#wholsesome

Your little legs burned, struggling over the uneven, rocky terrain of the Nevada desert. Loose gravel slipped under your mismatched shoes—one a tattered slip-on you’d grabbed in a panic, the other a sneaker held together with duct tape and hope. Neither helped as the dirt roads gave way to cracked stone and thorny brush, sharp enough to snag your too-big jacket.

You’d slipped away from Jasper hours ago, the town’s lights long swallowed by the wild. Your backpack, heavy with your carefully chosen treasures, weighed on your shoulders. A crumpled box of fruit-themed bandages. Two water bottles, one now empty. A couple of snack packs, already half-gone. Your small, scratched-up whiteboard and markers, your only voice. And your baby blanket, ratty, full of holes, but warm with love. 

You did have one thing that wasn't all yours. One of your moms lighters. It seemed like a good last second decision, she always kept one by the door to smoke so it was easy to grab.

You knew about stranger danger—school lessons, cartoon villains. Staying visible meant risking someone spotting you. An adult. Someone who’d drag you back. Home. So you stayed low, a shadow in the scrub, ducking behind bushes at every engine roar or crunch of tires. Now, the road was gone, lost to rock formations and creaking, wind-bent trees. No cars. No people. Just you, the desert, and the orange smear of sunset.

Your legs shook, lips cracked and dry. You fished out your last water bottle, taking a careful sip, the plastic warm in your hands. A cave would be nice—a hideout, like a cartoon hobo with a stick and a sack. You’d find a tin can, cook beans over a fire. You’d survive. Because this—alone, hungry, cold—was better than going back.

At least, that's what your eight year old mind could reason out.

———————————

The desert wind whistled low across the ridges, kicking up sand and dead leaves from the brush. Sunset threw long shadows over the cracked earth, and far above the fading heat shimmer, something massive moved between the trees.

Breakdown’s footfalls were heavy, deliberate—each one sending small clouds of dust curling up behind him. He wasn’t worried about stealth. This was just another simple energon scout run. 

His scanner pinged—faint residuals, barely worth the trip. Knock Out had stayed behind, sweet-talking his way out with that velvet voice.

“Oh, won’t you go for me, Blue? Please?” he’d purred, batting his optics, fresh from a buffing session. Breakdown had grumbled but caved. Always did.

“Still sayin’ it’s this way,” he grumbled to himself. “Still sayin’ you should’ve come too, Pretty-Boy.”

He paused and scanned the horizon again, optics narrowing.

That’s when he picked up a sound. 

Not a machine. Not a signal. Just the faint little steps of something nearby, clearly struggling in this terrain. Not mechanical, so not another bot. Organic maybe? A human? 

A sound stopped him. Faint, scuffling close by, on the brush and rocks. It sounded small, organic.

Human? His targeting sensors twitched, locking onto something small, warm, moving without purpose. Post-MECH, humans set his plating on edge—those butchers had carved out his eye, leaving him scarred. But this was no MECH operative.

He veered off the Energon trail, veering around a rock wall and pushing past some trees, his armor scraping bark. Then he saw her.

A tiny human girl, scrambling to try to climb a small rock formation, scuffling on tiny hands and knees. Her oversized jacket dragged, sleeves flapping, her backpack swaying like it outweighed her. Tangled hair hid her dirt-smeared face, her breaths heavy, like she was fighting for every one. 

She didn’t notice him, too focused on not falling. Breakdown blinked his single optic, stepping closer. No Autobots, no humans, no signals. Alone? In this wasteland?

“Gotta be a trap,” he growled, remembering Bulkhead’s human—Miko, if his processor remembered correctly, was loud and reckless, always glued to her bot. This one was different, even as it failed its climb, it was quiet, not fussing about or calling for help.

He crouched, careful not to crunch the brush and have her bolt. He watched her struggle a few moments more before he reached over a servo. 

Giving her a light poke to the back of her head. She jolted with a gasp, stumbling back onto the dirt with a small yelp—no scream, no running. Just big, wide eyes staring up at him, breathing hard through her nose another small gasp as she saw him. One small arm slightly trembling in front of her, her only shield. Wide eyes flickering at each part of him. 

