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Fortress Maximus decided he was going to miss Swerve's bar.
Tomorrow he would be leaving the Lost Light, or rather, the Lost Light would be leaving and Max would be staying on Luna 1. It had surprised him a little to realize that he wanted to spend his last few hours aboard here, in the bar, puzzling and sometimes marveling at the collection of individuals- because no other word fit this group quite as well- who had undertaken Rodimus' quest.
Yes, he had some negative history with the place. He had come to terms with that and he was moving on. He'd even helped Swerve with some of the repairs, before the grand re-opening: righting tables, holding the engex refineries in place while Swerve measured, leveled, and fastened them, and carrying scrap to the recycler. Swerve chattered the whole time, half from anxiety, half from a pathological need to fill the silence. Max occasionally contributed an affirming noise or gesture. He found the simple work and babble relaxing.
Primus knew he needed some relaxation. The bar provided normalcy, even a rare and amusing hint of boredom. It wasn't just himself who needed these things, Max thought. A mission as vague and protracted as the Lost Light's required a gathering place where the crew could unwind, socialize, and whinge about their lack of progress to someone with an endless slew of anecdotes and opinions. Such a place let the crew simultaneously critique the mission and become excited about it anew.
But, tonight the bar was a perfect place for people-watching.
There was a moderate crowd. Max had chosen a seat in the corner, one where he could see most of the room. He settled back, gaze drifting from table to table. His attention had just settled on Red Alert when Swerve appeared.
“What can I get ya?”
“Something sweet,” said Max, “and not too strong.”
“That's right! Big day for you tomorrow. Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord!” Swerve grinned and gave him a double thumbs-up. Fort Max found himself smiling. “Coming right up.”
Yeah, he was going to miss this place.
Max thought about going to join Red Alert when he spotted the fidgety bot, then settled on giving a polite nod when Red turned and looked at him. He received a quick smile in return. That was encouraging. He and Red would be working together and it was pleasant to have a co-worker who did not feel compelled to socialize with him simply because they knew each other. If they discovered common interests, perhaps then.
Swerve returned and brought Max something he called After Dark. It was a two-tone cocktail, a mellow light blue colour layered on deep turquoise and Max was still poking it and tipping the glass to see the engex mix when Whirl sat down across from him.
“That's not gonna do a thing for a big guy like you. Now, if you really want to get trashed, I can make some recommendations.”
He looked up. Whirl was sober.
“I'm not trying to get trashed,” Max said and took a slow sip of his drink.
Whirl stared at him for a beat. He probably thought he was inscrutable but Whirl was hardly the first empurata victim that Fortress Maximus had encountered.
“What's the point of coming to a bar if you're not gonna get trashed?” Whirl asked finally.
“People-watching.”
Whirl glanced over his shoulder. “Not very entertaining. No drama tonight. Everybody's all... content.”
“What do you want, Whirl?”
Whirl's optic clicked, contracting minutely, focusing. “You were by yourself so I figured I'd keep you company. Is it a crime to come sit with you now? Am I in the 'no-sitting' zone?”
Max took another sip. “You haven't said two words to me since the hostage situation.”
“Didn't know you were keeping count.”
Max set his drink down and folded his hands behind it. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly. He wasn't sure how Whirl would react to emotional sincerity but at the moment, Fort Max simply needed to say it for his own sake. “For what I did to you. I am sorry.”
“Yeah,” Whirl replied, voice taut. He shifted in his seat and looked away but didn't move to leave. Then he shrugged. “Wasn't that bad. I've been beat up worse. Besides, I got to stab you, so we're even.” He tapped a claw on the table. “No hard feelings, right?” Max shook his head. “But I think I'd be more inclined to accept your apology if you bought me a drink.”
Max considered for a moment, then signaled to Swerve, pointed to Whirl, and the barkeep nodded. “Fair enough. One drink.”
“Just one?”
“Just one.”
