[TF] Anamnesis - 01
Apr. 5th, 2021 06:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Anamnesis
Universe: Amalgam
Characters: Hot Rod, Megatron, Hook, Scrapper, Scavenger, Long Haul, Bonecrusher, Mixmaster, Ravage, Soundwave
Rated: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Referenced Forced Body Modification, Memory Issues
Description: All kinds of trash gets tossed in the Heap, but when Hot Rod finds a barely-alive Empurate, he can’t leave the mech to die. Without his memory, Megs has no place to go, so Hot Rod offers him a place to call home. It’s meant to be temporary, but Hot Rod never expected wanting so badly for Megs to stay.
Commission for Withersake.
Chapter One
A new visitor to the Heap might find themselves overwhelmed with the stench of the place -- old grease and caked rust and decaying energon, the reek of death and abandonment basically. Hot Rod has visited the place so often he’s blind to it now. That and he’d had the foresight to shutter his vents, and turn off his olfactory sensors.
It’s a scrapyard. Mechs should know that it’s not the cleanest place on Cybertron to be.
Still. Better than a slagpile.
Narrow furrows wind through the teetering piles of junk and scrap. Hot Rod’s carved out some of his own through the years, but every once in a while, he’ll take a route hacked up by some other Scrounge, and find something on the list.
Not his list, just the list.
Hot Rod squints at the grease-stained flimsy again, trying to interpret Hook’s scribble. Why do medics have to write with such incomprehensible glyphs? Also these pictures look like a sparkling drew them and are not at all helpful.
What the frag is a hyperbolic split-circuit?
Hot Rod sighs and trudges to the next towering mass of scrap, glancing from the scribble to the stack, and back again, looking for something that kind of resembles the drawing. He prefers Scrapper’s lists honestly. They are much easier to interpret, and those parts are easier to find. Machine parts tend to be more universal.
He peers at the list again. He squints harder. He promptly trips on a piece of scrap sticking out of the pile, and down Hot Rod goes because he is many things, but not graceful. Fortunately, his face absorbs most of the impact.
Ow.
The two parts he’s gathered clatter and clunk in his wagon, and Hot Rod winces. He hopes he hasn’t damaged them beyond repair. Hook’s gonna fuss if he has.
Hot Rod twists over on his aft, absently rubbing at his chin and nasal ridge. Both seem to be intact, though he tastes a bit of energon. He seeks out the case of his tumble and finds a leg sticking out of the pile of scrap.
No. Wait.
Two legs. Two legs attached to a body, with two pairs of arms, and a head. There’s a whole mech tossed in this scrap pile, and worse, this isn’t the first one Hot Rod’s ever found. It’ll never stop unnerving him. What kind of world is this that someone just throws away a whole person rather than giving them the burial they deserve?
Hot Rod sighs. It’s a slag-pile of a world.
He creeps closer to examine the poor mech. The frame’s recently suffered Empurata by the look of it, the welds still pale gray and soft, while his color nanites remain vibrant and strong. In fact, he’s warm to the touch. He must have off-lined pretty recently.
Hot Rod puts a palm on the mech’s chassis, intending to brush aside some of the gathered silt, until his dermal sensors register the steady thrum of a spark.
This mech isn’t dead yet.
This, also, is not a first. Damn it.
“Some mechs have no fragging decency,” Hot Rod mutters as he rushes to assess the mech’s vitals, just like Hook taught him.
The stranger’s spark beat is strong, his vents labored, his energon levels scarily low. There are no visible wounds on his frame. He hasn’t been caught by the treads of the compactor or the tines of the lifter. If Hot Rod can get him to the clinic – and Hook by extension – he’ll survive.
Hot Rod pulls out a transfusion kit and finds an easily accessible energon line in the stranger’s right arm. He splices the line with his own, supplying the poor mech with pre-filtered energon, before he makes the call.
“Look, Roddy. I already told you. I’ll send better pictures when I have the actual part in question,” Hook says by way of answer.
Hot Rod rolls his optics, even though Hook can’t see him. “It’s not about that, though by the way, I think your writing is getting worse.”
“What do you want?” Hook grumps.
“I found another one,” Hot Rod says, keeping one palm on the unconscious mech’s chassis in a vain effort to wish strength into his spark. “I can’t get him out of here on my own. Pretty sure he used to be a miner or a construction mech. He’s big. Like Scrapper big.”
Hook grumbles, “Scrapper isn’t that big.” It’s always been a point of soreness for Hook, how small he is compared to his brothers. “I’m in the middle of a surgery. I can’t leave. I’ll send Long Haul. But you owe us. Again.”
“Put it on my tab,” Hot Rod says.
“At this point, I’ve lost track of it,” Hook says, dryly. “And get me that fuel pump. I need it today.”
Hook hangs up on him. He’s never been one to bother with ending a comm politely.
Hot Rod huffs.
He’s already found the fuel pump, thank you very much. He returns his attention to the mech in front of him, gently turning the stranger’s face toward his. The singular optic flickers, like the mech is trying to come online. Static hisses from his vocalizer.
“It’s okay. You’re safe,” Hot Rod murmurs. Maybe the mech can hear him, maybe he can’t. Hot Rod’s going to keep talking anyway. “Just hang on, alright? I’m going to get you to a medic, and you’re gonna be just fine.”
