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ajremixMy first day of class for the semester- also my longest day -which completely had this thing slipping my mind until now. Sorry.
Title: No Survivors 4
Fandom: Transformers IDW
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2679
Characters: Prowl, Bluestreak, Jazz, Roadbuster, Topspin
Summary: Character death. Death is not the greatest pain in life. The greatest pain belongs to those left alive. Note: While this draws elements from my (sprawling) drabble series What’s Wrong with a Little Destruction?, it’s not necessary to read it to understand the fic, only to get the full effect. Special thanks to Vaeru, Cafei and Meallanmouse for being my betas
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
It’s not something he had never noticed before, but Prowl couldn’t help but find himself being somewhat surprised at the complete difference between the Wreckers’ and Dyno- that is, Dinobots’ –mannerisms. As he looked through the reports before him and the requests for assistance, he realized how little of these missions the Dinobots would be willing to accept. There were other units capable of doing, for the most part, what the Wreckers could- no one could do all the Wreckers could, but there was enough to spread the duty –and as the work piled up Prowl began to see how much they depended on the strike force.
Even if the stress and the constant action was what they thrived on, the Wreckers were given such little time to rest, always hurrying from one hot spot to another for so long with such energy that command had taken them for granted. And now that they weren’t available, now that they were slipping between everyone’s fingers, they finally saw how much they were asking and how little the Wreckers were given in return, barely even a thanks for all their hard work and heroism and the dangers they constantly put themselves through.
Prowl sat at his desk, staring at these requests, and knew he could find someone in their already stretched ranks to deal with each of them, but he seemed to be having trouble making the assignments. He forced himself to pick one of them up and read over it. Hard fighting in dense vegetation, planet deep in Phase 5, primitive societies at best- minibots would be the most effective, two platoons if he could manage it.
Even with the decision made he just sat there, staring blankly.
The door chimed, and he looked up just as it opened. Bluestreak offered up a shy smile while Jazz grinned. Both were forced. Prowl set down the datapad and folded his hands on the desk. “What can I do for you?”
“Hi, Prowl,” the gunner shuffled in, though it was mostly because Jazz was pushing him. “Um, you busy?”
“No. Have a seat.”
Bluestreak did so while the special ops officer leaned up against the arm of another chair. “Can I help you with anything?” Prowl prompted. Bluestreak looked up nervously at Jazz who nodded at him. He fidgeted for a moment, looked up at Prowl and then blurted out:
“We’re worried about the Wreckers.”
While this was hardly surprising- there were many whispered concerns about them –this was the first time anyone had ever really come right out and said so to him. He looked up at Jazz in question.
Bluestreak misinterpreted the look and said, “Well, when I said we I didn’t mean Jazz. But he’s probably worried too, I mean, they’re his friends and all. But he knows them better than me so maybe they’re okay but I don’t really think they are- they don’t really act like it. Or how I usually know them. Besides, you’re good friends with Jazz anyway so you’d know if he was worried about them or not, right? Or you could just ask since he’s right here-“
The look Prowl gave him- not sharp, but telling him to stop and think through his words carefully –made Bluestreak pause momentarily. He was no longer an inexperienced, clumsy young ‘bot, was fully capable of leading squads out in the field on his own, but sometimes he fell back into old habits, words streaming out of his mouth as if they were taking his stress with them and feeling foolish when he caught himself doing so. “I meant,” he said slowly, “we as in me and Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. We barely see them anymore and when we do they’re just so out of it and we’re… well, we’re really worried. We were hoping maybe you could do something?” He ended hopefully.
Surprised, Prowl exchanged glances with Jazz again. “You want me to do something?” he repeated.
Bluestreak shrunk in his seat a little. “Well, the twins don’t really think you can- they don’t know what you could do but I figured it was worth a try. I mean, you always help me out when I really need it so… m-maybe you could do the same for the Wreckers?”
Prowl opened his mouth to say that there was really nothing he could do for the Wreckers, that what he did for Bluestreak so longer ago was different and then… He wondered just what it was that made that difference. Because Bluestreak was so much younger and inexperienced? Because he’d lost his home, his family, that it was easier to rebuild someone’s entire world instead of what held it together? Or was it because Bluestreak had the Wreckers keeping tabs on him when they could?
