Chapter Text
“Echo, come down from there!”
The sparkling only held onto the marble statue tighter, determination and naive arrogance fueling his grip. He didn’t even bother to look down at whoever was calling him. His small helm pressed firmly against the cool stone of the ancient prime’s plating. Zeta Prime, as the sparkling had come to learn in his latest tutoring session. Irisframe had babbled on and on about him, something about the Prime watching over guardian frames. Echo hadn’t really been paying attention, instead he had been preoccupied watching the light bounce off his tire rims and dance across the ceiling as he spun them.
But he was supposed to ensure the health of guardians, that’s why they had a monument to him at all of the guardian facilities on Cybertron.
Echo’s undersized engine rumbled, doorwings flared up in an aggravated “V” twitching and flicking periodically. His nimble fingers clawing at the small gaps he had found purchase on as he bore his teeth.
Zeta Prime had missed a guardian. And Echo was here to file a complaint.
“Please, little man, you're going to fall,” another voice called out, this one Echo did recognize. A guardian, the top of his class—something Echo’s carrier would frequently say—Hailbeam. The guardian stood amongst the small gathering of mechs at the base of the statue, each one watching the tiny Praxian’s ascent with a paranoid intensity, flinching at each slight stumble.
Another fine tremor ran through the small blue mech’s frame—a slight shudder that could be a side effect of the dizzying height or his own infuriating inability to keep still. His rounded doorwings fluttered, twitching to try and maintain their agitated pose and assist in balance. Echo’s plating flared up, vents hissing as he shook his head, and shouted, “No! Go away!”
A murmur ran through the ever growing group of guardians below, another two joining their siblings instead of continuing their own business. It would be a rather amusing sight—a gathering of powerful mechs of varying sizes and ages all nervously tracking a single bots movement—had they not been there to stop Echo.
“Just hang on!” Another high pitched voice called as a small mech ran over from where they had just arrived. Their eyes wide as they scrambled to push through the crowd to the front. They couldn’t have been much older than Echo himself yet they still hovered at the statue like their presence alone could save him.
Echo felt his engine growl again, his spark spinning wildly in his chest as he moved his hand to the next small crevice—a line meant to imitate Zeta’s transformation seams. He strained, leaning into the movement as he tried to reach for the ledge, his fingertips grazing the edge of it. His plates flared again, face scrunching in concentration as he reached further to secure his hand.
Curse his small arms.
Still, after another moment of stretching he felt his fingers firmly grasp the edge. His wings fluttered once as he momentarily tested his grip, he shifted his weight so he could swing his other hand to match the first. It left his frame in an uncomfortable diagonal stretch, his shoulders hiked up and boxing his own helm in. Echo sucked in a deep breath through his vents and pushed off with his legs, pulling with his arms and allowing his body to follow the momentum.
He heard the bots below gasp and scramble.
“Echo!”
“Frag- kid!”
It looked a lot more graceful when the mechs in the films he watched did it, but the Praxian managed. With a small grunt he managed to land a knee on the rim of Zeta’s pauldron, the ledge was deep enough that he could manage to stand on it if he wanted.
The sparkling blinked, his spark pulsing erratically in his chest, venting hard and fast. Echo took a moment to let his cooling fans kick into high gear, the whirring sound loud in his own audials. Then he pushed off of the towering mech’s chest completely, leaning over to balance himself fully on the edge of the Prime’s shoulder. His wings fluttered and shifted, moving to keep him balanced as he clutched desperately to the unfeeling stone.
Again the guardians below shouted, their frantic voices echoing off the nearby buildings; growing more and more vocal as a breeze swept by.
For a moment the small mech’s wings got caught in the gale, throwing him off balance enough that his spark leapt in his chest and static burst from his throat. His weak lights flared uselessly in the glare of the midday sun as he shoved himself against the statue with a newfound sense of mortality.
Echo closed his eyes, his vocalizer clicking as he pressed his helm firmly into the cool surface, like he could merge with it and become just as sure and collected as it. His hands were trembling now, a fine shiver that he did his best to ignore. He felt his spark reach out across a bond he would eventually get too old for, searching for the grounding presence of his carrier or sire. It pulsed, his distress rippling the fine line between them and turning it into something jagged and painful. The blue mech clicked again, plates pressing into himself as his breath hitched.