Another spat of static rises from the mech, his optic flickering before it goes dim. He’s still alive, however, spark beating strong and steady. Whoever he is, he’s a fighter, like so many victims of Empurata Hot Rod has pulled from the scrapheap.
“You’re gonna make it,” Hot Rod says as he checks on the status of the infusion. He’ll give as much as he can spare, but Hook will shout at him if he goes too far.
Long Haul better hurry.
~
“You are correct in your observations, Hot Rod. He used to be a miner,” Hook confirms as he circles Hot Rod’s newest project, double-checking his own work.
He’s a bit of a perfectionist, Hot Rod has noticed over the years of working for Hook, here in this clinic adjacent to Nyon’s only energon mine. Hook gets a steady stream of patients from the mine, and plenty from Nyon’s citizens. Enough to keep a single medic perpetually overworked.
“I do not think he’s from Nyon, however,” Hook continues as he plugs into the mech’s frame and glares at the information the scanner reads back to him. “How he ended up here is anyone’s guess.”
“The same way most mechs punished like him do,” Hot Rod says from where he perches nearby, legs swinging. He’d already been told to get out of Hook’s way, so he’d taken a more observant perch, out of reach. “Someone put him there.”
“Obviously.”
Hook’s fingers flick across the screen, and he shoots Hot Rod a knowing look. “By the time he wakes, he’ll be stable enough for you to take him home. Do try not to get attached to this one this time.”
Hot Rod rolls his optics. “I don’t get attached. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just because I’ve cared for a bunch of mechs--”
“--strangers,” Hook interjects.
“--strangers, whatever,” Hot Rod flicks a hand at Hook. “It doesn’t mean I’m getting attached. It just means I’m a halfway decent citizen.”
Hook snorts. “I know you too well to fall for that load of pitslag, bittybot,” he says. “Now let’s wake your new pet project up and see what he’s about before I put him into a healing stasis.”
Hot Rod hops down from his perch and approaches the medical berth, standing nearer to their new guest’s head while layering his field with calming undertones. It usually helps.
Hook fiddles with his datapad, and the stranger’s fans immediately start cycling up from the quiet thrum of a resting state, to the louder whirr of an online mech. The large optic flickers a few times before it steadies into a strong, amber glow. The three-clawed prosthetics which have replaced his hands twitch, clicking as they run through what is probably their first attempt at movement.
Hot Rod leans into view, offering his most winning smile. “Hi, there,” he says. “I’m Hot Rod, and I’m the one who found you.” He wiggles his fingers in a greeting. “Don’t worry. You’re totally safe. You’re in a clinic in Nyon, and my friend Hook is the one who made sure you wouldn’t offline.”
“I am nothing more than an impartial medic. Look to Hot Rod for an answer as to why you’re here,” Hook drawls without looking up, his attention focused on the datapad.
Hot Rod huffs. “You’re so helpful.” He sticks his glossa out at Hook before turning a smile back to the mech. “You might not be able to move just yet, so don’t panic, okay? Hook’s still making sure they didn’t mess up your mobility circuits when they did this to you.”
The head twitches, the optic flickering, and static rises from the mech’s vocalizer. There are several clicks -- audible resetting of a vocalizer -- before a deep voice emerges, though it is layered heavily with gravel.
“What happened?” the mech asks.
“Feel like we should be asking you that, friend,” Hot Rod says, and he taps his own optic pointedly. “I found you in the scrapheap, recently divested of your head and hands, and you probably would’ve died if I hadn’t brought you here. What do you remember?”
“I…” The voice trails off, the optic briefly dimming, the armor on his chassis twitching in its mounts as he draws in a heavy vent. “I don’t…”
“Memory loss is common in mechs who have undergone Empurata,” Hook says in his completely clinical, detached tone. “It will restore itself in time. Can you tell me your designation, please?”
A shudder runs across the mech’s frame, armor plates rising and falling in a tessellating wave. His engine gives a painful, whining sound, and Hot Rod looks at Hook with worry, but either the medic doesn't consider it something to be concerned about, or had expected it.
“Mhg-mhg.” Stuttering noises emerge from the mech’s vocalizer, and his optic flickers as his claws clatter in and out of awkward fists. “Mmmmhhhhhg.”
Hot Rod rests a hand on the mech’s arm, blanketing the poor miner in a heavy layer of comfort from his field. “It’s okay. We’ll just call you ‘Megs’ alright?”
Pain leaks out of Megs’ field, a jarring dissonance that grates on Hot Rod’s, but he doesn’t retract his field. He holds strong, broadcasting as much reassurance and comfort as he can manage against the scraping claws of discomfort.
“I suggest you cease trying to recall anything for now.” Hook’s tone remains dry, though his armor clamps, likely in self-defense at Megs’ unrestrained emotions. “It seems whomever did this to you did a very poor job of it. Or they were purposefully trying to affect your memory.” He pauses to tap the end of the stylus against his facemask. “The latter is probably more likely.”
“Why?” Megs grits out, only to abruptly sag into the medberth, as if the effort of attempting to recall his name had been too much. His field stops emitting razors and settles back around his frame, sulkily accepting Hot Rod’s comfort.
“Again, it’s a question only you can answer.” Hook leans in, peering at Megs’ left knee as though it holds the secret of the universe. “I’m going to keep you here until I’m sure you’re stable, but afterward, Hot Rod has graciously offered his home to you. Given a week of rest, you should be in fine form.”
Megs raises his new claws, the motion a bit shakily, and gives them a pointed wriggle.
