Work Text:
He wakes up.
Chromedome can't remember the recharge feedback clearly - a pop of static; a glimpse of light glinting off metal; a flicker of something grey and distended in the corner of his visor, standing beside his berth.
It doesn't matter. He's still tired. Sleep - when he can sleep - doesn't help anymore. He wakes just as exhausted as he was the night before.
There's a moment each night, just as his processor shuts down to recharge, when his head stops aching. It's the only relief he knows. Trepan prescribes him the same regimen of neurocircuit balancers and defragmentation booster chips that every mnemosurgeon takes to stave off degradation. The on-staff medic personally resoldered and insulated the deep wiring of his needles to ease the persistent, low-grade pain that throbs in his hands, in case it was a psychosomatic flare.
It's not working. His frame feels so heavy.
Chromedome hauls himself off the berth to get ready for another day of work.
-
Brainstorm shouldn't even be here. Technically, this energon dispensary is frequented only by members of the mnemosurgeon unit, and he's one of the brightest, most erratic stars in experimental weapons development. Apparently, some of his best work is so abstract that it's functionally useless - but when he does make a useful weapon, it's always terrifying.
Yet Brainstorm turns up every morning, bursting through the doors anywhere between five minutes early and ten minutes late, already reeking of explosions and sometimes sporting a fresh, sloppily-applied coat of paint, and talks at Chromedome as though they've been having a conversation since before he walked into the room. He never seems to pick up where they left off the day before - there's always something new and exciting to work Brainstorm up into an excited froth, even if Chromedome can't understand half the babbled science behind it. Occasionally Brainstorm even arrives with a cube of energon already half-drunk in one hand, oblivious to the unamused stares it earns him from the rest of the mnemosurgical staff as he gestures with it wildly, hooks his arm with Chromedome's, and marches him to a table.
Chromedome supposes it doesn't really matter. It's not like the bad old days, when the Senate posted a bunch of garbage rules about who could refuel where, and what they could refuel with, and so on. Brainstorm's security clearance isn't as high as his own, but it's apparently high enough that Brainstorm knows that the mnemosurgery unit exists at all. Not many do, even in the main facility.
Chromedome mechanically dumps packet after packet of heavy metal additives and other prescriptions into his energon, and lets Brainstorm's chatter wash over him. The tremors haven't hit his fingers yet - but they will, as the work shift rolls on.
He doesn't know what he's going to do the day they won't stop shaking. He's lucky that Trepan continues to let him work as it is. What good is a mnemosurgeon who can't keep his hands still?
-
Five, today.
He used to hate when Prowl ordered autopsies. Now, Chromedome can't remember the last time he worked on a living mech. He earned the nickname long before his hands started to shake - the mnemosurgeon who specializes in dead people, their brain modules cold and brittle grey under his fingertips. Some surgeons, like Helmcase and Steeltrap, won't go near the dead; they swear up and down exposure to a dead processor accelerates the rate of false recall and trauma bleed. The only other person who worked down here frequently was Afterthought, and - he -
Chromedome sinks his needles in through the optics. Easier to pull out if rigor morphis triggers mid-surgery. The last thing he sees is the dull reflection of light off the dead mech's blank optics; then [his spark is singing with pain - he's singing - no, someone else is singing - hurts -]
Trepan comes to check on him three processors in - two deaths and a suicide later. The suicides are always the worst. "Doing well, Chromedome?" he asks, his smile wide and languid as he steps lightly down the stairs and joins Chromedome beside the autopsy berth. Unlike Brainstorm, Trepan's hands always comes to rest on Chromedome's neck. Chromedome stiffens but doesn't flinch. "Any word?"
Chromedome stares down, his optics fixed solely on the fourth corpse as he preps his hands: fifteen minutes in sodium hypochlorite solution, another round in the autoclave, and a neutronium stripper to eliminate any chance of cross-contamination between minds. The surface of the thick stripping fluid ripples with micro-twitches from his trembling needles.
There's no point in hiding it. Trepan already knows. It doesn't matter how badly Chromedome mangles a dead processor, as long as he obtains the information they need.
He can't hurt anyone, here.