His mother and father didn’t respond over the bond—they were too far, Echo knew. Across the planet in some ancient forge.
The thought alone seemed to drown out the terror of the near fall. He straightened his posture, his doorwings snapping into a proud, if slightly shaky, horizontal flare. Another growl vibrating deep in his chest as Echo looked over at the statue’s head with a stubborn glare, fans whirring. He was almost level with Zeta Prime’s stubborn, stone jaw now.
“I made it!” Echo shouted down, his voice cracking with a mix of adrenaline and rising spite. His vocalizer clicked rebelliously and he frowned, trying to drown out the sound with his idling engine. He shimmied his weight forward, his doorwings twitching in a rapid, agitated rhythm. “And I'm not coming down until he listens!”
“Echo, please,” Hailbeam’s voice rose above the rest, strained and sounding dangerously close to a spark-attack. The guardian had his hands outstretched, instinctively trying to bridge the gap with hope alone. The mechs below seemed to be congregating now, a small group breaking off at the command of another older mech. “Zeta Prime is just a statue. He can't hear you. Just sit down, stay still, and we’ll get a lift—”
“He’s a Prime!” Echo interrupted, his small fist thumping against the statue’s decorative chest plates with a painful thud—and he pulled his hand away to gingerly nurse his fist. His wings once again twitched as they rose up defiantly, his other hand drummed a nervous beat against the stone. Echo was already eyeing the next few steps that would allow him to rest on the top of Zeta’s broad shoulders. “Irisframe says Primes are always listening! So he's in there somewhere, and he’s being lazy!”
The blue mech’s voice crackled with static on the last word and he lunged for the next hold, pulling himself up through the small gap between Zeta’s shoulder and chest. His feet scrambled uselessly below him as he tried to find someplace to stabilize himself—his spark lashing out in his chest and causing another fit of twitching and flashing lights.
The crowd below held a collective, agonizing breath. Hailbeam’s cooling fans were whirring so loudly they were audible even from Echo’s height, a mechanical sign of sheer panic.
“He's not being lazy, Echo! He's—he's meditating!” the younger bot from before shouted, her voice cracking and stammering. She was bouncing on her large feet, hands hovering as if she could catch a falling star.
Echo didn't buy it.
He finally found a foothold—a decorative ridge—and grunted as he strained to haul his small frame upward. With a final, undignified scramble that sent a shower of stone dust raining down onto the guardians below, Echo flopped onto the flat expanse of Zeta Prime’s shoulder with a winded “oof.”
The mechling lay there for a moment, his vents cycling air in ragged, whistling gulps. His vocalizer clicking to himself, plates rattling and pressing into himself as he let the stone help cool his frame. His fans still whirred erratically, spinning at the same frequency as his caged spark. Echo’s whole frame was shivering, fingers twitching and head reeling as he took a second to appreciate the solidness of the statue beneath him.
Finally, the blue bot looked up, lifting his aching helm—he could see a small scuff of dark grey paint on the marble beneath him from where his chevron had thudded against it. From up here, the world was terrifyingly vast. The towering skyscrapers of Praxis still reached for the heavens above, silver spires that shimmered like sapphires. But this time Echo was among their ranks, feeling the twisting cool breeze against his plates. His doorwings—usually so expressive, refusing to rest—were now plastered flat against his back in a primitive reflex to minimize wind resistance.
But he had a mission.
Shaking out his sore hand, Echo crawled toward the statue's massive neck cables. He reached out and grabbed the stone chin, peering up and over into the blank, sculpted optics of the ancient leader.
The sparkling took a deep breath.
“Hey!” Echo barked, his vocalizer emitting a sharp screech of static. “I know you're in there Zeta! Irisframe said you watch the guardians, but you missed one!”
He paused, momentarily convinced that for his feat the statue’s eyes would gain life and its massive head would turn, listening to his every word with a blossoming respect. When Zeta made no move Echo’s small fingers clawed at the stone, plates flaring momentarily as he was ignored. “Leoblast! You forgot Leoblast!”