Springer was so much better at getting action and reactions than Prowl, and yet, somehow, it was the tactician that Bluestreak looked up to so strongly. And Prowl realized he didn’t know why.
He looked back down at his desk, spreading his hands flat against the surface and frowning. He knew that Optimus Prime had already offered Roadbuster the leadership position, and he knew that Roadbuster had finally accepted. But the Wreckers’ attitudes hadn’t improved hardly at all.
It took a great deal of effort, and the strain was evident in the back of Prowl’s optics when he looked up at Bluestreak and said softly, “I don’t know what to do.”
The shock on the young mech’s faceplates, some measure of hurt and disbelief mixed deep in, shot through Prowl right to the core, and he had to look away. That shamed attitude didn’t sit right on his friend, and it made Jazz lean over to put a hand on Bluestreak’s shoulder, drawing his attention from Prowl.
“It’s not that we don’t want to help them, Blue,” he said in a tender voice, “it’s that there’s only so much we can do. The rest is up to them.”
“But…” the gunner was almost pleading, looking between the two desperately, “you helped me. You were always there, always helping me and you never left me alone! We can’t leave them alone either- there has to be something we can do for them!”
And that’s when it hit Prowl, the reason Bluestreak admired him so much. Because what Bluestreak had needed the most was for someone to always be there and to always reassure him, to never leave him until he was ready to be left alone. Springer was gone more often than he was around, but Prowl was always there, and Bluestreak had clung on to him and his solid presence because he had nothing else.
In that painful time, Bluestreak needed Prowl because he was something the young mech was missing: a constant friend and source of comfort when everything else was ripped away from him. But what the Wreckers were missing was something Prowl couldn’t be- what no one save for one of their own could be. It was that solidarity and interdependence that made them so strong. They were all that they ever needed, and to hold to someone that wasn’t one of them as their pillar would destroy that.
Prowl could see what they needed just as much as he could see none of them willing to step into that position. He could see what they needed, but not how to help them regain it.
He folded his hands together and brought them up to his chin, staring into some middle space as he thought. “No. We won’t just leave them alone,” he said simply. “That is not what an Autobot- or a friend –would do.”
A tentatively hopeful smile crossed Bluestreak’s face. “Then… you’ll help them?”
“I will do what I can.” Prowl smiled back softly. “That is all we can ever do.”
~*~*~*~
He didn’t want to be in here, but all the quiet, gentle pushing had finally wore him down enough to give in. Roadbuster stood awkwardly in the door, hands flexing at his sides. Before the memorial, the Wreckers had allowed someone to come in and clear Springer’s quarters of personal items. Roadbuster had instructed them to give the items to Hot Rod and Arcee, because he simply didn’t want to deal with it. One case had been returned back with a simple message that said the Wreckers would probably appreciate those items more. It had yet to be touched.
Springer’s office, though, was just as it had been left. The triplechanger had spent more time in here than his quarters, so his more intimate belongings were here, where he could see them more often. Roadbuster’s optics fell to a shelf along the wall, just behind the desk, more specifically on two scale models of ground vehicles- one a vivid red, the other a dusky pink.
Roadbuster knew those models well, built by Hot Rod and often joked by the rest of the Wreckers as Springer’s way of being with his two despite the great distance between them. Roadbuster had often seen Springer with the office window unshuttered, staring into space with one of the models in his hands, or at his desk, turning them over and scrutinizing them. He never caught him in the act but Roadbuster was certain that the triplechanger would speak to them every once in a while when the strain of leading was too great and he had no one to turn to- not even his closest friend. Sometimes it really hurt knowing Hot Rod and Arcee had a part of Springer that Roadbuster could never touch, even as much as he knew they did nothing but good for him.
He realized he was reaching out to the models with an inexplicable anger welling up inside of him, and he snatched his hand back, turning abruptly away, and sat at the desk, determined not to turn around.
There was a plethora of messages on their network, and as Roadbuster skimmed through the subject lines, he saw most all of them were condolences. He had Xantium sort those into a separate category and dealt with whatever was left behind.
Very little, it turned out.
Being a desk jockey was not something Roadbuster or Springer enjoyed doing, but it was both of their beliefs not to ask anything of their ‘bots that they themselves couldn’t do. The two would split up the assigned work for the most part, though sometimes in the long hours when one of them couldn’t get any recharge they’d tackle the entire stack. It was not something Roadbuster was unfamiliar with or had problems doing normally. That day, though, sitting in a chair that wasn’t his behind a desk he didn’t deserve, Roadbuster was having a difficult time focusing.
