[TF] Anamnesis - 04

[dracoqueen22]

Anamnesis
Chapter Four

Hot Rod onlines and for a moment, doesn’t remember where he is. There’s another frame in his berth, a much larger frame, which is weird because he doesn’t remember bringing someone home with him, or going out to find a date for that matter. He’s drooling on the chassis of said frame, of which he’s sprawled atop, with a heavy arm draped along his waist, keeping him in place.

A familiar field touches his own, warmly content, and his short term memory core realizes it has a job to do. Memories trickle to the forefront, and it takes all Hot Rod has to quiet his groan of embarrassment.

He can’t believe he’d been that forward. He can’t believe he’d invited himself into Megs’ berth, and then didn’t have the decency to leave. He can’t believe Megs didn’t kick him out.

Worst of all, he can’t believe he’s not more ashamed of himself.

He’s comfortable, more comfortable than he’s been in years. He half-shutters his optics and listens to Megs’ vents snuffle, the quiet ticks and clicks of his recharging frame. It’s more adorable than it has any right to be. He radiates heat, and each little puff reminds Hot Rod he’s not alone.

There’s trust in it, too. A mech’s gotta have a certain amount of trust to recharge with another person, and while Hot Rod has already decided he’s going to trust Megs, he’s giddy with delight that Megs has decided to trust him, too.

It wouldn’t be bad, to wake up like this everyday. To come home to this. To snuggle into Megs, tangling their fields, sharing heat, finishing a stupid romance datanovel together. To...

Slag.

Realization hits Hot Rod like a smack to the face because damn it, Hook warned him, and he’s gone and done it anyway. He’s gotten attached to Megs. He wants Megs to stick around. He doesn’t want anything to happen to Megs.

He doesn’t want Megs to leave.

It doesn’t seem like Megs is interested in leaving, except for the part where he thinks he ought to in order to protect Hot Rod, but other than that, he hasn’t made any noise about wanting to leave. Hot Rod knows better than to assume though. He’d assumed Slinger was happy, and then Slinger vanished, and he still doesn’t know if it was by choice.

Hot Rod needs to ask.

Megs needs to know he can stay as long as he wants to, that the room is his for as long as he wants to keep it, possibly forever if Hot Rod has his way. Megs used to be a miner, so Hot Rod is reasonably sure he can find Megs a post in the mines. Or, you know, he could be a Scrounger like Hot Rod, or any number of odd jobs there are to do around Nyon. Barring that, Hot Rod can take care of him.

It’s just nice to have company again. That’s all.

Right.

He should probably get up and fuel them before he has to leave for work. There’s only so much time he can waste in the day, no matter how much he’d like to lay here and cuddle Megs.

Hot Rod shifts, trying to ease out of the berth without waking Megs in the process, but the arm around his waist tightens, and a noise of protest emerges from Megs’ vocalizer. Damn, if it’s not the cutest thing because Megs hasn’t even onlined, but he wants to keep Hot Rod close. Hot Rod would stay, too, if he didn’t have to go to work.

He’d taken a shift in the mines today, and that’s not really something Hot Rod can walk away from. He doesn’t do it often, because he’s not built for it, but the miners like him. He’s small and makes a good fetch-mech, even if he’s not great at the rest of it.

Hot Rod sighs and reluctantly wriggles free of Megs’ embrace in careful increments, lifting the arm and sliding out from beneath it. He slips off the berth, managing not to stumble around and make a racket, all without waking up Megs.

There’s another unconscious noise from his berthpartner as Hot Rod carefully tucks Megs’ arm into a comfortable position, and Hot Rod smiles, endeared.

“You need your rest,” he murmurs as he leans over and presses a kiss to the crown of Megs’ head, only to freeze when he realizes what he’s done.

Where the Pit had that come from?

Hot Rod flinches back, managing not to trip on himself, his spark pounding in his chassis. Why did he do that? He hadn’t even made the conscious decision to do it. There’d been a great swell of affection rising in his spark, and the rest had seemed so natural.

Oh, Primus.

