literature

Choosing My Name, And Other Mistakes: Ch 22

Deviation Actions

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-XXII-

I watched the city lights come on; watched my fellowmechs drive or fly along the well-organized, multi-layered travel-grid beneath me; watched the stars roll slowly up the sky. Tried not to think about what might be happening to Andromeda right now (was unsuccessful). Thought about returning to the Command Center, of pestering everybody until they found me some way I could feel like I was helping. But I knew that I’d just slow them down. Someone would comm me if they found Octane and needed my to spy into his spark. Till then, I was superfluous.

I missed my makers. I missed home. I missed my sisters. I missed Spangle. I missed Megatron –  the perfect, nonexistent version of him that had once comforted me. (The obnoxious, real-life Megatron had made those memories obsolete and robbed them of their power.) I was a newling out of place: frightened and lonely. And although I knew it wasn’t true, I still felt like I’d been discarded.

Around midnight the door opened, and there he was. Megatron walked out onto the little balcony like he owned it.

“Before you ask,” he said, raising a hand, “We haven't found him yet. But everybody's looking. We've had reports from Ironhide and Chromia. From Firestar. From over fifty other mechs. We don't want Octane getting wind of our search, so we’re keeping quiet; but everyone we trust is looking for him. So don't get used to hiding out here. We'll find him, and ask for your spark-reading soon enough.”

“'Soon enough' passed hours ago, Megatron.” I turned away from him so he might not see my chin trembling. “They've got my sister.”

“What?” He sounded genuinely shocked.

“I tried to comm you about it when Sunstreaker and Thundercracker told me; but you were all too busy to respond or take my call. I know another missing newling is less important right now than finding Octane. But to me--”  

“...To you, it's all there is.” He looked at me, and sighed. “You've been out here stewing about your sister, thinking nobody else cared.” He turned back toward the bustling, bright windows of the Command Center. “Optimus should have taken better care of you,” he mumbled. “Blast and damn! He’s usually so good at that!”

I pursed my lips and said nothing.

Megatron gripped the balcony-railing tightly, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Then without quite looking at me, he reached across, and put an arm lightly around my shoulders.

I was startled at first. This was Megatron, and I wasn't sure what I felt toward him any more.  I would have liked to act the hardened warborn. But I was only a newling. And I’d been alone out here for three helpless hours. Some seal inside me broke open, and hard words spilled out of me unchecked. “I can't stand her, actually.” I hiccuped something between a sob and a laugh. “Andromeda emits this magic ray that makes everyone like her, but I don't think it works on me very well. She's always struck me as a selfish, spiteful brat...” I hunched away from him. “I can't believe I'm admitting all this to you.”

Megatron snorted a wry laugh. “You're a terrible person, Spark. I’m shocked and disappointed.” He drew me back into the shelter of his arm.

But I insisted. “I am terrible. I can't help feeling...” I kept my head turned away, so I could pretend he was someone that he’d never truly been. “I can't help feeling like it's my fault she was taken. It feels like a punishment. Maybe, if I’d liked her better. Maybe if I’d been less selfish, she'd still be safe in her house, and I'd be--”

Megatron stiffened, and spun me to face him. “No. It doesn’t work like that.” He stooped a little, forcing me to meet his intent, red-lit gaze. “Listen up, Sparky. The universe doesn't care whether or not you like people. Things just happen. Sometimes bad; sometimes good. Whoever took your sister made their own decisions. You might be able to read sparks, but you sure as Pit can't control whether or not someone we don’t even know kidnaps a newling.”

I shivered – not from the cold wind, but from the cold I felt inside. Megatron saw it, hesitated, and then pulled me tight against his chest.

I let him. Right then, I’d have gratefully taken a hug from Blot. His ooze would wash off, unlike all the lonely helpless frustration built up inside me. I imagined that Elita would have found my energy unbearable. I know I did.

I had a thousand things to say, but none of them were worth saying. So I listened. I heard my Mystery Mech's big engine idling. I heard his fuel pump sending energon throughout his systems. I heard his spark whirring away beneath his armor. It was right there, inches from my optics. I could have looked in. I could have found out everything I'd ever wondered about Megatron. I could have found out everything he thought or felt about me. The temptation grew and grew. To save myself from doing something truly stupid, I shut down my optics and put my arms around him instead.

“Don't get too comfortable,” he growled. “I'll only hurt you. I hurt everyone who falls for me.”

I stiffened, caught. “What makes you think—!”

