Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Log #1:

After leaving from the spark of Iacon to the Luna-1 base, things had progressed relatively well until I met one of my fellow cadets, though I am unaware whether he will be part of my platoon or not at this moment. My first encounter with him did not go well. With his back plates to me, he looked to be of the same subclass, or at least a minibot, which I was, at first, grateful for. The innate connection I was hoping for, though, did not turn out how I expected.

He was mumbling almost incoherently to himself, excess charge or excitement, I reasoned at the time, but I take one step closer and he turns towards me, the characteristic field of a charge unit clashing with my own—which doesn't happen—and his plating flared out in a primitive, almost organic attempt to make himself appear larger than he actually was. Not a good sign. No self-respecting minibot from Cybertron, Primus forbid a charge unit, would ever act in such a feral manner. It was clear to me that the mech in front of me was, in fact, a colony bot. His derma twisted into a scowl, and it was immediately clear that he did not welcome me like I would have done to him.

That was when I noticed the denta. They were sharp. No Autobot had sharp denta, whether they were from another planet or not. The specs were shared. His digits were the same, tapered into a pointed edge that could reach between the gaps in the plating and rip.

He was grumbling, and it was clear he didn't want me there. Every nanoklik that passed made me share that sentiment more and more. Besides the modifications, there was something…wrong with that bot that I, even now, can't pinpoint right now. His electricity crackled just under the surface, and I swore I saw sparks in his intake, which shouldn't be possible. His field had a threatening edge to it I had never encountered before and his systems were loud. Unmoored and unsettled, I have since decided to search for companionship elsewhere. At this point in time, I am writing my first Log just before being assigned to my new superior officer, and I can only hope he is assigned to a different sector despite how, usually, charge units are beneficial to put in groups.

Log #2:

He’s here.

Orbital cycles dragged on, a slog of liquid metal that he could barely breach the surface of, weighed down and exhausted, but not by the training. Their minor was incompetent, sure, but as long as one played to his ego, you could skate by relatively unnoticed yet praised for your obedience, a small price to pay in the bright green bot’s optics. No, the true terror of this experience was with a singular cadet, uncreatively dubbed Bumblebee based on a “defect,” and all that he brought along with him.

Originally, he thought the other’s more…out there quirks stemmed from his time on his original planet, wherever that may be—he hadn't ever cared enough to ask—but, after some careful observation early on, he realised that it didn't explain the way his tanks churned whenever the other was nearby. His field was erratic and unpredictable, leaving him dizzyingly out of sorts when in proximity for too long. It left static in his processor, dulling his senses like when in the care of a medic with magnetic abilities, but much more unpleasant; inconvenient, to put it lightly. The nauseating fuzz that clogged his RAM was often exacerbated whenever the taller minibot tried to get closer, the perimeter of his yellow-blue field shifting to a needles’ edge, aggressive in a way only Wasp could truly understand, leaving him adrift in a situation he hadn't the first clue how to navigate through with a modicum of tact. Most of the drivel that came out of the other’s intake, particularly when conversing with the mudflap that naively calls him a friend, were bold lies that the other didn't question, likely unaware of the workings of such a niche subclass from a sheltered time online. Wasp had attempted to correct the bumbler the first few times he heard it, with admittedly a touch too much aggression than necessary, that he mentally attributed to the unfamiliarity, but it always led to a physical confrontation, which caused him, oftentimes, to double down, flaring out his own field to prove he wouldn't just heel. He hadn’t decided on whether or not to use force yet, still testing out the reactivity of this new and unstable specimen to see both response times and their severity. He had never been one to enjoy the consequences of his actions, so he wanted to make sure nothing would come of it besides maybe Bumblebee dropping out. Would he be vengeful, or did he prefer to take it, thinking it would cease if he simply did not respond?

“Hmmm…” He paced back and forth around the outside of a battle simulator, its designation escaping him, needing the distance and solitude to properly think of his next steps.

“What’cha doin’ Wasp?” Ironhide asked, voice behind him, having ignorantly interrupted the assembly line in his processor, tapping the green bot on a weighty pauldron.

“Gah-Ironhide!” He yelped, clapping a servo over his own intake to prevent further outbursts. ‘After all, he could be listening.’ His optics darted around for a few nanokliks as he calmed himself and removed his servo, his tone regaining its regular timbre after the sudden input of audio and visual cues had been properly processed by his motor and auditory relays, centring back on the bulky orange mech, “Don't you know not to sneak up on a mech?”

“Oh, sorry about that.” He rubbed at the back of his coppery helm and tilted it downwards, appearing genuinely apologetic. “I didn't realise.”

“You never do,” he muttered, pauldrons sagging as if burdened by a sudden increase of gravity instead of an incompetent lackey, “but that's why I'm here!” He used an elbow joint to bump him in the side with a bit more force than necessary, jolting the larger slightly. “Regardless, I'm considering a course of action to take regarding that other minibot,” he spat with fully intended vitriol, “in our midst.”

“Who? Bumblebee?”

“Yes, Bumblebee,” he sighed exasperatedly, confused at why it needed clarification in the first place. “I've told you…so many times about how he can't be a normal bot like us, so I need a way to expose him to the others, especially Sentinel Minor.”

“And send him to the stockades, or do you just want him out? What exactly is your goal here?”

