#dropmix

—

Dropmix didn’t sleep.

He ran diagnostics instead—rechecked inventory numbers, reorganized the stims in drawer seventeen, recalibrated the optic scanner in room B, rewrote two minor patches of code in the medbay monitoring system. He kept moving until his joints ached and his internals throbbed with the kind of fatigue only stress could create.

He didn’t ping Jeopardy.

Didn’t track him down or demand a meeting.

No, that wasn’t how this had to happen.

This needed to be natural—or as natural as anything could be with a transfer request hanging like a blade above their heads. He waited in the medbay, sitting at one of the observation stations, pretending to review case notes on a datapad he never once read.

At 0600 sharp, the door hissed open.

Jeopardy entered with his usual fluid grace, frame compact and composed. His plating was polished, weapons stowed, his optics dull in that same detached way that Dropmix had grown to dread.

He didn’t even pause when he stepped inside.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t speak.

It was achingly familiar, like a strange mirror to when Jeopardy first showed up in his medbay. He had been quiet and unsure, keeping to himself while trying to look as busy as possible. An odd little bot who watched Dropmix’s every move when he drew close. He had been duller then too, detached and untethered like he didn’t plan on staying.

Now, Jeopardy didn’t watch him at all.

Didn’t fidget. Didn’t hesitate. Just walked past Dropmix like a ghost skimming through a memory. No trace of that quiet curiosity from before. No cautious looks. Just purpose. Cold, clean, and decisive.

It was somehow worse than when Theremin would yell at him, it stung more than the harsh words exchanged.

Dropmix stared at him for a long moment, unsure how to start. Every line he’d rehearsed all night scattered like scraps of broken glass. None of it fit. None of it was enough.

Jeopardy pulled a panel from the diagnostics bench and began routine checks on the scanner coils, as if this were any other shift. As if the weight in the room wasn’t crawling into Dropmix’s throat. Music ebbed in his ear, hauntingly beautiful, too serene for a moment like this.

He shut it off. He needed to focus. The large mech couldn’t deal with the persistent buzzing of BCP in his ear, not when everything was on the line like this.

“I read it,” Dropmix said at last, he lowered his datapad, eye firmly on the other mech in the room. He watched and waited.

Jeopardy didn’t look up.

“I read the request,” the dark mech repeated, quieter now. He watched for any response, any sign that Jeopardy was listening. His voice still felt too loud in the quiet of the medbay. There was no music to speak over now. “You didn’t even tell me.”

A soft clunk of tools was his only answer.

“You were just going to leave.” Dropmix stood slowly, voice brittle with effort. The large mech stood, datapad placed carelessly on the desk like a discarded prop. Words clung to his throat, refusing to surface. Instead they blinked in his gut, unpleasant and building pressure, waiting for something. Dropmix did not know what, though he doubted it would be good.

Jeopardy’s back was to him. Still. Unmoved. The tension in his frame said he’d heard every word—but not a single motion betrayed how he felt about it. Not at first.

Dropmix took a step closer.

The young medic didn’t turn. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even blink.

The only sign that he was still present, still listening, was the faint flicker of a diagnostic screen responding to his idle tapping. But he wasn’t working anymore. Not really. Just going through the motions, letting the hum of routine shield him from the storm at his back.

Dropmix’s spark cracked in the center of his chest. He was going to lose him before he got the chance to fight for him to stay. He managed to keep his voice steady, strong and unwavering “You were going to leave without saying anything. Without giving me the chance to—”

“To what?” Jeopardy cut in, flat. Still not turning around. He didn’t snap like Theremin, it wasn’t sharp and cruel. It sat, demanding attention, almost unbelievably plain at a moment like this. It was soft and cold, “Explain it away? Give me a half-truth I could convince myself to believe for a few more cycles? Continue to play your—”

The mech cut himself off, wincing before going still.

Dropmix seized on the flinch like it was proof of something—fragile, raw proof that Jeopardy still felt something. Still had skin in the game, even if he was trying to walk away from it like it never mattered. It was a weakness, something to exploit. Battle programs idled, searching for higher ground, some way to gain the advantage. There was no telling how much Jeopardy knew.

The mech targeted the weakness like he would a crack in Theremin’s armor during an argument. He needed to play on it if he wanted to keep him. Dropmix needed to tread carefully to not lose Jeopardy.