“I'm telling you this as a warning, Rainbowsparkles: I hurt people who like me. I shut people out when they need me. I’m a selfish, evil glitch.”

I knew he was telling the truth. But was it the whole truth? I thought of how he'd knelt in Spangle's battered doorway, the rain crackling in his open wound, and kept us safe from the invaders. I thought of how he'd tried to help me when I had to download awful things from people's sparks. I thought of how he'd read me poetry so I could sleep. “When will you start?” I asked.

“Start what?”

“Hurting me. Because so far, you're no worse and no better than all the other mechs I know.”

Megatron drew back from me, his mouth open in horror. “Wait... You're not-- you're not into that sort of thing, are you? Because... Please Primus, don't tell me you're into pain.”

Now it was my turn to be startled. “What? No! Why would I be into pain? Who's 'into pain'? That's not even a thing that people do!”

Megatron muttered something ending with, “It was for Starscream.” He touched me like I was some fragile thing he feared might shatter at his fingertips. His optics dimmed. “I've spent the last ten years trying to learn how not to cause pain, Spark. But the old habits are worn onto my gears and grooved into my cortex.”

I tried to reconcile what he was telling me – and all the dark things I’d seen in his spark – with how he’d acted ever since Flashpoint had knocked at Spangle’s. With what I’d seen of how he interacted with his Triad family. Would Prime have let Megatron near me, if he thought I might be hurt by him? No; it wasn't in Prime's nature to do that. This conversation was so far beyond me it was laughable. I had no right to ask any of these questions. But I pushed ahead. “Who are you, Megatron? Who are you really? Because everything I saw in that fast glimpse into your spark was monstrous. But everything I've seen from you in person contradicts that. How am I supposed to know what I should do? How I should feel?”

He clutched me tight. “I have no answers, little one. For a long time, I thought I knew myself. I don’t know any more. You shouldn’t try to understand me. I’m not safe.”

I lashed out at him. “Then stop trying to help me! Stop checking on me. Stop backing me up when I look in sparks. Stop reading me your poems so that I can fall asleep. So far, you've only hurt me by withdrawing when I hoped you'd be my friend!” I kicked the nearest railing-post, and shouted in frustration. “You’re just like all the other mechs who don’t know what to do with femmes!”

“I don’t know what to do with anyone,” he growled. “Ask Prime. Or Elita. They’ll tell you.” He shuddered and whispered, “Ask Starscream.”

I was good at hearing whispers. “Who is this Starscream? Lately you bring her up a lot.”

Megatron snorted mirthlessly. “He was no femme, for one thing. And he’s no competition for you. He’s dead.”

“Oh.” (But, forgive me, I was glad.)

Megatron gripped the rail again, and stared out at the night. “I'll give you the sanitized version,” he began, his shoulders slumping. “Because you need to understand the kind of mech you've developed a crush on.”

“I never said— How dare you assume—?”

He looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “I’m eleven million years old, newling. And Starscream gave me a lot of time to learn the signs.” He turned away again. His fingers clenched and unclenched on the railing. “Now listen, because you need to understand this now, before you throw yourself at me.”

Who did he think he was? I wasn't throwing myself at him! I just wanted him to be my friend! I thought about leaving him there with his almighty self-importance. But as always, I was curious. So I stayed.

“Starscream was my Second for the duration of the War. You know what that is?”

I shook my head no.

“Your Second is supposed to be the one you trust above all others. The one whose words will stand for yours, if you are wounded. The one who will take over your position, if you fall.” He waited. I waited. We stared into the light-pricked darkness. “Starscream tried to kill me –  more times than I ever counted.”

“So... you hate him because he betrayed your trust?” I guessed.

Megatron scoffed. “Primus, no! Trust? I never trusted him with anything! I hate Starscream because... I… You don't want to know about this, little one.”

“Maybe I don't.” I thought about it. “But I need to.”

Carefully, like he was worried he might break it, Megatron reached out and took my hand. I thought about pulling away. But he was right about that crush, no matter how much I protested.

“Starscream was a flier,” he began, running a restless finger back and forth across my knuckles and not looking at my face. “A jet. Beautiful, though I'd never tell him that. Needy as the great Smelting Pool. He wanted me to--” He shot a glance up at me. “He wanted more from me than I could – than I would let myself give to him.” HE dropped my hand. “Can you understand that? Even just a little bit?”

