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A delicate funnel of lifeblood flowed between Tarn’s digits. Warmer than a long summer’s day and a deeper pink than the Ganesh nebula from recent Nuke usage. It pulsed with each cycle of Tarn’s fuel pump, the easy rhythm casting a glow against dark, black and purple paneling. In any other situation, it would have been a normal view of vulnerable inner workings before his inevitable actions would result in the fuel line being crushed between his servos, torn with a swift pull of digits.
Today, despite his wishes, was only half way different.
He already snuffed a spark out, two actually upon finding his quarry with an accomplice, but now was a far different challenge. One that no member of his own team could aid him with. A solo affair for a uniquely personal conundrum.
An overhead light forced a sterile, white highlight upon Tarn’s midsection from where he lay, half way propped up on his berth slab. Several screens were pivoted from the walls and his desk over to the slab, surrounding him in a way that reminded him of the days in the thick of the war when Megatron had locked himself in his command center, the visual and audial input of a thousand and one battlefronts assaulting him from all sides. Well, perhaps this wasn’t quite as dramatic, but Tarn still found the semi-parallel amusing.
The first screen showed a still image of an anatomical breakdown of a T-Cog housing and insertion process, every pixel utilized in maximum quality with the crisp image. The second screen to his right depicted a recording of a Decepticon medic conducting a T-Cog replacement, the likes of which Tarn had swiped from the Decepticon’s medical servers some orbital cycles ago for this exact purpose. He muted the video at first before nearly hurling his thin medical equipment across the room, reluctantly unmuting the video and being met with the stern, yet slow talking doctor aiming to train future Decepticon nurses and medics.
“You’re going to find this a lot on the field, especially if it’s a planet-wide front in the war. More territory in conflict means more traveling which means more cogs. Plan ahead and make sure your base keeps proper stores of extra Cog replacements.”
Tarn scoffed, swallowing down a sickening warmth threatening to creep up his throat. Legs shuffled uncomfortably on the slab as he took the cog, settling it down into the prepared housing. The immediate area was numbed, his nerve sensors shut off for that section, but that of course just made the sensation uncomfortably surreal of seeing himself disassembled open, front paneling stripped away, various lines and wires set aside carefully to reveal the housing from its back side. The front side of the T-Cog housing faced one’s back normally, but since this was a self-administered surgical procedure, trying to operate from the normal side seemed…challenging to say the least. Additionally when he considered how bulky his war-build frame was, doing a procedure that way was out of the question entirely, resulting in the more risky, invasive direction of approaching the housing from one’s front chassis.
Optics darted up to the third screen directly in front of him, an above camera view of his chassis and area of operation. Thick digits grasped the retractor which held an arterial line of fuel out of the way, his other servo sliding the cog into place.
Clunk.
“Oh by the canons of…what now?” Tarn hissed under his vents, voice carrying an abnormal shaky tone contrasting its normally confident, commanding air.
The cog caught on a side panel of the housing which had been bent out of place after he forcibly placed the cog in. He…he didn’t even shove it in that hard! At least he thought he didn’t…
He let forth a murmured curse against the primes as he began to sense that shooting up some Nuke before such a procedure perhaps was not the best course of action. Too late for that now. Helm leaning up, against the berth and away from the screens, Tarn vented deeply. In then out. Just a few times. There. Better. Tarn groaned, looking back down, shooting a pointed glare at the medic training video before pausing it.
The overview of his chassis showed a silver of bent insulation paneling, just a thin inner corner of it that scraped against the cog each time he tried to force it in. He cringed at the scraping sound, setting the cog back on its tray before picking up his scalpel. Such a thin tool felt abnormal, disgustingly disproportionate to his own frame as he bent it into the small opening, hoping to sever off the overhanging edge of metal. Taking another hefty vent, his servo gave the slightest of motions, already cutting most of the way through the panel.
