Chapter Text
The days that followed the incident were nothing. That was meant literally—Jetfire barely remembered them. Apparently, the virus nearly fried his processor, and he had to be placed on manual ventilation. He was told all of this by First Aid, and pieced together whatever he wasn't. The memory files from that period of time were completely corrupted, and Jetfire didn't even bother saving them.
First Aid refused to clear him for training or medbay duty, so he spent most of the day laying around, as usual. Skyfire seemed disappointed, if the twitching wings and stares framed by a furrowed brow were anything to go by. He took Jetstorm for the usual round of training despite Jetfire's inability to join. Jetstorm had watched him for a moment, sending him one final glance before closing the door. It was almost as if he cared.
Despite claiming she cared so deeply, Skywarp left with Thundercracker for the day, dismissing Jetfire's requests for her to stay. Why did she keep leaving?
So, Jetfire—big, stupid Jetfire—was left alone and useless. He couldn't help out in the medbay or train with Jetstorm. What else was there for him to do except nothing? Whatever.
He was nearly done reading a datapad when the doors opened. Jetstorm poked through, bright red and bright yellow plating behind him. At some point during his stint as a near-comatose patient, Jetstorm befriended the two mecha that kept harassing him. It was even more reason to stay inside.
"Hey!" Jetstorm said.
Jetfire shut off his datapad. "Hi."
"You just lay around all the time," Jetstorm said, wrinkling his olfactory ridge. As Jetfire pushed himself into a sitting position, he continued to speak. "Why don't you come out? We're gonna watch a movie."
Jetfire really didn't care for or about Jetstorm's company, but something in his spark twisted. Memories of movie nights with his… family wasn't quite the right word, but it was the closest he could get—came to mind. Buster yapping excitedly during action scenes, Blitzwing always choosing sad dog movies that left everyone but Starscream fuzzy-opticed by the end, cuddling with Starscream and the others as the movie played…
[You feel weird again.]
Jetfire jolted, drawn out of his misery by Jetstorm's comm. Every other mech at the base but him could sense EM fields, but Jetstorm was the only one that ever commented on his. It was odd. Surely, he was a ball of anger and misery at this point. How was that so hard to read?
But even Jetstorm couldn't identify it. He just knew it was strange. Maybe it was another effect of the glitch—he couldn't read anyone, and they couldn't read him.
"I'm fine," he muttered. "Just… tired."
He blinked, and suddenly Jetstorm was in front of him, a hand closing around his as Jetstorm attempted to pull him up. Jetfire allowed himself to be pulled, not truly caring about what was happening anymore.
"You're coming with us," Jetstorm said, leading him out of the room. "If you're gonna sit around, you can sit around on the couch in front of a screen with us."
Jetfire didn't protest. After all, Jetstorm was right. If he was going to do the same thing anyway, what difference did it make?
◇◇◇
The couch wasn't as large as the ones he saw before. It still fit them all, so he supposed it didn't matter. He sat at the side closest to the wall, against the armrest, and slumped into the corner. Jetstorm flopped beside him, limbs spread out. Sideswipe sat next to him in a hesitant but intentional show, leaving Sunstreaker to sit at the far side.
Sunstreaker leaned past Sideswipe and Jetstorm to stare at Jetfire. "You look like slag."
"Sunny—" Sideswipe groaned.
"Why does it matter?" Jetfire grumbled, fiddling with his bracelet as he found any excuse not to look the idiot in the optic. "I almost died last week, anyway. I think I'm allowed to look like slag."
Sunstreaker scowled at him. "No, you're not."
What? Was he serious?
Sunstreaker straightened himself, forcing his chest forward like a preening bird. "I'm going to help you. You can't just walk around looking like that."
Jetfire scowled at him. "What if I want to?"
Sunstreaker jolted backward, optics widening. Then, he leaned forward again, matching Jetfire's scowl.
"You're just saying that because looking like garbage makes you feel like garbage," Sunstreaker said. "You'll thank me later."
Jetfire highly doubted that. He was quite sure it was the other way around. He felt like garbage, so he looked like garbage. But he really didn't have the energy to argue. What was the point in resisting?