“Eh, a drink's a drink,” said Whirl, and settled himself back in his chair, sprawling a little. Swerve brought him a bright lavender cocktail that sizzled and spat, without bothering to inquire about his preference.
“Still doing okay over here?” Swerve glanced from Whirl to Max and back. “Need anything else, you, uh, you let me know.” Translation: if you're going to start shooting at each other, give me some advance warning.
“We're fine,” Max replied lightly. Nevertheless, Swerve hurried back to the bar, where Max knew Brainstorm had helped him install a blast shield.
Whirl snickered at the bartender's retreat. He cupped both huge claws around the glass but didn't drink.
Max held up his cocktail. “To...” He contemplated toasting his appointment but it seemed selfish, in light of everything else that had happened recently. “To finding Luna 1.”
“And the magnificent whackjob squatting on it.”
“No, we're not toasting him.”
“To heroically offing the whackjob, then?”
“That was Ultra Magnus who did that.”
“You mean Minimus Ambus? Ultra Ambus? Minimus Magnus? Mini-Magnus? Mini-Mags?”
“Whirl, toast the damn moon.”
“To killing a whole lot of Tyrest's Legislators and stealing their swords!”
Max clinked Whirl's glass. “Good enough.” He tossed the rest of the cocktail back at a gulp and lowered the glass just in time to see Whirl open the armour plating at the base of his throat, pop the cap off his thoracic intake- probably, Max guessed, his only intake- and pour his entire drink directly into his fuel tank.
“Yuck. That explains why you get absolutely hammered so quickly.”
“I do not.”
“You don't even have a fuel intake moderation chip, do you?”
“Nope. Had it removed. Got a memory expansion for my targeting system installed in the slot.” Whirl shifted so that his cannons peeked above the edge of the table. “Improved accuracy in root mode by like, centimeters. I mean, improved accuracy to within centimeters. Of where I'm aiming.” Whirl thunked his glass back on the table. “It's really cool.”
“You know you're supposed to have that chip for a reason, right?”
“What're you gonna do- arrest me?” Whirl narrowed his optic.
Max signaled Swerve for another drink. “Nope. No doubt you're well aware of the consequences of ingesting too much engex too rapidly.” Whirl winced slightly. “That's what I thought.”
Swerve waited until Whirl's guns were under the table again, then set fresh drinks before each of them. Whirl pounced on his before Max had a chance to explain to Swerve that he'd wanted another drink for himself, not Whirl.
“So why buy memory?”
“Eh?”
“For your targeting system. Why get another chip at all? Why not get a motion compensation system, or-”
“A what?”
“It's targeting software for anatomically integrated weapons,” Max explained. “You install it- it's only a few gigabytes- really small- link it into your physical specs, and the heuristics adapt to your personal gait, fighting style, whatever. Then it develops specialized target protocols for each situation.”
“When you say 'specialized target protocols', you mean it tells you to fire only when it calculates you can hit something.”
“Yes. You can set the lethality, so if you only want a kill shot or if you only want to debilitate, it'll tell you to fire when you have that particular shot. No wasted ammo.”
Whirl put one claw on the rim of his glass and tipped it sideways until his fizzy cocktail was just about spilling. The beveled edge of the bottom rim ground against the table top. “Skids has something like that, only he's hollowed out the heuristics and slaved it to his processor so it learns like he does.” He shrugged. “Pretty cool, if you like giving over fire control and can afford dedicated software. But memory is cheap and flexible.”
Max nodded. “And easy to replace.”
“So what're you running? For your legendary leg cannons?”
“Just extra memory now, same as your guns.”
“What, you didn't like the fancy software?”
Max took a sip before answering. “I did but... when they rebuilt me at Delphi, they had my specs but I felt different. Afterwards. Just a little different.” He shrugged. “The program felt like it didn't fit right. I've still got it. But I never engage it.”
Whirl slowly raised his claw from the rim of the glass and to Max's surprise it stayed there, balanced perfectly on the bottom edge, looking serene and improbable. “Yup,” said Whirl. “I still have digital dexterity subroutines. They're mostly useless.” He pushed the glass back onto its base with a splash. “Adapted them to other stuff as much as I could.”