“Fine form considering what they left you with,” Hook amends. The datapad vanishes from his fingers, tucked away into his subspace. “Fortunately, Hot Rod has some experience helping mechs adjust to such circumstances.”
Hot Rod pats Megs’ nearest arm. “I’m the best teacher around here,” he states proudly. “Really. You can ask Damus or Highline or… frag it. Hook, what did Corral change his designation to?”
“Strikeout,” Hook answers absently.
“Right. Strikeout. Because it’s scarier.” Hot Rod beams down at his new charge, whose singular optic tracks around the room. It’s gotta be hard to adjust to monocular vision.
Megs makes a non-committal noise.
“Sure.” Hook detaches a few of the lines from Megs’ frame. “I’m putting you in a recovery stasis for a few more hours at least. You should be more focused when you wake.”
Megs’ claws relax against the berth. “Very well,” he rasps, less static this time. Hot Rod suspects the grated, bass is the natural setting of his vocalizer.
Hot Rod adds, “And I’ll be here when you wake up!” He pumps more comfort into his field, and keeps it there, all the way until Megs’ optic dims, and his fans cycle back down into the quiet hum of a mech in stasis.
“Like the Pit you will,” Hook says, shaking a finger at Hot Rod. “I still need those parts, so if you want to be here when I online him, you better get to it.”
Hot Rod’s shoulders slump. Hook’s right at least. He can’t do anything while Megs is resting, and the least he can do to thank Hook is finish the job he started.
“Fine. I’m going,” Hot Rod says, slowly backing out of the room. His gaze lingers on Megs, his spark aching with sympathy, until he bumps into a rolling cart of instruments, nearly toppling it over.
He rushes to right the tray, Hook’s chastising stare like a hot draft against his armor. Two tools clatter to the floor, and Hot Rod scoops them up, returning them to their rightful place.
Hot Rod adjusts his trajectory and edges out the door. “Don’t wake him up until I get back!”
Hook calls after him, “I make no promises.”
~
He does not like the designation ‘Megs’ but as he has no other name he can recall at the moment, Megs will have to do. It isn’t as though he can think of something better. Creativity, apparently, is not part of his core personality.
Megs remembers little of his function before waking on the medberth in the small clinic, surrounded by a pretty young mech with a comforting smile, and a much larger construction vehicle with a surly energy field. Megs is sure he’d been a miner once upon a time -- there’s something about the grit and grime of a mine, the sound and taste of it, that’s familiar to him.
The rest is a huge black patch taking up the majority of his active memory function. He cannot go near the shadows, lest spikes of pain assault him, as he’s learned, so all he can do is wait, as Hook has told him countless times before freeing him to Hot Rod’s company.
Hot Rod. The pretty, young mech. Megs can’t fathom why he’s so helpful. It seems an odd thing, for a stranger to want to help another, but Hot Rod is willing if not eager to do so.
He bounces beside Megs now, leading him through the streets of Nyon, occasionally pointing out friendly mechs or places of business or interest that Megs might visit later. When he’s feeling more energetic, that is.
Megs only half-listens. It takes the rest of his concentration to put one foot in front of the other. This frame is his, he’s sure of that, but it’s unfamiliar to him. He struggles to balance himself, his equilibrium off-kilter. He’s sure he once had hands with five fingers, and now he has these three pronged claws, all but useless and hideous to look upon.
He’s sure he had a face, too, but when Hook offered him a mirror, Megs didn’t recognize the head staring back at him. The singular, amber optic, spiraling in and out as he tried to focus. Empurata, Hook told him, and that Megs understood without explanation, though again, he doesn’t know why or how. What had he done? They don’t know, and neither does Megs.
He is being punished for a crime he can’t remember committing.
There’s a rolling throb of ache in his head. Megs is sure he once had two optics, else he would not have so much trouble adjusting to the change in his vision. He’s awkward with his arms, unsure how to hold them, and every inch of his frame feels scraped raw, like they performed the surgery without anesthesia, without care for his comfort at all.
Warm fingers wrap around his left wrist, closing over a weld that’s still soft and new and shiny. Megs looks down at the gentle touch, feels a coaxing tug, and Hot Rod is giving him an urgent look, mouth moving.
“--this way, come on,” he says, and Megs follows because he doesn’t know enough to decide otherwise.
Hot Rod pulls him into the shadows of an alley, tugging Megs behind him, while staying nearer to the opening himself. He peers into the busy street, lines of tension drawn over his frame, armor slicked tight, the comfort of his field battling an underlying anxiety.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, over his shoulder. “It’s an Enforcer patrol. We might not be doing anything illegal, but they just love to hassle the Empurata mechs. Afts.” There’s genuine distaste in his tone.
Megs creeps up against Hot Rod’s back, easily peering over the shorter mech’s head. A large, soldier-build walks into view, far beyond the alley. They don’t glance into the alley, but there’s a smile on their face, a whistle on their lips as they stride confidently along, symbols emblazoned brightly on their immaculate paint.
Here, in the grit and grime of the downtrodden Nyon, they stick out like grease in a cog.
Hot Rod’s hand is still on his wrist, a gentle pressure. Megs looks down at it, his armor warm beneath Hot Rod’s derma. Hot Rod had not hesitated. He hasn’t jerked away in disgust. Megs does not remember much, but there’s a part of him fully aware of the stigma surrounding those who have endured Empurata.
Most mechs would not willingly touch one. Most mechs would not care.
