[TF] Anamnesis - 03

[dracoqueen22]

Anamnesis
Chapter Three

There’s a package on his doorstep.

Hot Rod nearly trips on it in his rush to get to work before Hook scolds him for tardiness. As it is, he kicks the crate a few feet across the floor, until it knocks against his neighbor’s door.

“What the…”

Hot Rod retrieves the crate and ducks back into his apartment before the ever-surly Wrench emerges to shout at him for being too noisy. Wrench thinks Hot Rod is noisy by the mere fact of existing. Jerk.

The only name on the crate is Hot Rod’s. There’s no address, no postal delivery code or SKU or tag from a runner. He’s pretty sure that if it was a bomb, it would’ve exploded when he kicked it. Not that he thinks someone would want to bomb him. Then again, he can’t think of anyone who’d want to send him a gift either.

Bonecrusher maybe? Or Scavenger?

“You didn’t make it very far.”

Hot Rod drops the crate on the small table in the main room and looks up. Megs is hovering in the doorway to his room, a novelpad carefully held between two claws.

“Someone left this for me,” Hot Rod says as he digs his fingers into the seam of the lid and peels it away. He peers into the interior and finds a variety of items nestled in a bed of packing mesh.

“What is it?” Megs approaches at last and leans over him, looking his fill as well.

“Datapads.” Hot Rod pulls these out and sets them aside. Sure, he’s had lessons, but not nearly enough to immediately tell him what’s on them. “Medical grade energon. Supplements. Stuff you need honestly. Except for these datachips.”

Hot Rod scatters the last on the table next to the datapads. Who knows what’s on them? Hot Rod sweeps up a few and tucks them into his subspace. He’ll have a look at those later.

Megs reaches for the datapads, flicking on the first. “Interesting. These appear to contain a collection of articles discussing the current affairs in Tarn, including the efforts of some mech named Megatron.”

“Huh.” Hot Rod stares at the datapads, head cocked, before he waves a hand. “Well, they’re all yours if you want them. I can’t really read them yet.” He turns his attention back to the crate.

His optics widen as he pulls out the last item, carefully wrapped at the bottom of the crate, and pulls off the thin, transteel sheeting. The gleam of a brand-new fuel pump -- not one that has been refurbished, or rescued from the salvage yard and restructured -- shines back at him. The model number imprinted in the metal matches the model he’s been searching for.

His jaw drops. He looks up at Megs. “I think this stuff is for you actually.”

Megs’ optic flickers. “Who would do this? And why?”

“I have no idea, but I don’t think we should turn it down either. You need this.” Hot Rod wiggles the fuel pump pointedly. “The one Hook stuck in you is supposed to be temporary. It’s not meant to be installed in a miner’s frame.”

Megs takes the fuel pump, holding it carefully. “And this one suits me?”

“To your exact specifications.” Hot Rod glances at the other items, snags one of the medgrade pouches, and sweeps the rest back into the crate. He tucks said crate under the table. “You feel up to a walk?”

Megs is still contemplating the fuel pump, but his head bobs. “I believe I can manage.”

He certainly seems like he can, Hot Rod observes. Megs’ legs are steady beneath him, his field is controlled, and he manipulates his claws with reasonable dexterity. There’s a strength in his shoulders. It won’t be long now before he can live on his own, if he so chooses.

Which, undoubtedly, he will. They never stay for long.

Hot Rod dredges up a smile. “Then let’s go. No time like the present, eh?” He playfully knocks his knuckles on Megs’ shoulder. “You want to carry that or shall I?”

“Allow me,” Megs says. He tucks the fuel pump under his arm with such an air of confidence that Hot Rod is immediately impressed.

Hot Rod stows the medical grade in his arm compartment and grabs a travel cube for himself. “Then let’s go.”

It’s not a long walk to the clinic, but Hot Rod keeps an optic on Megs nonetheless. He doesn’t want to overexert the mech too soon. Worse comes to worst, he’ll call Long Haul for a pick up. He can be persuasive when he needs to be.

“I still find it curious,” Megs muses aloud. “Who would gift me such items? Who would care enough to see to my physical needs, but abandon me otherwise?”

“You can’t think of anyone?” Hot Rod asks.

Pain flickers into Megs’ field, his optic briefly dimming. “No,” he says, after a moment, and his vents stutter before surging back into rhythm. “It is part of the gray space where my memories reside.”

“Well, don’t push it. They’ll come back when they’re meant to.”

Megs sighs. “I fear my lost identity may come to be a danger to you, Hot Rod. Mechs who suffer Empurata generally are not kind mechs to begin with.”

“That depends on your perspective,” Hot Rod points out. “Most of the time, the punishment comes from the Senate, and their judgment is biased. Everyone in Nyon knows that.”

