pierced?!” He yelled, quickly starting to run after them. Brawl seemed to wait for a moment to give them a head start before giving chase, quickly transforming and driving just behind them.

Vortex got to the room first. He burst in unceremoniously, vents heaving as he choked on his breath. First Aid felt Hot Spot’s and Streetwise’s surprise through the bond – it only intensified when Blades skidded in behind him, and First Aid landed flat on his face in the threshold. Brawl, thank Primus, was too slow – First Aid had time to quickly scrabble up and roll out of the way as the tank came thundering through.

Streetwise hauled him up to his pedes when it became apparent that he wouldn’t be able to do it himself – First Aid felt dizzy and uncoordinated. He gripped onto him for support as he waited for the feeling to pass – it had become worryingly more frequent recently – and held his helm as Vortex and Brawl looked very sheepish in front of their simmering commander.

He wasn’t speaking in the common tongue. Streetwise flinched at his words, First Aid flinched at his tone. Whatever he was saying, it was clearly a verbal lashing at his mechs.

“What happened?” Hot Spot gently cut in, raising his hand up to get their attention.

“Explain. Clearly.” Onslaught demanded. “What possessed you to come running in like that. I see no fire. You almost ran over the medic.”

“Something’s made a hole in the shield.” Blades fanned himself as he caught his breath. “It-It smashed right through. We didn’t see what it was.” He looked at Vortex who was nodding his head in agreement.

“It just went…” He mimed an explosion with his hands. “Boom. Ripped right open. Not big, mind – maybe big enough for the little guy. Groove? To slip through.”

Onslaught looked over his shoulder at Blast Off, the mech perched by the window watching the snowflakes scattering down. His second nodded, pushing himself up.

“One of you, with me.” He gestured vaguely to the Protectobots. “I’m going to take a look at it.”

First Aid felt dizzy. He didn’t volunteer, his arm aching and pressure building behind his optics. Hot Spot left with Blast Off, and First Aid stumbled over to the window to watch them.

The wind whistled through the opening, almost loud enough to be heard clearly. Hot Spot watched from the ground as Blast Off disappeared off into the sky.

They returned twenty minutes later. Blast Off shook his helm.

“Nothing there. It looks old – it broke a long time ago and only fell now.” He glanced at Vortex and Blades derisively. “Not worth making such a fuss over.”

Blades flashed red. First Aid quickly grabbed his hand, squeezing their palms together.

Not worth it.

He grumbled and glared off to the side. Vortex shrugged and folded his hands behind his helm.

“What can I say? Blades got me all worked up.”

Blades bristled, and First Aid held his hand tighter.

As the only mech capable of repairing the faulty wiring, First Aid once more found himself in the freezing cold, ice forming on his external plating as he knelt in the fresh powder snow to inspect the cable.

“Four minutes left.” Blast Off called. First Aid set his chronometer – they’d have to be quicker with the storm. Would he even have time to fix anything now?

His wrist ached and he felt a tug of nausea in his tanks as he brought out his wielder. He brushed the feeling aside, deciding to focus on it later, and got to work. Sparks flew as he knitted the metal back together again, and he glanced up at Blast Off to see if he’d noticed the white hot sparks landing on his pedes.

Blast Off was staring intently at something far away. He hadn’t noticed it at all.

First Aid paused and retracted the wielder. The nausea building in the pit of his tanks subsided, replaced with a cold feeling of dread, and he stood up next to the space shuttle to see what he was looking at.

There was something moving in the distance.

First Aid squinted into the storm, thick white flakes falling down rapidly and obscuring his vision. He wasn’t sure if he was looking at something swaying in the wind – maybe an old structure they hadn’t noticed before – or if there was something standing out there and waving at him. It was a sort of primal fear that suddenly choked them when they looked at it. It sunk down to their inner structures, gripping them tightly and sinking in deep.

Blast Off bristled next to him, his weapons system loudly whining. First Aid looked up at him in alarm, the mech stooping down to crouch in between him and the figure.

“What’s wrong?” First Aid tried to whisper, but the wind ripped the words from his mouth before they reached Blast Off’s audials. He had to shout instead.

“It’s coming towards us!” Blast Off yelled back. “Finish up, we’re going inside now! I don’t like it!”

He didn’t like wrapping up his work before he was done, especially considering he wasn’t nearly cold enough to stop working yet and he was so almost done with this part, but he also didn’t like whatever it was that had Blast Off so riled up, so he quickly got it into a safe state to stop at before snapping the cover closed and shuffling back, keeping step with Blast Off as they crept back to the base.

The figure didn’t follow them.

It was Vortex’s turn to supervise First Aid as he made his repairs. There was a distinct sense of trepidation around leaving him alone with the medic, but if something was out there then he was a scrappy little fucker who’d make it problematic for whatever it was to even get close to them, and he was also (hopefully) not stupid enough to try anything obscene with the medic whilst they were both trying to not freeze to death.

So it was with a great surprise when he returned not even two minutes later, the medic slung over his shoulder like a prize ham, snow sticking to his frame as if he’d fallen down face first in it.

“Medic passed out.” He sounded as if he’d been sprinting.

“What did you do to him?!” Blades demanded, reaching forwards as if to snatch him from him, and Vortex firmly thrust his palm into his chest.

“I did nothing.” He snarled back. “He just shut down.”

“Mechs don’t just shut down.” Blades bunny-eared. Hot Spot threw his arm down in between them, gently pushing Blades back and putting distance in between them.

“Why don’t you take him to medical, Vortex?” He suggested. The helicopter stared at Blades for a long, tense moment before adjusting his hold on the medic and striding away with purpose towards the medical bay.

With no medic, there was no way that they would be able to make any repairs on the cable, so Vortex was reassigned to a new duty.

Their trust in him only extended so far – he would not make a good babysitter to an unconscious mech, so he swapped places with Swindle and descended down the stairs into the prison with Streetwise as they attempted to map it and find if the previous occupants had left any resources for them to use.

Instead of turning down the hallway that lead to the chamber the Combaticons had been held in, the two of them went the other way into new and unexplored territory.

“I wonder if we’ll find anyone else down here?” Vortex asked.

“Don’t.” Streetwise grimaced. “I don’t think I’d be able to take it. More Decepticons.”

Vortex cackled.

Their pedesteps echoed, bouncing off the rock. The sound of them suddenly changed and Streetwise turned, shining his headlights and revealing cells embedded into the walls.

“These all look so damaged.” Streetwise ran his hands over the dents and tears in the bars of the cells, his optics scanning over the burn marks on the floor and walls. “What happened?”

“Prison break, maybe?” Vortex shrugged. “I don’t know - we must have slept through it all.”

“Why did we build directly on top of this? It’s not like it was a secret - we found the hatch easily enough. It didn’t even have anything on top of it. It’s the only hatch in the whole building.” He was rubbing his chin, brow creased and thinking hard as he tapped his foot. “There’s nothing in the blueprints to suggest this was one of ours, and the architecture is clearly Decepticon origin. I doubt we’d be holding their inmates for free, but I didn’t see any ledgers. No profit was made here.”

Vortex couldn’t stop his grin and the excited klipper-klapper of his rotor blades as his train of thought reached a very interesting station.

“Any encrypted files?” His voice took a strange pitch, as if he were trying not to sound too excited.

“There were… a few.”

“And the possibility of them being about this?” He pointed to the cells.

“I don’t like what you’re suggesting, Vortex.”

“All I’m saying is we need to look at what’s there. Come on, you should know by now! I don’t like lies very much. I don’t like it when mechs hide things. I’m very good at spotting it.”

“Why would we hide this?” Streetwise demanded in exasperation. “We’ve got no reason to! We’re not like that!”

“What do you think it was, then?”

“I- they were all released.” He nodded in satisfaction. “Yeah. Released. The records would be encrypted for security. We simply repurposed the structures above ground - too difficult to build here otherwise.”

“This much damage for mechs gaining their freedom?”

“It’s a long trip.”

“Exactly. Too long a trip. Who’s the warden for that? How do you handle prisoners who were kept here of all places? You’d definitely get some casualties. Megatron doesn’t treat those of us who got caught very well, we’re usually left to get back ourselves. I bet we’re going to find a morgue here.”

“Then Autobots brought them back instead. We’re nice like that, you know.”

“Same questions as before. Especially so if the warden’s as soft as you are.”

“I don’t think we’re going to agree much on anything, in all honesty.” Streetwise knelt to the floor and traced the tips of his digits along deep grooves in the floor - something heavy had been raked across it. “Why don’t we agree to disagree?”

“You just don’t like hearing that Autobots can get up to bad things too.”

Streetwise exhaled through gritted teeth. “I really don’t know what he sees in you.” He muttered under his breath. He stood up, brushing his hands off on his thighs and looked at him sharply, hands firmly on hips. “Look. I know we get up to bad things. I’m an enforcer. I investigate things. I work with Prowl, for fucks sake - he’s the master class on ethical and moral issues! But I’m not about to leap on headfirst into this facility was testing on other mechs when there’s no evidence of it! None of the data we’ve been sifting through indicates anything of the sort! And looking at the sheer scale of the prison here, we’d expect more than a few encrypted datapads to support that. Trust me - I’d know. It’s not my first rodeo with illegal laboratories. They’ve all been Decepticon ones, though. Funny that.”

“Yeah, so funny.” Vortex agreed. “Alright, then. Agree to disagree. Now, what did you say about not seeing what someone sees in me?”

Streetwise tiredly rubbed his face. “Later.”

“We’ve got time. I don’t think I’ll be able to bear the thought of recharge if I didn’t know.”

“Tragic. Truly.”

“I’ll tell on you~”

“You are, without a doubt, the worst.”

Vortex grinned widely. “I am.”

The rest of the inspection was, in all honesty, uneventful. More of the same. Vortex making comments to get rises out of Streetwise, and Streetwise snapping at the bit until he caught it with his teeth and promptly dropped it, not wanting to fall for it. A tut here, a scoff there.

They didn’t find anything. Streetwise was about to turn back to the surface when something caught his optic - a lever, well hidden in the shadows. He tilted his helm at it, frowning as he pointed his torch. Vortex made a curious noise and tugged it.

The wall loudly opened, the hinges long rusted. It screamed as it ran along the guide rails, dust and metal shavings and detritus showering down. The two of them cringed and slapped their hands over their audials, grimacing and grinding their teeth.

Anxiety flooded the bond, followed by rapid pings.

O-K-A-Y-? The pings spelled out.

F-I-N-E-F-O-U-N-D-D-O-O-R he pinged back.

C-O-M-E-?

He let his optics adjust to the darkness, frowning as he peered in. It was just a room. A spooky looking room, but it was just that - a room. A quick scan didn’t bring back any life signs, or anything particularly dangerous.

N-O

“What the fuck made you do that?” Streetwise snapped at him. “Are you always like this? What is wrong with you?”

“Why do you think Onslaught keeps me on such a short leash?” Vortex replied as he confidently strode in. “Come on in. I think I was riiiight~!” He sing-songed gleefully. Hesitantly, Streetwise followed-

Morgue.

The smell hit him as soon as he was over the threshold, the smell of fluids and long dead corpses. It was cold and a chill hung heavy in the air. Streetwise felt like he could feel a thousand pairs of optics on him. His badges felt itchy. He could feel hands on him.

He didn’t much like it.

“You were right.” Streetwise swallowed hard. “There’s a morgue.”

“Damning evidence if I don’t say so myself. Oh! Speaking of!” Vortex reached down to pluck up a datapad. He delicately dusted it and inspected it, turning it this way and that, checking the buttons and the screens integrity. Satisfied, he passed it to Streetwise.

“Autobot model.” He turned it to show the back, a red face staring back at them. “We don’t tend to keep mortuary records.”

M-O-R-G-U-E

First Aid was in the middle of his medically mandated recharge shift when he was woken up by a grim looking Hot Spot.

Two things had happened.

Most pressing, the crack in the shield was bigger. It was wide enough that they could easily see the storm raging outside through it now, and snow and ice were getting in. Second, they’d found a morgue underneath them in the prison.

Initially, the second issue didn’t sound like an issue. It was quite normal for prisons to have morgues on them. Even prisoners deserved dignity in death, after all. However, a stoic Onslaught had informed them that Decepticon prisons typically did not even have morgues, and an excitable Vortex had presented them with a datapad that had a clear Autobot symbol on the back of it.

It had been an Autobot morgue.

“Why is that so shocking?” First Aid sleepily said, yawning and rubbing his optics. “If there were any corpses upon arrival, they’d have been processed and interred in that morgue - we may have built it for that purpose.”

“None of the blueprints make any mention of the prison complex.” Streetwise replied. “It’s as if we didn’t know about it - or they wanted to make sure that we didn’t.”

“Optimus would never allow it.”

“Prowl definitely would.”

“I didn’t think he got final say?”

“He delegates a lot. He’s a very busy mech.”

“Maybe they didn’t put it on the blueprints as they didn’t need to build it?”

“I really hope that’s the case.”

First Aid yawned again. “Can I go back to bed now?”

“First - this datapad. Can you read it?”

“If you can’t I doubt I can. Let me see.” First Aid blearily onlined it and unlocked it with his credentials on autopilot before he realised that it was a medical datapad, and that meant an Autobot medic had been there. He felt much more alert as he looked up at his gestalt mate. “I can unlock it - I was on the system when this datapad was made.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I have no idea.”

He opened up the first file he saw and began to read. It wasn’t a pathology report like he had been expecting, or even a mortuary register.

It was a diary, and it was written in code.

Chapter Text

“Can you stand?”

First Aid didn’t know where to put his hands. Swindle gave him a scathing look.

After First Aid had ended up face-down in the snow, they decided to prioritise shutting the hole in the shield up over repairing a cable they wouldn’t be able to use for the foreseeable future – whatever extra damage befell it as a result they’d just have to accept. So while First Aid got to stay warm and toasty inside, the others were taking shifts to fix the shield. It reminded First Aid vaguely of the response to large nuclear disasters, the brief moments of intense work to limit the exposure to the deadly radiation that poisoned them.

It had been Swindle’s turn.

“Don’t touch me with your grubby little paws.” He sneered at him, looking him up and down. “I know where they’ve been, and I’m not impressed.”

“Yeah, I’m not too enthused about yours either.”

“You’ve gotten nippy.”

“I’m stuck with you arseholes on a planet none of us can escape from where something else is here with us and none of us have any idea what it is. So yeah, I’m just a smidge nippy right now.”

“Wooow. We got a tough one.”

“You’re trying to egg me on! Unbelievable!”

“Took you long enough. I thought Autobot medics were supposed to be smart.”

“You’re lucky we need you, or I swear I would shove you into the stasis pod right now.”

“Oooh, I’m sooo scared.”

First Aid made a sound of frustration, his hands itching for something to throw. He whirled around, smacking straight into Blades’ chest.

“Ugh-!”

“Swindle.” Blades warned.

“Bodyguards here, First Aid.” Swindle taunted. “And oh, look! So is mine.”

Brawl leaned in through the doorway, visor narrowed. First Aid quickly pushed Blades to the side, making sure to position himself between his teammate and the two Combaticons.

“You’re here to pick up Swindle? Good. Great. Perfect. Thank you very much, Brawl - are you okay to make sure he rests? Thank you.”

Swindle looked positively joyful that he was making First Aid sweat so much. Brawl looked between the two and sensed an opportunity for a fight. He stepped towards them, guns warming-

The loud sound of tearing metal cut through the tension in the room like butter. Four heads whipped around at the door, Blades quickly tugging First Aid behind him and blocking him from view as best he could. Brawl occupied the whole doorway, the loud whine of his weapons system echoing in the medical room as Swindle slipped to be in the corner by the door, opposite Blades and First Aid.

“Oh.” Brawl relaxed, weapons powering down. “It’s you.”

“Jumpy, much.”

First Aid sagged against Blades in relief - it was just Vortex.

“Was all that noise really necessary?” Blades hissed at him. “What if that thing heard?!”

“Please.” Vortex waved him off. “There’s nothing out there, remember? Anyway - I hardly think it would hear it over the storm. You can’t even hear your own thoughts out there.”

“Where’s Hot Spot?” First Aid asked.

“Right here, Aid.”

He peered around Blades, leaning on the tips of his toes - he could just about see Hot Spot over Brawls shoulder.

Thank Primus.

“What’s going on here?” Hot Spot curiously asked.

“Not a fight!” First Aid testily replied before anyone else could. “Brawl was just picking up Swindle. Weren’t you?” He tried to sound as sweet as possible, feeling his face tug awkwardly into a smile nobody could see.

“Oooh, there was going to be a fight?” Vortex was excitedly bouncing - First Aid could hear his rotors smacking together as he jumped up and down. “Are we fighting? Please can we fight?”

“Of course we can!” Blades replied. First Aid tightened his grip on him, rapidly shaking his head.

“Blades.” Hot Spot warned. “No, there’s not going to be a fight.”

The medical room was starting to become a bit crowded and First Aid was beginning to feel the strain of it - it had only been designed to hold two patients at a time, in close quarters, plus a medic. There were currently no less than six mechs in that room, and First Aid had had quite enough. He was tired, he was hungry, and fuck if he didn’t want to just go to bed and have sleep for dinner.

“Okay, that’s- that’s enough!” He loudly snapped, patience at its end. “If you’re not here to get a check-up, then go. Please.”

He rubbed his face tiredly, pointing at the door. He let his arm fall as he heard pede steps and muttering, visor offline, and only onlined it again when he felt ready.

Hot Spot was waiting patiently for him on the medical berth. He smiled at him, his optics warm and welcoming, and First Aid wanted nothing more in that moment than to curl up against him and fall into stasis until help arrived.

Vortex was lounged on the other one, rotors swinging lazily. He bounced his pede, tapping on his thigh in morse code.

First Aid narrowed his visor at him.

“We can understand that, you know.”

“Understand what?” Vortex innocently asked.

“Streetwise taught us that dialect you’re tapping on your thigh recently.” Hot Spot calmly replied. “You don’t need to hide from us that you’re communicating with your commander. Just speak aloud.” He shrugged. “Games up. Might as well.”

Vortex’s visor gleamed and he sat up straighter. “Oh? That goodie two shoes knows my nasty old dialect? Where’d he pick up that from, then?”

“Prowl?” First Aid looked over his shoulder at Hot Spot from where he was scrubbing his hands. “He wanted him to know it, right?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Why’s that?” Vortex asked curiously.

“Why’d you want to know?”

“Curious.”

“Helps with his job. He’s still an investigator, after all.” First Aid replied.

“Don’t get too excited about this information, by the way.” Hot Spot said, leaning over to Vortex and looking at him like one would a child. “This is old news. It’s not a secret that Prowl of all mechs is a polyglot, and Megatron already knows Streetwise knows it. He’s yelled some very unkind things straight to his face.”

Vortex visibly deflated.

“Huh?”

“Didn’t he throw up after that? From the stress?” First Aid asked as he patted his hands dry.

“He did. He’d just had potassium too - it was very pink.”

“You two are weird.”

“I’m not taking that from the mech we literally found in the basement.”

“Hey, I didn’t put myself there.” Vortex swung his legs up onto the medical berth and folded his arms behind his head. “Wake me up when it’s my turn.”

First Aid shook his head and sighed before turning his attention to his commander. “Shall we?”

Shit. He’d actually fallen into recharge.

Vortex had given the impression of total nonchalance to give the illusion of privacy to the mechs and extract more info from them. They’d already been extremely loose lipped, dancing on the edge of a data breach - it was tantalising.

And he had fallen asleep.

It was with a shock that he felt gentle pressure on his arm. Before he was fully online again he had snatched the offending hand, shooting upright with his internal weapons system humming to life. His engine growled, the sound rumbling in his throat as his optics began to sort through the information being fed through to them, promptly dismissing all alerts on his HUD in favour of the assumed threat.

“It’s just me.”

The cute medic. His visor snapped into focus, blurs of red and white solidifying and becoming the frame of the ambulance.

“What are you doing?” He demanded.

“Trying to wake you up. Seems I was successful.”

“Try my name next time.”

“That wasn’t working.” First Aid looked him up and down, optics lingering longer than they should - he could see the pin-point brightness of them behind his visor from this close. “You’re not damaged, are you?”

“You’re meant to find that out.” He roughly let go of his hand, shoving it back at him. First Aid staggered backwards, vents catching in a gasp.

“Right, then. May I?”

Vortex narrowed his optics at him. He was still on edge from his sudden awakening and shock at missing everything. It was very unlike him to do so. Onslaught would be pissed. Having the medic touching him should be thrilling and exciting and have him imagining ways to put him in compromising positions, but instead it had him wanting to peel his plating off until just his base frame was left behind, leaving him a whimpering convulsing mess to slowly suffer on the floor in a pool of his own energon.

But he couldn’t hurt the medic. They needed the medic, all of them. He needed to be rational about it. So he swallowed hard and did his best to smile.

“Go ahead.”

“Weapons offline, please.”

It was a fight to get them to stand down, but it was a fight he won. His systems audibly powered down and he did his best to force his frame to relax, to let the medic do his job. Onslaught had been explicitly clear with them - they were to let him do what he needed to, and they weren’t allowed to fight back. Their fragile truce would implode if they were to lay even a single finger on him, something that had been made excruciatingly clear to them all.