“Okay, I think we’re good.” Hot Rod looks over his shoulder, up at Megs. “You ready to head back out?”
“I am following your lead,” Megs says.
Hot Rod grins, his optics bright and reassuring. “Yeah, you are.” He squeezes Megs’ wrist gently before releasing him with a careful pat. “Come on.”
Back into the streets they go.
The shining armor of the Senate’s Enforcers are blocks behind them, the distance growing as they strut one way, and Hot Rod leads him another, past storefronts to blocks of buildings that can only be part of a residential neighborhood. Here there are rows of blocky structures at sagging angles and numerous doors, with few mechs loitering in the streets around them. Narrow alleys are clogged with the detritus of the poor and downtrodden, and Megs spies more than a few shady mechs, up to shady dealings in the dim.
The apartment complexes are only distinguishable by the glyphs slapped in dripping paint on the forward-facing exterior, above a set of double-doors that have to be manually opened. Megs and Hot Rod enter one labeled K12, and Megs commits the identifier to memory. He might have to find his way back here on his own in the future.
Hot Rod leads Megs up a rickety rampwell to the third storey. “I wouldn’t use the lift if I were you,” he explains. “It gets stuck more often than it works, and we’re all waiting for the day it crashes. Jury on the first floor is taking bets if you’re interested.”
“Noted,” Megs says. Exhaustion tugs at him. It’s been barely more than a ten minute walk, but he is in need of adequate recovery time. More healing stasis apparently.
Hot Rod’s apartment is small, little more than a main chamber with two rooms adjacent, both of them with manual doors. Through the apertures, Megs spies single recharge berths. One room is decorated and lived-in, the other looks as though it has been untouched for months.
“You’re taking Slinger’s old room,” Hot Rod says as he takes Megs’ wrist again -- gentle still, but without hesitation -- and guides him toward the untouched hab. “He’s been gone for awhile, and I don’t know if he’s coming back, so I don’t see a point in wasting the space.”
His optics dim, and while there’s a reassuring smile on his face, their fields are too closely intertwined for Megs to miss the tremor of sadness running through Hot Rod. He and Slinger must have been dear friends. Gone, but not coming back…? Missing, but not confirmed dead? In a city where the Senate’s Enforcers patrol and the citizens feel compelled to hide, Megs is not surprised that the continued functioning of Hot Rod’s friend is in question.
“Thank you,” Megs says.
“It’s no trouble,” Hot Rod says, and guides Megs to the berth as if he can’t find it himself, fussing until Megs settles himself comfortably upon it. “You can have it as long as you need it.”
The berth is oddly comfortable considering the rundown nature of the rest of the apartment. Megs sinks into the plush surface with a satisfied hum, his aching limbs and joints relaxing as they are relieved of the burden of his weight.
“Why?” Megs asks.
Hot Rod idly kicks a few abandoned items under the medberth as he fusses around the room, cleaning things that don’t necessarily need to be cleaned. “Why what?”
“Why do you help?” Megs asks. “Why do you care?” It’s hard for him to imagine Hot Rod doing this for the sole purpose of taking advantage, but memory-loss aside, Megs seems to have retained his pragmatism.
It’s equally hard to imagine someone being kind out of the goodness of their spark.
Hot Rod pulls a few items out of subspace, setting them on the small table by the berth. Megs recognizes a pouch of energon and a pouch of coolant, both capable of being fed through his new intake tube.
It is a painful reminder that he can no longer drink his fluids like the standard mech.
“There’s just not much else I can do,” Hot Rod says, frustration leaking into his tone, his face contorting with the strength of it. “I can’t stop the Enforcers. I can’t make the foremechs treat the miners better. I can’t prevent those butchers from performing Empurata. All I can do is try and pick up the pieces afterward.”
“These mechs are strangers to you. Why do you care?” Megs asks, repeating himself, because it’s so unfathomable.
Hot Rod cycles an audible ventilation and squares his shoulders. “Because there’s enough mechs not caring in the world, and I just do. I can’t explain it. Maybe Primus gave me too much compassion, I don’t know.” The spoiler wings jutting from behind his shoulders give anxious twitches. “I like helping people. That’s all. I like making a difference.” He spreads his hands. “I don’t have a better answer than that.”
Megs’ spark aches for this small mech with more honor in him than the entire Senate. “It’s a good answer,” he says. “Thank you, Hot Rod.” He reaches out, awkwardly touches Hot Rod’s arm with one claw.
Thankfully, Hot Rod doesn’t flinch. He gives Megs a smile instead
“I don’t blame you for being cautious. I promise you’re safe here though.” Hot Rod pats his claw and tucks it back beside Megs’ frame. “Get some rest. Hook says you need several days of recuperative stasis.”
Megs nods. “I can feel the exhaustion already. You are correct.” He cycles a ventilation and settles into the berth.
“Rest well, Megs,” Hot Rod says, his field offering a parting caress of comfort and encouragement before he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. So quietly the latch doesn’t click when it engages.
Megs dims his optics and stares hard at the corner of his memory core, where the dark shadows of loss seethe and writhe, as if taunting him with his inability to access them. Whoever he was, whatever he’d done, the answers are in that tumultuous dark. When he’s regained his strength, he’ll do whatever it takes to find those answers.
Until then, he supposes he is at the mercy of Hot Rod’s generosity. What luck that circumstances should put him in the path of what is possibly one of the kindest mechs left on Cybertron.