“Hm. Yeah. That's the trouble with specialized systems: you can't exactly adapt them to other functions. I should just uninstall the program.”
“Naw, you should keep it,” said Whirl. “Program probably just needs some tweaking to sync up with your specs properly again. I mean, your rebuild is pretty faithful. Any parameter adjustments the program will have to make are gonna be small. That whole thing about not 'feeling right'? It's mostly in your head.” He poured half of the remaining cocktail into his empty glass and set about balancing one with each hand.
Max watched him for a moment, until he had both glasses resting precariously on their bottom edges.
“How are you doing that?” He attempted to copy the trick with his own empty glass.
Whirl snatched up both his drinks, poured the contents into his fuel tank, and reclosed his armour.
“First of all, the container has to be at least partially full,” said the helicopter slyly.
“Ah,” said Max, realizing he had been trapped. He caught Swerve's eye and pointed to Whirl. “Then again, who knows what kind of technology is hidden away on Luna 1. Tyrest had that portal to- well, wherever Skids went- and the medibay is nothing short of miraculous. I'm eager to look around, see if he's got any fancy weapons upgrades.”
“You'd install something that came out of that lunatic's research?” Whirl was incredulous.
“After thorough investigation, if we found something useful, yes, I would incorporate technology developed on Luna 1. How can you look so appalled? You test weapons for Brainstorm.”
“Yeah, 'cause Brainstorm's a genius, not a catastrophically delusional, cape-wearing, mass-murdering megalomaniac who drills holes in his frikkin' head to let in god.”
“A compelling argument,” Max replied and thanked Swerve as he delivered Whirl's third drink. “But it would be negligent of me to ignore the potential good that could be done with some of the equipment in his lab.”
Whirl made an indecipherable grinding sound. “I dunno how much good Tyrest was aiming to do with any of that stuff. Good for Tyrest, maybe. Anyway, watch this. Master at work.” He poured a portion of his drink into one of the empties, then carefully set it on its edge. “First of all, you gotta have a glass with a square bottom. Yours won't work cause it's round. And then you gotta have the right amount in the glass... And if the angle of the bevel isn't just right, it'll never balance.”
“How can you tell if the angle is right?”
“Just look at it. Calculate the angle.”
“You can do that?”
“You can't? You're a tank. Don't you calculate mortar trajectories or something? Same thing.”
“I'm not going to use my combat computer for a bar trick.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's ridiculous.”
“I think you mean ingenious.”
“Are you- is that what you're doing?”
Whirl deftly set up the next glass on its edge. Max could see now that the bevel on the two was slightly different- and so was the amount of cocktail inside- and it resulted in each one leaning precariously at a slightly different angle on the table top.
“No,” said Whirl, “I'm using my old crafting software.” He hunkered down until his helm was almost resting on the table. Max lowered himself carefully too, trying to look at the trick as an engineering problem. “It's good for identifying very small distances and angles and for making tiny little motions. Don't normally have much use for it but it's good for winning free drinks...”
Max watched as Whirl set up the third, empty glass, grudgingly admitting that it was, well, pretty cool.
“What are you doing?”
They both sat up so fast that somebody's leg slammed into the table and knocked over all three glasses.
“I'm sorry,” said Rung, “I thought you knew I was there.”
“You're like a frikkin' shadow,” said Whirl, gathering his empties together. “Siddown. You owe me a beverage.”
Max snagged a chair and Rung joined them. “What were you doing?”
“Whirl's trying to teach me a bar trick,” said Max.
“No,” said Whirl, “I'm just showing you. You'd never manage it with those massive paws.”
Fort Max had to admit it was true. “I can probably do it with a shipping container, though.”
“That'd be cool.” Whirl's optic glowed. “That'd be a great prank.”
