Torture in war was common... but this was beyond mere enemy torment. SoundwavexTracks, Dark Fic; Mech/Mech slash, Rape, Angst
Chapter 2: Fade Me Out
"Hey Tracks! I'd thought I'd find you here."
The corvette turned his helm away from the spray, looking over the stall wall to Blaster, who was just coming into the room. Seeing the dry look the other mech was giving him, the red Autobot was quick to blush; raising his servos in an apologetic manner. "I-i'll just wait 'til your finished then?," Blaster said, before turning on his pede and marching from the room.
"It's alright, Blaster," Tracks called over a wing, reaching up and turning the shower off. There was no point for him to linger any longer, not now after having been tracked down by the boombox.
"Ya sure, brother? I don't mean to be steppin' all over your scene...," Blaster said, helm poking back into the washracks.
"No, I'm finished here," the corvette answered, grabbing a soft cleaning clothe and wiping off the excess moisture. "Was there something you wanted?," he asked the strangely silent communications officer.
"Uh, well, not really...," the red mech bashfully replied, scratching at his cheekplate -a habit he had picked up from watching his human soaps. "I just thought I'd come see how things were hanging. Young blood was wondering where you were..."
He meant Raoul. Tracks couldn't quite figure out why the other Autobot insisted on calling his human friend these odd nicknames. "Was he?," the blue 'bot asked, dropping his used towel into a hamper just under the shelf housing the cleaning solutions.
"Yessiree! Just saying, but I was a little curious myself. You said you'd meet us up later for our jam session -by the way, the cats managed to jive their way to enough payment to get themselves a new blaster. My services, thankfully, won't be necessary anymore," Blaster sighed. "Not that I don't mind kickin' it with Young Blood and his gang. Anyways, what caused the hold up, my brother?"
He should have known this question was coming. "I'm very sorry that I didn't show, even after I had promised that I would repay Raoul for his help," Tracks explained, smiling at the boombox. "But Prowl had me out on patrol, and I was unable to get away in time."
"Ah...," Blaster nodded his helm in understanding. "That explains the long shower."
"Indeed..."
"So," the communications officer chirped, slinging an arm around the corvette's shoulders, "Wanna go catch a bite?"
Tracks was thankful that Blaster was entirely fixed on his faceplates, and did not noticed the violent shudder his wings gave at the other mech's sudden contact. He could smile for all the world, but even the best of his lies could not withstand the uncontrollable motions of his wings. With a subtle shrug, he managed to slide out from under the boombox's arm; putting a small bit of distance between them even as he pretended like nothing was wrong.
"I'm sorry, but I must decline your invite..."
"C'mon, brother, I bet you haven't gotten your ration yet this joor!"
Before Tracks could reply, Blaster was pushing him towards the door, grinning widely as he chattered away like a brighter painted version of Bluestreak. "What's it been about now? A week?," the red mech asked, before continuing on with his drivel, his servos grasping the other's shoulder tires. Tracks tried his hardest not to simply squirm at the unwanted contact. "Well, too long in either case. We haven't been able to see each other much since getting back to Base. It seems every time one of us gets free time, the other is sent out on patrol or is stuck with monitor duty. I think we've only been able to visit Young blood twice, together..."
That wasn't a strange coincidence, the corvette knew. He had been trying his hardest not to run into the boombox.
"Listen, Blaster...," Tracks started, cutting the other Autobot off.
"Yeah, mech?," Blaster beamed, undisturbed by the fact that he had been interrupted before he could finish speaking.
"I'm really tired, and I've already got a ration tucked away into subspace." A lie, but it was not as if the communications officer would be able to tell the difference. "I would just like to go to my room, wax, refuel and then go to recharge."
"So, you ain't coming to the party then?"
Tracks broke free from Blaster's grasp; covering it up by turning to the red mech. "What are you talking about?," he asked, confused but quickly getting irritated.
Blaster shuttered his optics in surprise, thrown by the fact that the corvette didn't know about the party Jazz had planned. "You know... the party!," he answered lamely. "Jazz has been planning it for weeks now- got in strobe lights and giant speakers, kinda like the ones we saw back at Dancitron. Everyone's been chatting it up like crazy in excitement. Optimus has given everyone the night off from duties, and even Prowl has allowed an extra load of high-grade to be present. It's gonna be the biggest smash since M.J! So, you in?