What luck indeed.
***
Universe: Amalgam
Characters: Hot Rod, Megatron, Hook, Scrapper, Scavenger, Long Haul, Bonecrusher, Mixmaster, Ravage, Soundwave
Rated: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Referenced Forced Body Modification, Memory Issues
Description: All kinds of trash gets tossed in the Heap, but when Hot Rod finds a barely-alive Empurate, he can’t leave the mech to die. Without his memory, Megs has no place to go, so Hot Rod offers him a place to call home. It’s meant to be temporary, but Hot Rod never expected wanting so badly for Megs to stay.
Commission for Withersake.
A new visitor to the Heap might find themselves overwhelmed with the stench of the place -- old grease and caked rust and decaying energon, the reek of death and abandonment basically. Hot Rod has visited the place so often he’s blind to it now. That and he’d had the foresight to shutter his vents, and turn off his olfactory sensors.
It’s a scrapyard. Mechs should know that it’s not the cleanest place on Cybertron to be.
Still. Better than a slagpile.
Narrow furrows wind through the teetering piles of junk and scrap. Hot Rod’s carved out some of his own through the years, but every once in a while, he’ll take a route hacked up by some other Scrounge, and find something on the list.
Not his list, just the list.
Hot Rod squints at the grease-stained flimsy again, trying to interpret Hook’s scribble. Why do medics have to write with such incomprehensible glyphs? Also these pictures look like a sparkling drew them and are not at all helpful.
What the frag is a hyperbolic split-circuit?
Hot Rod sighs and trudges to the next towering mass of scrap, glancing from the scribble to the stack, and back again, looking for something that kind of resembles the drawing. He prefers Scrapper’s lists honestly. They are much easier to interpret, and those parts are easier to find. Machine parts tend to be more universal.
He peers at the list again. He squints harder. He promptly trips on a piece of scrap sticking out of the pile, and down Hot Rod goes because he is many things, but not graceful. Fortunately, his face absorbs most of the impact.
Ow.
The two parts he’s gathered clatter and clunk in his wagon, and Hot Rod winces. He hopes he hasn’t damaged them beyond repair. Hook’s gonna fuss if he has.
Hot Rod twists over on his aft, absently rubbing at his chin and nasal ridge. Both seem to be intact, though he tastes a bit of energon. He seeks out the case of his tumble and finds a leg sticking out of the pile of scrap.
No. Wait.
Two legs. Two legs attached to a body, with two pairs of arms, and a head. There’s a whole mech tossed in this scrap pile, and worse, this isn’t the first one Hot Rod’s ever found. It’ll never stop unnerving him. What kind of world is this that someone just throws away a whole person rather than giving them the burial they deserve?
Hot Rod sighs. It’s a slag-pile of a world.
He creeps closer to examine the poor mech. The frame’s recently suffered Empurata by the look of it, the welds still pale gray and soft, while his color nanites remain vibrant and strong. In fact, he’s warm to the touch. He must have off-lined pretty recently.
Hot Rod puts a palm on the mech’s chassis, intending to brush aside some of the gathered silt, until his dermal sensors register the steady thrum of a spark.
This mech isn’t dead yet.
This, also, is not a first. Damn it.
“Some mechs have no fragging decency,” Hot Rod mutters as he rushes to assess the mech’s vitals, just like Hook taught him.
The stranger’s spark beat is strong, his vents labored, his energon levels scarily low. There are no visible wounds on his frame. He hasn’t been caught by the treads of the compactor or the tines of the lifter. If Hot Rod can get him to the clinic – and Hook by extension – he’ll survive.
Hot Rod pulls out a transfusion kit and finds an easily accessible energon line in the stranger’s right arm. He splices the line with his own, supplying the poor mech with pre-filtered energon, before he makes the call.
“Look, Roddy. I already told you. I’ll send better pictures when I have the actual part in question,” Hook says by way of answer.
Hot Rod rolls his optics, even though Hook can’t see him. “It’s not about that, though by the way, I think your writing is getting worse.”
“What do you want?” Hook grumps.
“I found another one,” Hot Rod says, keeping one palm on the unconscious mech’s chassis in a vain effort to wish strength into his spark. “I can’t get him out of here on my own. Pretty sure he used to be a miner or a construction mech. He’s big. Like Scrapper big.”
Hook grumbles, “Scrapper isn’t that big.” It’s always been a point of soreness for Hook, how small he is compared to his brothers. “I’m in the middle of a surgery. I can’t leave. I’ll send Long Haul. But you owe us. Again.”
“Put it on my tab,” Hot Rod says.
“At this point, I’ve lost track of it,” Hook says, dryly. “And get me that fuel pump. I need it today.”
Hook hangs up on him. He’s never been one to bother with ending a comm politely.
Hot Rod huffs.
He’s already found the fuel pump, thank you very much. He returns his attention to the mech in front of him, gently turning the stranger’s face toward his. The singular optic flickers, like the mech is trying to come online. Static hisses from his vocalizer.
“It’s okay. You’re safe,” Hot Rod murmurs. Maybe the mech can hear him, maybe he can’t. Hot Rod’s going to keep talking anyway. “Just hang on, alright? I’m going to get you to a medic, and you’re gonna be just fine.”
Another spat of static rises from the mech, his optic flickering before it goes dim. He’s still alive, however, spark beating strong and steady. Whoever he is, he’s a fighter, like so many victims of Empurata Hot Rod has pulled from the scrapheap.