Baffled, I almost shook my head. But then I thought of all the people who had wanted more from me than I was comfortable giving. My makers’ fearful, smothering love. Blot’s near-worship. Prime’s request that I be a spark-spy. The way mechs in the street would sometimes skid to a stop when I passed, and then turn to follow me with hungry eyes. I nodded, instead of shaking my head. “Actually, Megatron, I think I can.”

He raised a thoughtful eyebrow, startled. Then he sighed. “Maybe you do, at that.”

It was my turn to look away from him and grip the railing for a while. I didn’t want to drive him from me. But he was giving me answers. And I wanted more. “You called that awful red stuff ‘Starscream's filth.’ Did he invent it? If so—” (I thought of Flashpoint and shivered) “Why?”

Megatron spat his answer like the words were acid in his mouth. “Starscream created pleasure-drugs because I wouldn't give him… the kind of relationship he craved. I hate that sick red stuff; it’s filthy. I hate that newling femmes are being hooked on it. I hate Starscream for inventing it. But most of all, I hate myself for driving Starscream to create it. He’s the one who showed me I can never...” He broke off, and shot another glance at me. “Never,” he repeated firmly. “You should go find somebody else to idolize. I’m not trustworthy.”

“Prime trusts you,” I whispered. “I’ve seen it.”

“Prime’s an idiot.”

“You know better than most bots that that’s not true.”

Megatron shot a wide-eyed glance at me; a look almost of fear. But he said nothing.

This time, it was I who took his hand. “I'm not Starscream,” I told him quietly.

“I know.” He slumped in defeat. “I know who you are, Spark.”

*****

It was Blot who found Octane: three days (three days too many) later, in the predawn gray, when all of the worst things seem to happen. I’d been wakened by a nightmare and was haunting Prime for comfort; so I happened to be with him when an urgent call came in from Spangle. She spoke the codephrase we'd agreed on if Octane were sighted.

Prime took the call eagerly, leaning in over the holoscreen.

<Found 'im passed out on my doorstep.> Spangle tilted the holocam to show Blot in a larger-than-usual pool of his own fluids, lying on a spare berth in the Hub. <I'd go slam Octane's aft into the ground myself, but Blot here's not doing too good. I can't leave 'im.> She scowled like she resented Blot for this, and wiped her hand on a used rag.

Prime signaled Prowl, who instantly took up another comm. “Wheeljack?” I heard him say. “We’ve got a location on Octane. I need that teleport trap, and I don’t care if it isn’t safety-tested. I’m not letting that fragger escape again.”

It might have been interesting to eavesdrop further on Prowl’s deployment of the bots who would go after Octane. But I knew Blot. He was, for lack of any better word, my friend. So I stopped listening to Prowl.

Prime was speaking in a controlled calm when I leaned in beside him at the holo. “Are you all right, Blot?” I interrupted.

Blot beamed. <Sparkles!> He gurgled through a crushed throat. <I found him! I found him for you!>

Prime was trying to be kind, but he still sounded impatient. “Blot. Right now I need you to focus on me. Where did you see Octane, and—” (he glanced aside at me, brow raised) “—how did you know that we were looking for him?”

“I told him,” I said. I’d known it was a breach of secrecy, but I’d seen into Blot’s spark, and trusted him. With simple things, at least. “I forgot to leave Blot a message when I left Spangle’s. He asked her where I was—”

(<Three hundred times!> Blot interjected, <I counted!>)

“...and she gave him my comm-frequency. He called me, and I thought—”

“Cut to the chase, Rainbow.”

I gulped. Prime can be scary when the chips are down. “I trust him, Prime. And Blot makes a good searcher. No one ever notices him, because they make an effort not to. He offends them. I'll bet he walked right up to Octane before—”

<Yes.> Blot's weak voice wheezed out of the speaker. <I saw Octane. He was sneaking. But I'm good at sneaking, too. People hit me or shoot if they see me. I followed Octane. I went up to him and begged for some energon credits. I thought maybe I could keep him there for you. But he hit me. I tried to hold onto him tight, so the police could come and catch him. He kicked my leg off. I made sure I fell against him, and I got as much of my— of my—> Blot swallowed hard and dropped his gaze. <...I got him as dirty as I could, so he'd have to wash off. Nobody likes to have my leakings on them. He was heading for the public washracks when I fell. I crawled to The Hub so I could report it.> He turned to me again, beaming. <Spangle let me come inside, Sparkles! I'm actually inside!>

I smiled at him. “Thanks Blot. Honestly, you’re a hero. I owe you a great big kiss.”

