Quibble_auk

We have two grayscale options

And then the line art of them separate before I erased stuff... but I'm too lazy to crop it so instead we get social distancing versions of the sketch

—

Bailey was good. Very good. She was a good girl. She knew she was because he had said so. Over and over. Bailey was a good girl.

She could remember his broad shoulders pressed into her side, the crackling campfire casting long blue shadows into the night. He had sat beside her, knife cutting away at a wood scrap. His voice had been a murmur, almost lost to the wind that brought the midnight chill to the cracked earth below them.

“You’re a good girl, Bailey.”

It was different then, Bailey had him. Her pack. Now, she lay on the dry earth alone, watching a lizard poke out of its den to test the night air. The shadows melted all around her, the world was illuminated by the moons above—no golden firelight or odd voice to make her brain itch with something… familiar.

She did not know the word. She had never needed to before because it had always been a constant. But it was gone now, and Bailey felt it like a wound in her side, like a predator had taken a chunk of her skin and left her raw.

Bailey sighed, a deep, weary sound that kicked up the loose dust from the earth into a small puff. The noise alerted the nearby lizard and she listlessly watched it scamper back into its den, hidden from the cruel predators that roamed the night.

She missed him.

Tanner.

He was all she had ever needed. All she had.

Tanner was a good leader, the best, Bailey was sure. Despite his small stature, blunt teeth, and unremarkable claws. He was inventive, capable of strange, wondrous things. He didn’t need claws or teeth to tear and break, he carried knives—shiny metallic claws that stung all the same. He had his Gun. Bailey knew what a gun was, the cold metal with a sharp smell and unbelievably loud roar.

It was the product of Man.

Tanner was Man.

He was Bailey’s Man.

A growl crawled up her throat, a primal and low sound as she shifted restlessly on the barren earth. It was wise for the lizard to hide. Hide from her. She had no pack. She was dangerous.

Bailey was hungry.

Tanner had not fed her. Not for a long time now. Many seasons had passed since he had brought her prey.

But she would not have another Man feed her. Then she would have to listen. She would have a Man that was not Tanner.

Bailey was a good girl. She knew she was. She remembered that lesson. She was small then, still smaller than Tanner who was not a Man, but a boy. They had so much fun together, before Work, before Tanner became Man. But Bailey could remember, she was only ever meant to listen to him. To her Pack Leader.

The other Man could not be Tanner.

Tanner had bested her, he had used his cunning Man tricks and tools to win, to pin her and establish himself as Leader. Tanner was smarter than Bailey, he deserved to be Leader, Bailey was lucky to have him as one.

The other Man could not be her Leader.

For many seasons they had tried, but Tanner was smart, he was the best. He taught Bailey not to take food from a stranger.

That had been a hard lesson, a tricky one for her to master. But for Tanner, she had learned how to know when Man was good and when Man was Bad. She could not take food from Bad Man—the ones with ropes and chains, the ones that rank of something sour and cold—they would make it hurt. They made Bailey sick and slow.

Tanner was kind, he did not leave her. He was Pack Leader and he chose to stay, to give her a second chance.

She had never eaten something from Bad Man again.

Bailey was smart, very smart. Just like how she was Good. When Man came with ropes, when they called and whistled, when her own kind snapped and corralled—she ran. Just like Tanner told her to. She did not take their food, she did not let them catch her.

She was waiting. Like a good girl.

Bailey whined, the night breeze sending a chill down her back. She waited for the lizard to return for a moment longer before she finally moved, dismissing the meager Prey with a curt chuff. She would find other food tonight or she would go hungry. That was the way it was in the wilds. She had no pack to hunt with, no Man to bring her prey.

She lifted her head from the ground, taking a second to stretch her legs before she began her slow gait over the cracked, scorched earth that was still humming from the faded sun’s warmth. All around her, creatures of the night called, whooping and screaming into the cold desert air. Insects chirped and sang from their hidden burrows.

Sometimes Tanner would sing. When they traveled with other Man. Good Man. Those nights the campfire was always a lively, full place. All the Man would gather around and speak their language, hands gesturing greatly as they all basked in the safety of a larger pack. Together they would ward off the beasts and Bad Man. Bailey would lay with Tanner, cooing and chuffing at the others of her own kind, trilling along when Tanner would pull out his noise maker and would sing.

Bailey had seen many noise makers with many names she did not understand nor care to learn. But she knew what Tanner had—the strange hollow wooden creation he carried only when the path was well worn and safe—a Guitar. She loved when he played, when he made music just like the birds did.

There were no birds in the desert. Not any of the kinds that would sing at least.

She made her way towards the nearby patch of dry grass and brambles, nostrils flaring and body held low. The dry brush scraped against her belly, a harsh contrast to the memory of Tanner’s calloused hand smoothing over her hide. Bailey kept her head low, the twin crests atop her skull cutting through the gloom like a pair of silent, vibrant sails.

Her mouth parted just enough to taste the air. Dust. Sage. Lizard. Rock. The bitter tang of old, still water.

Then, a spike of sharp adrenaline hit her system.

Bailey froze, inhaling a deep breath of the scent. It wasn't a lizard. It wasn't the musk of a desert hare.

It was a scent that made the phantom pain in her chest flare up instantly, a painful, squeezing feeling that felt like her chest was full of thick water. It was the smell of oiled leather, cheap tobacco, and the distinct, oily musk of her own kind. Dilo. But not wild ones. These ones smelled like iron and sweat.

They smelled like Work.

Once, Bailey smelled like Work, but the smell of being touched by Man had long since faded, washed away by countless spring downpours and frigid winter winds. She did not carry a saddle of leather anymore, her hide was bare and plain.

The low rumble that started in her chest didn't break past her teeth, dying in a vibration that shook her throat. Her pupils dilated, drinking in what little light the triplet moons offered. She cocked her head, bobbing slightly as she drank in another deep breath.

They were downwind, but the desert breeze was fickle, shifting and swirling through the sharp rocky peaks. The scent was fresh.

Too fresh.

Man was here. Bad Man.

They thought they could hunt Bailey. That she would take their sour food and be fooled like a juvenile. They believed that Bailey belonged to Man.

They were wrong.

Bailey belonged to Tanner.

He was waiting, he had to be. She could not allow herself to be caught.

Tanner needed her.

Bailey melted into the shadows of a nearby weathered sandstone shelf, her mottled hide blending seamlessly with the dark rock and dead scrub. She lowered her belly until it grazed the dirt, her powerful hind legs tucked beneath her, ready to pounce or spring away. The vibrant crests on her head, usually held high and proud when she was with Tanner, were lowered until she was sure the moonlight would not catch their bright reds and expose her.

A sound cut through the nightly chorus of crickets. The rhythmic, heavy thud of three toed feet striking the cracked bed of earth and dead grass.

Bailey tilted her head towards the sound, pressing herself further into the outcrop.

It wasn't the chaotic, light patter of wild juveniles. It was the synchronized, burdened gait of a working mount. A Dilo carrying weight. Carrying Man.

Bailey could not fight the low growl this time, just loud enough the nearby crickets falling silent as it rumbled into the crisp night air—thankfully, it was quiet enough that the hawk that had landed nearby did not stir from its perch.

“Easy, girl. Keep her steady.”

The voice drifted over the ridge. It was a Man’s voice, a gravelly murmur meant to be quiet, but to Bailey’s sensitive ears, it scraped like flint on steel. Her skin twitched, lean muscles bunching. She knew that voice. She knew this smell. Bailey didn’t forget, she was smart.

It was Jesse.

Long ago, Jesse had been part of the big pack. He had shared fire with Tanner. He had given Tanner tobacco, and Tanner had given Jesse a carved piece of cedar. Jesse led his own pack, Bailey’s broodmate, Gale and a raptor that Bailey got to play with when they stopped for fire and if she was Good.

Jesse used to be Good Man.

Then he came with ropes and chains, he stole her saddle, he tried to capture her. He tried to keep Bailey from returning to Tanner. A foolish, silly attempt that resulted in Bailey being a Bad girl. She bit Jesse. He deserved it. He was a Bad Man now. A very, very Bad Man who pretended to be good.

Bailey licked her lip, running her tongue over her teeth as she tasted the air.

“See anything, Vance?” Jesse’s voice came again, closer now.

Another voice answered, accompanied by the distinct, metallic clink of a bit jingling in a dinosaur's mouth. “Tracks are fresh, Jess. She’s nesting close. Or hunting. Hugo’s getting restless.”

The clink of the bit made Bailey’s jaw ache. She remembered the cold iron taste of it, the way it pinched the soft flesh of her gums if she pulled too hard against the reins. Tanner had stopped using a bit after their first season together, relying instead on a soft leather hackamore and the gentle press of his boots against her flanks.

That strange drowning sensation was back, her heart beating a painful, skipping beat in her chest now.

Jesse’s mount chuffed—a sharp, rattling sound that vibrated through the brisk air and off the nearby rocks. It was Gale. Bailey recognized the specific, heavy whistle in her sister's nostrils, a remnant of an old injury from a wild bull horn. Gale smelled entirely of Work now. She smelled of grease, saddle soap, and the sour sweat of a rider who pushed through the heat of the day.