“It depends on what I'm able to find out about him.” He shrugged, leaning his weight into a single stabiliser. “Who knows how dangerous he is?” He flexed his digits threateningly in a mimicry of the other minibot, grin barely peeking above of his guard.

“Why can't you convince the others to join your side, though?”

“The hybrid has the idiot wrecker already tied up in his digits, so he's a lost cause.” He shook his helm from side to side in a false show of sadness. “Also, I've seen him talking to Longarm a few times as well, and while he's smarter than the aforementioned moron, charge units are so rare I doubt he's ever come across one, especially in Kaon of all cities.” He worried his derma beneath his guard, considering something that gave him pause, “If it were me or him, though, he'd definitely choose him every time, so I don't think I would be able to convince him of much…”

“Well, how about you try to follow him around?” He suggested nonchalantly. “You'd definitely catch him in the act, or something, ‘cause he can't pretend to be normal all the time, right?”

“Huh,” he rotated the idea in his processor, observing its deeper connotations: rough, but not without some merit, “that's actually a good idea.”

“Really? I was jus’ kinda sayin’ stuff.”

Wasp gave the other an incredulous look, genuinely reconsidering whether the decisions he made up until this point were truly worth this complete and utter idiocy. “I could tell,” he would have rolled his optics if they had visible centres, but, alas, his tone would have to suffice, “but there's actually something to that!”

“Well, I'm happy to help, I guess…”

“Yeah, whatever.” ‘One of the few times Ironhide has a good idea. A broken chronometer gets it right twice a ‘cycle, I guess.’ “Anyways, do you wanna test some evasion tactics with me?”

“Sure! Sounds like fun!”

Firing at the orange bot did manage to calm him down, as he usually got jittery and paranoid whenever he hadn't expended his built-up energy in a while. The last few lunar cycles had been filled with solely short ranged attack training—along with the punishments the “minibot” continued to take credit for, of course—nothing but servos and pedes, which, to Sentinel Minor's credit, did give him a better perspective on other styles and new things to possibly fall back on if his stingers got disabled somehow or they weren't effective—unlikely, as most frames besides the charge unit weren't lined with sufficient insulation—but possible nonetheless. Still, it didn't give him the opportunity to rid himself of the itchy sensation of electricity trapped inside, the silver-blue energy buzzing and crackling like a nest of scraplets eating their way out of his frame, and taking it out on Ironhide outright so many times would eventually wisen him up, and Wasp couldn't have that, hence the extra “training.”

A uncounted amount of time later, sufficiently exhausted and crashing into his firm berth helm first, he placed a note directly in the middle of his HUD, detailing an extremely rough outline—that was bogged down by his sol’ consumption rate—for when he comes out of his recharge cycle, just in case the conversation with Ironhide was trashed during his reboot, deemed unimportant information despite being flagged. Of course, onlining his optics the next lunar cycle and stretching as he always did, popping joints back into their proper sockets and preventing them from seizing—a tiny piece of his embedded routine he would loathe to miss—he hadn't forgotten. The blinking yellow reminder, coloured in reference to the bot in question, brought his attention to it immediately. He pasted additional bits of information to it until a step-by-step plan had been formatted semi-professionally as he went through his usual motions. After all, his processor was still catching up and the influx of information always rattled his sensors whenever he first leaves the recharge cycle.

As always, Bulkhead was already up and about, still unadjusted to the orbital time change somehow; it had already been twenty stellar cycles. They both ignored each other, as was customary, and the green minibot instead scanned the rest of the room. Ironhide was still recharging, looking as if he were straight offline with his lack of motion, and Longarm was just starting to rouse himself. He searched for the other charge unit, but he was not present, which was also devastatingly common, occasionally leaving before the wrecker himself arose to do who knows what. He cursed underneath a vent and walked over to the orange bot’s, kicking at it harshly and jostling the entire thing, mech included, somehow not denting his own pede armour in the process.

Startled, the larger moved to sit up, but the sudden movements instead caused him to crash onto the dull flooring with all the grace of a wrecker doing just about any task, the sound reverberating through the area and drawing the attention of the two other mechs present. The large green bot hesitated for a moment, optics slanted, before turning away once again, uninterested in helping the downed mech. Longarm, resetting his optics a few times—the red biolight blinking in tandem—pushed himself to his pedes and made a vague motion towards Wasp and Ironhide, wondering if assistance was needed, but when the minibot waved him away, the grey mech didn't press, choosing to move outside and properly calibrate his optics with the dim light their star provided. 

He bent at the hip joint and shook at the downed mech’s frame, jostling his arm guard while he whisper-yelled, “Ironhide, get up! You have some work to do!”

His optics remained unfocused, trying to swim through the dense cyan fog it resided in. “Ugh…what?” His words were slow, measured as if he hadn't the capacity to string more than two things together at a time. “Whaddya got in mind this time, Wasp?”

“Nothing big,” he shrugged, pulling the larger mech to his pedes, only letting go after the unsteady wobbling ceased, “but I'm going to need your help for this, alright?”

Shaking off the residual sluggishness recharge often left, he brightened, smirking deviously. “Sure, mech! You know I got your back plates!” He punched the subcompact in a pauldron, his manner playful as his optic lids crinkled slightly, the black that lined it slanting into a downwards angle.

He dusted off the spot where the other had hit him, not allowing his expression to twist. “Perfect,” he said instead, clipped. “During any available free time for the next few lunar cycles, do you think you could be able to distract both Longarm and the mudflap? Any way is fine, but I need undisturbed time to watch the piston rod, and, if anybot else is available, he could decide to spend his time with them, even though he usually doesn't.”