His jaw dropped, his optics went white, and he passed out.

<Well, you killed 'im,> said Spangle. But she was smiling at me. Grimly. <Get your bots down here, Prime. That slag-licker needs catching. My groundbridge is fully charged, so use it.>

*****

When Sideswipe, Guzzle, and Blitzwing brought Octane in, he was smiling. Despite being cuffed hand and foot to the same kind of slab on which I'd met Turmoil and Clench; despite being surrounded by a dozen or more angry mechs with guns, Octane was smiling. It was that smile that gave me the courage – no, the blind fury – to read his spark without flinching. I was ready.

Megatron grabbed Octane roughly. “Tell us where you're keeping them,” he ordered.

“Why, hello, Leader,” Octane sneered. “It’s nice to see you, too. Enjoying your purified Autobot-slave life?”

“Shut up.”

“First you want information, now you tell me to shut up?”

Prime stepped between them. “Go help Spark,” he hissed, pointing at me. “We'll want backup files on this reading if we want to make a legal case.” To Octane, he said gruffly, “This does not have to end badly for you. But as you see, we're all out of patience here.”

But Octane wasn't listening to Prime. He’d noticed me, and was staring wide-eyed. “What's she doing here?” he demanded. He thrashed ineffectually against his bonds. “All right, I'll talk! But not in front of that newling!”

“Afraid of femmes?” Elita asked him icily.

“N-No! Just—” Octane shunted his vocalizer. “Please. I'm asking you nicely. Interrogate me somewhere else!”

“No such luck, I'm afraid,” said Prime. He pressed a button, and the door behind slid open.

Ratchet entered, holding a big tube of something that glowed green in one hand, and an old drill in the other. I saw Octane's optics widen in stark fear. I stifled a shocked outburst with a fist pressed to my mouth. I'd thought I knew Prime. I had seen his spark. Since when was he the kind of mech who'd threaten bots with torture?

His face impassive as if he was just assembling a table, Ratchet placed the drill-bit against Octane's upper arm and squeezed the trigger. Octane's jaw went tight; his eyes narrowed; but he did not cry out. He only watched me warily. I checked his spark. No pain. But he was scared of me, all right.

The drill-bit penetrated Octane's armor, squealing as it broke through to the spaces underneath. Still, Octane registered no pain. “You’re good, Doc,” he admitted in surprise.

Ratchet plunked the drill down on Octane's chest as if he hadn’t spoken. He vacuumed up the metal curlicues the drill had left. He opened the half-smashed tube of green glowy stuff and squeezed a glob of paste into the hole. Octane's spark flared, but only in frustrated anger, not in pain. “You slaggers're gonna pay,” he growled. But his heart wasn't in the threat. He watched me like he thought I was some rabid turbofox about to try and rip his leg off.

Elita gave him the run-down. “That gel emits an isotope that we can track with our eyes shut. It also contains nano-drones which are programmed to explode if you go too far out of range. So don’t try to leave Cybertron, or it’ll be a short and very violent trip. For the rest of your life, Command will know where you are, Octane. So save us all some time, and tell us where you're hiding the femme newlings.”

Octane thrashed his head from side to side. He was avoiding my eyes now. “I've done nothing illegal!” he protested. “Nothing but what you let dozens of others do!”

Behind me, Megatron spat, “That’s a lie. We know what you've been hauling in your trailer, Octane.”

“Slag you! And slag Turmoil and Clench for ratting on me. Get that femme out of here, and I'll tell you what happened.”

“No.” The refusing voice was mine. I forced my feet forward till I could feel the heat radiating off Octane's engines. I felt exposed. Vulnerable. But Octane cringed away from me like I was infected with cosmic rust. “Leave me alone!” he gasped hoarsely.

I jumped as Megatron's hand landed on my shoulder. “Whenever you're ready,” he whispered. He’d been absent since our conversation on the balcony, but he was here now for me.

I handed back my wrist-cord and heard him connect. I looked into Octane's dull-yellow spark so he could never fool me with a lie, and ordered, “Tell us where you've taken my sister!”

“No,” he whispered, defeated. “I won't tell you. But you're going to find out.”

I wondered what he meant. But only briefly. I could finally do something to help Andromeda. I focused on his spark. Dived deep...

...and read him like a story on the datanet.

