Work Text:
It was quiet out, the faint bustle of mecha outside and the muffled industrial tinkering of various factories softly cutting through the silence. Standing on the terrace of the miner's barracks tower, D-16 watched the late lunar cycle stragglers from above. The only things keeping him company being the neon lights, the glittering stars…
And his daughter, stubbornly trying to fight the pull of recharge.
“Bitlet,” he whispered, looking down at her tired frame cradled in his arms. She was getting so big so quickly, already nine stella cycles old, compared to when D-16 had found her as a sparkling in the aftermath of a cave-in. She was so small at the time that D-16 could hold her in the cradle of his servos, now he's worried he won’t be able to hold her at all soon. “Bitlet, you need recharge.”
She only pouts in response, hexagonal optics staying firmly on the sky. But even with her persistence to stay awake, C-41's optic shutters are trying to flutter closed against her will.
"Mmh… but I wanna watch the stars…," she mutters, trying to rub away the drowsiness from her optics with tiny servos.
Dee chuffs, shaking his helm with a fond smile, “the stars’ll still be here next lunar cycle, ‘Cee. You need to rest your little singer’s vocalizer.”
C-41 only whines, looking up at him with pleading blue optics, “just a few more kliks…?”
“‘Cee…,” the mech sighs, already knowing he’s going to cave-in but trying to hold out.
“Pleeaase…!” She begs, clasping her servos together under her chin and leaning further into her guardian’s chest. There's a twitch at the corner of her pouting derma, she knows the power she wields.
Dee sighs again, this time in defeat, he knew this was a losing battle the moment he brought her out here to try and lull her to rest.
“Fine,” he says with fond rolling optics, hefting her up in his arms a little higher to press a soft kiss to her forehelm. "Five more kliks. Is that good enough for you, sparksong?"
C-41 replies with a quick nod and a chirp, the large finials atop her helm flicking happily as she leans into the touch and looks back towards the stars.
The lunar sky was probably clearer in Iacon compared to Kaon, but the two mecha were content with what constellations they could see; Prima's Saber, Solomus Arrius, and The Victor to name a few. Deep in his spark, D-16 wishes his bitlet could see clearer skies; Kaon's labor district is no place to raise a sparkling, least of all the district's energon mines.
It was dark as a dungeon, illuminated by sparse lanterns, their built-in headlights, and the pulsing glow of the energon they're sent to dig. Yet despite this, his little sparksong still skips happily down the tunnels, trilling melodies for the working frames of her elders. C-41 is still too small to hold the large industrial drills they carry, instead taking to collecting the mined energon in a cart and bringing up morale with her cheerful ballads.
She dreams of being a singer, and even though most labor frames aren't able to escape their function, Dee can’t think of anyone else more fitting of making it out the mines than her.
He’s brought out of his thoughts by a soft whisper, “Dee?”
Dee hums, optics flicking down to his sparkling. She still gazes at the stars, optics transfixed on the constellations.
“Have… have you ever thought of a new designation?” C-41 whispers, pausing to invent the courage to continue, “for yourself?”
D-16 thinks. He thinks of his fellow miners, coming up with their own preferred designations. He thinks of the overseers, upper-caste mechs that 'make sure the miners are staying on task' in the tunnels, and their gifted designations. He thinks of himself, one of the few mechs indifferent towards his serial designation code. He never needed a new name to be known by; he can accept being D-16. But more importantly, he’s Dee. A nickname gifted to him by his sparkling and fellow miners, more meaningful than any he could ever think to choose himself.
“No,” he finally answers, shaking his helm, “no, I haven’t.”
C-41 bites her lower derma, her optics flicking down to her servos, wringing her digits nervously and curling in on herself. Noticing his daughter’s inner conflict, Dee clears his intake and quickly course corrects,
“But,” he proceeds gently, arms tightening their hold around her comfortably, “I don’t mind it. What brought this on, bitlet?”
“I think…,” she mutters quietly, still fiddling with her digits and barely louder than a vent, “I think I have one. For myself.”
Dee smiles, tender love in his optics for his sparkling, his little one growing into her own. “Whatever it is, I know it’s as sweet as your voice, sparksong.”
His daughter’s sight turns to the sky again, watching the far reach of the lunar cycle and the few shimmering constellations they can see.
“Lyra.” She says, softly but with strong conviction. When she looks back to her sire, her guardian and protector, a small but proud smile on her face, she reprises, “my name is Lyra.”
“Lyra,” Dee echoes, testing it on his glossa to commit to memory, “Lyra. Little lyre.” Confident in himself to remember and proud of his sparkling, Dee leans his helm down to nuzzle his forehelm to hers, “A fitting designation for my sparksong.”
The newly named Lyra nuzzles him back, pressing her helm under her guardian’s chin and lifting her arms to hug him, which Dee gladly and quickly returns.
Dee gently sways on his pedes, holding his daughter close. When he found her, he never thought it’d be so rewarding to watch this sparkling grow, to see her become someone so bright. To think that he’d helped in some way by raising her, overlapping harmonies to soon become a great aria, it made his spark sing.
He’s been beside her for many milestones now, he can’t wait to see them all. But most of all, Primus willing, to see her achieve her dream.
With a quiet yawn, Lyra tucks herself further into her guardian's embrace, optics blinking slowly.
“Finally tired, sparksong?” He crooned, shifting to make her more comfortable and letting his engine hum, using the soft rumble to lull her further into recharge.
His daughter only nods with a tired mumble, her optics shuttering closed. Lyra’s vents slowly start to even out as she begins to slowly drift into a peaceful slumber.
With a final kiss to her forehelm, D-16 turns back into the miner’s barracks, sleeping sparkling cradled in his arms like the most precious treasure. And as she finally slips to recharge in his hold, he whispers,
“Sweet dreams, Lyra.”