"The Decepticons have something new on the field," he reports, dully. He can see the reflection of his visor in the silvery fluid - dim, the yellow light uneven. He's written it off as a consequence of being born dry. With only dregs of innermost energon, his frame prioritizes other vital processes over lighting his optics. "They're playing music and killing people from a distance. Maybe some kind of audio weapon that affects the spark?"
"Interesting." Trepan taps a single finger against the back of Chromedome's neck, with a meditative hum, then uses his hand to tip Chromedome's head to look at him. He smiles benignly at Chromedome, his eyes glittering with something unreadable. "I look forward to reviewing the memory files. You always do such thorough work, Chromedome."
"Yes sir," Chromedome says.
Trepan nudges his head a little lower and lingers, before leaving Chromedome to continue. Chromedome hangs there like that, head ducked and shoulders slumped, for several minutes after the door slides shut behind Trepan. His body feels like it's weighted down with sludge.
A ventilation cycle to steady himself, and then he bends back over his work. Another suicide. [A gun to the processor isn't nearly as efficient as a shot to the spark -]
-
And then he goes to the clinic.
-
He wakes up.
Chromedome can't remember the recharge feedback clearly: a pop of static; a brain module smashed against the floor; something grey and contorted, with needles instead of arms or legs or wheels, at the end of his berth -
It doesn't matter. Chromedome rolls over on the berth, trying to find a comfortable position. His back struts ache like he spent half the night tossing and turning; he has a crink in his neck cables that only compounds the headache pulsing in his helm.
Even if he can't get comfortable, it's tempting to stay here like this. Just rest his head against the berth and let his optics power down, and pretend work doesn't exist for the day. The war rages on outside, distant and yet a constant, claustrophobic pressure, and every day they bring more bodies in for him to read. He's not sure there will ever be an end to it - if he'll even live to see the end of it.
He's so tired.
Chromedome flexes his fingers in front of his face. Then he stirs, and pushes himself up with all the effort left in his body. He trudges to the washracks to run hot solvent, and tries to let the heat soak away the aches. The Chromedome in the mirror looks blank and emotionless, his paint dull and faded, [and for a second greyed out -]
It never helps.
-
Brainstorm troops in with a freshly reattached wing, a patched vent, and a cheerful glint in his eyes. He bounces up to Chromedome full of boisterous energy, slapping him on the shoulder with such enthusiasm that Chromedome staggers. "Today's the day!" he says, his wings flicking up with irrepressible energy. "I can feel it."
"Yup. Today is definitely the day," Chromedome replies, automatically. He has absolutely no idea what Brainstorm's talking about.
"That's the spirit!" Brainstorm nods to himself, practically bursting at the seams with anticipation. He rubs his hands together as though he's already itching to get to work. Chromedome can't relate.
Chromedome's hand spasms. The half-filled cube tumbles out of his hand and splatters energon all over the counter and Chromedome flinches like it's a gunshot. His hand gives another painful, cramping twitch before he closes it into a fist, his optics burning with embarrassment. At least no one's here but Brainstorm to see it happen - they're both running thirty minutes late, and the rest of the unit already cleared the room. This would be ten times worse if Steeltrap were here to snicker about it.
But it's still humiliating. The shuddering cramp worsens as Chromedome keeps his hand clamped shut, a throbbing pain so bright and concentrated that it stabs through his palm like a blade.
Brainstorm stops dead for a second, his excitement frozen mid-beat. Then he swoops down to pluck the energon cube off the ground, with a short, forced laugh. "Got it!" he says, his optics squinted in an over-exaggerated smile. "Mine, now!" He pretends to examine the cube with a magnifying attachment on his helm - he's been fluttering about someone named Perceptor, recently, after thousands of years of Quark this, Quark that - with immense interest. "Y'know...a mine wouldn't be a bad idea...a mind mine would be even better -"
Chromedome stands there, so tense that it hurts, while Brainstorm fills two cubes by reaching around him. He keeps the original cube to toss in between his hands as he ushers Chromedome over to a seat, and starts to chatter about the physical properties of the glass as though he seriously intends to use it as the basis for an explosive device.