Gale used to play with Tanner when he was a boy too. She used to be a Good girl.

Now she was either Predator or Pack.

Gale had Jesse though, and Jesse was a Bad Man, which meant Gale was not Pack, she was Predator. A dangerous one, she had the experience Bailey had, she was better fed than herself. But she would be slower, relying on the commands of Jesse.

Still, Bailey would need to avoid confrontation.

“Don’t let your beast get sloppy, Vance,” Jesse grunted. The creak of his leather saddle groaned into the night as he shifted his weight. “Bailey ain’t a regular stray. Tanner raised her smart. She thinks like a person, and she fights like a devil.”

“She’s just a lizard, Jess,” Vance muttered back. His mount—a younger, broader male Bailey didn't know—let out a low, aggressive hiss, his nostrils flaring as it caught a stray draft of the wind. “Tanner’s been food for the scavengers nearly five years now. She’s wild. Feral.”

The word hung in the air, meaningless to Bailey’s mind but heavy with the weight of their intrusion.

“Maybe,” Jesse murmured, shifting to pull a flask out and taking a swift sip, “But it don’t mean she ain’t smart.”

Bailey could taste the male’s restlessness, he would be ruthless in a fight. Not nearly as strong as Bailey, but he would be faster, more aggressive. That would be his downfall though, Bailey could use her own experience to make up for what she lacked due to her age.

Still, with Man, she could not win a fight. She didn’t have a Gun, she didn’t have Tanner.

She whined, shifting her weight as she glanced around the open desert, sizing up the towering sandstone structures and the gently swaying grass.

Silly mistake. Foolish.

Bad girl.

Gale turned her head towards the sound of distress, bobbing as she tried to pinpoint the location. She trilled, a silent call for a pack member—the male replied absently, his head tilting as he stepped forward to investigate what had caught Gale’s attention himself.

The other Bad Man—Vance—hand immediately slapped the male’s neck. It wasn’t enough to hurt, Bailey knew because Tanner had done the same when he was teaching her, but enough to startle and force a correction. The male huffed, tossing his head in protest but halted.

Good boy.

She almost clicked to the younger male, but she caught the sound in her throat before it exposed her.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The crickets didn't return. The desert held its breath, and so did Bailey. She pressed her ribs flat against the dirt, wishing she could sink into the very stone.

Slowly, Bailey shifted her weight, trying to move as the wind turned. Her golden eyes remained trained on the ridge where Hugo stamped a heavy, impatient foot. Gale called out again—a testing trill. Gale was tracking her like Prey.

Bailey took a backward step, balancing low, but her tail brushed a tuft of dry grass. A loose pebble dislodged.

It clattered against the sandstone shelf. A sharp, terrible click in the dead silence.

She froze.

“You hear that?” Vance whispered, the leather of his saddle groaning as he leaned forward, watching as both Gale and Hugo shifted to face the noise.

“I heard it,” Jesse said. His voice dropped an octave, losing its gravelly impatience and taking on a cold, focused edge. It was the tone he used to use when they tracked Bad Man back in the old pack. “Gale’s tracking.”

Bailey watched through the skeleton branches of a dead sagebrush. Gale’s head was high, her snout tilting toward the sandstone shelf. Her nostrils flared, drinking in the scent of her wild sister. For a fraction of a second, Gale’s amber eyes locked onto the exact shadow where Bailey hid.

Pack? Bailey’s mind pricked with the ancient, forgotten urge. Sister?

No.

Pack was Tanner. Sister was Predator.

But Gale didn't chuff a greeting. She merely tilted her head, the bit clinking against her teeth as she licked her lips. Jesse pulled back, and Gale obediently stepped into the darkness, her heavy weight shifting in near silence—ruined only by the creaking of heavy leather.

“She’s under the shelf,” Jesse muttered.

The sound that followed made Bailey’s skin crawl, the small, unnoticeable quills along her spine rising in instinctual terror. It was a dry, sliding sound. Canvas rubbing against leather. The metallic clack-clack of a lever being thrown back and chambering a round.

A Gun. Jesse had a Gun.

They hurt. Bailey knew. She knew what a Gun did. She had seen Tanner take down much larger predators with it.

Bailey had felt Gun’s unforgiving bite when Tanner left.

She shifted her weight again, her muscles twitching and spasming as she waited and watched. Bailey clamped her throat shut, choking back a whine. She twisted her head, straining to catch a scent, a remnant of her pack leader. But there was no Tanner. Just Man. Only Gun. Her tongue ran over her teeth, nostrils flaring as she clamped her jaw. And again. And again. The faint clicking of her teeth carrying faintly on the wind.

Gale tensed up at the sound, licking her lips again and tilting her head, chest heaving.

Bailey had given her warning.

The Bad Man were stupid, they did not notice. Jesse simply corrected Gale, pressing her to take a few steps closer despite her clear unease.

“Vance, circle wide to the left. Don’t let her break for the flats. If she gets into the open scrub, we’ll never run her down on these weights.”

“You want her alive, right?” Vance asked, his mount already shifting into a low, predatory crouch.

Jesse scoffed, a sharp, annoyed sound, “You think Danny wants his brother’s prize dino for a wall mount?”

Bailey knew Danny. He was Good like Tanner. He stayed at home on the ranch. He was part of Tanner’s pack, his broodmate.

It had been a long, long time since Tanner had gone to see him. They always seemed to be locked in a perpetual power struggle for who was the leading sibling—something Bailey had wasted no time in establishing in her own brood.

“We only shoot to cripple or if she’s trying to rip a throat out, alright?” Jesse finished, his voice still dripping with a venomous tone.

Guided by Vance’s reins, the male slowly stalked around Bailey, cutting off the direct path to the open ground.

Stupid, Bad Man.

Bailey knew better than to run into an open field with no cover.

She pressed her haunches deeper into the dark throat of the stone shelf. Tanner had taught her how to use the rocks. They thought they were cornering her, but they were just stepping into her jaw—or rather, the Predator’s maw.

All she needed to do was get to the canyon.

The canyon was a gaping wound in the desert's flesh, a labyrinth of jagged red rock and sheer drop offs just north of where she was. Bailey knew every crevice of it. More importantly, she knew what slept in its deepest, darkest throat.

“Move in slow,” Jesse commanded, his voice a low hiss over the creak of leather. “She’s pinned.”

They thought they had her. They thought like Man—calculating, arrogant, relying on their metal claws and loud roars to bridge the gap between their weak bodies and the wild. But Bailey didn't think like a regular stray.

She thought like Tanner’s girl.

She waited until Hugo’s heavy, stupid snout was practically poking into the sagebrush, his breath hot and sour with the smell of specialized feed. Vance was leaning forward, a heavy hemp rope coiled tightly in his calloused hand, his eyes squinting into the gloom.

Bailey didn't whine. She didn't growl.

With a sudden, explosive burst of power, she drove her hind legs into the sandstone shelf.

The rock cracked beneath her claws as she launched herself forward, not at the open flats Vance was guarding, but directly at Hugo’s blind spot. She didn't use her teeth—she didn't want to get tangled in the reins. Instead, she slammed her entire body weight, dense and muscled by years of wild survival, right into the younger male’s shoulder with a grating hiss.

Hugo let out a panicked, undignified shriek as the impact sent him stumbling sideways into the dirt—his rider and heavy saddle throwing off his balance. Vance, completely caught off guard, cursed loudly as his stirrups slipped. The heavy hemp rope dropped from his hand, uncoiling like a dead snake into the brush.

“Jesse! She’s breaking!” Vance yelled, scrambling to keep his seat as Hugo thrashed to right himself.

Bailey didn't look back.

She hit the ground running, her long, powerful tail outstretched for balance as she sprinted toward the northern rim. Her vibrant crests catching the brilliant moonlight, a proud, undeniable display of her health. She streamlined, lowering her head and focusing on nothing but the earth in front of her.

Bang!

The desert shattered.

A flash of blinding, golden light erupted from Jesse’s position, followed by the deafening crack of his Gun. The bullet zipped past Bailey’s flank, close enough that the displaced air hissed against her skin and chipped a fountain of sparks off a boulder to her left. The sharp, bitter scent of burnt gunpowder filled her nostrils, fueling her panic.

Bailey veered right, a desperate screech escaping her as she narrowly avoided stumbling over her own feet. She could feel the itching heat of long healed scars. Her heart beating on her ribs like a beast within a cage, desperate to escape. She corrected herself, heading north once again.

Bad girl.

She knew better than to flinch at Gun’s roar.

Bang!

Another roar. This one clipped the dirt right behind her heel, kicking up a spray of sharp gravel that stung her ankle.

For a second, the sheer canyon before her looked like an unnatural, Man-made wall crafted to keep unwanted things out. To keep Bailey away from Tanner.