“I wasn’t playing anything,” he said, quieter now, but laced with a kind of painful urgency. It was a lie, he knew it, perhaps Jeopardy did as well. There was no way to know, not now. Just how there was no way for Dropmix to pinpoint which lie Jeopardy had finally seen through.

Jeopardy still didn’t turn. His shoulders, usually tucked into the perfect line of someone always prepared to be underestimated, shifted ever so slightly—as if bracing for something he didn’t want to hear but had long since expected.

“I wasn’t playing anything,” Dropmix repeated, slower this time. Like if he kept saying it, maybe it would transmute into truth. As if maybe the words that pressed relentlessly against his spark casing and chest would escape and make everything better.

They didn’t. They remained trapped like a wingless seeker in a pit, clawing and screaming for escape, begging to be let out. Dropmix wouldn’t let them, the soft and kind words came after the fight, after the hurt—sometimes they came broken and bent during the fallout, Theremin had taught him that.

A small, almost imperceptible flick of Jeopardy’s hand shut the diagnostic console down. The bench lights dimmed with it, casting half his frame in shadow. He stood like that for a long moment, hands flat on the metal, head bowed—not in defeat, but deliberation.

Then finally, finally, he turned.

Not dramatically. Not with anger. Just—turned.

And Dropmix hated the look on his face more than silence. Calm. Composed. Burned out in all the places where fire used to live, it reminded Dropmix too much of Theremin when he was younger, when the pits had fallen and he was left trying to hold the world together.

He held Dropmix’s gaze for a second too long. Not confrontational, just… measured. The way a tech would look at a cracked fuel line. Not worth salvaging unless you had a very good reason.

“I waited,” Jeopardy said.

It was a simple thing. No venom. Just the truth, bare and low, like a report filed and timestamped. Dropmix’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He nodded. Once. He needed the truth, Dropmix needed it so he could spin his words, give Jeopardy what he wanted to hear so he would stay.

The young medic shook his head, voice getting quieter, “I trusted you, Dropmix, I… I cared. I fragging cared about you!” Jeopardy hissed the words, angry and vile. But not directed at Dropmix, rather himself.

The dark mech didn’t flinch, but the words hurt. They stung and sunk their ugly claws into his chest. Even if they weren’t for him it revealed an unsettling truth, Jeopardy had twisted whatever lie he had discovered on himself. Dropmix was not trying to convince Jeopardy to stay, but rather the kid’s own self hatred that it was wrong.

“I know,” he said softly.

Two words. Not an argument. Not a defense. Just… acknowledgment. Something real. He didn’t know what else to say, there was nothing else. Nothing but the suffocating presence of what he couldn’t say, what he wouldn’t let spill out and tarnish whatever chance he had. Dropmix couldn’t lose the young medic, he was all the dark mech had.

He was all Dropmix had of Theremin—the thought stung his processor.

Jeopardy blinked, optics narrowing, not quite sure what to do with the lackluster response.

Dropmix stepped forward again, slow and deliberate this time. No sudden moves. Like approaching a wounded creature in the dark. He carefully crossed the space between them until he stood beside Jeopardy. He knew the motions, how to get through the thick of self doubt and self deprecation that existed in the smaller mech’s head. Dropmix knew what he had to do, he had done it hundreds of times before.

The medic watched, posture tense and unsure, still cold, but something was dripping through the cracks. Something hurt, something that wanted so badly for this. Craved it even. Depended on what Dropmix had to offer. It wanted comfort when the rest of Jeopardy was sure he was above it.

Dropmix reached out—but paused.

His hand hovered inches from Jeopardy’s arm, static humming faint between them. His fingers trembled, just slightly, as if even now, with Jeopardy standing right there, he still wasn’t sure if it was allowed. If he was allowed.

Because this wasn’t Theremin.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He saw it now—too late to undo, too soon to forgive himself for. That look on Jeopardy’s face wasn’t just hurt. It wasn’t just betrayal. It was exhaustion. The kind born from being mistaken for someone else over and over again, until your identity became a costume someone else kept trying to sew you into.

Even if Jeopardy hadn’t noticed it, even if he wasn't aware of the part he had played, he was tired of it. Jeopardy could not continue to be some lackluster version of Theremin. Dropmix was reaching for Theremin, afraid he’d lose him all over.

He was afraid to lose Jeopardy because it was all he had of Theremin—which was a lie.

The pressure eased from his chest, not gone, but lightened.