Megs makes a noncommittal noise. “Perhaps.” He searches the crowds around them, his shoulders hunched as though he’s trying to make himself smaller. “I still hope you take caution.”

“I always do,” Hot Rod says as he eyes the trio of Enforcers across the street.

They’ve cornered a mech – a miner by the look of him, and while they are not being physically aggressive, there’s intimidation in their frame language. The miner himself stands straight and tall, but flickering optics indicate he’s searching for an escape, or for someone to come to his assistance. If Hot Rod didn’t have Megs to look after, if he wasn’t half the size of the Enforcers...

“C’mon. We should take this route instead.” Hot Rod takes Megs’ elbow and steers him to a nearby alley. “It’s the long way, but right now, it’s the safer way.”

The miner just now, and an Empurata mech earlier? Hot Rod doesn’t think it’s a coincidence. Especially since Megs happens to be both. Are the Senate looking for Megs or someone like him? Are they just throwing their weight around to remind the residents of Nyon who’s in charge? Or is there a reason behind the increased presence and scrutiny?

Hot Rod doesn’t know, and he’s not putting Megs in danger to find out. Whatever Megs did, whoever he was, Hot Rod’s sure he hadn’t deserved this punishment, or whatever else the Senate might want from him.

No one ever deserves what the Senate does.

“Is there danger?” Megs asks, pitched low so only Hot Rod could hear. He goes along without protest, and Hot Rod has to admit, that level of trust is comforting.

“Probably,” Hot Rod says. He tugs Megs through the back door of a detailing ship whose owner he’s helped out a time or two, exchanging a glance with the mech behind the counter as they exit through a side door, and into another alley. “Best not take any chances.”

“I trust your judgment,” Megs murmurs.

Hot Rod’s spark warms. He squeezes Megs’ elbow, and leads his charge through the many alternate routes he’s devised over the decades of living in Nyon and taking care of the Senate’s castoffs. He might not be as bold as Slinger when it comes to defying the political leadership, but Hot Rod likes to think he does the best he can.

Slinger thinks of saving the planet on a large-scale. Hot Rod focuses on the individual. He’s too much of a coward for the bigger picture. He’d like to be braver but...

He’s cared for too many Empurata to not be wary of the process himself. It’s not always survivable. He’s found too many greyed frames, too late to save, in the Heap.

Fortunately, they make it to the clinic without encountering any of the Enforcers, and Hot Rod ushers Megs in through the side door he usually uses as an employee, startling Mixmaster in the process. The chemist nearly fumbles his tray of chemicals, and he shoots Hot Rod an annoyed look, mouth twisted with irritation.

“You’re late,” Mixmaster huffs as he carefully sets the tray on the counter, immediately checking the vials over with deliberate intent.

“I didn’t realize I was working with you today,” Hot Rod says as he tries to ease Megs past Mixmaster, though squeezing the two large mechs through the small space is a fight against geometry.

Mixmaster huffs. “You’re not, but Hook’s been complaining and you know how that is.” He finally looks up, peering at Megs over Hot Rod’s shoulder. “This your new pet, hm?”

“He’s not a pet.” Hot Rod rolls his optics. “Don’t you have chemicals to mix?”

Mixmaster yanks out a drawer, removing a stirring rod. “Come back when Hook’s done with you. I’ll need your hands.”

“Sure,” Hot Rod says, and pushes Megs out the door, letting it slide shut behind him before Mixmaster decides he’d rather fight Hook later and claim Hot Rod now.

Sheesh. They really need more than one assistant. Hot Rod can’t be everywhere at once.

“He’s charming,” Megs says as Hot Rod guides him down the hall, toward the front of the clinic where the patient area and Hook will be found.

Hot Rod snorts. “You get used to it. They’re all a bunch of strong personalities. Mix just doesn’t have any patience for anything but his chemicals.” He adds a quiet chuckle. “If you’re not a bottle of acid, he barely notices you’re there.”

“I shall keep that in mind.”

Hook’s in his office, which Hot Rod discovers as he walks by and hears his sometimes-boss bark his designation. He freezes and backtracks, poking his head to see Hook glaring back at him, gaze shifting from Hot Rod to Megs to back again.

“Did you break him already?” Hook asks.

“Hot Rod has been taking excellent care of me,” Megs says before Hot Rod can get out an angry word of protest.

His face warms as he looks up at Megs, shoulders squared, indignation in his field, on Hot Rod’s behalf no less. Hot Rod would hug him in this moment, for that alone, if they didn’t have an audience. That and he’s not sure Megs would welcome such physical contact.