Zeta’s face remained unchanged, a perfect mask of stoic patience.
Echo’s spark flared in his chest like a dying star, angry and hot. His scuffed hands trembling and engine growling. “You're supposed to make sure that guardians are perfect! Aren’t you?”
The sparkling slammed his fist against the titan’s collar, ignoring the shot of electric pain that was sent through his already throbbing hand. His voice broke into a hoarse sob, static popping and crackling with every heaving vent of air he took. He hated it, he despised how his frame shook with the intensity of emotion that felt too big, like it would swallow him whole. A feeling he didn’t have the vocabulary to explain as he watched the Prime ignore him—just like every other adult.
“It’s not—it’s not fair!” He shouted, voice cracking as it raised an octave. Echo stomped, his spark choking his throat, making a burst of static escape instead of anything coherent. His face scrunched, teeth bared as if he held the fangs of a gladiator, “You’re not being fair! Why couldn’t you just- just make him normal!”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Below, a trio of guardians were hauling a portable lift to the base of the statue with a rushed carelessness. The remaining guardians had gone still, their armored faces turned upward, caught in the raw, jagged frequency of a sparkling’s grief.
Echo’s vents hitched, a high-pitched whine emerging from his chest as he waited for the statue to defend itself. He wanted Zeta to roar back, to give him a reason, to explain why Leoblast was always so tired or why his processor lagged behind the others during drills. He wanted a reason why his parents had let him into their home and spent so much time and effort tending to his every need. Why they rushed off to some far away forge, abandoning him, because Echo pushed him a little too hard.
He wanted to know what made Leo so special that his own parents forgot about their own creation.
But the marble remained cold. Unfeeling.
“Answer me!” Echo shrieked, his doorwings snapping upward in a frantic, desperate flare, his lights flashing. He felt like he was drowning in whatever ugly thing had swelled in his chest, making it near impossible for his vents to pull in enough air between his clicking sobs.
Down below, the grinding whir of the portable lift started up, a mechanical growl that signaled the end of his protest. They were coming for him.
“Echo, stay still! Don't move an inch!” Hailbeam’s voice was closer now, rising with the platform. The guardian’s optics were blown wide, a vibrant red that watched the sparkling’s erratic movements with professional panic. Down below Echo could see a glimpse of bone white paint, sectioned doorwings drawn tight as his caregiver stared up in horror.
“I'm not finished!” Echo shouted and turned, throwing his weight against the marble god’s neck as if that would rouse him from his stony slumber. The marble didn't flinch under the weight of his righteous fury or the frantic pounding of his small, scuffed fists. To Zeta Prime, Echo was less than a speck of dust; to Echo, Zeta was the ultimate wall—the silent architect of a system that felt like it was breaking him.
“You're supposed to be good!” Echo’s voice was a ragged, high-pitched glitch now. He grabbed the edge of the statue’s sculpted audio receptor, stomping his feet against the unfeeling mech. "You made the Guardians! You made the rules! So why is Leo... why is he..."
He couldn't find the word.
Broken? No, Leo wasn't broken; he just didn't fit the mold that Irisframe talked about in her boring lectures. Leoblast didn’t belong with the other guardians, but that still didn’t mean he belonged at home. He was slow where Echo was fast, quiet where Echo was a riot of noise and static. He was still where Echo twitched. And yet, the world and his parents revolved around that quiet slowness.
Echo had tried time and time again to replicate that slowness, that level of obedience and need so he could be watched over with the same devotion—but each time his own mindless chatter and uncontrollable twitching spoiled it for him.
“Echo, stop! You’re losing your grip! You’ll fall!”
The platform of the lift let out a loud hiss as it leveled out just a few meters away. Hailbeam was there, his massive frame looking strangely fragile as he reached out, one hand firmly clasped on the safety rail, the other extended toward the sparkling.
“Echo, please, come here,” Hailbeam pleaded, his vocalizer smoothed into a forced, desperate calm. His large hand didn’t waiver, firmly outstretched for Echo to grasp—he didn’t; he turned his fiery glare to it instead, hissing like some feral Turbofox. Hailbeam remained unbothered, “Let’s get you down from here, alright?”