It’s more than attachment, isn’t it?

Hot Rod spins on a heelstrut and flees the room as quietly as possible. Megs, thank Primus, doesn’t stir for as long as it takes Hot Rod to grab some energon, and leave a pouch on the counter for Megs. He’s reasonably sure Megs can entertain himself.

Meanwhile, Hot Rod has to go to work and put his head on straight, and figure out what the frag is going on with his spark before he can think about having any kind of rational conversation with Megs. He can’t very well ask Megs what he wants to do if Hot Rod himself doesn’t know what he wants either. He can’t pretend he’s not feeling this bubble of affection and want in his spark. It’s there now. He can’t ignore it.

He’s just gotta figure out what to do about it.

Only not here.

It’s not running away, Hot Rod tells himself firmly. It’s a tactical retreat.

~

It’s the chill that makes Megs stir from the most restful recharge without medical intervention he’s had since he can remember. Granted, he can’t remember much, but it’s still telling.

Hot Rod has gone, and judging by his chronometer, probably not for long. Megs knows better than to take it personally. The younger mech has far too many jobs, and no doubt he’s gone to one of them.

The berth is colder without him, and though it is sized for an individual mech of Megs’ size, it feels far too large as well. If he could rest every evening with Hot Rod beside him, Megs will consider himself a lucky mech.

Hot Rod is charming and beautiful and kind and far, far more than Megs deserves. He may not know much about his past, but the hints are enough to suggest he is not worthy of Hot Rod’s affections. As much as he wishes he could earn them, he is realistic. He has nothing to offer Hot Rod, not even himself.

Megs sighs and slides out of the berth. He isn’t surprised to find their shared apartment otherwise empty, though Hot Rod had been kind enough to leave out a pouch of energon for him. Megs could have retrieved one himself, but he appreciates the gesture.

He is in the midst of connecting his intake line when a sharp prickle crawls up his backstrut. He can’t explain it, save that he has the distinct feeling he’s no longer alone. Hot Rod would have simply announced himself. Someone with ill intent would have struck already, probably while he was recharging.

He turns, not sure what he will find, and absolutely not expecting to see the small, feline mech sitting in the doorway to his hab. The felinoid’s head is cocked to the side, his optics giving away nothing, though his posture does not suggest threat.

“Good morning,” Megs says.

There is a sound, perhaps a laugh, before the feline rises to his feet and approaches Megs, slow and assessing. He produces a datapad from nowhere, and this he sets on the table near Megs’ right claw, every motion careful and deliberate.

“If you want to remember who you are, I’d start here,” he says as he sits on his haunches once more and looks up at Megs.

“An introduction wouldn’t be out of order.” Megs glances at the datapad. Curiosity overwhelms him, but he tries not to let it show. He leaves the datapad where it is.

Another intake-heavy laugh rises from the feline. “You would not know me, now or then, but you may call me Ravage.” He cocks his head to the side, his clawed feet kneading at the ground. “As it stands, my carrier and I have a vested interest in you.”

“Why?” Megs asks.

“You are important to the future of Cybertron.” There is a certainty in Ravage’s tone, as if Megs’ importance is a foregone conclusion. “But you are useless if you do not remember who you were.”

Megs stares at him. “I’m a miner. An educated one, granted, but no more, no less.”

“You are more than your occupation. You are more than your frame.” Ravage lifts his head, staring pointedly at the datapad near Megs’ claw. “Read that. Remember. And when you do, we’ll be there.”

Megs glances at it once more before slowly lifting it from the table. The screen flickers on from the motion, the table of contents comes into view. It lists a torrent of documentation on all manner of topics, specifically relevant to Tarn. What it doesn’t have is an outright statement of who he is.

“This doesn’t tell me who I am,” Megs says.

There’s no reply.

Megs looks up, and Ravage is gone. A small box now lies in the space Ravage had occupied, but of the felinoid, there is no sign.

Megs turns in a slow circle, but not only had he not heard Ravage leave, he’d not sensed the cassette in motion either. Ravage had simply been here one moment, and gone the next. He’s not in either of the two habs. The front door is still locked.