“Has he now?” Hook asks, tone dry. He rises and circles around his desk. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I brought him here because I found a fuel pump for him,” Hot Rod says loudly, pushing the wrapped part in Hook’s face. “I figured if you’re not otherwise occupied, you can install it while I work.”

Hook takes the part, and his mouth twists into a frown. “This is not salvaged. This is brand new.”

“So?”

“It was a gift,” Megs says before Hot Rod can tell him that maybe they shouldn’t explain that they don’t know where it came from. “But from whom, I cannot say. The sender is anonymous.”

“Is it now.” Hook’s tone is flat, not inquisitive, but disapproving. “How fortunate for you then.” He tucks the fuel pump under his arm. “It just so happens I have time to install this. Come. I’ll get you settled in a room.”

Hot Rod goes to follow them, but Hook plants a hand in the middle of his chassis. “You stay. We need to talk.”

“Seriously?”

Hook’s expression, however, is not one to be disobeyed, so Hot Rod ex-vents noisily and drops down into the creaky chair. He idly spins himself while he waits, making the rusty hinges squeak and squeak, both things he knows Hook hates. He’s on his fourth rotation when the motion abruptly stops, and Hot Rod’s feet skid across the floor.

“If you break that chair, I will be most displeased,” Scrapper says as he stands behind Hot Rod, looming in the doorway, one massive hand easily stopping the chair despite Hot Rod’s efforts. Why are they all so damn large? It’s categorically unfair.

“I think this chair would survive a bomb,” Hot Rod grumbles, but he makes himself sit still anyway, craning his neck to look up at the eldest of the brothers. He doesn't interact with Scrapper much because Scrapper is usually gone from the clinic, off making arrangements that are none of Hot Rod’s business.

Hook’s words exactly.

Scrapper does not laugh, and the weight of his stare pins between Hot Rod’s shoulders. “You need to be careful,” he says, and his dour tone makes Hot Rod sit up straight. “Enforcers have already come by here asking questions.”

A chill runs down Hot Rod’s spinal strut. He lurches out of the chair. “What? Why?”

“They are looking for someone though they would not specify who. I suspect it is one of the many mechs we have helped at some point.” Scrapper turns and looks down the hallway, staring in the vague direction of the front door. “They did not stay long. Long Haul and I are effective deterrents, but that they are asking questions at all is cause for concern.”

The Enforcers have never bothered the clinic before. Of all the mechs in Nyon to harass, there’s been an unspoken warning attached to the clinic. Hook and his brothers are large and intimidating, and Enforcers tend to look for easy prey to harass.

“So they weren’t looking for me specifically?” Hot Rod asks.

“No, but that doesn't mean you shouldn’t be careful.” Scrapper’s attention returns to him, and Hot Rod kind of wishes it wouldn’t. Scrapper intimidates him in a way none of his brothers do. “You’re easier to disappear than we are.”

Hot Rod frowns. “Maybe, but I can’t see why anyone would bother. I’m a nobody.”

“Everyone’s nobody until the Senate decides to make a point.” Scrapper sighs, a great rattling vent. “You’re one of us, kid. And none of us want to deal with Hook if anything happens to you.”

Scrapper pushes off the door frame, and he’s gone before Hot Rod can start to form a question for clarification. He doesn’t much enjoy being chastised like he’s one of Scrapper’s brothers, though part of him appreciates the sentiment. It’s nice to know they care, he supposes.

Hot Rod drops back into the chair and wheels himself back toward Hook’s desk with a squeak-squeak of a pivot needing oil just in time for Hook to return, grumbling subvocally.

“You can’t be done with the surgery already,” Hot Rod says.

“No, I’m not,” Hook says, tone sour. “What kind of half-rate medic do you think I am? He’s settling into stasis while we have a talk.”

“Great.” Hot Rod groans and sags lower, causing the springs to shriek in protest. “I’ve already got one lecture from Scrapper. Now I get one from you, too?”

Hook’s visor flashes. “Scrapper was here?” He hustles back to the door, peering into the hall. “That aft. He didn’t greet me.”

“Probably because he had a lot to say to me.” Hot Rod props his chin on his hand. “Let me guess, you want to talk because you want to warn me about the Enforcers.”

Hook returns and gives Hot Rod something of a sharp look. “Sounds like Scrapper covered that. I’m more concerned about your stray.” He leans a hip against the desk, staring down at Hot Rod like he’s getting ready to settle into a lecture. “A brand new part mysteriously shows up on your doorstep. Enforcer presence has tripled since you pulled him out of the scrapheap. And his memory is conveniently gone.”

“So?” Hot Rod asks.

“I think you’re in over your head with this one. It’s time you two parted ways,” Hook says, and he must’ve borrowed Scrapper’s tone, because it’s starting to sound like an order. “He’s healthy. He can take care of himself now. He doesn’t need a nanny-bot.”