“Remind me to stay out of the cargo bay for a while,” said Rung. “Er...” He managed to catch Swerve's attention and shortly furnished Whirl with his fourth drink, as well as something for himself. Swerve paused at their table, eyeing the row of carefully balanced glasses.
“I get it,” said Swerve, with a dramatic finger-snap. “You order this mix all the time because you can do that with the empties, not because it tastes good.”
Whirl's optic setting curved into an amused crescent. “Ha ha, Swerve thinks I can taste!”
“You do realize I can put something considerably less corrosive into the same glass, right?”
“Or I can keep ordering whatever I want, eh?”
“Suit yourself.” Swerve lifted his palms in defeat and retreated.
“Actually,” said Whirl in a giddy stage-whisper as he cuddled up to his latest cocktail, “I just really like the colour.”
Rung appropriated one of the empties and studied it. “I bet I can do it.”
Whirl's optic dilated. “Yeah? We're betting? I bet you can do it too.”
“Whirl, you have to bet against-” said Max.
“No I don't. I think he can do it. You bet against us. Come on.”
“What're we betting?” said Rung.
“Drinks,” Fort Max and Whirl replied in unison.
“All right.”
The table became a bit of an anomaly in the bar for several minutes as all three occupants went quiet and still, focusing on Rung. It did not surprise Fort Max when the psychiatrist accomplished his task.
“Ah!” Rung said and sat back, hands clasped in triumph. “Look at that!” Whirl threw an arm around his shoulders, almost crushing Rung into the edge of the table with his exuberance.
“Nice! Y'owe both of us drinks, Fortress Enforcer Tyrest Maximus!”
Max grimaced. “Don't call me that.”
“Really got no love for tall, cloaked and crazy, do you? You realize,” Whirl pointed one unsteady claw across the table, “you realize this means I'm gonna call you that f'now on, right?”
“If you can remember what you just said.”
“I remember,” said Whirl. He hesitated. Then he blinked. “But more importantly, you owe us both drinks.”
“Yours is going to be regular energon,” said Max and headed for the bar.
“But-!” Whirl protested in his wake.
“Said I'd buy you a drink, I didn't say what sort.”
“Everything okay over there?” Swerve asked as he presented Max with his order.
“We're fine, Swerve, really.”
“It's just, uh, you three- you have some history.”
Fort Max paused, glanced up at the table where Whirl leaned sideways and gave Rung an unsteady but gentle head-butt, wondered at his small friend's patience and capacity for forgiveness, and found himself grudgingly admitting that Whirl wasn't completely terrible company under some circumstances.
“Yeah, we do have some history,” he said at last. “Doesn't everybody though?”
Swerve cocked his head. “I guess you're right. But if you and Whirl start comparing guns, I'm going to kick you out. Just in case.”
Max chuckled. “Fair enough.” At the moment, he doubted Whirl could actually find his guns without help. He leaned between his two companions to drop off their drinks. “Petrol tea and regular energon.”
“Enforcer Maximus,” Whirl chortled and downed the energon.
“I hear Ultra Magnus has been giving you a crash course in the finer details of the old Tyrest Accord,” said Rung.
“Only Magnus could give a 'crash course in fine details',” sighed Max. “And yes, he has been. It's, um, quite educational.”
“You fell asleep.” Rung hid a smile behind his tea cup.
“Only for three seconds. I set an internal alarm before we start each session, just in case.”
“That's cheating,” said Whirl.
Max made a face. “He has this thing about punctuation and I'm- well, he gave me an exam this morning. It wasn't anything official, just something he thought might 'provide indication of areas in need of further study'-”
Whirl made an inclusive gesture with both hands. “The whole Accord...”
“-and he gave me a failing grade-”
“What?”
“-not because I didn't know the correct answers, but because he was docking a half point for each incorrect use of a comma and they, well, they accumulated.” Max found himself grinning into his drink as his companions nodded their understanding.
“He's blocked my entire non-verbal communication suite,” said Whirl. “Entirely. Except in combat situations.”