“What kinda pet wanders this far from its Autobot?” he muttered, optic narrowing. Bulkhead’s kid was never alone—her and the wrecker seemed inseparable, connected at the pede. This one was alone. 

He hooked a servo around one of the straps on her backpack and lifted her off the ground like a stray tool. She dangled there, limp in the air, barely reacting beyond a small grunt and a tighter grip on her fraying straps. The only sounds were the soft creak of worn fabric and the faint rasp of her breathing.

Her legs swayed slightly as the wind caught her coat, too big for her frame. But she didn’t flail. Didn’t scream. Just hung there—like this happened all the time.

Her eyes met his optic and didn’t look away. 

Wide. Dust-smeared. Unblinking. 

Her fast, soft little breaths are the only thing his audio receptors are picking up.

Afraid but silent.

“Where’s your leash, huh?” he muttered, giving her a small shake. “Bulkhead lose ya?”

Nothing. Not even a flinch. Just a slow, slight tilt of her head like she hadn’t understood him—or maybe she had, but didn’t know how to answer.

Breakdown scanned the area again.

Still nothing. No heat signatures, no movement in the brush, no Autobot signatures hiding behind a rock ready to shout and charge.

This is the worst trap I’ve ever seen, he thought. Or... it wasn’t a trap at all.

He grumbled low in his throat, venting warm air.

Lowering her slowly, he released the strap, letting her drop gently onto the packed dirt. Her knees buckled from the weight of the backpack and she hit the ground with a soft oof. Still no crying. Still no scrambling to run.

She just sat there, small and quiet, and looked up at him like he was something out of a cartoon she half-remembered from better days.

Breakdown squinted at her, annoyed at the stillness, the softness.

“Seriously? You gonna just sit there?”

Nothing. Not even a shrug.

He scowled and straightened to his full height with a heavy clunk of metal shifting back into place. A final look—then he turned, stomping away toward the trees.

“Whatever... not my problem.”

Each step sent small clouds of dust curling behind him.

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t care.

Shouldn’t care.

Decepticons don’t play babysitter.

Right?

——————-

Breakdowns pedes were on autopilot as he stared at the data pad in front of him, leading him to the signals strongest point. 

As he got back to the mission at hand, his processor couldn’t help but think back to that tiny human. 

He thinks back to Bulkhead and Miko again.

 Bulkhead’s pet was loud and energetic. It even had brightly colored fur on top of its helm. The times he met the pet there wasn’t one time it wasn’t obnoxious and screaming or trying to run, always trying to poke their pesky selves into Cybertronian business.

But Tiny?

You were the first human to not run screaming at the sight of him. 

…what does that mean?

His pedes slowed as he thought, not noticing the little follower behind him. 

——————————

You’d learned long ago: Stay still, stay quiet. That was the rule. It hadn’t always saved you—bruises and other cuts and gashes under your jacket proved that—but it seemed to be working now, on this giant robot man.

He was massive, a cartoon come to life, his blue metal scarred and glinting in the fading light. One eye was gone, just a dark socket, but his grip, when he’d lifted you, was careful, not cruel. You’d frozen, heart pounding, too scared to cry, but he hadn’t hurt you. Just talked—strange words like Autobot, Bulkhead, pet. None of it made sense, but his voice was deep, steady, not angry.

When he set you down and walked away, you slid off the rock, backpack thumping against your spine. 

This wasn’t the escape you’d imagined—but, you weren’t home. She wasn’t here. And that made it better… even if you still hurt.

You padded after him, his loud steps masking your smaller ones. He moved fast, forcing your little legs to jog, the desert’s chill as the sun was setting and starting to creep into your bones. Pet? Did he think you were an animal?

You stayed close, weaving through the brush, your sneakers catching on stray rocks and roots as you followed him through the giant rock formations in the desert. 

You were just wandering, but he seemed like he had a plan, so following him made some sense. Also he was a giant robot, very cool (and slightly scary) to you, any kid would want to stay with him.

You wondered if he was alone, like you. If there were more like him—giant, metal, scarred. You noticed his eyepatch right away, one side of his head missing a yellow glow. 