“Oh yeah, where does Bumblebee go during the empty spaces?” He wondered aloud, tilting his helm to the ceiling as if it held the answers.

“That's what I'm going to figure out.” He pointed to himself confidently, grinning harshly underneath the guard.

He brought his helm back down, levelling him with a blank stare, barely a degree from doubtful. “Ya’ sure you'll be able to pull this off?”

“Why wouldn't I be able to?”

“Well,” he stroked the groove of his chin thoughtfully, “he is rather slippery, and what about that training exercise we did a while back on stealth? He completed the whole slagging thing in like, two cycles!”

“That doesn't lend necessarily to his abilities on the receiving end,” he pointed out, snarky and overconfident, “and I plan on using those tactics against him. I'll catch him one way or another.”

“Hey, if you're confident about it, don't let me play Unicron’s servant!” 

“Don't worry,” he turned his back plates to the orange mech, “I wasn't really paying attention to what you said anyways.”

“Wh- hey! You're lucky we're friends, Wasp.”

“Sure I am.”

His first attempt, simply put, did not go as planned. Having no knowledge of the yellow bot’s habits and, unwilling to beg for assistance—not that the mudflap would help him out in any sense, and Longarm would figure out his aim immediately—he had been essentially wandering around in the vantablack scotoma at the beginning. Wasp had decided on creeping around errant corners to possibly catch the tail end of Bumblebee’s sharp field, reining in his own with an effortlessness borne of stellar cycles of practice. Most bots get uncomfortable with such ungrounded charge licking constantly at their conductive metal plating, and, in a sense, it was their job, as the ones who produced and channeled it in the first place, to minimise the potential for irritation, or, more commonly, stiffness in the joints after prolonged exposure, which was devastatingly common among those who worked alongside inexperienced charge units. He wouldn't be surprised if Bulkhead developed joint issues in the future with how close he was to the yellow bot, especially since the green mech had an annoying penchant for physical affection, most definitely escalating the problem further.

Finding Bumblebee wasn't the problem. That part came relatively easy, of course, so accustomed to the slight shifts of ions in the atmosphere that he could basically taste it, prickling and crackling sodium yellow and arsenic blue on his glossa. It was the only benefit to spending so much time with his batch mates besides the consolidation and refinement of his charge, which the other didn't seem to have much of, he had absently noted, quickly brought to the forefront of his processor before it was promptly dismissed. With a bit of struggle, he manually dimmed his optics, where he realised it was actually a function he had and not something the other bot had just been saying to sound smarter than he was, and he melded into the harsh shadows bordering the walls as best he could with his brighter frame, locking his joints and plating in place to prevent from exposing himself, optics narrowed to release as little light as possible.

Just as he had predicted, a mere two cycles later, the brighter charge unit shuffled around the corner with little to no sound accompanying him, the buzz of his frame somehow muffled into a damp silence. Unfortunately for the hidden mech, his technique didn't seem to be nearly refined enough, as the nanoklik he passed by the shadow Wasp was temporarily residing in, he locked optics with the green mech, derma pulled into a taut, silent threat, denta gleaming with dangerous promise. The shorter bot then forcibly relaxed his posture, dim optics holding him in place before he broke the contact, continuing on his path as if nothing happened. Wasp subconsciously let out a relieved ex-vent at the lack of further confrontation besides the scarily mute acknowledgement.

Trudging to the next set of drills, having been called by Sentinel moments after, he stewed in his rage at being caught. He went over what could have possibly gone wrong, coming up with almost nothing to improve on, leading him to grind his denta together harshly, nearly causing some of its metal coating to peel and flake, a wayward spark or two generating from the friction. From Ironhide’s smug stare, his irritation was palpable to even the dullest of mechs, and he would likely have to deal with callow teasing from the orange bot until he drew his tin thin attention span onto something else.

Subsequent ventures went similarly despite his grandest efforts, spotted without fail even when drastic measures were taken, like when he painted his plating darker in an attempt to blend in more effectively, but, unfortunately, it was ultimately a misrun’s mission. Ironhide had teased him mercilessly after he returned to the barracks, unsuccessful and streaked with dried black paint near the dips of his joints. It was not his proudest moment. In spite of that, it did give him some useful insight on the true issue. Since it clearly wasn't his appearance giving him away, there had to be something else in the atmosphere.

Wasp knew it wasn’t his field giving him away. His batch mates weren't able to sense it when he pulled it tightly to himself unless he was around half a mechanometer away from them, so it wasn't possible for this random charge unit—that he's only known for a few stellar cycles at this point—to notice it either. For a moment, he had toyed with the idea that Bumblebee wasn't actually a charge unit, but his skills with electricity generation, however unrefined and unchecked it may be, shut it down before he could entertain it for long.

The most likely candidate, then, had to be Bumblebee's own sensory net, which was a part of the processor that aided in spatial awareness and understanding their positioning at any given moment, even when optics are non-functional. If that were the case, though, then it was clear that it was stretched far too wide for any processor to handle, even for a femme, the frame type specifically built with increased information collection, storage and distribution capabilities. ‘What does it mean, though?’ He pondered to himself, cataloguing a thorough list of his behaviours and comparing it with every virus or malware that was downloaded into his systems, but nothing matched enough for a confident diagnosis. There was one thing, an almost silent whisper at the back of his processor, that flickered in and out of his files, an old memory from when he was barely protoformed and looked after constantly by the myriad of caretakers.