He shrugged and slumped back into his seat. "Sure. Whatever."
Sunstreaker stared at him, brow furrowed. Then, he leaned back with a huff. Soon, the movie was on, and Jetfire sagged in relief. No one would be bothering him until the end of it.
The movie opened with narration. What was it called again? Astro… astro something. That barely had anything to do with the narration. It was about a floating city full of humans and robots. The robots were subservient to the humans.
Despite the cheery tone of the narration, it was a horror show. The robots were torn to pieces, crushed, and otherwise destroyed, the surface of the planet covered in their parts. But the voice didn't view this as a tragedy—it happily thanked the robots 'for their service.'
Jetfire's grip tightened on the armrest as he fought a growl. At the same moment, another member of the watch party actually did growl. Beside him, Jetstorm leaned forward, wings tilting, as Sideswipe stilled.
"We can turn it off," Sideswipe said quietly.
"No!" Sunstreaker said a little too sharply. "It's fine. Keep playing it."
Jetstorm and Sideswipe exchanged glances. With a shrug, Sideswipe leaned back, and Jetstorm copied him. The movie continued. Some sort of weapon was tested, and one of the main characters died. At least, it seemed like he did.
But he was remade. Another character—his dad—used a component of the weapon to make him. Well, not truly him. Just a robotic copy. Jetfire's chestplates grew tight as something dark wormed its way into his spark. He withdrew his hand from the armrest to fidget with his bracelet.
The robot learned who he was just as his creator rejected him for not being a perfect copy. The dark thing in Jetfire's spark grew ugly, the pit creeping up to meet it. He brought the bracelet's charm to his mouth, gnawing on it, but it did little to suppress the feeling. Despite his distress, he was enraptured. This was real in a way nothing had been before.
The robot ran, and oh frag, how Jetfire wished he could. What would he do if he left this place behind? Where would he go? It didn't matter. He would be free. No one could force him to fight, or lie to him, or take control of his body again.
The robot was mistaken for a human and taken in by group of them. He resuscitated a long powered down robot and befriended the humans, but it was all torn apart when the head human of the group—the adult—revealed the truth. Jetstorm let out a squeal as the robot was tazed and captured. A quick scan of the couch revealed the power occupants were in similar states of distress, though as Jetfire looked, Sunstreaker turned toward him, quickly changing his expression into something more stoic.
But Jetfire already saw him upset. What point was there in hiding it?
The robot woke in an arena, the adult narrating to a crowd. His first opponent entered, and Jetfire shut his optics. Rather than being treated as living beings, the robot's arena opponents were merely obstacles. All of the robots in the story so far existed in a liminal state of personhood—their lives only mattered if they were important. Otherwise, they could be stepped on for a cheap joke.
Why the contradiction? Did the lives of robots matter or did they not? Did the main character feel sorrow for the lives he was taking, or were they not supposed to think about it?
The ugly thing in Jetfire's chest squirmed. The pit consumed him, numbing his limbs. What made some of them matter so much more than others? Was it because they looked like the humans? If the main character wasn't built to mimic a human, would he even be considered a person? He was barely even considered one now. The adult certainly didn't think he was one.
Opponent after opponent fell. His last was the robot that he revived. He refused to fight. Though he had with the others, they ignored his please. But the one he revived listened. They stood together against the humans.
But the Enforcers from the floating city arrived. The robot surrendered himself to them, not wanting anyone to get hurt. Jetfire brought his hand to his chest as his spark pulsed. The robot was so good, even after being forced to fight. All he wanted was to keep everyone safe.
Jetfire wanted to run away. He was satisfied when he ruined Skyfire's plans, delighted at any small slight he could muster. He wanted to take his massive hands and wrap them around Star's helm and squeeze. He… he wanted to hurt someone. Why was he so terrible? Why couldn't he just be good?
The movie kept going. The robot fought, remaining good in the face of everything thrown at him. He sacrificed himself, and was brought back by the friend he revived. Jetfire's frame was numb, his vision covered in static, as the credits began.
