Work Text:
"Thank you.”
The prompt came from across the bar, Swerve had just served Ambulon a drink: a cautionary Mid-Grade to start the evening. Ambulon was already holding the drink and looked mildly disgruntled by Swerve’s tone. Because of that expression, Swerve twitched and decided it’d be safer to let go of his grievances. Ambulon clearly didn’t understand his transgression. Swerve shuffled away to deal with other customers who practiced polite conduct, muttering a surly “Never mind,” as he departed.
Ambulon wasn’t ignorant, he knew what Swerve expected from him but didn’t have the energy for pandering to silly formalities. Since joining the Lost Light, Ambulon scarcely had the energy for anything. Even coming online in the morning was an ordeal he didn’t want to think about. As if his power reserves were eking out of him through a fissure he couldn’t find to patch up.
With his rapidly depleting energy in mind, Ambulon swallowed half his Mid-Grade in one gulp. If he wanted to function through the night he needed all the support he could get. Energon had become his crutch and Ambulon found comfort in its stalwart support. But it wasn’t all he needed, and that was why he hadn’t left Swerve’s immediately after procuring his fuel.
There were spare seats available but Ambulon chose to remain standing. The seats were dotted round the tables occupied by the mechs that avoided Ambulon when they booked appointments for routine maintenance. They were responsible for Ambulon’s overall workload becoming significantly lighter and that was why he had time to visit Swerve’s bar. Truthfully, Ambulon would rather bury himself in work’s pleasant distraction. Once Ambulon became involved in his studies it was as if the rest of the ship’s pandemonium dropped away, for a time, sooner or later his activities were spoiled by Ratchet. The CMO made habit of hunting Ambulon down and kicking him out of the office on his off-shifts while reminding Ambulon that he didn’t get paid for overtime. Furthermore Ratchet claimed he didn’t want sloppy, overworked staff as part of his team.
Ambulon never objected, he respected his place in the hierarchy, but he certainly though a lot of expletives.
Today, when Ratchet had barged in expecting to give a lecture and turf Ambulon out of his comfort zone, Ambulon felt satisfied to inform Ratchet that he was already leaving.
“I’ve got plans,” he said, working too hard to sound casual, nevertheless Ratchet was visibly dumbfounded, his jaw churning out garbled language as he searched for a retort.
“Good for you,” he settled on. Ambulon nodded in his CMO’s direction as he left.
The orchestrator of the aforementioned plans was due to meet Ambulon five minutes ago.
Ambulon stood in no-man’s land between the the bar and seating area, swirling his mid-grade and giving the doorway snappy looks.
He didn’t know why Pipes was keeping him waiting. Actually, Ambulon didn’t understand why Pipes had even shown an interest in him at all. He supposed it was a matter of settling debt. But the Red Rust conundrum on Delphi wasn’t solely resolved by Ambulon. His role was nearly superfluous compared to First Aid, or Ratchet, Drift or even Fortress Maximus. Ambulon assumed Pipes would’ve offered them a similar courtesy as well, but when he made inquiries First Aid was stumped. He hadn’t had contact with Pipes since the incident.
“Is it so hard to believe that maybe Pipes likes you?” First Aid asked.
Well…yes. Ambulon didn’t say so aloud, he conveyed a similar meaning through quiet grumbling. First Aid mocked him for being crotchety and ordered Ambulon to give Pipes a chance. But after a stint of anxious waiting, Ambulon grew doubtful.
Tension was making his plating crawl. He was an outlandish figure standing by himself, an obstacle for other mechs to shoulder pass on their way to top up and then brush past again as they rejoined their friends.
Watching the room infected Ambulon with a surreal sense of reflection. Swerve’s bar wasn’t unlike the refectory at the Special Programs Facility, which he seemed to be thinking about more and more recently.
“Building a Stronger Future” was the slogan printed on a huge banner hung over the entry. Decepticon's loved their propaganda. He remembered reading it at the recruitment festival and feeling hopeful. Ambulon was young and naive when the war arrived on his doorstep. It took everything he owned.
After that Ambulon wanted to make a difference so badly that he sacrificed his life, his alt-mode and even his name to have a taste of Decepticon victory - and all it achieved was this: standing in a bar dominated by Autobots, still alone.
It was a difficult state of being to adjust to.