Nothing of the boombox's eager explanation made it past Tracks' audios. As soon as he heard the passing mention of the Decepticon-controlled club, a squeezing, clawing kind of grasp tore through his chassis; surrounding his spark and clenching tight enough to extinguish the fragile orb. Shivers started down his spinal struts, miniscule, while the world before his optics began to flicker between reality and disillusionment.
Pounding music that pushed at him, strapped tight within bonds...
"...Tracks?"
Red visor glowing viciously in wild shadows. Reaching... reaching for him...
"Tracks, brother?"
Tracks choked on an intake, stepping back quickly as the world shifted and he once more found himself in the Ark hallway, with Blaster almost pede-to-pede with him and looking greatly concerned. Torn between a whimper and a growl, the corvette quickly turned away, forcing himself to keep his servos at his sides and not hug his shaking chassis.
"Um, Tracks... a-are you really that exhausted?," Blaster mumbled from behind. "I-i'm sorry for pressing so much when you're needing recharge. But maybe after, you might come join us? It'll be fun, I swear!"
Why did he have to continue pestering him?
"...maybe...," Tracks replied flatly.
Not.
He needed to get away.
"Well, uh... bye Tracks," Blaster called, watching as the multi-coloured mech started down the hall briskly. With one last anxious glance, the boombox tore his optics away from twitching white wings; heading for the rec room, where Jazz was no doubt waiting for his presence before starting.
It came through.
No matter how hard he tried to block it out, shutting down his audios and shuttering his optics, the music- it cut through everything: the door, his firewalls, the darkness. Cut through and reached out, curling around him; grasping him tightly in thick claws, caging him, smothering him, pressing him down...
Oh, Primus.
A shiver, a mumbled plea, anything to get it to stop.
But it continued, undeterred, the vibrations echoing and pulsing in place of actual sound -and that was worse. Now he could feel it, inside and out of himself.
He felt him also...
The other that wasn't supposed to be there; the silent spectre with a bloody gaze.
Servos pressed to his face, pushing and squeezing along the closest metal, as the trembling frame curled further into itself. Whimpers barely heard over the sound of pounding music and cold laughter following crueler servos...
He didn't know how he could keep moving.
A peal of laughter had the corvette stiffening at the wings. With half-shuttered optics, Tracks peered through the steam at his comrades. The washracks were packed that morning, as was usual for those just coming out of recharge and getting ready for the day. In a corner, he could easily see Bluestreak and Bumblebee chattering away, even while they scrubbed in the shower. Their amused expressions shoved a hot spike of irrational fear into the multi-coloured mech's spark. He quickly looked away, lest he somehow should draw their attention.
Why... why did he have to be afraid?
"Stop hogging the stall, Tracks!"
Something slammed into Tracks suddenly, making the multi-coloured mech bang into the side tiling of the stall. With a glare, Tracks turned around to his assailant; of course it had to be Sunstreaker. "I'm not hogging it, Sunstreaker. There are plenty of other stalls available- why don't you go and take one of those?"
"No way!," the lamborghini snapped. "This one is the best stall. The spray is just right, and the ammonia is perfect temperature. You and me both know that; it's why everyone likes this one the best! I refuse to shower in one of those other stalls and have my paintjob ruined because of a broken nozzle or an acidic cleanser! Now move... before I move you!"
"Quit being such a sparkling!," Tracks growled back, purposely turning his back on Sunstreaker. "I'll get out when I'm done."
"When you're done? You've been in there for the past cycle already!," Sunstreaker protested. "I swear Tracks, I'm gonna-"
"Woah, mech, chillax," Jazz piped up, slipping in between the two. "Ah'm sorry Sunstreak'r, but Tracks got 'ere first, mech. Ya'll just 'ave t' use anoth'r stall. Ah p'omise it ain't gonna hurt ya."
Grumbling, the warrior let himself be led away by the saboteur, but not before he cast a nasty glare at the corvette. "Honestly, why does he need to shower that long anyways!," Sunstreaker was saying to Jazz. "I've got dirt in places I don't even want to think about, and he's not even got a speck of dust on him! What the slag does he need to clean?"
Quickly, Tracks dunked his head back under the shower's spray, pretending that he hadn't heard a word.
"Optimus, sir," Prowl started. "A message from the humans. They say that the supplies we've requested are available for pick-up."
"Already?," the truck asked, lifting his helm from the datapad he was currently reading. The Autobot leader made the rest of his way into the control room, where Prowl and a few other mechs were, completing their shifts for that orn.