Easy, you do not want to send this through the housing with another stringent shove. Not even a movement, so much as a flinch, He assured himself. The abnormal heat of Nuke in his veins screamed for a more drastic action. Okay. Yes, he would fully admit now that taking Nuke prior to this was a horrible decision. Granted, it still gave him the gumption he needed to cut into his own frame as if he had any medical training whatsoever. He most certainly did not, aside from the ‘if you’re bleeding out, stop it or die’ basic tip that most Decepticon soldiers had, which to be fair was a universally held fact. Usually, most didn’t want to die after getting shot, stabbed, blown half to bits, or any other variety of ways one could possibly go in a fight.
“A flinch. Just a little scrape.” He said aloud as if for confirmation with his own body. His mind was racing faster than Blurr in the Iaconian 5000, body lagging with heavy, jerking movements against his own wishes.
The crunch of tearing metal sounded. His vents stopped entirely. Optics widened at the view of the camera screen before him.
The stray panel had been tamed, stripped away and cut off to make a proper way for the cog now.
Venting a prayer of thanks to his Lord for always looking out for him, even in his most selfishly indulgent moments such as this, Tarn pulled back the scalpel, eager to move it away from the sensitive cog housing.
Squilch.
A splatter of pink painted the screen to his left, the anatomical photograph being dotted with a touch of realistic detail. Another flow of energon spurted past, the clatter of the scalpel falling to the floor as Tarn gasped aloud.
In his impatience to get the scalpel away from the cog housing, he had kept the sharp edge pointed down as he pulled away, conveniently catching the edge of an arterial fuel line that was set to the side precariously amidst other veins of energon and wires abound.
“Oh…Oh, where- Where is it? Where-” Tarn heaved in a panic, servo scrambling over the tray of tools, every single one of them appearing ill fitted or incorrect for the job. Half of them he did not know the proper name of, although he could give an educated guess at what they were for. He had just seen it…where was it now?!
A notification blared on Tarn’s HUD, overwhelming his already intensely focused field of vision.
WARNING: SEVERE LEAKAGE
ARTERIAL LINE 12; CIRCUIT 7
SEEK IMMEDIATE MEDICAL CARE
“Oh, quiet you! Where is- AGH!”
Tarn crumpled forward in pain, knocking the tray and cog to the floor. His damned sensornet had reset itself, re-engaging all deactivated sensor regions in an attempt to bring further attention to the problem as if he didn’t already know about it. Such a warning state in his frame now prevented him from shutting off or otherwise altering its standard inputs as he normally could. Anything else would have to be done painstakingly manually.
“I am quite AWARE!” He rasped blatantly at his own system, servos searching his frame desperately for the arterial line which was cut. A bout of pink-hued energon pulsed out once more, every few kliks to his increasing dismay. It coated his servos, leaking down his arms and lubricating his elbow joints, a feeling he could have very much gone without.
A gelatinous substance, likely those energon cubes Tess had shared with him earlier, surged up his throat into his intake. Gagging, he coughed, choking before swallowing it down with quite the difficulty. It nearly slid down the wrong pathway to clog his upper chassis ventilation system.
Ah…perhaps he was starting to see why the medic had mentioned an intravenous or liquid only energon intake prior to the procedure.
Hm…Noted.
Panting a vent, large enough to compensate for several missed vents, Tarn sensed a tingling sensation in his limbs that crept up to his spark.
Oh…oh no. No, no.
At first he assumed it was the lack of proper ventilation, before knowing that it was certainly from energon loss. This quickly? He scoffed a callous laugh, knowing how much worse he had survived. There was absolutely no way such an injury would do him in. He’d stop the flow, patch the fuel line and be done with this mess. His team none the wiser and his own desires sated…At least until the next cycle or two. Perhaps the Nuke was causing his system issues? No, no, but he had done it so many times before. Why now?