A request for an updated roster sat before him, and Roadbuster realized that they’d need to transfer in another ‘bot to fill in their eighth slot. There was no lack of Autobots wanting to get into the Wrecker line, and the screening process was intense, most couldn’t deal with the mental or physical strain of the preliminary tests. Which, if they were asked, the Wreckers would say was the easiest part.
Roadbuster sat there, trying to force his processor through the numb fog. What would they need in a new member? Would they need more than one? Was Sandstorm going to quit? Was Scoop? Or Topspin? Would the rest of them hold together if the others left? Was it better ending it all before it just fell apart?
A chime at the door brought back Roadbuster’s attention and broke his traitorous thoughts. “Enter,” he said gruffly, and when Topspin stepped inside with a datapad ready to be presented in his hand, Roadbuster knew exactly what was about to happen.
Topspin, no trace of his usual cheer or sly remarks, no easy smile or light banter, strode up to the desk like the most solemn, professional soldier Roadbuster had ever seen. “Sir,” his voice was crisp and distant, “I am tendering a separation request.” He thrust the datapad out, silently demanding it be taken.
Obligingly the combat vehicle took it, optic band narrowed unhappily. “You’re resigning?”
The blue and white nodded curtly. Roadbuster could see the thousand mile stare under the visor. “Yessir.”
“May I inquire as to why?”
“Because I believe that I am unfit for further duty as a Wrecker.”
Roadbuster tilted his head to one side. “Why do you believe that? I fail to see where you are lacking in the medical field.”
“I’m not a medic,” he said. “I’m a hack.” Though his hands were behind his back, the tension in his stance and his expression said Topspin’s fists were clenched tight, as if they were holding his composure together. “I’m a failure as a medic, I don’t even have an actual degree. You’re placing your lives in the hands of someone that dropped out not even halfway through medical school.”
“This is not new information, Topspin. We already know this, command is already aware of this.”
“I am unable to fully perform my duty as a medic. I am unfit for this task.”
Roadbuster’s green optics flashed, and he sat back, tall and imposing in the seat. “Just what part of this duty are you unfit for? Is it because you no longer feel comfortable in performing the last rites?”
Topspin’s mouth was a thin slash of barely held-together bearing. It wasn’t because he was unable to hold his composure but because it was a situation he didn’t want to ever deal with but had to over and over again. “I’m unable to do what is required of me. I fail as both the unit’s medic and as a friend.”
“If that’s your reason, then I’m denying your request.”
That made the jumpstarter jolt. “What?”
“You’ve done nothing but save all of our lives since you’ve joined the Wreckers, both under and away from the knife. There were so many times you’ve brought one of us back from the brink and you’ve handled every situation thrown at you with enthusiasm and humor.” Roadbuster shook his head. “The last rite is a tradition, yes, I know. But that doesn’t make you valuable to us off or on the field. It’s the fact that you can keep us alive and functional is what makes you a good medic. It’s the fact that we can trust you to be there for us, offer us comfort and relief and honesty that makes you a good friend.
“I would not ask you to do what you can’t because practice says that’s how it must be. After all- how many traditions do the Wreckers break just by existing? By the tasks that we perform and the ones who perform them? Last rites can be given to someone else to perform, you’re being unable to strip my body after my death doesn’t make you any less of a friend than Broadside or Twin Twist. Neither of them would know the first cut to make but that doesn’t make them any less capable in doing what their job requires them to do. Last rites are not required to be performed to be a medic, it is merely a custom.” Roadbuster slid the datapad across the desk back to Topspin. “If you really no longer feel confident in your ability to keep us alive, then I will grant your request. Think on this carefully, Topspin. Don’t make a decision rashly. The important part is that you save lives, not what you do afterwards.”
Topspin stood there uncertainly, and the harsh corners of his lips made Roadbuster think he’d insist on resigning. But he leaned forward and took back the datapad, and the larger mech could see thoughts churning in his processor. “Alright,” he said eventually. “I’ll… I’ll think on it some more.”
Relief flooded through Roadbuster’s body, and he nodded solemnly to cover it up. “Please do.” When the medic left, Roadbuster put his hands to his face and let his engine growl. He wondered if he could live with himself continually manipulating his friends.