"You alright?" Brainstorm asks, suddenly, when they've finished their fuel. Chromedome forces his optics to focus; he's zoned out, staring at the table. Brainstorm's watching him with worried eyes. Communicating emotions with a maskplate is an ingrained instinct for mechs like them. Chromedome never knows quite what to do with people like Steeltrap, who can smile with their mouth and not match it with their optics.
His tanks turn over with embarrassment again. "I'm fine," Chromedome says. He can't look at Brainstorm while he says it.
"You look - kind of run down. Maybe you caught a virus?" Brainstorm waggles his fingers significantly. The silliness doesn't quite balance out the concern in his voice.
Nothing is wrong with him that any medic can fix. Chromedome shakes his head and says nothing.
Brainstorm shifts in his seat. He cycles a deep vent, which Chromedome takes as his cue to leave. "Hey, I - c'mon, sit down," Brainstorm protests. "Look, if this...if this is about Scattergun still - I know it's been a few years, but -"
Chromedome's head aches so much. "Who?" he snaps, standing up from the table.
Brainstorm goes very quiet. "Right," he says, after a long moment. "Right. Never mind."
Chromedome walks to the exit, while Brainstorm sits at the table and sulks, or something. He has work to do.
-
They're starting to bring him stacks of datapads instead of just the bodies. Too many dead mechs, not enough time. Chromedome scans through the inventory listlessly, too numb to worry that he'll recognize one of the names, and then forwards his decision to the forensic mechs who bring the greyed frames in. Ten suicides today, he thinks, as he slides his needles out and gets prepped for the first.
It's not always a given - the kind of violence it takes for a mech to kill themselves can easily be mistaken for a normal death, especially in such a violent, bloody war. But the initial mechaforensic reports seem relatively certain, and Chromedome's own autopsy experience agrees when he sees the frames.
Trepan wants to know what the dead mechs know. Simple. Easy. Nothing to edit. Nothing to delete. He can do that. He can do that.
He leans an arm heavily on the berth beside the corpse's head to stabilize his needles, and shakes violently as [the room explodes -]
-
And then he goes to the clinic.
-
He wakes up.
Chromedome can't remember the recharge feedback clearly - a pop of static; his needles ripped out of their integrated sockets, the wires shredded and the neurocircuitry mutilated; someone grey and dead, drooling cerebral fluid into his eyes as they lean over his berth.
His needles skitter across the metal, restless and trembling; he retracts them and then releases them again, and they shoot through the metal of the berth with a faint shunk. A flicker of recall crackles through his mind - [they pick up the energy blade and jam it into the bomb casing][PAIN]- and then it's gone, leaving him clutching his head as the red-tinged memory drags sharp edges through the rest of his mind.
He hates his hands. They look like Trepan's.
Did he really want to learn this? Chromedome can't remember what he was thinking. When Trepan recruited him at the start of the war to learn mnemosurgery in the New Institute, he'd been thrilled.
Finally, something to fill the hole where Prowl used to be.
A knock on the door. Chromedome twitches, then grits himself and staggers off the berth. His vision seems like it's covered in a thin veil of scum, these day. Or maybe he's just let his habsuite get that filthy. He can't even remember coming back to his room last night. He digs his hand into the cords of his shoulder, trying to make the tense struts relax so he can walk without hurting all over. The back of his neck burns like someone went over it with a wire scrub brush and acid.
Brainstorm comes in the second Chromedome unlocks the door. The lack of recharge must be getting to him, because Chromedome takes a full five seconds to process Brainstorm's presence before recognition kicks in. That's - not good.
"You're an hour late for your shift," Brainstorm says, pacing. Agitation jitters off him like a wave as he spins Chromedome around and wheels him toward the washrack door. "C'mon, mech, chop chop, let's get you presentable -"
"What - I'm fine. What are you even doing here?" Chromedome says. He feels like he's swimming through lead, too baffled to really protest as Brainstorm drags him in front of the mirror and stuffs a microfiber cloth and a scrubber and an entirely unfamiliar bucket of unknown origin into Chromedome's open hands. Someone's decapitating themselves in a fuzz of static in the periphery of his vision.
"Being your best and only friend, obviously, and making sure you actually clock in to work today," Brainstorm retorts, stacking a strange implement on top of Chromedome's pile that Chromedome is pretty sure doesn't belong outside the experimental weapons containment shields. "It's okay. Your speechless thanks is enough. That is also why I'm your best and only friend."