Jesse was shouting, his voice tight and angry, urging Gale into a sprint. Gale’s heavy, rhythmic thuds echoed behind her, fast and relentless. Gale was a working mount, built for endurance, and she wasn't burdened by the shock that had slowed Hugo.

She was gaining ground.

But Bailey had a head start, and she had the slope.

The flat, cracked earth gave way to a steep, rocky descent. The entrance to the canyons loomed ahead—a massive, jagged tear in the earth where the moonlight barely penetrated. To a Man, it looked like a death trap of loose shale and broken ankles. To Bailey, it was safety.

She leaped over the rim, her claws sliding expertly on the loose gravel as she skidded down the steep incline. She bounced off a boulder, using the momentum to pivot sharply around a blind corner, plunging into the deep, suffocating shadows of the canyon walls.

Behind her, the sounds of pursuit changed. The heavy, suffocating pace slowed. Jesse and Vance were forced to a walk, their mounts snorting and picking their way down the treacherous path with caution.

“Watch the ledge, Vance!” Jesse’s voice echoed down the stone corridor, muffled and distorted by the rock faces. “Don’t let the mounts slip. We’ve got her boxed in this channel anyway. There’s nowhere for her to climb out.”

Bailey slowed her frantic pace to a steady, silent trot, her chest heaving as she sucked in the cool, damp air of the canyon bottom. The smell of the open desert vanished, replaced by the scent of ancient stone, cold iron ore, and decay.

They thought she was boxed in. They thought they were the only predators in the dark.

She was a smart girl.

Bailey stopped, her claws clicking softly on the smooth stone of the canyon floor. She turned her head, bobbing slightly, her golden eyes tracking the faint, bouncing beams of the lanterns the Men had struck. They were coming down the canyon, single file, believing their target was trapped at the dead end ahead.

But Bailey wasn't going to the dead end. She was standing right outside a massive, black cavern opening that split the canyon wall—a place where the air dragged out a foul, terrifying musk.

It was a scent far heavier than any Dilo. It smelled of old blood, crushed bone, and a massive, unforgiving heat.

Bailey shifted her feet, bracing herself for a second longer before she let out a sharp trilling into the open maw of the cavern, a gamble of life for the sake of returning to Tanner. Her heart picked back up to the pace of a racing hare. Her small quills bristled again.

Deep within the cavern, something shifted. It wasn't the quick, agile movement of her own kind, but a slow, colossal stir. A low vibration rumbled through the stone beneath Bailey’s feet, so deep it was felt in the ribs rather than heard by the ears.

The desert cousin. A tyrant of the wastes, smaller than the legendary kings of the lush valleys, but leaner, meaner, and fiercely territorial.

Bailey took a step backward, melting into a narrow, vertical crevice in the rock face just opposite the cave mouth, one too narrow for a well fed mount with a saddle. She squeezed her body tight, holding her breath, her eyes locked on the approaching lantern light.

“Track leads right down here,” Vance’s voice echoed, closer now. Hugo chuffed, but the sound was tight, choked with a sudden, instinctual dread. The young male stopped dead in his tracks, his legs trembling.

“What’s wrong with him?” Jesse grunted, his leather saddle creaking as he forced Gale forward. But Gale, too, hesitated. Her nostrils flared, a high-pitched, terrified whistle escaping her throat as she tasted the heavy air of the canyon floor.

Bailey was a Good Girl.

She clicked to herself, watching the Predators shift into Prey.

“Jess… look at the walls,” Vance whispered, his lantern sweeping upward.

The light illuminated massive, deep gouges in the sandstone—scores made by claws large enough to flay Man, far too high for any Dilo to reach.

Bailey watched from the shadows, her jaws parting slightly. She didn't make a sound. She was a good girl. She was smart. She had brought the Bad Man right to the Leader of this canyon.

From the pitch-black mouth of the cavern, two massive eyes caught the reflection of Vance’s lantern, glowing with a cold, predatory hunger. A terrifying, wet chattering rippled out of the cavern, a sound that seemed to suck the very moisture from the canyon air.

“Back up,” Jesse commanded, his voice no longer cold and focused, but frantic, sharp with sudden panic. “Vance, turn him around! Back up now!”

The warning came too late.

The darkness of the cave mouth erupted. The desert cousin of the infamous Tyrannosaurus Rex—a lean, scarred tarbosaurus—burst into the lantern light with horrifying speed. It didn't boast the lumbering build of its larger forest relatives; this beast was built of corded muscle and desperate, desert-born starvation.

Hugo didn't wait for Vance's reins.

The young male Dilophosaurus let out a high pitched shriek of pure terror, spinning so violently on the loose shale that his flank slammed into the canyon wall. Vance screamed as his lantern flew from his hand, shattering against the stone and plunging the channel into chaotic, dancing shadows lit only by Jesse’s bouncing light and the sliver of moonlight.

With a bellow that seemed to rattle the air, the apex predator lunged. Its massive jaws, lined with blade like teeth, clamped down hard on Hugo’s crest, snapping the bone with a sickening ease and adjusting its grip to Hugo’s shoulder. The young male bucked and thrashed, his smaller claws tearing uselessly at the tyrant's thick hide as he was dragged into the dirt.

“Gale, move!” Jesse yelled, the sharp crack of his Gun echoing through the canyon once more—ratting Bailey’s skull as the air filled with the familiar, choking copper scent of blood.

Bang! Bang!

The muzzle flashes illuminated the horror in strobes of brilliant, golden light. The bullets struck the tyrant’s thick torso, drawing spurts of dark blood and bellows of agony. It reared, shaking Hugo like a desert hare, a sickening crunch of bone echoing through the cavern air, silencing the younger dinosaur’s cries.

Vance was thrown clear, scrambling on his hands and knees through the dirt, his face pale and eyes wide with shock. “Jesse!”

But Jesse was fighting his own battle. Gale was pitching and rearing, her instinct to flee warring violently against the iron bit in her mouth and the weight of her rider. She called in terror, her tail slashing blindly, striking the stone walls.

From her narrow crevice, Bailey watched with wide, unblinking golden eyes. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she remained absolutely still, her ribs pressed flat against the cold stone, panting. The smell of hot, metallic blood and burnt gunpowder filled the air—the scent of Work, of Bad Man, of the cruel reality of the wilds.

She felt no sympathy for Gale. Gale had chosen the Bad Man.

Jesse fired again, but Gale’s frantic bucking threw his aim wide, the bullet ricocheting uselessly off the upper cliffs. The tarbosaurus dropped Hugo’s limp body, its bloody snout swinging toward the remaining intruders. It took a heavy step forward, its tail whipping around and smashing into the canyon wall just inches from where Vance was trying to stand.

This was her moment.

While the tyrant’s focus was entirely locked onto the flashing fire of Jesse’s Gun and the screaming Man, Bailey began to squeeze her way backward through the vertical crevice. The rough sandstone scraped against her bare flanks, a sharp reminder of her wild freedom, but she didn't make a sound. She was a good girl. She was smart.

She slipped through the narrow gap, emerging onto a hidden, steep game trail that wound upward into the higher, jagged ridges of the canyon—a path far too treacherous and tight for a large predator to follow.

Below her, the chaos reached a crescendo. A horrific scream from Vance cut through the night, abruptly cut short by the snapping roar of the tyrant. Jesse was cursing, the heavy thuds of Gale’s frantic retreat echoing back down the channel as he finally gave up the hunt, fleeing the canyon before the beast could claim them both.

Bailey didn't look back to see who survived.

She sprinted up the steep incline, her powerful hind legs driving her up and away from the blood scented dark. When she finally broke through the canyon rim, the vast, open desert stretched out beneath the triplet moons once more. The air here was clean, smelling of sage and distant rain.

She slowed to a steady, rhythmic trot, her vibrant red crests catching the cool moonlight.

The Bad Man were gone. They would not be following her. They would be tending to their wounds, mourning their dead, and fearing the dark. They would think twice before they ever tried to hunt Tanner’s girl again.

Bailey stopped atop a high sandstone bluff, looking out over the endless, shimmering expanse of the desert wastes.

She lowered her head and let out a soft, mourning trill into the midnight wind—a song for the campfire, a song for the shared firelight, a song for the boy who became a Man.

Tanner wasn't in the canyon. He wasn't in the flats. Bailey knew where he was, he was beyond. He was hidden deep within the sterile wall that kept the wilds from invading the East. He was still waiting, still wanting Bailey to be a good girl, to listen—even when she knew better.

Bailey could remember it. Vividly. She knew she would never forget. The roar of Gunfire, the thrill of a chase, the lurch of a free fall. And Tanner—her Man, no, Bailey’s boy—choking on his own blood, trapped, yelling at her to run. To be a Good Girl and listen.

She didn’t run then, she knew better now. She knew to be good and run, even if Tanner was hurt, even when he was crying and looking so very small.

Bailey would listen, she had learned her lesson now.

He shot her crest because she was Bad.

A Bad Girl.

Only then did she run. Then she listened.

Tanner still didn’t come back, he didn’t give her another chance.