It was a story. He didn't remember which of the caretakers told it, ‘Was it Firestar or Trailbreaker?’ but despite not listening closely like the rest of his batch mates did, it weirdly stuck with him. A silent killer that masquerades as a friendly frame, adept at mimicry yet unable to hide a few key aspects of themselves, giving the mechs and femmes a fighting chance to stay online: the elusive Sparkeater. The aim of the story was to keep them from sneaking out at night for whatever reason, instilling fear in what hides in the darkness, but what can be done when the darkness comes with?

He had never believed in it, of course, thinking it ridiculous and just used to keep the duller bulbs in line, but he was then reminded of something Greenlight had said to him after he had questioned the validity of all the tales: “Oftentimes these stories have truth to them, as crazy as they might sound. You never know what's out there, C-231. The galaxy is a vast place.” She had always been infuriatingly vague, saying just enough to satiate a temporary curiosity yet leaving the rest still shrouded in mystery, but how much of it could really be true? Thinking about it further and drawing more details to the forefront of his processor, realisation struck at his core, causing him to stumble and mutter a few obscenities under a heavy vent. How true could it really be? His processor swirled, compounding his observations with the bits and pieces he knew about the tale. The sharpness, the aggression, the easy lies, the processor-breaking senses, the behaviours that didn't quite match up and so much more that constantly put him on high alert.

In an attempt to calm himself down, he recalled a core principle of his: only trust what you see and know to be true. It had served him well and kept him safe from others trying to take advantage of him, as being mistaken as inexperienced was a regretfully common experience among those with his frame type. He prided himself on being a mech of logic and reason, unswayed by the ridiculous conspiracies generated by paranoid bots searching for an answer that wouldn't shatter their worldview. If he did happen to be wrong, he would research, and, if necessary, test in order to correct the gaps in his knowledge, fusing them together like the welding of steel.

Stumbling back to the barracks, alone for once and vision staticky, he crashed onto an empty berth, only marginally certain it was his. He flipped himself onto his back plates, staring blankly at the ceiling, barely able to sense that his servos had been clenching tightly, almost to the point of denting. Now, though, he was beginning to doubt himself. He didn't know how much time had passed, his chronometer a neon blurr in the corner of his vision, but he had registered the rest of the cadets trickling into the building: heavy with a shuffle, light and deliberate, devastatingly loud, and near soundless unless you were trying to catch it.

A few of them made idle chatter with each other, Wasp unable to glean any of the details, RAM submerged in something else entirely. Eventually, though, the lights shut off automatically at the scheduled time, signaling to them all that the time for recharge had begun. He laid there for another megacycle, optics nearly extinguished but held open valiantly, going over what he could do over and over again. He still had no proof of… anything from Bumblebee, true nature or not. He needed to approach this as he does all challenges, helm held high and unwilling to surrender.

Perhaps he has been too soft with the yellow mech. Surely… pushing him a little further couldn't do too much harm, and even if he tried, he'd make sure to station Ironhide to face the brunt of his attack in case things got too dire. If he truly was a Sparkeater, such actions would surely pull out his base coding. He suddenly broke out into tiny, barely there giggles, willing his plating to not rattle along with. ‘After all, there's no better way to get the results you want than…manipulating the data.’

Chapter Text

Log ?%#:

Wasp always knew Bumblebot was a Sparkeater. Deep inside. At the beginning, Wasp only had a feeling to go off of an icky, innate thing, and was unable to explain Wasp’s point to another bot in a way that made sense. It was like Wasp's systems being forcibly shut down reset in the worst way possible. Now, though, there was undeniable PROOF continuously at the front of Wasp's processor, the moment of being dragged away replaying again and again andagainandagainandagainandagainANDAGAIN.

Bumblebot GRINNED at Wasp when he was being taken to the Pitt itSELF–

Wasp is NOT a liar no matter WHAT other bots say

Wasp SWEARS

Wasp had been framed by the REAL faker.

Why did nobot stand up for poor, pitiful Wasp? Was Wasp just not worth it? He wasn't. Besides, the other bots thought Wasp was guilty too.

…even Ironmech?

Wasp knew they weren't real friends. Wasp was FAKE. Maybe if Wasp had been nicer to Ironmech, he would have stood up for Wasp more instead of standing back and watching it all happen. Wasp didn't really care. He DIDN'T–What-ifs and speculation wouldn't save Wasp now.

Wasp NEEDED to escape–

Perhaps Ironmech should be next…?

Bumblebot Sparkeater would have figured out a way to get rid of Wasp one way or another, even if he had Ironmech for defense. Sparkeaters NEVER gave up when something was in their optic view. Wasp knows.

Wasp is losing the original file that contained the telling of the story, but he's replayed it so many times he's got it stored away in about a million others. Fragmented, yes, but able to be strung together if he put enough effort into it.

Sparkeater ruined Wasp’s whole existence, fragmenting his mind into irreparable pieces, so it's only fair that Wasp returns the favour.

Wasp's time will come soon.

