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Their hab-suite had never been light and jolly, never felt warm and cheerful—but it had served its purpose well. A safe haven for two. Not quite outcasts and not quite part of the gang. It had been their place to retreat and just be, just lounge around and get each other: the silences and blabbering, the smiles and deadpans, the bliss and hurt. Knowing what every small thing meant without having to ask or picking up the signs and decoding what they meant like it was second nature.
Chromedome let a small sigh escape him as he lingered in the doorway. Safe havens were not meant to stride into and he knew this well. Still, he stepped inside. Tailgate wasn’t there to get Cyclonus this time and Chromedome could fill that place. They weren’t close, not even interested in being friends, but he knew how utter despair felt, how everything became filled with darkness and how alluring that ink-black void felt. He got Cyclonus without even trying. The pain inside him raked its way down his spark-case and told him, Of course you do.
He slowly walked over to the recharge slab. It had been dragged from its corner to stand at the hab-suite’s centre. Every light was out, leaving the two roommates—one was lying prone, the other dutifully watching over—drowning in shadows. It was almost too much to handle, seeing Cyclonus leaning over the slab, hands pressed to his knees and his spinal struts unstiffened for what the ex-mnemosurgeon knew was the first time in millennia. He would also have been perfectly silent and frightening in spite of his military indecorum, as per usual, if not for the soft purr-hum escaping his chest.
Chromedome paused to listen…and then froze. It wasn’t snoring. It wasn’t growling.
It was a lullaby.
Soundlessly, he stood behind the jet. He had never heard this particular lullaby before, and he thought he had heard all of them. In the sleepless nights, dark and cold but never lonely, he had been made listen to calm recordings until he powered down again. He had heard lots of lullabies—and by a lot, he meant a lot—as he fought the nightmares and the guilt that might or might not have been his, but this one hadn’t been on the list.
He would have liked to know what the lullaby talked about. It had a steady, melancholic cadence; a bittersweet intonation that drew you in and made you listen. Yet Cyclonus’ baritone remained a quiet rumble as it reverberated through the hab-suite. Chromedome rested a hand on the backrest and the singing stopped abruptly. He tensed. A mono-horned head turned his way slightly, but not enough to show the jet’s face and whatever expression he wore. Chromedome cleared his throat.
“How’s Tailgate?” he asked quietly.
Cyclonus looked over his shoulder. The scars that streaked across his face hadn’t been there two days ago, but they were long and deep, almost ancient in their silent ache: damning evidence of what was never confessed out loud.
“He’s dying.”
“Okay, right,” Chromedome rubbed the base of his neck. “Sorry, I meant, uh, you know…Is he in pain?”
“Cybercrosis is nearly always painful, especially in its final stages,” Cyclonus said. “But most of his sensor-net has already shut down, so he can barely feel a thing. A small blessing. He will be spared the agonising pain that comes with a slow death.”
Chromedome didn’t know how to answer that. He hadn’t met anyone with cybercrosis before. It wasn’t all that common a disease, so Tailgate’s diagnosis had earned itself a collective shock. Ratchet’s sombreness had only helped to make things worse, and Cyclonus’ blazing optics had made every mech within his glare’s radius take a step back. Rodimus was beyond upset at the news, which in turn made the rest of the crew feel distraught, and Swerve refused to leave the CMO’s side because he wanted to help find a cure for his friend (and he was, to everyone’s surprise, actually being useful). An off day for everyone, really.
“That lullaby you were singing…It was nice,” he praised. “Never heard it before, and I’ve heard plenty. Like, plenty-plenty. Where’s it from?”
Cyclonus glanced at him. “Tetrahex.”
“Oh.” That would be Cyclonus’ home city, now lost forever. “That’s, uh, good.”
“Tailgate enjoys it,” Cyclonus said simply, “even if he never set foot on the city.”
“I’m sure he would’ve liked the place.”
“I doubt it, but perhaps. Dwelling on it is of no use, now.” The jet’s optics roamed the small white frame, his red stare inscrutable. “Tetrahex is gone and soon so will be Tailgate.”
“Don’t—“ Chromedome’s fists clenched and unclenched. He glanced at Tailgate. “Don’t you—Don’t say that. Ratchet and Swerve are working on the cure right now. They might find it in time. There’s still hope for him.”
Cyclonus scoffed. “You’re one of those.”
“One of what?”
“Hope,” Cyclonus snarled acidly, his voice dripping disdain for the innocent four-letter word. “You treat it as if it’s the answer to all of your prayers, but you delude yourself. Hope is nothing but deceitful.”
“It’s not deceitful; it’s a lifeline to hang onto,” Chromedome said hotly.
“Hope deceives people.” Looking intently at Tailgate, his crimson optics never leaving the eerily peaceful face, Cyclonus drummed a short pattern against one of his knees. “It gives you strength you no longer possess.”
“Because sitting in the dark and waiting till he dies is so much better, right?” Chromedome snapped.
Cyclonus’ eyes bore into his unblinkingly; an unmovable object in an unstoppable universe. It was at that moment when Chromedome knew he shouldn’t have said that.
“Still better than giving him the coup de grâce, wouldn’t you think?”
Chromedome’s grip tightened around the backrest. His insides caught on fire.
“Yours was a wise decision, Chromedome. Brave, even,” Cyclonus continued, unrelenting. “Primus knows it takes a great deal of willpower to decide such an extreme and irreversible thing on someone else’s behalf, especially when it comes to your own Conjunx Endurae. For that, I salute you. But don’t expect me to do the same with Tailgate.”
“I wasn’t suggesting—I’d never—” Chromedome bristled. “You’re a cold-sparked glitch.”