But now, she was being a Good girl. She was running. She was waiting. Tanner would be back, he would laugh and call her his good girl and scratch her chin and they could lay in a pasture until the sun went to sleep. Tanner was smart, he would not fall to the Bad Man from over the wall.

—

The heavy, pressurized door of Jeopardy’s apartment hissed open, welcoming him with the familiar, sterile scent of medical cleaner and his own polish. It was dark, save for the ambient neon glow of Kaon’s underbelly bleeding through the partially shaded windows.

It was just as he had left it.

The mech stepped inside with a sigh, his shoulders drooping as the door closed and the muted chaos of the street below became nothing but a faded hum. For a long moment, Jeopardy just stood in the entryway, the ventilated cargo pod held securely in his hands—a faint, dull glow escaping from the vents.

The silence of the apartment was absolute. Usually, it was a comfort—a clinical sanctuary from the chaos of the clinic and the endless bustle of the city. Of course, as of late, the silence tended to feel more like a vacuum. Like he was one of the dreadnaughts that was drifting aimlessly through space, a vessel amongst the stillness of stars, forced to watch the life on planets flourish while knowing he may never know such permanence or company.

Tonight, it just felt heavy.

“Right,” Jeopardy murmured to himself, his voice sounding flat and overly loud in the vacant space. He looked down at the carrier in hand, using his own medical sensors to ping at the faint electrical output the Heart-weaver was producing.

Jeopardy adjusted his hold and walked into the main living area, then to the kitchen, carefully setting the transport pod onto the central counter. With meticulous, surgical precision, he unlatched the container's seals. The pressurized hiss released a wave of that warm, earthy, rainforest musk into the cool air of his apartment.

The Moon-cup was glowing an ethereal, ghostly blue, a stark contrast with the faint glow that the bulbs of the Heart-weaver offered. They looked undamaged, the Heartweaver pulsing erratically—an indicator of stress most likely.

He lowered his finger, watching the bulb flicker and lean towards him. This time the bulb didn’t unravel, but the way it seemed to be drawn to Jeopardy’s hand made his spark warm his own chest. The medic smiled, gently tapping the plant, “Welcome home, little guy.”

Jeopardy paused, his smile faltering as his vents puffed out a defensive wave of warm air. He blinked and chuckled hesitantly, “Or, uh… gal? Because… yeah, you're a girl plant. Dioecious. Carrier. Sorry.”

The Heart-weaver’s blinked back a more settled rhythm, unphased by his minor slip up. Its velvety teal and purple leaves shuddered, uncoiling slightly as they adapted to the room's lower temperature.

Jeopardy shook his helm, a genuine, self deprecating chuckle vibrating low in his vocalizer. Here he was, a decorated senior medical officer of Kaon, formally apologizing to an alien flora for misgendering it in an empty kitchen. In his defense, the idea that gender was tied to sex had been something that had taken some adjusting to when he had first been introduced to the organic concept.

He smiled fondly at the plant, taking a second to trace the edge of a particularly large, soft leaf, “Coo will be very excited to see you, she is always very…um.”

Jeopardy trailed off, eyeing the broken cord on the ground—his spark writhed in his chest, his plates pressing into his protoform as his engine ticked—he wouldn’t be able to host a video chat between himself and his dear organic friends. He would have to settle for an emailed image.

“Very opinionated on the lack of organic flora on Cybertron. Our crystals don’t seem to count in her eyes,” The medic whispered to the plant, before his vents puffed another huff of warm air as his lines heated up.

Jeopardy was talking to a plant.

Primus, he was losing it.

With practiced gentleness, Jeopardy slipped his hands beneath the ceramic basin of the Heart-Weaver and lifted it out of the transport pod. He held the plant to eye level, inspecting the simple pot and the way several of the twisting vines spilled over the edge. He gently brushed some dirt from the side of the pot with a small hum. Satisfied, he carried it over to the wide window ledge overlooking the city. The mech positioned the plant right where the first golden rays of the Kaon dawn would slice between the high rises.

He paused, staring out the window at the city, watching the lights flicker off gilded windows and the pulsing of neon lights. Fliers weaved between buildings like the minnows in Earth’s creeks. A thousand different sparks and wet, organic hearts beat at their own rhythm and together made some symphony—harmonizing with the frigid wind, the hissing steam, and the echoing chants from the pits to create something truly remarkable.

Jeopardy would not lie. Praxus was his home state, his forge of origin. His foundation was built on the singing crystal gardens and the pristine marble of the city’s medical center.

But Kaon was his home. His people.

And yet…

He looked back down at the Heart-weaver, a small sigh escaping him.

“It is a silly thing to admit,” Jeopardy muttered, taking a moment to untangle a few of the vines and place them in a more orderly fashion. “But… I miss the stars from the outpost.”

The medic chuckled softly, his spark pulsing in his chest, an old, long forgotten song. He smiled softly, mindlessly tracing a leaf, “Rumbleclutch would dim most of the external lights to keep our location from being detected, he said we would be a beacon if we left them on. Once Dropmix had taken me to the far ridge at night…”

Jeopardy trailed off, looking up at the blank, black sky above kaon, shrouded by blankets of clouds and polluted by the blinding lights of the pits.

“The front lines of the war had moved off Cybertron at that point, less smog from industries or smoke from fires and battles. So the sky was clear, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. So many stars. Like a whole sea of sparks in the sky,” the medic’s voice crackled with static, his plates pressed in against himself further, he tilted his head, trying to catch a glimpse of a star in the faded blue night. “Dropmix said he always felt small when he looked at the stars. I… I always felt… loved.”

There were no stars in Kaon.

Just an empty black sky, a void, a mirror of the vacuum inside his own chest with a singular blip of light pulsing endlessly.

The silence of the kitchen seemed to stretch after his admission, the finality of the word loved hanging in the sterile air like a heavy vapor.

The Heart-weaver pulsed in response, a steady, hypnotic cadence of amber light that cast elongated shadows across Jeopardy’s knuckles. The plant didn't understand the complex, turbulent history of the Cybertronian civil war, nor did it comprehend the phantom ache in a medic’s spark for a sky free of smog and blinding lights. Yet, the gentle warmth radiating from its bulbs felt remarkably like a quiet reassurance.

If Osmis or any of the clinic staff could see him now, they would probably try to forcibly check him into the psychiatric ward just to ensure he hadn’t overtaxed and fried some of his processor. Jeopardy pulled his hand back, his vents cycling a long, shuddering breath, “Here I am getting all… sentimental with a plant.”

The bulbs of the flora in question blinked back a slow, sympathetic crimson.

He frowned, a small furrow of his brows as he looked over the plant again, contemplating the smaller creature. It was alive after all, in its own strange way. Maybe not made of metal or with a sun for a soul, but alive nonetheless. A fellow child of some long forgotten star.

“You need a name,” Jeopardy promptly declared, leaning back against the wall, examining the plant. It was a right that all Cybertronians were born with, their very sparks—their souls—sang and chanted theirs in a language only a forger could comprehend. They were not given names like organics, they belonged to them.

Addressing the Heart-weaver by its scientific name felt awfully cruel and its common name felt just as detached.

Jeopardy folded his arms over his chest, the metal clinking softly as he tilted his head, narrowing his optics to study the plant. He had categorized thousands of cyber-organic anomalies and treated the most grotesque, rust bitten injuries the war could produce. Yet, naming an organic lifeform felt entirely outside his medical parameters.

“A name,” he repeated, the word rolling awkwardly through his vocalizer. He tapped a finger against his forearm plating, a rhythmic tink-tink-tink that synchronized with the Heart-weaver’s steady pulsing.

The plant’s velvety teal leaves rustled, catching on a stray draft from the room's filtration unit. The crimson light shifting through its bulbs pulsed brighter, illuminating the tiny, intricate veins running through the organic tissue. They looked remarkably like the energon lines beneath Jeopardy’s own plates—a map of hidden vitality.

He leaned in closer, his internal fans whirring quietly as he observed the way the vines spilled over the ceramic rim. The small blinking lights of the bulbs that contrasted starkly against the teal-purple leaves.

“Astra,” Jeopardy murmured softly. He paused, testing the weight of the syllables. The medic nodded to himself, tapping one of the bulbs softly, “Because you have little stars on you.”

Jeopardy was spectacular at this, he was sure.

Satisfied, he finally returned to the transportation carrier. The medic navigated the dark apartment with a familiar grace, using his own dim emergency lights and the neon glow from the window to avoid the sharp corners of the counter. The shadows of the solitary apartment only grew starker the closer he was to the carrier, the bioluminescent light of Mooncup chasing the darkness away.

Jeopardy peered into the crate, looking down at the humble Lumina-Scypha with a weary fondness. Cautiously, he retrieved the plant from the transport with the same reverence as before. The Moon-Cup felt light, its smooth, semi-translucent leaves cool against his hand. The flora’s eerie phantom glow illuminating his face as he ran a gentle finger over the cracked surface of the pot.