“No!” Echo shrieked, his doorwings snapping into a jagged, defensive posture that nearly sent him tumbling backward as they caught the wind. His engine stalled in his chest, hiccuping alongside his spark. He clicked—Hailbeam mimicked the noise immediately, echoing it back at him soothingly—and shook his head.
“No! No, no, no! I’m not- I can’t—” The sparkling’s trembling voice cracked with static and he stumbled over his words. He shuffled back, putting useless distance between himself and Hailbeam. Echo shook his helm again, the static in the corner of his vision making him dizzier. His vents hissed and staggered, uneven and far too fast. “He has to fix him! Fix him and- and make sure he goes away!”
Hailbeam’s extended hand didn’t flinch, but his optics dimmed for a fraction of a second—a flicker of profound, weary sadness. “C’mon, little dude, we can talk more once we’re on the ground.”
Echo felt that ugly twisted feeling grow, squeezing his spark until it felt like it would pop out of his chest. He opened his mouth to protest but was met with senseless static. His vents hitched again and he stubbornly shook his head, pressing himself against the statue's head. “Nuh uh.”
“Echo please just—”
"I don't care!" Echo screamed, though the bravado was leaking out of him, replaced by the crushing weight of his own cooling systems struggling to keep up with his spark’s frantic rhythm. He backed away further, his heel skidding on the edge of the marble figures decorative neck guard.
Echo couldn’t stop himself from reaching out through the spark bond again as the skyline tilted dangerously.
A collective, sharp intake of air hissed from the crowd below. Echo’s spark did a violent somersault. He flailed, his small fingers scratching uselessly at the smooth stone neck of the Prime. For a terrifying heartbeat, gravity began to win. His vocalizer choking on a scream.
Clang-
Echo gasped.
A heavy, silver-plated hand shot forward, catching Echo by the waist before he could tip over into the abyss. Hailbeam had lunged from the safety of the lift, his massive foot up on the rail while his upper frame overextended across the gap, his open arm braced against the statue and the other holding Echo firmly.
“I've got you,” Hailbeam grunted, his internal mechanisms whining under the awkward torque, his vents too calm, too collected to be natural. He pulled Echo close, pinning him against his chest as he seemed to fully process his position. His red eyes focused on the thin rail currently groaning under his weight. This time he was the one who clicked first. “I've got you, Echo. Primus, kid, stop squirming.”
But Echo wasn't just squirming; he was a cyclone of static and sharp edges. He kicked at Hailbeam’s forearm, his small pincer-like fingers digging into the guardian’s sensitive seams. His engine growled, rattling his frame as his doorwings were pinched painfully between his body and Halibeam's chest. He was boxed in, trapped.
“Let me go! I’m not done! He didn’t answer!” Echo’s voice was a jagged tear of audio-feedback. He twisted with a strength born of pure, unadulterated sparkling tantrum, his small frame vibrating so hard it felt like his very seams would come loose. But twisting only put more pressure on his pinned doorwings, and he squealed, lights flashing and plates rattling. “Stop! That hurts! Let me go!”
"Echo, that’s enough," Hailbeam commanded. It wasn't the soft, coaxing tone of a guardian-in-training anymore; it was the low, resonant frequency of a mech calculating. He shifted his weight back experimentally—Echo felt the guardian’s engine stall as the metal shifted and groaned louder, dipping beneath them. Immediately Hailbeam leaned forward again, taking the pressure off of it.
The guardian looked between the statue, the platform and the drop below again.
The lift platform groaned, a shrill metallic shriek that made Echo grit his teeth and flinch still for a moment. He clicked—the sound quickly returned by the massive mech holding him—and looked down at the drop. Despite the cruel thing that lashed in his chest, the mechling stilled. He was frozen by the cold realization that the ground was very far away and the only thing keeping him from it was a mech he had just been screaming at.
Echo’s nimble fingers dug into the seams of the guardian—much like he had treated the stone Prime minutes ago—though this time not out of malice or a desperate attempt to flee; but to hold on.