He opens the box and finds more of the same supplements that had been left earlier in the week, perfectly suited to helping him recover.

Well.

That at least answers that.

Megs vents quietly and sits, energon to his right, datapad to his left. He hasn’t touched any of the other materials from the first gift, and he thinks perhaps he ought to do so. This datapad, however, is in front of him right now.

He cycles a ventilation. If Ravage had wanted to do him harm, he had more than enough chances, Megs reasons. Therefore, there should be nothing to fear from this datapad.

He starts to read.

There’s an encyclopedic article on the history, culture, economics, and background of the city-state of Tarn. Another chapter is devoted to the importance of the mines and how vital they are to the economy and well-being of Cybertron. It’s more fascinating than it has any right to be.

The entry after that, however, is a collection of profiles on individuals. Perhaps Megs is among them, he can’t say for certain either way, save that none of the faces and stories sound like his own. But that doesn’t make them unfamiliar.

There’s one face in particular, one frame that sends a sharp stab of knowing through his processor. He recognizes the mech from the shadowy memory the dark nothing in the corner of his core had seen fit to offer him. The image in the datapad shows a mech caught in a smirk, shoulders set, haughty and defiant, but Megs still recognizes him as the miner who fought the Enforcers so fiercely when they tried to drag Megs away.

His name is Impactor, and Megs knows without understanding why, that he’d been Megs’ best friend in the before. He’d protected Megs, watched out for him, warned him, but it had all been for naught, when the Senate came.

Pain lances through Megs’ head, sending a fritz of static through his vision. He sucks in a vent, claws trembling, as the seething mass of shadowed memories starts to pulse, thin streams of knowing seeping through cracks.

He was playing with fire, said Impactor. Mechs don’t like to be criticized, warned Impactor. We’re supposed to know our place, growled Impactor.

Lightning-sharp agony stabs through Megs’ processor, and the datapad clatters from nerveless claws. Megs groans, long and low, sensory feeds wobbling. A loud clatter of voices spills from the pulsing black of his memories. Images flash through his inner cortex – faces and locations and hab-suites and smiles and tunnels and sneers.

There are too many. It’s too much.

His spark writhes in his chassis, and there’s a pressure within his cranium, a sensation like a thousand scraplets gnawing on his processor. He wants to claw them out, but his stubby fingers do nothing but scrape uselessly at his helm.

There’s too much. He can’t contain it all.

Megs doesn’t feel himself lose balance. He doesn’t feel himself hit the ground. He dives into the pulsating mass that is before.

The world goes black.

~

Hot Rod is filthy and exhausted and not really ready to have the conversation with Megs he needs to have. But he also knows he can’t put it off any longer. There’d been enough muttering chatter in the mines that a sense of impending danger has clawed itself up Hot Rod’s backstrut and taken residence.

He hadn’t lied. He doesn’t care about whatever doom Megs might bring down on him. Whenever Megs remembers who he is, if he still wants to walk away, Hot Rod will let him. But Hot Rod’s not so much of a coward to toss Megs out on his aft, to the mercy of the Senate and their appalling goons.

So. He’s going to have this conversation like the mature mech he is.

Hot Rod lets himself into the apartment, a small crate of gifted treats tucked under his arm – Bulkhead keeps sending them home with him even when he protests. He’s starting to feel a bit like the mine mascot, honestly.

“Megs?”

Silence greets him.

Hot Rod frowns as he pushes the door shut behind him and flicks the latch to lock it. Unease ripples around his spark as he peers around the ridge of the wall, into the main room. Both berthroom doors are open, the berths empty from his vantage point.

“Megs? You here?”

Hot Rod looks down, and his spark climbs into his intake. Megs’ preferred stool has toppled over, and just beyond it, Megs lies in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Slag.

The box of treats hits the ground with a clatter.

“Megs!”