"Yes sir," Prowl answered. "May I suggest gathering together a team to go and collect our supplies as soon as available. Two should be enough. They can provide cover for each other should the Decepticons try something, without over-exceeding the number of Autobots needed to act as representatives to the humans."
"Yes, that sounds fair Prowl," Optimus replied. "Now, who is available..."
The truck took the datapad that the SIC suddenly held out for him, scanning over it with his deep blue optics. "I've made a list of mechs currently on base and not on the rosters this orn," Prowl explained. "I've put them in order of those best suited for the jo-"
"Bumblebee and Tracks," Optimus spoke up suddenly. "We'll have those two go." The Autobot leader lifted his head to silence and the attention of all his soldiers present. Confused, the Prime frowned slightly behind his battle mask. "...Is something the matter?"
"Well, no, sir...," Grapple was the first to speak. "But I must say..."
"Tracks? 'N Bumblebee?," Ironhide commented sharply from the back of the control room. "Ahptimus, tha kid Ah can und'rstand, but why in all o' Cyb'rtron ya sendin' th't mirr'r-hog?"
"I must agree, sir," Prowl started slowly, "Your selection is most peculiar."
"And why is that?," Optimus asked, still puzzled. "Tracks is an Autobot, the same as the rest of us. He does his duties quite exceptionally, and he's already worked with the humans prior. If memory serves correct, he has even made friends with one of them. Surely he can handle the supply pick-up easily enough."
"Not to discredit you or anything sir," the Datsun continued to his commander, "But though Tracks may have fair relations with the humans, he's... Well, to put it..."
"He's a slaggin' naris- naciss- slag, Prime, th't mech 'as hes aft so far up hes tailpipe he ain't git a clue o' all tha rest o' us still livin' 'ere wit 'im!," Ironhide cut in sharply. "S'metimes Ah wond'r if th't mech ev'n realizes he's on a team."
"Again, I have to agree with Ironhide...," Prowl added, frowning in distaste at his own statement. "Tracks is very solitary, sir, and he seems to prefer things that way. I do not dispute his loyalty to our cause, but I apologize if I worry that team efficiency might decrease with Tracks stubbornness."
"Well, we've got our fair share of hard-helmed mechs," Optimus said, looking pointedly at Ironhide. His friend grumbled something under his intakes, turning back to his monitor. "In either case, I'm confident that no troubles will come out of Bumblebee and Tracks working together. I dare say, this would be a good way to provoke some more crew interactions, no?"
Prowl took back the datapad that Optimus held out for him, absorbing the truck's words. "You're quite right sir," the SIC answered. "I'll comm both of them at once and inform them of the supply run."
"I wonder where Tracks could be...," Grapple mumbled, turning back to his monitor. "I haven't seen him at all this orn."
"Aw, he's pr'bly just racin' 'round out in tha desert," Ironhide grumbled in his seat beside the crane. "Th't 'bot be out o' base often 'ese days."
"Truly peculiar..."
I'm at my own front door and I can't get in.
I'm dialing up nine one one...
"Bumblebee..."
I'm on the brink of trouble again
If you could change the time, a little,
then everything else would be...
"Bumblebee!"
...fine, fine, fine...
"Yes, Tracks?," the yellow beatle asked, turning down his radio. The corvette beside him spat a cloud of exhaust, inching forwards a few more centimetres. "Is there a problem?"
"I told you to stop blasting that scrap..."
"...but I wasn't," Bumblebee tried to protest.
"... yet you continue to test me. Honestly, whatever do you see in that disgusting 'pop'?," Tracks finished snippily, uncaring for the other mech's words. "Pathetic..."
"I think you're being a little harsh Tracks...," the minibot replied, frowning unseen. "I mean, you have that human friend of yours. Do you insult his music as well?"
The corvette's engine turned over angrily, but the blue mech did not respond. Sighing quietly, Bumblebee shut his radio off. He had been enjoying himself, fiddling with the different stations before settling on something that he could shake his stick to when Tracks had to sour his mood. Really, the other Autobot had been in a terrible mood since...well, the minibot couldn't think of a time that Tracks wasn't in some sort of mood, but that vague intolerance for his comrades seemed to have doubled in the past couple weeks. The corvette was hardly seen about base anymore, and when others did see him, it was usually for short trips to the energon dispenser in the rec room and then longer showers in the washracks.