[You okay?]
Jetfire flicked his wings and forced himself to sit up. He attempted to speak, but all that escaped from his vocalizer was a pitiful whine. His claws dug into his chest as his spark burned. Gentle arms wrapped around him, but they couldn't enclose him.
Stupid fragging frame. He was too big to be hugged. It was dumb, but it was yet another thing to pile on.
"What's wrong?"
Jetstorm's voice was soft, barely above a murmur. His wings were low. Behind him, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker stared. Shame rose within Jetfire, and he buried his face in his hands.
"Well, what is it?"
Sunstreaker's voice was harsh, cutting through the air and his audials. Jetfire let out a quiet hiss.
"Seriously," Sunstreaker said. "What's with the freakout?"
"Sunny—"
"It's just a movie!" Sunstreaker said.
"Sunny!"
Sunstreaker whipped toward Sideswipe. "What?"
"Stop being being aft!" Sideswipe snapped.
Sunstreaker's optics widened as he leaned backward. Then, with a rattle of his plating, he leaned forward again, teeth bared.
"Me?" He hissed. "An aft? I'm not the one losing it over a movie!"
"It's not the movie!"
Jetfire immediately covered his mouth. Why was his voice so loud? Why did his vocalizer choose now, of all moments, to suddenly work? The room was silent as the words tumbled out.
"It's… it's just…" Jetfire stammered. "I'm a terrible mech. I didn't want to fight. I—I didn't even really want to be a part of a combiner. And now I can't go home, even though I agreed to do it because I thought it'd get us home faster, and—and I fragging hate Skyfire! Starscream abandoned me, and Skywarp keeps leaving, and no one cares! I just wanted to complete my medical training…"
Had he really just said all of that? How could he let himself say that? The continued silence only assured Jetfire of what he already knew: he was a terrible mech, and he should've kept his mouth shut. He closed his optics, hiding himself again.
"Y… y'know, the movie upset me, too," Sunstreaker said quietly. "I shouldn't have said that about you. I just thought you'd think I was lame if you, uh… knew."
Jetfire huffed. What did it matter? And why was he telling him this?
"I used to be a… waste disposal drone—" The last part was said quickly, as if speaking those three words brought him discomfort. "—and that first part made me think about it, with all the narration and scrapped bots and everything. I work so hard on my appearance and I train every day to make sure I'm the best I can be, but sometimes I think about it, and I wonder if… well. I wonder if garbage is all I'll ever be good for."
Jetfire opened his optics. Sunstreaker's plating was tense. Beside him, Sideswipe watched quietly, optics wide and focused.
"You're not garbage!" Jetstorm said.
Sunstreaker nodded. "And Jetfire's not just a battle bot."
Was he? His medic training fell to the wayside in favor of battle training and missions. Even setting aside the time he was ill, he had barely done any since becoming part of Safeguard. Truly, he had barely done anything at all aside from fight and prepare to fight.
Sideswipe hummed, bring a hand to his chin. "There's gotta be someone we can talk to."
Jetfire fiddled with his bracelet as Jetstorm adjusted his embrace, giving him a gentle squeeze. He could tell Skywarp, but she didn't have the power to do anything. Star and Skyfire already knew—and they'd lied to him just to get him to agree. Something clicked in the back of his mind, a search that he didn't realize he initiated returning results.
Prowl. Prowl refused to let them include him in Safeguard until he gave permission. If he told Prowl that permission was given under false circumstances, surely he'd understand!
"I'm going to talk to Prowl," Jetfire said, pushing himself up from his seat.
Jetstorm's weight pulled him back down. Well, it didn't really—he could lift his partner with ease—but he didn't want the newspark to fall off, so he had to wait for him to let him go. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker exchanged glances. Sideswipe's brow furrowed. Sunstreaker shrugged.
"Prowl?" Sideswipe said.
"He wanted my permission before everything happened," Jetfire said. "And he's second in command. He'll have the power to do something about this."
Sideswipe shifted his weight. "If you say so."