Dropmix’s hand lowered.

He looked at Jeopardy—not the silhouette of Theremin superimposed over him, not the half-built replacement his mind had shaped to fill the void his Conjunx left behind—but really, really looked.

This was someone different.

Smaller. Quieter. Sharper in some ways, softer in others. The precision of his work came from obsession, not pride. The guardedness wasn’t defiance—it was self-preservation. He didn’t argue like Theremin had, didn’t spit venom just to feel heard. No, Jeopardy folded when pushed too far. He disappeared inward. He let silence do the screaming.

Dropmix wouldn’t reach him by using battle programs to locate weaknesses, he wouldn’t get him to stay by having a shouting match only to fall and comfort each other afterwards. Jeopardy was more delicate than that.

Jeopardy stood in that silence now—arms at his sides, jaw tight, optics dimmed like a signal blinking on low power. He didn’t look away, but his whole frame was on the edge of retreat. One wrong word, one careless misstep, and he’d vanish. Not physically—no, Jeopardy would finish out his shift, pack his things, file the paperwork—but he’d vanish all the same.

And Dropmix couldn’t let that happen.

—

Jeopardy woke up slowly, feeling far more rested than he had in a long time. There was no ache in his joints or lingering exhaustion that he had grown accustomed to, for the first time in centuries he felt like he had gotten enough recharge. It was an odd feeling, foreign, but not unwelcome. He huffed slightly, basking in the glow of contentment.

The gentle music of the medical bay played in the background, soothing and grounding. The song was an old one, Jeopardy hadn’t heard it in ages, one of Dropmix’s favorites. It was somber, but the bass was strong and prideful, the brass marched at a slow pace, but it didn’t steal from the gentleness of the melody.

A familiar rhythm was tapped onto the panels of his shoulder. Confident and grounding, the old lullaby’s beat seemed to resonate within him. Jeopardy was being held by someone big and warm, gently rocking his curled form.

It was a kind of comfort that he had not gotten to experience in a long time.

Jeopardy had outgrown being cradled and held ages ago. After Dropmix had passed there was no mech older than him—and large enough to effectively hold him—that he was close with that could provide him this kind of gentle care. An old ache in his spark echoed, the memory of Coo’s teasing questions lingering in his thoughts—perhaps if he found a Conjunx he would get something like this.

But until then, it was Jeopardy’s responsibility to be the comforter. He was the oldest, the one who kept it all together and provided wisdom and solace. A guardian of sorts, of both his patients and his family. He guided the generations of pretenders, watching over his beloved friend's family as if it were his own.

Regardless, it was nice being held again, tucked away safely against the warm body of another.

He pressed himself into the hold without much thought. His chest and spark swelling with affectionate warmth. He could afford to sleep in late today, the others could cover his shift, Jeopardy just wanted to be held a little longer.

The mech holding him chuckled, low and rumbly, the sound vibrating through Jeopardy. The medic grumbled at the disturbance, burrowing himself further into the body of the larger mech in hopes of getting to sleep again. The other spoke softly, and either Jeopardy was still waking up or it was in a language he wasn’t familiar with.

The white mech vented deeply, he would rather the bot that was holding him just stay silent so he could pretend that it was Dropmix for just a bit longer. Let himself believe that the mech who had become a father to him hadn’t slipped away millions of years ago. That Comet would be in the medbay waiting for his friend to play poker.

Jeopardy just wanted a few more minutes of blissful ignorance before he was forced back into reality again.

Despite the smaller mech’s internal requests, the other bot chuckled and spoke again. They were a little louder this time, “I know you're awake, Junior.”

The medic frowned slightly at the nickname.

Only Dropmix and the other members on the old outpost ever called Jeopardy that. Which was odd because he had either lost contact with them or they had offlined by now. Not to mention he could have sworn that the voice sounded just like his mentor. Which was impossible, Dropmix was gone, dead—the thought made Jeopardy’s spark ache.

But it felt like Dropmix, and sounded like him.

The medic’s spark surged in his chest, naive and youthful hope making his plating tremble and his fingers twitch. His eyes flew open faster than he could online his optics, immediately focusing on the face of the dark mech above him. Jeopardy sucked in a shaking breath as he looked up at the mech who was holding him. His vents hitched as he stared blankly at Dropmix.

He was here.

He was real.