“Here we are. No, oh for the love of…” Tarn cursed once more as the thin, now sickeningly wet, fuel line slipped from his grasp like an oil viper from the Tar Springs. In a panic he made quicker, more forceful motions which only served to force the object of his curiosity further away. Each slide of his energon soaked digits resulted in a slicker surface, each attempt leading to a louder wail of his internal alarms. His servos began to shake, part in anger, part in cold, unadulterated fear.
The damn line was taunting him if that was even possible. Flitting past his grasp, between digits, past his palm only to leak further across his frame. He certainly was making quite the mess of himself. A vague awareness of his own partially processed energon dripping down the marred plating of his face was the least of his worries as his frame began an involuntary shut down of “optional” processes. Many biolights across his frame switched off, conserving as much fuel as possible. A lag accompanied his limbs, making his task even more daunting.
His thumb crushed down against his pointer digit, snaring one side of the arterial fuel line. He gave a wickedly relieved smile, nearly hysterical at the joy of catching the fuel line. In a way, he had just caught his future in a palm. If he could keep it there was another story altogether.
Steadying himself, Tarn knew he would be useless to try and fix it if he didn’t get a control of his frame. Leaning back on the slab fully, he focused on venting. Processor running on fumes and a hefty dose of Nuke, he ran through the cautionary warnings, making sure he enacted each and every action to conserve his energy. By the Pits of Kaon, he often forgot how much fuel his frame ran through, thus making such a loss of it from his frame even more dire than it would have been to a normal mech. Just yet another wonderful perk of his new frame.
No.
Not new.
It was old, older than his own frame, his original frame. Yet it still felt foreign, an ill fitting suit over his shattered interior. In times like these, being injured, too far gone under some substances that were initially taken as a brief reprieve from his new existence, it felt worse than any hell the Senate could have concocted for him. Still, he embraced every ache, every vile pain under his paneling for he knew it was what was required of him.
It was what The Cause required of him.
He needed to keep up this frame to enact the will of his Lord.
It mattered not his own comfort in his frame. Comfort was a luxury war did not allow.
He knew that this was one of the various reasons he had a penchant for extreme substances and behaviors compared to most. Nuke drowned out the disconnect, forcibly enhancing his sensations between his frame and processor to a degree he couldn’t achieve alone. Sessions of several thousand transformations, one after the other, made his frame feel more natural. The flow of paneling, wire, and systems shifting apart and together again took the attention off of how strangely he felt when he was still. The distraction kept him going, among other things. The constant work and effort it took to research and track his quarry was simply another valued distraction from the quiet moments when reality grew too excruciating to ignore.
A processor stripped from its forged place and fitted poorly in a new system. A system for war, so different from his forged frame…
He never quite mastered or felt entirely compatible with his current frame. Not that he ever let such a fact show to anyone. That is, but perhaps one. The most unlikely of mechs. Far from an ally, certainly not a Decepticon, and quite-
“A mess you’ve gone and made...”
Tarn’s closed optics flicked open at the murmuring statement. It sounded close, nearly next to his helm. Wait, when did he close his optics? His vents quickened at all the uncertainty at once. Frame giving a shudder, he was sure his sensors were giving false input that he was far more chilled than he really was. Not a good sign…and an even worse sign (or perhaps welcome one, he pondered before quickly disregarding that thought) appeared above him.
Blue optics, as cold and unrelenting as ever, cut down into him as if able to flay his spark with a glance. Tarn didn’t ever doubt that after the tenacity and perseverance he’d seen from this particular mech. Even under sessions of utmost torture and duress, he never faltered.
He could respect it…almost, if not for that red brand that met his optics as he looked at the mech’s chassis. The rest of his berth room faded into a hazy fog at the periphery of his attention. Pharma could not possibly be here, he was dead. And yet, the Medic felt even more real than the frame his spark was forcibly fitted into. He shifted a leg, only to realize he couldn’t. His frame laid inert against the propped berth, staring up. Somehow, he did not fear the fact that he was now entirely at Pharma’s mercy. If anything, he was intrigued as if watching an old movie file of some pre-war drama.