Things will work out eventually for Wasp, and Sparkeater will pay the price. Wasp won't demand an apology. Wasp knows it won't be genuine.

needtogetoutneedtogetoutneedtogetoutNEEDTOGETOUT

The stockades are where mechs power down fully, left only as husks of their former selves. The only recognisable piece would be their frame, and, even then, it could change. He knows he's changed, but he can't remember how he used to be, or even how he looked before it all. It was all mixed up, and he didn't know which of his memories were real and which were mere fabrications caused by this suffocating place, besides the Sparkeater. He remembered him FAR too well. Too much detail. Even just recalling his Ia + class frame managed to hurt his optics.

Wasp has learned lots during the time spent in stockades. Some good. Most horrible, terrifying, TORTUROUS, bad. Wasp thought Wasp would–

Every. Single. Time.

And. Every. Single. Time. Wasp was reminded of who did this. Sparkeater was at fault for everything. For Wasp turning into this disgusting mimicry of who he used to be, scrambling for any modicum of familiarity. Wasp was thrown out like trash and treated as if he were just another Decepticon dredge while Sparkeater gets to roam free, the idiotic prey bots surrounding Sparkeater none the wiser to the trickery that is performed for a sick thrill and nothing else, patiently waiting for a convenient time to strike.

Wasp will be looking for potential gaps in security for the next while. The next attempt will come soon, so Wasp will have to destroy datapad, or else his plans will be discovered, and Wasp will be a failure again.

What would become of Wasp if he gave up? Wasp would turn out just like rest…biding time until taken out by particularly sadistic guards or the brutality of sheer, consuming madness that this place gifted them.

Escaping had been almost suspiciously easy this time around, but Wasp didn't notice. He couldn't have. To Wasp, as long as he was out of the stockades, nothing else mattered besides the revenge he has been anticipating for stellar cycles. Wasp had memorised guard postings and general specs. The changed minibot stood by patiently, waiting for when he knew they were at their weakest—three standard sized frames with mediocre outlier abilities, exactly half a megacycle after the shift change.

Before leaving—four orbital cycles, in fact—Wasp figured out how to reverse the modified stasis placed on his stingers and generously brought them teetering on the edge of their upper limit, higher than they had ever been set in the past. This way, he would have more firepower at his disposal, should it be necessary. He knocked two of the three guards into stasis, generously overheating his own frame. He would have to be careful. Wasp could fry his own systems with this stunt, but he wouldn't—not until he got to Sparkeater first. Wasp was indifferent to the aftermath.

The only bot that went after him was Sentinel, overconfident as always. He gave his old sergeant the gear slip easily. The conceited mech very clearly hadn't learned much more since Wasp had been imprisoned for however many stellar cycles it was. At least one of them hadn't changed—Wasp far too much.

A memory replayed in a corner of his HUD, unbidden and unwanted as he fled—Sparkeater’s fault. In Wasp's early ‘cycles, he had dug his digits into the walls of his cell, scratching in lines, trying his best to count the rise and fall of their quiet star through the sliver of the visible ground above—too small to wedge through. After he had attempted yet another breakout—number four or five, he couldn't recall—the privilege of even seeing the surface was revoked and he was relocated to a deeper sector. Wasp had lost all his progress then.

Wasp didn't try again.

Wasp, honestly, had minimal knowledge of Space Bridge technology. Wasp didn't want to know about it then. Now, Wasp curses his stupidity for turning down the prospect of knowledge simply because he didn't like the bot spouting it. Crawling from beneath his temporary refuge, he scanned his surroundings. An asteroid belt stretched far out, and his enhanced optics nearly crashed his systems with the rapid influx of data now that he wasn't in steel-channel-inducing danger. The panic would smooth over and flush itself out of his systems soon enough.

Now, though, it was still running strong. Wasp felt his gyros spin wildly, trying and failing to align with his visual sensors. Wasp nearly purged at the dizzying sensation. Careening to one side, he stumbled to regain his bearings, nearly crashing into a pile of rocks just out of the way of the bridge. Propping himself unsteadily on a larger piece, he shakily pressed his back plates to it, sliding down its rough surface and wincing at its grating noise—like the bots that scratched at their already damaged frames in a desperate bid to crawl out of their mesh. Before, he thinks he would have been furious that any damage came to any piece of his frame, especially his plating, but that thought was just about furthest from his processor at this point. Wasp may have even picked at some of his own from time to time, desperate for any sort of stimulation, painful or otherwise.

Wasp dragged his bent stabilisers close to him, rocking back and forth marginally while buzzing and twittering maniacally to himself, “Sparkeater not hide from Wasp! Wasp swears he find Sparkeater!” His optic glitched out temporarily, purple fizzling to black before returning to its disgusting new normal. “Wasp make Sparkeater pay for RUINING WASP’S LIFE!”

The next stretch of time flew by in a spacey, multicoloured blur—not worth the effort it takes to count. The variety of locations provided processor-crashing amounts of stimulation. Wasp shut down more than once while he was still new and unprepared. After an orbital cycle or two, though, Wasp acclimated about as well as he could to the rapidly changing environments.

Wasp jumped from bridge to bridge, very slowly acquainting himself with the machinery. He had gone through a number of them—most definitely in the double digits—and he found a bit of a pattern during his travels. At around half the spots he searched through, there were a few traces of charge unit activity nearby. Most of it was insignificant or easily explained away as something else, with the occasional scorched area and the actual welding patterns of the bridges—triangle or jagged for vertical and zigzag for horizontal. However, much more tellingly, a few crude rock fulgurites were also present. This told Wasp all he needed to know. Wasp knew it wasn't just any charge unit. It had to be Sparkeater.