Hot Rod’s shaking his head before Hook finishes his little speech. “I’m not throwing Megs out because of a little weirdness. And especially not if the Senate’s actually after him.”

He’s seen one too many friends and acquaintances vanish to just wash his hands of Megs and toss him away. Hot Rod’s not been in a position to help anyone he’s seen harassed by the Senate, and he hadn’t been there for Slinger. He still doesn’t know if Slinger left by choice, or if the Senate took him.

He’s not going to fail another friend.

“You’ve known him for a month. There’s no reason for you to protect him.” Hook huffs, gears audibly grinding in his chassis. “This isn’t a game, Hot Rod. Do you think any of us want to pick your frame out of that scrapheap next?”

Hot Rod crosses his arms, setting his jaw. “If I survive it, being an Empurate is hardly the worst thing. Besides, Megs is my friend, and I’m not going to abandon him to save my own plating. I’m better than that.”

“More foolish, you mean,” Hook scoffs. “What makes you think if your positions were reversed, he’d stick his neck out for you?”

Hot Rod’s face warms, and he drops his gaze. “That’s not the point,” he argues. “Besides, it’s not like I’m not getting anything out of it. He’s teaching me to read, Hook. That’s worth the risk.”

“Right.” Hook drags out the syllables, a puerile tone for a mech who should know better. “It’s not at all because you’ve already gotten attached.”

Hot Rod says nothing, because admitting that he likes having someone to come home to, that he likes having someone else in the apartment, only proves Hook’s point. Hot Rod’s a social mech. He always has been. He misses Slinger. He misses having mechs around him he can trust. He misses the comfort of another field pressing against his.

And so far, Megs has given him no reason to doubt.

Hook sighs and rubs his forehead. “Fine. I’ll take care of your stray. Come get him when you finish your shift.” He pushes off the desk and sweeps past Hot Rod. “And next time, call me for a home visit. Don’t bring him here anymore. It’s too risky.”

“Yes, sir,” Hot Rod says. He nearly fires off a salute, but Hook would see it for the immature gesture he means.

Hook snorts, and then he’s gone, leaving Hot Rod alone in his office.

Hot Rod his hands over his face, sunk so low in the chair his neck is at an awkward angle. There’s an ache building in his temples, and he has a day of digging through the scrapheap still ahead of him. And he’d better get a move on if the list pinging his comm is any indication.

My but Hook’s in a mood.

Hot Rod leverages himself out of the chair and slips out of Hook’s office, closing the door behind him. It’s back out the side door for him, and a few more alleys to the Heap.

It’s immediately apparent that something is different when he arrives. The Senate’s goons don’t usually bother to hang around the trash, but there are a few Enforcers at the main gate, critically eyeing each mech who passes through. One of them is making notations on a datapad.

Hot Rod keeps his head down and acts like he belongs, dragging his collection trolley behind him. He flashes his Scrounger badge at the gate like everyone else and trudges inside. He feels the stare of the Enforcers on his shoulders, but they don’t stop him, so he vents relief as he hangs a sharp left and heads for the more recent deposits.

Hook’s shopping list hovers in his HUD as Hot Rod starts to walk up and down the aisles, first getting the lay of the land, whilst avoiding the other scroungers trying earn a living. He runs into Scavenger two piles over, nearly tripping on the mech’s scoop tail.

“Hey, Roddy!” Scavenger beams at him before going back to his armful of assorted parts. “We’ve got a good dump today.”

“Great. Maybe I can actually find some of this stuff for Hook so he’ll stop muttering at me,” Hot Rod says, and Scavenger chuckles at him.

“Don’t worry. He’s got a soft spot for you.”

Hot Rod snorts and crouches at the base of the nearest pile, pulling away a scrap of twisted metal that might have once been a piece of flooring or cheap roofing. “Say Scav?”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t happen to leave a box of stuff outside my apartment last night, did you? Stuff about, you know, that mech in Tarn?”

Scavenger gives him a startled look, and makes a very pointed scan of their proximity. They are reasonably alone, however, and the noise and clatter of mechs digging through the scrap provides them a bit of auditory cover.

“No. I gave you everything I had,” Scavenger says, his voice hushed. “Why?”

Hot Rod feigns nonchalance as he tilts the slab of twisted metal aside and drags out a few chunks of tubing that might be worthy of refurbishment. “Someone dropped off a box and it had everything Megs needs to recover properly plus a datatrax of collected articles.”

Scavenger leans in toward Hot Rod, his field sober, and his arms full of twisted wire. “Roddy, listen to me, okay? You need to be careful.”

“Hook and Scrapper have already told me that,” Hot Rod huffs.

