#tempestrift

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Some of this stuff I may have talked about before but this is also serving as my own form of note taking so you will have to bear with me.

I’m going to try to sort these by character by the way, just for organizational reasons

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Sunrazor (pre war and during the war) does enjoy spooking and scaring people. She thinks it’s funny and will wait in a dark room to scare you with her lights. Or jump out behind a corner. During the war it’s a lot more… well she acts more nonchalant about it. She’s just smug. Pre war is a lot more like when you’re trying to scare your sibling. She will cackle.

Prewar Sunrazor smokes but ends up quitting because Valkyrie keeps on lecturing her on how it’s bad for her filters.

—

Jeopardy loves scary movies and shows. Big thriller guy. Will listen to all of the true crime and supernatural podcasts and scare himself so he makes Dropmix sleep in the room with him. Otherwise he gets too freaked out and stays awake all night.

For a few centuries or so Jeopardy works as one of the organic and Cybertronian ambassadors of medicine due to him knowing how to treat (generally) organic life along with advanced Cybertronian medicine. Eventually he returns to his practice because he misses the personal aspect that came with working at a clinic.

—

Echo and Jeopardy are built by the same forger in Praxus. The forger was building typical frames before they moved onto Medical ones.

Echo would play so many first person shooter games. Does he? I don’t know but if he does play games those are the ones he would.

Echo is really good at singing. Just naturally he has a really pretty voice. Don’t ask why.

—

Valkyrie actually really enjoys the process of deep cleaning. It’s very satisfying for her. She gets very nitpicky and critical about it but really enjoys looking back and seeing the progress.

Valkyrie loves off-roading, which is why her alt mode is similar to a jeep. She just likes to go fast and get dirty. Climb up a hill that way.

—

Powercase likes to sing and randomly dance when he’s doing more mundane or domestic tasks but his ability to sing is… questionable. He’s not terrible but it’s not great. He does come up with random songs for whatever situation he’s currently in though.

Powercase has tried drugs and after a disaster of a night and several near death and traumatic experiences he refuses to touch any of that stuff. Turns out being paranoid and naturally anxious while having superhuman senses to detect danger and taking hallucinations is not a great mix

—

Dropmix loses his nonexistent medical license and ends up just sorting files and inventory for Jeopardy’s clinic later on. He just kinda does whatever needs to be done that doesn’t involve customer service or being a doctor. Until he retires because he is feeling too old to be productive. Then he just shows up at the office and judges people.

There is a certain chime/bell sound that they used in the pits to indicate the start of a match. Because of this all of the music that Dropmix plays in the medbay never has sort of bells or distinct chimes because that is a direct trigger for his aggressive programs. This would also apply to most gladiators.

—

Tempestrift is Silverglider and Crossflier’s cousin. But relations like that aren’t very important in seeker culture so it doesn’t really mean anything for them.

Torque and Vigilox also smoke. Even though they are poor as dirt and cannot routinely afford new filters. They’ve gotta be semi self destructive somehow.

—

The barracks were cold.

Not literally—climate regulation was still functional—but in the way that settled deep into your joints, into your spark. The lights hummed softly overhead, set to a dim, sterile glow that did little to chase away the gloom clinging to the corners of the reinforced room.

It had been hours—possibly more—since Echo had moved from the cot in the far corner. He sat hunched forward, helm in his hands, elbows braced on his knees, wings drooping low and listless behind him. A fine tremor occasionally ran through his frame, he would flick his wings, he would pick at his paint. Sometimes he would start drumming a melody onto the floor, maybe pace a little.

Whatever he could do to make the time pass a little faster.

Anything to keep his mind occupied.

The confrontation with Leoblast played on repeat in his processor. Every word, every silence between them. The sound of the door hissing shut behind his brother. "Just long enough to end this."

Leo was going to find her. He was going to make sure she never came back.

And Echo couldn’t do anything about it.