Not only was he surrounded by mechs he’d been conditioned to hate, but Ambulon was used to keeping his mind occupied. Others might call this freedom but they’d be wrong. Ambulon associated his current condition with boredom. He got impatient waiting for nothing.
With that Ambulon set down his cube with undue force, left it behind and made for the exit. Pipes’ absence would be recorded as poor judgment on Ambulon’s part. He knew better than to indulge in First Aid’s fanciful make-believe. The rose-tint varnishing First Aid’s world equalised the sickly sentiment of being surrounded by crowds of happy faces. Ambulon had no place in it, though it followed him. After he left the bar Ambulon was still heard laughter.
Delphi had been an eerie, quiet facility, as if death had a physical presence in corridors. It stood apart from the atmosphere on the Lost Light, which reminded him of someplace else. For the most part since he’d defected, Ambulon had been able to bury his past allegiance. But recently the memories didn’t only come creeping back to him in the lonesome nights
The Autobots viewed the Combiners Program as some sort of unspeakable horror, ranking in a category rivalled to D.J.D. To Ambulon it was more than a torture chamber dressed as a science facility. It was home.
They told him it was where he belonged, and, after being condemned to a future so bleak that Relinquishment Clinics looked friendlier by the day, what choice did Ambulon have but to believe in the words of ambitious scientists, who promised Ambulon a purpose and a place among the Decepticon regime.
They gave that speech to another five mechs, who Ambulon found to be easily relatable individuals. They were all vulnerable mechs at the time and in need of some brightness in their days. Together, they did become stronger. But only when they were literally welded together - or so they joked.
It wasn’t just the possibility of becoming a combiner that gave Ambulon strength it was the overall togetherness of his team.
The scientists called it The Bond. Once it was formed, Ambulon and his Unit had naively thought that they’d never be alone again. Ambulon didn’t imagine the resilience of their unity. To form an effective team they needed a limitless understanding of each other. The Bond provided that. It was an intrusive element, but it also brought comfort and understanding that surpassed normal conventions.
On the days Ambulon, or 4 of 6 (as he was then designated), pinged for his alt mode his grief was shared. His feelings were never discredited.
Their T-Cogs were among the first things to be taken, along with their names. It equalised them in preparation to become an elite warrior, primed by Megatron himself. They would be born again heroes: it was a prize that made them the envy of many, but for the candidates the true reward came from within, being dependable and equally able to depend on others. It was everything.
4 of 6 would lie with his other likenesses in the long, dark nights and they would be his support as he would be their comfort.
However, if he was so content, why had he abandoned his warm collective to live as an outcast among strangers? The question haunted him. Ambulon didn’t want to acknowledge the theory that he could have made a mistake, fearing it’d find a foundation. To stay distracted, Ambulon’s wistful wandering had taken him to the entrance of the Observation Deck.
It was a common retreat for Ambulon. As usual the room was pleasantly uncrowded, which greatly added to its appeal along with a notion of escapism that made Ambulon relish his visits.
As he took a step into the room and an issue presented itself.
Deadlock was there, practicing his with his swords.
Ambulon stayed in the doorway.
The glass ceiling let in the nebulous glow of space and the ripples cast pink shadows over Deadlock’s metal as he moved. It was graceful, and mesmerising to watch. Not that Ambulon was staring. But he did find Deadlock to be a creature to envy.
Though their backgrounds were mirrored, the crew accepted Deadlock’s presence more readily than they welcomed Ambulon and it made no sense. Ambulon had saved more mechs than he’d killed, while Deadlock was famed for severing heads. Somehow, by a change of name and attitude, he was absolved and his past was negated.
But Ambulon would remember because he remembered repairing the damage. Deadlock was a frighteningly capable fighter, the idea of sharing a room with him made Ambulon uncomfortable, so he didn’t want to stay.
Lingering too long took away Ambulon’s opportunity to disappear.
“Hey, I thought I’d find you here.” A hand came down on Ambulon’s shoulder, blocking him in the threshold of the Observation Deck. “Sorry I’m late, I thought we’d arranged to meet at Swerve’s.”
Ambulon was so surprised to see him that he didn’t object when a feeling of magnetism compelled him into the Observation Deck, he followed Pipes to a distant corner of the room. Ambulon kept a cautious optic on Deadlock, who’d paused in his practices to watch his company cross the floor and seat themselves on a bench facing the vastness of space.