Title: No Survivors 4
Fandom: Transformers IDW
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2679
Characters: Prowl, Bluestreak, Jazz, Roadbuster, Topspin
Summary: Character death. Death is not the greatest pain in life. The greatest pain belongs to those left alive. Note: While this draws elements from my (sprawling) drabble series What’s Wrong with a Little Destruction?, it’s not necessary to read it to understand the fic, only to get the full effect. Special thanks to Vaeru, Cafei and Meallanmouse for being my betas
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
It’s not something he had never noticed before, but Prowl couldn’t help but find himself being somewhat surprised at the complete difference between the Wreckers’ and Dyno- that is, Dinobots’ –mannerisms. As he looked through the reports before him and the requests for assistance, he realized how little of these missions the Dinobots would be willing to accept. There were other units capable of doing, for the most part, what the Wreckers could- no one could do all the Wreckers could, but there was enough to spread the duty –and as the work piled up Prowl began to see how much they depended on the strike force.
Even if the stress and the constant action was what they thrived on, the Wreckers were given such little time to rest, always hurrying from one hot spot to another for so long with such energy that command had taken them for granted. And now that they weren’t available, now that they were slipping between everyone’s fingers, they finally saw how much they were asking and how little the Wreckers were given in return, barely even a thanks for all their hard work and heroism and the dangers they constantly put themselves through.
Prowl sat at his desk, staring at these requests, and knew he could find someone in their already stretched ranks to deal with each of them, but he seemed to be having trouble making the assignments. He forced himself to pick one of them up and read over it. Hard fighting in dense vegetation, planet deep in Phase 5, primitive societies at best- minibots would be the most effective, two platoons if he could manage it.
Even with the decision made he just sat there, staring blankly.
The door chimed, and he looked up just as it opened. Bluestreak offered up a shy smile while Jazz grinned. Both were forced. Prowl set down the datapad and folded his hands on the desk. “What can I do for you?”
“Hi, Prowl,” the gunner shuffled in, though it was mostly because Jazz was pushing him. “Um, you busy?”
“No. Have a seat.”
Bluestreak did so while the special ops officer leaned up against the arm of another chair. “Can I help you with anything?” Prowl prompted. Bluestreak looked up nervously at Jazz who nodded at him. He fidgeted for a moment, looked up at Prowl and then blurted out:
“We’re worried about the Wreckers.”
While this was hardly surprising- there were many whispered concerns about them –this was the first time anyone had ever really come right out and said so to him. He looked up at Jazz in question.
Bluestreak misinterpreted the look and said, “Well, when I said we I didn’t mean Jazz. But he’s probably worried too, I mean, they’re his friends and all. But he knows them better than me so maybe they’re okay but I don’t really think they are- they don’t really act like it. Or how I usually know them. Besides, you’re good friends with Jazz anyway so you’d know if he was worried about them or not, right? Or you could just ask since he’s right here-“
The look Prowl gave him- not sharp, but telling him to stop and think through his words carefully –made Bluestreak pause momentarily. He was no longer an inexperienced, clumsy young ‘bot, was fully capable of leading squads out in the field on his own, but sometimes he fell back into old habits, words streaming out of his mouth as if they were taking his stress with them and feeling foolish when he caught himself doing so. “I meant,” he said slowly, “we as in me and Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. We barely see them anymore and when we do they’re just so out of it and we’re… well, we’re really worried. We were hoping maybe you could do something?” He ended hopefully.
Surprised, Prowl exchanged glances with Jazz again. “You want me to do something?” he repeated.
Bluestreak shrunk in his seat a little. “Well, the twins don’t really think you can- they don’t know what you could do but I figured it was worth a try. I mean, you always help me out when I really need it so… m-maybe you could do the same for the Wreckers?”
Prowl opened his mouth to say that there was really nothing he could do for the Wreckers, that what he did for Bluestreak so longer ago was different and then… He wondered just what it was that made that difference. Because Bluestreak was so much younger and inexperienced? Because he’d lost his home, his family, that it was easier to rebuild someone’s entire world instead of what held it together? Or was it because Bluestreak had the Wreckers keeping tabs on him when they could?
Springer was so much better at getting action and reactions than Prowl, and yet, somehow, it was the tactician that Bluestreak looked up to so strongly. And Prowl realized he didn’t know why.