Hailbeam’s grip was like a vice—unyielding and terrifyingly solid.
The mechling could feel the guardian’s spark—it wasn't calm like his voice. It was thrumming at a high, frantic frequency, a rapid-fire pulse that Echo felt through his doorwings, vibrating into his own chest.
“You're... you're scared,” Echo whispered, his voice small, the static finally clearing into a shaky, high-pitched observation. It took a painfully long second for the words to process in his own mind, but when they did he felt a primal surge of emotion. He reached through the empty bond as his fingers started scrambling against Hailbeam, trying to scramble up and find a safer purchase.
As if sensing the small blue mech’s spiral, Hailbeam acted; impulsively or with precise calculation, Echo didn’t know. With a practiced, fluid motion—as if he had done this maneuver a million times—Hailbeam shoved himself back, curling himself inwards, his other arm wrapping around Echo, and fell backwards. The sparkling felt the gut twisting lurch of a free fall, the sound of metal finally giving way, and sobbed.
Not even seconds later he and Hailbeam collided brutally with something, the impact rattling through their frames. Echo heard the platform groan, swaying slightly as it took their combined weight, before the mechanical whine of the hydraulics began the slow, merciful descent.
Neither mech moved.
The silence on the platform was broken only by the frantic, uneven whistling of Echo’s vents. He was still crushed against Hailbeam’s chest plates, the scent of heated coolant and ozone filling his sensors. Above them, the marble jaw of Zeta Prime receded, becoming just a distant, uncaring chin of stone once more.
The lift jerked, a rhythmic clicking as it descended. Every shudder made Echo’s doorwings snap tight against his back, his small fingers locked into the seams of Hailbeam’s shoulder armor like a magnetic clamp. He could feel his whole frame rattling, a dangerous mix of too big emotions and primitive fear. The mean thing in his spark rearing as he processed the solid ground beneath him.
“You’re okay,” Hailbeam rumbled. The vibration of the guardian's vocalizer hummed right through Echo’s Chevron. The guardian was blankly staring at the crumbled railing in front of them. “You’re gonna be alright. I’ve got you. We’re moving.”
Something bitter twisted in the blue mechling as he clung to the guardian, his face pressed against the large bot’s shoulder. His vents hissed, wings twitching against his back. This is what a guardian was meant to be. Hailbeam was what Leoblast should be instead of… whatever he was. Echo’s face twisted as if something sour had been forced into his mouth, his spark thrumming dangerously in his chest.
The descent felt like an eternity. Each mechanical lurch of the lift was a reminder of the gravity Echo had just tried to defy. He didn't pull away. For all his screaming about Primes and fairness, he was buried deep into Hailbeam’s chest plating. Small and festering in his fury.
“Steady,” Hailbeam murmured, his voice still carrying that strained, rattling edge. He didn't let go, even as the platform neared the ground.
As the lift finally hissed to a halt, the crowd of guardians surged forward like a breaking wave. They didn’t close the gap completely, but they hovered, a suffocating wall of giants who were all venting a little too quickly. Echo was a mess of conflicting signals, his vocalizer clicking like he was lost, his engine idling in a low growl. His wings flicked between an aggressive raise and a submissive and needy flutter. He refused to lift his face all the way, to look out on the sea of distressed mechs.
But eventually he mustered the courage to turn slightly, his eyes narrowed into a small, defiant scowl. His gaze was immediately met by the one mech he didn’t want to see. Standing at the very front, his silver and white plating gleaming dully in the shadows of the plaza, sharp edges catching in the sun, was the mech his parents had entrusted him to.
Volley.
The Praxian didn't shout. He didn't move. His sectioned doorwings were locked in a downward slant of pure, exhausted terror. He looked like he had aged a thousand years in the span of the ten minutes Echo had been aloft. His teal optics were bright, trained on the shivering blue bundle in the guardian’s arms.
Hailbeam stood up shakily, his joints popping with the sudden shift in weight. He stepped off the platform, staggering slightly, his large hands still forming a protective cradle around his small blue charge. His red eyes looked Volley up and down, analyzing the other mech before he finally seemed satisfied with what he found and his grip loosened.
