#rodishot

The console on the wall beeped at Rodimus. He rolled over on his unpadded, barracks-worthy berth, turning his back to the console. As the Exitus’ third-in-command, Rodimus couldn’t escape work, even on his off-time. Whatever “Captain” Thunderclash needed could wait. There were never any emergencies here. Not only had he been sidelined when he had been “voluntarily” reassigned, but he’d been reassigned to the most boring ship in the galaxy.

The Exitus’ mission was diplomacy. They went around Council-protected space, letting Thunderclash shake the hands of Galactic Council aliens in the name of friendship. It was all winning smiles and good publicity. All the time. No adventure to be found. Rodimus was only on this stupid boat because he too made for good propaganda photo ops. Respect for his former rank, former Primehood, and sacrifice was probably why he’d been granted a low command position.

That was probably all that was saving him from the rest of the logical societal consequences of having befriended and worked with the most notorious “monster” of their species. Rodimus had finally managed to do something that overshadowed all of his previous public fuck-ups, and it wasn’t even a result of him being selfish for once.

At least he wasn’t on Cybertron, Rodimus thought, curling his knees into his chest. He’d probably be ostracized. Better to at least do it himself.

The console beeped again, more insistently, begging him to pay attention to it. Thunderclash must have flagged the comm as “urgent.” Now it wouldn’t shut up until Rodimus actually opened it.

Fine.

Rodimus sat up with a loud, exasperated groan before turning to look at the console. What was just so damn important that the captain needed to interrupt anyway?

:: New emergency mission. Apprehend war criminal. Command crew required on bridge immediately. ::

“What… the fuck?”

Maybe adventure wasn’t quite dead as he had thought.

—

The crew of the Exitus was definitely notoutfitted for this sort of mission or remotely prepared. Most of the crew at this point consisted of Camiens, “Non-Aligned Indigenous Lifeforms,” and the occasional Autobot veteran, like Rodimus and Thunderclash. A few of Thunderclash’s die-hard loyalist students had signed on, but they had been more decorated than seasoned.

It was a shame that Minimus had retired the Ultra Magnus armor, Rodimus thought, scouting ahead of the away team that had been selected to find Sixshot—all of the void-damned mechs, they had to corral a fucking Phase Sixer—on this rocky moon. They could have used his expertise.

Their ship had only been selected by Autobot High Command, which had been retrofitted as Cybertron’s new pared-down military wing, because they were the closest ship to the target. Either no thought was given to the capabilities of the crew or they just assumed Rodimus and Thunderclash would take care of it in their own special way. More like Rodimus would handle it while Thunderclash would get all of the praise for being the Greatest Autobot of All-Time, Forever and Ever into Infinity.

Thunderclash’s stupid fucking plan was to talk Sixshot down. Talk!

All while Rodimus was to sneak behind while Sixshot was distracted and take him down if the “negotiations” went poorly. Thunderclash was treating this as a damn political meet-and-greet and Rodimus was supposed to be the contingency plan. Whatever. Danger was more interesting than wagging his jaw and pretending to be all buddy-buddy with freaking Sixshot, who was deadthe last anyone had heard.

Thunderclash hadn’t even sent anyone with Rodimus as backup. So be it. He didn’t need backup anyway. They’d just slow him down or get in the way… and get hurt.

He stopped in his tracks, crouching on barren rock of the ridge he’d scaled as he took a deep invent. Now was not the time to let himself get pulled back into the spiral of horrible memories from Nyon, Dealer, and the Lost Light. He could lose all sense of self by indulging his regrets later on his own time, like he usually did when it was his off-shift.

For now he had—Thunderclash’s voice rose up over the ridge. Rodimus peered over the edge, spying Sixshot down below, a pair of guns drawn and pointed at Thunderclash’s ridiculously painted chest. Unlike his own paint. Which was awesome.

This didn’t look like it was going well.

Time for Plan B.

Rodimus launched himself over the ridge, careening down onto Sixshot’s back with a whoop.

—

There was always something that appealed to Rodimus about poking around prisons… or, in this case, the brig. Strange, liminal places of misery and frozen time. Answers liked to hide in places like this. There was something instinctive about wanting to gawk. While the idea appealed to him, that didn’t mean he enjoyed actually coming here. The most recent time had been a rather less than pleasant experience, having had to say “goodbye” one last time to an unexpected friend, not to gawk at a captured enemy like a scraplet in a jar.