The patterns were easily explained away. After all, they were one of the first techniques ever taught to them, often ingrained into charge units since they were tiny protoforms. That could be any regular old charge unit. However, unless the stingers were set to military-grade—a customary upgrade for applicable members of the Elite Guard—charge units just didn't have the power output required to generate such high levels of heat and energy so rapidly. Sparkeater already had a higher-than-average voltage to his stingers—the fact sending shivers down Wasp's back strut whenever he thought of it. He had definitely been accepted into the Elite Guard—it should have been WASP—bringing his charge to dangerously new highs.

After all, the act of turning in a presumed Decepticon spy—even though Wasp wasn't—would grant Sparkeater high praise and esteem, and with the others' cunning, it was likely turned into a fast track to success. Sparkeater was an Intelligence Agent at this point, like he had always wanted. Intelligence Agents were often sent far and wide for a multitude of reasons: collecting information, espionage efforts, tracking suspicious individuals and much more, so he very much could be out this far and in so many separate places depending on his success rate, which seemed to be quite high—if only they knew what Wasp did—and Wasp just might've found a potential way to track him.

After all, as far as Wasp knew, minibots weren't the most common frame type sent out into the field. Charge units were an even rarer sight. They usually played a supporting role because the amount of concentrated heat they could generate is quite a good tool to close tears or perforations in plating, mesh, and even protoform when situations were especially dire, oftentimes starting off as apprentices for medics. The chance that it could be anybot else was very slim, as Wasp was aware of the designations of the few that had been accepted into the Elite Guard, all offlined. Wasp nearly sung his glee out into open space at the boon the universe oh so graciously granted him, plating rattling with his uncontained joy.

Finally, finally, his luck was starting to turn around!

Dutifully, Wasp traced the evidence as best he could, hopping nigh constantly in order to follow the other minibot’s trail. Eventually, he found himself near a tank bottom system on an edge of the Orion Spur. It was much closer to Cybertron than he expected, considering he'd never heard of it. It had a massive population of organics, who, for some reason Wasp couldn't figure out, confined themselves to a singular planet when they had three more solid ones at their disposal, but organics weren't well-known for their space travel or their resilience. There were no downsides to checking, apart from a bit of lost time, but the Elite Guards Forces were far enough behind him that it didn't mean much, yet. Besides, Wasp would forever hate himself if he missed Sparkeater all together because he decided to ignore the exact planet that the liar was hiding on.

Dropping to the populated, agitatingly moisture-filled planet, he scanned a random alt mode to better blend in. It was more compact than he would have preferred, but even considering a complaint now forced a whimper of fear out of his intake. Silently, he scoured the planet for its long solar cycles, the light leaving him dazed on multiple occasions—harshly bringing Wasp helm-clutching flickers of a similarly coloured frame—vainly hoping for any type of sign.

Coming across a city that had a comfortingly large number of artificial creatures, he found what he was looking for: a spark signature, and not just one, but five of them. This had to be the right place. No bots would be in such a place without mission orders. It looked to be diplomatic—with the help in building infrastructure and visible cooperation between the startlingly sentient organic population and the Autobot Commonwealth—on the surface. Sparkeater was the last Wasp would recommend on such a task because, while crafty, tact wasn't an art he was close to mastering. That was neither here nor there, as these sorts of missions often had at least one member of the Intelligence Agency. He had to get there before Sparkeater took one of his “teammates” as a victim, if he hadn't done so already.

‘Sparkeater not escaping Wasp’s clutches THIS time. Sparkeater know fear like Wasp,’ he laughed giddily to himself, transforming back as he trudged closer to the signatures he could pick up. They were gathered in the same general area. Wasp would have to wait patiently. That was okay. After all, what were a few more megacycles compared with the seemingly endless stellar cycles Wasp already had to endure?

They were all congregated in a large building that looked to have a lot of wear, nearly abandoned. The liquid bared down from the sky, streaking down Wasp’s everything. Wasp squirmed at the uncomfortable sensation as he bided his time, fiddling with parts of his plating and listening in on bits and pieces of the many conversations with varying levels of interest. Wasp had to restrain himself from giving himself away immediately when he first heard Sparkeater chime in on something, sounding to be thoroughly distracted, if his uncharacteristically delayed reactions were any indication. Eventually, they trickled out of the building like the droplets from above—familiar looking wrecker, old medic, then pretentious bot. ‘WHAT red-blue bot doing?! Why staying alone with Sparkeater?’ Wasp worried at his dermal mesh underneath the guard, fists shaking as he locked his stabilisers so he didn’t do something stupid, but Wasp was ready in case Sparkeater elected to strike.

The two of them continued, seemingly oblivious to the eavesdropping third party. He strayed a bit further from his safe perch among the weak organic clusters that broke easily and stuck in his joints, a clashing shade of flimsy green and stiff muted brown, stalking closer to the two of them as a bolt of lightning struck. It truly startled Wasp in a way he hadn't experienced in stellar cycles, having to stop himself from tripping over his own pedes at the sudden noise and light overwhelming his sensors for not even a nanoklik, leaving a blinding afterimage and ringing in his audials that dampened everything else. The larger—disappointed yet fond in a way that set Wasp’s energon ablaze—admonished Sparkeater for something he didn't catch, still reeling from the temporary shock, yet the smaller simply waved him off, gratingly nonchalant—Wasp recognized the exact tone—muttering a promise as he turned his focus to a set of scattered screens—gone from surveying the small city to error red with white glyphs scrolling down, far too fast to process. The Sentinel-shaped mech sighed wearily, but he soon relented, marching out of the building with a few peeks back, checking on Sparkeater for something, as if concerned.