His hands dropped from his helm, plating creaking faintly as he sat back against the wall behind the cot. He stared at the ceiling, optics dim, watching the slow, cyclical pulse of the lights in the corner of the room. A silent metronome ticking away at a rhythm he couldn’t follow.

He was going to lose his mind here, alone, waiting for his best friend—his brother—to kill the mech he wanted as a conjunx. This small, grimy room that was meant for prisoners. It wasn’t a terrible cell all things considered. He had seen worse.

The Praxian’s wings twitched and the beat he was tapping into his wrist faltered. He had survived worse, managed to keep the boredom from killing him before—but there were other threats then. Echo hadn’t been concerned about getting bored, he was more focused on not getting killed by Sunrazor.

But he wasn’t with Sunrazor.

Echo was in the autobot base, not the Decepticon stronghold. He was in one piece, no missing plating or torn limbs. He wasn’t hungry or sick, rust hadn’t settled into what remained of his body and he was very aware. There was no drifting in and out of consciousness. His vocalizer was sore not with overuse—not from screaming—but because he hadn’t said anything in days.

He was safe.

Just like Leoblast wanted him.

Contained. Grounded. Removed.

The blue mech let his optics close for a long moment, trying to will away the sudden tightness in his throat. He didn’t want to resent Leo for that—didn’t want to start pulling threads that might unravel everything left between them—but Primus, it was hard not to. It was hard not to hear that word—safe—as another kind of prison. One built of good intentions and fear.

Because Leo wasn’t just trying to protect him. He was trying to erase what Echo had chosen.

What they had built, in the dark, between fire missions and radio silence. What she had become to him.

Tempestrift was never simple. She was sharp where he was soft, calm where he was untamed. A Decepticon, sure. An enemy once. But now? She was something else. Something more. Something Leo had never tried to understand—not really. To him, she would always be a risk, a variable, a bomb waiting to go off.

But Echo had seen her bleed. Had seen her stay, when she didn’t have to. Had felt her spark pulsing against him, not as a tactic or a trap, but as a plea. A truth.

He knew what she meant to him and Leo couldn’t stop seeing it as a threat.

The quiet twisted in Echo’s chest. He raised his hand to pick at a streak of chipped paint from his forearm, then abandoned it.

The door hissed.

His spark gave a startled jolt in his chest as he sat bolt upright, wings snapping to attention before he could stop them. The door to the barracks slid open with a reluctant grind of metal on metal, and two silhouettes stepped through. One was a guard—bulky, tired, probably pulling overtime on a shift no one wanted. The other—

Tall. Rounded edges. Wings too wide for the narrow doorway. Paint scraped, armor scuffed from recent combat, plates shivering in distress. Her size alone was enough to indicate who she was. Overstrike. She ducked instinctively under the threshold, red eyes immediately locking onto Echo. There was almost something predatory in the way she looked at him, as if locking onto a target.

Echo stiffened.

Wherever there was one of Sunrazor’s minions, the golden mech was always sure to follow. Overstrike’s presence on the base threatened violence.

The door shut behind them with a loud clang, sealing the room with a finality that made Echo’s internal systems jolt. The faint pressure drop was noticeable—more psychological than physical.

Overstrike didn’t move at first. Her wings flicked, adjusting automatically to the claustrophobic confines, and her optics remained locked on Echo’s frame like she was scanning for weakness. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just... intent.

Echo didn’t speak. He couldn’t—not yet. Not when his processor was screaming with all the implications of her presence.

The towering Seeker’s optics dimmed for a moment, her gaze drifting down as if even she didn’t know what to say. The silence hung too long, long enough that it made the walls feel too close.

Then, finally, she moved. A slow, deliberate step closer to Echo, away from the cell door. Her boots clicked gently against the floor until she stood at the opposite wall from him. Her towering frame loomed over him, ruby eyes watching Echo like a bird of prey.

