Title: The Things the Shadows See
Fandom: Transformers IDW, post Last Stand of the Wreckers, pre- Escape
Rating: PG
Length: 816
Content notes: spoilers for LSOTW
Author notes: For fan_flashworks Challenge #19, "Old Friends".
Summary: It's always the one closest to you that gets the knife in

 

Impactor snarled at Perceptor as the sniper stopped him at the cargo bay door.  “What do you want?”

The mouth, flat, tightened. This was a change: Impactor didn’t remember Perceptor this way—barely remembered him at all.  One of those Kimia types, wordy and jittery, stammering through whatever latest death toy they wanted the Wreckers to try out for 'em this time.

Not anymore.  “Checking up.”

“I don’t need checking up on.” Automatic. Left to rot in Garrus-9 for that long? Yeah, bit late to pretend to care now.  He stepped through the door, heavy footsteps echoing in the darkness, against the velvety hum of a stasis pod.

“Springer.”  At his back. A correction. An accusation. As if Springer was the victim here.

Of course.  “Him neither.” Another reflex, Impactor’s one hand resting on the chased silver bullet of the stasispod, protective. 

“If you’re certain.”

“Ain’t the first time I’ve seen a stasispod.” ‘Won’t be the last’ clotted up his vocalizer. But yeah, maybe it was.   He didn’t know right now, much of anything.  Other than Springer was in one.  And he wasn’t. And he wasn’t sure how he felt about either end of that equation.

Perceptor’s optics skimmed his frame. “Have you been by the medbay?”

“Don’t.” Impactor frowned, the line a sharp arc between his cheekplates. “Little late to pretend any of you actually give a slag about me.”  Seriously. Perceptor should have stayed on Kimia.  Impactor’s left ankle had been in more battles than Perceptor’s whole body. He'd rotted in that prison, the Autobot Who Went Too Far, for years, unnoticed, unmourned.

The shoulder stiffened, the one optic going hard again. “As you will.”

“Right. Nothing’s consulted my fraggin’ will in a long time, Perceptor.”  His orange optics held Perceptor’s mismatched blue, evenly, until the taller mech broke, turning away.

He slapped the cargo bay door lock with his hand, turning back to the pod. 

And then he was alone.

With Springer.

For the first time since…any of this.

Impactor slumped, hips against the pod, the hard angle of his scowl wavering. “Hnh. Not supposed to end like this.”

Frag. That sounded weak. Pathetic.  Soppy.

“Did a lot of thinkin’ in that cell.”  He snorted. “A lot. Not much else to do. Guess I was supposed to, you know, feel remorse. Bad for my sins.” He laughed.  “Right.”  He looked over at the plasglass window in the pod. Not in, not quite yet.  “Thing is?  Thing is. I tried. I really did.”

He looked down at his hand, thumb tracing over the harpoon that had replaced his right hand for so long that he’d forgotten what it was like to have a hand there.  The metal was sleek and cool and sharp and lethal.

And it brought him comfort. Somehow.  Normally.

“Like I said. I tried. Because you know, whole fraggin’ world tells you you’re wrong, they gotta be onto something, right?  They’re seeing something you’re missing. So I tried.”  It wasn’t the whole world turning on him that had rattled: it had been Springer.

He shrugged. “And then I thought of you. Because of what you said.  ‘I saw him do it’. Frag. Didn’t know words could hurt that much. Just…,” he gave a snort of laughter. “Swore if I ever got out, I’d kill you for it.” His mouth twitched. “Swore a lot of crazy slag in there. You’d be surprised.” Another laugh. “Or maybe you wouldn’t, knowin’ me.” 

The laugh faded, swallowed in the dark of the cargo bay, dying into the hum of the stasispod. He heard Springer's words again, partial, fragmentary, 'I never said I detested....' 

Fraggin' sad when the best thing anyone's said about you is that they never actually said they hated you.

Sadder when you actually care.

 “Frag. I’m no good at this, Springer.”  He looked over at the window in the pod. “You were always the one that was good with words, pretty boy. Not me.”  It was why he’d picked him, beyond the usual Wreckers standards. Springer could inspire with words in a way Impactor never could. Impactor'd always been followed because he was a leader: brutal, exacting and damn good. Springer was that...and more. 

Almost reminded him of…

No. Not going to go there. He quenched the thought as sharply as he'd pinched off Snare's brain module. Dead and gone. Dead. Gone. 

“Hit me, though. With you. And Twin Twist. Hit me then that he was right. No time to argue, you know. Not then. And now?”  He shifted his weight, foot scraping on the decking. “Yeah, no time now, either.  Kinda wonder if we’re ever gonna have the time to clear the air.”

He looked away, folding his arms over his chassis for a long moment, staring into the darkness. “They say you’re gonna be okay.” He snorted. “You better be. Because this ain’t how it’s supposed to end, between us.”

He turned, feeling his neck servos almost resist, as though fighting it, and looked. Looked through the stasis pod’s observation window, to the ruins of Springer’s face, the helm dented in a clawed swath, the facial mechanisms torn off, clotted with energon, the optics shattered, wide and staring. “Ain’t how this is supposed to end, pretty boy,” he whispered, laying his palm on the plasglass, as though trying to touch the mangled face.  

And for probably the first time in his life, Impactor fought back the bitter tide of guilt, filling his mouth, stinging at his optics, bristling through his fuel lines like a corrosive.

 

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