Safe and Sound--Installment III

INSTALLMENT III


I don't know why I haven't snuck away yet. I fully intended to do so, the second Optimus turned his back and walked away. I even had myself convinced that it would just be a few laps around base.

That's a lie. It's the strangest feeling. Almost every single part of me longs to be burning rubber, to be tracking through every old stomping ground. To visit every place  where Airachnid got the better of me, out of some pathetic hope she might still be there.

But here I am. Watching moonlight glowing off of the stones that mark Cliff's grave, wondering why in the Pit I'm not doing something actually useful.

I never was one for sitting and thinking. I figure things out on the open road, or even better—off of it. Something about the ground soaring under you, the wind across your armor and the sun on your back—something about that makes it easier to think clearly.

I don't sit and ponder the world like the great philosophers used to, back home. I'm too restless. And as angry as I am, it doesn't make sense, why I'm doing this.

Especially here. I haven't visited Cliff in months. This pile of rock is a pretty terrible substitute for the conversations we used to share. He was the only one who could ever make me cool down and see sense without infuriating me. Without being condescending or overly anxious or stiflingly protective. Without making me feel guilty and furious at the same time...

It's not like I don't know he's gone. I don't turn around and expect to see him standing there with that same stupid grin on his face. I don't say something and wonder why he doesn't have some smart-mouth reply. But even after this long, the memories will be inevitably be triggered by something—an old joke, a familiar place, a car that happens to look vaguely similar—and that hole he left will gnaw at me all day. I'll wake up in the middle of the night, seeing him fall into that pit, hearing that awful hissing snarl, over and over again, and wonder if I'm slowly going insane.

I think what I miss most are the little things. The goofy way Cliff would slurp his Energon ration as loudly as possible every morning, trying to irk Ratchet into a reaction. How he always called Bulkhead 'big guy' and Bumblebee 'stripes'. I miss his stupid jokes, his swearing habit, and the obnoxious catch phrase he would shout every single time we went into battle. Most of all, I miss being understood. Cliff never judged me, and he never turned his back. Not even those times when Airachnid wouldn't leave my mind, and I would storm around the base in a foul mood, throwing insults and swear words in every direction, telling him these horrible things that I never meant at him, but at her, or at me. Or worse, the days when I went silent and still, not trusting myself to speak, my spark a tight ball of tension. Even then, Cliff was there for me, doing what he could, asking for nothing in return.

Maybe it was because he was there, when he and Bumblebee dragged me out of that underground room, weak and coated in Tailgate's blood, delirious and in shock. That was the first time I ever met Cliffjumper. Or Bumblebee, for that matter. Cliff visited me at some point every day while I was healing. At first he didn't talk, just checked in to see if I was alright and walked back out again. But eventually he started lingering behind. One time he told me the femme he'd been seeing was involved in an espionage mission early in the War, got captured, and was slowly tortured to death as punishment.  Her captors hacked her comm link to the command hub, and so he'd been forced to listen to her die for hours, knowing there was nothing he could do. It was Cliff who eventually convinced me that I wasn't somehow responsible for Tailgate's fate, and that the only thing I could do about it was to make sure it never happened to anyone again. It was Cliff who got me to enlist in his battalion. Not Bumblebee, not Ratchet. Not Optimus. Actually, Optimus tried to tell me otherwise. He told me not to make that decision until I knew I was personally ready to live with it. That if I no longer wanted to fight, he would let me slip away and find my own path, without fear of getting reported.

I'd found my path. And I joined.

Things are so different now. Now self-pity is a luxury we can't afford, and instead of encouraging me to make sure Airachnid is neutralized, everyone tells me going after her is this big stupid idea that will get me killed. Now Optimus isn't able to give us the choice of backing out, and Cliffjumper isn't here to keep me sane.

The wind shifts direction and blows back towards me, heavy with the smell of road dust and desert flowers. I can't stay still; I'm itching to drive, as fast as I can, and as far as my wheels can take me. This place brings back memories I don't want to relive, and it's only a matter of time before Ratchet or Optimus figures out where I am. I don't want to stay here, and I can't face going back inside, spending another night burning quietly in my own private hell, wondering how a place as big as base can make me feel as if the walls are slowly closing in. I know what to expect if I go back.

Optimus will be standing there watching as I drag myself back to my room. He'll have that tense, drawn look on his face like he always does. He won't say a word, just look at me. I know the expression he'll have, but I can never tell what it is. Something heavy, halfway between frustration, weariness and sorrow, that will inevitably make me shrivel up with sudden guilt, no matter how much I'm raging inside.

It's enough to make me want to scream. I can never figure out why Optimus always makes me feel that way, as though I've not just disappointed him, but personally, physically hurt him. It's so incredibly frustrating, to be furious with him and suddenly feel terrible about it. But that's always how it's been, ever since I met him, and I don't know why—it's not like Optimus's approval means all that much to me. I don't know him very well, and whatever he thinks, he knows absolutely nothing about me. Optimus is a huge, infuriating puzzle that I wish I didn't try to figure out. I've known him for years—fought by his side and under his command in too many battles to count, followed him through space and against impossible odds. We've saved each other's lives, explored a dozen dying planets, waited for the end and watched our homeworld die together. And the only thing I've learned about him is that even when you can see his face, he still wears a mask. One that even eons of war, death and massive pain can't remove.

Sometimes I remember how warm his hand was against the snow, and wonder if that was just another piece of the mask.