“We did arrange to meet at bar,” said Ambulon. Unbeknownst to him, moments after he’d left Pipes had arrived but after lingering for a while he assumed there’d been a mistake. Pipes prodded a switch on the side of his helm, his visor flipped up and Ambulon was surprised to be greeted by such an expressive pair of optics. Caught off guard, he went on to explain, “I thought you weren’t coming,” and sounded somewhat defensive.
Pipes stammered,
“I got held up, I’m sorry, I really should’ve called ahead,” but despite being apologetic he wasn’t entirely passive. Common sense suggested that if Ambulon was truly concerned for Pipes’ whereabouts then he could’ve made a comm. call or even turn to the ship’s internal locator as Pipes had done to track down his misplaced company. It occurred to Pipes that Ambulon had given up on their evening together very quickly.
“Well, we’rve found each other now so it doesn’t matter, right?” Pipes’ enthusiasm was partly contrived and the effort was hardly reciprocated. Ambulon’s lips twitched under the duress of attempting a smile. It looked painful, painful enough to cause concern. “Hey, are you okay? You don’t seem like yourself.”
Then how was he normally? Ambulon could seldom remember a time when anyone ever remarked that he was cheerful.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You’re not mad at me are you?”
Autobot sensitivity was always so cloying. Ambulon breathed heavily.
“No, Pipes.”
They both stiffened. Ambulon’s tone ushered in more stilted concern.
“Is Ratchet treating you okay in the medical bay?”
If by ‘okay ’ Pipes meant: was Ratchet favouring First Aid and turning Ambulon into an honoured dogsbody? Then Ambulon supposed he was being treated…
“As well as can be expected.”
Pipes made a quiet sound, and drummed his fingers against the bench.
“…umm, so, how’s your day been then?”
The exasperation in Ambulon unintentionally made him appear rude. He bowed forward and felt his agitation physically grow as he attempted menial conversation. Such questions weren’t needed in The Bond, everyone already knew how the other members of the unit were feelings.
“I don’t know.” Being deliberately vague made Ambulon feel guilty, as if he owed Pipes for expression relative concern. It was the same politeness everyone seemed to expect from him and Ambulon’s nature was rebelling against the assumption that he was going to fit in on this forsaken ship!
The crew were already experiencing wistful regrets about going to Delphi because of what they’d brought onboard and Ambulon was starting to wish Rodimus hadn’t brought his merry band hurling through Messantine either.
“What do you want from me, Pipes?” Ambulon asked because he had to know. He anticipated returning to First Aid and goading him for being wrong.
A garble of syllables swilled in Pipes’s vocaliser.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean why are you bothering with me? If it’s because of what happened on Delphi; Ratchet and First Aid were a lot more helpful to you than I was.”
Pipes was baffled. He whipped his head about to check no one was overhearing their conversation. Deadlock was still practicing and didn’t appear to be disturbed but Pipes continued in a whispering voice. Ambulon, however, didn’t share Pipes’ reservations.
“Is that what you think this is about?”
“I’m just telling you, I was just doing my job. Don’t feel like you have to owe me anything.”
Ambulon set his jaw and made a point of not directly looking at Pipes.
“Oh…oh no, you’ve got it wrong, I was, umm, I was hoping we could, maybe, hang out? Ah, I feel stupid, I’m thought,” Pipes’s blathering went on. The little victory of debunking First Aid’s folly had been snatched away. Ambulon didn’t know how to react to being wrong.
“But why?”
“Oh, um, that’s very direct.” Ambulon wouldn’t apologise for not tiptoeing round the topics these molly-coddled Autobots made tricky for themselves.
“Do you want to interface with me?”
“What?! I… what?!
“If this isn’t about Delphi and you don’t want to frag then why are you bothering me?”
“Because I didn’t think I was bothering you!” Pipes sprung up. The outburst snagged Deadlock’s attention, Ambulon made a point of turning his back on the Ex-Decepticon so as not to entice him over. “I thought you looked lonely, okay?! You’re always in here, by yourself, I thought you might like someone to talk to. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were such a difficult person,” In response, Ambulon snorted, “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”
Pipes left. He turned his helm and stormed out. Aloneness was thrust on Ambulon again. He couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it, but from an outsider’s perspective he appeared to be sulking. Ambulon would claim that he didn’t care. The mechs on this ship weren't important to him so what did it matter? After achieving the deepest connection of all, no relationship he’d cultivated since could fill the blackest space The Bond left behind.