The gladiator looked different, younger and healthier than when Jeopardy had last seen him. His heavy armor stripped away to reveal unscarred dark plating with vibrant splashes of color painted over it to form intricate tattoos. His agile frame finally uncovered from the layers of bulky armor he had strapped to himself. Bright yellow optics looked down at Jeopardy fondly.

Dropmix looked like he did in all of the old recordings of his matches in the Pits, before Kaon had fallen.

He wasn’t lying motionless on a berth, optics dark and frame cold like he had been when Jeopardy had last seen him. He wasn’t old, war torn and scarred.

No, he was youthful and complete in a way that Jeopardy had never seen before. His paint was pristine and almost radiant, the weariness that used to settle on his broad shoulders had been lifted. He was different, but the truth was undeniable.

It was Dropmix.

Jeopardy couldn’t stop the keen from escaping him as he looked up at the other, chest constricting painfully as his spark soared, the old ache growing stronger. He missed his mentor, his father. It had been so long since he had been held by him that Jeopardy had almost forgotten what it felt like to be cradled in his embrace.

But here he was, being held like he had countless times before. Like nothing had changed, like Dropmix was still alive and well.

Jeopardy’s expression grew more pained, his jaw tightening as he looked up at the mech who was softly smiling at him.

Primus, he missed that smile.

A small strangled sob escaped the medic, his meager attempt to contain his emotions failing. Youthful clicks ran from his vocalizer before he could hold them back. He gasped wetly, his arms weakly wrapping around the other’s midsection. His plating pressed into himself as he tried to make himself smaller, trembling with the strength of his mounting emotions. The white mech closed his eyes tightly as he buried his face in the other’s chest. His hands grasping desperately onto Dropmix’s frame like he would disappear any moment.

Jeopardy prayed that he wasn’t dreaming, that maybe this time when he woke up he wouldn’t be alone again.

“I’ve got you,” Dropmix spoke softly, hand pulling the quivering frame of the smaller mech impossibly closer. He moved Jeopardy so he was sitting up a bit more, his head now resting in the nape of Dropmix’s neck. Heat radiated off of the dark mech, not in an unhealthy way, it was more like his very spark was trying to reach out of his chest and wrap itself around Jeopardy.

The gladiator’s voice wavered with thick emotion, “Just let it out, it’s alright. I’m here.”

Another weak cry escaped Jeopardy at the sound of the gladiator’s voice.

Dropmix’s hand moved in slow, practiced circles across Jeopardy’s back, a quiet, grounding rhythm. He didn’t rush him. He just held him, silent and steady, like he used to all those years ago when Jeopardy had just been sent out to the outpost and he was still struggling with an impossible weight.

“You don’t need to worry, you’re safe. I’ve got you now,” Dropmix's voice was gentle and steady, soft words attempting to sooth the younger mech. He sucked in a sharp breath before huffing out a small possessive growl, gently squeezing Jeopardy. His voice got more gruff—yet, despite the roughness there was still a small waiver, his voice catching a broken note, “No one’s gonna get you, I’m here.”

For reasons beyond Jeopardy's own understanding, the words made his spark twist. His processor seemed to cling to them, echoing them over and over in his mind. He swallowed thickly, keening softly at the way his chest seemed to swell at the thought of being safe—of not being alone. His breath hitched again, his systems hiccuping, engine stalling for just a moment.

The gladiator hummed softly, resting his chin on Jeopardy’s head. He was quiet for a moment, the music filling the silence, just loud enough that Jeopardy’s harsh attempts to breathe between his cries weren’t deafening. Dropmix’s voice got soft again, “Just breathe, Jeo, breathe.”

It all felt real, more than what a dream could provide.

The medic choked on another sob. He could feel the thrum of Dropmix’s spark through the thin plating on his chest, the warm air of his vents washed over him with every breath. Jeopardy swallowed thickly as he fought the urge to cry out again. Instead he just made a weak strangled noise, his vocalizer clicking again.

It was so real that it was almost overwhelming. It was too tender, too grounding and genuine to be a dream or memory.

His spark sang some long forgotten tune, humming faintly from his chest. There was no doubt in his mind anymore, Dropmix was really there.

This time the young medic was unable to keep his desperate sob from escaping him. His plating trembling and pressing into himself more as he tried to burrow into Dropmix’s shoulder. More pitiful, static filled sobs forced their way from his vocalizer. His entire frame shaking with the force of his cries, his vents hitching and stuttering as he struggled to breathe between the pained noises.