And no medic meant no healing, and with whatever that thing outside was? Nobody wanted to risk it.

So he’d play the part Onslaught wanted him to and scream out his frustrations later.

Vortex thought his weapons systems had offlined, but he would be mistaken about that. First Aid flinched away from him as the vibrating knife tucked away in his arm hummed, the motor preparing itself for action. He’d added it to let him cut through thicker armour, and hearing it in the medical bay just made him think of amputations, of what he wanted to do to someone - anyone at this point. He’d been so well behaved so far. Didn’t he deserve a little something for it?

“Vortex.” First Aid warned. “I can’t work on you if your weapons systems are online.”

Vortex grunted an apology and whacked his arm, the knife quietening.

Don’t think about autopsies, about energon and gutting a mech and the sounds they’d make or-

“Would you please stop that?” First Aid put his tool down in exasperation. “I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not going to help you if you’re going to hurt me!”

“I can’t help it!” Vortex snapped back. “You’re touching me!”

“You didn’t seem to care last time!”

“Well, last time we were doing something quite different!”

“Well-!” First Aid had puffed out his chest, but deflated with a sigh, pressing the tips of his index and middle finger to where the bridge of his nose would be, and quietly counted to five. “What will help you relax?”

“Maybe a kiss?”

“Be serious.”

“But I am!”

First Aid rolled his optics but leaned in all the same, retracting his facemask.

“Alright.”

He pressed a kiss to his forehelm, just above his visor. He looked so proud of himself up until Vortex tapped his bottom lip.

“No, no - here, please.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It will make me feel lots better.”

The medic was starting to go a wonderful shade of pink. This was very fun.

“You’re not going to do anything weird, are you?”

“Not unless you ask me to.” He tilted his helm, wondering what would get him to turn redder than his plating. “Are you worried? I guess the last time we kissed you were-“

“Okay!” First Aid squeaked. “That’s enough!”

Not quite as red as his plating, but it would do. He had time. Leaning towards him, he could feel the heat radiating from his face, his body. His rotors spun happily. Yeah, this was a much better feeling than wanting to dismantle him for pains sake. This he could focus on. He didn’t want to fuck himself off if he hurt him. He didn’t want to fuck off Onslaught if he caused issues with the tentative truce they operated under. So, he’d have to force his attention to switch to being sweet on the medic - and that was easy when the rewards came so quickly.

The medic was shaking his head. “No, I can’t - it’s inappropriate. You’re my patient. I promised my team.”

“Promised?” That was interesting. What kinds of promises was he being made to keep? And why was kissing patients involved? Was he frequently flirting with his patients? He didn’t like that. Oh, First Aid, you silly thing. No use spouting virtues of professionalism if you were having to promise your team you weren’t going around smooching the injured.

“No helicopters.” He quietly answered.

Oooh. He grinned widely, visor flashing wickedly. It wasn’t about patients. It was about him.

“Do they know?” He lowly asked. The tips of his sharp digits reached out, tracking shapes on his arm, storm grey against white. “Did you tell them what we did?”

“Bond said all they needed to know.” First Aid tightly replied. He stepped out of reach, shifting to be down by his legs. “Can I continue?”

He was having far too much fun watching him start to squirm to let him get out of it that easy. He relaxed and let his legs fall open, crossing his arms behind his helm again and lazily tracing shapes on his elbows. His biolights shifted and shuddered, pulsing in a way that drew attention away from the rest of his body and to his hips.

First Aid sighed.

“I guess you’re fine then. It’s your turn to recharge soon - go catch up on your rest.”

“Aw come on, sweetspark. We’ve got time to catch up.”

“Brawl and Groove are next to go and make repairs - Hot Spot’s already briefing them, so you don’t need to worry.” First Aid ignored him, turning to write on a datapad. “There’s not much fresh energon left, but you’ll need to top up after being outside.”

“Aid~”

“It’s not happening, Vortex.”

“You have become very mean.”

“Yes, I have.” First Aid’s patience seemed to be wearing thin, fraying at the edges, and Vortex was tugging at the threads, slowly unravelling the weave. “I don’t know if you haven’t noticed, but a lot has happened since we last met.”

“Like?”

“Oh, I don’t know - the planet-wide civil war we’re still in with no end in sight? That’s spread to include innocent planets in the pursuit of something to give us an edge for all of one skirmish? I don’t want to fight, but I have to because the alternative is worse. And then - You vanishing for vorn?

Do you know what it’s like to be on edge for vorn, waiting for you to come out of the shadows? Not knowing what you’re doing? Wondering if this is just another game to you? And-!” He stopped and grimaced, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter - now, I’m so far away from home that they can’t even see us anymore, there are no communications, the only thing stopping whatever is out there from getting to us all is a metal barrier that’s starting to crack, and I’m stuck here with you.”

“Yanno, it was starting to sound like you missed me.” Vortex pushed himself upright and hopped off the berth, walking the few steps towards the medic. “Now it sounds like you can’t wait to get away from me.”

“I just don’t want to be here.”

He tilted his chin up with a curled index finger. First Aid wasn’t making optic contact with him.

“Sure that’s all it is?”

“Yes. I’d rather be home working on peace negotiations than this.”

So terribly optimistic.

“Could be the start of them. If we all survive this.”

First Aid scoffed. “That’s overly optimistic.”

Vortex shrugged.

“Whatever you say.”

They stood in silence for a moment. He could hear the stressed whine of First Aid’s engine - not loud enough to be heard if you didn’t know it was there, but loud enough that you couldn’t ignore it once you noticed it. He could also hear his own, coupled with the whirling of his spark.

A ping from Onslaught through their bond. A command in its own right - he was demanding his time and attention. He’d need to wrap this up with his sweet little medic and trot on over to see what his commander wanted.

So he tilted his helm as he studied the medics face - he still wasn’t making optic contact but he was starting to get restless the poor thing - and leaned down, mask snapping back. That got the medics attention, and his optics widened as he finally looked at him. He tilted his helm slightly the other way, visor dimming and lips parting as if anticipating something-

And Vortex brushed his lips on his cheek.

“See you later.”

He breezed from the room, taking delight in the way the medics engine thumped loudly and the quiet eeping noise that he made.

“I don’t trust anyone but you.”

It echoed around in Blast Off’s helm, bouncing between his audials. He straightened out the support strut, snow rapidly melting on his armour, and stood back to admire his work.

Repairs: complete. Onslaught would be pleased.

And Hot Spot too, he supposed, but how he was feeling wasn’t much of a concern to him. His praise meant nothing to him.

Shield back up and operational, Blast Off gracefully descended. The outside of the shield had been done first and was admittedly difficult – he felt an appreciation for the medic now and the weight of a repair resting entirely on his shoulders.

He didn’t see the waving figure again.

First Aid was still having episodes of vacancy. His commander – Hot Spot – was doing a fine job of not letting his worry show on his face, but he was doing a piss poor job of it as soon as the medic wasn’t around. As long as the medic was still in danger of falling flat on his face, there would be no repairs made to the communications array.

Not that it was of any use to them right now anyway. Even his systems couldn’t hone in on Cybertron, and he was designed to go much further distances than this rotten ice ball of a planet.

The good job he got from Onslaught would carry him through the rest of this decacycle. He took his place next to him as they watched Brawl stacking things on top of Vortex, the helicopter staying obediently still. Onslaught looked distinctly bored as they enjoyed their designated team-only hours, legs crossed and chin resting on a clenched fist.

“Found anything useful yet?” Onslaught asked Swindle. The golden mech held a hand up as he continued to swipe through the little terminal he carried around with him in a briefcase.

“Not yet.” He replied, optics glued to the screen. “All too far away or too expensive.”

“Keep looking.”

A good old double-crossing was so their style. Onslaught never had the intention of maintaining any sort of truce with them – falling into Autobot hands would have been a fate worse than death. They’d have been cuddled to death in a cushty brig with fairy lights and soft cuddly toys – they all would much rather everyone continued to think that they were dead and leave them to continue to forge their own path.

Alone. Independently. Without the spectre of Megatron hanging over them.

“You couldn’t get a comm out in this storm anyway.” Blast Off inspected the blunt ends of his hand, palm facing away from him. There were minute scratches that he’d need to buff out. He reached into his subspace and grabbed a cloth, delicately setting to work.

“Can send out other forms of electromagnetic communication, though. I bet some infrared would make it.” Swindle replied. “Know any Morse code?”

“Of course I do.” He scoffed.

“Perf. I’ll let you know when we send the message.”

“Not worried our little friends will notice it?”

“They don’t even know what’s wrong with their medic, I’ll take my chances.”

Cutting.

Onslaught leaned in to quietly speak into his audial.

“Did you see the figure again?”

He minutely shook his head.

“No.”

“Good.”

He still remembered the cold, strut-deep fear when he’d first seen it in the distance. Ancient code had sparked up, telling him that he needed to run, to run as far away as he could as quickly as he could, to injure it enough so that it couldn’t follow him. He’d felt choked by it, a primal kind of fear that he’d never experienced before and hoped he’d never have to experience again.

Onslaught had felt whispers of it, tingling across the surface of his armour and cold teeth sinking into his spinal column. The moment Blast Off had come back inside he had grabbed him and tugged him into the closest room to demand what the hell that had been, to know what had caused it. His hands were tight on his own as he told him exactly what he had seen.

Blast Off shuddered just remembering it, grimacing.

It all went to shit faster than it took Starscream to be shot the first time he’d attempted to usurp Megatron.

The cycle had been relatively peaceful before that – nothing of note. First Aid had been anticipating his log remaining as a continuation of the previous days one – notes that just said it was more of the usual. More organising of the storage boxes, of the datapads they were finding. Reviewing their supplies. His little pet project of fixing the energon generator.

And then, the peace had been pierced with a shrill scream for help, having all of them lock up in the most intense fear First Aid had ever experienced in his life. The same feeling that he’d had before when he had seen the figure waving at him outside gripped him so tightly that he couldn’t breathe, slowly sinking down to his knees and clutching his chest as the screams echoed around in his head, his visual feed glitching and turning to static.

Hot Spot and Streetwise recovered first and had immediately rushed to the door, forgetting the rule of pairing up with the other team to keep their numbers even, and First Aid’s shouts to stop didn’t reach them – they were out sprinting through the ice that had formed around the base under the shield in no time, their training kicking in and overriding base instinct. Hot Spot had begun to pry the shield open at the point they used to exit for cable repairs, Streetwise scrambling through the small gap that had formed and being buffeted by heavy snow and bracing winds when they both froze.

Whatever it was outside came staggering towards them with a low guttural sound echoing from where its stomach should have been. The way it walked was reminiscent of something that had never had to walk on two legs before, uncoordinated and joints bending awkwardly in ways they shouldn’t.

Brawl had to help them close the shield.

“It’s imitating us.” Streetwise was pale. He slowly turned to look at Hot Spot. “It’s pretending to be Cybertronian.”

“How is it doing that? I didn’t think it had seen us.”

Streetwise shook his head. He looked like he wanted to throw up. “I don’t know.”

“That was real stupid of you.” Brawl snapped. “The first thing you do when you hear whatever’s out there screaming is to open the shield? Thought I was the dumb one.”

Hot Spot still had his palms pressed flat to the shield, leaning heavily against it. The thing outside began to tap on it, quiet little noises that had everyone on edge.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” Hot Spot admitted.

Onslaught had marched towards him, pedes crunching loudly like cracks of a whip on the ice, and grabbed him firmly by the collar.

“Can I trust you to never do that again?” He barked at him.

Hot Spot didn’t immediately reply, his processor still trying to catch up with his frame.

“Well?” Onslaught snapped.

Blast Off placed a hand over his commanders, pushing it away. Onslaught reluctantly let go of Hot Spot, but still glared at him hotly.

“That’s not going to solve anything.” Blast Off said to his commander. He turned to Hot Spot. “I trust you don’t need another lecture, but what even was that?”

“We’re emergency responders.” Hot Spot organised the scrambled thoughts of the previous few minutes. “Our base code must have kicked in and taken over whilst we were… preoccupied. It’s quite hard for us to ignore someone screaming for help because of it – I didn’t think it would respond to anything, though.”

Onslaught firmly nodded, turning to stride away before thinking of something and turning back to them with a finger pointed firmly at them.

“Do not. Do that again.”

First Aid watched it unfold from the floor. His frame felt weak and dizzy, much like it had just before he’d ended up face down in the snow.

The floor suddenly looked a lot closer than it had before.

Waking up again had been a very arduous and annoying process, but First Aid did it anyway. He quietly groaned and turned into whatever warm thing he was pressed against, not quite wanting to wake up yet.

“That’s the third time.” The voice was hazy and distant, not quite there. Was it directed at him? He hoped not. He didn’t think he could speak yet, or that he knew how to reply.

“And he really can’t find anything?”

“No.”

Ah, talking about him, then. Probably about the dizzy and fainting spells he’d been having recently.

“What are we going to do?”

“What can we do? There’s no way to call home… If he can’t diagnose it, we’ll just have to live with it.”

First Aid hissed as his helm suddenly throbbed. He flinched, gripping it tightly. Every jolt of pain had his vision swimming with bright lights.

“Aid!” The arms around him adjusted, holding him more upright. “Are you alright? How are you feeling?”

Hot Spot swam into his vision. First Aid reset his visor in an attempt to sort out his visual feed.

“Awful.” He admitted. “What happened? Did something hit me over the head?”

“No.” His lips were pressed into a thin line. “You fainted again.” He glanced up at someone before looking back at him and lowering his voice. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He ran a diagnostic.

All fine. Everything was clear. Nothing that was being flagged, no signs of damage, no leaks, no mis-calibrations, nothing.

“It’s all coming back fine.” He replied. “I don’t know what’s going wrong.”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Hot Spot gently said. “We’ll figure it out together. We’ve got you.”

First Aid stared down at his hands, slowly flexing them. In. Out. In. Out.

Chapter Text

It can’t get any worse than this, they’d thought. Fate, however, loved to be tempted, and it turned out that it actually could get worse.

Much worse.

First Aid didn’t have all that much to do and had been placed on strict bed rest. The new shift pattern was a patrol one – they went in pairs to go and check on the shield and make sure it was all still intact and that whatever it was that was out there hadn’t made any attempts to break through. Every so often there was still that unnerving tapping sound, sometimes progressing into desperate banging and whimpers that were becoming very hard to ignore.

Whatever it was, it wanted in. Every fibre of their beings wanted it out.

So, with not much else to do other than to let the abject fear of what was happening to them paralyse him, First aid read the coded diary that they had found.

It was written weirdly. The code wasn’t one that was particularly hard for him to crack – it was hard enough that it would discourage someone who was only curious, but it wasn’t so hard that he couldn’t manage it with time and patience, both of which he currently had in spades.

His favourite company to have was Vortex, but he wasn’t allowed to admit that, much less think it, so if he was asked he’d said that it was Brawl. Swindle was a wind-up merchant and he’d always wound up feeling much less rested than he had been before when he had the misfortune of being paired up with him. Onslaught and Blast Off never seemed to appear on the rotation, always too busy or off doing something else – he was glad for that, however, as Onslaught quite frankly scared him and Blast Off seemed mean.

Brawl just ignored him. He could deal with that quite easily, actually – he was used to dealing with patients who didn’t want to engage with him, so it was just more of the same. He was also surprisingly strict on rules – when he’d gone to give him a check up and see how his engine blocks were doing after his earlier repairs, Brawl had been quite firm in that he was meant to stay in the berth and do nothing. First Aid hadn’t been strong enough to fight him off, so the tank won in forcing him back onto the berth and firmly securing him in the blanket – when Vortex had come to relive him, he couldn’t stop laughing at the sight of the medic looking like a fat angry caterpillar, completely prone and defenceless and extremely cross, on the medical berth glaring up at the ceiling and refusing to engage with anyone until he had been freed.

Vortex was not the one to free him. Groove did, and he did his best to not laugh, but even he failed at keeping his field in check.

Assholes.

The generators were starting to fail. They could see turbines on old schematics and they were placed outside of the shield. On the computers, they could see their output – they were still producing energy in which they could use to both power the base and produce a crude and vaguely slimy kind of energon. Blast Off, Blades, and Vortex couldn’t drink it – it was too viscous, too thick, for their systems to have any use for it, but the others could just fine. The ‘good’ rations were strictly reserved for them whilst they scratched their heads over an alternative.

It was difficult with no scientists to hand. First Aid was the closest they had, but he was a medic. His knowledge began and ended with medicine. Groove had spent a lot of time with Beachcomber, but Beachcomber was a geologist. They needed someone else – someone with a different set of expertise. Still, First Aid was the closest they had, so it was just another job he had to add onto his checklist.

He was doing just that when the lights turned off.

It was brief, just five seconds, but it was enough to have First Aid and Vortex on their feet and sticking their helms outside of the door, audials straining.

::O-K?:: Hot Spot sent over the bond. First Aid quickly pinged back a positive response as he looked up at the lights – they weren’t as bright as before, flickering like the wings of a hummingbird.

“What the pit was that?” Vortex asked, more talking to himself. First Aid shrugged.

“Did the turbine get overwhelmed?”

It was Vortex’s turn to shrug. “Ons and Hot Spot are gonna go take a look at the generator. I’ve been told to keep you in here.”

First Aid sighed crossly. “I’m not made of glass.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, sweetie.” He trailed a hand up his back, First Aid shivering at the tingle it sent down his spine. “I know you can take a bit of rough handling.” His voice had dropped down to a purr, and he had to fight to not look at him.

“Don’t.” He warned. “I promised.”

“I know, I know.” His hand stayed where it was, circling around transformation seams.

The lights flickered hard, First Aid tensing.

He couldn’t stand in the doorway any more, the gaping maw of the hallway threatening to eat him whole if he continued to stare out into it as the lights dimmed. Swiftly turning, he stiffly walked back over to the berth he had commandeered before and sat on it, tightly gripping the edge. Vortex watched him with a bemused expression, bracing his forearm against the door frame.

“Scared?” Vortex asked. He was staring out at the hallway as if daring something to come.

“Of what?” First Aid conversationally replied.

“Whatever you think is going to come out of the dark.” He nodded towards the hallway. The lights audibly crackled as they flickered again.

“I don’t know how you’re not.” First Aid’s hands creaked as he gripped the edge of the berth harder. “Every fibre of my being was screaming at me to run when I heard it, I’ve never felt such an irrational fear before in my life.”

Vortex finally looked over his shoulder at him. His visor brightened marginally and he stood up straighter, making to close the door. “You got a torch?”

“A torch?”

“Yeah. Things with the bulbs.”

“I-I know what a torch is, Vortex. There’s a couple small ones on that shelf there.” He nodded towards the bright green box that held them, not sure if he could extract his hands from how tightly they clung to his lifeline.

The door closed with a snap and Vortex tugged the box from the shelf, rummaging in it until he procured one of the torches. He tested it to make sure it worked before walking back over to the light switch and turning off the lights.

“Vortex-!”

The torch flicked on, Vortex holding it up under his chin. He had taken off his battle mask, the shadows cast catching his scars and features strikingly and having First Aid’s breath catch in his chest.

“Wanna see something cool?”

First Aid frowned at him. What was he talking about? What could he possibly show him with a torch?

Vortex looked at him expectantly. First Aid decided that he would bite.

“What is it? You’re not going to stick it anywhere weird, are you?”

Vortex took it as an invitation. He sat himself down next to First Aid, gently prying a hand from the edge of the berth and pressing the torch into his palm. “Only if you ask me to. Point it at the opposite wall.” He instructed. First Aid held it steady as he did as instructed, and Vortex knelt on the floor.

“Onslaught showed us this.” He began to explain, stretching out his finger joints. “When Megs shut off the power to our base or the generator packed in he’d make us all sit in the breakout room together with torches and we’d tell each other stories.”

First Aid immediately recognised it. “Shadow puppets?”

“Precisely.” Vortex grinned up at him. “Want to see how the Decepticons tell stories?”

They didn’t tell them all that differently to how Autobots did. The topics and stories were similar, too – they tended to regale old battles and previous exploits.

With the lights off it was easy to forget about everything. The door was closed, the outside world didn’t exist, and it was just himself and Vortex on the floor of the medbay, torch balanced on the edge of the berth as they fought for space for their hands, squabbling over the details of fights they’d both been in.

First Aid knew what he was doing. He was trying to play the role of a good cop right now, to act like he pulled the sun across the sky every day and was a mech of shining virtue – something that was very much not the case. It was a song and dance they’d done a thousand times before. But right now, he was happy to play pretend with him – as he always was.

And, he realised, he didn’t feel so scared any more. He didn’t know when he’d slipped from the berth to kneel on the floor with him – it had just happened. Maybe it had been when Vortex first started twisting the truth, or maybe when it was when he had started outright lying, painting his team in a bad light with a cheeky glint in his visor.

Vortex was so, so frustrating. He was making it so, so hard.

Their hips bumped. Oh, wow, when did I get so close to him? It was hard to read Vortex’s expression in the gloom – the battery of the torch was starting to run low, and the scar that twisted half of his face into a mocking toothy grin cast such a mottled shadow it masked the rest of his expression.