“You’re gonna make it,” Hot Rod says as he checks on the status of the infusion. He’ll give as much as he can spare, but Hook will shout at him if he goes too far.
Long Haul better hurry.
“You are correct in your observations, Hot Rod. He used to be a miner,” Hook confirms as he circles Hot Rod’s newest project, double-checking his own work.
He’s a bit of a perfectionist, Hot Rod has noticed over the years of working for Hook, here in this clinic adjacent to Nyon’s only energon mine. Hook gets a steady stream of patients from the mine, and plenty from Nyon’s citizens. Enough to keep a single medic perpetually overworked.
“I do not think he’s from Nyon, however,” Hook continues as he plugs into the mech’s frame and glares at the information the scanner reads back to him. “How he ended up here is anyone’s guess.”
“The same way most mechs punished like him do,” Hot Rod says from where he perches nearby, legs swinging. He’d already been told to get out of Hook’s way, so he’d taken a more observant perch, out of reach. “Someone put him there.”
“Obviously.”
Hook’s fingers flick across the screen, and he shoots Hot Rod a knowing look. “By the time he wakes, he’ll be stable enough for you to take him home. Do try not to get attached to this one this time.”
Hot Rod rolls his optics. “I don’t get attached. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just because I’ve cared for a bunch of mechs--”
“--strangers,” Hook interjects.
“--strangers, whatever,” Hot Rod flicks a hand at Hook. “It doesn’t mean I’m getting attached. It just means I’m a halfway decent citizen.”
Hook snorts. “I know you too well to fall for that load of pitslag, bittybot,” he says. “Now let’s wake your new pet project up and see what he’s about before I put him into a healing stasis.”
Hot Rod hops down from his perch and approaches the medical berth, standing nearer to their new guest’s head while layering his field with calming undertones. It usually helps.
Hook fiddles with his datapad, and the stranger’s fans immediately start cycling up from the quiet thrum of a resting state, to the louder whirr of an online mech. The large optic flickers a few times before it steadies into a strong, amber glow. The three-clawed prosthetics which have replaced his hands twitch, clicking as they run through what is probably their first attempt at movement.
Hot Rod leans into view, offering his most winning smile. “Hi, there,” he says. “I’m Hot Rod, and I’m the one who found you.” He wiggles his fingers in a greeting. “Don’t worry. You’re totally safe. You’re in a clinic in Nyon, and my friend Hook is the one who made sure you wouldn’t offline.”
“I am nothing more than an impartial medic. Look to Hot Rod for an answer as to why you’re here,” Hook drawls without looking up, his attention focused on the datapad.
Hot Rod huffs. “You’re so helpful.” He sticks his glossa out at Hook before turning a smile back to the mech. “You might not be able to move just yet, so don’t panic, okay? Hook’s still making sure they didn’t mess up your mobility circuits when they did this to you.”
The head twitches, the optic flickering, and static rises from the mech’s vocalizer. There are several clicks -- audible resetting of a vocalizer -- before a deep voice emerges, though it is layered heavily with gravel.
“What happened?” the mech asks.
“Feel like we should be asking you that, friend,” Hot Rod says, and he taps his own optic pointedly. “I found you in the scrapheap, recently divested of your head and hands, and you probably would’ve died if I hadn’t brought you here. What do you remember?”
“I…” The voice trails off, the optic briefly dimming, the armor on his chassis twitching in its mounts as he draws in a heavy vent. “I don’t…”
“Memory loss is common in mechs who have undergone Empurata,” Hook says in his completely clinical, detached tone. “It will restore itself in time. Can you tell me your designation, please?”
A shudder runs across the mech’s frame, armor plates rising and falling in a tessellating wave. His engine gives a painful, whining sound, and Hot Rod looks at Hook with worry, but either the medic doesn't consider it something to be concerned about, or had expected it.
“Mhg-mhg.” Stuttering noises emerge from the mech’s vocalizer, and his optic flickers as his claws clatter in and out of awkward fists. “Mmmmhhhhhg.”
Hot Rod rests a hand on the mech’s arm, blanketing the poor miner in a heavy layer of comfort from his field. “It’s okay. We’ll just call you ‘Megs’ alright?”
Pain leaks out of Megs’ field, a jarring dissonance that grates on Hot Rod’s, but he doesn’t retract his field. He holds strong, broadcasting as much reassurance and comfort as he can manage against the scraping claws of discomfort.
“I suggest you cease trying to recall anything for now.” Hook’s tone remains dry, though his armor clamps, likely in self-defense at Megs’ unrestrained emotions. “It seems whomever did this to you did a very poor job of it. Or they were purposefully trying to affect your memory.” He pauses to tap the end of the stylus against his facemask. “The latter is probably more likely.”
“Why?” Megs grits out, only to abruptly sag into the medberth, as if the effort of attempting to recall his name had been too much. His field stops emitting razors and settles back around his frame, sulkily accepting Hot Rod’s comfort.
“Again, it’s a question only you can answer.” Hook leans in, peering at Megs’ left knee as though it holds the secret of the universe. “I’m going to keep you here until I’m sure you’re stable, but afterward, Hot Rod has graciously offered his home to you. Given a week of rest, you should be in fine form.”
Megs raises his new claws, the motion a bit shakily, and gives them a pointed wriggle.