Chromedome's processor finally catches up as Brainstorm steers him by the elbow under the washrack spray. He resets his optics and very, very carefully removes the potentially-explosive tool from the stack to set on the shelf. With any luck, it's solvent-resistant. Primus, he hopes it's solvent-resistant. "Uh, right. Thanks, I guess," he says, glancing around for a place on the floor of the small cubicle to set the bucket. Brainstorm stands guard with his back to the shower and impatiently waits for Chromedome to clean up. "Sorry. Must've overslept."
"Yeah. Must have," Brainstorm says, distracted. He resettles his armor plates in a restless shuffle, his weight shifting from side to side as he scans the habsuite. Then he adds - quietly, desperately - "Come on. Don't give up on me yet."
Chromedome's in the middle of hastily scrubbing his audials with a brush - because yes, now that his chronometer is blinking right in his visor, he is so incredibly late - and frowns out the open door. "What are you mumbling about?"
For once in his life, Brainstorm doesn't instantly start chattering back. He stands there, his wings taut, and doesn't reply.
Chromedome rubs his helm. A crackle of static pops in the corner of his vision, but the false recall fizzles out before it can hit him. "Brainstorm. Seriously. Is something wrong?" he asks, leaning out of the washrack to frown at him. The floor's already half flooded with solvent.
Brainstorm makes a strange, strangled sound, like his vocalizer's glitching out. Then he says, sounding half hysterical, "Question. Totally hypothetical. If you're not okay, and I'm not okay, then who exactly is flying the plane?"
The thin suds of regulation soap rinse off Chromedome's helm in a pathetic trickle. A distant, quiet ringing hangs in his ears, like a half-remembered note in a song. How did it go again? [The Empyrean Suite - sparks popping in time with the crescendo -]
He jolts out of the memory, shuddering. The cloth hangs limp in his trembling fingers.
Brainstorm's voice is filled with diamond-sharp certainty. "Trick question. I am the plane," he says, quietly. "Just hang in there, alright? I'm gonna figure this out. I'm going to fix everything."
-
And he goes to the clinic -
-
He recognizes the waiting room.
Trepan greets him at the bottom of the stairs. His smile is soft and horribly familiar as Chromedome lays down on the autopsy berth. His limbs move mechanically, like a mindless drone.
"There, there," Trepan says, stroking the side of his face. "I know it hurts again. We'll make it all stop."
-
He wakes up.
Chromedome can't remember the recharge feedback clearly - a pop of static; a mech murmuring unintelligible words as needles sink sweetly into his neck; someone grey yet still twitching where they hang from the ceiling over his berth, right in the center of his line of sight.
It would be nice to forget everything. He doesn't remember releasing the internal catch on his needles, but they're out now as he kneads the back of his sore neck.
He's so tired.
He can't remember the last time he left the facility or visited the war-torn city a few hour's drive from the New Institute. Travel's dangerous for everyone right now, with aerial bombardments hitting the main roads every few hours. He's not even sure which side controls the territory where the New Institute is located anymore - for all they know here underground, the actual edge of the war's salient could be three solar systems away. Cybertron is old news as far as the war goes - just as grey underfoot as any other dead thing.
But Chromedome's sure Brainstorm would have mentioned if the city burned. A lot of their conversations are smears of color and sound in his memory, but he'd remember something like that, right?
He needs to make a trip out there. Soon.
He's too much of a coward to do it himself.
-
"Exactly how much do you remember. Right now, this second?" Brainstorm asks him. He turns the empty glass in his hands, spinning it faster and faster as the silence stretches out. His eyes look haunted.
Chromedome can't answer.
Too much, probably.
-
All the dead Decepticons he needs to interrogate today died via spark suffocation. All in all, pretty boring. A lot of what Chromedome downloads from their memory files is hush hush stuff - which is the reason why Chromedome has the level of security clearance that he does. He dumps it into memory slugs for Trepan to forward to the relevant parties, and then slumps over the autoclave, optics off as he lets his mind circle around the drain.
