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Tailspin and Droopsnoot walk out the door, leaving an uncomfortable tension in their wake. On the way out, Droopsnoot shoots them a snarky remark. Watching Tailspin yell at them was very entertaining. Windshear and Burnout, earlier arguing over something nonsensical and unimportant, sit there in silence as they ponder Tailspin’s words:
“You’re going to sit there, and by the time I get back, you WILL have your acts together.”
His glowering gaze and twitchy smile instilled some fear into them, as they were still sitting next to each other. Somehow.
A fly buzzes past, so tiny and miniscule but their acute audials manage to pick it up anyways.
Burnout coughs.
Windshear side eyes him, a look so full of distaste it would serve as the perfect reaction image. “Why are you doing that.”
Burnout kicks his pedes, leaning back on his servos. He cocks his head in feigned cluelessness. “Doing what?”
Windshear’s expression deadpans, his lips drawing a thin line as his eyes bore into the smaller bot. Now, his head is fully turned towards him. “Don’t play coy with me.”
“Coy? I’m just clearing my vents.” Burnout smiles, a look that definitely spoke of coyness as his red optics squint in a taunt, “You’re kinda mean, y’know.”
“Clearing your vents through your intake?”
“You hurt my feelings.”
Good. I’ve had enough. Windshear goes to stand up, already done with this conversation.
Burnout frowns behind him, watching. “Wait! You don’t want to upset Tailspin, do you? You saw that look on his face.” Burnout shudders, his plating clinking. “Gave me the jitters.”
Windshear pauses, head turning slightly. “We’re making him happy by not arguing, we’re done here.”
“You know that’s not what he means.”
Windshear turns, putting a hand on his hip plating as his head tilts. “Okay, enlighten me; are we going to make friendship bracelets and sing kumbaya?”
Burnout’s expression suddenly brightens, optics widening at the prospect of friendship bracelets. “Yes! Hold on, I made some with Droop, let me see if I can find them-” he springs up, head rotor spinning as his excitement peaks.
Windshear does a double-take, intake aghast as he stares incredulously at Burnout’s overbearing enthusiasm. “What? No! Why would you think I’d ever want anything to do with you?” His audials flick in annoyance, spinning back as if a cat would pin its ears in a hiss. Under his breath, he mutters the word “psychopath”.
Burnout stills, rotors halting as his voice drops into an icy needle. “What did you say?”
Windshear says nothing, eyes hardening as he crosses his arms. You heard me goes unspoken but clearly in the air. His silence, like all other times, only spurs Burnout further.
Burnout turns sharply, lips curled in a snarl as he points an accusing finger at Windshear. “Okay, if you hate me so much, then why help me when I crashlanded on Earth?”
Windshear’s optics click in simulation of a blink, caught off-guard by the change of conversation. He regards Burnout in a sceptical manner. “Why bring this up now?”
“Because I wanna know,” Burnout dares to step closer, toeing the line in front of the former warrior, “why do you save me, and then act so cold?”
Accepting Burnout’s step forward and accusing tone as an invitation, he too steps forward, plating flaring in an attempt to make him more threatening. “I was paying a debt; Nothing more, nothing less.”
Burnout’s optics scrunch, confusion settling in the sharp rotation of the inner rings. “Debt? You’d think after everything I’ve done, you’d take the first chance to get rid of me. It’s what anyone else would have done; It’s war. You don’t waste stuff like that.”
Windshear scoffs, “I should have.” His voice is cold and uncaring, and something in Burnout wilts at the statement. He tries not to let it show, but his expression is tinged with hurt. He looks down, eventually taking a small step back.
The thick silence, once uncomfortable, is unbearable now.
Windshear finally looks at Burnout, truly looks at him instead of scrutinizing him, and relents. “You let me go.” As blunt as it is, it’s a question, one that Burnout seems unwilling to answer. Windshear presses more. “Why?”
It’s as if the tables have turned. Burnout, now silently, struggles to answer, optics eyeing the opening of the hangar. It’s a slight movement that Windshear doesn’t miss. They both tense, one in preparation to flee, and one in preparation to pursue. But it never gets to that.
As each second ticks by, Windshear’s annoyance grows. “It’s war time, I thought you don’t waste opportunities like that.” He chides, biting back.
Burnout’s face flickers in fear, a micro expression so brief it might not have even happened. He was hiding something, but what it was was a mystery beyond Windshear. And oh boy, it was pissing him off.
“I couldn’t.” Burnout whispers, voice not small but unsure. It cracked halfway through the admission, voice box straining around all of the things he wanted to say. Couldn’t say.
Windshear just stares at him, poker face working all too well as he waits for a more solid answer. His silence spoke volumes, and it made Burnout feel small. Well, smaller than he already was. His processor whirs, trying to conjure up excuses as to why he let Windshear go.
“I could’ve killed you.” Burnout’s expression is eerily still now. The shadow cast by his helm is suddenly stronger, contrasting against the glow of his optics. “I could’ve killed you, just like all of the others. You would’ve been just another number weighing on my consciousness.”
Windshear, as always, doesn’t speak. Instead he waits, calculating Burnout’s words in his head and picking them apart for lies. He understands all too well the heavy burden of taking a life. Multiple. Burnout continues:
“You were already so injured, I saw no point in killing you. I didn’t take prisoners, anyway. Not without orders.” He killed. He was a machine of war; it was all he knew. There was absolutely nothing else contributing to Windshear still being alive.
Nothing like the world stilling as they locked eyes, smoke and energon thick and heavy in the air as a face Burnout thought was behind him suddenly reappeared. The look, however brief it was, was widened in horror–Not being able to get away as a bot who could kill you with a touch stands fifty yards away.
In that moment, Burnout was torn in half. His instincts screamed at him to rip into the mech while his spark slammed on the breaks. He watched as Windshear made his escape.
And now, after that throwback, those feelings were all too vivid. The urge to lunge forward and tear into metal plating had him rearing back, resisting the urge. Windshear also backs up, recognizing the expression on the smaller bot’s face. An expression that always appeared before a bot lost their life.
Windshear isn’t satisfied with that answer, but it was far past the window of opportunity to continue prodding around. They stare at each other, the silence looming once again in the stillness. Having gotten enough, Windshear turns to leave, Burnout watching him. Letting him.
Just like the encounter on the battlefield, Burnout lets his father go. In Windshear’s wake, Winglet remains.