It was unsettling to say the least, but oddly familiar. There was a time that Tempestrift had looked at Echo just like that. Cold and calculating, but interested. Waiting for him to move or do something.

The Praxian’s doorwings twitched behind him. His fingers absently starting to pick at peeking paint across his left arm—his right forearm was already stripped of color besides an odd speckling. Echo broke the silence, voice sharper than he intended, “No cuffs?”

Overstrike tilted her head at the question, red optics blinking slow—almost too slow to be natural. Feigned surprise. "Should there be?"

Echo narrowed his optics.

She gave a soft, almost mocking sound of amusement, stepping away from the wall just enough to kneel down, one knee touching the floor with a metallic click. Her movements were smooth, disarming in their deliberate gentleness.

Even when kneeling the behemoth of a seeker loomed over Echo—the feeling wasn't foreign, Echo was very used to being towered over. As ironic as it was, he was pretty sure it was more comforting than terrifying for him. Sunrazor ruined that for him. Now he cowered just like everyone else when a giant came along.

Overstrike was no exemption. Echo pressed himself further into the wall, ignoring the way his doorwings fluttered in protest to being pinned. It would hurt later, yes, but he didn’t think he was supposed to be sharing a cell with a psychopath. He was in the barracks for whatever lame excuse Leo had come up with to get him contained.

He should not be with a decepticon who was known for blinding following every command of her deranged leader.

The large green seeker simply sighed and looked away after a moment, leaning on the wall behind her, shoulders sagging with some invisible weight. She looked to the side, away from Echo, and clicked once. Another tremor ran through her plating before she spoke, “You have no reason to be afraid, they have a collar on me… your doctor seems to know a lot about wiring behavioral compliance programs.”

Dropmix was oddly good at a lot of things. It was peculiar if anything, but it made sense with his age. The dark mech had been around for a long time, just about anyone could see that.

Echo’s optics flicked toward her neck, searching. Sure enough, the faint glint of a restraining collar sat flush against the base of her throat—blinking in steady, harmless pulses of blue. No active stun charges, not right now. Not unless she triggered it.

The Praxian grimaced and shook his head, visor flashing briefly. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Overstrike said softly. Her fingers gently touched the foreign metal before settling on her own chest, over her spark. She gently pressed, flattening the panels that quivered and flared up, “It’s supposed to make you feel safe.”

Echo’s optics stayed on her a moment too long, searching. He wasn’t sure what for though, and whatever it was he didn’t find it. The blue mech looked away.

“I don’t,” he muttered coolly, fingers still picking at paint. His wings tried to flick once though they were quickly caught by the wall.

Overstrike nodded, like she expected that. She stayed quiet for a bit, head slightly bowed, wings trembling like they wanted to spread but didn’t dare. It was… uncharacteristic. The Overstrike Echo remembered was firm, proud, always at Sunrazor’s side like a sentinel. This version—kneeling, speaking softly, posture drawn in—it didn’t fit.

“I know you don’t trust me,” she said at last, not looking at him. She paused, wings flinching and breath hitched for a moment. Her hand pressed against her chest again, firmer this time. “You probably shouldn’t.”

Well, that was honest.

Echo didn’t respond. His hands clenched. He hated how small his voice had sounded. How unsure. How caged. He hated that he was stuck in here with a mech that followed Sunrazor like a lost dog. He hated waiting for the terrible news to come that Tempestrift was dead.

The Praxian hated many things.

But Overstrike was not one of them.

She sighed, still looking away, her hand absently rubbing her plates as she continued, “But I… I did not come here because Sunrazor asked.”

Echo stilled.

That caught him off guard.

Not because he believed her—but because she didn’t sound like she was lying.

She wasn’t trying to sell him on anything. Wasn’t leaning into dramatics or righteousness like most Decepticons did when they tried to justify themselves. She just... said it. Quiet. Flat. Like it was the truth and she didn’t expect him to care. More surprisingly she didn’t say Sunrazor’s name recently, like she always did.