Hot Rod slides to his knees at Megs’ side, haptic sensors reading heat and the steady thrum of an online mech, which is only marginally reassuring. Megs’ field reaches him, functional but exhausted. Good. Not spark burn-out then, but it could still be any number of terrible ailments. Hook had given him an extensive list of post-surgical complications ages ago.

Hot Rod heaves, shifting Megs onto his back, and leans over him, cupping Megs’ head. “Megs? Can you hear me?”

Megs groans low in his chassis. “Hot Rod?” His optic flickers before it stabilizes with a dim glow.

“Can you sit up?” Hot Rod urges as a wash of fatigue and lingering pain touches him from Megs’ field. “What happened?”

Megs lurches upright, needing Hot Rod’s help after all, his joints creaking in protest. He flexes his claws as if trying to recall how they work. “I remember.”

Hot Rod keeps an arm around Megs’ lower back, the steady thrum of his friend’s spark vibrating against his palm. “Remember what? Everything?”

“Not everything.” Megs’ neck column squeaks as he looks left and right before he leans over and plucks a datapad from the floor – taking two tries to do so. “I am a miner from Tarn. I was sparked there. My best friend is a mech designated Impactor.”

He taps the screen, bringing the datapad back to life, and tilts it toward Hot Rod. There’s a picture of another miner – a mech with a scuffed paint job and a self-important smirk. His employment profile states what mine he’s from, his spark date, everything. All that’s missing is his current location.

“He was there the day I was arrested. He tried to stop them. I don’t know what happened to him in the aftermath.” Megs’ claw trembles. He lowers the datapad back to his lap, cycling a raspy ventilation.

Hot Rod scoops the datapad up with his free hand and taps through the information on Impactor. If Megs had been forced through Empurata, in all likelihood, so has Impactor. There’s no point in saying so to Megs, however.

“I don’t recognize him. I haven’t seen him around Nyon or in the Heap either,” Hot Rod says. “I’ll keep an optic out though. Maybe Hook and his brothers have seen him.”

Megs stares at his claws, twitching them in a steady cadence, his optic spiraling in and out as it struggles to focus. “If he has been spared my fate, I will be much relieved.”

“Yeah, me too.” Hot Rod vents a sharp burst as he gently rubs Megs’ back. “It’s getting bad out there. The Enforcers aren’t even bothering to pretend they aren’t here just to beat up on mechs because they can.” Anger coils bright and volcanic in his tank. “And I’m just like everyone else. All I can do is keep my head down and pretend I don’t see it because they’re bigger, stronger, meaner, and actually armed.”

Megs’ field reaches out, fractured though it is, and Hot Rod leans into the comfort of it. “You sound as though you feel guilty.”

“I do.” Hot Rod shuts off the datapad and sets it on the table. “I’m tired of watching all these bullies get their way. I want to stop them. I want to be like that mech in Tarn, like the hundreds and hundreds of mechs starting to rise up.”

He wants, more than anything, to be like the Knights of Cybertron. Defenders of justice. Brave and honest and true. Fighting for the weak and the helpless, fighting for what’s right.

Hot Rod stands, though he keeps one hand on Megs’ shoulder just in case. “I’m tired of being afraid.”

“You worry about cowardice?” Megs asks, looking up at him.

“Yeah.” Hot Rod gets his arms under Megs’ and braces himself. “Come on. Let’s get you up. The floor is no place for a nap.”

Megs groans, but manages to get his feet beneath him and with Hot Rod’s help, he stands. He wobbles until Hot Rod ducks under his arm, providing a point of stability. His legs quiver, and his fans whir louder. Whatever accessing those memories had done, it had left him as weak as a newspark.

“You continue to offer care despite knowing I am likely going to bring you great danger,” Megs says while he seems to be gathering strength to move. “You are not a coward, Hot Rod. There is no shame in prudence, and there is no shame in knowing your actions will help no one and cause only pain for everyone involved.”

Hot Rod sighs.

“I know,” he says. If only his spark would listen to reason and logic. “I just wish I could do more.”

“What you have done for me is worth more than words can say.” Megs finally gets his feet underneath him, and they make the trek to Megs’ hab, where Hot Rod helps him climb onto the berth.