Outside, the stars were passing more quickly as the Lost Light picked up speed. Ambulon followed the blurs of pale light, sitting rigidly to mask the chills that unsettled his plating. In Pipes’ absence, the knowledge that he shared a space with Deadlock burrowed deeper inside. It made him want to leave. Not to go after Pipes, just to escape the alienation that made him itch.
Then there was a voice. Someone disturbed the meditative peace. Ambulon paused in the middle of rising, his fingers hooked round the rim of the bench and dragged him back down onto his seat. Even though he glanced up, Ambulon knew the call wasn’t meant for him.
“Drift.” Ratchet beckoned and accepted Drift’s approach with a warm clap on his shoulder.
Drift was smiling. He’d been collected and was happy to go where ever Ratchet chose.
Ratchet caught Ambulon staring and waved to acknowledge him. Ambulon’s own hand twitched. His head jerked and Ratchet accepted that as a reply and not a reflex. Ratchet turned away, tuning into Drift’s chatter half way through passionate conversation. For it to make sense, Ratchet needed Drift to start over.
Deadlock would never have tolerated being ignored.
Drift’s former self must’ve been buried deep, under eons of meditation. Ambulon didn’t believe Deadlock was gone forever.
Memories fade but they never vanished entirely, and dwelling on the past fed into its existence, as Ambulon knew but even if he wanted to resist, Ambulon couldn’t. He prolonged its hopeless empty place as the missing piece of his life. It was less glaring than the cut of his Deception insignia taken from his spark casing but it was twice as painful. The Bond might have been broken but the echoes of phantoms remained to haunt him in the deathly quiet of space. It was a silence that penetrated the Observation Deck.
Ambulon’s optics deactivated, and he listened.
[Alert: One New Message]
The built in sound was sudden, Ambulon jarred. The noise left a ringing in his processor.
[New Message Received From: Pipes]
Ambulon accessed the message, anticipating a lecture to come screaming out at him.
(20.31) Pipes: Okay, so I’m sorry for storming off. I shouldn’t have gotten angry. Hope things will be okay between us. Message me if you need me.
- Pipes :)
It was nonsense to Ambulon. There was nothing between them that needed fixing. This was another classic example of the softness Optimus Prime swaddled his mechs in. It was suffocating. How could such simpletons have beaten Megatron’s might and strategy?
Ambulon shook his helm.
Someone needed to remind him that the Decepticon cause wasn’t his anymore. He was on an Autobot ship because he was an Autobot. Adjusting to the soft nature of mechs, like Pipes, was something he’d have to endure.
When it all got too much, at least Ambulon could retire to his room. The notion was appealing. He was ready for the day to be over. Tonight, First Aid was working a shift and the hab suite would be empty. It was reasonable to assume that Ambulon could do whatever he wanted without bothering anyone. He could watch movies with volume turned up loud, or invite all his friends over for drinks. Somehow, those options were more comical than realistic. When Ambulon returned to his room he chose to connect to his berth and lie quietly, absorbed in the soundlessness of his thoughts.
Although the distance measured in lightyears, Ambulon couldn’t leave them behind and when he closed his optics he was back there in an instant. They were like a gap fill to occupy the blank space in his small and meaningless cycle.
He drowned in the smell of medical detergent that seemed to follow him where ever he went. The medical bay, Delphi, and the Special Services Facility all smelled the same. They also all looked the same, which help perpetuated clarity in the images Ambulon couldn’t let go of.
In the S.S Facility, the lights would come online at exactly 06.00 and highlighted a room that appeared to be like any other medical facility: sterile walls, cabinets brimming with pills and systems that artificially supported Cybertronian life.
There were also six berths lining a wall. One of which, was empty. The jewel of the Decepticon army - Combiner Team: Unit (attempt number) Four was monitored constantly. The participants of Unit Four weren’t permitted to go anywhere unchaperoned and during the nights they were checked into the onsite medical facility because from there it was easier to monitor their sleep cycles.
On occasion, they had a habit of swapping berths.
The flow of energy trickling into 4 of 6 was cut abruptly. He came online wincing into the room’s stark light. Shifting tiredly, 4 of 6 discovered a weight clinging to his right arm.
[:// Three?]