The thought made your chest tight, but not with just fear, with the thrill of an adventure, like the kind you'd read about in story books. 

You two walked for a bit when you came upon an alcove, some vegetation covering the ground and a small stream flowing through it.

He slowed, and you misjudged, bumping into his giant heel with a soft thunk. You froze, looking up, your whiteboard clutched tight in case you needed to write something.

——————-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Feeling a small tink on the back of his pede, he whips his helm around, to see you, right at his heels. 

“…Tiny?” 

      He quickly snaps his denta shut. Scrap, That’s the first mistake. You name it, you get attached to it. 

…Also, when did he start using that fragging name?

You blink up at him, wide eyed, looking between him and the opening that leads into the alcove.

Breakdown let out an annoyed groan, the Energon ping nagging his processor like a bad comm loop. He shook his helm, turning away. He'd rather not outright squish the human. 

In fact, he’s always seen those under him as valuable.

Vehicons were allies, friends—he’d always thought so, unlike the higher-ups who scrapped their own. But a human? That was a step too far.

Still, his pedes hesitated. 

She was quiet, small, following him around right on his pedes like the sparklings he’d watched over on Cybertron, before the war tore it all apart. 

His servo brushed his optic scar, MECH’s cold table flashing in his memory. Humans were trouble. 

Shaking his helm one last time, He stomped toward the Energon signal, forcing focus. The data pad’s pings grew stronger, leading to a far part of the wall in the alcove. 

He tucked it away, shifting his servos to hammers, and glanced over his shoulder. 

The girl stood a few paces back, clutching a white rectangle, eyes wide, cautious but steady.

 “Stay back, Tiny, unless ya wanna get squished,” he chuckled as he threw those words over his shoulder, but his gruff voice had a hint of underlying seriousness to it. 

His hammers tore through the rock, carving a jagged cave. Dust billowed, stinging his optic, but he paused to clear debris, checking the pad. Soon, blue crystals peeked from the walls—small, faint, barely worth the effort. He started prying them free, each clunk of crystal against his servo grounding him. Mission. Duty. Not some stray human. 

Just as he collected the last chunk of energon crystals, A comm buzzed in his helm. Knock Out’s voice purring through a hint of huff and impatience. 

“Blue, darling, tell me you’ve found a huge vein of energon because normally you would have called in by now. This medbay’s dull without you.”

Breakdown chuckled, glancing at Tiny, who was down by the little stream, splashing water on her face. “Nah, Red, nothin’ like that. Just a few crystals, barely a haul. Signal kept fadin’ on me.” A half-truth—he wasn’t sure if he should even mention the human. 

Knock Out’s huff crackled through the comm. “Fading signals? You’re slipping, love. I swear, if you’re out there denting your finish for scraps…” He trailed off, a playful edge hiding the worry Breakdown knew too well. “Get those crystals loaded and call for a bridge. I’m not dragging my polish through that dust to fetch you.”

He glanced at Tiny. Her small form was still by the stream, but her bag was off her back now, the white board she had balanced on her knees as she swayed her feet in the cool water of the stream. She seemed to be drawing something.

 He felt his spark twinge for a nanoklick---scrap.

“Fine, but you do the buffing for two cycles,” Knock Out shot back, voice dripping with mock indignation. The comm cut off, leaving Breakdown with the desert’s quiet and Tiny’s silent stare. He vented, shaking his helm. What was he gonna do with her?

Breakdown stood, the Energon shards heavy in his subspace, his optic lingering on Tiny.

Tiny stood as well, bare feet splashing from the water and getting covered in sand trotting over to him. She had that white board with her again, holding it up above her as high as she could to show the con. 

Breakdown tried to be dismissive, was determined to put a pede forward and just walk around her, but again, he felt his spark. As hard as he tried, he didn't think he'd be able to just ignore her and leave. 

Pinching the brow of his helm, he let out a frustrated groan, and lowered himself on one knee, defeated. Betrayed by his own spark. 