He realized a while ago that he's not contributing anything to the war effort. Not really. Nothing that will help; nothing that will end it. It's a bitter pill to swallow - Prowl tried to leave, and now he's the driving force behind all of Autobot SpecOps. He's part of the command team, and well aware of the New Institute's existence, yet Chromedome hasn't heard from him directly in hundreds of thousands of years. Chromedome stayed, and he's done nothing at all except wind up down here in a basement, under all the dead mechs he's emptied out. Trepan's broken, discarded protégé, who couldn't cut it as a mnemosurgeon for more than a million years before falling apart.
For a second, he's standing in mangled bodies and energon up to his knees. He's not sure whose memory that is.
He just wants it to stop.
"Another trip to town?" Trepan asks, lightly, as Chromedome slinks past the main operating theater. His mouth smiles, and his eyes are full of contempt.
"Just need to clear my head," Chromedome says.
-
He has ten unanswered pings from Brainstorm by the time he reaches the relinquishment clinic. A lot of the city's under siege at the moment, but this stretch of neighborhood stands out among the smoking ruins - battered, but otherwise untouched by the vicious skirmish only two strata above. By unspoken agreement, neither side interferes with mechs who come here.
Two other Autobots sit in the waiting room while Chromedome checks in. A single Decepticon lurks in the doorway; his dark red optics dart away when Chromedome makes that three, but he doesn't leave. One of the Autobots scratches idly at their wrist, while the other sits cross-legged on the bench playing a hologame with himself to pass the time. Neither of them looks particularly bothered by the fact that they're all here to die.
No one says anything as Chromedome joins the line.
The waiting room feels so familiar. It looks the same as every other waiting room ever built, he supposes. Preconstructed buildings tended to follow templates.
When it's his turn, he walks through the doors, past the line of coffins waiting to go to the morgue, and goes downstairs. Trepan loops an arm around his waist in welcome and guides him over to the autopsy table. He hums a tune Chromedome recognizes from so many hundreds of hours spent observing Trepan's work in the operating theater.
"Always a pleasure," he murmurs. He pushes Chromedome down onto the berth and strokes the back of his neck as he presses close. "You and Brainstorm have such creative imaginations. I'll see if we can get him transferred elsewhere."
All of this feels so terribly familiar.
-
He wakes up.
Chromedome can't remember the recharge feedback clearly - a pop of static; someone reaching into his chest and rummaging through his insides; someone grey and shivering with unlit red eyes, who shakes their head desperately, pleading, beside Chromedome's berth.
He recognizes the Decepticon on the autopsy slab when he finally reaches his work station. For some reason, he can't recall their name. He stares at their face for a long time, trying to place it. The tattered shred of memory flickers in his mind and then slips out of his grasp.
Unnerved, he skips them and moves on to the next autopsy table.
-
And he goes to the clinic.
-
He wakes up.
Chromedome can't remember the recharge feedback clearly - a pop of static; someone with a blur of a face squeezing his hand; himself, grey and lined with rust, a thousand needles sticking out the back of his neck and his optics as he lays on the berth.
He can't remember the last time he saw Brainstorm - a transfer to another facility, or something. Without Brainstorm to liven the morning, every day is an exhausting blur. Trepan called him into his office yesterday to tell Chromedome what fine work he's been doing, and how he deserves a reward for his diligence. Nothing about his hands - which are very steady, these days - and nothing about that one time Chromedome lined up twenty suicides in a row and relived their memories, over and over and over -
He's sick of it.
-
He goes to the clinic.
The waiting room feels so familiar. They used to build these preconstructed buildings based on a template - Chromedome lived in a made-to-order apartment complex identical to all the ones next to him back when he worked in Iacon. No one's really building anything anymore, unless it's for the war, but the relinquishment clinic has been around for a long time providing its quiet service.
He's the only Autobot in the room. One Decepticon arrived before him. He sits on the edge of his seat, his finger joints white as he clutches the bench. They tighten further when Chromedome sits beside him. Chromedome lets his shoulders slump, his arms resting on his knees as he stares at his hands.
Two more Decepticons wander in over the course of the next hour. No one introduces themselves, or even speaks. The one who sits on Chromedome's other side slumps in an echo of Chromedome's posture, their armor creaking faintly as they stare at the wall across from them with a bleak visor. The final Decepticon lounges on the bench and crosses his legs with a sharp sigh, drumming his fingers impatiently against the bench as they wait in silence.