They didn’t need to communicate aloud. The conversation was listened to by the other four members registered into the connection.
3 of 6 grumbled. She turned her face into 4 of 6’s shoulder and snuggled into his side.
[://Got cold in the night] 3 of 6 had a small voice and a timid nature. She was embarrassed of a vocal defect she’d had since being brought online. In The Bond there was no stammering or verbal glitches, 3 of 6 sounded as she intended she should sound. There was nothing to make her fear speaking.
Unfortunately, the resolution of one ailment was counteracted by the emergence of another. They were dubbed ‘Proximity Pangs’ by the scientists who kept them. It was a side effect of the most recent instalment of their combiner’s programming: A lump of code that should make the combination process more fluid. 4 of 6 would admit that he felt scared the first time he experienced the harrowing and intense craving to be near his Unit. He’d only being off-world for an hour when the steadily building ache in his middle exploded into a whiplash of anxiety. The mutuality of The Bond assured 4 of 6 that the rest of his Unit shared in his grief but no one suffered from separation as much as 3 of 6.
Which was why she often chose to cuddle up to someone in the nights, saying it made her spark feel less hollow.
4 of 6 understood. Looking down on his tired bed-mate, 4 of 6 dusted her cheeks with his knuckles. There was an indescribable magnetism urging them together. If it wasn’t for the singularity of their berths, they’d arrange themselves in a corner and huddle.
Unluckily for them, the purpose of the single berths was important for the scientists’ research.
[:// Get back to your berth before they see you!] 2 of 6 added a sense of urgency to his message. It was enough to rouse 3 of 6.
Like pulling magnets apart, 4 of 6 felt a peculiar tingle left behind by the missing contact and started to sit up, stretch and get ready to face another day of experimentation. 3 of 6 was in the void between berths when the consultants arrived.
“It’s good to see you’re so eager to get underway, 3 of 6.”
The lead consultant was a lean mech named Lacquer, he was an authoritative figure with changeable attitude. 4 of 6 found Lacquer to be reasonable, but that was mostly because 4 of 6 rarely acted out as some other members of his Unit did. 1 of 6 had made an enemy of Lacquer within the first month of their collaboration. The experience was educational. The rest of Unit discovered a prank made in poor taste could earn a permanent black mark upon one’s record and an eternal grudge.
Aside from being occasionally antsy, Lacquer was heavily involved with Combiner Unit 4. He prepared them for the day’s trials, provided fuel and took down requests. Today was going to be an important day said Lacquer as they sipped their morning rations. Today, they were going to test their new T-Cog implants for the first time and it would be in front of a panel of executives who were partially responsible for funding the protect.
“I’m expecting great things!” Lacquer beamed as he ushered his Unit toward a specialised room several corridors away. The ceiling had been raised to accommodate the predicted height of their as-of-yet-unnamed combined form. Progress was being made at unprecedented speed, they were greatly ahead of schedule which pleased their benefactors mightily. Lacquer claimed it was partly down to the eagerness of the candidates. The acclimation didn’t come without some scepticism from the older and world-weary member of their unit, 6 of 6, who preached concerns of cost cutting. Lacquer dismissed the claims. They were not to be unearthed ever again and especially not today.
Lacquer was excited to show off his accomplishments.
“Remember crew,” he said as they stepped into the arena. There was a glass panel several metres from the ground that housed their spectators, “Be confident, believe in yourselves and big smiles!”
Two spot lights shone down on them, 4 of 6 felt someone else’s pangs of stage-fright and another someone sending reassuring messages that this was it: this was what they’ve been preparing for and they should be proud. Don’t let Lord Megatron down.
A host of underlying workers swept into the room to prepare the Unit’s bodies for the transition. They was arranged in a circle, tubules stemming from computers in the walls were unravelled and dragged to the centre of the room. One by one, all of 4 of 6’s access ports were plugged. A two-way flow of information began. It was the first time an artificial intelligence had been party to the intricacies of The Bond.
(:// But what if something goes wrong? How do we stop it?) 3 of 6’s thoughts appeared as text on a screen in front of Lacquer. He was sitting in the room with them, but far removed from the heat of the action.
(Lacquer:// I know it’s scary but don’t resist it.) he typed a private response and interrupted 3 of 6’s forthcoming protest sharply. 4 of 6 felt a shiver of fear ripple down his spine. He thought it was his but he couldn’t be sure. Everyone was swapping anxious glances as the last of the monitoring gear was locked into place and a device to record processor activity was magnetised to his audio.