First Aid raised his hand up into the torch light, his palm facing in towards the middle. He looked at Vortex expectantly, pointedly looking between him and his hand. Vortex quickly took the hint and mirrored him, pressing their palms together. His hands were bigger by a joint – the tips of First Aids blunt fingers only reached as far as the beginning of the last joint of his sharp claws. First Aid slipped his hand up, splaying out his fingers to press the pads of their digits together.

“Why did Onslaught teach you this?” He asked.

“Some crap about team building. Annoyingly, it worked. Do you know how much we used to fight with each other?”

“I’ve been told stories.”

“It was bad. We’ve always worked well together and we chose to be Bruticus, which is more than many other combiners can say, but Starscream forgot to account for the absolute egos we all have. Especially Blast Off. Screamer stirred the pot too much until Megatron had to step in and we got those stupid loyalty chips put in.”

“You’ve still got those?” First Aid asked in disbelief. “But- they’re illegal! They were mandated to all be removed!”

“Think we care too much about what an Autobot controlled council is deciding?”

“And you’re still Decepticons after illegal and unconsenting modification?”

“Lets not go there, sweetspark, it’s not going to be nice.”

First Aids mouth snapped shut.

Vortex curled the tips of his digits around the top of First Aids, pressing their palms back together again. “As I was saying. He also did it to give us something to do. Imagine a room full of Blades’ with no form of entertainment. Can’t leave, can’t watch TV, can’t listen to music, no light to read with, no internet. How quickly do you think he’d resort to taking himself apart just for something to do? Now, imagine one of them is a tank. How quickly do you think they’d resort to taking someone else apart?”

“I thought you all liked each other.”

“Even the best of friends turn on each other in dire circumstances. I’ve made it happen myself, probably to mechs you know.”

It was little moments like these that made First Aid forget who Vortex was. The mech pressed against his side, warming his hip and applying such gentle pressure to his palm, was one of the most feared interrogators the Decepticons had at their disposal. He was completely psychotic, but that part wasn’t the scary one – what was worse, what sent mechs more on edge, was that he was fantastic at making you forget it. Forget that he’d stop at nothing to get what he wanted from you, that he’d be just as likely to have you inside out as he was to be enjoying a nice meal with you if it got him what he wanted. That leaving you torn apart and bleeding out on the floor was a perk of the job, not a mentally challenging task that weighed heavily on his conscience. The only thing that made him less of a threat was that his team were notorious delinquents who didn’t much like being told what to do, especially if it took them apart from each other. Maybe that was why they’d ended up here? They’d disobeyed the wrong order?

I’ve made it happen.

He knew that – he’d seen it himself. Both the aftermath and in action – Vortex had been put in charge of watching the prisoners on a rotation with other mechs that First Aid hadn’t recognised and he still remembered the way the helicopter had perked up upon seeing him, visor brightening and rotors bouncing excitedly. As medics, they were studious in not bringing them to any physical harm. So, in the absence of making them bleed, Vortex had instead sowed the seeds of discontent and distrust in them. It only took two rotations for the first medic to snap. Vortex had watched with his visor shining in the way it did when he was grinning audial to audial.

The light from the torch was growing dimmer and dimmer. Slowly, the shadow of their hands pressed together lost its definition and began to fade away.

“I should get another torch.” First Aid said. He made no effort to move. Vortex stayed still as if waiting for something to happen. He linked their fingers together and squeezed.

The light was almost gone, power fading fast. First Aid leaned his helm against his shoulder, fuel pump thudding in his audials.

The arm Vortex had braced behind him to lean back against snaked around his shoulders, a warm and comfortable weight as the torch finally died.

“Uhm-”

“I know, I know – you promised your team.”

He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. He had promised, and his friend was outside where he could potentially be in danger if the shield gave way – this wasn’t the time for it. It was inappropriate. What if someone got hurt and he was delayed in getting to them because he was too busy fucking around with Vortex? They were in danger, something was outside and trying desperately to get to them and he didn’t know if they’d even make it to tomorrow-

Something in the back of his head snapped into place.

If they weren’t going to make it, what did it matter if he didn’t stick to the rules? He wasn’t being hedonistic or gluttonous by allowing himself affection. He still did his job, and he would still do it – they would have the best chance of surviving this that they could muster, and he would play his part to achieve that, but did he want to sacrifice his own wants and desires for that?

No. No, he didn’t. Vortex was all sharp edges and dubious intentions, but he didn’t lie to him, he didn’t see the point in hiding what he wanted when it came to him, he was warm and he knew just how he liked his back kibble to be played with as he lay on his chest.

So much to the surprise to Vortex, First Aid reached up to wrap his arms around his neck and tilted his helm, brushing their lips together.

“I don’t care.” He whispered.

The biting cold and slight, brisk breeze told them that the shield had started to crack. Onslaught cast sharp optics up to the top, up to where Blast Off had made a repair. Had it failed? Or had the split migrated elsewhere?

That horrid banging on the frozen metal had stopped. The lights behind them flickered again, Hot Spot tensing and throwing a concerned look over his shoulder. The mech liked to baby his team – did he fancy himself their caretaker? It was ridiculous. No wonder that medic kept passing out, too fragile for the situation they’d been thrown in. If he were one of his mechs, he’d have straightened it out before it had become a problem. Hot Spot was not the type of leader that he had expected when they had first met – he used to actually respect him.

“The cable should be around here.” Hot Spot pointed ahead of them – the ice-capped snow was slightly elevated, revealing a structure underneath. Onslaught pushed ahead of him, punching his fist through the ice and pushing it aside.

Cable.

“How does it look?” Hot Spot was leaning over his shoulder, a hand hovering over him as if wanting to rest it on him but stopping short.

“Fine.” He began to push ice off of the next section. “What’s the reading?”

The device they had found to measure current was pointed at the exposed cable.

“It’s got power.” He adjusted a setting and frowned slightly. “It’s temperamental, though.”

“Issue with the turbine?”

“Most likely.” Hot Spot grimly replied. He dug his palm into his temple, visor shuttering as he grumbled to himself. Onslaught rolled his optics.

He stood and brushed snow from his legs before walking the length of the cable. The icy snow gave way to frozen-solid slush, which gave way to proper slush. He broke out into a jog, freezing cold water splashing up his legs.

“It’s melting!” He called over to Hot spot, the mech still inspecting the cable. The fire engine snapped to attention.

“It’s what?!”

He quickly joined him. Onslaught waded through and placed the back of his hand against the shield and flinched at the unexpected warmth.

Something was kicking out heat on the other side of the shield. Too much heat, if you asked him – it was enough to penetrate the thick metal and melt the snow. It wouldn’t be long until the ground defrosted.

Behind them, the base audibly groaned as the power went out again. Hot Spot tensed, and Onslaught felt his patience fray.

“Focus.” He snapped.

“What do you mean?”

“You worry too much about your team, it’s unbecoming. Are they that incompetent?”

“Worry about your own team.” Hot Spot hotly countered, bristling. “You’re not doing so well with keeping tabs on your own mechs, why are you butting in on mine?”

It was Onslaughts turn to bristle. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t act all offended when you’re the one throwing stones. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed what Vortex and Swindle have been getting up to.”

He had, but he didn’t care enough to correct it, and he told him as much. Hot Spot did not like that.

“You-!” His face flushed red and he threw his hands up in frustration, whirling around to walk in a brisk circle. “Your team are in bits – my medic is exhausted from trying to fix up your negligence.”

“My team have experienced hardship. It happens.”

“And my team haven’t?”

“That pampered lot? I don’t think they have, no.”

Hot Spot suddenly relaxed, his visor brightening. “How long have you been here?”

Onslaught paused at the question. “A while.”

“So you don’t know about Megatron’s latest toys?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Reports say they’re from a project called Phase Six. Mean anything to you?”

Phase six. He hadn’t heard the phrase in a long time – they’d been removed from all communication about it after it became abundantly apparent that they were incompatible with the technology and that the only thing keeping them close to hand were the loyalty chips. They had been thrown away and discarded. Again. It was all they were good for.

“They finally got it to work? Good for them.”

“We’ve been picking up the pieces of the trail of carnage they leave behind them. This mission was meant to be a break, a chance to recuperate. Instead,” Hot Spot crossly piled up unmelted snow on top of the exposed and overheating cable, “we’re dealing with something that we seem to have a built in fear response to and we don’t know what it is or why we are meant to be afraid of it. Not to mention the supplies shortage, the fact we can’t contact base until the next season, and we’ve got double the number of mechs we’re meant to have here.”

“And we’re not experiencing the exact same thing?”

It was juvenile. He was egging him on on purpose – digging his fingers in and wiggling them under the plating to get a reaction out of him. Hot Spot had so far been irritatingly composed and patient and it revolted him. He’d seen the mech in a fight, as rough and dirty as the rest of them. Taking him away from his team seemed to be the golden ticket – apparently, it was a front he put on for their benefit. The bait was being dangled, and Hot Spot was snapping at it wonderfully.

Hot Spot was surprisingly strong. Onslaught felt the ice shatter beneath him as the fire engine shoved him down, pinning him by the wrists as their fields crackled and visibly sparked against each other. He felt himself bare his teeth at him, hidden behind his mask – he hoped the annoyed flare in his field passed on the message instead. The fire engine was either stupid or was ignoring it, his face inches from his own.

“My team,” He ground out, “is exhausted. First Aid is sick. They are my family. I am allowed to be concerned about them, and the fact you don’t give two shits about yours doesn’t mean I have to feel the same.”

A red dot appeared on the side of Hot Spots helm. He followed the trajectory and spotted his second perched up on the roof, rifle in hand.

His hand wriggled in Hot Spots grasp and he leaned his head to the side to press two digits firmly against the side of his helm.

::Stand down:: He spoke aloud, Hot Spot flinching and jumping up off of him, whirling around and field flaring when he spotted the sniper on the roof.

“You had us followed?!” He angrily hissed at him.

“My second is neurotic.” Onslaught replied, snow falling from him in thick clumps as he sat up. “As is yours, apparently.” He nodded his helm towards the base – Streetwise was watching them keenly, his hand gripping something tightly at his side.

Hot Spot was quiet for a moment before releasing an angry breath. “We’ll need to cool down the cables and shield. Groove can sort it.” He began to march back to the base. Onslaught was bemused as he watched him, arms folded across his chest. “We shouldn’t leave the shield to check the turbine until we know what that thing is and what it wants with us.”

The first smart thing he’d said all day.

Blast Off landed heavily from the roof and fell into step behind them, Streetwise at his side. The two Autobots peeled off once inside in search of Groove. The space shuttle looked at him pointedly.

“You egged him on.”

Onslaught felt a lecture coming on.

“I did.”

“Don’t forget they’re our exit strategy.”

He watched Blast Off walking ahead of him and was suddenly struck with the thought of how desperately he missed wandering the stars with him.

“I wont.”

The lecture never came.

The ditzy motorcycle trotted out with Brawl trailing behind him ten minutes later. Apparently he had an ability that would allow the cables to cool down and (hopefully) keep their power on – the lights had been flickering the whole time they had waited, at one point turning completely off for over sixty seconds. As much as Onslaught didn’t find the thought of no power ominous, as familiar as it was to him, he much rather it stayed on and powered the console and kept the lights bright. Vortex got weird when he stayed in the dark for too long and Swindle was certain to bitch. Blast Off would be positively despondent, and Brawl would probably go back to sleeping all the time again. No, it wouldn’t be any good – especially when he didn’t know how the Autobot team reacted to being kept permanently in the dark.

The lights stopped flickering, and Brawl and Groove returned not long after. Onslaught had migrated to the rec room with Blast Off by the time they’d come back, pouring over the schematics of the base with him – defensible positions if it came down to it, the best places to trap, where they could store goods they needed easy access to whilst keeping it secure. Brawl gave his commander a thumbs up.

“Did what he could. Power should be stable for a bit longer.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Brawl.”

Brawl moseyed off – probably to go and wash the sludge off of him, the ground had been quite churned up from his scuffle with Hot Spot – and he turned his attention back to the map.

Blast Off was tapping the entrance to the tunnels with his index finger, lost in thought. As always happened whenever he looked at him for too long, his optics strayed across his frame – the thick armour designed to withstand a lifetime of reentries to atmospheres and the cruel climate of space, the minute scratches that he would dread the thought of anyone noticing, the slight inconsistencies in the surface of the metal. His favourite was when his face was visible – blemishes in the metal scattered across his cheeks and nasal bridge like a field of stars. It suited him wonderfully.

Suddenly, the space shuttle turned to face him and snapped him out of his reprieve.

“What if we went down into the tunnels?” He asked. “They’re not perfect, but we know there’s nothing down there.” He turned back to the map, continuing to tap on the trap door. “Easier to defend it too. One way in.”

“But only one way out.” Onslaught replied. There was merit in the thought, though – his second was right. One entry point was significantly easier to defend than a structure where there were multiple entrances and exits and where new ones could easily be made. “I’ll speak to Hot Spot.”

Blast Off preened beside him.

It can’t get any worse than this, they’d thought.

This statement was hastily re-attributed to the shield being blasted open in time to the lights turning off with one final, definitive groan.

Chapter Text

Brawl had just managed to dislodge the last stone that was rattling around in his right tread and driving him to madness when he was suddenly blown flat on his ass by something blowing up.

His vision had exploded into stars, his helm spinning and audials loudly ringing as he recalibrated himself on the floor. The first thing he noticed wasn’t the heat from the fire he could see burning, it was the cold. Wind howled around him, bringing thick flakes of snow and chunks of ice that slowly started to bury him. Debris had been lodged back in his treads again. For fucks sake.

Onslaught promptly pinged them all through the bond demanding a roll call. Brawl shook his helm as he sat up, rubble falling from him, and sent a confirmation ping back. Alive. Wasn’t me for once.

Relief flickered through, and Brawls attention was quickly grabbed by someone struggling in the rubble not too far from him.

A white leg flailed in the air. He shoved what rubble he could from himself & yanked himself free from what he couldn’t, wading through the remnants of what had been the washrack and the corridor that lead to it. They were almost at the edge of the shield, closest to where the hot spot of the shield had been, and where Brawl assumed the blast had come from. There had been tanks on the roof of the building that collected the water the showers used, the gnarled metal of them lay meters away. With this many mechs on base the water had run out fast and collecting more had been a low priority in the face of everything else, so they’d had to resort to strict rationing. Part of him was glad he hadn’t used his precious allocation of water. It would have frozen solid and put him in an even worse mood.

He reached the trapped bot and firmly grasped their leg before tugging them upwards.

Groove popped out of the rubble.

“Oh, thank goodness!” He gasped in relief. “Thank you, uh, Brawl-?” He seemed confused and very surprised.

“Don’t mention it.”

Groove dangled in the air with a stupid expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t expect it to be you. I don’t know what to say.”

“Want me to put you back into the rubble?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’d like to be put down, please.”

Brawl released his hold on him. Groove landed in a heap.

“Ow!”

Brawl was about to tell him to not be such a baby when he felt the crawling prickly feeling of being watched. Typically this wouldn’t have bothered him - he was used to being placed under the scrutiny of others - but he felt his tanks drop and chest tighten as his processor suddenly registered himself as prey and his observer as the predator. Slowly, he turned.

The wind howled and snow swirled, obscuring his vision to no more than a handful of meters. In the distance, stood by the fiery remains of the turbines, was a distorted figure.

Oh, shit.

Groove had seen it too. His plating was puffed out and his teeth were chattering. Brawl noticed belatedly that his were too, his entire frame kicking in to get the hell out of there. But his legs were rooted to the spot and he couldn’t tear his optics away.

“Brawl!” Groove was trying to be quiet, but the loud roar of the wind didn’t allow for secrecy. “Walk backwards! To the wall!”

The fuck is he to tell me what to do? Anger briefly spiked within him and was quickly stuffed down as he flexed his fist, his processor suddenly becoming friends with his legs again and registering that they were there and present. He obliged only to keep him quiet, crouching and shuffling backwards, his feet dragging through the quickly settling snow and ice until his back hit the wall. He’d let it go for now – Onslaught had made it abundantly clear that they were to cooperate, and he couldn’t afford the distraction of correcting Groove’s delusions. Not when whatever that thing watching them was still there.

It was far enough away that Brawl felt confident in outrunning it, but he would have felt much more confident at maintaining that distance between them if he wasn’t starting to feel his lines freezing up and ice building in his joints. Groove was rattling next to him, his thinner armour not providing nearly as much insulation against the cold. Still, he was fiddling with something in his hands, body turned just enough that he couldn’t see what he was doing.

“What are you doing?!” He tried to hiss, but he couldn’t yell loudly enough through his teeth. Groove shook his head, focusing on what he was doing.

“Wait, wait – how well can you throw?”

“I’m alright at it.”

“Chuck this.” He put what was very clearly a make-shift bomb in his hand. It made a weird sloshing noise and he held it at an arms length as he looked at him in trepidation. “Quick – I don’t know how stable the nitrates are.”

Brawl held it by his shoulder, ready to throw. He held his arm out, fingers outstretched as he ran the numbers in his head – the trajectory, the windspeed, the weight – and he lobbed it into the wind. Groove made an aghast sound and began to complain that he’d missed.

“Shut it!” Brawl snapped. He watched it ride on the wind and scowled when he realised that the little Autobot was right. “Fuck, I missed.” He muttered under his breath.

He’d been aiming for it, but with all the snow and ice being carried on the wind he hadn’t realised that it was closer than the generator was. The little bomb Groove had given him was intended to hit it in the head, but instead it landed behind them and just too far to the side for it to cause any real damage.

Didn’t stop it from throwing them upwards though. Another explosion shook them, the dark shape flying up in the blast almost comically. Brawl felt himself laugh, but Groove was already scrabbling on his arm to get him to move, come on, quick! And he had to give in and follow instead of watching where they fell.

The rest of the base was dark, almost pitch black. Meltwater dripped down, only just audible over the howling wind. Broken glass from the windows crackled and crunched under their pedes. What little light there was outside quickly faded and Groove switched on his lights, Brawl blindly stumbling behind him. His biolights weren’t bright enough to cast any kind of glow to his surroundings.

Damn it. Wish I had lights.

Brawl could feel that Onslaught and Blast Off were up ahead and he kept himself moving in that direction – luckily, Groove seemed to be heading the same way. Swindle was rapidly closing in, Vortex not far behind.

“Your team?” He barked at Groove.

“Close.” Groove replied much more calmly. “We’re going below the surface.”

“I have to go back down there?” He asked in disbelief.

“Safest option. Windows all shattered, no shield, no power. That, and…” Groove dared a look behind them. “We’re not alone.”

“If it’s behind us, I’m shooting it.”

“Nothing there, luckily.” Groove swallowed nervously. “I hope it stays that way.”

“This changes the situation somewhat.”

The tension was thick enough to be cut through with a knife. First Aid squirmed awkwardly, helm ducked again. He could still hear their systems – significantly better than they had been the first time they’d met, but still not within optimal operating ranges. The implication of the words was not lost on them – the truce they had operated under previously was on shakier ground.

They’d all made it down to the prison and slammed the hatch behind them. With any luck, the rapidly accumulating ice would lock it shut and make it an extremely loud job to get it open and immediately alert them to anything trying to access it. In the panic they’d miraculously managed to bring their entire energon reserves (bless Swindle for his insistence of keeping it in clearly labelled crates, even if he didn’t have the best intentions at heart) but not much else, other items not considered to be explicitly vital. First Aid had carried as much medical equipment as he could, his subspace uncomfortably full. The stench of old energon still hung heavy in the air and he’d had to bite his cheek in order to not gag. Groove had pulled a face, clearly uncomfortable. The only Combaticon who had seemed bothered by it was Blast Off, but First Aid didn’t feel too surprised by that relevation.

“How are we doing on energon reserves?” Hot Spot turned to look at Streetwise. Streetwise glanced at First Aid before he answered.

“If we ration it, we can just about stretch it until pick-up. We will be operating at a fraction of our capacity, however. None of us will be particularly healthy.”

“What about stasis?” Hot Spot looked to First Aid this time.

“If the pods survived the blast or survive the weather, then some of us can use them – absolutely no chance of hypothermic stasis-lock.” He very firmly replied, pointing to the Combaticons. “It will definitely kill them this time,” he gestured back to them, “And there’s no guarantee that we will survive it, either. To me, it’s not worth the risks.”

“And what is worth the risks?” Onslaught asked. “That we start infighting over fuel?”

First Aid thought of their medical reports, of the check-ups he had given them and all the repairs and replacement parts they had needed. “If it were up to me,” he testily said, “None of your team would be doing anything but rest. Do you have any idea how close you all are to falling to pieces? I’m surprised none of you are showing any signs of the damage you’ve got. Brawl’s engine’s ruined, for fucks sake! He shouldn’t even have been outside! And you!” he whirled onto Vortex. “Your intake is clicking again! What are you even doing to it?!”

Vortex lazily put his hands up and shrugged. “Nothing notable.”

He felt light headed, but pulled a face at him and folded his arms across his chest anyway even as he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t stood at a slant. “Right.”