“In what possible reality were you convinced this idea would end well? Do you even know how to properly wield plating?”
Tarn swallowed, but not before his glossa trailed his lower lip, catching a line of energon. Bitter, yet tank-churningly sweet. Tart as well, although he knew that was from the Nuke. His nose scrunched at the taste. That was a primary reason he and most of his team opted to dose up on Nuke intravenously opposed to orally. He had to rub his glossa on the roof of his intake to wear the taste off.
“Doctor.” Tarn rasped, lips curving to a smile, yet maintaining a formally fond stiffness about it. Pink fluid stained half of his faceplate now, part of it obscuring his left optic. He knew already that it would be a pain and a half to get that grime out of the crags of his scarred face. “A pleasure as always.”
“Can’t say the same.” Pharma sighed. He was standing behind the slab, helm bent down to stare at the scene before him, particularly at Tarn’s helm, noting his reactions with a scientific curiosity. His servo shifted forward, coming to rest over the center of the warbuild’s chassis. “Your spark pulse is erratic. I wonder why...”
“Cut an arterial fuel line of yours, and I do believe you will implore a similar effect, good Doctor.”
“Too bad I’m not that stupid. What were you trying to do now?”
Tarn’s optics wandered, taking in the sight of the only mech to truly know the secret behind his cog addiction. “You know what.”
“Hm, enlighten me.” Pharma hummed in annoyance. Despite his tone, he leaned down, placing both arms on either side of Tarn’s helm. Digits plucked at the various wires and fuel lines of his open chassis as if playing an instrument. “I know you always love to hear yourself talk anyway. Do tell.”
“I was trying to replace my transformation cog. However, I imagine you already know every modicum of this situation. You are me. You are purely a mental manifestation of my frame’s system failure. What say you to such accusations?”
An airy, humored vent seeped past Pharma’s intake. Servos drew up the thick panels on his chassis, digits catching on every edge sensuously as if waiting for a reaction. The spiteful spirit was certainly a Pharma trait, however his actions highly deviated from his usual stony exterior. He didn’t recall him being this over familiar, but not that he was complaining…
Leaning down, Pharma embraced Tarn’s shoulder with an arm, helm shifting to the crook between Tarn’s neck cabling and jaw. The heat of his vents further distracted Tarn, the near imperceptible hum of his spark growing louder as he grew closer. His cuttingly sharp tone whipped Tarn’s processor to attention with three words.
“You got me.”
Okay, so this was very uncharacteristic of his least favorite medic (or absolute favorite? The jury was still out. Pharma truly was always so fun to toy with). And of course Pharma was continually trying to distract him from fixing his leaking frame. Ideally this Doctor would have loved to sweet talk him into being bled dry by his own vices projected through a mental form of the latest mech he had a fixation upon. He could certainly see the real Pharma having approved such a plot, perhaps even posthumously as a way to get his final revenge.
Why, oh why, did he have to be an Autobot?!
Tarn shifted uncomfortably, as if the apparition before him carried a contagion that was more likely to kill him than his severed fuel line. He drug his optics away from the medic, trying to focus on the screens before him again. They appeared to be…blank. How was that possible?
“Oh, you don’t need those,” The faux-Pharma mused, “You have everything you need right here.”
“I have a sentence to an offlining right here. Give…give me back my…my sight.” Words were feeling more of a slog to get out, his normally enhanced vocalizer now degrading worse than if he had let it continually rust for nineteen centuries unabated.
“Why waste your time with screens, with some ridiculous little video...” Tarn stiffened, unsure if his senses were glitching beyond repair now or if Pharma did just kiss along his neck cabling. He was more and more sure it was the latter as he heard Pharma’s hushed tone. “When you have a medic right here?”