“You do not have a sex,” he stated—rather bluntly, he would admit—rotating his hold on the plant to examine it fully. Jeopardy was silent for a long moment, staring blankly at the flora. Eventually, he smiled, a slight upward tug on his lips, as he chuckled and shook his head, finally starting his walk towards the windowsill with Astra.

“I suppose that is something that we have in common, Cybertronians and plants that is,” the medic explained thoughtfully, “Though, from what I’ve read about plant biology, you just have both sexes, where I have… none. Or… one? We reproduce with energy distribution.”

He paused right in front of the window, the Moon-cup still in his steady hands. He watched a seeker zip by the reinforced glass, engine humming through the soundproofed wall. It’s bright lights passing through and illuminating his quarters like a bolt of stray lightning—blinding and gone within moments.

“It’s rather interesting, until a young spark is strong enough to sustain itself and it's deemed stable enough to be transported to its own frame, it’s technically a parasite,” Jeopardy reflected blankly, blinking as his optics readjusted to the dimness of his own apartment.

A parasite.

Just as the Moon-cup had apparently been deemed by so many mechs before him. A cruel and rather dim designation in his opinion. Especially when considering that Cybertronians themselves were a parasite of their god, feeding off of Primus’s god-blood—according to ancient lore that is. Jeopardy believed the lore, it was—in his opinion—the only logical explanation for why Cybertron had a seemingly endless supply of Energon.

Finally, the mech set the Moon-cup down on the ledge, the cracked pot barely an inch away from Astra.

For a moment, the two plants sat in the dim apartment, unchanged. Then, the thin, braided tendrils of Astra began to subtly shift, uncoiling across the permacrete ledge until one velvet, teal leaf brushed against the pale, glassy edge of the Moon-Cup.

Jeopardy smiled warmly, crouching down to be eye level with the plants. “I do not believe you're a parasite, little one, nor does your sister.”

As if confirming, the crimson pulsing of Astra’s bulbs spiked once—a quick flash of static—and the Moon-Cup immediately drank it in. The ghostly blue luminescence of the succulent deepened, rippling through its translucent layers like captured starlight.

A closed loop. A silent conversation happening right on his window sill.

Jeopardy leaned his forearms against the ledge, lowering his helm to watch them. The ambient, dual colored glow cast soft shadows across the sharp angles of his face plating. The overwhelming weight of his shift—the heavy scent of copper from Gimbal's rust, Steelwake's suffocating presence, and the painful reminder of Dropmix’s absence—finally began to lose its razor sharp edge.

They weren't screaming into a vacuum. They had each other to listen.

“You need a name too, don't you?” Jeopardy murmured, his voice dropping to a low, soothing hum that caused his chest plates to vibrate as his engine idled. “It is only fair.”

He studied the Moon-cup. It didn't reach out like Astra did; it was still, grounded, and intensely luminous, absorbing the chaos of Kaon's neon skyline and turning it into something soft and sacred.

“What about… Chrome… Chromeveil?” The medic proposed, tilting his head, his brow furrowed in concentration. The name hung in the quiet of the room, a bit clunky and heavily influenced by his own kind, but it carried a strange sort of dignity.

The Moon-cup didn’t alter its rhythm. Unlike Astra, who practically hummed with an expressive, erratic organic energy, Chromeveil remained a monument of placid, cool light. Yet, as Jeopardy watched, the ghostly blue luminescence deep within its translucent leaves pulsed once, slow and deliberate, like a heavy door settling into its frame.

“Chromeveil it is,” Jeopardy whispered, a genuine, unburdened smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Chromeveil and Astra, maybe you will bring me more luck with finding a roommate.”

He stayed crouched there for a long time, the cool air from the window washing over his face. The absolute silence of his apartment didn’t feel like an empty tomb or a drifting dreadnaught. It felt occupied. His medical scanners picked up on the small discussion between the organics before him, relaying to him the cold stats of their electric pulses.

On his windowsill, the bioluminescent glow of two vastly different worlds bled together, casting a soft, twilight purple across the metallic floorboards.

Slowly, his heavy joints popped with a series of quiet, mechanical clicks, and Jeopardy stood up. The medic stretched, his panels flaring up and trembling as his vents hissed and his structural support groaned. He cleared his throat, a sequence of static bursts and crackling pops.

“Well, I do believe it’s time I—”

He was cut off by the gentle chime of his communicator.

The sudden, high pitched alert caused Jeopardy to jump, his plates bristling before he caught himself. He pulled the device from its compartment, his optics narrowing as he read the incoming transmission.

His optics caught on a transmission that he had missed, sent several hours prior, while he was working overtime. Likely intentionally ignored and then forgotten out.

It was a reply from the structural engineer.

Jeopardy opened it, his engine rumbling louder and fans kicking up a notch, disturbing the relatively calm atmosphere of his apartment—Astra seems to detect the change, her pulsing flaring slightly before settling again.

// Understood, Officer Jeopardy. Medical emergencies wait for no one and can happen at any time. It certainly isn’t an issue and I appreciate you taking the time to tell me. I am still interested in housing with you and am free tomorrow evening if that would work with your schedule. If not, I’m sure we can find some other time. Take care and good luck, mech. //

Jeopardy stared at the text. No anger. No frustration. Just a simple, professional understanding. The guilt that had been simmering in his spark flared, a sharp, rotting wound in his chest.

The mech truly believed that Jeopardy had an emergency—which had been the point—but the effectiveness of his lie weighed down on him.

He didn’t need to look at his schedule to know he had tomorrow evening off. The mech sighed, looking up at the plants in front of him like they had some insight and wisdom to give him regarding his social life. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t change or spontaneously gain the ability to communicate with him.

“I have an operation tomorrow… it will be draining but…” Jeopardy sighed, glancing at the transmission, skimming the words again. “It's only fair that I accept, right? Postponing it further while the mech is looking for a place to live is… cruel.”

Astra’s leaves quivered slightly in the draft, Chromeveil remained still.

Jeopardy typed out a reply, glancing at the time—12:18. Late, but it was better to reply now rather than delay until morning. He winced, clenching his jaw as he continued with his lie.

// Thank you for understanding, the patient has been stabilized. I am free tomorrow evening to meet up. I will be home by 7:15, you are free to stop by any time after that. //

He only reread it once, checking for grammar before he nodded to himself—forcing his vents to smooth over and settle—and sent the message. The moment he felt the small vibrating haptic that confirmed the message had been sent he exited the contact. He scrolled to the top of the screen and clicked on the recent message.

Echo had messaged him.

The medic frowned, his spark twisting in his chest—a mixture of intrigue and lingering dread. It was a foolish train of thought, but regardless of the context, Jeopardy couldn’t help but dread the what ifs. Especially when contacted too late, granted, Echo—despite being terrible at long distance communication, it was a marvel he had managed to date Tempestrift during the war—was very much a nocturnal mech.

The dreaded what ifs stirred in his head regardless as he waited for the screen to load.

What if Echo was having spark complications and that’s why he was reaching out? Or if one of his sparklings had an accident? What if it was Tempestrift? She had gotten stranded during her travels and starved? What if Echo was finally caving and joining her in a more nomadic life and leaving Cybertron with no promise of return?

Jeopardy read the message… messages, plural. Echo had a habit of spamming. And yet, the tension in Jeopardy’s shoulders slowly eased at the scattered.

// hey jep. Tempest is getting home nextweek from th outer colonies. she should be landing in kaon. Would you mind if I crash at your place the night before so I could meet her at th port? //

// coldfront says hello //

// she would be staying at Leos place btw //

// figured I shuold clarify //

// I’d be teh only one comingover //

// we can hsve a boys night //

// play some poker //

// get some drinks?? Catch up //

// or I could renf a place. I dont mind //

// we cuold meet up fro lunch or something //

// or not if your busy wth the clinic //

// how are things over there? Ive heard abouta rust outbreak //

Jeopardy blinked, tracing the rapid fire cascade of text blocks—taking an extra second to correct the spelling in his own mind. The sheer velocity of Echo’s thoughts, even converted into digital data, practically vibrated off the small screen. It was classic Echo—a runaway freight train of ideas, anxieties, corrections, and sudden shifts in topic, all firing off within milliseconds of one another. Judging by the multiple grammatical errors, the Praxian’s processor was likely running faster than his fingers could keep up with.

A fond, if slightly exhausted, rumble started deep within Jeopardy’s chest as he watched yet another transmission come through. The medic muttered to himself as he read over the latest messages, “Primus Echo, slow down.”

// that’s why I dont wanna bring coldfront. Shes too small //

// well shes not small. Hust young //

Jeopardy nodded at the comment—even if the gesture couldn’t be translated over a communicator—and leaned his hip against the window ledge, the soft, combined glow of Astra and Chromeveil casting a faint purple hue over his forearm as he began to formulate a response. His brow furrowed, thumb absently tapping the side of the communicator as he debated.

“A boys' night,” Jeopardy murmured, the phrase foreign and entirely un-clinical on his vocalizer. He looked at the consecutive timestamps. Echo had managed to pitch a lodging request, convey greetings from his sparkling, clarify a potential misunderstanding, pitch an itinerary, offer an escape, and ask about a high risk medical crisis all in the span of three minutes and forty five seconds.