Chromedome dims his optics and relaxes. No tremors, no false recall - his mind feels piercingly, achingly clear, for the first time in a very long time. They're all here for the same reason. There's no need for words. He feels closer to the three mechs here than he has to anyone in - years.
Someone sobs in the next room over.
Listing to the side, Chromedome jolts. He resets his visor and glances at the Decepticons on either side, but none of them made the noise. The mech at the end of the line looks irritated, his mouth scrunched up in disdain as he glares at the door to the morgue.
Another faint, stifled cry comes through the wall. Someone's - someone's crying. They're trying to be quiet about it, but the walls of the waiting room aren't thick enough to muffle them.
The Decepticon on Chromedome's left covers their helm and starts to shudder, vocalizer muted. The one at the end shifts his weight, his engine rattling in a low, agitated growl.
Chromedome shoots up off the bench so abruptly he hears integrated weapons scream to life behind him. Not a good idea to make sudden moves in a room full of battle-scarred enemy soldiers. But Chromedome -
He glances toward the door that leads down, into the relinquishment clinic's operating room. For a moment, a deep ache pulses in the back of his head. It's not his magnetoreceptors - something deeper in his processor.
Another anguished, broken sound.
Chromedome shakes off the nameless impulse and walks to the doors of the morgue. They slide open soundlessly to admit him. Which is weird, since he would've thought they'd lock these doors against unauthorized personnel to prevent incidents - someone must have hacked the lock. He rests a hand against the door frame for a moment as he peers into the dark, stagnant room. The sharp, bitter tang of greying frames seeps out from the quiet rows of coffins, but it's nothing Chromedome hasn't spent his days immersed in for the past few million years.
His optics almost sweep right over the small figure crouched beside an open coffin. They're grey and white, their Autobot badge painted mourning colors and their biolights dim in the half-lit room. They've unsealed the coffin and hauled the lid aside with clear effort, their shoulders shaking with unsteady vents. As Chromedome watches, frozen in place, they work up the nerve to look down at the face of the dead mech in the coffin - and sob again, a wrecked sound that's not quite relief.
Then they slide the lid shut and move on to the next coffin in the row. They shuffle on their knees without standing up to do it and reach out to break the seal with another strangled whimper.
He...shouldn't be here. They're grieving. He feels like a monster intruding on this - this - the - the other side of things. He's not the corpse they're looking for.
The only thing he could do to make it better for them isn't something anyone would want. He's intimately familiar with the sensation of needles in his own neck.
He walks over to them anyway, with slow, cautious steps. His mind is lit with sharp clarity; he's not used to thinking this clearly, uninterrupted by the static of dead thoughts. They're hurt. Maybe they're hurting more than he is. But they're still here, looking. They haven't stopped. Whoever they've lost was lucky - they have someone who misses them when they're gone. It makes something ache in his chest.
When he reaches them, the mech flinches at the sound of his footsteps. They jerk away from the coffin. Their streaming visor snaps into focus as they look up at Chromedome defiantly.
He needs to say something. Anything. What do you say to someone stricken with grief? He can't recall the last time he made casual conversation with anyone; discussing work matters with Trepan hardly counts. Chromedome's vocalizer feels clogged with dust.
He holds out a hand. It shakes from barely repressed emotion. "The worse the death, the more painful the memories," he says, and winces in regret. That's not what he meant - they would have suffered if they died any other way, spark suffocation is quick and quiet, they didn't hurt in the end, please don't cry - but he's lived so many deaths that these are the most reassuring words he can offer them. It's such a pathetic offering, in hindsight. The only one reassured by that sort of comfort is Chromedome himself.
"Who are you?" the mech demands. Once Chromedome pays attention to the public ID tag that flashes on his HUD [Rewind; he; 200106003], he realizes with a start that his own ID tag is probably a mess of classified censors. He hasn't left the New Institute in a long time. Mnemosurgeons use nicknames for a reason.
"Everyone calls me Chromedome," he says, his hand still awkwardly hovering between them. The starkly uncomfortable sensation of intruding on someone else's grief continues to twist in his chest.