“Yes, but I’m efficient as well.” Cyclonus’ optics drifted back to Tailgate, notably softening around the edges. “I’ve reminded you how it’s like coming to terms with the inevitable and being at peace with having no hope because there is none to have.”
Chromedome paused, then looked down at broken little Tailgate dying on the recharge slab.
“Do you see it now?”
“…I always have,” Chromedome admitted. He shook his head and let go of the backrest. “But I can’t be a pessimist. Not anymore. Rewind wouldn’t like that. He never did. So, I’m doing what he would want me to do—what he would do.”
Mnemosurgery didn’t leave much room for letting your feelings get you by surprise when you were conscious and in control of your faculties. Nasty things could happen when you were digging into other people’s minds and so Chromedome had developed a sort of trigger that kept his emotions in check under almost any situation. But having looked dead into Cyclonus’ optics, having held the scathing glare of someone who had seen countless horrors but now mourned for the first time, took its toll on Chromedome.
The Lost Light wasn’t one large and happy family, like some believed. They had issues and problems and made mistakes bigger than their solutions. All of them had what Earth’s literature described as a tragic flaw, a trait or quirk that would eventually be their downfall.
But that was how they were, and they fared surprisingly well in spite of it because they were there for each other. Chromedome admitted that he hadn’t wanted Cyclonus to be part of his family at first—but things happened, people changed and so did opinions, and now all Chromedome wanted was to lend a helping hand, even if it might get slapped away. Because he got Cyclonus better than anyone on board at the moment and he would sign that in innermost energon, if he still had any.
“Why’s he so quiet?” he asked abruptly.
“His spark can’t maintain his body functioning for long periods any longer, so he drifted off,” Cyclonus explained, almost fooling Chromedome with his detached tone. Almost. “He does that a lot.”
“Oh.”
That was all Chromedome could possibly say and not seem stupid or oafishly sentimental. Rewind had always been a lot more comfortable with being touchy-feely and talking about stuff. Chromedome had been the type to give a pat on the shoulder and walk away or stand next to Rewind while he did the talking.
He put his hands on his hips and tried to shake the memory of Rewind away. For the last couple of days, his lost partner was all he could think of. Mostly due to Tailgate and Cyclonus, he knew. On a normal day, he curbed his longing—or at least he believed he did—but lately the parallels were hard to ignore. Even if he had wanted to, turning a blind optic and pretending he was unaffected or simply as affected as the rest of the crew would have been a terrible lie that he would have never forgiven himself for.
Cyclonus needed Chromedome, even if he didn’t acknowledge that need yet, because he was heading down the same black road: Chromedome knew—everyone did—that Tailgate had asked Cyclonus to kill him.
Battlefield euthanasia, Ratchet had called it with a disapproving frown, not once looking up from the notes he and Swerve were trying to decode. A pretty name for what was just a blow of mercy. A pretty name for what was just a mad dash through familiar corridors, all the way to a familiar bridge, only to commandeer a familiar targeting system into committing the one thing not even the most horrifying of Chromedome’s nightmares featured.
Blow of mercy for the one who died, but what about the one who lived? Did he not deserve any mercy? A calming balm for his bruised anguish? Chromedome ran a hand down his face. His shivering was almost unnoticeable.
“Listen,” he started. His voice had a tremble; he coughed to shake it out. “Listen, Cyclonus, I just wanted to tell you something. That one time…that one time we were all at Swerve’s? And you were sitting alone and nobody wanted to have anything to do with you? Well, I remember Tailgate said he’d tried to make you join us at our table. I told him you were a murderous piece of…Well, I made it clear that you weren’t my friend. And the thing is…”
Cyclonus remained unmoving, quiet, almost as if he were waiting for Death so as to take it by surprise and terminate it. He probably wasn’t even listening to what Chromedome was saying, but he would tell him all the same. Cyclonus had to know. He had to have someone open his optics to the simplest of truths and if that role befell Chromedome, he was fine with that.
Chromedome reached for the backrest again and clutched his hand round it. Feeling the inferior metal give under the strength of his grip felt somewhat relaxing.
“The thing is: he knew we all thought you were a monster, a wretched…thing that deserved no love or friendship or kindness. At all. Some still do, but most of us don’t. Anyway, that’s beside the point. What I mean is that he chose you all the same. He saw right through you and he saw what we saw, but he also saw more. And that’s why he loves you. And that’s why he kept trying until most of us saw you for real, too. I just thought you should know. I don’t know where I was going with this, but I thought you should know.”
The silence was sharp, but not scornful or hostile. It was just sharp, like the rest of Cyclonus. Sharp like his personality and sharp like his newly acquired Great Sword.
Chromedome looked at Tailgate and for a brief moment, he saw another Minibot lying prone, still, unmoving—but he pictured the small mech recovering from the scariest of near-death experiences instead of fading. He saw the possibilities he and Rewind might have had if fate had been any kinder to their love. He saw the future he would never have.
Cyclonus let out an audible sigh, which reminded Chromedome of what the jet had been doing when he first went in. He had never pegged Cyclonus as the kind of mech who would lull someone. He had an impressive past of cruelty and destruction to back up Chromedome’s assumptions. One could forgive him for supposing stuff. Cyclonus certainly didn’t sing for or to anyone else.
That got Chromedome wondering why he did it in the first place. Some sense of duty his soldier-self couldn’t ignore? Pity that someone would perish to an illness instead of a wound inflicted during some battle? Or was it the only way he could physically and publicly channel the emotions Tailgate awakened in him and not feel like he had humiliated himself in some way?
“Do you like singing?” Chromedome asked finally. “For him?”
Cyclonus flicked his optics in his direction for a moment before looking back at the unconscious little mech. “Tailgate enjoys it.”
Chromedome nodded. That was answer enough.