It was overwhelming.

It was a lot.

It was Echo.

It was exactly what Jeopardy needed to pull him out of the vacuum of his own processor, a proper distraction from the credits he just wasted on flora and the lie he was maintaining with a stranger. As far as he was concerned, the only plans he had between now and the week following was work and a few potential roommate meet ups—most of which he had scheduled in the morning. Nothing that would inhibit his ability to host for an evening.

Worst case scenario, he had to work and Echo would have to amuse himself in Jeopardy’s apartment. Or Jeopardy managed to get himself a roommate and Echo would have to sleep on the couch rather than the current spare room.

Swiping his thumb over the glass, Jeopardy began to type, purposefully keeping his sentences structured.

// Echo, you are more than welcome to spend the night. There is no need to waste credits on a rental unit. As of right now I can host you in the spare room, but if I get a roommate I would have to ask that you sleep on the couch. What date would you be stopping by? I will see if I have a shift. //

He paused, his optics drifting to the line about the rust outbreak. The phantom scent of copper and the grim image of Gimbal’s disintegrating frame flashed behind his optics, threatening to bring back the heavy weight he had just managed to shed. He forced a quick cycle of his vents, shifting his weight against the windowsill and kept typing.

// There has been a recent spike in patients coming in for rust related issues, it’s smart for you to keep Coldfront away from it. I’ve already started taking precautions to run extra decontamination protocols with myself and the staff, we should be fine. //

He pressed send. The haptic buzz confirmed the delivery, and Jeopardy let his hand drop to his side, his pale gaze returning to the windowsill.

Astra’s velvety leaves seemed to have settled into a gentle, rhythmic sway, fully attuned to the ambient hum of the apartment's cooling systems. Beside her, Chromeveil’s glassy structure held its deep, starlight blue, a perfect, unmoving counterweight to the Heart-weaver’s organic motion.

A soft chime signified Echo’s response.

// Tempest said she should be landing on the 34th, so I’ll be there 33rd //

// and the more the merrier mech. I don’t mind at all //

“Well,” Jeopardy said softly to the flora, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he reviewed the messages. “It seems the silence won't be lasting much longer. I suggest you both prepare yourselves. Echo is... a considerable amount of data to process.”

He stood up, his joints popping with a stiff, metallic protest. He gave the two plants one final, lingering look. “Don't stay up too late,” he murmured, the dry humor returning to his tone as he stepped away from the window.

Turning away from the window, the medic finally felt the true exhaustion of his rotation catching up to his joints. His plates clicked in a loose, relaxed sequence as he walked back to the kitchen counter, picking up the discarded transport pod and placing it neatly away in a cabinet next to some cleaner.

The walk to his berthroom felt shorter than usual. He didn't bother turning on the main lights, letting the dim indigo of the apartment guide his steps. He cycled down his primary systems, stepping onto his berth with a heavy, metallic groan from his joints.

—

Also I pulled some of the craziest scientific names out of nowhere and they mean nothing. One of them is a sponge. Why? Idk it sounded cool. Hush and let me have fun.

—

Jeopardy, despite his best effort to retain grace and his professional composure, practically evacuated the examination room the moment Steelwake had turned his back.

Not because of the rust—no, the medic kept himself in pristine condition and doubted he would contract whatever infection ailed Gimbal—but rather, Jeopardy was still actively cancelling autonomous commands for his fans to cycle on and he was going to overheat.

The automatic door of the room hissed shut behind him, cutting off the low, rhythmic hum of Dropmix’s playlist and the suffocating scent of copper and heavy duty oil. He stood in the sterile hallway for a full three seconds, his back pressed against the cold alloy wall, forcing a deep, systemic vent of air through his cooling lines. Finally, he let his fans cycle.

Generally speaking, he figured that he handled that situation pretty well.

He’d just need to run the tests and avoid the infected wing of the hospital. Flickerflash was always better at repairing rust than he was anyway. It would be easy to avoid and forget that this interaction had ever happened. Steelwake could fade into a distant memory once more.

“Jeopardy? Are you alright?”

The voice shattered his temporary relief like a dropped vial on hard plating.

Jeopardy’s fans, which had just started to whir into a comfortable, if only slightly frantic hum, immediately seized up and stalled with a pathetic, metallic click. The medic jumped back, his emergency lights strobing for a second too long before he managed to cut them off and settle his flared plates down.

He fumbled, nearly dropping a vial of collected data. His helm snapped up, his pale optics widening as his professional mask was forced back into place.

Standing a few paces down the corridor was Amina, a datapad cradled against his chest and his chevron tilted in genuine concern. The younger medic’s vents were cycling at a perfectly normal, relaxed rhythm, making Jeopardy feel all the more like a malfunctioning generator on the verge of blowing a fuse.

“Amina,” Jeopardy said, his vocalizer pitching slightly higher than he intended before he caught himself and dragged it back down to a smooth, clinical baritone—a bit too low to be natural. He detached his back from the wall, smoothing down a slightly flared panel with a casual flick of his wrist. “I- uh, I didn’t see you there. Just… taking a moment. Do you need something?”

He tried to smile, warm and gentle. Like a mech that was unconcerned with the fact that he had fifteen minutes until some stranger would be at his apartment door wondering why he wasn’t there. Or that the mech that he had been avoiding for the past month was in his clinic.

Or that he had just been caught acting like some overdramatic protagonist over a mild inconvenience.

Amina didn't look entirely convinced.

Jeopardy didn’t blame him.

The younger medic walked closer, his optics cycling as he searched Jeopardy’s posture. Amina’s lips pressed in a thin line before he finally seemed to find his words, “No, no, I’m good… I just… no offense, mech, but your acting… weird.”

Amina, despite meaning well, had a habit of being far too blunt and honest at times. Usually, it was just an endearing trait, one that the staff brushed off. But that didn’t mean that from time to time it didn’t end up rubbing someone the wrong way.

There was a brief pause as Jeopardy processed the statement, then, his plates bristled slightly.

“I’m fine. It was a difficult patient, that’s all,” Jeopardy replied, perhaps a bit too sharply. He cleared his throat, a synthetic rasp to mask the awkwardness, and adjusted his grip on his datapad and the vials. He looked at the samples, pretending to read the file on his datapad, “I need to run some tests on the samples I collected, but the patient needs a few injuries rewelded, would you mind covering that for me?”

He paused, shuffling slightly, “Then I want Flickerflash assigned to the structural reconstruction of the arm. He has… more patience for these sorts of mechs.”

And, more importantly, Flickerflash wouldn't spend the entire surgery internally screaming because the patient's companion was staring at him.

“Yeah, I can hand off the file,” Amina shrugged, tapping the transfer request into his own pad. He didn’t look up at Jeopardy as he spoke, unbothered, “I’ll get to work on those welds, anything else?”

Amina finally looked up from his screen. He eyed Jeopardy's tightly pinned shoulder plates one last time. “Because seriously, if you’re coming down with a virus or something, don’t bring it into the lab. We have plenty of mechs to cover your shifts and I know Dropmix isn’t around anymore to tell you—”

This time, Amina caught his slip before he needed to be interrupted, cutting himself off with a slight wince, vents hissing.

Jeopardy could feel his plates tighten, pressing against himself. He didn’t need Amina to finish the sentence, he knew what was left unsaid. Jeopardy didn’t have Dropmix to tell him to take a break, to force him to take a lazy day off or not pull overtime.

His spark seemed to pull into itself, leaving his chest feeling vacant and hollow.

“I’m not a sparkling, Amina. I know better than to expose vulnerable mechs. Go do the welds,” Jeopardy said, his voice dropping into that smooth, clinical rhythm that brooked no further argument.

Amina threw up a hand in a lazy gesture of compliance—though Jeopardy knew the look of a mech who was happy to have an excuse to leave a tense situation—and turned down the hall toward a supply closet. His tone, though strained, was light, “You’ve got it boss bot.”

Jeopardy watched him go, waiting until the automatic doors slid open and closed. The medic took a slow, deliberate intake of air, checking the chronometer on the wall with a hesitant glance.

Thirteen minutes.

He closed his optics and leaned his helm against the cool wall, a heavy, exhausted sigh rattling his chest plates.

Technically, if he took a back alley or two he could make it. He would be a mess, an absolute, embarrassing, horrible mess. His internal sensors were still throwing minor temperature alerts from the sheer processing load of the last ten minutes. He couldn't successfully interview a prospective roommate while his own cooling lines were actively protesting. And he still needed to submit Gimbal’s samples and run the tests, sign out, and run a thorough decontamination cycle to ensure he didn’t carry any infection out into the public.

There was simply no way.

Besides, he didn’t have the processing power to deal with yet another disaster of an interaction. He would rather just go back to his apartment, crawl into his berth and watch some mindless true crime drama with ridiculous chase scenes and unrealistic scenarios.

He just needed a minute to breathe.