Sparkeater was now alone, disinterestedly watching the little portals to nowhere, curled up in the uncomfortably tiny seat, for once built for someone smaller than a minibot—perhaps an organic? His pointed servo—Wasp flinched—pressed against his tired face plate, digging temporary divots into the mesh. ‘Sparkeater not struck yet? Why? What stopping Sparkeater? There was chance with other lone bot…’  

Wasp shook it off, allowing the familiar nip of electricity to wash over him, to pull the green minibot towards its source, the main generator. The green mech smirked wildly. This would at least surprise the other and would give Wasp an advantage with his illegally heightened infrared sensing, thanks to Junkheap—one of the few mechs that were decent company. He patted at his subspace carefully, the weight of the weapon sitting comfortably inside of him, waiting impatiently to be used. Drawing the electricity from his core with care, he unleashed it onto the genset, imagining he was aiming directly at the false minibot’s incomplete spark. It wouldn't take him offline, of course; they were the only frames to have additional insulation in their design specs, but the force would surely knock Sparkeater off balance, sending his electrons out of alignment and possibly forcing a hard reset of his systems. 

The Sharkticon-like grin only grew wider at the fantasy. Following a path of newly frazzled electricity—less biting than Wasp remembered—he made his way towards his target. The backup power source sputtered to life, giving the building an eerie red glow to it. It went ignored. Instead, he moved faster—a subconscious action—anticipation welling in his cables to gory bursting. Wasp's hidden smile sharpened even further, honed to a righteous fury’s point.

“Did something take the power out?” Sparkeater mused to himself, rising from his previous seated position and dramatically stretching his joints in a way that seemed performative and over exaggerated on purpose. Wasp barely ignored the consuming urge to lunge at that exact moment; it corroded his lines and violently took over his processor, the only thing stopping him being the traitor’s words, shamefully captivated, “Should probably check on it before boss bot has my aft for it.” He pointed towards the screens, which hadn't reset yet, and said rather redundantly, “Don't move.”

Wasp's time was almost here. He could taste the ionic zap of incoming lightning blooming on his glossa, and the anticipation burned. It struck shortly after, staccato and bright, and so did he, abandoning his hiding spot to appear just in front of Sparkeater.

“Wasp,” he spat, stance unchanging. “I knew somebot was spying on me,” Sparkeater turned, immediately starting to circle Wasp, stingers still held back. Wasp kept his optics locked on the other's bright form, tense and prepared, “but, I'll admit, I didn't think it would be you.”

“What!?” Wasp shouted, incredulous. “Sparkeater knew Wasp was here whole time?” He paused, considering something before muttering to himself, “That why Sparkeater didn't strike…”

“Sparkeater?” He parroted, face plate twitching in annoyance. “What the frag are you talking about?” He stopped his stalking, optics glowing ominously in the dim red light, narrowing defensively.

“Sparkeater trying to deny truth, but Wasp knows. It why Sparkeater had to get rid of Wasp.” The too-bright yellow mech took a reflexive step backwards at that. “Wasp knows Sparkeater doesn't feel guilty for what he's done,” the image that had haunted Wasp for so long flashed in his HUD, “so Wasp isn't even going to ask for an apology.”

Sparkeater fell silent at that, ceasing all movement. His optics stared at the ground, willing it to shatter under his gaze alone and contemplating his next move. “You're right,” he made optic contact with the green bot, words slow and tentative, “but I didn't actually think there was a Decepticon spy. What a coincidence, huh?” His stance was infuriatingly lax, and it only led to Wasp stiffening even further, wanting so badly to fight…or run.

‘Why Sparkeater admitting there was Decepticon double agent?’ Wasp thought, turning over the possibilities in his processor before coming to a terrible conclusion. ‘Unless Sparkeater true double agent!’ The mech with purple optics growled under his heaving vents, “Wasp did what was necessary!”

“So that's how you excuse all the slag you did to me?” The liar snarked, condescending. “I almost feel bad for you.”

His derma downturned in an expression of fake pity, and the lightning struck again. Wasp knew what was coming, but he unfortunately remained unaware of who.

It was Sparkeater’s turn to move, launching himself towards the taller and taking him down to the ground, denta bared and glinting eerily, promises of violence at their tips. The optics were fuzzy and wide, invasively taking in everything Wasp had to offer and searching for an exploitable weakness in him. He barely had the time to process the attack, the action spanning less than a nanoklik, his helm smacking painfully on the hard concrete, which pushed a weak, wounded groan from his hidden intake.

Flailing, Wasp managed to rear a fist back—elbow joint losing nearly all feeling at the collision with the rough flooring—and punch the angered bot squarely in the face plates, wiping the expression off entirely. Scrambling to his pedes, Wasp backed away, wheezing a few deep vents in the process, his plating flaring unconsciously. Sparkeater cradled the underside of his helm, scowling through the gaps in his digits. Sickly pink energon spilled out of his intake, and they both blankly watched it drip pathetically to the ground, splattering further and staining its uneven surface neon.