Dare he admit it, she sounded disgusted when the name fell from her lips.

Echo turned his head just slightly, visor angled in her direction. Watching. Not trusting. But listening.

Overstrike's fingers curled against her chassis, a whine emitting from her, low and weak. She looked at the small blue mech, red eyes dim, “She tried to kill me… and… and I ran.”

Echo stared. The words clanged in his processor, loud and out of place. “She tried to kill me,” Overstrike had said.

But she hadn’t meant Tempestrift.

The realization hit like a blunt strike to the helm—too late, too loud. He looked at her, really looked, and saw it: the way Overstrike was almost folding in on herself, voice too fragile, optics flickering like static through a fog. He had never seen the proud mech look like this. But that was because she no longer had anything to be proud about.

Echo’s voice came out rough. “You meant Sunrazor.”

A pause.

A hitch in her vent.

Then: a single, small nod.

“She didn't hesitate,” Overstrike whispered, her voice suddenly flat and distant. The seeker stared at the wall. She flinched again, a clicking whine escaping her as she pressed against her chest again. “No hesitation. No speech. Just fire.”

That image struck hard. Echo could imagine it. Sunrazor—gleaming, golden, fury forged into form—raising a hand and trying to end someone who had never stopped loving her.

Echo’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.

What did you even say to that? To someone who had followed a monster into hell and only realized it when she was the one left burning?

Overstrike’s frame shuddered once—small, barely noticeable if Echo hadn’t been watching so closely. Her optics dimmed further, the red softening to something tired and old. She shook her head, “You are lucky, Echo. What you and Tempest have… I… I dreamed of for ages.”

Overstrike’s voice cracked at the edges—too raw, too thin. Her fingers curled tighter over her chest, a scraping sound breaking through the silence as her talons dragged faint grooves into her own plating.

Echo blinked, wings flicking up and fingers stilling. Slowly. The tremor in her hand wasn’t fear.

It was pain.

Her chest heaved in uneven intervals, vents hitching and stalling like something inside her was misaligned—like something was failing.

The Praxian stilled as he examined the other’s chest from afar, closer than he had previously. He could see the black spiderweb of char that spread over it. Deep cracks and groves that covered the smooth surface. Emerged in cakes the edges of her plating, some of it had dried but in a few spots it still leaked.

“Overstrike…” the blue mech began, throat tightening as he looked at the wound. She had been shot just to the side of her spark chamber.

“I’ve had worse,” she muttered. But her voice warbled, staticky and thin. She wasn’t convincing anyone. Least of all herself.

“No, you haven’t.” Echo crouched in front of her, one hand braced on his knee, the other hovering uncertainly near the seared mess of her chest. “That’s a clean hit. Close range. Heavy caliber.” He swallowed. “That’s meant to kill.”

—

The northern corridor felt like a tomb.

Cold. Hollow. Forgotten by most of the outpost. The lights overhead flickered with neglect, casting long, shivering shadows across the metal walls. Tempestrift walked the stretch in silence, every step sharp and echoing, her wings drawn taut to her back like blades held in check. Each footfall closer to D-Seven felt like walking toward a final verdict—seven minutes of borrowed time before the door slammed shut forever.

Would Echo ever want to see her again? Would this be their goodbye?

Tempest wasn’t sure. They couldn’t keep seeing each other. Not after this. It was too risky, they would only get hurt. But ending things—especially like this—only hurt more. She knew what she had to do though. What must be done.

The seeker shook her head, clearing her thoughts.

She’d sealed the door behind her just as Volley instructed, forcing her hand to stay steady on the manual lock as her thoughts spun out of control. It was done. She was committed now. No alarms would flag her presence here. No security feeds. No digital trail. Just the quiet hum of her own systems and the mounting pulse of her spark.

The end of the corridor came fast.

She paused before the bulkhead, her vents cycling harder now. On the other side of the door was something she hadn’t dared to dream of: him. Her hand hovered over the manual release panel, fingers twitching.