It had been Swindle's suggestion. “Everyone wants more femmes,” he'd said to Octane. “But most mechs don't have the know-how,  means, or dedication to build 'em.” He'd smiled that patented, too-shiny smile, and slung an arm across Octane's shoulders. “That's where you and I come in, partner.”

Octane never wondered whether Swindle'd chosen him because of his addiction. He'd just assumed it. Assumed Swindle'd found out all about his stash of unauthorized copies: every file on every pre-War femme, with all their stats and favorite things and hopes for the aborted future. He’d assumed Swindle knew how he pored over those files one-by-one, memorizing the details of those unreachable femmes. How much it hurt that every one of them, save for Elita's tiny squad, had abandoned them. Had abandoned him. Swindle’s plan was the closest thing to making his fantasies real. To getting the one thing he'd pined for till it became an obsession. So Octane had bowed to the inevitable, and agreed.

Swindle had shown him blueprints. “I’ve drawn up some basic templates. They’re not much to look at, ‘cause I’m not much of an architect. But we'll get more. Seems like lately someone's bringin' a new femme-frame down to the Chamber for ignition every week. So if we see a new design we like, we'll just...” (he’d nudged Octane and grinned that grin) “...appropriate and incorporate. Get the picture?”

Octane had seen the picture, all right. The same picture he'd been comforting himself with for the last eight million years: a pretty femme attending him whenever he desired her company, a pretty femme who'd ooh and ahh at his accomplishments, a pretty femme who'd think he was her world.

“I'll go with purple,” Octane mused. “We’ll match.”

Swindle had given him an odd look. Then he'd smiled smugly, like he knew Octane was hooked as an accomplice. Like he knew Octane would never flinch, as long as what he wanted was dangled ahead of him. “Of course you’ll get one! More then one, if that’s what you desire.” He’d nudged Octane in the side-struts. “We'll be rich! Let's get to work.”

Octane and Swindle had spent the first year crawling around in ash-strewn tunnels, locating and marking every vein of Matrix-grade white energon. When Octane had asked why, Swindle had shrugged. “Bots who make lots of femmes attract unwanted attention. I heard Shockwave's got his optic on Thundercracker and Sunstreaker's operation. And they've only made six or seven so far. We want to make hundreds. So we need our own source, outside of the Vector Sigma Chamber.”

“You mean – steal from the planet?”

Swindle'd given him a withering look. Octane had shut his mouth.

But that didn't stop his unease. Sure, setting up a newling factory for fun and profit sounded great. But as he watched the planet's heart-blood bleed into the sucking monster-machine they had made, Octane wondered if it was OK to bleed your god because you knew that he'd refuse to grant your creatures life if you asked him directly. “This was Swindle's idea, not mine!” He'd whispered to the bleeding wall on more than one occasion.

The first few attempts were failures. Small, flickering femme-sparks smothered in bodies too poorly-made to hold them. The next few had to be put down because they went insane. But eventually, they arrived at a starting point, and put five stolen sparks into five basic bodies.

“They're boring!” Octane had complained.

Swindle agreed. That night, they'd tricked Perceptor's femme into the back of Octane's trailer, taken her down to the factory, and stolen her schematics. Her design wasn’t flashy, but it wouldn’t fall apart. They'd retooled the five femmes they’d made (only one of whom survived the whole process) and then dropped Double-A a few blocks from her home: her memory wiped, her frame only a little scuffed.

It was when the Registration Network had gone up – at Swindle's suggestion, and according to his own designs – that things had really kicked into high gear.

“I get that the Registry sends us info on each newling femme brought in,” Octane had said. “But it also means our femmes are officially illegal. Why'd you lobby for this, Swindle? What good does a full body-scan and spark-readout do us down here, besides proving how bad all our designs are by comparison?”

Swindle had smiled that salesman's grin. “Custom orders, Octane my buddy. Hundreds of options, all cataloged for our usage. We only have to bring the – heh – the ‘templates’ in. We'll be able to make each femme to spec. And for such custom orders, we'll charge triple.”

Swindle had put a quiet word out. Told bots they were invited to be part of something special. Then he swore them to secrecy. But his first customers were willing to keep secrets. There were hundreds of mechs who wished to have femme companions, but who didn't have the wherewithal to craft them. They were willing to hide the beta-merchandise in exchange for getting in on the ground floor, as Swindle put it to them. Money rolled in.

But the buyers complained. Their newlings weren't content to stay inside as ornaments. They’d argue. Some would fight. But most simply withered away. Went catatonic. Died.