“When I send him memos, he replies and colour-codes the grammar mistakes,” said Rung.
“And he,” Max paused, drink halfway to his lips, “he loves the Accord. He's downright passionate about it and he knows it so thoroughly... It's a bit intimidating, honestly.”
“Of course. But no one is expecting you to be Ultra Magnus, Max.”
“Yeah, you're way too big to fit into that armour, for one.”
“I know. I do wish I could keep him in a storage compartment and pull him out when I needed to baffle someone with their own language though.”
“I want armour like that. It'd be so cool.” Whirl sighed and folded his arms atop the table, resting his chin on the edge of his rotor shroud. “Except mine would fly.”
“Have you thought about how amazing that armour truly is?” said Rung. “I mean, it transforms around Magnus, in a completely different configuration than his real alt mode.”
Whirl turned slightly to eye Rung. “I can hear you thinking: 'Hooray, maybe I'm not limited to transforming into a parking meter after all!'”
Rung allowed that the idea might have been somewhere at the back of his mind.
Max shook a finger at Whirl. “See that is why I'm so eager to get into Tyrest's workshop. Something as exceptional as that armour, put to good use.”
“Aaaand we're back to the lab.”
“Look me in the eye and tell me you aren't even a little bit curious.”
Whirl cocked his head to the side and squinted at Max. “Okay, yes, yes I am but! The guy was crazy. Everything really good is probably rigged with traps. I mean, that's what I'd do. So whatever you find'll blow up in your face or electrocute you or wipe your memory or trap you in a world of your own darkest fears before you can use it.”
Max sipped his drink. “Obstacles,” he said dismissively. “If they exist, I will navigate them.” Then he smiled darkly. “And although I've already punched my darkest fears in the face, I wouldn't say no to another chance at it.”
Whirl held his gaze for a moment, then got distracted by something across the bar.
“I tend to agree with Whirl,” said Rung, “at least when it comes to the weapons. But Luna 1 does seem to make the impossible possible when it comes to research. I think your intentions to explore the potential of Tyrest's base are well-founded.”
“I'm gonna go explore the potential in Swerve's menu,” Whirl announced and lurched to his feet. He set off toward the bar.
Max finished his drink. “What if I can't do it?” he said.
Rung leaned back in his chair, holding his tea cup with both hands. “What part of 'it'?”
“The whole thing,” Max said and gestured lamely. “I'm not Magnus. His style? It's not my style. But he made it work- each of them, each Ultra Magnus- they made it work. It's a big legacy to live up to.”
“Same as life on the Lost Light, I expect,” said Rung. “One crisis at a time.”
Max smiled. “Don't you ever get tired?”
“Of course. That's why I'm here, having tea with friends.”
“Sorry.”
“For worrying? You've nothing to apologize for, Max. If someone offered me a position of that magnitude, I think I'd be up at the bar with Whirl.” Rung set his tea on the table and opened a compartment in his forearm, removing a rectangle of flexible plastic. “Here. My personal interstellar frequency. Just in case you need a friend.”
Max held the card carefully between thumb and forefinger. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”
Rung smiled. “You're welcome.”
“I might n-” Max's comm beeped. He listened for a moment. “Rodimus wants to brief me before I leave. Apparently, that means he wants to see me right now, on the bridge.” He stood. “Thank you. Again.”
Max would have liked a little more time to say good bye, but Rodimus was paging him again. “I'm on my way, sir,” he replied. He paused, then turned and strode up to the bar where Whirl somehow retained the dexterity to make a neat new triptych of balanced glasses.
“Whirl.”
The helicopter turned, elbows resting heavily on the counter top, and peered over his shoulder. “Where y'going?”
“The bridge. Rodimus wants to say something.”
“Ha.”
Max settled a hand on Whirl's shoulder. “Can you do me a favour?”
“Probably not,” said Whirl, staring at Max's hand as though not entirely sure what it was or when it had arrived.
“Look after Rung. Make sure he stays safe.”