It had taken nearly two whole cycles before Prowl had even been able to get a hold of Tracks, by which Bumblebee had already been briefed and was waiting patiently for his partner to show up for the supply run.
Now the beatle wished Prowl had just sent him off by himself, like the SIC had mentioned doing when he had been grumbling to himself.
"So...," Bumblebee started. Without some tunes, the silence was engulfing and uncomfortably awkward. "How have things been Tracks? I don't see you often. You still going to see your human friend?"
"Yes," came the short reply.
Quiet fell again, as the two Autobots reached the border of the city. "Well, umm...," the yellow mech tried again, as they turned onto the main street.
"It was very insightful of Optimus to send me on this supply run to show the humans that the Autobots not only have strength, but refinement as well," Tracks spoke up suddenly, cutting off the minibot's sad attempts at conversation.
It took a full klik before Bumblebee could properly respond. His processor was practically rattling from the abrupt shift in personality Tracks had just pulled, that all the beatle could do was follow the corvette's action and transform to bi-pedal mode as they reached the end of the street. "...Not to mention humility," the minibot added snarkily, before he could restrain himself.
For an astrosecond, Bumblebee froze, uncertain if Tracks would lash out at his sarcastic comment. Surprisingly, the corvette only looked at the smaller Autobot, before coolly saying, "Bumblebee, I fear that some of us have much to be humble about."
That was a slap in the faceplates.
"Well," the blue mech sighed melodramatically, heading across the street for the little appliance store tucked between two bigger shops, "I suppose we'll be mobbed by my adoring public."
Bumblebee trailed behind him, rolling his optics at the typical Tracks behaviour. "Yeah... they can hardly resist you, Tracks."
Any further comments that the corvette might have made were silenced before a sound could even escape the winged Autobot's vocalizer. The television in the store's window was declaring the recent news bulletin, which had the passerbys crowding around the glass to hear.
At the mention of raised arms, the beatle turned to his partner only to have his focus drawn elsewhere. "Decepticons!," Bumblebee hissed, watching as two larger mechs ducked out of sight down a nearby alley.
Tracks spun around immediately, wings going stiff with tension. Decepticons... there were Decepticons here! Fear, fear was flooding its way through his energon lines again; thicky, black and icy terror that threatened to swallow his spark whole. Was it Soundwave? Had he finally returned?
'N-no... no it isn't him', Tracks tried to tell himself through the rising wave of white noise filling his processor. He forced his optics open, made them fix on the fleeing sight of the other two 'bots. The purple, grey and tan paintjobs were nothing like what the communications officer bore.
"Blitzwing and Astrotrain...," the corvette mumbled lowly to himself, weak relief almost evident in his vocalizer. Not waiting to see if Bumblebee had caught that little slip-up, the blue mech rushed forward, peering cautiously into the alleyway.
The trembling fear that had almost possessed him not but astroseconds before was quickly erased, as burning hatred overcame Tracks. "So much for my wax job!," he spat nastily, transforming back to alt-mode and tearing after the fleeing Decepticons.
Bumblebee almost had trouble keeping up with the suddenly irate mech.
"T-tracks!"
Tracks ignored the beatle, pressing harder on the gas, trying to catch up with Blitzwing and Astrotrain. But no matter how fast he went, or how quickly he shot around those corners, the two Decepticon lackeys still remained ahead of him. "I must need an overhaul- I can't catch them!," the corvette declared, zipping around another corner. Bumblebee followed, right on his bumper, tires squealing as he made the turn.
"A dead end!," Bumblebee exclaimed almost jubilantly, as they saw they had backed the two mechs into a corner. Quickly, the minibot transformed to bi-pedal mode. "Very dead."
Something wasn't right...
Tracks slowed to a stop, watching as Blitzwing and Astrotrain continued to back down the alley. Bumblebee was right... the rest of the way was blocked by a wall; it was virtually a dead end. But the Decepticons weren't retaliating to being cornered... they just kept inching backwards, centimetre by centimetre...
The urge to shift into reverse and pull out of there was growing.
But Bumblebee was here; watching, waiting, for Tracks to transform...
The blue mech wrestled with his anxiety, changing out of his alt-mode. Licking his lip components nervously, he stepped forward. Anything to ensure that the minibot didn't see the spark-wrenching terror that was beginning to mold his faceplates. "Please..."
'Please, don't let him come...'
"Do not force me to resort to violence."
'Don't let him come back!'