His spark churned in his chest, spinning and twisting into something shameful and selfish as he pulled out his communicator to stare at the screen. Only a second or two passed before, with a sensation of profound defeat, Jeopardy opened a communication channel and drafted a message to the structural engineer.

\\ My sincere apologies, but an urgent, complex trauma intake has just arrived at the clinic requiring immediate diagnostics and specialized chemical synthesis. I will be required to work overtime to oversee the initial stabilization. We will need to reschedule our walkthrough for a later cycle. I hope I’ve not caused too much inconvenience for you and assure you this delay will not happen again. //

He paused, his thumb hovering over the screen. It wasn’t the full truth, but not a complete lie either. There was definitely work he could do around the clinic and pass it off as the overtime he claimed to be essential. He bit the inside of his cheek, skimming over the message again.

Eleven minutes now.

Jeopardy sucked in a breath and held it. Finally, he hit send. The communicator chimed, confirming that the transmission had been delivered.

The universe, it seemed, was content to leave him entirely isolated for just a little longer.

A small, pathetic part of his processor felt an immediate wave of relief. He didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to deal with a stranger, and he had work he could do. He hadn’t had very high hopes for the potential tenant anyways.

Jeopardy was being smart, he knew his limits. And he had met and surpassed them.

The medic tucked his communicator back into its compartment and forced his feet to move, marching down the corridor toward the laboratory drop off station with a stride that was entirely too fast for a senior medic on a standard shift. He handed the tainted energon samples and the rust scrapings over to the automated diagnostic terminal, inputting Gimbal’s newly updated file data with sharp, aggressive taps of his digits.

“Analysis priority: Urgent,” Jeopardy muttered to the terminal and he input additional information. “Flag for Type 4 oxidation with potential crystalline escalation. Run a full heavy-metal toxicity panel on the energon sample.”

The machine chimed in compliance, its internal mechanics whirring to life as it sucked the vials into its sterile belly and submitted them to the lab.

The screen blinked, a steady, rhythmic green progress bar illuminating Jeopardy’s pale optics as the automated terminal went to work. It was a comforting sight—predictable, precise, and entirely unconcerned with personal history.

For the next three hours, Jeopardy found every mundane task he could and completed them.

He took inventory of their medications and chemical stores, sorted recently imported tools, problem solved and managed to get one of the previously malfunctioning testing terminals operational again. It was exactly the kind of distractions he needed. He expertly avoided Amina—which wasn’t particularly difficult due to him being assigned to the isolated wing—and only ran into Osmis one other time.

By the time that Jeopardy logged off his terminal, retrieved a handful of datapads to look over in the comfort of his own room, and finally let his shoulders sag, the sun was setting over the bustling city of kaon, casting it into a melancholic twilight.

His joints popped with a stiff, metallic protest as he completed the final steps of the decontamination process run.

He was exhausted.

A spark deep, protoform aching kind of exhausted. But, the satisfaction of completing a relatively productive day at the clinic was enough to make it worthwhile.

The medic unlatched the heavy door of the decontamination chamber, and stepped out into the rear exit corridor of the clinic. The daytime rush had fully ebbed away, replaced by the hushed, low-energy hum of the night rotation. The overhead tracking lights had shifted to a dim, resting indigo.

Jeopardy exchanged a brief farewell with a member of the nightshift before he slipped out into the cooling Kaon air.

The city at twilight was a sprawling grid of blue shadows, faint golden rays of sun catching on the tips of buildings, and an enchanting purple hue of the usual mist that descended onto Kaon every night. Neon lights buzzed, the gladiatorial games—a constant, pulsing vibration that seemed to echo through every corner no matter how far you were from the arena—would settle into a steady baseline for the night life.

The post war efforts had helped restore the once industrial and smog ridden city into something that held a culture and purpose, and it was always a sight to behold. Something that Jeopardy—regardless of how long he had lived there—couldn’t help but admire.

It was loud, busy, and alive.

Despite himself, his appreciation for the liveliness of the city won out, and he let himself turn down the same detour he had taken in the morning. The frantic chaos of the morning market vendors had completely wound down, but the interstellar market was an eternal beast. Ships arrived hourly with all kinds of imports for surrounding cities, the market, and—the whole reason why Kaon had invested in an interstellar port—organic opponents for the gladiators.

Jeopardy walked mindlessly through the busy streets, weaving through a diverse crowd of aliens and Cybertronians alike, his gaze drifting aimlessly over the storefronts. He was operating on pure autopilot, simply wishing to let the buzz of other’s lives wash over his frayed processors, when his footsteps instinctively slowed.

The medic stopped.

He was standing right in front of the alcove beneath a massive structural pillar where the botanical stall resided. The same one he had passed by earlier in the morning. Where the quaint, charming plant with the pulsing flower had caught his attention.

Jeopardy stood outside the stall for a moment longer, some disgruntled mech muttering behind him at the sudden halt, and finally caved under his own impulse.

Perhaps a plant would bring some much needed life to his apartment while he figured out his ongoing roommate situation. He was around plants all the time when he traveled to earth, and despite being rather stationary and simple, they had always been very alive.

Jeopardy stepped into the alcove, a strange, quiet expectation fluttering in his chest. After the exhausting, clinical chaos of his shift, the thought of that small, pulsating plant felt like an uncomplicated commitment that he could excel at. An easy win for himself. Plants were simple creatures. It wouldn’t ask for medical aid, it wouldn’t look at him with heavy pity like Amina had, and it wouldn’t have social standards that Jeopardy struggled to meet or let himself adapt to.

He approached the counter, his pale optics searching the cluttered shelves of overflowing pits and glass terrariums. His optics cycled, focusing on the specific shelf where the plant had been, right next to a rather flamboyant plant with obnoxious colors and massive leaves. It was empty. In its place sat a shallow, metallic tray covered in nothing but a residue of damp dirt.

“Ah, the medic returns! But alas, you are a few cycles too late,” a voice wetly trilled, an unnatural mechanical whine clipping each syllable—the work of a translator or some sort.

Jeopardy blinked, his gaze shifting downward to the counter and vendor. The merchant wasn't Cybertronian, nor was it a typical humanoid alien. It was an amorphous mass of deep violet, fungal like tendrils that shifted and pulsed within a specialized environmental containment suit. A central cluster of bioluminescent sensory nodes served as its eyes, blinking up at Jeopardy with a wet, clicking sound.

He had met one or two of them before, a race that had been orphaned after an attack from Unicron. Despite his efforts, the medic could not recall the race’s name.

“The Vibranilla,” the organic vendor sighed, its translator crackling with a wet, overly enthusiastic pitch. The vendor nodded solemnly—or at least, made a gesture that suggested a nod, “A gorgeous specimen, really. Highly reactive to ambient acoustic frequencies. A gladiator's handler bought it just two hours ago. Supposedly for a collection”

“I see,” Jeopardy spoke slowly, eyeing the empty shelf again. His vocalizer held its smooth, professional baritone, but a small, distinct weight dropped in his spark. Of course it was gone. He had hesitated, lied to a prospective roommate, his mentor was dead, his Amica across the galaxy and now even a simple plant was out of his reach.

He fought the disappointment from his features and dipped his head towards the organic apologetically, “My apologies for taking up your time, then. Good evening.”

He began to turn on his heel, his shoulder plates tightening as he prepared to head back to his empty apartment.

“Wait, wait! Cyber-medic,” the vendor spilled forward, its violet tendrils slapping eagerly against the edge of its suit, the larger of them hitting the display counter. A faint, earthy musk—like ozone mixed with wet moss—wafted from the suit's exhaust ports. “The Vibranilla is a fickle thing anyway. High maintenance. Constant humidity adjustments. You look like a mech who works the long rotations. You don't want a plant that dies the moment you pull a double shift!”

Jeopardy paused. His internal clock reminded him it was late, but the sheer enthusiasm of the organic was oddly distracting.

“I suppose that's true,” he murmured, his professional curiosity piqued despite his exhaustion.

“Precisely! You need something... symbiotic. Something that offers company,” the vendor trilled, its tendrils writhing as it reached beneath the counter. It hoisted a heavy, opaque ceramic basin onto the table. The creature started shifting around, navigating the overflowing shelves easily as it prattled on, “You live alone, correct? I assume so, you have a very lonesome air about you. Yes, yes, I can practically taste it. You Cybertronians are very vocal with how you feel, so much electricity buzzing around you. Like other organics and their pheromones. Though, I’ll admit your race is far less repulsive stench wise!”

Jeopardy shifted his weight, his plates pulling tightly against his protoform as he narrowed his optics.

He wasn’t… lonesome.

The vendor laughed, not turning to see if Jeopardy found amusement in the topic at all. Instead, they finally seemed to locate what they were searching for—a strange sound of excitement gurgling from their throat. “Kaon apartments are so sterile. So cold. You need life!"

The vendor hauled up a small container, placing it on the counter with a wet thud.

“This!” the organic announced proudly, the bioluminescent nodes on its suit flaring a bright, cheerful green. “Solanum-Amicta. Or, as the traders call them, Heart-Weavers. Extremely hardy. They originate from a dense rainforest planet. My home planet in fact!”

