Chapter Text
The voices used to be pretty quiet. It was hard to hear them over the conveyor belt. And they were never consistent; just at random, B would hear a whisper out of a nonexistent mouth. He can’t remember when he started hearing them. He’s pretty sure he got Steve’s name from one of them, a tiny whisper of a word during a quiet moment. He expected the hallucinations to stop after he’d been reintegrated into society. They didn’t. Actually, they got louder. He hears them all the time now. Okay, not all the time, they usually shut up when he’s talking to other bots. They never talk when Or-Optimus or Elita is talking, which is nice. It’s pretty easy to ignore them when he’s around other bots. When he’s alone, though, it’s kinda hard not to listen to them. They seem almost… sentient.
What kind of war crimes d’you think he’s pulling right now?
Big, not every Megatron’s like yours, you know.
A week of player one privileges says he’s doing some weird cloning shit.
Buzz, no-
I’ll bet he’s experimenting with some weird energon stuff. Up it to two weeks and it’s on.
Bet Big-boy, shake on it.
B imagines the two voices, the ones the others call “Big” and “Buzz”, shake each other’s non-existent servos, somehow, the logistics of that is making his processor hurt. Another voice pops in.
I don’t want in on the bet, but he’s probably trying to dig up some old energy source.
That I would believe, I’ve seen my fair share of energy schemes.
They don’t have an energon problem yet though.
True. I’ve got no idea.
Jet, you want in on this?
I don’t make deals with dirty cheaters.
A few of the voices snicker. The voice called “Jet” hasn’t “played” (whatever that means , how do voices play?) in over a week, ever since that big shouting match. Something about ‘cutting him off’ and ‘not playing fair’ and ‘giving him the bad controller’. Look, B doesn’t get it either; he was in the middle of a meeting when it started, and he had to try to tune it out the whole time, so the details were lost on him.
Aww, come on Jet, don’t be a sore loser.
I’m not being a sore loser, I’m just following my moral code, unlike some bots in here.
You, of all bots, are not allowed to pull the ‘moral code’ line.
And which one of us is a Prime? Oh yeah, that’s right, it’s me.
And which one of us-
Nope! Shut your face! You’re not allowed to bring that up! Prime’s orders, it’s illegal now! Argument over!
The other voices are laughing pretty hard at this point, and “Cube”, as that voice is called, tries to speak through its laughter.
That’s- that’s not how- that’s-
Nope! By the power of Primus or junk, whatever I say is now law, no backsies.
You don’t even have a Primus!
Doesn’t matter, I call upon the power of your primus’s primely power to make sure no one brings up the thing that shall not be named!
The other voices laugh loudly before “Jet” joins in as well, annoyance forgotten.
“Hey B, you good? You’ve been staring at the floor like a data-pad bittlet.”
B shakes his helm and refocuses his optics on Cliffjumper’s face. Cliff was a newer addition to B’s circle of companions, a racer turned autobot who quickly jumped up in the ranks with his skill of talking to other bots and experience as a courier. He and B had hit it off quite quickly, bonding over their shared plight of smaller frames and mutual enjoyment of Maccadam’s zinc-chromium energon mix.
“Sorry, got lost in my processor for a bit,” B lightly knocked the side of his helm with his servo, “still getting used to these meetings.”
“Nah, I get it, just worried you were getting stuck up there.” Cliff pats his arm and leans back against the wall the two stood next to. The meeting wasn’t the most interesting; it was mostly negotiations between some companies and the autobots about protections and contracts and blah blah blaaaah . B stopped paying attention like 2 cycles ago, the voices in his helm much more interesting than procurement dates . B and Cliff weren’t really needed in these meetings, it was more of a formality than anything, but they couldn’t find a good enough excuse to leave. So here they stand, bored as all get out.
Cliffjumper drags his servo down his faceplate as he groans under his breath. “Primus, how long have we been in here? I feel like I’ve aged like 20 vorns.”
B glances at his chronometer. “3 cycles, give or take a klik.” He refreshes his text comms for the 8 th time, no new messages. No easy excuse to leave. B sighs heavily and looks over at Optimus and Elita, sitting (or standing in Elita’s case) at the head of the table in the meeting room. Elita is leading most of the conversation with the engineers, her experience with leading mining teams lending her confidence in negotiations. Optimus interjects periodically, his kinda-entourage: Jazz, Prowl, Ratchet, all much more invested and qualified to negotiate in these kinds of meetings, adding input wherever they can. They don’t need us here, they’ll be fine.
B leans over into Cliff’s helm, “They don’t need us, let’s get out of here.”
“Finally.” Cliff pushes off the wall and makes his way towards the door. B catches Jazz’s attention as he leaves, tapping the side of his helm, signaling someone commed for us as he slips through the door . Jazz nods once and turns back to the meeting.
Cliff groans loudly as he stretches his arm struts above his helm. “Slaaag, that was boring,” his servos drop back down by his side as he turns towards B, “I think I might have scrapped myself if I had to stay in there a tick longer.”
B starts walking down the hall, draping his arm across Cliff’s shoulder struts, “Good thing I got us out of there when I did. So what do you want to do with our free time? I’ve got 4 cycles before I’m due for scout patrol.”
Cliff’s optic ridges raise in question, “I thought someone commed you for something,” their peds fall in sync as they walk, “isn’t that what you meant to signal to Jazz?”
B’s smile turns into a smirk. “You see, I used an advanced technique called lying, because I was actually going crazy in there.”
“Ha!” Cliff throws his own arm around B’s shoulder struts, “Let’s get your crazy aft to Maccadams then, can’t have my favourite short bot loose his processor on me.”
“Too late for that! I lost my processor a long time ago! Lost to the depths of Cybertron’s underbelly, stolen by this guy named A-A-tron.”
Cliff tosses his helm back and laughs heartily, “This A-A-tron sounds like a real aft.”
“What do you think the ‘A’s stand for?”
Cliff’s and B’s laughter fills the air as they walk out onto the public roads, all plights of their world forgotten for a moment.