“Flirt later.” Onslaught cut in. “Now is not the time for it. Hot Spot, you mentioned your relief was coming at the end of the season. When is that?”

“In six groons from our arrival – I’d say about five are left.” He shifted his weight to the other pede. “We might get lucky with a signal at the four and a half point.”

First Aid’s audials started buzzing and he felt that all too familiar feeling suddenly hit him. He felt his knees wobble, and he turned to see how close he was to the wall – he wasn’t sure why, it just felt like the right thing to do. Maybe to see if he could lean against it so he didn’t just crack his helm on the ground, or maybe to check that he wasn’t going to smash his helm against it instead. He didn’t have the time to really think about it, though – suddenly Vortex was next to him, his arms extended out, and his visor streaked across his vision as he felt the world spin and quickly go dark.

Vortex had been the one to catch him.

Hot Spot had flinched when he suddenly jumped, arms thrown out, and First Aid flopped down into his chest. His visor was flickering and quickly blinked off, frame slack, and Vortex had slowly lowered them both down to the floor.

“He’s passed out again.” He said after a moment, his hand at his throat and making Hot Spots hackles raise. Why hadn’t he noticed that? Why hadn’t he noticed that he wasn’t okay? What will it take to get him to get his hand off of his neck?

“We’d be lucky if the medic stays conscious.” Blast Off commented. “I didn’t realise he was narcoleptic.”

“He’s- He’s not – I don’t know what’s happening to him.” Hot Spot knelt down next to him, a hand against his forehelm. “He’s never done this before.” He pulled his field in tight so the others didn’t feel how worried he was. There wasn’t any use in panicking them, especially now they were all locked up underground with no way out.

Vortex shifted as if to pick him up. “We should find somewhere safe to barricade.”

“Uh, no, no, I don’t think so.” Hot spot shook his helm and tightly held his wrists. “I’ll take him, thank you.”

Vortex’s visor flashed. “Why? Don’t trust me?”

No, no I don’t.

“I am his lead. He is my responsibility.”

“You’re not going to like what we are then, if we’re playing that game.” Vortex purred at him.

“Even more reason.” Hot Spot swiftly scooped him up. “Streetwise, you know the tunnels better than I do.”

“The prison’s this way – it’s a bit grim there, but it’s better than here. We can take the best looking cell.”

First Aid hung in his arms like a broken doll and the image of it tugged at his spark. Oh, Aid, what’s happening to you?

After much back and forth, they picked a cell. There had been some initial pushback to them all sharing the same one, but Swindle and Groove had both started shivering in unison and the decision was quickly made. Blast Off and Onslaught dismantled what furniture they could find to block up the bars of the cell with, leaving the door clear for a lookout and a fast exit.

They’d only taken enough energon to last them for two cycles with their strict rationing regime to the cell with them, the remainder staying near the hatch. Hot Spot was already thinking of ways they could bring the generator down – First Aid had mentioned that he thought he may have had a way to thin it down enough for their fliers to process it, but they’d need to do some testing first. It wouldn’t mean much if they didn’t have the energon to test it on.

Brawl and Streetwise took the first watch. He could hear Brawl teaching Streetwise how to play a game, neither of them doing much watching, but they felt safe enough to let it slide for now. First Aid was still unconscious, his helm tucked into his chest and frame held close to keep him warm. He’d be mortified when he woke up, but Hot Spot didn’t find it in him to care when he still hadn’t onlined his optics.

Blast Off was watching him strangely. His lips were pursed, as if thinking about something.

He seemed to sigh, resigning himself to a decision he had made in silence, and he stood, delicately brushing himself off, before walking the few paces over to Vortex. He leaned down to whisper something in his audial, his rotors bouncing.

“Oh?” Vortex said back. “Interesting.”

“What is it?” Blades asked. He was chipping a line into the wall, a macabre marker of their time spent together.

“None of your business.” Vortex said.

“Just an observation.” Blast Off replied at the same time, their voices overlapping.

Blades bristled. “You wanna fight?” He was looking directly at Vortex. Hot Spot couldn’t move and he didn’t want to – not with First Aid on him, his frame startlingly cold – and instead he watched like a hawk.

He knew what Blades was like. He was used to covering him, for finding the right words to defend him and keep him out of the brig. He was efficient, he was effective, and he did his job – he just had the unfortunate violent tendency that all helicopters seemed to be infected with, and it was his job to help him keep it in check. So when Vortex’s hackles raised and he made to loom over him and Blades bristled back, frame whining as he prepared to fight back -

He didn’t intervene. He just simply reminded them that the medic was gone.

“Not too hard, Blades.” He patiently said. “I don’t think Aid will be too happy with you if he wakes up and you’re still bleeding.”

“Not in here, either.” Onslaught piped up. “Take it outside.”

Blades hesitated, conflict clear on his face. He loved to fight, but he also didn’t like it when First Aid was pissed at him. He’d been damn near apocalyptic when he’d started fights in the mess on their last placement and he wasn’t keen to have a repeat, especially when they were now in such close quarters – First Aid would not be nice about it and it was sure to feed Vortex’s fire for teasing him.

“Backing down, are we?” Vortex asked.

Of course, that didn’t mean Vortex shared the same trepidation. Blades harshly glared at him, pointing a blunt finger at his chest and jabbing.

“Three hits.”

“Only three? Best make them count, Blades.”

Metal on metal loudly clanged in the hallway, Brawl cheering them on and taunting Vortex for his limp wrists. Streetwise peered into the cell to grimace at Hot Spot, who could only shrug back. Let him get it out. He’d choose his battles for now.

First Aid woke up on the second hit. He blearily reset his optics, twisting to look up at his commander.

“Did it happen again?” He asked, his voice low as if he didn’t want anyone else to notice he was awake yet. Hot Spot subtly nodded.

“Ugh.” He groaned, pressing his hands to his face. That caught Swindles attention, who loudly announced to everyone that the medic was awake again. He skipped over, crouching down beside them.

“Figured out what it is yet?” He cheerfully asked. First Aid numbly shook his helm in frustration.

“No, not yet.”

“Well, you’re going to want to figure it out.” He said, pointing to the doorway. “Your boyfriend and that other dude are fighting.”

“Who..?” He scanned the room, pushing himself up on Hot Spots forearm-

“Ugh! You’re kidding!” His legs were shaky, his system still not fully online yet, but he still forced himself up and marched over to the doorway. He hung heavily onto the bars of the cell as he took a wrench from his subspace, which was quickly followed by a loud clang as he managed to hit someone with it.

“OW!”

Blades, then. He was half sure Vortex would have moaned.

“What did I just say!” First Aid sounded furious. “Stop it! Stop it right now!”

Brawl was laughing, the sound rattling his chassis.

“Aww, ruining our courting display.” Vortex complained. First Aid rummaged in his subspace for another wrench.

“Isn’t that Ratchets thing?” Onslaught quietly asked him, leaning closer to ask the question. Hot Spot leaned back.

“Yup. Where do you think he got it from?”

“I thought he was a pacifist.”

“He is until he’s angry.” He conspiratorially leaned closer. “Don’t tell him that, though. It makes him madder.”

Onslaught eyed up the other weapon of choice he had extracted from his subspace – another wrench, bigger this time. He didn’t much fancy that hitting him in the helm. “Noted.”

When Onslaught wasn’t busy getting under his plating, Hot Spot found him quite tolerable. He’d heard from Prowl how much of a challenge Onslaught made himself to be sometimes – he’d often said that if he hadn’t been shackled to the Decepticons, he’d have been a much bigger problem for them than Megatron let them be. When Starscream was almost successful in his attempt at making a very viable third party, Prowl had only been relaxed about it because Starscream was very likely to make the same mistake as Megatron. And, now that he was looking at him how he was in his down time and not whilst they were in the middle of a battlefield, he noticed that he wasn’t actually all that bad looking, either.

He quickly looked away. It would have been hypocritical of him if he let that train of thought keep going – if he got on First Aid’s case about his fraternisation with the enemy, then he had zero ground to go and do it himself.

First Aid dragged Blades in by the hand and Vortex by the audial. Onslaught snorted into his fist, poorly disguising it as a cough, and Hot Spot studiously ignored the way his spark jumped.

Nobody was quite sure how much time had passed. Blades continued to dutifully check off the cycles on the wall, going by the ever more inaccurate chronometers. First Aid had passed out again at least twice, each time growing ever more miserable about it. He was currently curled up in the corner on a scavenged mat to keep him up off of the cold floor, despondently scrolling through the datapad that they’d found in the morgue. Apparently he was trying to decode it, but he could tell from the frustration in his field that he wasn’t getting all that far.

I wish I knew what was wrong with him.

They took it in turns doing different things. Exploration for new supplies, fetching energon from the stores, and keeping watch. As the energon was stored by the hatch, it was a simple task to check it – was the ice still there? Had it been broken? Can you hear anything?

They hadn’t heard a single thing up there since. Streetwise had set up a detector to record any sounds made to be sure, but still nothing. They took it as a sign that maybe whatever it was had moved on, no longer attracted by the sights and sounds of life. They still didn’t feel completely safe.

Hot Spot often wound up with Onslaught. They were frequently paired for the energon runs – a symptom of him being the only large frame on his team and of Onslaught being their heaviest hitter in case of a breech – which meant that he had a lot of time to watch him when nobody else was around. If he wasn’t with Onslaught then he was with Blast Off, and Blast Off wasn’t nearly as fun to watch when he was on his own as he was when Onslaught was around.

Hot Spot felt bad for Blast Off. He knew just by looking at him that he would do anything for his commander, even going as far as to come to harm just to get his approval. That he hung onto his every word. He knew more about Blast Off from what he said in his sleep than by what he said whilst he was awake.

And Blast Off was infatuated.

And, Hot Spot suspected, Onslaught might have been better at hiding his reciprocation.

“So.” Hot Spot sounded conversational as he placed a cube of watered down energon down beside Onslaught and sat down an arms length away, taking point to stare down the long, endless tunnel. “What’s up with you and Blast Off?”

Onslaught bristled. “Nothing is up with me and Blast Off.”

Bingo.

“No? Really?”

Onslaught glanced back into the cell. Six recharging frames. Brawl and Streetwise were missing, out on a supply run – they’d headed off down a section of the tunnels that they hadn’t been down yet to scout out any potential entrances they hadn’t found or any other supplies they could find. They’d only found two recharge mats so far, and one of them had been ring-fenced for the medic on account of his mystery illness. Thank Primus it wasn’t anything contagious. Hot Spot watched as his orange visor scanned the room as he looked for one frame in particular.

He looked into the corner that Hot Spot remembered Blast Off curling up into and he marginally relaxed before turning back to face him.

“We are in a war, Hot Spot. I didn’t think you the type to allow such distractions.”

“I get the sentiment.” Hot Spot replied, swirling his cube and watching as the two different viscosities mixed together. “But with a war that’s gone on for this long, I don’t see the appeal of denying yourself of life's pleasures. Especially when you could easily be dead tomorrow.”

“Then I reverse the question to you.”

“Unfortunately my team keeps me busy enough.” He glanced back into the room affectionately. “They also seem to scare away anyone who dares get close.”

“Blades?” Onslaught asked.

“What makes you say that?”

A shrug. “Vortex.”

“Of course. Yes, you’re right then – it’s mostly Blades, although I do have my suspicions about First Aid.”

“I was under the impression that he was your distraction.”

My distraction? What a funny way to put it.

“No, not at all. I told you before – they’re my family. Besides.” He glanced at Onslaught. “I think we both know where he’s standing on the matter.”

The mech tutted and pointed at him with the hand that held his cube, his other digits curling slightly to hold the weight of it without his index finger. “Just you wait until your bond’s older, it’ll piss you off even more.”

“The connection gets stronger?”

“Exponentially.” He grumbled, finally retracting his mask to take a sip. Hot Spot couldn’t look away now that his processor had started to notice things about him. He, like the other members of his team, hadn’t come out of the war unscathed. His upper lip had been split multiple times in the same place, the scar slowly encroaching upwards and almost under his visor. He wanted to lean in closer and inspect it, to run the tips of his fingers into the groove and feel how deep it went, and he quickly looked away and busied himself with drinking from his cube before he said or did anything really stupid.

Don’t get involved, he scolded himself. He’s your colleague right now and he’ll be your enemy again later.

“So an older connection lets you feel more?” He asked.

“Better for everything. Ever wondered why Devastator holds together so well?”

“You’re kidding? That’s why? I thought they were just too single minded to split apart.”
“No, surprisingly it’s not their one processor that they pass around like a hot potato.” Hot Spot sensed an old rivalry hidden in there, but stayed quiet to let him continue. “It’s the fact all they’ve ever known is each other.”

“Are you sure you should be telling me this?”

“No skin off of my back. You’ll figure it out for yourself in a couple vorn anyway.”

Hot Spot sat up straighter and put his cube down with a frown as he felt Streetwise getting closer. It was way too early for him to be heading back yet, and at the speed he was approaching it suggested he was in alt mode.

“Something’s wrong.” He quickly stood and jogged over to the tunnel Streetwise had gone down with Brawl. “Is Brawl coming back too?”

Onslaught was suddenly at his side. “He isn’t.”

Streetwise’s engines echoed down the hall and he flew out of the end of the tunnel, rapidly transforming as Hot Spot caught him. He was breathless and covered in dust and grime.

“The tunnels aren’t stable – the ceiling collapsed on Brawl.”

Onslaught was gone before Hot Spot fully registered what he’d said.

“Show us where.”

They all flew down the tunnels in altmode, headlights illuminating the way. With a stab, Hot Spot realised that Brawl didn’t have any lights – he’d been left completely in the dark with only his own biolights to provide a little illumination. The thought had him speeding up a little.

“Sure took your time!” Brawl snapped. His knees were bent under the weight of the rock above him, his arms trembling. There was an ominous groan and dust and small particulates fell as he shifted the weight of it onto his shoulders with a grunt, exhaling loudly. “Shit! This is so heavy!”

Still has a mouth on him. Good. Mechs on deaths door very rarely had much to say.

“Sorry I can’t travel at lightspeed!” Streetwise snapped back.

“Shut up and help me get it off him!” Onslaught braced himself against the rockfall that Brawl was currently pinned under, barely upright and legs shaking. His engine whined at the additional strain, and Hot Spot could tell that he wouldn’t be holding it for much longer. He reached into his subspace and pulled out his mobile supports, quickly setting them up either side of him to take weight off before mirroring Onslaught.

“On three.” He calmly said before beginning to count them down. “One, two, three!”

Brawl rolled forwards the moment the pressure allowed it, coughing up dust. Hot Spot held his position for a moment before slowly releasing it, the supports creaking and groaning but holding firm.

“You okay?” he asked Brawl. Brawl gave him a thumbs up as he manually cleared his vents.

“Oh, thank Primus.” Streetwise weakly said, sinking down to his knees. “I didn’t know what we’d do if we couldn’t get you out.”

“What happened?” Onslaught asked. Streetwise went to reply, but his attention was quickly stolen by the ominous buckling of the supports.

“Uh- Hot Spot-!”

The metal loudly creaked, the ceiling making a loud cracking sound. Brawl’s arm shot out to snatch Streetwise, tugging him backwards towards him and out of the way of the second round of collapse. Onslaught went the other way, full-body shoving Hot Spot to the other side.

His spark thudded in his chest as adrenaline rocketed through him, his fuel pump going haywire as everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Rock cascaded down around them, kicking up fine particulates and large boulders alike. They both rolled together, their momentum keeping them ahead of the rockslide until they both came to a halt, systems loudly humming and vents heaving. His frame tensed as if ready for a fight, his legs pinned by something – and he stared directly into a bright orange visor.

He was lucky that he had a thick layer of dust settling on him – he could feel his cheeks set aflame by Onslaughts proximity, his frame suddenly lighting up and becoming hyper aware of their position.

… Oh. Oh, no.

He might be a little infatuated too.

Chapter Text

“Hot spot!”

“Boss!”

Brawl and Streetwise helplessly watched as the ceiling came down over them. Brawl had twisted to take the worst of the impact, dust and debris raining down over them. Streetwise coughed and choked as the fine particulate clogged his vents, collecting on his filters and blinding him as it stuck to the crystal of his optics. Brawl didn’t sound much better, his ex-vents choked and his engine growling. Streetwise fought his grip, scrabbling desperately against him as rocks audibly dinged against their armour.

“Let me go – Hot Spot!”

“Can it!” Brawl snapped, his engine snarling physically shaking Streetwise. “What’s yelling going to do!”

“But-!”

“But nothing!” Brawl shoved him to the side before tugging his legs free – he’d wound up partially buried himself – and pulling himself upright. “We have our orders.”

“… Do we?” Streetwise sniffled. His sensors were becoming irritated by the dust, cleanser starting to run and clear them out. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I’m – oh, wait-” He held up a finger as he felt Hot Spot pinging at the bond.

S-U-P-P-O-R-T-T-H-E-R-O-O-F

Support the roof?

Images of the supply crates flickered across the connection, the ones that they’d unloaded when they had first arrived on the planet. One of them had been emergency supplies that Hot Spot had insisted on them bringing.

Oh. Oh!

“Hot Spot brought spares with him, more of those supports.” Streetwise played with his fingers, counting off the steps. “We’ll have to go up the hatch, though. They didn’t get brought down with us. Don’t suppose anyone on your team can do geo phys?”

Brawl looked blankly down at him.

“Right. Figured as such.” He took a shaky breath and pinged Hot Spot, pressing his palm to the wall that now stood between them.

O-K-A-Y?

I-N-T-A-C-T

W-I-L-L-G-E-T-H-E-L-P

Brawl had started to walk down the passage and back to the others. He whistled sharply for him.

“Hurry up. I can’t see.”

On the other side of the wall, Onslaught was slowly extracting himself from Hot Spot. Bright blue ran down his side and pooled onto the floor. Hot Spot felt his head throb and something jammed into his back, his leg worryingly numb. Any embarrassment or heat from their proximity quickly evaporated as his sensor net and HUD alike lit up with alerts and warnings, detailed lists of damage and reports on the poor air quality. He dismissed them as they came through.

“Ngh…” He groaned, a wire pinching when his hips adjusted with the shift in weight.

“Those supports didn’t do us any good.”

“Didn’t think we were that deep.” He gingerly pushed himself upright and inspected his legs. “I’m more surprised Brawl was holding it.”

“I’ve trained them well.” Hints of pride snuck into Onslaughts voice making Hot Spots brow raise and tanks flop. Oh no.

There was a dent in his hip that was crushing the cabling underneath – an old injury already pressed against them awkwardly, and the additional pressure was enough to disrupt the flow of electrons and energon alike. Holding his breath, Hot Spot wriggled his fingers underneath the plating and slowly released it as he prepared himself for the sharp stab that was about to follow. Onslaught watched him curiously, a hand pressed against his side as blue trickled between his fingers.

I’ll have to fix that next, Hot Spot thought as he sharply inhaled and twisted his fingers at the same time. The plating audibly popped out, accompanied by a loud gasp quickly followed by a pained groan as sensation suddenly flooded back down his leg, the limb popping and crackling on his sensor net as the circuits began to shake hands with each other. He roughly massaged his leg to stimulate the flow of energon and huffed.

“Right.” His voice didn’t sound as strong as he had wanted it to. “Your turn. Show me your side.” He still furiously rubbed his leg, the pain slowly abiding.

“It will stop on its own.”

“Come on, don’t be like Brawl. Show me.”

Onslaughts plating flared up at the injustice. “You’re wasting your time, it’s just a scratch.”

“I’ve just had to free my own cabling – which, now that I think about it, was because of an injury that you gave me.” He pointed at him harshly. “Sonic canyons. Third year. You owe me something for that.”

Recognition flickered across his visor. “The slag pits. I thought it was the fifth.”

“Depends on the calendar you used – they must have not been standardised at the time. So. Show me. I wont make it hurt on purpose, promise.”

“You are incogitable.” Onslaught finally moved his hand, the energon now sticky and congealing into thick sludge, and Hot Spot shifted to kneel down beside him and inspect it.

It went deeper than Onslaught was letting on and he winced, taking his first aid kit from his subspace and popping it open. He was lucky First Aid had been so keen to restock them before they left – he’d used it down until only adhesive was left on their last rotation. Deft fingers plucked the bottle of bonding agent, disinfectants, and gauze. He’d promised that he wouldn’t make it hurt on purpose, but that didn’t mean that it was going to be a relaxing experience for either of them.

“I can see something stuck inside, but I don’t think either of our hands are small enough.” Hot Spot said. “So I’ll cover it until we can get someone smaller to get it out – I don’t think you want me rooting around in there.”

“Not particularly.” Onslaught agreed. He eyed up the disinfectant and bonding agent suspiciously. “I didn’t realise you were at the slag pits.”

“I was.” Hot Spot replied as he soaked a rag with disinfectant and pressed it firmly against the open wound. Onslaught loudly hissed and his arm flew up as if to knock him upside the helm before stopping himself.

“Pit! You said it wouldn’t hurt!”

“No, I said I wouldn’t hurt you on purpose. There’s a difference.”

Onslaught loudly huffed. “If it weren’t for you being so soft I’d think you were a sadist.”