What could she even say?

Seven minutes wasn’t enough to undo the damage. Not enough to make promises. Not enough to do anything but hurt a little less before they tore each other apart for good.

Still, she pressed her palm to the panel.

With a sluggish grind, the door unsealed. The room inside was dark, save for a pale overhead light. In the center of the space stood Powercase, massive and still, his frame partially turned away—as though affording them some semblance of privacy. The blue mech looked at her and gave a small nod before he motioned over towards the wall opposite of him.

Slumped against a crate, propped carefully, was Echo.

Tempestrift’s spark nearly stopped.

He looked broken—he was broken, more than Tempest thought to be physically possible. What was left of his plating was dull and scorched, paint peeling, deep gashes and dents littered the panels. Most of him had been stripped of his armor though, leaving exposed lines and protoform visible.

Echo’s doorwings were gone, along with half of his right leg, the left one crushed and twisted. His right arm severed messily at the shoulder, the other was half torn up. The Praxian’s chevron was fractured, tips snapped off. His visor was missing, along with an optic, the other damaged but still functional—just barely. Energon leaked slowly from unpatched wounds, mixing with grime and a few places where rust had started to eat away at him.

Messy welds held him together, pieces of him torn out, broken, or crushed. Protoform destroyed and internals exposed—nothing was untouched, everything was damaged, crippled. He hardly resembled a living mech, more corpse than alive.

Tempestrift froze.

She didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Her processor stuttered—refused to reconcile what her optics were seeing with what she’d hoped she’d see. This wasn’t Echo. This wasn’t the mech who bounced on his heels when he finally got to see her, it wasn’t the one who ignored risks and warnings just so he could stop by. Not the Autobot that had too much energy, too much life, thoughts racing faster than he could compute them. This wasn’t the sniper with the loud laugh and steady hands.

This was what was left of him.

She didn’t remember walking over, but she was there by his side in moments. Her knees hit the floor harder than she intended.

It jolted up through her joints, rattling her frame—but she didn’t care. Didn’t register anything beyond the ruin that was Echo in front of her. The static scream in her helm drowned out everything else. Time. Place. The fragging war. All of it.

She reached out, slowly—like he might disappear if she moved too fast. Her servo hovered inches from his chestplate, where the armor had been stripped away in jagged lines, exposing sensitive internals and frayed cabling. She couldn’t even tell where the welding ended and the damage began.

His optic flickered.

It was barely more than a twitch—half a glow—but it was there.

His vocalizer clicked, whining softly, broken body tensing as faint shivers turned into trembling. If at all possible, he seemed smaller, more broken.

A small, fractured breath escaped her.

“Echo,” Tempestrift whispered, the name catching in her throat like a jagged piece of shrapnel. Her hand finally settled, fingers brushing lightly—tentatively—against what little was left of his left shoulder. His plating was cold beneath her touch, brittle around the edges. The gentle contact made his optic flicker again, longer this time.

His mouth moved—slow, uncoordinated—but no sound came out at first. Then, like a scratched commline sputtering to life, his voice rasped, “T-Tempest…?”

Her spark clenched so violently she almost doubled over.

She swallowed hard, her systems trembling from the inside out. “I’m here,” she whispered, leaning closer, her hand now gently cupping the side of his helm, careful to avoid the fractures. “I’m here, Echo.”

He shifted, only slightly—his body didn’t seem capable of much more—but his single optic brightened with recognition. Echo’s vents caught for a moment, a ghost of a lazy smile tugging on his lips as he focused on her.

“You’re real…” he breathed, a bitter edge of disbelief laced in static. The broken Praxian tried to shift again, to press his head into Tempest’s large hand. His small smile settled as he blinked wearily at her, his voice fracturing slightly. “Hm… you're so pretty.”

