Chapter Text
“Optimus!”
Bumblebee had been barking into his comms for a hot klik by now to no avail, yet, for some reason he found himself unable to stop. The situation was helpless, but he continued as his vocoder grew strained and his spark pulsed heavily. “Optimus, I need backup! There’s—“ A sharp sound reminiscent of pedesteps thudded barely a few meters off from the cave he’d been using to hide, succeeded by the dimming of jet thrusters. Skywarp? No, Nova Storm…
The lack of energon he’d had to fuel off had started to get to his processor over a groon earlier, but he had yet to really feel it until now. His processor grew sluggish and his optics felt heavy despite the wide-opticed cyberdeer in headlights look he had, failing despite his best efforts to identify whatever aerial decepticon had discovered him.
A quick self-check cleared that he was:
Low on energon.
Severely injured—he could feel the warped plating of his limp arm scrape against the internal wiring, and it was burning his pain receptors and his audials—from the scuffle with some ‘con he didn’t remember the name of earlier.
Utterly, and hopelessly, alone. On his own.
No one was coming.
By the time it rang true through his brain module, Bumblebee was yelling into his comms without a single wall to hold him back, desperation tearing down any bit of the sense he so closely prized. “Optimus, if I die here it’ll be your fault!” Coolant leaked from the corners of his optics now, blurring his sight in thick streaks. Primus, he felt like a sparkling throwing a tantrum, and his voice developed an undertone of static with the intensity. “You hear me?! It’ll be all your fragging fault!”
The scout panted in exhaustion and collapsed to his knees on the stone floor, adrenaline flooding out of his frame the nano-klik he let his servo drop from his comm. The volume he’d used caused his spout of fearful rage to still echo a few moments after he’d finished speaking. It was then he realized how loud he had been.
Which would give away his location easily.
Frag!
Frag frag frag.
Bumblebee lifted his helm so quickly he heard the pipes in it click, optics flicking rapidly over his surroundings and pauldrons hiked up to his audial. His venting steadily grew louder, faster; panicked.
Oh, how could he have been such a fool? Any good scout knew not to let their emotions overtake them. Every scout knew that’s how you got caught. That’s how you got killed.
He’d failed. He’d failed Optimus.
Somehow, that filled him with more dread than whatever the ‘cons would do to him when they found him.
Bumblebee pushed himself up to sit with his backstrut to the cave wall. In all honesty, it was mostly so air could flow through his vents more easily, but it also allowed him to watch the mouth of the cave more easily. Convenient. Though even with the better air flow, his vents still felt as though they were going to overheat. Hell, his entire frame felt as if it was overheating.
That realization did nothing to help his panic. The air was cool today, comfortably so, but nowhere near warm. Much less hot enough to overheat a cybertronian. It had even rained some time earlier.
His chassis, on the other servo, felt like it was about to start melting. No matter how much air he could get through his stuttering vents, they still felt like he had flown into the sun. His cooling systems automatically went into overdrive, which ironically only made it far worse.
Great. Now not only could he not bring himself to function, but he was quite literally burning through more of his very limited energon supply.
Bumblebee wanted nothing more then to curl into a little ball like one of those porcupines he’d heard about and go into recharge. Forever, maybe. He just wanted to make it all stop.
He wanted Optimus.
Optimus isn’t here. He told himself, though he couldn’t figure out whether he’d said it out loud or in his helm.
It was kind of like when he was a ghost for fifteen years, in a way. No idea where the next energon supply would be, no means of contacting anyone now that his systems had lowered his reserves to a measly 12%, no idea what dangers he’d run into, no idea if he’d last the next cycle…
…and radio silence from Optimus.
Bumblebee choked out a bitter laugh, though it came out as more a gasp of static.
His tank ticked down another percent. 11%.
He was going to die here. He was going to die alone in a filthy, dark cave and no one would know.
The pedesteps from earlier made themselves known again. Closer.
He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to die.
His systems shot online abruptly enough that alone it should’ve knocked him into recharge. His optics scanned the mouth of the cave again. A blurry flash of color showed up somewhere in his vision. But where?
10%.
Bumblebee could barely hear himself through the static and ringing in his processor. No thoughts went through it. Only an instinctive, feral need to survive.
The pedesteps fell closer.
No one’s coming. He’s almost out of energon. One of his arms is unusable. He’s outnumbered. He’s exhausted.
He’s entirely at the mercy of his pursuers.
9%.
Oh, Primus, save him.
— ⏣
Optimus knew he had been neglecting his scout. He was busy, not clueless.
Yet still he stood, hunched over a monitor, Elita-1 and Wheeljack frozen at his side.
How could he have been such a fool?
“Optimus! If I die—“ Elita clicked the monitor off carefully, like she was handling a sparkling instead of a television screen with plating reinforced specifically to minimize their hard servos’ damage. Maybe she was, in a way.
“Drowning your audials with a speaker won’t help anyone, Optimus.” Her voice was stern, but not harsh; the voice of a bot who knew dwelling would only worsen the situation. “We need to go find him.”
“I know, Elita.”
“Do you, Prime?”
Optimus’ servos bristled at the accusation, only fueling the flame that burned in his spark at the danger his scout, his sparkling, could be facing.
“Optimus.” Wheeljack carefully laid a servo on the Prime’s shoulder. He met the scientist’s gaze, then Elita’s, and found the same worry in his own. The frustration seeped out of his frame, leaving tired concern.
“I’m worried. For Bumblebee.” He admitted quietly, helm lowering slightly. He looked back at the turned off monitor that had previously looped his sparkling’s terrified calls. To him.
“We all are, Optimus.” Wheeljack assured, letting his servo leave his leader’s shoulder.
“Which is why we need to go find him!” Elita urged, voice full of thinly restrained fury—partially at Optimus for neglecting their scout, partially at whatever had endangered their scout. Partially at herself for not noticing, maybe. Her optics never left Optimus’, curling her servo over his and squeezing gently.
“You are…right, Elita.” Optimus stood straighter. His voice still carried that weary, sad worry, but his optics were filled with determination. He turned. “Wheeljack, trace his signal.”
Wheeljack immediately beelined to his computer, processor set on one task, one he intended to complete as soon as possible.
Elita’s intake curved into a soft smile. “I’m glad you’re back to your senses.”
Optimus mirrored the commander. “Sometimes I may need my team to remind me of what is most important.”
She pat the Prime hard on the shoulder in that way the Autobot leader had long grown used to, the action resulting in a quiet clank from the contact. “Took you long enough.”