“I’d rather leave that to your team.” Hot Spot cleaned up as much as he could, pausing to inspect the wound again before turning his attention to the gauze and bonding agent. “Speaking of sadists, I remember Vortex being there too. At the slag pits. Pretty sure I punched him in the face, actually, when he landed on one of my squad mates.”

“I don’t remember any of your gestalt being there.”

“First Aid was, but he was a few kliks behind the front line in the medical area. You wouldn’t have seen him.”

It was easier to deal with it when he didn’t have to touch him – the rag was enough of a buffer for him to be able to ignore the warmth of his plating and the way their fields pressed together, but now that he had to manually poke and prod at it to remove the smaller debris that sat on the surface it was a much harder task. Tweezers wouldn’t do the job, and he didn’t have the coordination that First Aid did with them. It had to be a manual job, there wasn’t any getting away with it.

So he gently brushed away the smaller stones, quickly sweeping behind himself with more disinfectant as if washing himself away, and tried not to think about the proximity or about how Onslaught was definitely staring at him.

“Where were the others?”

“Different battlefields.” Hot Spot knocked a particularly large pebble loose and it loudly clattered to the floor. “They’d decided that it wasn’t advantageous for us to form Defensor, so we were separated.”

“That’s code for lack of fuel. I didn’t think it got that bad for you.”

“It is code for lack of fuel, isn’t it? Well, we didn’t either. I suppose they were just being cautious.”

“Starving their mechs isn’t cautious.”

“No. It’s cruel.” Hot Spot agreed. He was well aware of their treatment at the hands of Megatron – First Aid had been the one to first tell him about it when he’d first caught the optic of Vortex as a way to placate him. They’re chronically under fuelled, he’d said. There’s no way they’d ever catch up to me if I run, and if it’s bad I can just slash a vein. They’d bleed out in seconds. He’d said it so confidently, as if he’d find it easy to ever hurt anyone. Later battles and their time together at the research station only served to corroborate it. They were deficient until Megatron needed them.

He’d managed to work the worst of the debris out, and now they were either so small or so wedged in that he’d cause damage trying to remove them. With a final swipe of disinfectant, Hot Spot lined up the gauze and dabbed the bonding agent onto all four corners before going in more liberally along the edges to ensure it stuck.

“How does it feel?” He asked.

Onslaught flexed and stretched, raising his arm on the damaged side and leaning from side to side to assess it. “Fine. Thank you, Hot Spot.” He twisted to look down the clear end of the tunnel. “Suppose we should start walking.”

“No.” Hot Spot firmly replied. Onslaught whipped around, but Hot Spot held up a finger in the universal sign for wait and be quiet. “We don’t know where it goes, or where we’ll end up. What will we do if it collapses again? Then we’ll really be up shit creek without a paddle. In emergency situations, unless you’re in danger, you stay put.”

“So we sit and wait like princesses in the tower?”

“Yes, because someone is coming to get us. We don’t have to get ourselves out of this mess, Onslaught, we’re not alone.”

Onslaught rolled his optics, visible even behind his visor in the way he moved his helm with the motion. “Such an Autobot mentality. What happens if they don’t come?”

“I was search and rescue before the war.” Hot Spot cocked his hip, ignoring the sharp jab it elicited. “This is my bread and butter. You’re not calling any shots here. Whatever that thing is outside gets in? I will happily differ to your command. But right now? This is my forte, and you’re going to listen to me.”

“And what if I refuse?”

“Then that will be your choice, but you will be on your own.”

“Here I was under the impression search and rescue went above and beyond to save all life, sacred as it is.”

“I can’t save anyone if I die trying to save someone who doesn’t want to be rescued. I could save many more in the time it takes to drag your sorry aft out of whatever situation we’re in.”

“And if you die saving someone who wants to be saved?”

“Then I die saving someone. I serve as an inspiration.”

“That’s stupid.”

“You’re trying to start a fight, aren’t you? Why are you so desperate for my hands to be on you?”

He’d said to much in just a single sentence – his own wants and desires had spilled free, projected onto another. His hands flexed as he felt them buzz underneath the surface, phantom heat from where the tips of his digits had touched Onslaughts exposed protoform radiating down to his palm.

“You are a distraction.” Onslaught firmly said.

He knew it wasn’t wise, that he was goading him, but it burned in his chest and it set his spark aflame and he’d spoken without registering it. “Like Blast Off is?”

“Yes,” Onslaught hotly replied, “Exactly like he is.”

Hot spot hadn’t been expecting that response. He hadn’t been expecting it at all. Onslaught was looking directly at him, his visor carrying a heat to it that wasn’t entirely anger and he felt it buzzing across his sensor net. He didn’t remember how to do this, what the next motions were. The other mech was – miraculously – feeling in some way back, and it left him floundering. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this, either through lack of time or through the other mech showing an interest back, the hesitant matching of steps as they danced around each other. Onslaught had met his own movements so firmly with his own that it made him feel breathless when he stopped to think about it.

“You don’t have to make me mad to get my attention.”

“It’s the only way I know how.”

Hot Spot couldn’t help but laugh. “And I’m meant to be the incogitable one.”

Onslaught flexed his hands as if trying to anticipate his next move.

“I’ve been wondering about that scar on your face.” Hot Spot tapped his own mask in roughly the place it was in. “What’s it from?”

“It’s a souvenir from some backwater planet.” His mask snapped back and he touched it, his fingers dipping into the groove – Hot Spot felt his systems lurch as he urged to do the same. “They’d managed to get hold of Cybertronian tech despite being a primitive species.” He pushed his visor up with his thumb, showing the extent of it and a peek of honey orange optics underneath. “Lucky bastards.”

Hot Spot felt funny. He shouldn’t be able to see this, he shouldn’t have been allowed – Onslaught wasn’t meant to have a face, he wasn’t meant to have optics. It felt… close. Intimate, even – too much for them to have. A canine flashed at him, sharp and vicious, and he felt a tug.

“How deep is it?”

“Why don’t you find out?”

Onslaught grabbed his hand and tugged it to his face, firmly pressing his fingers to the scar.

Guilt gnawed away at him. He’d set the rule with First Aid – No Vortex – and the implicit understanding behind it was one that he himself was breaking as he allowed the tips of his fingers to trace the edges of the scar, to map it out and commit it to memory. His thumb strayed and pressed against his bottom lip, the tip of a sharp canine pressing against the pad through metal. Onslaught tilted his helm, lips slightly parted, and Hot Spot found himself mirroring him.

Primus, Blast Off, forgive me.

More than anyone, Blast Off needed a distraction. He had spent so much time pacing back and forth that the floor could be used as a very effective mirror, and so with that in mind he had been sent with Groove, Streetwise, and Brawl on a supply run. First Aid had given everyone a quick once-over and had been strongly against sending Brawl whilst he was still recovering from bearing the weight of literal tonnes of rock, but even he couldn’t argue against them needing both the firepower and the ability to shift big loads quickly, so he reluctantly watched them disappear into the overwhelming darkness of the underground.

“If it’s right there,” Streetwise began as they picked their way through the rubble, Groove at the back and Streetwise at the front to give Blast Off and Brawl light to see by given the lack of their own built-in lighting, “Then Groove, use your liquid nitrogen. We’ll try freeze it out.”

“It might get blown away too fast in the wind.” Groove warned.

“There should be enough of a structure up to give you some cover in that case – it was still there when we went down and nothing’s been picked up on the recorder.”

“What are we doing?” Brawl asked.

“If it’s clear, you’ll need to help me grab some crates.”

“And which crates are we getting?”

“It’s the bigger ones, you’ll see Autobot symbols on them – they’re our emergency supply kits. They didn’t expect anything to happen to us, but just in case, you know? We’re not able to call home for a while.”

Blast Off pressed his back to the hatch and activated his booster just enough to get it warm, the ice that had formed around it slowly melting. Their breath fogged the air around them, and Streetwise had a sinking feeling in his chest that this would be the last time they didn’t feel a chill sinking deeply into their joints.

The hatch popped open and Blast Off was the first to look, the tingle of a scan washing over all of their sensor nets. He paused for a moment, his systems straining, before he gave them a thumbs up.

All clear.

It was dim – light enough to be able to pick your way through, but dark enough that the finer details were completely lost. Miraculously no snow had accumulated – all four walls were still intact, and the quick sweep Groove gave outside confirmed that a good sized chunk of the base was still standing. With that in mind, they began to look for the relevant crates - temperature alerts pinged up on their HUD’s, alerting them to the cold conditions. Streetwise pinned his armour closer to his protoform and breathed onto his hands to try and bring some feeling back into them.

“There.” Blast Off pointed to a crate. “It must be these ones.”

Streetwise stumbled over, his legs going numb already, and swiped away frost.

EMERGENCY

“They have to be. Brawl!” He called to the tank. “Help us lift this!”

There were three of the crates, all stacked up together thank Primus. They scraped loudly across the ground as they shifted them into position, the two Combaticons manoeuvring them down into the tunnel as Groove sat on lookout, peering nervously into the ever encroaching darkness. Streetwise helped them orientate the crate, but after the first time Brawl had snapped at him to stop getting in the way he decided to take a step back and investigate the other crates, hopping from pede to pede to keep himself moving. If memory served him right, there was one crate here in particular that he wanted to find. He checked his internal temperature and logs as the third and final crate descended, and wiped frost away on another supply crate.

Bingo. Right where they’d left it.

They had time.

“Let’s take this one too.” He said, placing his hand on top of it. “It’s got condensed energon stores, we’ll probably be wanting these.”

Brawl and Blast Off had moved into position to pick it up when Groove suddenly tensed and panic pulsed along the bond. Streetwise shot bolt upright, helm whipping towards the door, and the two Combaticons paused.

“What-?” Blast Off began to hiss to Streetwise when they heard it.

“Oh, there you are.” Something said in what was clearly Onslaughts voice.

“Onslaught?” Blast Off frowned. Brawl squinted into the doorway, a dark shape appearing in the distance. Groove rapidly shook his head.

“Nope nope nope-!”

The shape wasn’t the right size, but it did look like Onslaught if you squinted. Two turrets emerged from the back, broad shoulders, even the way he walked. If he was limping. Brawl felt a familiar tickle down his spine, a coolness curling around his spark.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been?”

“That is not Onslaught.” Blast Off was scowling, his hackles raised. His visor flicked around the room as if looking for something – Streetwise fumbled in his subspace and almost threw his stun gun at him.

“Your aim is better!” He said, lunging forwards to grab Groove and almost shoving him down the hatch. “Brawl, help with the crate!”

They managed to shove it to the hatch, Groove barely scrambling out of the way underneath as it overbalanced and fell down with a tremendous bang. Streetwise fell down shortly after, followed by Brawl who had Blast Off tucked under his arm, loudly yelling profanities and trying to fire a gun that had already run out of charge. The two Protectobots used all their weight to slam the hatch closed, Groove quickly blasting it with liquid nitrogen to freeze it solid.

“Holy shit.” He gasped. “Oh, it’s so much scarier the second time.” He clutched his spark. Streetwise wrapped an arm around his shoulder, the two of them clinging to each other as they trembled.

“It mimicked him almost perfectly.” Blast Off threw the gun down in disgust. “Are you sure it’s the same one from before?” He turned to look up at Brawl, hanging limply in his hold.

“It’s limping on the right leg.” He replied. “Must’ve hurt it pretty bad before.” His hands were trembling. Blast Off didn’t comment on it.

First Aid was waiting for them.

“What happened?” He asked, wringing his hands. “I felt you panic.”

“Blocked Hot Spot. He doesn’t know.” Groove admitted. “Didn’t think he’d be able to handle not being here when we needed him.”

“That thing was there.” Streetwise said. “It pretended to be Onslaught.”

First Aid looked like he felt sick.

“What?”

“There’s so much about it we don’t know.” Streetwise felt nauseous himself. “How – are we going to be okay?”

“But it – it couldn’t even talk properly the last time. How can it pretend to be us now?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Streetwise helplessly replied.

First Aid couldn’t settle himself down. His core coding was screaming at him to do something, but he didn’t know what. His job was to make things better, but how did he make this better? What could he possibly do? All he could do was give them basic scans and poke and prod where he could and hope that he didn’t pass out in the process.

Waiting for Hot Spot and Onslaught to be rescued sucked. Waiting for the others to come back from their supply run had been the worst.

First Aid couldn’t keep himself still. He wasn’t allowed to go on the supply run on account of his constant fainting, and so he was left to continue the noble cause of polishing the floor to a mirror-like shine. Vortex had very kindly sat down with him and popped the panels on his arm to let him root around between the cables, but even that only did so much for him in terms of a distraction.

“That’s the third screwdriver.” First Aid said as he carefully extracted a flathead – that was new – from his bicep. It was vaguely sticky, and he carefully placed it down next to them. Vortex shrugged.

“Little treasures for you to find.”

“Where are you even getting these from?”

“Your toolboxes.”

“My-” First Aid stopped, his fingers still in between cables in his elbow and firmly pressing them apart, and stared at him. “I thought- Vortex!”

He shrugged again. “Always gave them back, didn’t I?”

That was true – Streetwise had been trying to fix the door to the room they were in, the bottom of it catching every time it moved. He had stood up, complaining about needing a screwdriver and making to rummage in the one toolbox they had managed to bring down with them when Vortex had simply reached into his knee, pulled one out, and handed it to him. It was sticky.

“This one work?” He’d asked.

“… Okay, I don’t even know where to begin with that. Do you just have these inside of you?” Streetwise was equal parts bewildered and disgusted.

“Yeah.”

He hadn’t elaborated. Streetwise stared at him as if expecting him to until it became abundantly clear that he wasn’t going to.

“Alright then.”

It had been such a non-event at the time in comparison to everything else going on – First Aid had only been vaguely aware of it on the edge of his conscious, more focused on the datapad in front of him that he was busy deciphering, but coupled with him physically extracting them and finding out that they were from his toolbox in the first place?

Vortex was lucky that the bond had flooded with panic, quickly followed by the sound of a crate slamming into the ground echoing down the hallway, having them all up on their pedes in seconds.

“Stay!” First Aid barked at them, quickly running towards the hatch.

They’d all been physically okay, but the news his team brought was disturbing at best. First aid felt his hands tremble as he busied himself with checking them all over. They were all intact, they were all fine, but the unmistakable feeling of fear permeated through all of them and made him feel sick.

He was looking over Blast Off when Vortex plonked himself down beside him. “How’s he looking?”

“As good as he could be, given the situation.” First Aid replied. He ran through an inventory in his head of the things he needed, of what was missing. “Could do with some de-icing, but we’ll have to let that happen naturally and hope the joints don’t corrode too much.” He looked up at Blast Off. “Go join the others – you’re on rest until the ice clears. I can’t fix or replace your joints if they get damaged.”

“Aren’t we going to dig Onslaught out? And Hot Spot?” He added on as an afterthought.

“Yes, we are.” First Aid patiently replied, “But we can’t do anything if your joints are sticking together. You’ll fall apart before we even get them out.”

Blast Off was thankfully a fast learner when it came to listening to the medic, a blessing given the erst of his team. He begrudgingly sat himself down next to Brawl, the two leaning into each other. First Aid watched them, his visor dimming as fatigue suddenly caught up with him.

“You good?” Vortex poked his side. “Not gonna pass out again, are you?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” He rubbed his visor and ex-vented heavily. “Have you heard from Onslaught?”

“They’re alive and well.” Vortex cheerfully replied. “He seems almost perky.”

“Thank goodness, that’s such a relief. Can you tell them to get some rest?” First Aid asked, knotting his fingers together. “They didn’t finish their last rations and they’ll likely miss their next, so they should put as much as they can into stasis and try and recharge now whilst it’s voluntary. I don’t have the proper equipment to re-energise them should they go offline.”

“Done and done.” Vortex rubbed his helm, making sure to press his thumb firmly at the base of his audial, just where he knew he liked it. “Ons has given the thumbs up, they’re shutting down now.”

First aid sighed in relief. “Thank you.” He turned to the others. “You guys too – get some rest. We’ll need energy for the next part.”

Hot Spot woke up feeling cosy and warm, two feelings that he had almost forgotten, and to the sound of something slowly chipping away at the wall.

He sat up sharply, Onslaught grunting as he was unceremoniously dislodged from his shoulder and slumped onto the floor. The mech grumbled and grunted, rubbing at his optics from under his dim visor.

“What?” He sounded very cross, but it was hard to be too frightened by it when his voice was still thick with sleep and static.

“Someone’s digging.” Hot Spot pinged his team, and Streetwise enthusiastically pinged back.

S-U-P-P-O-R-T-S

His field flared in relief. Streetwise, you’re the best! He pressed the back of his hand against the wall to assess where the vibrations were strongest, and began to slowly pick away at the wall. Onslaught looked bewildered.

“What are you doing?”

“Streetwise has the supports – he’s going to hand them through here, and then when we’ve got ample support, we can start to excavate more.”

It always surprised Hot Spot how hands on Onslaught was. Once he knew the reason for something, he usually threw himself into it with as much enthusiasm as he allowed himself to have. He caught himself watching him and the way his plating slid over itself and how cables flexed and tensed as he worked before quickly looking back at the wall and carefully extracting another large stone.

Light peeked through on the other side and his intakes caught.

“I see them!” He excitedly said. He heard Streetwise cheer on the other side and a relieved sigh from who could only have been First Aid.

“Hot Spot!” Streetwise chirped. “Oh, we’re so glad to see you! Are you both alright?”

Streetwise suddenly vanished and was replaced with First aid. “Are you injured? Vortex said that Onslaught has something stuck in him, is he still bleeding?”

“We’re both fine.” Hot Spot replied. “Pass through the supports, then you can take a look at us.”

The supports went up easily. Hot Spot checked them and inspected the ceiling and walls for any signs of further shifting rock – the energon that had sprayed on the opposite wall from Onslaughts side was still there meaning that in the time they’d been trapped, there had been no further movement. It probably wasn’t completely safe, but it would do.

“I think we’re good to go here.” Hot Spot said. He wasn’t a geologist, but it wasn’t the first time he’d had to free people trapped underground – it was just strange being one of the ones being rescued. “When you remove the rock, build a wall over on that side,” He pointed, “It’ll give us extra structural support.”

Instructions relayed to the other side of the wall, the excavation began.

First Aid had been through the gap like a whippet the moment it was big enough. Brawl could be heard laughing on the other side, the sound a wheezy bark, as the medic wriggled through. He marched straight over to Onslaught, hand braced on his abdomen as he looked at the blue speckled gauze on his side. Hot Spot felt a flash of jealousy that he was able to touch him so freely, but quickly squashed it down with a shake of his helm and by sticking his hands under a particularly heavy boulder.

“Oh, Vortex made this sound so much worse.” First Aid said as he peeked under the gauze. “This can wait until we’re back.” He turned his attention to his commander and it was his turn to be placed under his scrutiny. He motioned for him to sit down and looked at the back of his helm. He made a satisfied noise before kneeling down to look at his hip.

“I popped it out like this.” He made the motion with his hands – First Aid often found it helpful when he saw exactly how things were done.

“It looks a bit swollen, but I think that’s just the scar underneath.” First Aid said. “You can wait too – I’ll see Onslaught first, if that’s okay?”

“Of course that’s fine! He’s the one with a rock lodged inside him.”

The gap was wide enough for Onslaught to slip through. He motioned for the two to follow, First Aid pushing his commander to go ahead of him, and the three of them made to duck through the gap.

Onslaught went through first, ducking down and nicking his helm on an outcrop. He hissed, rubbing at the scrape it left behind, and stepped out of the way as Hot Spot followed behind him. A dark hand shot out and wrapped around the offending rock as he was about to hit it, instead bumping against warm fingers.

Twin helms tilted to the side in unison and Hot Spot felt a sinking feeling in his chest. Vortex was looking sharply at the hand on the wall that stopped Hot Spot from hitting his helm. First Aid was behind him, but he could feel his inquisitive stare through the bond.

Nobody else seemed to notice. Streetwise was anxiously watching the supports for any sign of failure, and Brawl was. Well. The mech was about as subtle as a missile in a fertiliser plant, and it extended to his ability to notice things, which was all just an incredibly long way to say that he didn’t seem to register the gesture at all.

Hot Spot didn’t want anyone to notice.

“Oh- thanks.” He awkwardly said. First Aid slipped out behind him quickly moving to stand behind Vortex. The two shared a look that he didn’t know how to decipher, but he could take a pretty good guess at what it meant.

Chapter Text

Hot Spot did not like the news that they had brought from the surface. Onslaught liked it even less.

“And we’re absolutely certain nobody here has ever heard of what this thing even is?” Hot Spot confirmed, looking around the circle they were all sat in.

“Not a single clue.” Blast Off bit the tips of his claws. “We had stories of shapeshifters in Vos, but…” He shook his head. “Not like this.”

“All our stories were of things that existed in tunnels.” Brawl replied. “I am not sharing those so you piss-pants can use it as an excuse to cuddle.”

First Aid leaned heavily against Blades. He couldn’t keep himself upright, his helm spinning again. He felt himself slump forwards, Blades arm shooting out to catch him as stars erupted in his vision.

“Hey, go lie down, okay?” Hot Spot gently said to him. “Please?”