Sparkeater genuinely snarled at Wasp for that. The next strike of lightning—forked—was punctuated by another tackle, this time the both of them crashing into a piece of concrete furniture in the middle of the room, scraping more bits of metal off Wasp's back plates and stirring a few sparks into forming, lighting up the scene in an orange glow for a brief moment. They stared at each other silently for a few nanokliks, slightly dazed before descending into a frenzy of thrown limbs and shorn metal. The energon, standard pink for the both of them—finally—steadily exited their frames, smearing on their plating as they continued to grapple and pull. It was ugly and disgraceful, every action rushing with urgency and the sheer desperation to stay active.

Eventually, Wasp gained enough purchase to shove at the yellow mech harshly, sending him tumbling back a few mechanometers, allowing him to break away from the smaller. Sparkeater's engine sputtered from overuse, his intake sparking white-blue and stingers mimicking it perfectly while Wasp simply snapped his jaw shut, denta clanking together noisily as he discreetly thumbed at his newly closed wounds. As they fought, the Intelligence Agent’s electricity poured out of him, heating both of their frames and shoddily closing up all the spots where energon was leaking out, essentially resetting them back to neutral despite the loss of fluids. The tension was a steel cord about to snap, optics locked tightly, as if welded together.

Wasp knew there were some superficial burns in his insulation. He could feel it rippling through his systems at every movement, no matter how minute. It tore at him from the inside, trying to get him to react to it. Wasp could see the same in Sparkeater, small, uncontrolled spasms in his limbs leading to barely-there winces. Wasp’s vision had also been knocked out of alignment, scrambled by the unstable mech’s frequency and outpour of charged ions.

Wasp shuddered his optics a single time to unblur it, and Sparkeater somehow disappeared from view. Whipping his head around wildly to find the now-missing bot, he fell back into a comfortable fighting stance and charged his stingers in a manner Wasp hoped would come across as threatening, its yellow-green flickers of energy a dark guarantee. Wasp strained his audials for any sign, but there was nothing, not even the buzzing of artificial systems. It was as if a switch went off in the building, silencing everything for Wasp. His pedes crunched as he treads over the shattered glass—broken at an impact near a wall that shielded from the outside—so he knew they hadn’t been damaged much. Wasp kept his helm on a vigilant swivel, but he wasn't sure it would be enough.

Where was Sparkeater?

Wasp only heard it when Sparkeater was a fibre’s compass away, but he was not fast enough, only halfway facing him when he was struck. A damp, warm vent spread across his neck cables and pauldron before sinking in deeply, piercing his plating as if it were mercury. A chilling hysteria shot through every circuit in his systems, and Wasp knew if he remained stagnant for even a nanoklik too long, it would be his end—the click of past sparks tormenting his audials.

Wasp turned—he would have one shot at this, else he’d be fried—reared his stabiliser back forcefully, straining a cable or two due to the unnatural angle of it all, and kicked directly at Sparkeater's chassis, spider webbing the opaque black glass just below. Wasp had miscalculated, but it served its purpose well enough, catching him in a pneumatic actuator and damaging his vents, if the stuttering in his fans were any indicator. The frenzied hit had thrown the perpetrator back, denta still clenching tightly, with a green chunk of something stuck between him. 

It clicked in Wasp’s processor and subsequently emptied on him, stabilisers following suit, and he desperately, desperately, clutched onto the place radiating a searing, burning pain in his cables. His digits twitched as the pain shot through his motherboard, piercing Wasp through his core and feeling like it cracked his spark. Shakily, he pulled a servo away, it coming back nauseatingly pink; it almost knocked him into stasis right then. The spot tingled agonisingly as his own electricity betrayed him, skittering across the open wound unfettered now that the insulation keeping it in was gone, heating up his own energon and paving the way for it to pour out faster, his pumps already overworking themselves from the brawl. Wasp scrambled back as much as he was able, yet his frame spitefully refused to work with him, trapped in a growing puddle of energon. The injured minibot cried out pitifully at every spasm and shock of his neck cables, failing to keep himself from shaking. He couldn't leak out his emotions like he had seen in the occasional organic on his travel here, but he wished he could. Drawing his focus to something else would be a blessing from Primus himself, but he was instead stuck with this torture, his sole outlet being his own screams, which did nothing but irritate the wound further, a bleeding gush following every vocalisation he made.

Sparkeater creeped up to him—the piece now unaccounted for—arm guards littered with scratches and looking just as much of a mess as Wasp. His upper stabilisers lifted placatingly, voice scarily soft, pink gleaming in his intake, “Tilt your helm up.” Wasp blindly followed the instructions, not fully understanding who was giving them, beginning to experience the telltale dizziness of energon depletion. The sting intensified for a cycle, stray bits of electricity catching on his intake’s guard and singing it black. Wasp gazed down at his kneeled form when the heat stopped, half of it spattered with his own energon. “You were close, but it's not really fair considering how tired I've been…” The yellow mech trailed off, his pouting excessive.

Wasp barely registered the words at all, optics flickering on and off, the length of time they stayed off getting longer and longer. His RAM was already in the process of clouding over. His frame was about to initiate a shutdown at a combination of the loss and the shock his systems had been through. A final, fleeting thought crossed in front of Wasp, optics refusing to turn back on again, ‘Is this…really it for Wasp?’

He shut down, delirious, mocking laughter surrounding him in his fade to black.