“And I’m saying it, too.” Scavenger pokes him in the forehead. “You don’t know who Megs is, but someone does, if they’re leaving you gifts for him. Whoever he used to be might put you in a danger you can’t prepare for. Got it?”

Hot Rod twists his jaw. “I’m always careful.”

“Well, triple whatever you usually use as a standard for caution then,” Scavenger says, and his scoop-tail swishes again, knocking over an old, rusted streetlamp. “I know how stubborn you are, so I know you’re not going to kick Megs out. Just be careful.”

Hot Rod gives up on his current stack of junk, only because he’s not interested in yet another lecture. Honestly, they weren’t this annoying about Hot Rod’s previous rescuees.

“I will,” Hot Rod says, and taps his own head. “Got a list for Hook to finish, so I’m going to get on that. See you later, Scav.”

Scavenger squints at him, but waves Hot Rod off anyway. “Call me if you need me.”

“Always.”

Hot Rod takes his wagon and moves on, far enough away he can dig without being disturbed. He’s got a whole shift to kill while he waits for Hook to let him know Megs is ready to come home, and besides, he really ought to do some work. Hook is repairing Megs in exchange for Hot Rod doing his job.

Thank Primus he’d had the foresight to bring one of those datapads with him. It means he won’t expire from boredom.

He isn’t sure what to expect when he plugs it in to play internally, but a newscast definitely wasn’t on the list. It’s from out of Tarn, too, which Hot Rod never bothers to pay attention to. Tarn might as well be a whole galaxy away for all that it effects Hot Rod’s life.

The top story?

The sudden silence from Megatron of Tarn as tensions continue to rise in Tarn, Kaon, and Uraya. Layoffs from multiple companies, energon shortages, and increased legislation regarding alt-mode compliance have caused an uproar among the working class, and while this is usually an optimal situation for Megatron to stoke the flames of rebellion, he’s been unusually silent. Those in political power call him a coward, eager to send others to fight while he speaks from the shadows and vanishes when it becomes too dangerous.

Megatron’s supporters claim otherwise, that he must have been disposed of, like so many vocal opponents to the current leadership and state of affairs in Cybertron. Like Pious Maximus before him.

Hot Rod remembers Pious Maximus. The mech had been a rising star for the working class in Polyhex, a loud detractor of functionism, who argued long and hard against the caste system which kept so many on Cybertron from embracing their true potential. He believed in the Knights of Cybertron, too, which is the reason Hot Rod remembers him.

Sure most mechs think the Knights are a myth, but Hot Rod spent a lot of his formative years dreaming about becoming one of them, maybe finding the Knights, bringing them back to Cybertron, and ushering in an era of peace and prosperity. Stories of the Knights used to be all that kept him going, until he met Hook and the others and found a purpose in Nyon.

Pious Maximus disappeared decades ago, under mysterious circumstances, and right after releasing a statement renouncing his belief in the Knights of Cybertron, and offering his full-fledged support to the glory of the caste system. Everyone knows it’s a bunch of slag, but no one’s heard from Pious since, making it hard to prove their theories.

The only difference between Pious Maximus vanishing and Megatron is that Megatron hasn’t offered parting words of support to the Senate.

The vidcast shifts to a speech by a Senator out of Nova Cronum. Gross. Hot Rod almost switches it off, until the voice that comes through strikes him as distinctly un-senate like. It’s bright and earnest, too excited to belong to an amoralistic politician.

“I hear you, my fellow Cybertronians,” this Senator Shockwave pontificates. “I understand the weight of the burdens you carry. I know your plight. The conditions are abhorrent, the restrictions even more so. Every day you labor without proper shelter, without proper care, struggling to earn even the basic necessities. You deserve a better functioning, a better life.”

On and on he goes, full of promises and hope. As much as Hot Rod wants to believe it, he doesn’t. Even if Shockwave is genuine in his concern, the rest of the Senate will trample him down. He’s full of empty promises, and Hot Rod doesn’t have room for empty promises.

Still.

Hot Rod listens.

He’s got a feeling things that happen in other city-states are about to become a lot more fragging relevant.

~

Megs onlines to the heat of Hook’s stare, searing into him despite the mech’s visor.

Hook looms over him, arms crossed over his chassis, and his shoulders set. His field is empty of emotion, which does not reassure Megs.

Briefly, Megs performs a systems check and is relieved to find green across the board. Secondarily, he checks for restraints or threats to his person.

He finds neither.

“Have I done something to offend you?” Megs asks, though he suspects it is his very existence that is offensive, and not his behavior. Unless, of course, Hook remembers something of a past that is nothing but a dark shadow to Megs.

“So long as you understand how very lucky you are, and how easy it will be to tear you apart should Hot Rod come to any harm, then no. Not at all,” Hook says, his tone without inflection, his stare unending.