He had to really peer at her drawing, it being so tiny compared to him. But he could faintly make out through the squibbles that it must've been him.  A big blue blocky figure—him, maybe, with one big eye and a hammer. He snorted, almost amused. “Got me all wrong, Tiny. I ain’t that boxy.”

She looked up, eyes bright but silent, clutching the board like a shield. No words, just that stare, like she was waiting for him to decide her fate. 

His spark twinged, harder this time. Humans needed… stuff, didn’t they? Human Food, water, shelter. He knew how easily humans broke after fighting off MECH with Bulkhead.

  But the thought of Knock Out’s teasing smirk, that glint in his crimson optics that could cut through any gloom, made Breakdown pause, his servo hovering over the human. 

Those steady servos—precise, unyielding—had patched him up after MECH’s cold tables, when humans had carved out his eye, leaving him broken and raging in a haze of pain.

 Knock Out had worked through a whole Earth night cycle in the Nemesis medbay, his usual flair muted, his touch gentle as he welded plating back together, whispering, 

“Can’t have my Blue looking like scrap, can I?” That care, that stubborn refusal to let him fall apart, had pulled Breakdown from the edge. 

Red got it—saving what shouldn’t be saved, fighting for what the war would crush. 

Tiny, with her wide eyes and silent stare, was like that: a fragile thing, alone in the desert, no Autobot to guard her, no one to care. Like he’d been, before Knock Out’s smirk became his anchor. Another twinge, a glitch of guilt and something softer, as he glanced at her small form in front of him, clutching her tattered blanket. 

“Alright, Tiny,” he rumbled, standing and looking around the cavern. He went over to some stray boulders, grabbing each with ease and setting them up in a crude shelter-like shape by the stream. Just a roof and three walls with a sand floor. 

it looked solid, and good enough to block out the wind. “Can’t let ya freeze out here.”

He snatched up a good pile of nearby vegetation and some dead shrubs. Piling them in front of the little rock house.

“Alright. One cozy little inferno, comin’ up.”

He aimed carefully—well, as carefully as a Decepticon artillery unit could aim at a campfire-sized pile of sticks—and charged the cannon. Just before firing, he glanced back at her.

She was watching. Of course she was. Wide eyes, shivering, huddled.

“Uh—might wanna, I dunno… cover your eyes. And ears. Maybe turn around, unless you wanna lose your tiny fleshy…everything?.”

He said it quickly, casually, like it wasn’t his first time saying those exact words to a Vehicon with bad timing. Then he added:

“Won’t take long.”

You nodded and obediently turned around, hands over your ears, head ducked.

Breakdown smirked. That was cute, you took an order instantly, better than some vehicons under his command.

With the barest flick of power, he fired—not a full blast, just enough to ignite the brush without blowing it halfway across the canyon. The fire caught instantly, crackling to life in a little orange bloom of warmth and light.

Satisfied, Breakdown stepped back, folding his cannon away with a click and crossing his arms.

You peeked back at the fire, eyes lighting up as you scooted closer, holding out your hands toward the flames with a little sigh. Still no words, but for the first time, you looked… maybe not safe, but comfortable. Almost. The smallest smile on your face.

Breakdown blinked.

“Well… guess that worked.”

A pause.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

He watched as something clicked behind your eyes—like a lightbulb finally flipping on. You blinked up at him, then held up one tiny finger, a little wait right there gesture.

You turned back to the whiteboard at your side, clutching the marker with both hands. The drawing you’d made earlier—of him, rough and boxy with a single eye and big fists—got a quick swipe from your sleeve, vanishing in squeaky little circles.

Breakdown tilted his helm, curious.

You wrote carefully. Slowly. Tongue poking out in concentration, brow furrowed like this was serious business. When you finished, you capped the marker with a pop, double-checked your work, and stood.

Hopping up from your spot by the fire, you trotted over and held the whiteboard up high—on your tiptoes, like maybe you could actually reach his chestplate if you tried hard enough.

He looked down.

Two words, drawn neat and straight with a little smile beside them:

‘Thank you! :)’

His optic whirred softly.

“…Huh.”

His comm cut back in.

“Okay, you big lug, finally got Soundwave unstuck and managed to reroute a ground bridge to your location. You're welcome, by the way. It’s coming in now.”