An awkward but brief silence passed over the group. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker exchanged glances again. Jetstorm squeezed Jetfire again. Finally, Jetfire turned and returned the hug. Jetstorm's wings fluttered as he laid his chin on Jetfire's shoulder.
"You know what we gotta do first?" Sunstreaker said, a grin spreading across his face.
Jetfire squinted at him. "What?"
"A makeover!" Sunstreaker said. He turned toward the door, motioning for Jetfire to follow. "C'mon, let's head to the washracks."
◇◇◇
Thank frag the washracks were empty. Jetfire had no idea what would've happened if they weren't. Sunstreaker stood proudly, hands on his hips, as he surveyed the washrack.
"This'll do," he said.
Sideswipe frowned at him. "This is the only washrack."
"And it'll do!" Sunstreaker said, taking a step forward.
He moved to the nearest rack, opening his storage compartment. Various bottles and tools tumbled out of it. Jetstorm came up behind him, wings tilted in bewilderment.
"You had all that in there?" He asked.
"I always keep supplies on hand!" Sunstreaker said. "You know. For emergencies."
He and Jetfire had very different definitions of what constituted an emergency. Polish and buffers didn't even make the list of items he would expect for one. His list included spark resuscitators and jumper cables, not beauty products.
Sunstreaker shoved Jetstorm away from the rack. Jetstorm stumbled backward with a quiet noise, wings flicking. With a swift motion, Sunstreaker turned on the spray. He stared at Jetfire and pointed toward it.
"You," he said. "Get under there."
Jetfire took a step forward. He fiddled with his bracelet, something rooting him in place. Sunstreaker reached over and pulled him under with a roll of his optics. Jetfire yelped.
Something soft brushed against his plating. He shuddered, attempting to pull away, but a gentle grip stopped him.
"You're fine," Sunstreaker said. "Just let me work."
The scrubbing continued. Slowly, Jetfire sank into it, his plating relaxing. It was… unexpectedly pleasant. He closed his optics, and—wait… was that a second sponge? Jetfire opened them again, Sideswipe having joined Sunstreaker. Jetfire fought not to flick his wings, his plating beginning to crawl at being surrounded.
"You okay?" Sideswipe asked.
Jetfire flinched.
Sideswipe frowned. "What's up?"
Jetfire's vocalizer refused to work, so he sent a message. [Too close.]
Sideswipe backed away. The pit gnawed at Jetfire's belly, warm embarrassment creeping through his fuel lines. No other mecha had this problem. They didn't start hissing and flinching like a startled cybercat when others came near them.
A jolt passed through his wings, sending a painful zing through his spark. Jetfire turned to the source, claws ready to strike.
"Woah!" Sunstreaker said.
Jetfire lowered his hand. Why did he do that? Why couldn't he just… not?
"Sorry," he muttered. "They're sensitive."
Sunstreaker offered him the sponge in his hand. "I'll let you do them, then."
Hesitantly, Jetfire took the offered sponge. Sunstreaker grabbed another sponge and quickly returned to cleaning. Jetfire put the sponge against his wing, fighting a shudder at the contact. When he was first created, Starscream helped him calibrate his touch sensors. Now that most of his neurocircuits were replaced during the reformatting, they needed to be recalibrated. But Starscream was gone, and Skywarp definitely wasn't thinking about it.
He dragged the sponge down, and this time, he did shudder. Despite the dentae-grinding discomfort, he forced himself to continue, until eventually he had the fronts of both wings done. It was then he realized a very important issue: he couldn't reach the backs of his wings.
If he just left them uncleaned, would anyone notice?
"Yeesh," Sunstreaker said, crouching near Jetfire's knee. "I thought you were gray but turns out you're just that dirty."
"I—well—" Jetfire stammered.
When was the last time he had used a washrack? It was before he was reformatted, likely before he even got stuck here. Although he didn't intentionally avoid them, he didn't quite care for his appearance. Something was just discomforting about washing himself, aside from the uncalibrated sensors.
Speaking of… there was no way he would get away with leaving the backs of his wings alone now. They may have been darker than the rest of him, but if he let himself get as dirty as Sunstreaker claimed, it would still be noticeable.