Jeopardy stepped closer, his optics automatically zooming in to analyze the specimen. The plant was entirely unlike the delicate, pulsing flower he had missed out on. The plant consisted of thick, coiled vines that looked almost like braided cabling, covered in soft, velvety leaves of a deep, teal and purple. At the center of each cluster was a tightly wound bulb that emitted a faint, rhythmic red glow and his sensors confirmed—a heat signature.

“Those bulbs are their flowers. They use them to detect atmospheric pressure and electricity, the same things that I use to read your emotions my friend!” The vendor exclaimed brightly, poking one of the bulbs delicately. The bulb brightened, a vibrant, aggressive red flashing and the plant pulled onto itself further. “The flashing is to deter predators. The bulbs will heat up and create small electrical currents to shock anything that touches it when agitated. That pulse is then detected by neighboring plants to warn them of danger. Very social little plants.”

Jeopardy watched the bulb’s defensive flash, his medical processor immediately logging the electrical discharge threshold. It was minimal—hardly enough to trip a Cybertronian breaker or cause anything but a minor nerve flare, but certainly enough to startle a smaller organic creature.

The medic leaned down, tilting his helm to observe the plant. To his surprise, the velvety leaves of the closest bulb uncurled, leaning subtly toward his hand as if stretching toward a ray of sun.

“See? It likes you!” the vendor trilled, its translator crackling with delight. “They also are one of the few plants that have genders, dioecious plants. The individuals that carry female flowers open when they believe their specialized pollinator is approaching.”

“So this is a female then?” the medic asked cautiously.

“Yes, yes,” the organic purred, tendrils shivering, “I find they fare better in interstellar travel. They don’t get as stressed as the males.”

Jeopardy nodded, his fingers hovered just above the soft leaves. The sensation of the plant subtly reacting to his mere presence sent a strange, quiet warmth straight to his spark. It didn't pity him. It didn't look at his pinned shoulder plates or worry about his erratic cooling fans. It just wanted to exist in his space.

It needed him.

Not like the clinic needed a senior medic. Or like a roommate needed social interactions and mutual respect.

Just… needed to be looked over.

“It’s… intriguing,” Jeopardy murmured, his clinical facade slipping into something much softer, his voice a quiet, genuine rumble.

Jeopardy stared at the Heart-Weaver. The deep teal of its velvety leaves caught the dim indigo of Kaon’s twilight streetlights, casting a shadow that looked remarkably like a relaxed hand resting on the counter. He cleared his throat, leaning back to look at the vendor, his voice adopting that careful, clinical tone he used when evaluating a medical supply inventory. “And… the light and nutrition requirements?”

The medic had heard Coo fuss over Comet overwatering her olive tree or shoving it into a dark corner without her knowing.

“Oh, nothing special really,” the vendor continued, its translator warbling with a salesman's practiced cadence. “It’s from a rainforest, my mechanical friend. Just needs a few hours of sunlight from a window, near dawn or dusk. You can water sparingly daily or dunk it every other week.”

Jeopardy sighed, a soft hiss of air escaping his vents. He felt too tired to argue, and frankly, the prospect of going back to a completely silent apartment where the only sound was the cycling of his own intake fans felt suddenly daunting—despite its previous appeal.

And abandoning the plant felt… wrong. Morally. Like it was some other creature he was leaving behind, one that was aware of how close it was to finding a home only to be rejected for no good reason. If he were to leave now he would be leaving the plant behind.

His spark flared in his chest, vents hitching softly as the arch of energy left his spark chamber stinging with something bitterly familiar. His spark pulsed once more before returning to that same, dim, shame filled void.

Frag.

Jeopardy’s plates flared at his own detected weakness, annoyance spiking in his own soft spark. He closed his eyes, his hands crossing over his chest as he forced his plates to smooth themselves. He kept his frustration out of his tone, ensuring it was monotone, “Very well. I will take it.”

"Excellent choice! A magnificent choice!" The vendor began typing rapidly into a battered data terminal to process the credits, its amorphous body shifting with excitement.

As the vendor prepared the transport container, Jeopardy’s optics drifted to the shelf directly beneath the Solanum-Amicta. There, nestled in a smaller, slightly cracked ceramic pot, was another plant. This one was entirely different—a pale, semi-translucent succulent-like structure with flat, wide leaves that seemed to faintly track the movement of air motes. It looked small. Slightly crowded out by the larger, brightly colored flora around it.

Jeopardy’s processor, still frayed from the emotional tax of the shift, made a sudden, illogical leap. His spark once again, fluttering in his chest frantically with the same distressed fluctuations that came from almost losing a patient.

If the heart-weaver used electrical pulses to communicate and read its surroundings... What happened when he would inevitably go to work for a twelve-hour shift?

He could feel his spark wilt in his chest at the thought, echoing an eons old ache.

Jeopardy’s optics lingered on the small, pale succulent. The vendor had explicitly said the Heart-Weaver was a social plant. It communicated. It reached out.

And Jeopardy was about to lock it inside a silent, dark apartment for half a cycle at a time, leaving it to pulse its little warnings into an empty room with absolutely nothing to answer back.

It will think it's entirely alone. He was sure, his processor spinning the scenario into a devastatingly vivid narrative. The poor plant would send out a pulse and the only response will be the hum of his refrigerator.

“Wait,” Jeopardy said, his voice cutting through the clicking of the vendor’s terminal.

The organic paused, its bioluminescent sensory nodes blinking up in a slow, curious pattern. “Yes, cyber-medic? Did you require the premium nutrient soil? I can offer a discount—”

“The one below it,” Jeopardy interrupted, pointing hesitantly toward the semi-translucent succulent. He tried to keep his tone strictly diagnostic, as if he were ordering a necessary secondary compound for a chemical synthesis. “The smaller specimen. What is its classification?”

The vendor leaned over the counter, a thick tendril pressing against the glass to peer down. “Ah! That is a Lumina-Scypha. A Moon-Cup. Very different temperament. Similar environment—though it’s from an entirely different planet. They absorb light and electricity from surrounding lifeforms and store it. At night, they release it as a soft, rhythmic bioluminescence.”

The vendor’s translator whistled, a sound that translated roughly to a shrug. “Not very flashy. I’ve been trying to sell it for some time. Not much interest. Mechs tend to think it’s a parasite. Not very appealing for the market.”

Jeopardy blinked, his optics widening slightly as he stared at the small, pale thing. A parasite. The word felt heavy, clinical, and entirely unfair. It wasn't a parasite; it was just a consumer of ambient energy. It was a listener. A steady presence.

Slag his soft spark.

Cometeater would be laughing at him right now, poking at him for getting all worked up over a plant. Dropmix would have joined him. Told him it was an ugly color and the texture was unattractive and he was acting like a fool over an organic again. He could practically hear Dropmix’s phantom voice, “Primus, Junior, it’s a bowl of space weed, not a sparkling. It doesn’t have feelings.”

But Dropmix wasn't here. And the Heart-Weaver was currently sitting on the counter, its central bulb emitting a faint, rhythmic red glow that looked altogether too much like a lonely sparkbeat.

“I will take that one as well,” Jeopardy stated. His voice was flat, wrapped in the thickest layers of his medical persona, though his shoulder plates gave a treacherous, defensive twitch, his vents flaring. “It… has similar needs I assume?”

The vendor's bioluminescent nodes flared a blinding, chaotic shade of violet. For a second, the amorphous mass inside the suit actually gurgled, its translator emitting a high-pitched, static-laced screech that sounded like a blender pureeing gravel.

“Yes, yes! Very compatible!” the vendor exclaimed, its translator giving a static-laced chirp of pure capitalistic glee. The violet mass within the containment suit practically vibrated, tendrils snapping up the smaller ceramic pot with an eagerness that made Jeopardy’s internal diagnostic programs ping with a mild sense of financial regret. “The Moon-Cup will drink up the excess static from your Heart-Weaver! A perfect closed loop. They will be very cozy together in your sterile Kaon dwelling.”

Jeopardy didn't reply.

The medic merely watched as the vendor deftly packed both specimens into a single, ventilated cargo pod designed for fragile organic transport. He swiped his data-card over the chipped payment terminal, watching the credits drain from his account with a stoic, unblinking stare.

He had just spent a non-trivial amount of hard earned currency on two alien weeds because he was projecting his own post-war isolation and recent grief onto flora.

At least he was self aware. That had to count towards something.

“Until next time, cyber-medic!” the vendor called out, its bioluminescent nodes flashing a parting sequence of neon purple and yellow.

Jeopardy picked up the carrier, taking extra caution to avoid tipping it and turned towards the exit. He offered a terse, polite nod of his helm before pausing to use his own lights to mimic the pattern the organic had used in their farewell, earning himself another excited garbled call. Then he stepped out of the alcove, quickly melting back into the twilight crowds of the Kaon market.

He was an idiot. A pathetic, lonely mech who was seeking company in plants. Who had lied to get out of meeting with a potential roommate in favor of shopping.