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"Head full of fantasies of dying like a martyr -
Dying is easy, young man. Living is harder."
- General George Washington, Hamilton
“-ax. Fort – Max – us.”
Somewhere in the sickening whirl of his mind, the voice is there. It’s half-garbled, cutting in and out, as if it’s coming through on a transmission from the far end of the galaxy; he can just about make out the words, but he can’t make sense of them, Fort Max, it means nothing –
“Max, I – here. It’s Red – rt.”
There’s screaming, screaming all around him, and Overlord’s ventilations are hot against his neck, that guttural voice murmuring, “Had enough yet, sweetspark?” –
“ – on our ship, Max. It’s 0200 hours. The date is –”
The voice persists, though, low and constant underneath the screams.
“ – just on the bridge. Now we’re sitting in the maintenance corridor, Max. It’s me, it’s Red Alert. I’m here.”
Fort Max grabs onto that voice like a lifeline.
He returns to himself slowly, beginning to feel the weight of his limbs again, to process the cool air of the corridor, the faint hum of machinery around them. He feels like he’s been wrung out, his legs too weak to move, his hands trembling. Red Alert is still talking softly, recounting their itinerary for the day, describing what’s around them. Every so often, he says his own name; every sentence or so, he says Max’s, with an almost aching gentleness. Max slumps against the wall a moment longer, letting each repetition ground him.
Eventually, he croaks, “Red?”
“I’m here, Max.”
Fort Max runs a shaking hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, optics shuttered.
“It’s all right. You don’t need to apologise.” Max cracks one optic open; Red Alert has a small, rueful smile on his face. “I would point out that you’ve done the same for me, but I don’t want you to think that I’m only doing this to pay you back.”
“You haven’t had an episode in a long time, Red. I, on the other hand…”
“Max. Even if you’d never talked me through a panic attack, I would still be happy to be here with you now.”
Red Alert’s voice is always lovely – those low, rich tones, and the refined consonants Fort Max secretly thinks are dizzyingly attractive. But Max likes his voice best when it’s like this, sweet and slow, a deliberate anchor for Max while the pulse of his spark gradually returns to normal.
“I’ve laid in the course for our next supply run,” Red continues. “We can pick up some of the copper wiring you mentioned… and we’ll need de-icing fluid if we plan to take the ship into atmosphere again…” The list unspools steadily, divided into categories and sub-categories of supplies. Red likes lists. And while they don’t steady Max in quite the same way, it’s undeniably soothing, listening to Red slot every detail carefully into its place. By the time he’s done enumerating every spare part and food item that needs to be restocked, Fort Max has stopped shaking. He lets out a long ventilation, and stretches, gently testing the feeling of being back in his own body, here and now.
“What was it? It’s fine if you don’t know,” Red adds quickly.
“No, I…” Max frowns. “The fuel. I went to change the fuel line in the wall, and the oil came gushing out at me. It was warm, and –” His throat cabling closes, and he looks away, not wanting to complete the thought: the way he was suddenly back there, strapped to a berth, with Overlord standing over him and lifting his chainsaw to the plating of a whimpering Autobot guard… and then the warm splatter of energon over Fort Max’s chest and legs.
Red nods, apparently not needing to hear the rest in order to grasp the connection.
Fort Max finds himself saying in a small voice, “I couldn’t save them, Red. Any of them.”
“That’s a terrible burden for you to carry.”
Max’s mouth twists at the corner. “I know Rung would say there’s a difference between the feeling of guilt and actually being guilty, but…”
Red Alert shifts a little closer, without touching Max. “I know.”
“Could you… talk to me a bit longer?”
“Of course. Anything you like.” Red smiles shyly. “Perhaps I could tell you about the places I hope we can travel next year?”
“Next year?” Max turns the idea over in his head. Next year feels almost inconceivable; it’s difficult to plan for next month, sometimes, difficult to fight the sense of time hurtling towards a cliff, with the end surely only days or hours away. But Red says the words, in that enticing voice, and Max wants to believe him. “Yes. Tell me.”
They sit on the floor of the corridor for more than an hour, with Red Alert spinning out the most beautifully detailed itinerary Fort Max could possibly imagine.
Halfway through, Max hesitantly sneaks his hand into Red’s. Without faltering for a second, Red squeezes it tight.