“Fine form considering what they left you with,” Hook amends. The datapad vanishes from his fingers, tucked away into his subspace. “Fortunately, Hot Rod has some experience helping mechs adjust to such circumstances.”
Hot Rod pats Megs’ nearest arm. “I’m the best teacher around here,” he states proudly. “Really. You can ask Damus or Highline or… frag it. Hook, what did Corral change his designation to?”
“Strikeout,” Hook answers absently.
“Right. Strikeout. Because it’s scarier.” Hot Rod beams down at his new charge, whose singular optic tracks around the room. It’s gotta be hard to adjust to monocular vision.
Megs makes a non-committal noise.
“Sure.” Hook detaches a few of the lines from Megs’ frame. “I’m putting you in a recovery stasis for a few more hours at least. You should be more focused when you wake.”
Megs’ claws relax against the berth. “Very well,” he rasps, less static this time. Hot Rod suspects the grated, bass is the natural setting of his vocalizer.
Hot Rod adds, “And I’ll be here when you wake up!” He pumps more comfort into his field, and keeps it there, all the way until Megs’ optic dims, and his fans cycle back down into the quiet hum of a mech in stasis.
“Like the Pit you will,” Hook says, shaking a finger at Hot Rod. “I still need those parts, so if you want to be here when I online him, you better get to it.”
Hot Rod’s shoulders slump. Hook’s right at least. He can’t do anything while Megs is resting, and the least he can do to thank Hook is finish the job he started.
“Fine. I’m going,” Hot Rod says, slowly backing out of the room. His gaze lingers on Megs, his spark aching with sympathy, until he bumps into a rolling cart of instruments, nearly toppling it over.
He rushes to right the tray, Hook’s chastising stare like a hot draft against his armor. Two tools clatter to the floor, and Hot Rod scoops them up, returning them to their rightful place.
Hot Rod adjusts his trajectory and edges out the door. “Don’t wake him up until I get back!”
Hook calls after him, “I make no promises.”
He does not like the designation ‘Megs’ but as he has no other name he can recall at the moment, Megs will have to do. It isn’t as though he can think of something better. Creativity, apparently, is not part of his core personality.
Megs remembers little of his function before waking on the medberth in the small clinic, surrounded by a pretty young mech with a comforting smile, and a much larger construction vehicle with a surly energy field. Megs is sure he’d been a miner once upon a time -- there’s something about the grit and grime of a mine, the sound and taste of it, that’s familiar to him.
The rest is a huge black patch taking up the majority of his active memory function. He cannot go near the shadows, lest spikes of pain assault him, as he’s learned, so all he can do is wait, as Hook has told him countless times before freeing him to Hot Rod’s company.
Hot Rod. The pretty, young mech. Megs can’t fathom why he’s so helpful. It seems an odd thing, for a stranger to want to help another, but Hot Rod is willing if not eager to do so.
He bounces beside Megs now, leading him through the streets of Nyon, occasionally pointing out friendly mechs or places of business or interest that Megs might visit later. When he’s feeling more energetic, that is.
Megs only half-listens. It takes the rest of his concentration to put one foot in front of the other. This frame is his, he’s sure of that, but it’s unfamiliar to him. He struggles to balance himself, his equilibrium off-kilter. He’s sure he once had hands with five fingers, and now he has these three pronged claws, all but useless and hideous to look upon.
He’s sure he had a face, too, but when Hook offered him a mirror, Megs didn’t recognize the head staring back at him. The singular, amber optic, spiraling in and out as he tried to focus. Empurata, Hook told him, and that Megs understood without explanation, though again, he doesn’t know why or how. What had he done? They don’t know, and neither does Megs.
He is being punished for a crime he can’t remember committing.
There’s a rolling throb of ache in his head. Megs is sure he once had two optics, else he would not have so much trouble adjusting to the change in his vision. He’s awkward with his arms, unsure how to hold them, and every inch of his frame feels scraped raw, like they performed the surgery without anesthesia, without care for his comfort at all.
Warm fingers wrap around his left wrist, closing over a weld that’s still soft and new and shiny. Megs looks down at the gentle touch, feels a coaxing tug, and Hot Rod is giving him an urgent look, mouth moving.
“--this way, come on,” he says, and Megs follows because he doesn’t know enough to decide otherwise.
Hot Rod pulls him into the shadows of an alley, tugging Megs behind him, while staying nearer to the opening himself. He peers into the busy street, lines of tension drawn over his frame, armor slicked tight, the comfort of his field battling an underlying anxiety.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, over his shoulder. “It’s an Enforcer patrol. We might not be doing anything illegal, but they just love to hassle the Empurata mechs. Afts.” There’s genuine distaste in his tone.
Megs creeps up against Hot Rod’s back, easily peering over the shorter mech’s head. A large, soldier-build walks into view, far beyond the alley. They don’t glance into the alley, but there’s a smile on their face, a whistle on their lips as they stride confidently along, symbols emblazoned brightly on their immaculate paint.
Here, in the grit and grime of the downtrodden Nyon, they stick out like grease in a cog.
Hot Rod’s hand is still on his wrist, a gentle pressure. Megs looks down at it, his armor warm beneath Hot Rod’s derma. Hot Rod had not hesitated. He hasn’t jerked away in disgust. Megs does not remember much, but there’s a part of him fully aware of the stigma surrounding those who have endured Empurata.
Most mechs would not willingly touch one. Most mechs would not care.