“I’ve got him, Volley,” Hailbeam spoke quietly, his voice dropping to a low, weary bass. “He’s... he’s all here. Scuffed, but here.”
Hailbeam leaned down, slowly uncurling his arms to pass the sparkling over.
Echo didn’t go easily. As Hailbeam’s arms widened, the sparkling’s fingers snagged on the guardian’s seams. His small, sharp digits hooking into the gaps like tiny claws—he felt Hailbeam wince but ignored it. He let out a jagged, electronic hiss—a sound far too predatory for a frame so small—and buried his face deeper into the heat of Hailbeam’s neck.
“No!” Echo’s vocalizer glitched, the word repeating in a stuttering, static laced loop. He shook his head, ignorant to how the point of his chevron was driving itself into Hailbeam’s cables. “No-no-no-no!”
Hailbeam made a small choking sound, trying to pull the sparkling off him again to no avail. His vents hissed, spark thrumming in a frantic racing pace that Echo could feel from his neck.
"Echo," Volley’s voice finally broke the silence. It wasn't the sharp, reprimanding tone Echo was braced for. It was hollow, paper-thin, and trembling with a frequency that made Echo’s doorwings drop instantly from their defiant raised position—twitching and jerking on their way down.
The sparkling froze.
He slowly turned his helm, one eye meekly peeking out from behind Hailbeam’s throat. Volley looked... diminished. The elegant, sectioned wings that usually stood with such architectural pride were shivering with a very fine tremor, his eyes still too bright. Gently, with a strength that felt like it might snap if tested, Volley reached out. His hands were trembling—not the fine, energetic twitch of Echo’s hyper-active processors, but a heavy, rhythmic shudder of a spark that had nearly bottomed out.
As Volley’s hands finally made contact with him they didn't snatch or grab. They swept around Echo like a failing containment field, pulling him into the familiar scent of polish, high-grade wax and expensive smoke. Echo didn’t fight this time, his fingers weakly uncurling from the guardian’s plates as he shifted his weight to lean into Volley instead.
“I have him,” Volley whispered, though it sounded more like a prayer than a statement. He clicked to Echo, letting out a held sigh when the bot finally replied with his own chirping clicks. “I have you.”
Volley gently tucked the sparkling’s head under his chin, his sectioned wings finally snapping upward, not in pride, but in a jagged, protective wall that shielded Echo from the staring gaze of the guardians. But the mech straightened himself, his composure sliding back into its place as he held the child.
“You're a fool,” Volley whispered, low and tainted with a clear affection. He turned from the group of mechs, effortlessly weaving his way through the gathering. “A brilliant, spark-stopping little fool.”
Echo’s engine gave a weak, pathetic hiccup. He pressed his face into Volley’s chest, his small hands clutching the older mech’s shoulder plating. The ugly thing in him didn’t leave, but it eased its hold on his spark, finally giving him enough space to breathe and realize how exhausted his tiny frame was. He shivered against the larger mech, the remnants of his tantrum rippling through him in small tired waves lapping on an eroded shore.
Volley sighed as he turned into a building tucked to the side of the courtyard, a residential building for the full time staff that lived at the facility. He navigated the lobby with a familiar ease, his doorwings sagging slightly the moment the door closed behind him. The silver mech paused in front of the elevator, contemplating the closed door for a long moment.
“Echo,” he began, his voice crisp and collected—like it always was, pristine and disciplined just like every Praxian should be. He turned his head slightly, catching Echo’s gaze from the corner of his eye. His brows lifted slightly as he continued, “Do you wish to press the button to call the elevator or shall I?”
The question hung in the air, a small, mundane olive branch extended over a chasm of raw, unvented emotion. Echo’s doorwings gave a pathetic, asymmetrical twitch.
Usually, the elevator button privilege was a hard-won victory, a prize he would scramble for with elbows out and engine revving as he raced to the door. A giggle of pure delight would escape him as he pressed the smooth, cool surface of the button, feeling the clink synchronize with a blinking light and a satisfying clicking sound. It was a sensation that made his spark pulse with a strange kind of delight every time.
Echo stared at the button.