Rewind stands up stiffly, without accepting Chromedome's hand. Chromedome didn't even intend to help him, really - it was more a gesture of solidarity, or comfort, or - he doesn't know. "Why are you here?" Rewind asks, terse, like he expects Chromedome to cuff him and drag him to a cell. It's been a lifetime (a few million lives - he lost count a long time ago) since he was a cop, but he recognizes the defiant jut of Rewind's chin with a weird burst of nostalgia.
Chromedome can't remember the last time he felt anything but miserable. It's a refreshing change.
Still. "To do something about it," he says with a shrug. He closes his hand and pulls it back, suddenly shy. He should leave. Get back in line.
But seeing all the coffins stacked in neat rows unsettles him. It reminds him too much of work. He hasn't been able to tell the difference between resting on his berth and joining the other corpses on his autopsy table in a long time. But now he's powerfully aware of the weak whir of his spark in his chest, and of how unnervingly, frighteningly familiar it feels to be surrounded by grey, hollow frames like this. A hopeless kind of déjà vu.
He wants it to change; he wants it to stop.
It's not going to change. He'll still be buried in the dead. He obsessed over visiting the relinquishment clinic for so long, circled back to the thought over and over again, and yet he never stopped to consider -
Something needs to change.
"C'mon," Chromedome says. He doesn't recognize the weird, fragile smile in his voice as he holds out his hand again. "Let's get you out of here. I think we both need some fresh air."
Rewind stares at his hand for a very long time before taking it.
-
There's a lot of dying he almost didn't do.
-
"You look a lot better," Brainstorm says. He looks pensive as he nudges the straw around the edge of his glass. "I was...worried. About you."
Kimia Station does incredible work. Chromedome's only stationed here out of courtesy to Rewind, who's been asked to consult on a project. Brainstorm transferred here a while back apparently, and he's in his element. The researchers at Kimia focus on high-end, theoretical designs, on the cutting edge of what's scientifically possible, and that's always been Brainstorm's niche. The second he laid eyes on Chromedome, he smugly announced that he gets opportunities to work with the Perceptor, and then started chattering about all the impossible gun ideas they've had him work on.
Kimia is as far from the war theater as you can get and still be relevant. It's quiet. Safer than a lot of places. There's less chance Rewind will get caught in the middle of a warzone out here. Despite his exemption status, Rewind takes risks. They could use some down time.
Brainstorm looks older. His paint is as bright as before, and he walks with that familiar, fluttering bounce in his wings. But there's a tired, serious glint in his optics that Chromedome doesn't remember. A compact yellow briefcase hangs on a loop around his wrist at all times; when he asks, Brainstorm claps him on the shoulder and informs him that it's sooo classified. Super classified. He can neither confirm nor deny that he once opened the briefcase on Hydrus 4, and the sun went out. A rousing, incredibly classified, huge success.
The Ethics Committee evaluates every weapon design that makes the leap from the purely theoretical to potentially apocalyptic reality - including a few that are potentially apocalyptic even in their theoretical form. Brainstorm assures Chromedome that he is their absolute favorite. Ironfist who?
Then again, maybe Brainstorm always looked this tired. Maybe Chromedome just never noticed, too caught up in the dark, miserable mire of his thoughts to pay attention to his best friend. So many years and so many miles away from the New Institute, he can look back and flinch at all the hollow cavities left in his memory. Toward the end, most of what his processor retained are memories with source codes from other mechs. Edit codes litter his memory files, locking off doors he's afraid to open.
The edits with his own serial code scare him more than Trepan's.
Whatever happened all those years ago with Trepan, it was - ugly. Ugly in a way that Chromedome is afraid to touch. If he thinks about it too deeply, if he presses too close to those locked doors, he feels -
He can't even bring himself to report it to a senior officer. Trepan's dead. Chromedome only occasionally glimpses the ugliness in the corner of his eye, and he can live with that.
Being with Rewind helps. It's still a work in progress.
"I feel a lot better," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, gingerly, he taps the tip of his foot against Brainstorm's under the table. "How are you feeling? Are you happy here?"
Brainstorm's optics narrow in a rueful grin. He kicks his legs out and knocks the bottom of Chromedome's feet to jostle him. "Soon. Not yet. But soon," he promises.