“I’m fine.” First Aid waved him off agitatedly.

“You’re not even keeping yourself upright.” Hot Spot argued. Blast Off huffed and stood up, stooping down to pick him up and marching over to where his sleeping pad was.

“You’ve got the luxury of a padded berth – use it.” He crossly snapped. “You’re no good if you’re like this. Listen to your commander.”

First Aid couldn’t even argue against it – he’d passed out as the shuttle had picked him up.

“We should move rooms.” Onslaught said. They had a crude map scratched out on the ground in between them, rooms marked out and passages roughly labelled. “Deeper into the tunnels, somewhere harder to get to. Streetwise, how far does the signal for the sensor go?”

“I lost connection around here.” He pointed at the map, and Onslaught nodded.

“That’s our range, then.” He drew an arc across the map, inspecting the rooms it left available to them.

“Here?” Blast Off pointed to a room further down the hall – there were three twists to get there, and it required going through another cell – the original passageway was blocked off by an older collapse, and a weakness in the structure had opened up another access point. It hadn’t been easy to find, and was certain to be harder still for something unfamiliar with the terrain to accidentally stumble across.

“We move there.” Onslaught nodded.

Swindle, designated useless, was assigned as First Aid’s watch. He seemed to be very pleased with the idea and did not complain at all as he was left alone with the unconscious mech.

They used the first cell as their new storage, the crates stacked as both a wind block and to disguise the entrance. First Aid woke back up again as the last crate was put into place, sluggishly pushing himself up with a groan and a whimper on shaky arms.

“Did I pass out again?” He asked.

“Sure did!” Swindle was grinning at him. “How’s our little sleepy head?” He cooed. First Aid glowered at him as he forced himself upright into a sitting position, slumping heavily against the wall.

“… Did we move?”

“Yeah.” Swindle looked back at the doorway, the shadows of the others dancing on the wall. “We realised we were too close to the hatch now that it knows exactly where we are, so we’ve decided to move further in.”

“Did it-” First Aid panicked.

“No, no, nothing happened and we’re fine. Just a precaution.”

“Thank goodness.” First Aid flopped back down. “Oh, this is all too much, Swindle.” He whimpered. “This was meant to be our break.”

“Yup, I’m gonna get your boyfriend.” Swindle announced, slapping his thighs and pushing himself up and clearly in no mood to entertain his pathetic simpering. First Aid didn’t even have the strength to argue with him about it, silently watching him go as he slowly felt more and more miserable, a dull ache making its way up from his wrist and across his shoulders.

Groove and Swindle were placed on watch. They perched up on the crates, Groove sitting cross legged and Swindle letting his legs dangle down.

“It’s hard to get used to, isn’t it?” Groove said as he sipped on his cube. It sloshed loudly, its weakness audible. Swindle glanced at him.

“What is?”

“This.” He gestured between them. “It’s difficult to marry the two images of you I have in my head – the one of you working with my team and breaking bread together, and the one of you covered in the energon of my comrades as you line up your next shot.”

Swindle hummed. “That’s war, isn’t it? We do what’s best for the situation. Whatever extends our miserable lives.”

“I suppose so. I’d never imagined we’d have gotten along so well, though.”

“We’re going to have to go back to killing each other after this. You know that, right?”

“I do.” Groove inclined his helm. “That is what a truce means, yes?”

“None of us will hesitate to kill you if we’re given the chance.” Swindle narrowed his optics at him. “That doesn’t bother you?”

“No, why would it? It’s the nature of war. The fact my team would hesitate first doesn’t change anything. We didn’t like to hurt others before this mess happened. There are no new developments. We are Autobots, you are Decepticons. That’s how it is.”

“I thought you guys were meant to be more in your feelings. You’ve surprised me, Groove.”

“Not worth getting my knickers in a twist over.”

“… I’m sorry, your what?”

“They’re human undergarments- you know what? Never mind. Don’t worry about it.”

“I never know what to expect with you mechs.”

“Perhaps that’s a good thing. Familiarity will only cause problems.”

“How does the saying go… familiarity breeds contempt?”

“Surprised you know it.”

“We talk to each other too, you know.” Swindles bottom lip was slightly jutted as if he were hiding the fact he wanted to pout. He inspected his gun, pulling the exact same face that Groove had seen Onslaught pull.

He felt his lip quirk into a smile - he couldn’t help himself.

“Think that will work?” He gestured to the gun.

“It’s going to have to. It’s all we’ve got.”

“Let’s hope, then.” Groove leaned back against the wall and pulled a deck of cards from his subspace. “Streetwise taught me a game he’s been playing with Brawl – want to play?”

Swindle sighed as if he were an old sage being put upon by the next generation. “He’s probably taught the rules wrong. Let’s see.”

The medic was missing.

Vortex looked around the new room they’d crammed into - as far away as they could possibly get from the entry hatch without excavating their way into the adjacent tunnel and compromising Streetwise’s connection to the sensor - and didn’t see First Aid anywhere.

“Oi. Where’s the little medic?” He called out.

“First Aid? He’s not feeling well again - he’s in the next room over.” Streetwise replied.

“Oh? On his own?”

“He refused the company.”

“Nobody went with him?!”

“He’s biting, and he’s going to cry about it if he hurts us any more than he already has.”

“If you’re that bothered,” Onslaught called from the other side of the room, “Go and babysit him yourself.”

Vortex scowled at him. “What, do I look like a nanny to you?”

“You sure sound like one.”

Everyone was looking at him. Expectantly.

“Shit!” He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Fuck me if I’m concerned the medic is gone. Fine – I’ll take watch, then. On my own.”

He stormed from the room, rotor blades aggressively slamming together on his back. It hurt, damn it, it hurt, but the sting of embarrassment hurt more.

The medic was a pathetic sight. He was languishing on the floor of the next room, propped against their supply crates. A hand rested delicately on his abdomen, another grasping the ground.

“You could stand to look more sorry for yourself. Look at what they made me do for you, as if I’m some kind of nanny droid. What do you have to say?”

“I think I’m dying.” First Aid whimpered. Vortex paused. His theatrics earlier had been an attempt to get a lively, hearty response from the mech to use as leverage to get him up off his aft and back in with the others, where it was easier to keep an optic on everyone and monitor who was starting act strange. But his reaction was actually one of a sick mech, of someone unable to respond appropriately. He’d never heard him make that sound before, and now that he looked closely he could see the dullness of his armour, the speckled static in his visor.

“What makes you say that?”

“I feel awful. Nothings helping.” He rubbed his face. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to dump it all onto you.”

He was breathing heavily, his colours drawn. Vortex looked him up and down, appraising him.

“You’re not going to get the mineral you need by licking the walls.”

He flinched. “How do you know it’s a mineral deficiency?”

Blast Off told me. “It’s obvious.” He knelt down next to him. “We got this in the pits a lot. They fed us like crap, so we adapted. How sharp are your teeth?”

“My teeth? Not very. Dare I ask why?”

“That’s a shame. I’ll cut the cable myself then. Here, drink up.” He pressed a sharp digit to his wrist, energon beading at the tip-

“Woah woah woah!” First Aid scrambled upright from where he’d been pathetically sprawled out on the floor. “What are you doing!?”

“Energon is mineral rich.” Vortex matter of factly replied. “It will take the edge off, won’t it? Come on, don’t waste any.” He smeared the drop that had formed on the pad of his thumb and gestured for First Aid to remove his faceplate. He retracted it obediently, quickly realising he wouldn’t be backing down and not having the strength to fight him, and Vortex transferred the energon to his bottom lip.

“It’s already on your mouth. May as well take it straight. Unless you prefer mouth to mouth?”

“This is gross.” He grimaced, but he humoured him and hesitantly licked his lip. Vortex watched with silent glee as his visor brightened, his frame stiffened in shock, hands clenching and twitching as he fought the urge to go for more. That good, huh?

“Good?”

First Aid looked at him nervously, like a stray cat who’d just been fed scraps and was hoping for more. “I suppose.”

“Have more.” He pressed a claw harder to his wrist, puncturing the metal and holding it out to the medic. First Aid gently took his wrist into his hands, tongue slipping out to lap up the energon. He groaned, capturing the slit into his mouth, running his tongue over it and sucking slightly. His legs shook with the effort of keeping him upright, and his hands trembled. He moved his lips against the sensitive metal, taking it in, every swallow creating suction that had Vortex wanting to slam his fist into the wall and embed it into the rock. Every gentle suck sent lightening shooting down his spine, and he was quietly gasping-

Primus above, want burned him alive, searing his circuits and making his engine roar. His tongue was soft and oh so very delicate, his hands gentle against him - he wanted to defile him, to make it so no one could ever look him in the optic again, to leave no question on who had done it. First Aid peered up at him, optics bright behind his visor, and licked his lips.

“I think that should be enough.” His tongue swiped up a stray drop. “Thank you.”

Fuuuuck.

“You sure?” He felt breathless.

“Yeah.” He swiped his tongue over his wrist for good measure - Vortex took it as a farewell. “You seem a bit off. Maybe I took too much.”

“I want you to take more.”

First Aid shook his head, wobbling backwards onto his aft. “No, no - you need it much more than I do. You’re bigger.”

“Yeah, and you’re the medic. It’s fine if I eat shit, there are other guys to replace me. We’ve only got one medic.”

“My team have some basic knowledge.” First Aid argued. “They can do without me.”

“For what it’s worth, I’d rather the guy who knows what he’s doing.”

“Well I think we’re in bigger need of those who can actually fight and do the heavy lifting, so I guess that’s that then.” First Aid slowly shifted to be back down on the floor, his frame feeling heavy. “I’d let you drink from me, if the roles were reversed. For the record.”

“It’s nice you trust me enough to not rip your throat out. Because I would.”

“I trust you would. You’d be doing me a favour.”

His leg was tugged over his hip, and Vortex leaned down over him. “I can make it happen. Once I’m done with you, mind.”

First Aid felt dizzy, and it wasn’t because of the mineral deficiency. “And waste the energon you just gave me?” Vortex was too close, he was going to end up breaking his promise.

“I got something out of it. I can return the favour.”

“You got something out of it?” First Aid frowned at him, and then the heat rolling off of him registered. His optics flicked down to his hips. “You-you got off on that?!”

Vortex shrugged, visor dimming in a smirk.

“You’re a total enigma, you know that right?”

“I figured you’d like that.”

First Aid glanced at the doorway. Empty. Nobody was there. He could see the light from the room next door flickering in the hallway, slowly dimming. If he strained his audials he could hear the gentle sounds of idling engines, of Brawl’s dodgy cylinder, the whistle of Blade’s broken nose – he’d gotten into an argument with Brawl over him moving too much in his sleep and he’d been swiftly headbutted for it. They were all recharging. Onslaught was due on watch soon - he wouldn’t tattle. He didn’t think.

Vortex watched First Aid. He was calculating something, mulling something over in his mind.

“What’s got your attention?” He retracted his blast mask and nipped at the exposed cabling on his throat. “Don’t you know it’s not advisable to look away from me?”

First Aid whimpered so beautifully, arching up into him. He felt his engine working hard in his abdomen, his spark whirling in his chest - he knew he shouldn’t. He knew. He had promised.

Be selfish for once, damn it.

He could be dead tomorrow. Something could find them in the night and slaughter them all, leaving them to rot below the surface. Why should he deny himself his guilty pleasures just to keep them happy?

He hooked his other leg up over him and tugged their hips together. He could feel the heat rolling off of him and felt his own plating blister, heat rising in his own core.

“If you’re quiet.” He pressed a finger to his lips. “Please?”

“Promise I’ll be quiet.” He slipped his tongue out to lick his finger.

“Like last time?”

“That works for me.”

First Aid made to push himself up, helm spinning - he swallowed hard, engine whining, arms trembling-

“I’m still dizzy from the mineral deficiency.” First Aid apologised. “I’m sorry, I - you’ll just have to use me instead.”

Vortex groaned directly into his audial. Fuck if the little mech didn’t know exactly what to say. He’d need to be gentle, discrete - he’d never hear the end of it if anyone else heard, and he knew that the rest of his little medics team would fight tooth and nail to keep them separated and apart.

Leave no trace.

Vortex silently slunk over to the doorway and sat down, Onslaught coming to join him. He glanced up at him and nodded in acknowledgment before returning to his previous position, staring right down the hallway into the darkness.

“Where’s the medic?”

“Behind us.” He gestured to the crates – there was a distinctly First Aid shaped lump curled up on top of one.

“He asleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He sighed. “Mineral deficiency? Really?”

Vortex shrugged, rotors clicking against each other. “S’what Blast Off said, isn’t it? Something to do with his tools using it up faster. He’d seen it before in the pits.”

Onslaught hummed and nodded in understanding. He always took Blast Off’s word for things, their trust implicit. Vortex picked at his claws as he observed his wounds, using his visor to hide where his attention was. Deep scrapes and dents littered his commanders frame, marks from tonnes of rock falling down on top of him. They were lucky the rock was so soft and that their armour was so thick, designed for millennia of war. They were lucky it didn’t hit him in the head.

“So no more medic.” Onslaught said.

“Uhm, no, not quite. He should be back up on his pedes soon.”

“Why? Was he licking the walls?”

“Yanno I thought he was actually going to start doing that – but no. He had some of mine~” He sung as he pulled back the armour on his wrist and showed the healing wound to Onslaught. “Remember when we used to do this?”

“I thought that would make him faint, he’s got bigger balls than I thought.”

“See? I told you he was fun.”

Onslaught sighed, rubbing his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’d forgotten we had to do that.”

“Oh, how far we have come.” Vortex rubbed at his hip, mismatching red streaked across it. Whoops. He licked his thumb and tried to wash it away.

“Don’t let their commander see that.” Onslaught lowly said to him with a smirk. “He’s protective.”

“I am simply quivering in my boots, Sir.”

The medic waking back up brought out Hot Spot. The mech had taken one look at him, and the two of them walked off together to an adjacent room for what looked like was shaping up to be a very private chat indeed. Vortex caught glimpses of grey on pristine white thighs and bit his bottom lip.

Oopsies. He’d been a bit too enthusiastic it seemed.

In the absence of Hot Spot and First Aid, the two of them slunk back into the room. It was significantly warmer in there, the smaller space trapping in the heat, and they sighed in relief as they sat down and felt it work its way into their joints. The other members of their team promptly joined them, all leaning against each other as they caught each other up on what had happened overnight.

Blades, Groove, and Streetwise formed their own group in the opposite corner, the three of them pressing their audials against the wall. Vortex was desperate to join them and listen in, to find out about his crimes, but something else caught his attention in the corner of his optic as Onslaught leaned his helm against Blast Off’s shoulder.

There was definitely something going on between his commander and his second.

Vortex watched them keenly, senses primed and homed in on them. His mind raced, rapidly going through all the possibilities.

They’d always been close - closer than they were with anyone else on the team at least. Blast Off always seemed to know what Onslaught needed or wanted before the mech himself even knew, and Onslaught was always hyper aware of his presence. If he took too long getting back, he would go and search for him himself. The task was never delegated. They were both also mechs who weren’t particularly keen on physical contact, but the exceptions were the other - touching backs here, holding the others hand there - they often guided each other in a way that reminded Vortex of children, small habits that only arose with those you deeply cared for, that you felt an innate desire to protect and take care of.

He’d been so used to it that it didn’t register any more and became a normal part of his life, but that was before he’d seen the Protectobots reacting to it.

Hot Spot had raised his brows the first time Onslaught had dragged Blast Off into another room by holding his hand. First Aid had made a note on one of his datapads to do some additional testing - for what, Vortex didn’t know, but the possibilities were endless and tantalising.

Which only made it all the more interesting that he’d seemed to warm up to Hot Spot in the same way.

He gnawed his bottom lip behind his mask.

First Aid didn’t often get into trouble. Not like this, anyway – he knew that he was hot-headed and he had a bit of a temper that frequently got him into trouble when he was younger, and he also knew that he could sometimes be a bit too friendly which got him into different sorts of trouble – but it wasn’t often that his commander had to sit him down to discuss his behaviour.

There was only one thing that he did that he knew he shouldn’t that had Hot Spot looking at him like this, and it involved Vortex.

Which just left a point of contention.

Hot Spot was a goddamn hypocrite.

Onslaughts hand had shot out to cover the loose hanging stone that Hot Spot was about to clip his helm on. They had shared a brief look and a thank you that First Aid hardly heard over the thud of his pump in his chest and of the burn of realisation.

Something had happened between them and the dynamic had changed. Their fields weren’t tight enough for him to miss it, and he’d seen it between mechs all the time in the medical bay. They were fraternising.

“What did we say, Aid?”

“No helicopters.” First Aid quietly replied. He couldn’t look at them, his optics glued to his thighs and the dark grey paint that marred them. Mis-matched red paint streaked his hips, cherry red against his raspberry red. The untrained optic would miss it. To his, it was absolutely glaring.

“And what have you done?”

“I broke our promise.” He internally cringed. He felt like such a child, so infantilised by this - why did they feel the need to do this?

“Not only that - Vortex? Really? Again? He’s the reason we had to make that stupid rule!”

“I’m not a new build! Do you really have to treat me like a child? Why can’t I make decisions for myself?”

“Because this one has ended up with you interfacing with the enemy! Aid, we’re still at war with them! What if Prowl finds out? He’ll have you strung up by the ankles!”

“Then he’ll be a complete utter hypocrite himself! We all know it!”

“Aid, please. Promise me you’re not going to do this again.”

“I don’t think you’re in any kind of position to tell me to not fraternise with the enemy, Hot Spot.” First Aid replied. “Am I ashamed? A little. I broke my promise and I know I shouldn’t have done it. I regretted hurting you all the first time and it feels worse still now. But I’m not going to be a hypocrite and say that it can’t happen at all. Or does Onslaught not count?”

“Where is this coming from, Aid?” Hot Spot asked. “This really isn’t like you.”

“So Onslaught doesn’t count. Got it.”

“I’m not interfacing with him, so no. It doesn’t count. I’m not breaking any laws. I’m operating as an Autobot should and is expected to.” He stood up straighter. “I expect better of you all. Have some self restraint.”

First Aid bristled, feeling his field prickle against his own armour. What was that supposed to mean?

He took a deep breath and nodded. Yup. Yup. Okay. He didn’t dare open his mouth. He’d probably end up saying something extremely nasty.

“Am I to take that as agreement?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Sadness flickered over Hot Spots face briefly and turned his field blue. It was gone as quickly as it came. Guilt twisted First Aid’s spark roughly, but he held firm.

“Thank you, Aid. You know we all worry about you.”

Worry about yourself. You fall harder than I do.

He nodded. “Are we done here?”

“Will we be having to have this conversation again?”

“We will not.” He’d do a better job of hiding it next time.

“Then yes. We’re done.”

The difference was like day and night. First Aid was significantly chirpier now that he wasn’t so desperately low on a vital mineral – when he was more rested and coherent he managed to put two and two together and Blast Off had confirmed that his tools required said mineral to operate. His constant usage of them was drawing him too thin, his frame not able to keep up or compensate.

Vortex didn’t stand a chance when it came to the clicking in his intake. First Aid had given him a look that initially had him trembling in excitement before he swiftly realised what was about to happen, and he’d made it two steps before the medic had pounced on him. Brawl, the traitor, had helped pin him down and kept him from thrashing as the medic adjusted the internal mechanism in his throat.

“There! Done!” He sighed in relief, sitting back and resting on his hips. “Thank Primus!”

“You-!” Vortex was spitting with rage and completely speechless, gesturing wildly between the medic and Brawl. “Both of you! I helped you, and this is how you thank me?!”

Brawl thought it was all very funny.

“Oh, is he going to stop clicking now?” Hot Spot asked from where he leaned over a datapad with Onslaught. “That’s good.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t do that myself, Vortex.” Onslaught didn’t bother tearing his optics away. Vortex looked between them all in disbelief.

“What?!”

Boredom was starting to take hold. With an extremely overenthusiastic medic, all of them were on strict rest – he’d noted that the room was much warmer than the outside, and all of their conditions relied on not having their temperature drop too severely, which meant they all were now scrambling to find very creative ways to not have the medic listen to their systems too closely and pin them down to fix it like he had to Vortex.

Vortex was much, much too cross with him to let him rummage in his internals and was sitting with his back facing them all, knees tucked to his chest as he muttered to himself. First Aid looked like he wanted to apologise, but the helicopter hissed at him whenever he got too close and so he had to accept that he would have to wait for him to acknowledge him on his own terms.

Hot Spot stood and stretched, his joints popping. “I think there’s a torch in one of the crates – do you guys know what shadow puppets are?”

Blast Off scoffed. “Of course we do. What do you think we are?”

the torch was precariously balanced on a stack of rubble they built up into a pile, the light flickering as it rolled trying to find its centre of gravity. Hot Spot sat at the front as the others gathered behind him, sitting either side of the stack, and he brandished his hands in front of the beam in a flourish as he began.

Chapter Text

It was the same every time a shadow puppet story began.

One of them would start to regale the details of a battle – it was the only kind of story that survived these days – and someone else would chime in with a correction on the information, on a change of detail. This would then be debated until some sort of agreement was reached, and the process repeating until either the story teller passed the baton on to a particularly vocal corrector, or managed to finish.