Lacquer spoke over a microphone and announced the first phase of their combination. They were to change into their alt-modes. That was all.
(Lacquer:// Now, you may feel some discomfort, or an attraction to combine but it should be short lived.)
Another hit of apprehension filled the Bond. 4 of 6 felt his mouth go dry.
(Lacquer:// Your T-Cogs need to be activated with a jolt of energy, your transformation will be involuntary. Don’t resist. Let it happen.)
(:// Will it hurt?) Between them, an overwhelming urge to stretch out and comfort 3 of 6 grew. Someone motioned to act on that instinct and was immediately snapped at to remain still. 3 of 6 cowered.
(Lacquer:// Preparing to administer the jolt.)
“Spectators, staff, if you would please dial down visual sensitivity, it is for your own protection.”
(:// Primus, how much energy is in this ‘jolt’?)
No one could find the time to respond. The count down sequence had began. Lacquer spoke the numbers aloud along with them appearing in big, green digits showing on a black monitor hanging in parallel with the observation window.
“3…2…1.”
A switch was flicked. The jolt was administered. 4 of 6’s optics turned blue as he was filled with a raw energy that liquified all of his higher functions. And there was pain, unreasonable pain, his own added on top of the others’.
His gears failed to shift entirely. His plating felt primed to move but never completed a shift sequence. As if his body was urging itself to break apart and his spark was clinging on desperately, trying to keep him together.
4 of 6 cried out. Making physical noise was stranger to him now as he was so accustomed to vocalising through The Bond. The feeling of energy collecting his is spark was too immense, 4 of 6 couldn’t contain it and when the first phase was deemed a failure and the electrical current deactivated, he found that he was on the floor. Buckled down on his hands and knees, gaping into the tiles. The smoke burning in his relays hissed out of his vents.
“Again.” Lacquer commanded. The order registered in 4 of 6’s baked consciousness and he groaned in protest. The arms of the workers collected him, 4 of 6 was lugged back to his feet and held, without their support he’d topple again.
Through hazy vision he could see some success: an arm and a torso were lying feebly on the ground, twitching. Their monitoring cables were tangled inside their rearrange forms. 4 of 6 was one of the unlucky ones and his spark throbbed hard as he witnessed disaster’s cruel mutation of his friends’ bodies.
3 of 6 was bent and partially changed. Her transformation sequence continually tried to reboot itself and failed, pumping a stream of reflexive functions into her T-Cog that caused her plating to twitch and grind as the transformation process stalled repeatedly, over and over.
4 of 6 felt sick. He wasn’t right for this, and neither was 3 of 6. All the benefactors cared about was seeing results, they didn’t care if they hurt mechs for the sake of achieving progress, and Lacquer was simpering to their whims.
“Initiating second jolt,” Lacquer hoped extra stimulation would prompt the remainder of the partially formed limbs to complete their change. He would go on doing so until he ran his Unit into the ground with exhaustion. 4 of 6 breathed hard.
(:// w-wai-t-t!) 3 of 6’s stutter was interrupted by the count down.
“Three, two, one.”
Ambulon lurched off the berth, sliding off the side onto the floor and a recharge cable got tangled round his neck. Gasping and panicked, the cable was pulled taut, tugging Ambulon’s chin up, keeping his head on the berth while the rest of his body arched and flailed.
After a struggle, Ambulon jammed his fingers between the cable and his neck tubules and ripped himself free, the cable itself was yanked from the berth and broken by Ambulon’s force.
He fell forward, and bowed on the floor, making ugly gagging sounds as his spark beat fast and his vision remained hazy.
He must have been having some sort of nightmare as he wasn’t often so fidgety in recharge. Ambulon couldn’t remember what he was dreaming about, whatever it was, it made him afraid to go back to sleep. The pounding in his head and in his spark hurt. The room around him was big and dark and empty and Ambulon was scared. He was so alone. In desperate need of comforting, the kind of comfort that used to come so easily to him when he was surrounded by mechs who loved him as equally as he loved them.
Ambulon choked, and his fears came rushing to the surface again as he experienced the worst of proximity pangs. All of his thoughts were turning dark. Like scary monsters of regret and loathing, Ambulon couldn’t escape and in his need for help, he accessed his personal comms.