Whirl barked a laugh. “You're kidding, right?”
Max frowned. “He's your friend too.”
“He can look after hi'self.”
“I'm not asking you to do it for me, I'm asking you to do it for him.”
“Yeah, I get that,” said Whirl, “An' I'm telling you- with us? Me an' him? S'other way around.” He folded his arms and slumped forward onto the counter. “Go have fun blowing yourself up in Tyrest's lab.” He twitched one claw in a weak wave.
Fort Max wasn't exactly stomping when he left Whirl at the bar, but his steps still reverberated enough to set Whirl's already scrambled senses buzzing even more acutely.
“Fragger,” he muttered to himself, and contemplated ordering another drink. He could probably still walk, and even if he couldn't, well... well, he didn't really care. After a minute, he realized that there was someone else standing beside him, and another thirty seconds after that, he identified the person as Rung.
“Why're you here?” he slurred, turning his head with immense care so that the world kept its swaying to a minimum.
“I came over to see if you wanted me to walk you home,” Rung answered, keeping his voice blessedly soft. Whirl rebooted his optics.
“No, I mean- why- why are you here here? On the ship? On the quest? Why are you here?”
Rung folded his arms on the counter top beside Whirl. “Because I wanted to join the quest.”
“Well, yeah, obviously- but- wait, d'you believe? In the Knights? In the whole mystical, astral stuff like Drift?”
Rung shook his head. “No. But I believe that searching for something makes people change and I wanted to see it happen.”
“Y'not here to find the Knights of Cybertron then?”
“Well, maybe I am. If we find them, then I'll be here. If we don't, I'll still be here.”
Whirl narrowed his optic. “This's one of those 'it ain't the ending, it's the journey' things, isn't it?”
Rung smiled. “Yes. I enjoy the journey.”
Whirl looked down at the surface of the counter, apparently contemplating the drops and smears of engex. “I'm not 'sposed to be here. I didn't choose to be here.” He dragged a clawtip through the spilled drink. “I dunno where I'm supposed to be or where I'm supposed to be going, I'm just here cause Ratchet didn't wanna leave me behind and- but- but I didn't have a say, I didn't even know where I was going- I'm just here and I dunno why.” He sank back down, burying his face in his arms.
Rung reached up to rub the back of Whirl's neck with one hand. “It's okay to not know. It's okay to figure things out as you go.”
“But Max-! Max just had that job fall into his lap! Like, we showed up at Luna 1 and boom! You wanna go enforce the most widely-known piece of intergalactic legislation ever- ever legislated? Yeah, I can do that. Great! Here's your- here's your frikkin' name tag.”
“Max spent three years undergoing horrible torture before we found him.”
Whirl shifted, still hiding his face. “Yeah,” he said more soberly. “Yeah, I know.” He sighed. “That was total scrap, what happened to Max. I hope he does punch Prowl through the chest.” Finally, Whirl raised his head, not quite looking at Rung. “I could never do Max's job; enforcing that scrap. All the diplomatic stuff and whatever. He's- he's pretty cool. I could never do your job either,” he mumbled.
“But you can do your job. You can fly and you can fight and you can persist against insurmountable odds. And if you don't think that's enough, then you have the tenacity and the talent to strive and work for more. What do you want, Whirl?”
Whirl tilted his head against Rung's chest, contemplative and quiet.
“I think I would like to go back to my suite and recharge.”
“Okay.”
“I think I would like some help getting there.”
“I can do that.”
Rung braced himself, prepared to help Whirl to his feet, but Whirl hesitated.
“I think I want a hug.”
When Rung slipped both arms around his shoulders and pulled him close, Whirl initially tensed, then relaxed and burrowed into the embrace. His weight settled against Rung's chest and he laid his head on Rung's shoulder.
“'S nice,” he muttered.
Every now and then, Rung forgot Whirl's real age. The helicopter was given to constant motion and noise, and it created the impression of youth. But sometimes, as in this moment, Rung remembered that Whirl was past middle age, forged before the war, that he had suffered and endured and somewhere in his spark, he was tired without a place to rest.