Channeling all of his attention into the single act, even if the strain was to speed up his demise, Tarn gained control of an arm. It swung over to grasp Pharma’s shoulder vent, the medic appearing no less intimidated than if Tarn had just given him a compliment.
“Help. Me.” Tarn got the plea out through gritted dentae, by the Lord, it was pathetic to hear. Pleading with Pharma of all mechs? And it was not even the real Pharma, simply some strange agglomeration between the real one and a wildly fantastical version in Tarn’s mind.
“Alright, if you insist. Spoilsport.” Pharma tsked at Tarn’s words, swatting his servo off before grabbing it. The medic’s servo rested over Tarn’s, guiding his every move forward with a confidence that Tarn desperately needed. Just catching a glance of how much energon was pooled on his body and berth made Tarn nearly offline right then and there. Venting shakily, the leader of the DJD kept his vision honed solely on Pharma’s servo, the way his digits flinched every so often to signal an action on his part.
The hemostatic forceps were taken.
His other servo spurred to life after several tries. It snagged the arterial fuel line, allowing Pharma to guide his act in clamping it off with the forceps. This may very well work, Tarn thought with a wild sense of hope that he may live yet to see the outside of his chambers once again.
“Would you like me to tell you a story while I work?”
“No.” Tarn was far more curt than usual, but nearly bleeding out tended to do that to a mech. All he wanted was for Pharma’s servos, now resting over both of his own servos to guide them, to continue working. Pharma’s quiet vents were an unexpectedly steadying force against the encroaching stillness of his own faltering spark pulse.
“Good. There once was a medic-“
Tarn restrained rolling his optics, knowing he needed all his attention on his servos to stay focused. “Is there a fraction of a chance that this special medic you speak of is a conveniently relatable friend? Or perhaps this very medic is you?”
“Hush. If you listen then maybe you’ll know.” Pharma chastised. His quick interjection brought a grin to Tarn as he knew he struck true. “There was a medic who met a small auto mech. Just a little, orange thing…”
Tarn’s vents stifled. Where was Pharma going with this?
“And do you know what that mech said so very long ago after the medic saved his spark?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. That was you, after all.”
Tarn groaned as Pharma began the resealing process for the fuel line, none too gently. There wasn’t much point in denying such a fact when this version of Pharma already lived in his mind. Of course this faux-Pharma knew about his past. “...I thanked the medic.”
“Mm-hm. But you also swore you would aid that same medic if ever the time came that the medic was the one who needed help. Do you know what you did then?”
“I…”
A ripping sensation pulled from Tarn’s spark, searing down to the lower half of his frame as if the galaxy’s worst static shock. He let forth a yell, demanding his systems to shut off circulation to the lower half of his frame. There was no point in wasting the little fuel he had left cycling it through his entire frame when he didn’t immediately need use of his legs. Of course it had to be just from the fuel loss mixing disastrously with Nuke in his system which caused him to burn through fuel faster. Surety that Pharma wasn’t the cause of such a frame impairment began to flee from his processor as he heard Pharma speak. That voice carried an echoed tone that rang, bouncing around his helm, around his entire hab suite, maddeningly loud.
“You threatened his staff and patients, you cost him his career. His very self! His spark!”
Frame seizing, Tarn’s helm shot back against the berth, limbs going rigid. His spinal strut arced, bearing the primary burden of his frame shorting partially out from too quick energon loss and that rare altered substance. If he hadn’t known better he would have assumed Pharma was strangling him mentally and physically, bit by bit, all while his voice dominated his thoughts. Any and all ideas briefly flicked out for several kliks, each one disappearing like a vast star going supernova only to be swallowed up by the vast emptiness of space. Akin to reality in many such cases, none were present to witness such a death.
No, no he couldn’t die. Wouldn’t. Not over this. Not because of him.
Slowly, Tarn used the minor processor capability he had remaining to shut down all but his most basic motor and module functions. It was a battle in which he hardly ever waged, waist deep in his own processor’s code, fighting for his own existence. There was certainly only one other time before he had ever done such a thing. Just the thought of that memory sent an ache through the many nerve wires in his servos and face plate.