Tracks lunged forward quickly, only to almost trip over his own pedes. The Decepticon he had attempted to grab in his instant of careless endangerment had vanished before he could even get his servos on him. Bumblebee said something behind him, but the corvette didn't catch it. The terror was back, stronger and twice as overpowering as before. His entire systems locked up with sheer horror, barely seeing the garbage truck before him suddenly open its ugly maw and shoot its projectile at the stalling Tracks.
Only when the zapping sting of electricity crackled across his circuits could Tracks even make a sound again.
"G-ge-get...H-help! Aaahhhhh!"
What was happening? Bumblebee stepped back in shock, watching as the garbage truck shot some sort of strange clamp at the immobilized Tracks, electric jolts flaring across the corvette's entire chassis as his systems were overloaded with the input. A pained scream erupted from the blue mech's vocalizer, shaking the minibot from his stupor.
"Tracks!," Bumblebee shouted, torn between jumping forward to help his comrade or turning tail.
Another choked cry of pain came from the corvette as he crumpled to the ground, writhing desperately as raw energy was being shot through his frame still. "...h-help...," came the pitiful whimper. "...p-pleee-ease... h-help m-me..."
That sound...
A sound like that should never come from a mech.
"D-don't worry Tracks!," Bumblebee choked, stumbling over the scary plea the other Autobot had made. His spark whirled sickeningly at the level of unadulterated terror reflected in that desperate cry. "I'm going to get help!"
Quickly, the beatle transformed back to alt-mode, backing out of the alley as fast as his wheels would allow. He was going so fast that he didn't see the truck pull up behind him suddenly, blocking his escape. A ramp dropped, forcing the minibot up into the truck's bay, where he slammed hard into the metal backing. The speed and force of his impact knocked the yellow mech offline.
With systems shutting down, Bumblebee cast one glance at his fallen comrade. 'Tracks... g-gotta help... him...'
They were back at the Ark.
Optimus had valiantly come to their rescue and had handed the human Chumley over to the proper authorities to be dealt with. Bumblebee was happy, truly. Lord Chumley had been a twisted sort of man, hunting each of them down and then containing them in their own, personalized, sick prison. Really, the beatle didn't think he'd get the tar from his own trap out from his wheel wells for weeks...
But that wasn't what was on the minibot's processor right now.
Glancing across the room, Bumblebee wasn't so surprised to see Tracks lingering almost unseen in the corner. The winged mech had his helm bowed lowly, arms crossed over his chassis, though his optics kept flicking upwards every few astroseconds; observing the others almost suspiciously.
Just why was Tracks being so distant?
Bumblebee wasn't likely to forget the terrified cries Tracks had made before both of them were subsequently captured. Even now, the sounds played back in his processor, making his fuel tanks churn. Had the corvette really been that scared? But of what? Surely not because of a simple trap set by a sick human...
The debriefing was coming to a close.
The minibot glanced back at his commander, before quickly turning his attention to the huddled mech. Doing his best to remain unnoticed, Bumblebee inched across the room. He had to abandon his method of stealth though, when he noticed that Tracks was making a quick dash for the door now that Optimus had finished talking. "Tracks? Hey, Tracks!," the yellow mech called, trying to catch up with the rapidly departing corvette.
Tracks barely paused in his stride, glancing over a rigid wing. "...what do you want?," he asked, almost nervously.
"L-listen, uh... Tracks, could you slow down for a minute?," Bumblebee begged, forcing his legs to step a little wider to keep pace with the other. With a scowl, the blue mech acquiesced to the younger one's demand; optics flicking about even as he turned to fully face the beatle.
"What?," he repeated.
"I-i just wanted to make sure you were alright. That Chumley guy had you driving circles for hours; I'm surprised your engine didn't quit and leave you for target practice to those lasers!" If the minibot had thought that this might break the ice a little, it only seemed to make things worse.
"Excuse me, but I think I'll be goi-"
"Wait, Tracks! I-i really am concerned!," Bumblebee said, sliding into the corvette's path. "I mean... is everything alright? When Chumley attacked us, you... you got really scared there, and I just wanted to make sure that you were oka-"
"I don't see how that's any of your business!," Tracks snapped. His optics were narrowed slits, burning a deep indigo. "If I wanted your worry, I would have said so!"