Jetfire's wings lowered. In what was possibly the worst timing ever, Sunstreaker stood up, thwacking his helm against the bottom of Jetfire's wing. Both mecha flinched away from each other, a quiet hiss escaping from Jetfire's vocalizer as Sunstreaker yelped.
"Sorry," Jetfire said.
Sunstreaker rubbed his helm as he stood up the rest of the way. "It's fine. Was bound to happen sooner or later. Your wings are really big."
Jetfire flicked his wings. They really were. Before he was reformatted, they were long, thin things that stuck straight up into the air in their natural position. Now, they were broad, easily covering his back. His entire alt mode had changed. The wings were just the most obvious part of it.
(He couldn't take off horizontally anymore, for one, though he'd never tell anyone that. He either had to leap like Starscream or take off with his nose to the sky. Discovering that last one was an accident.)
"I… yeah," Jetfire said. "They are."
How was he going to…?
[You need any help?] Jetstorm asked him.
Jetfire closed his optics and steeled himself.
[Yeah. Just a little. I can't reach the backs of my wings,] he sent.
Jetstorm approached him, wings held high. He took a sponge from Sunstreaker's supply. He held it up to Jetfire before moving to the other side of him. The sponge brushed against his wing, and Jetfire fought not to flinch again.
[It's okay,] Jetstorm sent. [It was hard to calibrate my wing sensors, too.]
Jetstorm picked the sponge up and began another stroke. A shudder ran through Jetfire's plating. He grabbed the charm on his bracelet and shoved it into his mouth. Eventually, the wing was done. Jetstorm paused before moving onto the other wing, giving Jetfire a moment of reprieve.
After both wings were cleaned and Sunstreaker finished with everything else, the spray was turned off. Sunstreaker stepped back, admiring his work. Jetfire wilted under the gaze of the other three occupants of the room.
"Such a brilliant red," Sunstreaker mumbled, heading toward his supplies. He dug through them. "I know I have a match."
Jetfire flicked his wings, glancing at Sideswipe as he whispered, "Do I really need paint?"
Sideswipe shrugged.
Sunstreaker paused, mumbling something Jetfire couldn't make out. Then, he stood up, a small set of paint jars in his hands. He placed them on the ground and motioned for Jetfire to sit. As he opened the first one and dipped his brush in, Jetfire decided to ask.
"Do I really need this?"
Sunstreaker raised his brows. Jetfire stared at him blankly.
"Of course you do!" Sunstreaker said. "Nobody repainted you after your crash, and you definitely weren't taking care of yourself after missions. You've got little scratches everywhere!"
Were they really that important? It was a bit too late to protest now. The brush pressed gently into his plating. Sunstreaker was meticulous with his work. Slow, repeated strokes made Jetfire's plating relax. He closed his optics, losing himself to the sensation.
When he opened them again, it was to Sunstreaker clapping his hands and declaring his work, "Some of my best in a long time!"
Jetfire had no idea what his other works were, so he couldn't dispute it. But was painting over some scratches really so special? Before he could say anything, Sunstreaker was reaching into his storage space. He pulled out a small mirror and held it up.
"You've gotta see it!" Sunstreaker said, a grin spreading across his face. "You look so much better now!"
The mirror was tiny. Jetfire could see a glimpse of bright white plating at best. How was he supposed to—?
Jetfire startled as the mirror unfolded. It was as tall as Sunstreaker, and he could barely see the mech's helm at the top of it. Jetfire took a step back so the mirror could show all of him at once. He had no idea how he'd looked before, but now his plating was brilliant. It caught the light in just the right ways, making him look much shinier than he'd ever seen before.
He tilted his helm, and—were those sparkles? Was the paint iridescent?
Sunstreaker poked his head around the mirror. "Pretty cool, right?"
Jetfire nodded. It really was. He barely wanted to look at himself at the best of times, but now… it was nice. Strangely, he did feel a little better. Maybe Sunstreaker was on to something with the whole 'looking like garbage makes someone feel like garbage' idea.