Tarn’s optics flicked back on finally, his vents gasping as he realized they had been shut off as well. Perhaps he was a little rusty at doing manual frame reboots. He shot back a retort against the accusatory, wrathful statements.
“We were at war! There were always consequences to resigning yourself to one side or the other. You, Doctor, were never good at sticking to yours, or else you would have told me to melt your own spark rather than cut a deal with me. Oh, how you think of yourself so much better than I…keep telling yourself how innocent you are. I am sure your offline patients, missing their cogs will agree unceasingly with you. Perhaps they’ll praise you even in the Allspark, welcoming you with open arms!”
“Frag you.” Pharma rasped, a weariness in his tone rivaling his anger. Tarn wasn’t aware apparitions could sound so exhausted. The Doctor, surprisingly, did not reply further as he finished up the patch job. His semi-translucent servos appeared to dip past Tarn’s outer paneling, a puppeteer to the digits from the inside. Despite their current row and the fact that Pharma was very miserably gone and offline, Tarn found comfort in the artificial visage’s arms moving around on either side of his helm. My, had he really stooped as low as finding a warm, giddy feeling in seeing a dead Autobot root around his frame?
How the mighty do fall…
Reluctantly, Tarn cleared his intake, speaking aloud in a gravelly, low voice. Almost as if he was afraid of anyone overhearing such sentimentality from the leader of the DJD. “Doctor, if you must positively know, I didn’t mean for you to…for how you went offline to occur. That wasn’t…it wasn’t anywhere in my plans.”
“Ah!” A snapping laugh caused Tarn to flinch, “Well then, thank you so much for letting me know. That helps the ache in my spark sooo very much!”
Tarn forced his servos to stop, pausing flat in the air, palms faced down with Pharma’s ghostly digits still inside his own. He could feel annoyance leak from the Medic as if a highly dangerous radiation meltdown.
“I do mean it.”
“I’m sure. Because keeping me alive was actually much worse of the two. If you really pitied me or cared you would have at least made it quick.”
That was certainly true. Tarn couldn’t argue with that, especially considering all he saw every time his team encountered a traitor on the list. By the Pits, even he would have preferred death to what his own job often dealt out. Then again, that was the point, wasn’t it? For better or worse, all for The Cause.
Pharma let out an exasperated, “humph!”
Shoving down his servos, he forced Tarn’s to get back to work patching himself up. His helm lingered over and next to Tarn’s own, between his helm and the tread on his shoulder, unflinching as always.
He knew he should have been looking down to his chassis, watching the development and making sure Pharma didn’t get any clever ideas for sabotage. Perhaps it was the energon loss, perhaps it was seeing such a fleeting interest he wanted more of while he was alive. One he wanted to know more of so dreadfully, those images he had of cutting him open and seeing exactly what made this mech tick.
Instead, his optics looked up to the side, remaining trained on the Medic’s shimmering form (had he always shone like that? Oh, of course not, you fool. Your processor is running into the pits right now.) with such a familiarly cross frown. Somehow, on both his best and worst days he would always look forward to seeing it be etched into his optics. To him, that morose disposition was tied inexorably to the fact that made sure every time, he was always looked after, repaired, made to feel whole again even when his own spark began to reject his frame once more.
Pharma, in an accidental association, was his saving grace.
Lord of Kaon, preserve him for this act…
Tarn leaned to the side, helm tilting up to meet his adversary. His dermas brushed against, then fell harder on Pharma’s as if snaring him into the act, afraid this visage was soon to vanish. He knew he would, but just…not for this very moment.
Pharma, this faux-Pharma his mind had stewed up in a sense of delirium and absolute delusion at what could have been reciprocated in earnest. The vision was so self flattering, so very self serving of his innermost vices he nearly broke into a laugh right then and there. Ha! As if Pharma would ever even think of going along with such a saccharine thing.