This time, Rodimus hadn’t chosen to set up shop on a bench across from Sixshot’s holding cell. Thunderclash had ordered him to see what kind of information he could get out of the Phase Sixer, not for any real purpose. Just to poke and prod. Not really in the mood to argue for once. Come to think of it, he hadn’t really been in the mood to argue much since stepping foot on the Exitus.

It just wasn’t the same. This life just didn’t have the same oomph.

Several minutes had passed since Rodimus had plopped himself down on the bench, arms petulantly crossed as he stared at Sixshot. The Phase Sixer’s slumped posture mirrored his own, differing only having his hands bound in stasis cuffs as opposed to crossed in displeasure.

“So,” he started, “Sixshot the big shot.”

Another absolute zinger.

What was he supposed to even talk to this jackwagon about?

Sixshot said nothing, only glaring forward over his face mask.

“Gotcha. Strong silent type. ‘Cons really went in for that whole aesthetic, didn’t they?” With the exception, amusingly, of Megatron who was—had been—pathologically incapable of shutting up.

“You are aggravating.”

“At last, he speaks!” Rodimus smacked a hand to his chest in mock scandal. Though, in a way, he was grateful Sixshot had inadvertently stopped him from spiraling again.

“Are you here to torture me?”

“What? No?” Rodimus sat up, hands dropping to his knees. “Why? What the hell would we do that for?”

Then again, it’s not as though the Autobots had never done something like that. Over the course of the War, Decepticons would have heard and—

“Because your irritating voice is certainly trying to. It could qualify as sonic torture.”

“Hey—“ He was going to show that bastard what for, maybe vent his frustrations a little. Rodimus stood up, just as the door the brig opened, only for Thunderclash to walk in, a palm raised in hopes of soothing tempers.

—

“Rodimus, thank you, but we’ll take it from here.”

Thunderclash’s words replayed on a loop in Rodimus’ processor as he lay on the floor of his habsuite. It was somewhere that wasn’t the berth, which was good enough for him. He spent enough time laying there. Might as well try somewhere else.

Sixshot was just sitting there in that holding cell, smug and defiant. What a bastard.

Well, if he was going to dwell and stew, Rodimus figured he might as well know more about the pain in the ass who called him “irritating.” Not that Sixshot was in poor company for thinking that. Just about everyone did. With a grumble, Rodimus pulled a datapad that had been previously left carelessly on the floor towards himself. A few clicks and he he was staring at the profile the Autobots had compiled for Sixshot over the years.

Forged, but marginalized for being a six-changer. Early Decepticon supporter before the uprising in Kaon. Proved himself as a warrior, underwent special modifications and became a member of the Warriors Elite, before being designated as a Phase Sixer. Someone prized only for their capacity to cause harm. No wonder he was a jerk. There were notes that Sixshot had often gone off on his own or had gone off script.

Maybe they weren’t so different. Not if he really thought about it. Rough lives with crushed hopes and dreams, utilized by their superiors for the chaos they could cause, chips on their shoulders, known for being predictably unpredictable, and… Rodimus had been this close to siding with the Decepticons after the destruction of Nyon.

A few different choices and perhaps he would have ended up in a similar place to Sixshot.

Locked in an Autobot cell, stasis cuffs biting into his wrists.

On his way back to Cybertron for a show trial and another… execution of someone unfortunately caught in the madness that had consumed their race.

No, not anotherone.

—

The energy bars of Sixshot’s holding cell vanished, Rodimus planting a hand on his hip after flicking the switch. He pointed down the hall towards the brig’s exit.

“Get out.”

The Decepticon hesitated, looking up from his bench in confusion, as though this were some sort of trick.

“You’re… you’re letting me go, Autobot?”

“It’s Rodimus, actually, and, yeah. Yeah, I am.” Right, he still had to remove the stasis cuffs. He crossed the cell’s threshold before entering a code into the keypad on the bar of the cuffs. They fell away, clanking against the floor. “Now get the fuck off this ship. I don’t want to look at you anymore.”

Another moment passed and Sixshot hadn’t moved.

“Why?”

Great question.

Sixshot had committed horrible crimes, horrible, unforgivable crimes. But he wouldn’t have been the first one forgiven by Rodimus. He would, however, be the first one that he could save. Being executed by a black-and-white government who cared only about appearances for the sake of appearances was not just punishment.

Rodimus sighed. Explaining would… take time… and open some wounds that Sixshot had no right to see ripped open.

“Not your business. I’ll tell them you stonewalled me into submission or something. There’s a shuttle that’s unguarded because Thunderclash thinks it’s broken.”

Sixshot tilted his head quizzically.