Sunstreaker folded up the mirror and shoved it into his storage space. Then, he turned to the other two occupants of the room and crossed his arms.
"Well, I'm beat," he said. "How about we go get some food?"
Sideswipe and Jetstorm nodded. The group began to head out. Jetfire lingered. His fuel levels were low—still-empty secondary tank and a rapidly dwindling primary tank—but something in the back of his processor didn't want to.
"You coming?" Jetstorm asked, wings tilted.
Jetfire fiddled with his bracelet. "Uh, yeah. I'm coming."
The cafeteria was busier than usual. Nearly all of the seats were taken. Jetfire usually avoided spending time there after Starscream left, since Skywarp was barely around to eat with him. He couldn't be here alone. He just couldn't.
Already, his spark was pulsing, and they were only in the doorway. It was just so loud. Mecha were chattering over each other, words rolling and bouncing through the room in a cacaphonic mess. There were so many mecha.
The group took a seat. Jetfire hesitated, torn between sitting in the corner and at the aisle, before Jetstorm waved him over. He sat beside Jetstorm as the others settled in. Sideswipe went to get the group their rations, leaving Jetfire, Jetstorm, and Sunstreaker together.
Sunstreaker leaned forward.
"So, how's life with the menaces?" Sunstreaker asked. "We haven't seen you around since you got reformatted. You super busy or something?"
"Menaces?" Jetfire asked.
Sunstreaker gestured with his hand. "You know. Them. Well, her, I guess, since the other one turned traitor."
Just like that, Jetfire was reminded that these mecha, despite their fleeting acts of kindness, were not his allies. He flicked his wings harshly.
"They're not menaces, they're mecha," Jetfire growled. "And it's fine. Reformatting just took a lot out of me, so I had to recover."
Jetfire tapped his fingers against the table. He didn't want to argue, but he couldn't let Sunstreaker just say things like that.
[Your 'friend' is an aft,] Jetfire sent to Jetstorm. [He hates Seekers.]
Jetstorm's wings lowered.
"Star and Thundercracker are Seekers and you're nice to them," Jetstorm said. "Why is Skywarp any different?"
Jetfire recalled the ever-escalating prank war from the first few days he was here that only ended when Elita put a stop to it. Star implied Sunstreaker played such pranks against them before. Was he really kinder to them, or were they just less acceptable targets?
"Star and Thundercracker aren't walking around with the brand of our enemies on their wings," Sunstreaker said. "They took off all their weapons and filed down their claws. They're harmless. Do you know how weird it is to go into battle only to get back and stare into a face that looks exactly like the one you just fought?"
"They're not harmless," Jetfire muttered.
They lied to him. Thundercracker just watched as Skyfire and Star mocked him while he was having processor surges. Skyfire pinned down Starscream, and said he did the same to Star until she stopped struggling. They were helping keep Pharma locked away. The last thing they were was harmless.
"Not harmless?" Sunstreaker said, raising a brow. "Skyfire's a big softie. He wouldn't hurt a fly. Just the other day, he caught a mouse in the rec room and carried it outside. Even if Thundercracker and Star wanted to pull something, he'd never let them get away with it."
The ugly thing in Jetfire's spark writhed. For the thousandth time, he wondered how someone could be so kind and gentle yet so inconsiderate and cruel. First Jetstorm, now a mouse. Was it just him? What had he done?
"I'm just going to put these here…"
The group quieted as Sideswipe placed the cubes on the table. With one still left in his hand, he sat at his seat, optics flicking between Jetfire and Sunstreaker. With a sharp glare at Jetfire, Sunstreaker took his cube. He slid the other toward Jetstorm. With a sigh, Jetfire reached for his.
Conversation abandoned in place of food, the group sipped their energeon. There was no such thing as silence in the mess hall, but Jetfire still felt the lack of words in every scute of his plating. He fumbled with the lid of his cube.
Energeon, as always, was boring. He knew he needed it, but was it really the only option? Sure, he had no idea how mecha would react to knowing he had his fuel processing system altered, but was that really worse than drinking this boring slag?