Right.

Megs had suspected as much.

“It is not my intention to bring him harm,” Megs says. “But I can’t protect him from what I don’t know.”

“And it’s what you don’t know that worries us.” Hook’s field rises at last, threat implicit in the heavy pulse of it. “If whoever you were brings danger to Hot Rod, you will wish you hadn’t survived Empurata.”

A shiver claws down Megs’ spine. “Noted.”

Hook nods once, sharply, and straightens. “Rest here until Hot Rod comes back. There’s energon on the table there. Consume it all, and don’t do anything strenuous for the next twenty-four hours.”

Megs tilts his head. “Thank you.”

Hook snorts and leaves Megs in peace, pushing the door shut and apparently locking behind him. Whether because he’s worried about his own safety or Megs’, it’s hard to tell. He’d been honest about the energon at least. It’s next to Megs, a sealed pouch as appealing as packet of milrats.

He misses energon. He can’t remember much, but he swears he can recall the taste of it, the fuzz of the occasional sip of engex over his glossa, the crackle of a rare rust stick, or the sticky, crumbling mass of an oil cake.

He won’t be able to experience those things again.

Megs supposes he should be grateful he survived. He sits back, intake line automatically siphoning the energon into his frame, and pokes at the dark mass of forgotten memories at the corner of his mind. It radiates an unwelcome cold, strikes back with a jagged lance of pain, and Megs draws in a hissed vent.

No memories for him then.

He should not be so surprised. He does not fault Hook for his suspicions. Hot Rod might have brushed off the oddity of a box of items perfectly suited for Megs’ use randomly appearing on the doorstep, but Megs has not. Someone knows him, his original self, and that someone has an interest in his well-being.

A normal friend would simply re-introduce themself. There would be no reason for subterfuge.

What kind of individual would rely on such clandestine behavior? Why put effort into helping Megs from the shadows? Who had he been?

The questions chase each other at the back of Megs’ processor, only occasionally interrupted by waves of discomfort from his abdomen. Hook had a skilled touch, but not so much of a tender one, and he had not been generous with the pain patches. There is an ache in his midsection, worsened by venting too deeply or moving too suddenly.

So it is with a sharp hiss that Megs flinches when the door to his recovery room bursts open, and Hot Rod strides inside with all the energy of an acidstorm.

“Ready to go home?” Hot Rod asks, tone bright, his spoiler twitching up and down behind him in a manner that had no right to be as adorable as it was.

Megs’ optic flickers as he registers what Hot Rod had said.

Home.

“I am,” Megs says, rather than asking the obvious. He slides from the medberth, tucking his half-finished energon pouch into a compartment, pleased when he doesn’t fumble said pouch. “You are done for the day?”

Hot Rod gives him a thumbs up and a blinding grin. “Finished all of Hook’s shopping list and everything so he can’t complain.”

“He complains often?” Megs asks as he follows Hot Rod out of the small room, down a narrow hallway, and back toward the entrance they had used earlier in the day. Apparently, there remains a need for greater caution.

Hot Rod’s smile turns crooked. “I don’t think Hook’s happy unless he’s complaining about something.” He offers Megs a wink, pats him on the forearm, and throws a thumb to the doorway. “Stick close, all right? We’re gonna have to be stealthy again.”

“Is there a threat that should concern me?”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Hot Rod says, which is less reassuring than he thinks it is.

Nonetheless, Megs does as Hot Rod requests, and they retrace their steps, quietly taking the back alleys, the shortcuts through the backrooms of business where Hot Rod has apparently charmed the proprietors, and avoiding the main thoroughfares whenever possible. Even without Hook’s warning, Megs thinks he would have done his best to keep Hot Rod safe. Such a generous spark deserves to be protected.

They make it back ‘home’ without issue, and Hot Rod plants Megs down at their shared table, bustling around to gather an allotment of energon for himself. He shoves another at Megs, who tries to wave his half-finished one in protest, but Hot Rod’s set jaw doesn’t take refusal for an answer.

“Besides,” Hot Rod says as he pulls out a rickety chair and drags it closer to Megs, near enough their armor touches, “If you’re going to help me read this, you’re going to need your strength.”

This being the datapad which clatters to the table between them.

“Am I now?” Megatron asks with a chuckle, but he powers on the datapad and glances over it.

The datapad defaults to a long document entitled “Toward Peace” which makes an odd sensation tug in Megs’ tank, and lurch through his spark. It feels familiar, like he’s read it before.

“Yep!” Hot Rod leans into Megs’ space, peering at the datapad. “I’m probably going to need a lot of help. I don’t recognize most of these words.”

“Try,” Megs says. “I’ll help when you need it.”