He looked back down at his desk, spreading his hands flat against the surface and frowning. He knew that Optimus Prime had already offered Roadbuster the leadership position, and he knew that Roadbuster had finally accepted. But the Wreckers’ attitudes hadn’t improved hardly at all.
It took a great deal of effort, and the strain was evident in the back of Prowl’s optics when he looked up at Bluestreak and said softly, “I don’t know what to do.”
The shock on the young mech’s faceplates, some measure of hurt and disbelief mixed deep in, shot through Prowl right to the core, and he had to look away. That shamed attitude didn’t sit right on his friend, and it made Jazz lean over to put a hand on Bluestreak’s shoulder, drawing his attention from Prowl.
“It’s not that we don’t want to help them, Blue,” he said in a tender voice, “it’s that there’s only so much we can do. The rest is up to them.”
“But…” the gunner was almost pleading, looking between the two desperately, “you helped me. You were always there, always helping me and you never left me alone! We can’t leave them alone either- there has to be something we can do for them!”
And that’s when it hit Prowl, the reason Bluestreak admired him so much. Because what Bluestreak had needed the most was for someone to always be there and to always reassure him, to never leave him until he was ready to be left alone. Springer was gone more often than he was around, but Prowl was always there, and Bluestreak had clung on to him and his solid presence because he had nothing else.
In that painful time, Bluestreak needed Prowl because he was something the young mech was missing: a constant friend and source of comfort when everything else was ripped away from him. But what the Wreckers were missing was something Prowl couldn’t be- what no one save for one of their own could be. It was that solidarity and interdependence that made them so strong. They were all that they ever needed, and to hold to someone that wasn’t one of them as their pillar would destroy that.
Prowl could see what they needed just as much as he could see none of them willing to step into that position. He could see what they needed, but not how to help them regain it.
He folded his hands together and brought them up to his chin, staring into some middle space as he thought. “No. We won’t just leave them alone,” he said simply. “That is not what an Autobot- or a friend –would do.”
A tentatively hopeful smile crossed Bluestreak’s face. “Then… you’ll help them?”
“I will do what I can.” Prowl smiled back softly. “That is all we can ever do.”
~*~*~*~
He didn’t want to be in here, but all the quiet, gentle pushing had finally wore him down enough to give in. Roadbuster stood awkwardly in the door, hands flexing at his sides. Before the memorial, the Wreckers had allowed someone to come in and clear Springer’s quarters of personal items. Roadbuster had instructed them to give the items to Hot Rod and Arcee, because he simply didn’t want to deal with it. One case had been returned back with a simple message that said the Wreckers would probably appreciate those items more. It had yet to be touched.
Springer’s office, though, was just as it had been left. The triplechanger had spent more time in here than his quarters, so his more intimate belongings were here, where he could see them more often. Roadbuster’s optics fell to a shelf along the wall, just behind the desk, more specifically on two scale models of ground vehicles- one a vivid red, the other a dusky pink.
Roadbuster knew those models well, built by Hot Rod and often joked by the rest of the Wreckers as Springer’s way of being with his two despite the great distance between them. Roadbuster had often seen Springer with the office window unshuttered, staring into space with one of the models in his hands, or at his desk, turning them over and scrutinizing them. He never caught him in the act but Roadbuster was certain that the triplechanger would speak to them every once in a while when the strain of leading was too great and he had no one to turn to- not even his closest friend. Sometimes it really hurt knowing Hot Rod and Arcee had a part of Springer that Roadbuster could never touch, even as much as he knew they did nothing but good for him.
He realized he was reaching out to the models with an inexplicable anger welling up inside of him, and he snatched his hand back, turning abruptly away, and sat at the desk, determined not to turn around.
There was a plethora of messages on their network, and as Roadbuster skimmed through the subject lines, he saw most all of them were condolences. He had Xantium sort those into a separate category and dealt with whatever was left behind.
Very little, it turned out.
Being a desk jockey was not something Roadbuster or Springer enjoyed doing, but it was both of their beliefs not to ask anything of their ‘bots that they themselves couldn’t do. The two would split up the assigned work for the most part, though sometimes in the long hours when one of them couldn’t get any recharge they’d tackle the entire stack. It was not something Roadbuster was unfamiliar with or had problems doing normally. That day, though, sitting in a chair that wasn’t his behind a desk he didn’t deserve, Roadbuster was having a difficult time focusing.