The liquid sloshed inside the cube as he lifted it. A couple drops spilled onto his hand. He should just drink it. His plating hurt. Why was he so tense?
He put the cube to his lips. Energeon spilled into his mouth. Immediately, something clicked in the back of his processor, and he fought not to spit it out. His spark pulsed. He forced himself to swallow. Slowly, he placed the cube back on the table.
Just the thought of taking another sip made him shudder. But one sip wasn't enough to fill his tanks. So, after a moment, he brought the cube to his lips again. Suddenly, the taste that was so bland before became repulsive. Everything in the back of his processor screamed for him to spit it out, but he forced himself to swallow.
What was wrong with him?
He placed the cube back on the table. Maybe two sips was enough. He could try again later when he was alone—preferably hidden behind the spare berth in the room. When the rest of the group finished, his cube was still nearly full.
Sunstreaker gathered the empty cubes to carry them to the receptacle. After he was out of audial range, Jetstorm leaned toward Sideswipe.
"Sunstreaker is being mean," he said. "I'm not going to keep hanging out with you guys if he's gonna keep saying slag about Seekers."
Sideswipe frowned. "I can try to get him to lay off. But why didn't you say anything before?"
"It wasn't—" Jetstorm paused, scrunching his olfactory ridge. "I didn't realize what he actually meant before."
A message came through Jetfire's comm.
[I don't want to be his friend if he's gonna be a jerk to you.]
It should've felt comforting. Jetfire fiddled with the lid of his cube, struggling to reseal it. It should've warmed his spark and made him feel cared for. Instead, a sneaking apprehension crept in.
"Oh," Sideswipe said quietly. "I thought you knew."
Jetstorm was only a handful of months old. No one was teaching him the history of Cybertron. How would he ever know? Even Jetfire could realize that.
Sunstreaker returned, and the group quieted. He sat, optics slowly trailing toward Jetfire. He pointed at something below him.
"Are you going to finish that anytime soon?" He asked.
Jetfire shook his helm. "I wasn't as hungry as I thought. I'll save it for later."
Sunstreaker scrutinized him for a moment, optics narrowed, then shrugged.
"I heard some talk while I was putting the cubes away," he said. "Prowl is free and in his office right now, if you wanted to talk to him right away."
Jetfire finally resealed the cube. He placed it in his cockpit—the thing opened from his plating instead of the glass now. It took him forever to figure that one out. He stood up.
"Yeah," he said. "I can go right now."
The quiet hum of hope ran beneath his plating. If he convinced Prowl he gave consent under false pretenses, Prowl would listen. Maybe he could even be reclassified as a medic-in-training. He slipped through the doorway, carefully avoiding a set of mecha entering.
Pedesteps followed him down the hall. He turned toward the source to find Jetstorm and the other two trailing after him. He hummed at them questioningly, unable to come up with a phrase that made sense to ask.
"We're coming with you!" Jetstorm said.
Sideswipe kicked his pede. "Yeah. Prowl's not exactly the friendliest mech."
Jetfire knew that. Prowl was the one who interrogated him after Starscream left, and one of the ones who allowed him to go on his first mission. He may not have been warm and fuzzy, but he at least seemed to have principles. That was enough.
Jetfire shrugged and continued down the hall. Eventually, he reached the door, Jetstorm's posse still behind him. He knocked.
"He might not let you in," Sideswipe said.
The door slid open. Jetfire stepped through. Blue optics stared at him from the desk in the back. Doorwings high in greeting and face carefully blank, Prowl motioned toward one of the chairs nearby.
"Have a seat."
Jetfire sat. Prowl pressed a button on his desk and the door slid shut.
"What brings you here?" Prowl asked, staring straight ahead as if Jetfire wasn't there.
Jetfire squeezed the charm on his bracelet. He stuck his claws into it, running them along the few bitemarks he managed to leave. Then, he wrung his hands.
"Before I became a part of Safeguard, you wanted to make sure I gave permission," Jetfire said. "I gave it, but I didn't know what it meant. I wouldn't have if I knew."