He didn’t pull away, Jeopardy didn’t dare let go. He could risk it, even with Dropmix being there, he was sure the world would find a way to take him again if the medic moved away.

“Shh… I know- I know,” the larger mech’s deep voice cut through the sound of his sobs, acting as an anchor. A large clawed hand moving from Jeopardy’s back to cradle the back of his head, pulling it closer to his neck. Dropmix tilted his head, his cheek resting on Jeopardy’s helm gently. His thick voice rumbled softly, “You're alright. I’m not letting go.”

Jeopardy’s voice fractured mid sob. Static crackling loudly as his vocalizer gave up on trying to form coherent noises. His frame ached in ways it hadn’t in a long time, not physically—but somewhere deeper, older. A pain that came from holding onto something for far too long. His hands grasped at the plating on Dropmix’s back, desperate enough that it had to be hurting the older mech. The gladiator made no move to stop him, only shushing him softly again.

“I’m not going anywhere, not this time, I promise,” Dropmix whispered warmly, a gentle hum thrumming from his vocalizer as he pressed his forehead against Jeopardy’s helm. “I’m here, Ao, I’m here. Everything’s going to be alright.”

Jeopardy shook with sobs, gasping brokenly between his tremors. He nodded his head weakly, vents hitching in small hiccups. The medic closed his eyes tightly, swallowing down another pitiful cry. He managed to open his mouth in an attempt to speak—not cry—but all that came out was choppy static and clicking.

Dropmix gently rocked Jeopardy. One hand still moving up and down the smaller mech’s back in a soothing motion. The gladiator shifted a little, cradling the medic more securely in his lap. Just like he used to during long recharge cycles after rough nights out in the field or when things would go awry in the sanctuary of their medical bay. His frame still held that same quiet strength, solid and immovable, a steadfast shield against the chaos of the world.

Jeopardy could almost pretend they were back in the old outpost. Dropmix sitting with him after long shifts, coaxing him into recharge when stress wouldn’t let him rest. Back then, Jeopardy had been young and overwhelmed, his systems constantly overstimulated as his processor tried to prepare for any outcome. His own anxieties got the better of him, his worry slowed him down. He had been stuck in an inescapable cycle of paranoia and self depreciation.

Dropmix had become his grounding tether, his steady constant when the war made everything else uncertain. He had been willing to take the time to give Jeopardy a voice, supporting him when he fell short and letting him lead when he was ready.

He was the mentor—the father—Jeopardy had always longed for.

The medic let out a shaking breath, trying to compose himself, letting the comfort of the achingly familiar embrace settle him. His didn’t know how much time passed before he finally began to calm down, his body slowly recovering. His breath hitched in small hiccups as his weak cries and sobs slowly faded into small whines.

“There you go,” Dropmix’s voice rumbled through his chest, low and quiet. His tone was dripping with tender affection despite the gruff sound of his voice. Jeopardy recognized the thickness in his tone, how the syllables clung together, the way each word almost rattled—Dropmix was fighting back his own overwhelming emotions.

“That’s it, just breathe,” The gladiator’s vents were uneven, his clawed hand trembling as it ran over the medic’s back. He held on just a bit too tightly, not enough to hurt, but enough that Jeopardy would struggle to pull himself free if he tried.

Not that the medic wanted to pull away anyway.

The longer Jeopardy stayed in Dropmix’s arms, the more his frame began to loosen, slowly untangling from the tight, coiled tension that had become second nature over the years. Jeopardy’s vocalizer clicked and whirred like a sparkling. He didn’t care if it was childish and immature, it was soothing, just like Dropmix’s presence, and the gladiator didn’t seem to mind.

A low chuff reverberated through the larger mech's chest in response. Jeopardy’s breath hitched at the sound of it.

He had watched thousands of old recordings of Dropmix: interviews and matches; listened to old audio files and clips that the older mech had made as a medic. The white mech had watched every home video and silly recording he had taken to send to the triplets and Comet—but not in a single one of them had he ever caught Dropmix’s chuff.

No matter how hard he had tried to record it, how many files he combed through, he hadn’t ever caught it. Jeopardy hadn’t heard it since the gladiator had passed.

Hearing it again was almost too much.

Dropmix sucked in a breath when he heard Jeopardy’s hitching vents. He let out a huffy laugh that shook, “What am I going to do with you, hm? You're getting all worked up again.”