"B-but Tracks...," the minibot stuttered, overwhelmed by the other mech's sudden vehemency and anger. "Y-you're my friend, and I-i-"
The corvette's optics flared brightly at the half-finished statement. "I am not your friend!," he hissed, forcing Bumblebee to click his vocalizer shut. "I never was, and never will be! So do yourself a favour, Bumblebee: Leave. Me. Alone!" Shoving the beatle to one side, Tracks hurried down the rest of the hallway, disappearing around the corner just as the rest of the Autobots came into sight.
"Hey, lil' Bee!," Blaster greeted cheerfully. "What's hangin'?" The boombox's smile faded a little bit when he saw the additional scuffs on his small comrade, and the frown plastered across the minibot's usually optimistic faceplates. "Something happen, my brother?"
"Just a regular crankshaft...," Bumblebee grumbled vaguely.
Blaster tilted his helm at that, but decided not to comment further. "So, hey... you seen Tracks 'round?," the red mech asked, looking about. "I thought I saw him and you bounce out ahead of the others."
At the mention of the corvette, the minibot's frown deepened. "I wouldn't bother with him, Blaster," Bumblebee replied, turning on his pede. "It's a waste of time..." Without offering further explanation, the beatle headed down the hall, leaving a deeply confused boombox to stand by himself.
Why was he doing all this for again?
Tracks looked at himself in the mirror, avoiding his dim optics. He watched himself lift a cleaning rag, running it across dusty wings. There were so many nicks and scratches across his paintjob from that Chumley's sudden assault. Things that would need to be fixed by a proper buff, not a simple coating of polish... Things that he did not have the care to deal with appriopriately at this time.
"Why do you even bother?"
The corvette lowered his helm, following the rag as he dipped it back down into a can of wax. "Because I must," he mumbled. He brought his focus up again, watching his reflection as he rubbed the wax onto his frame.
"That's not an answer," the mech in the glass hissed back. Blue optics narrowed; denta baring sharply. "What has narcissism done for you? Left you chained to a fragging speaker so some two-bit Decepticon thug could shove his filthy fingers inside you!"
"Be quiet...," Tracks replied, turning his helm away from the glass. This argument was growing old. "That was a coincidence. It could have happened to anyone..."
"But it didn't," his reflection snapped back. "They must know."
"No! Th-they...they can't know."
"So what? You wait until they find out? Bumblebee won't keep silent forever! He'll say something, you know he will, unless you take action!"
"...can't," the corvette mumbled weakly. He slid the rag across his front, not paying any mind to the sting that came as wax was pressed into fresh cuts.
"Why not? It's your fault- you were the one who slipped up!"
"No one can know," Tracks repeated, skittering around the question.
The second 'bot slammed his fists against the glass, cracking it. "But he does! Are you going to really pretend that he didn't see us; didn't hear you!"
"It didn't happen," the blue mech countered. "None of it did." Silence followed, where the reflection did nothing but growl lowly in his vocalizer. But suddenly, his shoulders sagged, all the fight leaving him.
"Didn't happen you say... b-but, but I can feel him though," the other mech gasped, pressing against the mirror. Optics shuttered tightly, and lip components curled on the whimper that started to rise. "Inside of me, around me... Like sludge: black, corrosive, tainting... G-get him out; g-get him o-off! G-g-g-g-g-get h-him o-of-!"
"Tracks?"
A knock cut through the darkness, choking the rising scream.
Slowly, Tracks pushed himself off the mirror, glancing over his back fearfully. The lamp on his desk offered little illumination; just enough to make out the contours of the door further along the room. Another rap echoed across the room as the mech just beyond knocked a second time.
"Tracks... you in there?"
Blaster...
It was Blaster.
"Make him go away," the mech in the mirror hissed lowly. "Don't let him see!"
Tracks hushed the reflection, keeping his optics fixed to the door. They both had to be silent, lest the boombox hear him. He couldn't find out, couldn't know what he had become...
"Guess he's not here...," Blaster mumbled softly through the metal. The sigh the red mech gave was audible; so was the shuffling of his pedes. A klik later, the communications officer was finally retreating from the corvette's door. Still, Tracks did not dare to even cycle another intake until the silence continued to stretch on, confirming that no wandering audio receptors lingered outside his room. Wearily, he turned his helm back to the mirror.
The other mech was waiting there for him, optics dim with defeat. "No... they can't know," he agreed through the glass. "No one must know."
Tracks crumpled to his knees, huddling against the frigid glass. His chassis trembled as he folded into himself, shutting his vocalizer down on the sobs that arose.
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