Prowl blinked, optics brightening, as if finally present in the room. He turned toward Jetfire with a frown.
"But you consented," Prowl said.
"Y-yes, I did, but—" Jetfire wrung his hands again. "I didn't know! No one told me what it actually entailed, and I assumed wrong. If I knew the truth, I wouldn't have."
Prowl's optics narrowed. "Yet you consented."
Jetfire twitched his wings. "Yes, but—"
"You gave your consent," Prowl said. "It has already been done. There's no backing out now."
"I wouldn't have given it if—"
Prowl flicked his wings harshly, silencing Jetfire.
"Your consent was given. It cannot be withdrawn," Prowl said. "False pretenses or not, you are a valuable asset. There is no reversing what was done to you. It would be a waste not to use Safeguard on the battlefield."
This wasn't how he wanted this to go at all! Jetfire fought not to bare his teeth, torn between growling at Prowl and running out of the room.
"I don't want to fight!" He shouted. "I want to be a medic!"
Prowl brought his hand to his face and sighed. He turned back toward Jetfire, cold optics burning into him.
"I know this isn't what you want to hear," Prowl said. "But you are more useful fighting as Safeguard than as a medic. It doesn't matter what you want, Jetfire, it matters what we need."
Jetfire wanted to leap across the desk and grip Prowl's neck with all the force he could muster. He wanted to take off into the sky and never return. He wanted to fragging kill Skyfire. But he could do none of those things, so he sat, spark hurting, as he wrung his hands until the joints creaked.
He lowered his helm.
"I understand," he whispered.
No one was going to help him. Anyone that wanted to couldn't, and anyone that could didn't care. He was truly and completely on his own. He had to do something, but what was there to do?
Numbly, he bid farewell to Prowl and left the office. Jetstorm approached him, but didn't speak. Jetfire sighed.
"Didn't go well, I guess," Sideswipe said quietly. At Jetfire's withering glare, he added, "Prowl's hard-coded. You probably weren't gonna get him to change his mind no matter what you said."
So they just let him do that knowing it wouldn't even work? Jetfire fiddled with the bracelet, fighting the urge to yell. It wasn't their fault. None of this was.
"It was worth a try," Sideswipe said. "There was always a chance."
"Right," Jetfire muttered.
Always a chance, except there wasn't anymore. Jetfire closed his optics. Even seeing was too much right now.
"I just want to go back."
Jetstorm stepped ahead, brushing his hand against Jetfire's pauldron as he walked by. He flicked his wings and held them high.
"I wanna head back, too," he said. "Let's go."
He hadn't meant back to the room, but where else was he going to go? He trailed after Jetstorm. His limbs were somehow both numb and overly sensitive—every shift and click of plating as he walked vibrated through him, but he was helpless to stop himself as he kept putting one foot in front of the other.
When they reached the door, Jetstorm paused in front of it. His wings lowered as he turned toward Jetfire.
"I think you should talk to Skywarp," Jetstorm said.
A few weeks ago, Jetfire may have agreed. But now, his spark sized in the same way as it had when he attempted to drink energeon, the phantom memory of fingers in his mouth holding him hostage. He shook his helm.
Jetstorm sighed and unlocked the door. He walked across the room and hopped onto the spare berth. Jetfire moved past him to sit on the floor, but froze as his arm was grabbed. Twitching his wings, he turned back toward Jetstorm.
Jetstorm patted the berth.
"C'mon," he said.
Maybe he wanted to be comfortable just this once, or maybe it was spite because he knew Star normally used that berth. Jetfire didn't know. But he obeyed his partner.
Jetstorm pulled him close, purring. The gentle vibration unlocked something inside of him, letting his too-tight plating go slack. He wrapped his arms around Jetstorm and closed his optics.
"Yeah," Jetstorm muttered. "Let's stay like this for a little while. Just us."
Jetfire purred his own engine. Just them. No Skyfire or Star to yell at them, no Prowl to send them on missions, no Skywarp to… to…
It was nice. For the first time since Starscream left, he was safe.