Tempestrift let out a soft, wet laugh, spark twisting in her chest. Her wings managed to droop lower than before. “You’re slagged beyond function and still flirting,” she murmured, brushing her thumb carefully along the side of his head, something bitter making her spark clench. “You really are the same glitch I fell for.”

Echo made a sound—half a wheeze, half a chuckle—but it turned quickly into a low wince, his ruined frame twitching in pain. Tempest tensed, her hand instinctively moving to stabilize him, even though there was little she could do. She could feel the tremors in his systems through her palm.

For the first time since Tempestrift had shown up, Powercase shifted, glancing back at them. He cleared his throat, “I uh… I gave him some stuff for the pain. I didn’t know how much—I have more if he needs it.”

Tempestrift didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze remained locked on Echo’s face, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to ease his weight against her without jostling his fragile frame. Every motion she made felt like handling shattered glass.

Her voice, when it came, was soft, quiet. “No…I think this is fine.” She looked over at Powercase, and for a moment her expression cracked—just slightly. “Thank you.”

The larger mech gave a short nod, discomfort flickering behind his eyes. His gaze lingered a moment longer before he turned away again, retreating into the role of silent witness.

Echo stirred again, just barely. His good optic flickered, struggling to stay focused. “Didn’t think… ‘see you again,” he murmured, his voice weak, a frayed edge of static clinging to each word. “Figured Sunrazor’d tear me apart first…”

“You’re not far off,” Tempestrift whispered, brushing his cheek with a single knuckle. Her vents caught again. She tried to smile, to offer some comfort as she drew him closer, “It’s alright though, we’re going to get you home.”

Tempestrift’s words hung in the stale air, fragile as the damaged mech she cradled. Echo’s optic flickered once more, a faint pulse of warmth in the cold shadows. He attempted a laugh, but it was little more than a rasping wheeze.

“Home…” he echoed, voice barely audible. “If… I can make it.”

Her spark clenched painfully. The truth was brutal and undeniable: Echo wasn’t just broken—he was near the edge. The damage ran too deep, the time to save him slipping like energon through shattered conduits.

“You’ll be fine, Powercase is going to take you. It’ll be alright,” she spoke gently, static clinging to each syllable. Tempest didn’t know who she was comforting more, herself or the broken mech in her arms. “They’ll take care of you, you’ll be back on your feet before you know it.”

Echo’s fractured optic flickered faintly, searching hers for any sign of certainty in a world that felt like it was crumbling beneath them. “I… you think Leo will be mad?” he rasped, voice weak and splintering.

Tempestrift’s face twisted at that—an involuntary, broken sort of smile curling against the tremble in her jaw. Of course Echo would worry about that. She gently stroked his cheek again, trying to settle her own nerves about it. The Autobots wouldn’t know—they couldn’t know if their affair, Echo would be safe.

“Leoblast?” She echoed, gently brushing back a frayed cable from where Echo’s doorwings had been with a small frown. Tempestrift forced her tone to be light despite the ache in her spark, the worry and fear. “He’ll probably yell at you, then cry, yell again. And then curl up next to you because he feels bad for yelling.”

Echo huffed a tiny breath of laughter—it shuddered, catching in his throat like it didn’t quite know how to be joy anymore. “Sounds… right,” he rasped. “He’s good like that…”

Silence lapsed between them again—fragile, heavy. Tempest’s fingers curled tighter against him, feeling every broken seam, every unstable line humming beneath the surface. Her systems throbbed with restrained grief, her wings drooping so low they nearly brushed the floor.

Echo’s gaze—singular and dim—lifted to hers again, barely there. “Hey…” he whispered, voice cracking like static through a failing comm, “Don’t… don’t look at me like that…”

Tempest stiffened, optics brightening just faintly. “Like what?”

“Like I’m already gone.”

Her spark fractured. She leaned in, cradling him gently, wishing that he wasn’t so broken—that way she could press his small helm to hers, that she could hold him close and not worry about hurting him. “You’re not gone,” she murmured. “You’re here. You’re still here, Echo.”