He shifts to return to the main room and clean up his mess, but Megs’ claw lands on his shoulder, and he pauses.

“If you are not opposed, I would enjoy company in my berth again,” Megs murmurs.

Hot Rod cycles his optics, heat crowding beneath his cheeks. “Sure,” he says. “Let me just go grab some energon, okay? We could probably both use it.”

“Of course. Thank you, Hot Rod.”

“Anytime.”

Hot Rod doesn’t flee, but it’s a near thing. He uses the retrieval as an opportunity to calm himself, chase the heat from his face, remind himself of important conversations that need to be had. Is now the best time though? Megs is still kind of shaky.

He gathers up the treats he’d dropped before grabbing enough energon for both of them. By the time he returns, Hot Rod is steadier and calmer. “How did you get that information on yourself anyway? Was it in that box we got a few days ago?”

“No.” Megs shakes his head. He’s shifted on the berth in Hot Rod’s absence, leaving room for Hot Rod to join him in the narrow space. “There was a feline cassette in the apartment this morning. He gifted it to me. He is also the one who left that box.”

Hot Rod’s orbital ridges draw down. “Who and why?”

“His name was Ravage, but of his carrier, he didn’t say. As for why...” Megs trails off for a moment, staring at the energon pouch Hot Rod hands him. “They claim I am important in a grander scheme to bring equality to Cybertron.”

“Huh.”

That’s definitely something. Hot Rod doesn’t even know where to start in that particular revelation. He figured Megs was important to someone, but this is a bit more than he expected. No wonder the Senate tried to strike him down with Empurata.

“I didn’t know there were any cassettes or carriers in Nyon.” Hot Rod climbs onto the berth beside Megs and fits himself into the open space. “Maybe Hook knows something. Or Long Haul. He’s close to the overseer.”

Megs shifts until he has an arm around Hot Rod’s shoulders, tucking Hot Rod against his side, as if trying to protect him. “I suspect we will find no information on Ravage or his master. He both appeared and disappeared in the apartment without making a sound.”

Damn, but this keeps getting weirder by the day.

Which means Hot Rod can’t put off the conversation any longer. Who knows what else is going to happen? He doesn’t want to be a coward and lose his chance. He cycles a ventilation, braces himself, and dredges courage from the pit of his tank.

“So,” he says, soaking in Megs’ warmth, and the way their fields comfortably tangle together, like they’ve known each other for a lot longer than a few weeks. “Any idea how long you plan to stay or what your plans are for the future?”

Megs hums thoughtfully. “I do not know.” He cocks his head to the side in a manner many Empurates adapt after the mutilation. “Without my memories of the past, it is difficult to decide how to move forward. If I hadn’t had any indication they were returning, I’d dismiss them, but since that’s not the case, I don’t want to make any decisions until I know.”

Hot Rod nods, deeply burying the stab of disappointment. That’s not the answer of a mech who wants to stick around. As soon as Megs figures out who he is, he’ll probably be on his way.

It’s the answer Hot Rod expected.

“That’s logical. Can’t really know how to move forward until you find out what’s dragging you back, right?”

“Yes,” Megs says. “Especially since Ravage and his carrier seem to have made plans for me already.”

Hot Rod hums noncommittally.

He ought to keep his feelings to himself. Is there any point in pursuing a mech who’s going to leave? Who will probably regret Hot Rod as soon as he remembers who he is and what he’s capable of? What if Megs already has a partner out there? Or worse a conjunx who’s desperately missing him?

Megs is here now though. He’s sharing a berth with Hot Rod, sharing intimate space. If he’s brave enough to ask, will it lead to something? Should he take what he can get, damn the future?

They aren’t promised tomorrow. Living in Nyon is too dangerous for that. Pit, the Senate goons could raid residences anytime they want. If they really want to find whoever it is they’re looking for anyway. Hot Rod already privately thinks it’s Megs. He won’t voice his suspicions aloud, but he’s not stupid. It can’t all be a coincidence.