As it turned out, it was a much more gruelling process when Decepticons were involved. As the Protectobots found out, they liked to lie. Or, if they were being polite, they liked to embellish.

“I don’t think it happened quite like that.” Hot Spot interjected as Onslaught was midway through miming a factory blowing up, an impressive feat considering he only had two hands. His brow raised and the corner of his lip twitched up.

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Well for starters, I was there.” Hot Spot put his own hands into the beam. First Aid watched as the two of them bickered about the fine details – who did what, when things happened and where – and jumped when Vortex suddenly flopped down beside him, leaning his helm on his shoulder.

“I thought you were ignoring me.” He quietly whispered, not wanting to draw too much attention to themselves.

“I’ve decided to forgive you.” Vortex whispered back. “Turns out my throat was bothering me.” He was looking intently at his commander, visor brightening marginally as he spotted something in his expression. First Aid watched as his optics flew to Blast Off, and he couldn’t help but follow.

The shuttle either hadn’t noticed anything, or he wasn’t showing it on his face.

“You wanted to gossip.” He looked back at his commander before Blast Off noticed them both staring at him.

“Not while the ingredients are in the room.” Vortex’s hand sneaked behind his back, resting against the base of his spinal struts and warming the metal. “How’re you feeling? Dizzy?”

“I feel fine.”

“Mmhm. Let me know when that changes.”

First Aid took whatever time he could to read through the datapad and to try and decipher and decode what he could from it. It had been left behind for a reason – they’d gone back to the morgue multiple times to try and find more documents, to find anything that might have told them more about it, but came up blank each time. It was as if it had been carefully scrubbed clean. They’d found evidence that industrial grade cleaners had been used, their concentrations a bit too high for the surface they’d been applied to. Whoever had been there before had gone to extremes to make sure nothing was left behind, and the owner of the datapad must have made a great effort to ensure it was left behind to be found.

Now that he knew what was causing his fainting spells he found them much easier to deal with. He hadn’t had one since he’d drank Vortex’s energon – although the thought of it turned his tanks he couldn’t bring himself to be too disgusted by it, his medical programming overriding the instinctive reaction. If he wasn’t in top form, he couldn’t perform his function – and if drinking from a living mech’s lines gave him what he needed to perform his function, then he would feel a drive to do it. Most of the injuries he dealt with were impact – from scuffles and fights, disagreements that got too heated in an enclosed space. After that came chill injuries, injuries that came from getting too cold. He found them the most difficult to deal with, the memories he had of Delphi overlapping with the ones he was forming now. There were mornings where he woke up thinking he was still there and would be briefly confused as to why he was both on the floor and so warm before realising.

His next job came in the form of their next supply run up to the surface. It was something they’d come to quickly realise – they couldn’t rely entirely on their supplies. First Aid was going to be their biggest problem – the mineral that he needed was finite in their lines. While he’d have his pick of sources, it wasn’t easy on the donor either, and it would get harder the further along that they were when they were both not replenishing their energon enough and when the mineral started to run low in their own systems.

The energon generator wouldn’t fix the mineral issue. First Aid was acutely aware that he would have to be extremely careful with his tool usage and ration what he could.

A precious grenade got them the energon generator. The hatch was clear when Streetwise and Blast Off crept through it, the path to the room it was previously in clear. The explosion had damaged a wall, knocking it off of the bench it was on, and it had a layer of frost over it, but it was in good condition. They’d managed to drag it back to the hallway before they felt their fields prickle with the tell-tale feeling of something staring at them. Quickly shoving it to the hatch where Onslaught and Hot Spot were waiting, Streetwise gave Blast Off the grenade and he threw it with the precision of a sniper.

It screamed like First Aid did as they sprinted away from it. Hot Spots hands were flexing as he waited for them, listening to the way its voice was carried on the wind.

“I’m not really a mechanic.” First Aid said as he poked and prodded at it, the frost slowly clearing off and leaving a wet puddle on the floor. “But I think I can figure it out. It will just be the ground grade stuff though – there’s no chance I’ll be able to get it to refine it this time either.”

“That’s fine.” Hot Spot replied, knelt down on the floor next to him. “Just do your best. We’ve got enough to keep us going in the interim.”

First Aid was mostly left on his own to work on it. They’d put it down outside of the main room – it was a bit too cramped in there for First Aid to work without distraction or someone getting in his way. Anyone who came close was roped into helping, handing random screwdrivers and wrenches that First Aid didn’t know the name of beyond ‘That one there. No, the other one.’ and ‘The other other one.’

Vortex was the only one who didn’t mind. It gave him something to do that didn’t involve mechs who were too skittish around him to be a good sport or mechs who were so used to his shit that they didn’t give him any reaction to chew on any more, but he wasn’t given much freedom to be alone with him. The pair were heavily supervised, and it gave First Aid a sting of annoyance and jealousy that he didn’t recognise or want to become familiar with.

“How’s it coming along?” Hot Spot asked him when he came back in, the medic rubbing his hands and popping and cracking the stiff joints.

“Uhm. Yeah.” First Aid nodded. “It’s a bit more damaged than I initially thought, but I can get it running again. I know what I need to do, and what I’ve managed to fix runs with no issues.”

“How long do you think you’ll need?”

“Not sure. I’m going to run out of the mineral again, though.” He could already feel twinges of pain radiating down his wrists and his legs felt unstable. Hot Spot wouldn’t notice it, his plating hadn’t started rattling from it yet, but from the way Vortex’s attention had snapped to him like a lioness and her prey he knew that the helicopter had already spotted the change in his gait and the way he was shifting his weight from pede to pede as if trying to recalibrate his centre of gravity.

He couldn’t look at him. He didn’t want to invite it, not yet – he couldn’t get used to it. He couldn’t come to expect it.

First Aid watched the others play a card game as they all slowly sipped on their rations – if they sipped it slowly, it made it seem like it was a bigger meal than it actually was. Onslaught, Hot Spot, Blast off and Blades all seemed to be having a heated conversation together. Vortex was looking between them like a spectator at a sports game, and he silently handed Brawl his hand with a muttered comment about wanting to stretch his legs and rotors and stood, slowly slinking around the circle as he stretched out his legs and back with loud ‘pops!’ before sitting himself down next to First Aid. The medic stuffed his ration into his subspace.

“You’re feeling dizzy again, aren’t you?”

Knew it.

“… A little.” He sheepishly admitted.

Vortex leaped to his feet, tugging the medic up with him. First Aid squeaked in surprise, cutting straight through the intense debate their commanders were having. The tension in the room split, eight pairs of optics turning to look directly at the pair of them.

“Aid’s dizzy.” Vortex helpfully supplied. “Carry on.”

“Where are you taking him?” Blades challenged.

“Why? Fancy watching?”

First Aid tensed and quickly shook his head. “It’s kinda gross.” He quietly said to Blades. “I’d rather you didn’t see it.”

“Don’t go far.” Hot Spot firmly put his hand on Blades shoulder. “I want to be able to see your shadows.” He leaned down to whisper something to Blades, who briefly tensed before sagging down and looking away stubbornly.

It was the best they were going to get. “That’s fine – we shouldn’t be long.” First Aid replied.

Vortex seemed much more excited about this than he was. As promised, they didn’t go far – they made sure their shadows cast against the wall opposite the opening to the room they had turned into their home base. Vortex grinned at their silhouettes as he pulled First Aid to him, no doubt imagining the way Blades face was sure to twist in frustration.

“You could try to get along with him.” First Aid pointedly said as Vortex traced shapes on the base of his spinal strut, right where it met his hip plating. Vortex’s rotors bounced as he laughed, clearly finding it amusing.

“He’s the type of mech I’d rather rip apart in the dirt than try and be nice to.”

“He’d hit you right back.”

“That’s the only thing I like about him.”

First Aid hummed, leaning into him and pressing the tips of his digits into the cables at the crook of Vortex’s elbow and feeling the pulse of his fuel pump thudding against them. “Your wrist’s still healing, does your elbow work?”

“Even better idea.” Vortex tapped his neck, and First Aid felt all the decorum he had fly straight out the window and be ripped away by the wind.

“Wow. That’s kind of hot, isn’t it?” First Aids visor was dim as he watched Vortex drag his claws across his neck cabling, studying the metal and prospecting for the best place to shove his fingers in. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“Sweetspark. Seriously? This is me we’re talking about. You could take it from my-“

“Okay, okay, got it!” First Aid squeaked. “I wouldn’t want to, for the record.”

“We can work on that.”

He tapped the tips of his claws on one spot and grinned. “Here’s good. Ready? Only got one shot at this.”

First Aid could see his reflection in Vortex’s visor, and he looked ravenous. He nodded enthusiastically. “Ready.”

He only got a little bit on his chin as he wrapped his lips around the wound, clinging tightly onto him. One hand snaked up to hold the back of his helm and Vortex felt his engine purr, his own quickly holding the medic close so that he couldn’t pull away.

The feeling could only be described as euphoric. First Aid’s systems sung as the mineral it was desperate for suddenly flooded in, the low-level ache that permeated his frame rapidly abating. The fragility of his joints melted away, First Aid quickly feeling stronger. Vortex’s rotors were shaking and loudly slamming together, the sound echoing in the abandoned cell. He slipped a hand around to his rotor hub, gently pressing his fingers against it and rubbing in circular motions.

It sounded wet as he let go with a gasp. Energon still oozed from him, and he swiped his tongue across it to lap it up. “You went too deep.” He complained, leaning his hips back to access his subspace and pull out a wad of gauze. “What will I do if you bleed out?”

“You can take more if you want it.” Vortex’s fingers dug into his back, scratching the paint and leaving thick grooves.

“I’ve got enough.” First Aid pressed the gauze firmly to his neck. “There’s the rest of my ration in my subspace, you take it – you remember the code, right?”

“Big guy wont mind that I’m rummaging in your insides?” Vortex purred into his audial, sending tremors directly down his spine.

“So long as you’re not leaving a mark.”

Vortex took his time as he grabbed the ration. First Aid knew that it was right by the opening, that he really couldn’t miss it, but he seemed to be enjoying himself greatly as he wriggled his hand around in the space inside him. First Aid tightened the hand that wasn’t pressing gauze to his neck, metal squeaking on metal.

“Please-!” He squirmed, starting to pivot his hips back and out of Vortex’s reach. Vortex’s laugh always sounded so much better when it was right next to his audial, and he did so sharply as he finally grabbed the ration and took his hand from his subspace. He tilted his helm back to neck what was left – which ended up being most of it, much to First Aid’s relief – and his visor glimmered when he spotted something off to the side behind First Aid.

First Aid glanced at the wall and felt his spark sink when he saw a third shadow, their rotor blades swishing from side to side.

Blades was in a foul mood.

He wasn’t making optic contact with First aid, and Vortex was being infuriatingly cordial with him, which just made him even more volatile. While he was doing his best not to – Hot Spot had already been on his ass about it – Blades was still (un)intentionally looking for a fight, and in the absence of both commanders his optics had turned to Blast Off.

“If you’re a carrier, why are you guys still even here? Cant you just fly off somewhere where we don’t have to look at you all the bloody time?”

“There’s too much disturbance to get very far, we’d just end up back on the planet or in some other random sector of the galaxy.” Blast Off, while giving an honest answer, didn’t seem to be paying him much mind as he studied a navigation chart on a tiny little device he’d pulled from his hip pocket. First Aid had a vague memory of seeing Cosmos having something similar – it must have been an interstellar map of some kind.

“And how are you so sure?” Blades snidely asked.

“I’m a spaceship.” Blast Off snootily replied. “My navigation systems are much more advanced than yours, and I can pick the disruption up.” He finally looked up at him. “It is a constant buzzing in my audial, much like you are.”

“A spaceship who won’t fly - that just sounds like more cowardly excuses to me.” Blades replied. Blast Off bristled.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Ignore him, he just wants a fight.” First Aid hadn’t looked from his datapad.

“No, no, I think he should get one, he’s asking so nicely.” Blast Off stood up to his full height, towering over Blades. “What makes you think I want to be stuck down here with the likes of you?”

“If I were so against it, I’d have flown away by now.”

“How far could a little helicopter go? Not very.”

“Farther than you, evidently.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Vortex slipped into the space Blast Off had vacated, leaning over to whisper into First Aid’s audial.

“Helicopters can’t make orbit. No atmosphere.”

“Blades knows. He’s tried.” First Aid whispered back.

“Let’s do it then. Right now.” Blades snapped. “Come on, then. What’s stopping you? Too scared?”

“Unfair advantage. I can escape orbit and out of the storm. Can you?” He leaned in, looming over him tauntingly. “No, I don’t think you can. Pathetic.”

“What’s this comment here?” Vortex asked First Aid, pointing at the datapad and clearly uninterested in the fight unfolding in front of them. First Aid found that he couldn’t quite focus on anything - the datapad, the argument, how close Vortex was and how warm his frame was, how his cheek was resting against his shoulder and one arm was radiating heat behind his back-

“Uhm-“

“What’s going on here?” A sharp voice cut through the tension in the room like a knife. Blast Off snapped to attention, and Blades whirled around to face the door. They both looked away in frustration at being caught.

“Well?” Onslaught asked, following Hot Spot in. He was looking directly at Blast Off, visor narrow. His second squirmed.

“Blades was being very agitating.”

“And? You allowed that insect to get to you?”

“Hey-!” Blades looked absolutely affronted. Hot Spot raised his hand and shook his head at him, and Blades flopped down with a pout.

“Follow.” Onslaught beckoned him, and Blast Off flexed his wings before falling into step with him as they left for somewhere more private. Hot Spot had his arms folded as he waited for them to leave, Blades squirming under his optics.

“Okay, fine - I started it, I’m sorry!”

Hot Spot sighed. “We have to work together here, Blades. I know it’s frustrating not being able to fly and that you’re getting stressed from missing it, but you have to keep it from causing conflict.”

Vortex was starting to trace shapes on First Aid’s back.

“It’s really hard.”

“I know, I’m sorry, Blades. We’re all asking too much from you.”

First Aid watched them over the top of his datapad. Hot Spot had an arm around Blades, and the helicopter was leaning into him.

“Why doesn’t he just spin him around?” Vortex asked, mask brushing the side of his head. First Aid shuddered.

“Why would he do that?”

“The equilibrium thing? Did nobody ever do that?”

First Aid turned to look at him, visor twisted in confusion. “What the pit are you talking about?”

“You don’t know about it?!”

“Don’t tell me you two are fighting as well.” Hot Spot sighed.

“No, we’re not, but you’re going to do something for me. For Blades, actually.” Vortex jumped up to his pedes and marched forwards. “Blades, how the fuck did you not figure this out? Right, big guy, hook your arms under his. Like this.” He turned Blades around so his back was against Hot Spots chest. The fire engine obediently hooked his arms around Blades shoulders and straightened, Blades being left dangling in the air. He looked up at his commander nervously, and Hot Spot looked down at him kindly.

“It’s worth a shot.”

“Is this going to hurt?” Blades asked.

“No.” Vortex. “It’s going to be your version of fun.” He looked up at Hot Spot. “Spin.”

“On the spot?”

“Yup.” Vortex took a few steps back. “Fast as you can go.”

“Like a centrifuge?” First Aid had placed the datapad down to the side, realising he wouldn’t be able to focus on it for now. “Won’t that make them dizzy?”

“Helicopters don’t get dizzy. I can’t say the same about the big guy, though.”

Onslaught and Blast Off returned to Hot Spot dry-heaving in the corner, First Aid gently patting his back, and Blades and Vortex spinning each other around in circles.

“What did they do?” Blast Off quietly whispered. Onslaught felt inclined to agree.

“What’s going on in here?” Onslaught demanded. “I leave for ten kliks and it’s chaos.”

“Vortex showed us the equilibrium trick.” First Aid explained, glancing over at him. “Unfortunately…” he pointedly looked at his commander. “It’s not great for everyone.”

“How kind of him.” Onslaught slowly turned to where Vortex was busy spinning away. Their arms were crossed together as they spun on the spot, a blur of red white and grey.

“Vortex.”

“Boss?” He answered from the spinning mass.

“What are you doing?”

“Spinning.” He answered matter of factly.

“Yes, but why with Blades?”

“He doesn’t get dizzy!”

He found that he didn’t actually want to argue with that sound logic, so he simply stiffly nodded, said very well and turned his attention to something else.

Namely, to where the hell the others had gotten to.

“The others still aren’t back yet?”

“Groove checked in. They’re okay, just having to take the long way home.” Hot Spot replied. He was still crouched on the floor and hunched over, but his face looked a lot better now as the colour returned to it. First Aid rubbed at the spot in between his shoulders and scanned his commander.

His equilibrium was restabilised – all it was now was time and not letting him do that again. First Aid glanced behind him at the blur of helicopters and made a mental note to do more research into it when they were back on Cybertron – it was blind optimism at best, but it gave him something to be hopeful for.

Eventually, Blades and Vortex both got tired of touching each other and very democratically voted to stop spinning at the same time so they didn’t send the other flying. The main issue was they both had the same idea of making the other trip over as they slowed, so both ended up aft over helm on the floor. Onslaught and Blast Off both had to immediately turn around so nobody caught them laughing – First Aid had overheard Onslaught telling Hot Spot before that if any of his team caught him laughing at something they’d done, they took it to mean that it was okay and that they could do it again. After all, he laughed, so surely that meant it was a good thing?

Hot Spot copied them, his shoulders trembling as he did his best to hold it in.

First Aid was much better at hiding his laughter, and he helped Blades up first.

“I’m only helping you first because he probably started it.” He firmly said as he pulled him up to his feet. “You know I don’t want any of you fighting.”

“You’re right, he did start it. I saw it. In his optics.”

“Right.”

Vortex made much more of a show as First Aid pulled him up, dramatically flopping into him and swooning in his hold. “Oh! The audacity! He tripped me! Look – I’m dented!”

First Aid looked where he gestured out of habit and rolled his optics when he found that he was completely fine.

“You’re fine, don’t be such a baby.”

Vortex threw his arms around his shoulders as he continued to pretend to be a pathetic wet kitten – First Aid could feel in his field that he must have been grinning widely and he was staring at something behind him. Probably Blades. They’d absolutely set the other off again, he just knew it, but it just made him even more curious about what he’d just done.

Blades had been struggling about something, and Vortex had gone out of his way to help him.

“I thought you hated his guts. Why’d you do that?” First Aid asked. “That was very kind of you.”

Vortex leaned against his shoulder and offlined his visor. “I’m the only mech he can do that with and it will eat him from the inside.”

Yup. There it was.

The buddy system died a slow death. With the varying levels of energy, needs, and jobs that needed to be done, it just wasn’t working pairing them up like that any more. Instead they adapted it to act more like hockey players did when skirmishes broke out – whenever there was an argument or a fight, they would simply grab onto the nearest mech on the other team to hold them all accountable. It only worked because they were all too tired to cause any real damage, and they all knew it, but it helped maintain a tentative balance when their processors were starting to get stressed by the lack of variation in their day.

Work on the generator had slowed – First Aid needed materials. Groove had been sent out to search for them – the prison was a good a place as any to scavenge for random wires and pieces of scrap metal and fixings – and so while he couldn’t focus on that, First Aid turned his attention back to the datapad.

None of them considered it to be vital to their survival. So far, nothing he’d found had been of note. All medical records, references to prisoners they’d found deceased and half rotted underground, the injuries of the crew. Their assumption had been the same as theirs; a prison riot that got out of hand, the structure was abandoned, they found it later and repurposed some of the upper structure and built their research station above it. The remains had been repatriated to Cybertron, and the medic had written that they’d been informed they would be interred in the same burial place they buried their unidentified dead and given their last rites as was the modern tradition. First Aid was pretty sure he knew exactly where they were – he remembered reading a tiny column about it in the daily broadsheet, not at all notable at the time.

But the next entry was strange. The ones prior had been written in a code that First Aid could piece together having been taught one that he now realised must have been a sister language at his own medical academy, designed to keep their medical records secret in the midst of a war. This one was both handwritten and not in code. This was an entry that they wanted to be read, that they went out of their way to make stand out. He straightened, visor shimmering in curiosity. What had they been so desperate to tell them?

First Aid felt his lines run ice cold as he read the entry, his joints stiffening and his optics prickling as nausea settled in his tanks.

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. The planet wasn’t just an abandoned Decepticon prison complex or the site of an Autobot research station.

It was a nursery to another species.

The diary entry had been explicitly clear on it, no preamble. They wrote it as they discovered it – they had seen the adults with towering heights rivalled only by the mountains. They had seen them deposit the smaller ones off, them screaming and bickering much like a child does on their first day of school. And then, they had left, leaving the small one behind. And at first, it didn’t cause them much trouble at all and they easily navigated around it, but it learned. It learned very, very quickly.

The thing that was hunting them and terrorising them was a child. An infant. A baby. And their caretaker would, at some point, be back to come and collect them.

And if they reacted like this to the child, what would they do with the parent? If this is how the child behaved, how would the parent act? And, even worse – they had been sent there by command while they knew full well what would find them.