“Okay,” said Whirl finally, indistinctly. “Let's go.”
He didn't say anything else on the slow, careful trudge to his hab suite, only secured an arm around Rung's shoulders and leaned on him.
“Rung?” he said when they reached his door. It was so rare for Whirl to use anyone's name, and for anyone to use Rung's name, that Rung twitched alert.
“Yes?”
“Did I pay my tab?” he said anxiously.
Rung smiled and keyed open the door. “No, Whirl, you did not.”
“Oh. Good. Phew. Not that drunk then.”
Rung helped him to the slab and gently sat him down. He reached across Whirl for the recharge cable. A heavy claw on his arm stopped him.
“Hey, doc?” he said.
“What is it, Whirl?”
“I'm pretty broken, aren't I?” He stared up at Rung, unblinking. “I mean, it took Max a few months. He went a little crazy but he's better now, good enough to go be Enforcer Maximus, and I'm not- I'm- I'm still... I'm still like this!” The hand not resting on Rung's arm lashed out and punched the wall.
Rung ignored the outburst and sat down beside him on the berth. Another time, he might have reminded Whirl how he felt about words like 'broken' and 'crazy', but the helicopter was trembling with frustration. Rung pressed his femoral plating against Whirl's.
“Are you angry with me?” he asked.
“You? No. Why would I be mad at you?” Whirl huffed hot air through his dorsal intakes.
“I thought you might be angry because I'm supposed to help you.”
“Yeah, and you have,” said Whirl, optic flaring in the near-darkness of the suite. “Not enough, I guess, but you keep trying. Maybe this's as good as you can do for me.”
“It is if you don't help me,” said Rung. He turned and locked gazes with Whirl for several seconds before the helicopter hissed and looked away. “Whirl?”
“Whattaya want me to do then, eh, doc? Tell you all the scrap that's gone wrong in my life? Every bad thing I've ever done or said or thought about? How I know what I'm doing is wrong and I do it anyway, because hey, why not? Do you want to hear all of that, cause if you give me a month or so, I'll make you an itemized list and we can-”
Rung held up a hand. “Tell me about Tailgate.”
“What?”
“Or Rewind.”
“Rewind's dead.”
“Or tell me why First Aid has hours of video surveillance of you, sitting by my slab in the medibay. Tell me why you were there when I first woke up, and every day after. Or why you were so merciless and insulting to Max when he was holding us hostage.”
Whirl had stopped trembling. “Cause I was pissed off and he was attacking us. What's that got to do with anything?”
“If Max was riled up and pointing the gun at you, it meant he couldn't be pointing it at me. Whirl, you do bad things and yes, I know there's no voice telling you that you shouldn't. But there's also no voice telling you not to do good things.”
Whirl jolted as though he'd touched a live wire. “Well, so what?” he snapped.
“So you act without examining your choices. You simply act. I'm sure that trait has helped keep you alive all this time.”
Whirl nodded.
“But sometimes you make poor choices- do bad things- and only see that they were bad in hindsight.”
“Yeah, but that's-”
“That's as far as I can take you alone, Whirl. We can sit in my office every week and you can tell me what you've done, and we'll analyze it, and eventually, maybe, you'll change your own behaviour.” Rung laid both hands on Whirl's claw. “Help me, Whirl. This isn't a one-person job. You have to help me help you.”
“Rung, I can't,” he said, voice soft and almost pleading.
“Why not?”
“I just can't, okay?”
Rung fell silent. Beside him, Whirl leaned, leg pressed against his, one arm half-embracing him for lack of any other place to put it, one claw twitching in Rung's grip. He could feel the pulse of Whirl's spark through his armour; quick, bright, and terrified.
“I dunno what to do. I gotta do something. What can I do?” Whirl said finally, optic searching his face intently. Rung snugged an arm around his waist and gave him a squeeze.
“That's a good start.”