He didn’t answer right away. His systems stuttered, flickered—his hand twitched toward hers, unsteady and small compared to her frame. She caught it before it could fall again, cupping it in her own gently.

“…I wanted to tell you,” he rasped, fragility bleeding into every syllable. “Before all this… I was gonna ask again. Meant to.”

Tempestrift didn’t move. Her spark rattled like something unbalanced and on fire. “I know.”

“I still want to,” he murmured, optic getting dimmer as his mind wandered. He was silent for a moment, in and out of awareness, dazed as he attempted to gather a coherent thought. Echo blinked, vents shuddering as his voice fizzled and and clicked, “She called us Conjunx’s… I liked that… can… can we be that?”

Tempestrift froze.

The words hit harder than she was ready for. Can we be that?

Echo’s voice was small, the sound of it already slipping—like it was on its last loop, just enough left in him for one more threadbare plea.

Her spark flared in panic, in pain, in fear.

She wanted to say yes. Primus, she wanted to say it so badly it tore something in her chest. She wanted to lean down and whisper it against what was left of his helm, to promise him forever. To tell him he was her Conjunx already. That nothing mattered but them.

But she couldn’t.

Not when he looked like this. Not when he was like this because of her. Because he’d come for her. Because he’d chosen her—again and again, over and over—but there was no guarantee that it would ever work. There was no way for her to keep him safe. There was always a chance that he would end up like this again. Broken. Crushed. Barely alive.

Her grip on his hand tightened ever so slightly, hand trembling more now.

“No,” she whispered, voice cracking.

The word cut through the air like a blade.

From across the room Powercase glanced over, green eyes flicking towards them before he looked away again.

Echo blinked slowly, like he didn’t quite register it at first. His optic dimmed, flickered—then focused again, a flicker of hurt ghosting through the fading blue. His vocalizer chirped and clicked in mild distress.

“Wh… why?”

Tempest swallowed hard, her systems burning. She forced herself to smile bitterly, pressure and guilt mounting within her. “Because… you’ll die if I say yes.”

Silence.

Echo didn’t speak. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t even breathe for a second. Just stared up at her, what was left of his expression unreadable—his optic dim, a single, quiet star in a collapsing sky.

Tempestrift felt her spark warble under the weight of that silence. The worst part wasn’t his pain, or even the shudder of his vents as his failing body tried to hold on. The worst part was the quiet acceptance in his gaze—the slow, resigned drop of his optic shutter, like he’d known this was coming.

Maybe he had.

His remaining hand—weak, trembling—gave a faint squeeze against hers. He smiled again, soft and shaky, still half dazed and barely able to speak. He clicked a few times, pressing into her as much as he could.

“Then it’d be worth it, ” Echo murmured at last.

Tempestrift’s wings trembled, as if trying to fold themselves into a shield against the storm inside her. The raw honesty in his words hit her like an shot—reckless, desperate, and achingly real. She wanted to argue, to scream that there had to be another way, some flicker of hope beyond the wreckage. She wanted to believe him, that there was a way to get this to work and not have their worlds fall apart. It was impossible though. There was no winning. All she could do was hold him, cradle the fragments of the mech she loved.

“Echo…” Her voice was a brittle whisper, thick with emotion and static. “I love you, but I can’t lose you—not like this. Not because of me.”

Echo’s optic flickered weakly again, struggling to stay alight in the dim room. He tried to focus on her, tried to catch the sincerity in her voice, but the damage within him was a roaring storm drowning out every soft word. Whatever Powercase had given him to help ease his pain was only working against him.

“Love you too,” he rasped, voice barely above the hum of failing circuits. It was as if that was all he had heard, the only thing he dared to acknowledge; Tempest had said she loved him, he had to return it. The rest was ignored.

Tempestrift felt something collapse inside her. Three words, whispered through a broken frame, and she knew he meant them with everything that was left of him.

Her spark screamed with it.