“Okay, I think we’re good.” Hot Rod looks over his shoulder, up at Megs. “You ready to head back out?”
“I am following your lead,” Megs says.
Hot Rod grins, his optics bright and reassuring. “Yeah, you are.” He squeezes Megs’ wrist gently before releasing him with a careful pat. “Come on.”
Back into the streets they go.
The shining armor of the Senate’s Enforcers are blocks behind them, the distance growing as they strut one way, and Hot Rod leads him another, past storefronts to blocks of buildings that can only be part of a residential neighborhood. Here there are rows of blocky structures at sagging angles and numerous doors, with few mechs loitering in the streets around them. Narrow alleys are clogged with the detritus of the poor and downtrodden, and Megs spies more than a few shady mechs, up to shady dealings in the dim.
The apartment complexes are only distinguishable by the glyphs slapped in dripping paint on the forward-facing exterior, above a set of double-doors that have to be manually opened. Megs and Hot Rod enter one labeled K12, and Megs commits the identifier to memory. He might have to find his way back here on his own in the future.
Hot Rod leads Megs up a rickety rampwell to the third storey. “I wouldn’t use the lift if I were you,” he explains. “It gets stuck more often than it works, and we’re all waiting for the day it crashes. Jury on the first floor is taking bets if you’re interested.”
“Noted,” Megs says. Exhaustion tugs at him. It’s been barely more than a ten minute walk, but he is in need of adequate recovery time. More healing stasis apparently.
Hot Rod’s apartment is small, little more than a main chamber with two rooms adjacent, both of them with manual doors. Through the apertures, Megs spies single recharge berths. One room is decorated and lived-in, the other looks as though it has been untouched for months.
“You’re taking Slinger’s old room,” Hot Rod says as he takes Megs’ wrist again -- gentle still, but without hesitation -- and guides him toward the untouched hab. “He’s been gone for awhile, and I don’t know if he’s coming back, so I don’t see a point in wasting the space.”
His optics dim, and while there’s a reassuring smile on his face, their fields are too closely intertwined for Megs to miss the tremor of sadness running through Hot Rod. He and Slinger must have been dear friends. Gone, but not coming back…? Missing, but not confirmed dead? In a city where the Senate’s Enforcers patrol and the citizens feel compelled to hide, Megs is not surprised that the continued functioning of Hot Rod’s friend is in question.
“Thank you,” Megs says.
“It’s no trouble,” Hot Rod says, and guides Megs to the berth as if he can’t find it himself, fussing until Megs settles himself comfortably upon it. “You can have it as long as you need it.”
The berth is oddly comfortable considering the rundown nature of the rest of the apartment. Megs sinks into the plush surface with a satisfied hum, his aching limbs and joints relaxing as they are relieved of the burden of his weight.
“Why?” Megs asks.
Hot Rod idly kicks a few abandoned items under the medberth as he fusses around the room, cleaning things that don’t necessarily need to be cleaned. “Why what?”
“Why do you help?” Megs asks. “Why do you care?” It’s hard for him to imagine Hot Rod doing this for the sole purpose of taking advantage, but memory-loss aside, Megs seems to have retained his pragmatism.
It’s equally hard to imagine someone being kind out of the goodness of their spark.
Hot Rod pulls a few items out of subspace, setting them on the small table by the berth. Megs recognizes a pouch of energon and a pouch of coolant, both capable of being fed through his new intake tube.
It is a painful reminder that he can no longer drink his fluids like the standard mech.
“There’s just not much else I can do,” Hot Rod says, frustration leaking into his tone, his face contorting with the strength of it. “I can’t stop the Enforcers. I can’t make the foremechs treat the miners better. I can’t prevent those butchers from performing Empurata. All I can do is try and pick up the pieces afterward.”
“These mechs are strangers to you. Why do you care?” Megs asks, repeating himself, because it’s so unfathomable.
Hot Rod cycles an audible ventilation and squares his shoulders. “Because there’s enough mechs not caring in the world, and I just do. I can’t explain it. Maybe Primus gave me too much compassion, I don’t know.” The spoiler wings jutting from behind his shoulders give anxious twitches. “I like helping people. That’s all. I like making a difference.” He spreads his hands. “I don’t have a better answer than that.”
Megs’ spark aches for this small mech with more honor in him than the entire Senate. “It’s a good answer,” he says. “Thank you, Hot Rod.” He reaches out, awkwardly touches Hot Rod’s arm with one claw.
Thankfully, Hot Rod doesn’t flinch. He gives Megs a smile instead
“I don’t blame you for being cautious. I promise you’re safe here though.” Hot Rod pats his claw and tucks it back beside Megs’ frame. “Get some rest. Hook says you need several days of recuperative stasis.”
Megs nods. “I can feel the exhaustion already. You are correct.” He cycles a ventilation and settles into the berth.
“Rest well, Megs,” Hot Rod says, his field offering a parting caress of comfort and encouragement before he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. So quietly the latch doesn’t click when it engages.
Megs dims his optics and stares hard at the corner of his memory core, where the dark shadows of loss seethe and writhe, as if taunting him with his inability to access them. Whoever he was, whatever he’d done, the answers are in that tumultuous dark. When he’s regained his strength, he’ll do whatever it takes to find those answers.
Until then, he supposes he is at the mercy of Hot Rod’s generosity. What luck that circumstances should put him in the path of what is possibly one of the kindest mechs left on Cybertron.
What luck indeed.