When clients called up feeling cheated, Swindle reassured them they’d be first in line for Phase-2 merchandise, and thanked them for their input. Some mechs had complained when they were asked to turn in their beta-femmes for recycling. They claimed they had grown attached. But Swindle always managed to up-sell them on the future.

“We’re killing them?” Octane had asked, feeling queasy.

“That’s just startup business for you,” Swindle’d reassured him. “Hiccups are perfectly normal.”

Then he’d turned to Octane for suggestions. “Gotta make 'em stay where we put 'em,” he’d growled, “or we’ll be out of this business before you can get your femmeling, partner.”

Octane wasn't used to being an idea-mech. But he knew about control. The whole idea made him feel filthy. But he wanted a femme of his own. “Devil's Due. Juice. The red stuff.”

“What good's that? Skywarp and Mirage have the detox program in full swing. Can't get it from Starscream like we used to in the old days.”

Octane had shrugged. “I'm no Mixmaster, but I've always had a talent for mixing up trouble. I watched Starscream make it a few times, and took good notes.” He'd smiled into Swindle's avaricious purple optics, and said, “The Devil’s Due will keep them docile. And if all our femmes are born as addicts, they won't run far from their only known supplier, will they?”

Swindle's smile looked even worse than Octane's own had felt.

Orders poured in. And for each one, Octane scrolled down the Registry infodex to find a femme with something like what the customer wanted. Then they'd kidnap her for a few days. Stealing new tech was so much easier than building it from scratch. And these second-iteration femmes, with their customization and their guaranteed-home-by-sunset addiction... well, they sold for unholy sums of money.

Octane stopped using Blackjack's banking franchises. Sooner or later, somebody was bound to talk. It was risky, even in the post-Cataclysm building boom, to openly have that much cash. He tore up floorplates, ripped loose panels from the walls, and even drilled some holes into his ceiling: all so he could stash his filthy lucre in secret. But there was always more of it.

Octane had money literally falling down around him. But he still did not have the one thing he'd sold himself to this enterprise to get. The thing he had been craving all throughout the Great War, the Ceasefire, and the Cataclysm. The thing that now made all his old files seem as dry as dust and just as unfulfilling.

“You promised. How long till I get my newling?” he'd asked Swindle time and time again. But the answer was always the same: “When we've perfected the process. Don't want flawed merchandise for ourselves, do we? Better to try out our experiments on the unsuspecting public, till we get it right.”

Octane told himself it would be worth it. But trusting Swindle was a fool's game, and he knew it.

So far, they'd stolen tech from 13 different newlings; and the customers for the 13 custom femmes they’d sold were mostly satisfied. But Andromeda was the real coup. Swindle had found her “everybody likes me” generator on the Registry, and come crowing down to Octane. “If we put this thing into all our femmes, we’d make them irresistible! No more complaints – we could send off a one-legged truck, and with that tech, she'd make her owners love her!”

So Andromeda was somewhere underground right now, in a cage, waiting while the memory-melting serum they had fed her helped her forget all the things that they had done to her.


* * * * *

I didn't even wait to pull my sister’s precise location out of his spark. I yelled, and lunged for Octane's throat, jerking the feed-cord loose from Megatron. I was a fool, and it cost me.

“Stay back!” somebody shouted.

But I was screaming too loud to hear reason. I pummeled wildly, heedless of popping knuckle-joints and all the damage to my finish. Heedless of the fact that I’d knocked over Wheeljack’s teleport-trap.

“That's my sister!” I shouted. “How could you--”

But I never got the chance to finish.  

Octane hooked the fingers of his cuffed right hand into the plating of my thigh, and squeezed. My makers could have told him that the wrist is a good place to hide small electronic additions like trackers.

Like a teleporter button.

There was a sucking purple haze that made me want to vomit. It folded me in like an irresistible electromagnet. Octane clutched harder, and we fell.

I heard a *VOP!*

Then there was nothing.
Comments2
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RazzieMbessai's avatar
:skull::fear: OH SL- :fear::skull:
Nope, not going to leak any spoilers but what if Sparkles gets (SPOILERED) and then we have an entire no-longer-slaves army of (SUPER SPOILERS) wandering round?? :omg:

Or even worse, what if Primus himself decides "ain't nobody got time for this" and blows the entire thing to pieces?? :fear:



hahahahahaaaa i know i shouldnt be laughing at this horrible take but "we could send off a one-legged truck, and with that tech, she'd make her owners love her" made me giggle