He’s especially not going to mention his suspicions to Hook who’s overprotective, sometimes to a fault. Hook would make Hot Rod evict Megs, and if he refused, Hook would just send his brothers along to do it for him when Hot Rod isn’t looking.

“Hot Rod?”

He shakes himself out of his thoughts and offers Megs a smile. “Sorry, were you saying something?” He sips at his energon to hide his expression.

Megs tucks Hot Rod further into the cradle of his frame. “You went quiet,” he murmurs, his field nudging at Hot Rod’s as if trying to divine the source of his disquiet. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Hot Rod says, but he speaks too quickly. He’s never been a very good liar.

“Have I done something?” Megs shifts, sliding away, returning to what would be a more respectable distance, and Hot Rod immediately regrets the loss. “Do you regret coming to my aid?”

Hot Rod shakes his head. “No, it’s neither of those.” He gnaws on his bottom lip, indecisive for several long, gear-grinding moments. “I’m just stupid. Wanting things I shouldn’t.”

“Like what?”

To the Pit with it. What does he have to lose that he hasn’t lost already?

Hot Rod drags in a heavy vent and looks up at Megs. “Like you.”

Megs’ single optic cycles in and out, his field rippling with confusion. “You don’t know who I am. I don’t even know who I am. Why would you desire a mech like me?”

“I know who you are now, and that’s who I like.” Hot Rod twists to better see Megs’ face, tossing the empty energon cube over his shoulder. “I like the you who is gentle to me and teaches me things and thinks about my safety before your own, and maybe you’re not going to stay, I wouldn’t blame you for leaving, but it would be nice to be with you, even for a little while.”

The words flood out of him before he can stop. Heat curdles beneath his cheeks, his spark beating faster and faster, but the confession spills out too fast to back down.

Megs’ optic dims, his engine settling into a low, rumbling hum. “You are the sweetest, strongest, and bravest spark I currently know,” he murmurs, his claw resting on Hot Rod’s shoulder. “You deserve better.”

“I decide what I deserve.” Hot Rod snatches the nearest claw and draws it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the tip of the primary digit. “I like you. Just as you are.”

Megs makes a noise, and Hot Rod isn’t sure he can interpret it. Wounded and hungry and sad and apologetic all at once. But he doesn’t pull away.

“And so we’re clear, you can say no,” Hot Rod says, because it hits him what kind of position Megs is in right now. “If you don’t like me, I’m a big bot. I can take it. You can still stay here. I like you here as a friend, too, but if you want more, I’d like that, too.”

Clicks echo in Megs’ chassis as he cycles a ventilation, and his claw curls gently into Hot Rod’s hand. “Wanting you is not a problem.” His frame radiates a burst of heat before his cooling fans kick into motion. “But I fear who I used to be, and what I am capable of. I fear hurting you, unconsciously or not, and I don’t know if I can bear that burden.”

Hot Rod’s shoulders sag. He knows a rejection when he hears one. “You’re more logical than my spark, I guess.”

“Only because I do not want to see you come to any harm,” Megs assures him, the tip of his manipulator ever so gentle on the bottom of Hot Rod’s jaw. “Allow me to consider this with the gravity it deserves?”

Wait. Not a rejection?

Hot Rod forces a smile to his lips. “Yeah, of course. Like I said, I want you to want it, too.” He works his jaw, considering their rather intimate, uh, entanglement. “Do you want me to leave? I can recharge in my own berth.”

“It is not uncommon for individuals to platonically share a berth, yes?” Megs drops his claw and tucks his arm back over Hot Rod’s shoulder, wrapping him in a comfortable embrace. “If you are amenable.”

Hot Rod snuggles into the cradle of Megs’ friend, not too ashamed to leech heat from the miner who runs far hotter than he. “I prefer it. I recharge better with others.”

“And I had no night purges with you by my side,” Megs says with a gentle hum. “Thank you, Hot Rod, for your kindness and your patience.”

Hot Rod smiles easier this time. “And thank you for being you.”

****