Hot Rod sighs, but his field is playful as he tucks his chin on Megs’ shoulder and sits just like that, pressed to Megs’ side, leaning over him in order to read.

Megs’ spark skips several cycles, and it has nothing to do with the day’s exertions or his recent surgery. It has everything to do with the way Hot Rod casually leans into his space, their energy fields gently entwined. How Megs looks into the mirror and sees a stranger, a malformed one at that, but it doesn’t seem to bother Hot Rod at all.

“Toward Peace,” Hot Rod starts to read, and Megs follows along with him, nudging Hot Rod toward proper pronunciations when necessary, and defining words as needed.

“In a society built around a grand Cybertronian taxonomy that is obsessively revised and reinterpreted, the one thing that never changes – the one thing that must never change – is the system itself.”

Megs shifts, and Hot Rod shifts with him, but the younger mech doesn’t stop reading. The words continue to pour into Megs’ audials as quickly as he plucks them off the datapad, an echoing familiarity in the construction of them.

“If you could step outside the system you would recognize it for what it is: a promise. Worse than that, it is a prison full of willing prisoners. And not only are you a prisoner within the system, you are a prisoner within your own body.”

He can relate, of course, being stuck inside this frame he doesn’t recognize on a deeper level than mere memory. Awkward with his clawed hands, faceless with a single optic, scarred and damaged, and lacking all sense of self with the shadow in his memory core.

There is more to it than that, however.

There is a heat building around Megs’ spark, squeezing and squeezing. There is a sense of knowing, right there, out of reach, and his pronged hands are incapable of grasping it. Static flickers through his audials.

“In denying you the ability to reject your alt mode - in preventing you from pursuing a path of your own choosing -- both the Senate and the Council say they are acting in your best interests.”

Megs knows these words. He’s read them before. He must have, for them to echo with such familiarity. He knows the ache of them, the pain of them, the carefully constructed nature of each line, each thought.

“Division is another means by which they can control the population. The more walls you can put up between people, the easier it is to contain them, and the stronger the structural integrity of the system.”

Megs’ fans kick on with a tiny whir. He’s hot all over, static sparking under his armor, his spark too large for his chassis. The dark mass of unknowing throbs in the corner of his memory, thick tendrils of potential reaching out in a promise he’s suddenly terrified to acknowledge. There’s a buzz in his audials, growing louder and louder with each word.

”I say enough. Reject your work. Reject your alt mode. Resist the system. And your “betters”? You have none. We are all equal. And we have a right to decide how to live our lives.”

The stool shouts out from under Megs, and he’s standing before he realizes he made the conscious decision to do so. He stumbles away from the table, away from Hot Rod, the urge to run carrying him toward the door where he fumbles at the panel, claws skittering uselessly over the physical latch. He’s shaking, armor clattering, spark swelling so large he thinks it might choke his vents, his vision wavering with static bursts.

He can’t get the door open. He shouldn’t get the door open. There’s a danger he’s ill-equipped to handle beyond the door. He stops prodding at the latch. His claws dangle at his sides, click-click-clicking uselessly because they took his hands. They took his hands, and they took his face, and they took his self.

The dark, seething mass of before pulses and flares, blinding in the darkness and Megs knows those words. He knows them with a certainty he didn’t have before.

“Megs?”

Hot Rod touches his arm, worry sharp and bright against Megs, the warmth of him battling fiercely against the cold-shock of terror.

He has to cycle his vocalizer twice to get it to engage, to speak loud enough to be heard over the trembling rattle of his armor.

“I used to live in Tarn,” Megs says, knowing this without knowing how, as the black mass weakens and greys, cracks showing through the dark. “I was a miner. I had friends. I know I had friends. I can see him. I can’t remember his name, but he was there. He...”

His head aches.

Megs shutters his optic, dragging in a ragged vent.

“The day the Enforcers came, he was there. He tried to stop them, and they must have taken him, too. He put himself in harm’s way for me, and I can’t remember his name.”

Emotion crackles up and down his spinal strut. His claws go click-click-click because he can’t clench them like he wants, can’t form a fist to punch, can only wave these useless appendages around. The anger broils up, at himself, at the Senate. He’s been punished for a crime he can’t remember committing.

“It’ll come back,” Hot Rod says, oh so gentle, and his kindness manages to both soothe the raw ache within Megs and fill him with shame.

He had a friend he can’t remember, who must be suffering for their friendship, and Megs has now put this gentle spark into the same position. Megs does not know what he did, only that the Senate felt he must be punished for it, and likely, anyone associated with him as well. His very existence is a threat.

Megs looks at the door, and the terrifying world beyond it. “I have now put you in the same danger,” he says. Hook’s warning echoes at the back of his mind, wrapping around the grey block of memories, taunting him with their knowledge. “I must go.”