A request for an updated roster sat before him, and Roadbuster realized that they’d need to transfer in another ‘bot to fill in their eighth slot. There was no lack of Autobots wanting to get into the Wrecker line, and the screening process was intense, most couldn’t deal with the mental or physical strain of the preliminary tests. Which, if they were asked, the Wreckers would say was the easiest part.
Roadbuster sat there, trying to force his processor through the numb fog. What would they need in a new member? Would they need more than one? Was Sandstorm going to quit? Was Scoop? Or Topspin? Would the rest of them hold together if the others left? Was it better ending it all before it just fell apart?
A chime at the door brought back Roadbuster’s attention and broke his traitorous thoughts. “Enter,” he said gruffly, and when Topspin stepped inside with a datapad ready to be presented in his hand, Roadbuster knew exactly what was about to happen.
Topspin, no trace of his usual cheer or sly remarks, no easy smile or light banter, strode up to the desk like the most solemn, professional soldier Roadbuster had ever seen. “Sir,” his voice was crisp and distant, “I am tendering a separation request.” He thrust the datapad out, silently demanding it be taken.
Obligingly the combat vehicle took it, optic band narrowed unhappily. “You’re resigning?”
The blue and white nodded curtly. Roadbuster could see the thousand mile stare under the visor. “Yessir.”
“May I inquire as to why?”
“Because I believe that I am unfit for further duty as a Wrecker.”
Roadbuster tilted his head to one side. “Why do you believe that? I fail to see where you are lacking in the medical field.”
“I’m not a medic,” he said. “I’m a hack.” Though his hands were behind his back, the tension in his stance and his expression said Topspin’s fists were clenched tight, as if they were holding his composure together. “I’m a failure as a medic, I don’t even have an actual degree. You’re placing your lives in the hands of someone that dropped out not even halfway through medical school.”
“This is not new information, Topspin. We already know this, command is already aware of this.”
“I am unable to fully perform my duty as a medic. I am unfit for this task.”
Roadbuster’s green optics flashed, and he sat back, tall and imposing in the seat. “Just what part of this duty are you unfit for? Is it because you no longer feel comfortable in performing the last rites?”
Topspin’s mouth was a thin slash of barely held-together bearing. It wasn’t because he was unable to hold his composure but because it was a situation he didn’t want to ever deal with but had to over and over again. “I’m unable to do what is required of me. I fail as both the unit’s medic and as a friend.”
“If that’s your reason, then I’m denying your request.”
That made the jumpstarter jolt. “What?”
“You’ve done nothing but save all of our lives since you’ve joined the Wreckers, both under and away from the knife. There were so many times you’ve brought one of us back from the brink and you’ve handled every situation thrown at you with enthusiasm and humor.” Roadbuster shook his head. “The last rite is a tradition, yes, I know. But that doesn’t make you valuable to us off or on the field. It’s the fact that you can keep us alive and functional is what makes you a good medic. It’s the fact that we can trust you to be there for us, offer us comfort and relief and honesty that makes you a good friend.
“I would not ask you to do what you can’t because practice says that’s how it must be. After all- how many traditions do the Wreckers break just by existing? By the tasks that we perform and the ones who perform them? Last rites can be given to someone else to perform, you’re being unable to strip my body after my death doesn’t make you any less of a friend than Broadside or Twin Twist. Neither of them would know the first cut to make but that doesn’t make them any less capable in doing what their job requires them to do. Last rites are not required to be performed to be a medic, it is merely a custom.” Roadbuster slid the datapad across the desk back to Topspin. “If you really no longer feel confident in your ability to keep us alive, then I will grant your request. Think on this carefully, Topspin. Don’t make a decision rashly. The important part is that you save lives, not what you do afterwards.”
Topspin stood there uncertainly, and the harsh corners of his lips made Roadbuster think he’d insist on resigning. But he leaned forward and took back the datapad, and the larger mech could see thoughts churning in his processor. “Alright,” he said eventually. “I’ll… I’ll think on it some more.”
Relief flooded through Roadbuster’s body, and he nodded solemnly to cover it up. “Please do.” When the medic left, Roadbuster put his hands to his face and let his engine growl. He wondered if he could live with himself continually manipulating his friends.