Jeopardy shook his head, closing his eyes and forcing his breaths to come out more even. He tilted his head, pressing into Dropmix’s cheek; the dark mech pressed back, returning the gesture. The white mech’s vents calmed and his grip loosened with exhaustion. He let out a small huff as he slumped against the larger frame.

The gladiator leaned back just enough to look at Jeopardy, his clawed hand tilting the medic’s chin up. His gentle eyes carefully looked over the other’s face. Aching affection flashing across Dropmix’s expression for just a moment as he looked over the bot in his arms. He smiled, the edges tainted with fond bitterness, “I missed you, Ao.”

There was a beat of silence, Jeopardy blinked, his expression blank as the words settled between them. Another choked noise was pulled from his throat and he leaned back into the larger’s embrace. Jeopardy buried his face into Dropmix’s shoulder, trying to focus on controlling his breathing.

He didn’t ask where they were. Not yet.

He just… held on.

They sat like that for a while, silently embracing each other, basking in the presence of the other. Then Jeopardy looked up, resting his head quietly on Dropmix’s shoulder as he looked around his surroundings.

The familiar outpost medbay around them flickered faintly, the dimmed emergency lights pulsing once—twice—like a slow heartbeat. It looked just like Jeopardy remembered, sterile and organized—but also lived in. There was a warmth in the pale walls and large cabinets, the odd way that Dropmix had arranged the overflow berths—to make it easier to navigate. The familiar call of home thrummed through Jeopardy.

For just a moment he could have sworn he could see something laying on the ground.

He stayed quiet for just a moment longer, the outpost medical station had been torn down millennia ago to make space for an expanding city state. They couldn’t be there, the room pulsed and flickered again, then he managed to regain his voice. Static laced his broken and feeble tone, “Drop-Dropmix… why—how are we here?”

Dropmix didn’t answer at first.

He just held him tighter.

The old mech let Jeopardy tentatively pull away from him, leaning back just enough to look around the room better. The medic’s arms remained firmly wrapped around the dark bot as he did. Dropmix smiled, though it was more sympathetic, sad—mournful. His voice was soft and a little hoarse. “I’m sorry, Jeopardy.”

Jeopardy stared at Dropmix for a moment before something seemed to click into place and they were no longer sitting on the floor of their old medbay.

Instead they sat in a small, dimly lit medical office. The computer on the desk sparking and flickering, monitor glitching and occasionally strobing bright white around the otherwise dark room. Medical equipment covered almost every surface—the kind that promised research rather than treatment. It was messy, empty energon cubes stacked in a corner, datapads lying around in places they shouldn’t.

He remembered now.

The medic looked to the ground next to them, his spark dropping as he stared at the broken figure that lay next to them. Jeopardy swallowed thickly, an odd understanding and numbing feeling washing over him as he looked at the familiar bright red and white mech. A morbid curiosity twisting through his mind as he stared hollowly at the familiar frame.

It was his own.

Jeopardy’s body lay limply on the ground, a bright pool of his own energon gathering beneath him. His optics were dark, his venting nonexistent. Jeopardy’s jaw was slack, plating loose, unseeing eyes staring at a small data chip that lay discarded on the ground with him.

It was almost uncanny, it should have been disturbing. But for some reason Jeopardy didn’t feel anything like close to that. There was no grief or resentment, just… truth. Everything was starting to make sense as phantom sensations surging through him.

Jeopardy was dead.

He had been shot and killed while trying to defend the newly discovered cure to a plague.

The medic blinked and stared intently at the broken mirror on the ground. For whatever reason, it felt right. Jeopardy was alright with this.

Dropmix’s hand gently cupped the back of Jeopardy’s helm, steadying him as the medic stared down at his own broken body. The tension in Jeopardy’s frame wasn’t from fear. Not anymore. There was no resistance in his plating, no anxiety clinging to his joints like static. Just stillness.

Acceptance.

“You deserved better,” Dropmix’s voice was soft but bitter, a harsh whisper most likely directed at himself than the mech in his grasp. “You deserve more than this.”

Jeopardy blinked down at the broken frame on the ground, the memory now fresh in his mind. He smiled sadly to himself, “I wasn’t alone at least. You were there, weren’t you?”