She leaned closer, bringing her helm down so their foreheads nearly touched. Close enough to feel the faint, flickering warmth of his vents against her cheek. Close enough to pretend, just for a moment, that none of this was real. That they were back in the long abandoned building, in the ruins of a battlefield. The moon strung high in the sky, up on the roof trying to see the stars. Where he first kissed her and laughed like he’d won the war.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, static bleeding into the sound. “Primus, Echo, I’m so sorry.”

She could hear Powercase shifting across the room, the purposefully loud footsteps towards them. The message was clear, she needed to wrap things up.

Tempestrift didn’t move.

The seeker didn’t flinch at the heavy footfalls or the sounds of the guardian gathering what else he needed. She stayed still—rooted in place, her helm bowed against him, her hands trembling where they held his. Seven minutes. She thought it’d be enough to say goodbye. She’d been wrong.

Echo’s vents sputtered again, uneven and shallow, like his frame couldn’t remember how to keep running. She pulled back just far enough to look at him, to see him—what little of him remained. His optic was nearly dark now, flickering weakly, a distant star struggling against the pull of collapse.

“ ‘m tired…” the dull blue Praxian croaked out, words slurred with static as his eyes struggled to remain open.

Tempestrift’s spark flared like it was being torn open from the inside.

“I know,” she whispered, brushing a thumb over the edge of his cracked helm, voice unraveling thread by thread. “I know, love. You rest, Powercase is going to get you home.”

Echo didn’t answer. His single optic dimmed slowly, the light behind it ebbing as his vents gave another ragged stutter. But he didn’t fall offline—not yet. He clung to awareness the way a falling star might cling to sky, one last breath away from burning out.

“You sleep” she whispered, pulling his limp hand closer, holding it against her chestplate, right over the frantic thrum of her spark. “It’ll be a long drive.”

He blinked, slow and unfocused, lips twitching into something that might’ve been another smile—or maybe just pain.

Powercase stepped closer at last, a soft hiss of hydraulics accompanying his careful movement. “We have to go,” he said quietly, voice low and without pressure, as if he knew what he was interrupting and hated it just as much. “I already gave you a few extra minutes, we can’t afford anymore.”

Tempestrift nodded without looking at him, her fingers lacing gently with Echo's. Her wings twitched once, a flutter of motion that betrayed the war in her chest—stay or let go. She turned back to Echo, watching as the small tremors that rattled through his broken body slowly were reduced to weak shivers.

"You're going to hate me for this," she murmured, her voice shaking, "but you need to forget me."

Echo's optic flickered weakly.

His face twitched. Confusion, pain, protest—something flickered there, brief and struggling beneath the weight of his failing systems. His optic widened just slightly as though he didn’t understand—or maybe he did, and it hurt more because of it.

“Wha...?” he breathed, barely more than a twitch of air. His hand twitched in hers, fragile and instinctive. “No—no, Tempest—”

She pressed her forehead against his again, her eyes closed tight. Her grip didn’t loosen, even as her entire body trembled like a tower just barely holding its structure. This wasn’t a goodbye. Not really. Not when it had to be like this.

The seeker didn’t bother to explain, she stood, Echo in her arms, and turned to Powercase. Without a word she offered the small, broken mech in her hands to him. She ignored the way Echo clicked, vocalizer stimming as he fought to stay awake, to express his distress.

Powercase stepped forward, careful and steady, cradling Echo’s shattered frame like a relic too precious to risk dropping. His bulk shielded the fragile mech from the harsh corridor light, and for a moment, Tempestrift allowed herself to breathe in the quiet between the chaos. Echo’s clicking didn’t stop, confused and desperate to be heard, though they quieted.

“I’ll take it from here,” Powercase said, voice low and steady, a promise as much as an order.

Tempestrift nodded, her wings held rigidly, trying to still the fluttering storm inside her. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat and forced herself to look away—couldn’t bear to watch the mech she loved carried away, broken and fading.