Before he could do anything he regretted Ambulon cut the line.
He’d made a call to Pipes. He’d dialled for five of the longest seconds he’d ever experienced then hung up. It was too shameful. Ambulon was embarrassed of himself and of his weakness. He shouldn’t be involving himself with others.
He also should’ve realised the call wouldn’t have been ignored. Ambulon was still cowering in the middle of the floor when his achy processor was startled by a comm. call.
“H-Hello?” Ambulon croaked. Pipes’ voice was clear and chimed loudly.
“Ambulon? Did you ring me?”
“Uh, I - I. It was an accident.”
“Oh,” There was a slight tone of disappoint but both of them stayed on the line, without being able to see Pipes it wasn’t unlike speaking through The Bond. Ambulon’s spark squeezed. “Are you okay, Ambulon?”
“…” Ambulon’s breathing turned ragged as he failed to control himself, “No,” he said, voice pitching high with a warble.
“I’ll come over now.”
“No, no, please. Don’t.”
“Ambulon”-
“Please! Just…just stay on the line…” The other end was quiet, but Ambulon knew he was still connected, “Pipes.”
“O-kay…”
Ambulon sighed in relief. Still trembling from the ordeal, Ambulon feebly pulled himself back onto the berth and sat against the wall.
“Ambulon?”
“Hmmm?”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come over.” The shake of his head was superfluous, Ambulon remembered that thinking ‘no’ wasn’t enough.
“No,” he said, “Just… could you just, talk to me please?”
“Talk?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
Ambulon felt his throat getting tight again and his shoulders started to shake.
“A-Anything.” His optics dimmed.
“Okay,” Pipes sounded as if he could be sitting right beside Ambulon, “Why are you still awake.”
“…I can’t sleep. Every time I try I…”
“You what?”
“It’s like I’m back there.”
“Where?”
“The Decepticons,”
“Oh…”
“They wanted to turn me into a combiner… I couldn’t do it.”
“That’s not a bad thing is it?”
“Yes it is!” A shaky gasped was pulled in through Ambulon’s intake, “I should be with them, I should be with my Unit!”
“Where are they now?”
“…they’re all dead. I-I I failed them.” As a support, as their friend. Ambulon put his helm to rest on his knees, “We weren’t ready… they kept pushing us too hard and I couldn’t…!”
“Ambulon…” Pipes’ empathy was able to transfer to Ambulon through his tone.
“I - I had to get out, they kept pushing and pushing us… I didn’t even have to decency to tell them why I ran.” and then he could feel their life forces perishing, one by one, and get replaced, over and over. New, stupid, bright-eyed recruits looking to the program for a second chance and Ambulon shut them out. Breaking the bond damn near snuffed his spark. The yearning was terrible, the silence of his own mind: even worse.
“But that isn’t you’re fault, you got out, you’re safe.”
“I feel so alone.”
“But you’re not, you got First Aid and Ratchet, and, and me.” Some static entered the comm. link from Ambulon’s end, “Ambulon…don’t be scared.”
Was it that obvious? The poorly stifled, gurgling whimpers must have given Ambulon’s cover away. He was no longer capable of being stoic, and with his head full of Pipes’ voice it was breaking down his barriers. Ambulon’s vulnerability was on show and he didn’t have the will to cover it back up. Shedding the weight of his feeling was an indescribable relief. His pride might make him regret it in the morning but for now, Ambulon was surrounded by Pipes’ voice and it was cozy.
“I’ll try.” Ambulon’s voice lowered, the pounding in his head was soothed when he scrubbed his hands over his cheeks. “Will you stay on the line, please?”
“Of course I will.”
“For how long?”
“As long as you need.” Pipes said as if hanging up wasn’t even an option. Ambulon made a small noise of a appreciation but his voice kept failing him which prompted Pipes to begin chattering, like friends having a conversation, “Actually, I was thinking, if we do meet up again, maybe we should go straight to the Observation Deck, I don’t go there often, but the view was really, really beautiful, did you notice? And it was quiet which is always good, half the time I can even hear myself speak at Swe”-
“Pipes?”
“Yeah?”
Ambulon inhaled deeply, steeling himself for some strange tasting words. He gratefully inform Pipes that he was appreciative of his tolerance.
“Thank you.”