Volley didn’t rush him. He simply stood there, his own vents cycling with a slow, deliberate rhythm intended to coach Echo’s racing spark back down to a normal frequency.
Echo’s left doorwing gave a sharp, involuntary hitch—a twitch he couldn't suppress. He hated it. He hated the twitching. He hated the static, and he hated that he was currently being carried like a sparkling half his age. He wanted to be big. He wanted to be the one who didn't need a lift or a rescue.
Slowly, tentatively, he reached out.
Volley leaned with him, ensuring that Echo could easily reach the small button without straining himself too much or needing to be put down. The tip of Echo’s finger—still dusty with marble grit—met the glowing amber surface of the button.
Click.
The light transitioned to a soft blue, and the familiar chime echoed in the quiet lobby. For a split second, the mundane success of the action settled the static in his processor. It was a rule: you press the button, the doors open. It was a cause and effect he could control, unlike the confusing, jagged mess of his spark or the unfairness of the Primes.
The elevator doors slid apart with a pneumatic hiss. Volley straightened himself and stepped inside. The well polished mirrored walls reflected the pair—a tall, composed silver tower of a mech cradling a small, scuffed-up blue disaster. Echo frowned, staring at their reflection as the door closed. He huffed, trying to straighten his wings so they matched how Volley held his.
“The panel, Echo,” Volley prompted softly. His voice didn't carry the usual lecture-ready edge. It was just tired—exhausted just like his parents always were. Too tired to play. Too worn out to deal with his temper right now. They had a long day and Echo should just be quiet and amuse himself instead of bothering them.
The mean thing reared in his chest again, making his plates feel too tight against his protoform.
Echo looked at the floor selection panel, then back at the unsuspecting Volley. Usually, he was only allowed to press the button for their floor, level 37. Three like the three of them—mom, dad, and Echo, not Leoblast. Seven like his favorite number. But as he stared at the grid of glowing, idle numbers—ones that promised the same kind of control as the one outside—that ugly feeling in his chest, the one that had screamed at the statue of Zeta Prime, flared back to life.
He wasn't done being angry.
Volley had saved him, yes. Volley had held him. But Volley was still part of the world that thought Leo needed more help than Echo did. Because he was an adult.
With a sudden, jerky movement, Echo’s hand shot out.
Click-click-click-click-click.
His small, grime-streaked fingers didn't stop at 37. He slapped his palm against the bottom row and dragged it upward in a frantic, sweeping motion. He watched with a vengeful sort of glee as the panel lit up like a frantic starfield. They clicked, glowing in a wave that lit up his face.
1... 5... 16... 24...
“Echo,” Volley warned, his doorwings giving a sharp, rhythmic jerk of disapproval. He straightened himself, trying to use the fact that he was holding the smaller mech to pull him away.
Echo didn't stop.
He just leaned out of Volley's grip, his doorwings flared defiantly, straining to press more buttons and being rewarded with that soft glow and perfect click. His small hands ran over the buttons, feeling them dip under the weight of his palm.
Click-click-click-click.
Volley opened his mouth, his other hand reaching out to grab Echo’s.
The silver mech paused when he heard Echo’s vocalizer click back at the buttons. His teal eyes keenly observing the small mech, complex thoughts and emotions storming behind his optics. With a deep vent he neutralized the rigid position of his doorwings, settled his expression back into something close to boredom, and leaned forward—closing the gap between Echo and the wall of buttons so he didn’t have to strain so far.
Echo hardly noticed, too preoccupied with the feeling of the cool steel and the rhythmic clicking and his genius form of protest. Finally, once all the buttons had been pressed, the mechling paused, delivering another frustrated and pointless sweep over the already selected buttons and sat back to admire his masterpiece of spite.
The blue mech smiled and looked up at his caregiver with a cruel delight. His expression faltered as he observed the lack of reaction. Volley had straightened himself again, watching the floor indicator with a blank expression. His wings were perfectly still and vents even.
The elevator chime for the first floor—Level 1—rang out with a cheerful, mocking clarity. The doors hissed open to the same lobby they had just left.
The doors closed. The lift began its agonizingly slow ascent.