“No.” Hot Rod’s hand on his arm is firm, the press of his field one of comfort and stubbornness. “If you want to leave because you want to be on your own and you don’t want to be around me anymore, that’s one thing. But don’t you dare tell me you’re leaving for my own good.”

Megs looks down at Hot Rod, and the mech’s jaw is set, his face etched with determination as he returns the gaze. “I am no one,” he says. “Why would you risk yourself for me?”

“You are Megs, and you are my friend. That means you’re someone,” Hot Rod says, and his hands curl around Megs’ forearm, tugging him away from the door. “If I didn’t like you here, you’d already be gone. It’s my choice.”

Megs lets himself be guided. “I am dangerous.”

“Life is dangerous,” Hot Rod says. “The Senate is dangerous. It only takes one Enforcer to think I didn’t bow low enough to decide I need to suffer.” His grip tightens around Megs’ arm, insistent and warm. “If I’m going to get hurt, I want it to be doing the right thing, not for existing.”

Megs wants to argue. He imagines a world where the Senate drags away this bright spark and ruins everything wonderful about him. He also imagines arguing otherwise. Taking the choice away from Hot Rod, would be a terrible way to repay everything Hot Rod has done for him.

“You may not feel the same way when I remember who I am,” Megs says instead. “You’re making a decision without all of the necessary information.”

“I know who you are,” Hot Rod points out. He pulls Megs past the table, to the room he’s loaned to Megs. “Right now, I know who you are, and that’s all the information I need.”

He is naive. The word dangles on the edge of Megs’ vocalizer, but he holds it back, because it feels an insult. He knows better. Hot Rod is not naive. Hot Rod knows how the world works, but he stubbornly clings to his optimism anyway.

“I like you here. I like having a roommate. I like learning how to read. That’s my dataset.” Hot Rod pushes Megs toward his berth before going to the shelf and pulling one of the mindless fictional tales from it. “So let’s switch to one of these stupid romance datanovels because that other thing is giving you bad ideas.”

Megs sits on the berth because he doesn’t know what else to do, his thoughts too rattled and his frame too shaky to do anything but let Hot Rod dictate their current actions. It will be smarter to lie, he thinks. Better for Hot Rod’s safety. Tell him Megs wants to leave because this is dissatisfactory to him.

And yet.

He can’t bring himself to do it. He is so selfish he lets Hot Rod push him further up onto the narrow berth, lets Hot Rod plant himself next to Megs, and thumb open the datanovel he’d selected. He’s tucked up next to Megs, squirming until he gets comfortable, pushing and prodding, until they are more or less cuddled on this berth, and Megs’ thoughts swirl and clatter against each other.

“This...” Words fail him, and Megs makes a helpless bleat of a noise, gesturing with his claw as though it will explain what his useless vocalizer can’t manage.

“I’ll go if you’re uncomfortable,” Hot Rod says, and there’s determination in the way he stares at the datapad, the faintest hint of embarrassment and longing in his field. “But if it’s okay with you, I’d like to stay. I miss sharing a berth with other mechs. Ever since Slinger vanished...”

He trails off. The sadness in his field tugs at the raw soreness of Megs’ spark. He curls an arm around Hot Rod’s shoulder, tugs him in, before he can convince himself it is a bad idea.

It’s a good one, however, because Hot Rod immediately melts against him, armor softening out of the defensive clamp, field going warm and fuzzy.

“I do not mind,” Megs says.

“Good.” Hot Rod gives him a smile, both shy and relieved. He looks at the datapad and says aloud, “The Tempestuous Tyrant. Oh, Primus. This is going to be terrible.”

“But entertaining, I hope,” Megs says.

“We can make fun of it together.” Hot Rod raps his fingers on the screen before he starts to read aloud, the steady cadence of his voice as comfortable to Megs as the warmth of his field, and the quiet purr of his engine vibrating against Megs’ frame.

Here it is cozy and warm, tucked away from whatever danger awaits them in the streets of Nyon. Megs takes the memory of the Enforcers hauling him away, of the sharp fear in the voice of a friend whose name he can’t remember, and he pushes them aside.

He concentrates instead on the sound of Hot Rod’s voice, the warmth of Hot Rod’s field, and a sensation of contentment that he savors, but also feels weirdly odd. As if he is someone who has never in his functioning, felt either content or safe. Yet, he’s managing to tiptoe around both while squeezed into a tiny berth next to Hot Rod.

It should be a mystery, but it is not.

Megs is comfortable here. With Hot Rod. Comfortable enough to drift into recharge while Hot Rod reads aloud about the terrible, yet romantic Tempestuous Tyrant.

***