“Of course I was, you needed me,” the response was quick, as though the mere idea of the gladiator not being with Jeopardy in his final moments was a personal attack on his pride. Dropmix glared at the form on the ground for a moment longer before his expression softened again.

The gladiator huffed and looked at Jeopardy, pulling him a bit closer, his large arms wrapping protectively around the smaller mech.

The silence that followed was long and aching. They both knew the truth, Jeopardy had been alone, physically speaking. It didn’t matter if in his final moments he swore he could feel Dropmix with him. There had been no one there to comfort him, not really.

Both mechs ignored the unpleasant reality.

Then, in a low voice, almost like he was afraid saying it out loud might break something:

“I’m proud of you, Jeopardy.”

The medic’s face turned to Dropmix, his eyes wide, his spark swelled in his chest, warmth spreading through him like rays of sun. Jeopardy’s vents hitched, the weight of the words hitting harder than anything else had.

Dropmix didn’t rush to explain, didn’t embellish. He just pressed his forehead gently to Jeopardy’s and in that quiet contact, something deep within Jeopardy shifted.

It was as if every aching moment, every burden, every silent cry swallowed across the centuries—had finally been acknowledged. He hadn’t realized how long he had been waiting to hear those words. Not just to be thanked, or admired, but to be seen again. To be known not as the unshakable medic, the watchful patriarch of generations of pretenders, or the stoic veteran of loss, but as Jeopardy—flawed, afraid, and hopeful.

And Dropmix saw him. He always had.

The warmth of that realization settled deep into Jeopardy’s core, grounding him more thoroughly than even the strongest stabilizing field ever could. He vented out a shaky breath, finally steady, his trembling frame slowly relaxing completely into Dropmix’s hold.

For the first time in a very, very long time—he wasn’t carrying the weight alone.

Jeopardy looked up at his mentor, and for the first time since his awakening, he allowed himself to smile—small and tired, but genuine.

“What happens now?” he asked, voice low, childlike.

Dropmix looked thoughtful for a moment, a small, soft smile ghosting his face. “Depends on what you want. We can stick around as long as you’d like.”

He paused, chuckling quietly to himself, “Cometeater may accuse me of trying to keep you to myself though.”

Jeopardy let out a small, breathy laugh. It caught on the tail end of a vent cycle, dry and quiet, but real. A genuine thing he hadn’t felt in ages. The thought of seeing his beloved friend again made an aching warmth spread throughout his chest. It had been far too long since he had seen Comet, heard his laugh—Jeopardy had been watching over his organic friend’s family for generations now, catching glimpses of his friend in each child.

But he would get to see Comet again.

Dropmix watched his expression carefully, fondness etched into his features. “You've got a gathering of his descendants waiting for you too. Plenty of mechs as well.”

“They’ve been waiting a long time,” Dropmix continued, voice thick with the kind of warmth that only came from long-standing love. He absently ran his claws up and down the white mech’s back.

“Most of them are getting rather impatient,” He continued, offering a small grin that was half-mischief, half-gentle teasing. Dropmix’s eyes alight with the fire of youth, “Comet’s especially dramatic about it. Said if you didn’t show up soon, he was gonna come fetch you himself.”

Jeopardy’s expression twisted with a laugh that turned into a soft, shuddering sigh. The thought of Comet barging into whatever plane of existence this was, shouting like he had just missed a meeting instead of mourning a death, filled him with more joy than sorrow.

“I… I’d like that,” Jeopardy whispered, voice still scratchy, uncertain, but stronger now. “To see them again. All of them.”

Dropmix nodded slowly, chuffing softly and pulling Jeopardy close again. “There’s no rush. You’ve got time. As much as you need.”

Jeopardy closed his optics and simply breathed, feeling the rhythm of the gladiator’s frame syncing gently with his own. He could stay like this for hours—or eons—and he knew Dropmix would let him. No expectations, no responsibilities pressing in from all sides, just… time.

Dropmix let his helm rest against Jeopardy’s once more, venting out a long, steady breath. The silence between them had shifted now—less strained, more settled. The kind of silence that didn’t demand answers or movement. One that simply existed, warm and safe.

And for the first time in centuries, Jeopardy allowed himself to feel weightless.

He wasn’t anchored by duty or the pain of memory. He wasn’t haunted by what he couldn’t fix, who he couldn’t save, or the burden of living when so many had fallen. The guilt he had carried so long—that heavy, grinding pressure on his spark—was no longer clinging to him.