He had to tell the others. He had to tell them, but his vocaliser had locked up, his voice too heavy, and his throat felt tight and his hands shook too badly to activate his comm and pass the message that way.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Swindle mocked him. “Seen something you didn’t like in there?”

First Aid wanted to snap at him that this was no laughing matter, but could only silently turn the datapad around so he could read it. Swindle rolled his optics but humoured him anyway, taking the datapad from him with more force than was necessary and reading the text on the screen.

He froze, visibly stiffening.

“Onslaught!”

The mech near enough materialised next to them, smoothly taking the datapad from Swindle and reading. First Aid watched him numbly as he read, scrolled back up, and read it again to be sure. Then, he marched over to Hot Spot and swapped out the ration he was nursing with the datapad and roughly tapped the screen.

“I believe you’ve been duped.”

Hot Spot blearily read it, rubbing at his optics – he’d only just come back from his patrol and he hadn’t recharged since the cycle prior – and froze when he read the damning line.

“Oh.” He said in shock, sitting up straighter and suddenly much more alert than he had been. “Oh.”

“How confident are you in a pick-up?”

“Very.” Hot Spot immediately replied. “The data that’s here is mission critical. They’ll be back for it.”

“What exactly is it that’s so important?”

“I can’t say.” Hot Spot shook his helm. “But it could turn the tide.”

“And if we were to sabotage that?”

The two stared at each other silently for a moment, fields shimmering against each other.

“Then I’d be very hard pressed to get your team a space on the ship.” Hot Spot replied, handing the datapad back to First Aid.

“Streetwise.” Vortex beckoned him. “Let’s go take a look at those scratches again.”

Streetwise frowned. “What-?”

His face quickly dropped when he realised exactly what he meant.

“You think..?”

“I do.”

The two vanished down the hall. First Aid scoured through the hand written entry, hunting for any information on how to keep them away, on what they could do to defend themselves. He’d seen the scratches on the floor when they’d shown him where the morgue was. He’d thought at the time that they were abnormally large for mechs who would be placed in cells of that size, but didn’t think much of it then. What a mistake that had been. If only he’d known.

“Finding anything?” Blades asked.

First Aid shook his head. “Not yet.” He flicked to the next page. “But there has to be something.”

Blades sat down next to him, arms crossed and pedes tapping. “It’s a surprise that nobody thought to mention this to us.”

“Maybe they thought it was out of use as a nursery, that the presence of the researchers had scared them off.” First Aid replied. “Or maybe it’s used so infrequently by them that the risk was minimal.”

“Or maybe it’s why Prowl pushed logistics so hard to get us that emergency equipment.” Blades pointedly said. First Aid slowly looked at him over the datapad with a frown.

“That’s not funny, Blades.”

“I’m not joking. All the equipment,” He reached for a datapad First Aid had dumped off to the side – their requisitions list for the trip – and flicked through it until he got to the crate he was looking for. He turned it and aggressively tapped the screen. “This is all barricading equipment. Why would they want us to have stuff to barricade ourselves?”

“If the shield failed for whatever reason? I mean – it’s a good thing too, because it did!”

“What good is a ceiling support at keeping in the heat? Or rapid expansion blocks? These are meant to keep something out.”

First Aid let the datapad he was holding fall from his hands and he snatched the datapad Blades was holding, his nose almost pressed against the display as he scoured it. “That – that doesn’t make any sense! Why would they do that to us? They were just taking precautions!” He felt his hands suddenly go slack as he realised something.

“Hot Spot? Why did they send us again?”

“Because we were the least likely to turn on each other in extreme stress and isolation.” His field wavered and flared, almost visibly showing his stress and anger at the situation. “I now believe it’s also because we have the perfect balance of training and expertise to keep ourselves going independently in situations such as this one.”

“Prowl sure kept that one fucking quiet.” Blades snarled. “Who else knew? Who else just let this happen?”

“We won’t know for sure.” Hot Spots hands creaked as he clenched them into fists. “But Prowl’s got a lot to fucking answer for.”

Chapter Text

Six groons passed, and the planet came back into their field of view. Communications could be re-established, needs assessed, their ships pointed its way. They sent their first ping.

[ERROR] returned with a dull beep.

Scrambler froze in his seat. He tried again. Maybe it was a cold day and the array had completely frozen? But they were supposed to keep it clear…

[ERROR]

He tried again. And again. And again.

[ERROR]

[ERROR]

[ERROR]

He swallowed. Right.

“Uhm. Blaster?” He held his voice steady. “I think we may have a problem.”

“What’s up?” Blaster quickly took the seat next to him, optics flying over the screen. His expression fell.

“Their communication systems are all offline. The back-up’s don’t seem to have even kicked in - the last date for that being functional was before they went out of range. Their main system isn’t responding at all but I can’t figure out what it is.” He chewed his nails. “If it was powered we’d still be able to see it, just not transmit, but it’s just not there.”

“Prowl’s on his way. We’re about to get very popular.”

“If-” his hands were hovering over the keyboard when a single message came through. Both of their optics lit up, and they shared a look before going to open it.

It was an audio recording. The sound was loud and piercing, distorted through both distance and frequency, but it was unmistakably Hot Spot.

“We need help.”

There was someone in the background yelling. Banging, the sound of alarms, alien shrieking.

“Primus.” Blaster quietly said. “Prowl’s running now.”

Prowl cut a grim figure in the middle of their communication hub. He listened to the audio recording on loop, expression downturned and arms folded under his chest. Jazz had joined them, mirroring his counterpart. They shared a look and Jazz nodded, swiftly turning and leaving the room.

“Thank you, Scrambler.” Prowls doorwings were eerily still, even for him. “Blaster?” He beckoned.

The two left the room, and the quiet spell that had fallen over it on Prowls entry suddenly broke.

“Are they okay?!”

“What do you think?”

“There’s no need to be so nasty about it…”

“I can’t believe they treated this so nonchalantly-“

“How long does it take to get there?”

“They must all be dead by now!”

Scrambler stared at the last message they had received. It had been cut short. He’d heard someone start their vocaliser right by the microphone before the transmission had suddenly ended. Who had it been? What had they wanted to say? And, most importantly, when did they send it? That would dictate a lot. If this was a rescue mission, or a repatriation one. Were they collecting mechs or corpses? When did they inform next of kin?

And what was that godawful noise behind them?

“Do you think they got it?” Streetwise asked, leaning heavily against his commander. Hot Spot readjusted his position, lessening the pressure on his damaged joint.

“I sure hope so.”

They stayed silent where they were, even adjusting how they breathed to make as little noise as possible. That… thing, was stalking between them and the base, busy searching for them. The wind was that day was thankfully strong and had blown fresh snow over their tracks and scrubbing away the cookie crumb trail that would have lead the infant straight to them. Once it moved on, they could make the mad sprint back before it spotted them. Hot Spot hoped his joint could take it. He needed to be there for them.

The communications array was still broken. First Aid had managed to splice wiring together to fix the damaged section of cable that Vortex had axed when he’d first woken up, and they’d had to drag in a small generator that they’d managed to cobble together, but it still wasn’t enough. The light barely turned on. That thing outside had been screaming the whole time. It was probably a bunch of nonsense that made it, if anything at all.

The last four groons had been challenging. Their phases of in-fighting had stopped two groons in, the ten of them finally truly accepting their fate. First Aid had managed to get their energon generator back up and running again in time for the creature to find out how to open the hatch – most of the fuel it generated went towards scorching it back out with controlled explosions and fire. It did not like the heat, it’s screams piercing and rattling their cores – they’d quickly theorised that it whatever species it was was designed for cold weather climates and fire just did not mix well with it. It was either that or it found it to be a fun game – Streetwise’s microphone had picked up it giggling before setting off the trap the second time.

Hot Spot had hurt himself in the infants last break in attempt. The trap hadn’t gone off as expected and he had to manually detonate it – First Aid just didn’t have the tools or the supplies to properly fix him, so he’d done his best to piece together his care whilst quietly whispering apologies as Hot Spot bit through metal to not scream.

The fire engine used a mirror to check around the corners. They’d been there for so long that ice had started to gather on their frames in a thick layer, the warming climate with the change of season still not quite enough for them to stay outside for long.

No shadows. No sounds except the wind. It was quiet and clear.

He tapped Streetwise’s knee twice and twitched his helm towards the door. Go.

They both ran as fast as their over-taxed frames could go. With the snow as thick as it was they’d gain no traction if they transformed, their wheels would spin uselessly and they’d burn precious energy getting themselves out.

They didn’t stop running until they reached the hatch, the ice melting from their frames and sloughing off in thick sheets. Frozen hands knocked in a pattern on the hatch, and after some shuffling below it was opened.

“What took you?” Brawl gruffly asked.

“It heard us starting up the generator.” Streetwise said as he dropped down. Hot Spot slid down the ladder just behind him and staggered back, his knee sending bolts of pain through his frame. He gritted his teeth tightly together and leaned against the wall as Brawl closed the hatch and set the trap back up again. “We had to wait for it to go.” Streetwise continued.

They didn’t attempt to contact Cybertron again. It was too risky – much, much too risky – but they had the idea of setting up a light on what remained of the roof to blink out a message to any passing craft. In the absence of a power source, they’d use a small turbine to power it – they didn’t need to store the energy, and there was limited risk of it burning out whatever it powered.

All it took now was to wait. They didn’t have any other option – even if the disturbance cleared and interstellar navigation became available again, Blast Off couldn’t even make it to orbit without any cargo with how low his reserves were. He’d just crash back down again and leave them all in a worse off position than they were before if they tried to leave with him.

“Something big is on the surface.” Streetwise frowned as he wiped the condensation off of the display. His optics suddenly lit up, his jaw dropping. “It’s the pickup! They came!”

The last few decacycles had been almost agonising, morale evaporating with every passing cycle. They knew that it would take time to reach them, that it wasn’t going to be a quick extraction, that they needed to be patient, but it was hard to stay optimistic when you weren’t sure when they were coming or if they’d make it in time.

“Thank Primus, they got the message.” Hot Spot breathed a sigh of relief, the guns mounted on the side of the ship signalling that they’d heard them loud and clear. He looked at his team, silently assessing them. Who was the least damaged? Who would survive a trip to the surface?

Groove stood without being asked. “I’m best for saying hi.” He stretched out his joints with loud creaks. “Fingers crossed that thing is spooked by the noise.”

“Take this.” Streetwise handed him his flare gun. “It’s got one more shot left in it – aim well.”

“Thanks.”

Groove disappeared down the hall, and Hot Spot turned back to their odd group.

Blades, Vortex, and Blast Off were almost in stasis from lack of fuel, their flight frames unable to handle the grade generated by their generator – the little it provided to them that wasn’t used on make-shift explosives barely kept the rest of them operational. It took their numbers to favouring Autobots, and he hoped it was enough for the shuttle crew to not kick up too much fuss.

Onslaught and Brawl were bigger, and like him, required more fuel to operate – none of them were doing overly well, but Hot Spot knew that he was only in a better condition than they were in because he hadn’t been in stasis. They were lethargic, slow, and in no condition to fight back.

Swindle, being small, was annoyingly okay. Much like Groove, the two of them would be running circles around them all if they could.

It left Streetwise and First Aid. Streetwise was doing a lot better – First Aid had to completely deactivate the systems and protocols that used up vital minerals in his systems so he didn’t use them by mistake and take himself offline.

They’d all spent a lot of time in recharge lately. Hot Spot didn’t like it, but it was a necessary evil. Their fuel consumption was too high, their resource use needed to be cut back to the bare minimum to keep them operational until pick-up.

He nudged Onslaught with his pede. The Combaticon Commander twitched and looked at him, visor dim and flickering. He grunted in question.

“Pick-up’s here.”

“And they’ve agreed to take us?”

“We’re not giving them a choice.”

Groove’s update came through the bond.

R-E-A-D-Y-!

“Looks like it’s happening right now.” Hot Spot pushed himself up, joints creaking and his knee trembling ominously. He eyed it warily and hoped it would last – First Aid had materialised next to him to help stabilise him, arms out waiting for him. “Everyone up.”

As their fliers went down they had discussed the best way to get them out. Hot Spot initially was meant to be carrying out Blades, but with his knee how it was they couldn’t risk any additional weight adding pressure to it. Onslaught couldn’t carry more than one mech and he was already taking Blast Off, and the others were too small to comfortably carry out a helicopter who didn’t actually very much want to be carried, which just left Brawl. Vortex had already been slung over one shoulder (apparently they were very well practised), so it just left Brawl to sling Blades over the other and hope that he didn’t have to use both hands.

They didn’t keep him informed of this change. Surprise was the best tactic when it came to Blades.

C-L-E-A-R-? Hot Spot pinged to Groove.

C-L-E-A-R, Groove pinged back.

Streetwise and First Aid went ahead to get the hatch open and help pull up their fliers. Despite themselves, they cautiously emerged, scanning their surroundings carefully. They could hear Groove ahead of them, chatting away to a crew member of the shuttle, and minutely relaxed.

“Okay, we’re good.” Streetwise called down. “Pass them up.”

“I’m glad to see you’re all okay!” Chromia marched over to them, holding very firmly onto her gun and another attached to her back. First Aid nervously eyed them up and wondered if they’d be enough. “Groove’s filled me in, we’ve got medical prepping on board – apparently you found some other mechs down there with you?”

She froze when she saw who they were bringing up from underground, her hands clenching tightly to her weapon.

“We can explain!” First Aid immediately shifted to block her view of them, putting himself in between Chromia and a very out of it Vortex. Right now, his programming was screaming at him to protect the patient, to avoid them coming to further harm. His processor buzzed loudly and he felt his systems stutter as they tried to override his self-preservation protocols.

“We’d be dead without them.” Streetwise continued, carefully pulling him up.

“Them? I certainly hope that's not plural.”

“We’ve got the whole set.” First Aid winced.

“Primus, you’re kidding me. We don’t have the resources for this.”

“We’ve gotten used to it.” Streetwise replied. He passed Vortex over to First Aid, the medic immediately adjusting his hold to pull him clear as Streetwise hauled a very grumpy looking Blades up.

“Hi, Chromia.” He weakly greeted.

“What’s wrong with them?” She asked, edging closer.

“No fuel.” First Aid replied. “We don’t have any rations of the right grade left.”

There was a distant rumble that had them all freezing, sensors buzzing and prickling. The five mechs who had just spent half a vorn on the planet all shared the same panicked look.

“You!” A green arm emerged from the hatch, quickly followed by a red face. “Weapons! Now!”

Chromia’s jaw dropped. “Absolutely not! What the hell was that sound?!” Her armour was trying to both puff out and lay flat against her at the same time, vibrating and clattering against itself.

“Ask Prowl!” Streetwise snapped. His hand flapped around at his hip as he searched for something before he quickly snapped his fingers at Groove. “Groove! Flare, to Brawl!”

Brawl was out the hatch and running to him as Groove immediately held out the gun, the tank rushing past them. He caught himself on the edge of a piece of wall that was still standing and pointed at the hatch. “It’s got fuel!”

“Oh! Wait, the flare can detonate it!” Groove quickly scrambled to grab the energon cannisters before running after Brawl, Chromia desperately watching them in confusion.

“What’re they doing?”

“Chillax, we’ve got practice.” Swindle popped out next. He swaggered to the doorway to watch their shadows disappearing down the hall. “A little distraction so we can get these guys out.” He gestured to the room at large.

Hot Spot came out next, giving Chromia an apologetic look.

“Sorry. We’ve forgotten how to interact with people.” He limped up, his leg trembling. Chromia frowned at him.

“You’ve got a lot to answer for, I hope you know that.”

Hot Spots expression darkened. “I hope they’re prepared for the questions I’m going to ask back.”

Blades had, begrudgingly, allowed Streetwise to carry him. First Aid had managed to pick up Vortex using a technique he’d seen Hot Spot using once to pick up Fortress Maximus with surprising success, and Onslaught followed their slow pace with Blast Off. Hot Spot limped at the front with Swindle, holding tightly onto his last flare. Chromia took up the rear, too cautious of their group to leave her back unguarded around them.

A loud boom in the distance had them all flinching.

“They’ve disabled it.” Onslaught said, adjusting his hold on Blast Off. “They’re running back now.”

“Tell them to meet us at the ship.” Hot Spot replied.

“Groove got hurt.”

Hot Spot swore. “Damn it! How!”

“Apparently he had the bright idea of taking down more of the structure, he broke a gas line.”

Their arrival at the shuttle was met with a mixed response. Any excitement at them being alive and operational was quickly doused by the realisation that they were both not alone and had brought Decepticons with them. Combaticons, to be exact. Not the most rosy of them, and not the most wanted either. The Protectobots there ignored their questions and protests as they brought their downed mechs on board, First Aid quickly grabbing a supply kit from the wall and almost sobbing at how well stocked it was as he immediately began setting up transfusions with trembling hands. Hot Spot heavily sat down and straightened out his damaged leg, the joint sparking. Onslaught, Swindle, and Streetwise waited anxiously for the others to arrive.

“Did you manage to find the research?” Hot Spot asked Chromia. She was pacing anxiously on the ramp, optics fixed in the direction of the explosion. They could hear more rumbling and high pitched sounds that had them all on edge, an omen of what was coming towards them.

“It’s all loaded.” She tightly replied. She glanced down at him. “What are you all so scared of?”

Hot Spot shook his head and laughed, but the sound was pained and exhausted and had First Aid pausing in his work to collect himself.

“I wish I knew. All we know is that it’s a child. I guess nobody told you about it either.”

Chromia awkwardly shifted her weight, shifting it to her hip. “Our brief was just that we might meet resistance.”

“I think it’s something we were prey to once upon a time. It’s the only explanation as to why it makes us feel like this.”

It didn’t seem to make Chromia feel any better.

Brawl came sprinting out of the fog towards them, Groove under his arm. He waved, gesturing for them to get the hell out of there. Onslaught immediately whirled around and roughly shoved Swindle and Streetwise into the ship, turning back around to reach out to Brawl and run up the ramp with him. They could hear his systems working overtime, every joint creaking and groaning. His engine groaned and whined as he slowly sunk down to the floor and wheezed, sighing in relief.

“Did you get it?” Onslaught asked.

“Blew off a couple limbs.” Brawl nodded. He dropped Groove down and nudged him in the direction of First Aid, the medic already working on him. “It shouldn’t be following us yet.”

Chromia slipped out as the door closed, the ramp slowly moving upwards as external doors slid shut. With a deep rumble, they felt a shift as the shuttle began to move, and they all sagged in relief as soon as they felt the artificial gravity kick in and signal that they had successfully left orbit.

Whilst all crammed together, it was hard to notice that they were all slowly deteriorating. It suddenly became much more obvious when they were suddenly in the context of a well-kept spaceship and a comparatively well-kept crew. They looked dull, dead and lifeless. It was hard to notice that they were becoming gaunt and like corpses when it happened so slowly and when it was happening to everyone, when there wasn’t anyone else to compare themselves to.

At first the crew had been cautious and apprehensive around the Combaticons, unwilling to go near them or to do anything but put them into a cell and try and forget that they were there, but it very quickly became obvious that they were in no condition to cause any problems – and Hot Spot wouldn’t allow it. At first mention of a brig he had immediately refuted it, and the rest of his team quickly backed him up. If they’re such a problem, why are we intact? Are you punishing them for allying with us? Is it a new policy to take allies prisoner?

Chromia had been right when she had said they didn’t have the resources. They were given rations again – not quite the size of a full cube, but it was a damn sight better than what they had before. They could have cried in relief as they finally saw their fuel indicators tick up to one above empty, but they didn’t have the coolant to spare.

The trip was a long one, but they were used to waiting. The news that they didn’t have the room for them to be kept separately barely made them flinch – they simply rearranged the room and collapsed into an exhausted pile on the floor together. Hot Spot and Onslaught took point on either side of the door, their legs crossed over to wake them up if the door were to open, while the others slotted into whatever space was available, more than used to the close-quarters contact.

Their medical check-ups went about as expected. Low fuel, low mineral, low resources. Parts that needed replacing, others that needed a total re-haul, and parts that were just plain missing. First Aid’s energon workup had them frowning, and Vortex’s frowning even harder. First Aid was mysteriously high on minerals that he shouldn’t have had any access to – they weren’t common in his frame type, they weren’t present in his previous workup, and he wouldn’t have been supplemented with them or found them in the environment. Vortex, on the other hand, was mysteriously low on all of his as if they were being siphoned by something.

When asked about it, First Aid couldn’t bring himself to make optic contact with them. He only told them that they did what they had to so he had the mineral he needed to operate.

Prowl looked like he was expecting a funeral. Hot Spot saw him waiting for the ship to dock on the platform and he had marched right down the ramp before it had properly secured itself despite the best efforts of the crew to stop him and stormed over to him, limping heavily, and grabbing him by the scruff. He ignored the attempts of others to get him to let go, glaring hotly at him – he didn’t have the strength left to swing the punch he so desperately wanted to snap his nose with, he didn’t have the stability, so he settled for a firm grip and leaning in as closely as possible. Prowl stared blankly back, his lips twisted into a guilty line.

“You,” Hot Spot began, jabbing him in the chest, “Are going to tell me exactly what you have just put my team through.”