One could dream, he reasoned. That very reasoning was also what had led him down the path of the Decepticons in the first place. Okay, fine. Maybe he was a sickeningly philosophical idealist with a romantic streak. There were plenty of worse things to be…
The detachment between them was tender, surprisingly so until Pharma gave a bite to the scarred side of Tarn’s top lip playfully. Tarn flinched at that, optics bigger than the ship log of a worldsweeper’s fuel costs.
“Needs some practice.” Pharma noted critically as if judging a nurse’s soldering technique.
Blinking, Tarn noticed he had control of his servos again. He swept one over his dermas as if trying to feign nonchalance despite how hard his spark pulse was throbbing. It practically screamed out for the non-existent mech leaning over him. The non-existent mech he knew he’d never see again. For now at least, he indulged in the uncanny revenant before him, a smile on scarred features. “Good thing you’re back then.”
Translucent servo gripping Tarn’s jaw, harder than he expected from a visage, Pharma’s open intake met his. The medic’s frame shifted from behind his berth to hoist itself up, sitting over Tarn’s shoulder treads. He was expectedly lightweight for a phantom, just a concentration of air and his own mental projections perched upon and looking down to him.
Pharma gave a rare, cutting smirk that was a promise of how little he thought of the intelligence of whatever mech was before him. “I still think you’re the densest brick of iron I’ve ever met.”
Scoffing, Tarn was the one to frown now, busing himself with checking his newly patched arterial fuel line. “I beg to differ and a proper explanation of such a preposterous conclusion would be appreciated.”
“Well,” Pharma began, a leg swinging to cross over his other as he sat upon Tarn, apparently one of the more comfortable seating arrangements to his current liking. “You follow a ‘Lord’ known for betrayal and cutthroat tactics that would be more likely to carve your spinal strut out if it meant he could win a one extra battle.”
That struck home.
Tarn looked away, making a motion to get up before remembering most of his frame was manually out of commission until he turned it back on. “My Lord does what is required of him. At least he is more than honest about doing what it takes in order to accomplish such resplendent victories against our oppressors. Can your own backstabbing Autobots say the same? If I recall, it was an Autobot expedition that led to your own demise.”
Pharma, to his surprise, chuckled. “I can never doubt you are so very loyal to your cause, Tarn. That is your one, meager, singular redeeming quality.”
Tread shifting out, puffing up as if an irritated bird, Tarn mumbled a reply, “If you mind your preexisting biases formed upon the larger society’s functionist sociology, you will see I have plenty of others.” His optics trailed hesitantly back to Pharma, blinking several times as they found a melancholy sort of smile upon him.
“I know. I saw them.”
That was all he needed to say, all he needed to reminisce, for Tarn’s mind to grow occupied with images of a much smaller, much more optimistic orange mech. They both remained silent as if grieving in their own ways for this long lost figment of the past.
“Damus?”
“Yes, Pharma?” Tarn answered instantaneously, before recalling how long it had been since someone, anyone referred to him as such.
How many mechs were currently alive who knew his actual name? Likely, he could count them off on a single servo and still have a digit or two to spare. He did not correct the Doctor, even as he saw his chrome-tinted translucent form begin to falter. Pharma reached out, thumb brushing gently over an optic as if that act would wipe away millennia upon millennia of war, vorns upon vorns of change that had settled in his spark like an invading army. They would never be purged, simply assimilated with what existed and destroying it if necessary to further his survival, whether Pharma wanted to admit this was the truth or not.
His form was so faint now, only the weak outline of his helm’s chevron and wings barely visible as a whisper trailed his false existence.
“Remember him for me.”
And for a moment, waiting for most of his frame to manually reactivate, Tarn did.
Just for a moment, Tarn thought of Damus while lying in a pool of his own cooling energon, utterly and dolorously alone.