Behind him, the hum started low, then swelled into the familiar whoomp of opening energy. The air rippled with heat as green light painted the alcove, the breeze from the vortex stirring sand and leaves in small circles.

Tiny jumped at the sound, spinning around with wide eyes, nearly dropping her whiteboard as she stared at the swirling portal like it was pure magic.

Breakdown huffed a low chuckle.

“Thanks, Pretty Boy,” he muttered into the comm.

From the other end, Knock Out gave a knowing, amused little laugh before signing off with a static flick.

Breakdown turned back to Tiny. She was staring up at the ground bridge now, whiteboard hugged to her chest, jaw slightly slack.

He crouched, servos bracing into the dirt for balance as he leaned in closer.

“Gotta head back, Tiny. You… stay here, alright? Don't wander….”

You nodded once, fast and serious, like this was the most important thing anyone had ever told you. Your hands gripped the board tighter, fingers curling in the frayed sleeves of your jacket. Big eyes. Quiet trust.

Breakdown felt it again—that weird little pinch in his spark that had started the second she didn’t run screaming.

Scrap. I’m gettin’ soft.

He lingered longer than he meant to—just watching her. Quiet, still, trusting. That stupid little whiteboard still clutched to her chest.

He should’ve walked away already.

This should be the last time he saw her. He shouldn't have helped her. Not this much. Not at all.

But tonight had been full of weird spark-tugs, hesitations, and confusion. Instincts at war with protocol.

He straightened slowly, armor creaking as he turned toward the glowing swirl of the ground bridge. Its energy crackled against the rocks, casting long shadows across the desert floor.

“I’ll… check on ya tomorrow…”

The words came out before he could stop them. He hesitated. Was he lying?

He should be.

But his pedes were already moving, carrying him into the swirling light. The hum of the vortex surrounded him, filling his audials with static as the portal swallowed him whole.

He dragged a servo down his faceplate, venting hard.

Why? Why now?

He’d never felt like this—not for those loud Autobot brats clinging to Bulkhead or Arcee. He barely got a chance to glance at those ones before it was time to throw punches and dodge blaster fire.

But Tiny?

Tiny had been alone. Struggling. Weak.

And Breakdown had always had a soft spot for the weak, hadn’t he?

His mind drifted—back further than it had in vorns.

Before the Decepticons. Before the war. Back to his own early days on Cybertron, when he was a scrawny little thing constantly getting knocked around. Back when he started fighting—not just for the thrill of it, but to survive. To protect.

His old district had been rough. Not much energon. Too many younglings without supervision. And somehow, it fell to him to look out for the ones smaller than him. He’d gotten bigger, tougher, meaner—but it had always been for them.

Then Megatron came. Promising strength. Order. Power. The chance to protect on a bigger scale.

Breakdown hadn’t been swayed by words. He challenged the warlord to a duel. If Megatron could overpower him—fine, he’d join.

Megatron did.  And Breakdown will never forget it.

That’s why he was loyal.

That’s why he left.

To protect the weak. To fight on the side that wouldn’t let the little ones he cared for fall between the cracks.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The giant, crackling portal fizzled shut with a whirring hum, and just like that—he was gone. 

The blue giant disappeared into the light, and the strange buzzing in the air faded with it.

For a while, you just stared at the empty space where he’d stood. It didn’t feel real.

Then the quiet crept back in—soft desert sounds returning like nothing had happened. The babbling stream nearby, the crackle of the fire he made for you, the wind rustling sand through the little rock alcove. All of it settled around you, reminding you that yes, you were still here. And yes… that just really happened.

You sit down slowly, hugging your blanket tighter, processing the day.

You ran away. Like… for real.

You've found out there are huge living metal robots that exist. Are they magic or from space? 

Or is there a scientist somewhere that made them??

You made friends with one!! He was so cool. Like, really big and loud and made of armor, but not scary the way most grownups are. 

And he didn’t get mad when you didn’t talk. He just talked to you. Even gave you a nickname! “Tiny.” You like it. You might even keep it.

For some reason, he can turn his hands into big hammers and destroy rocks! He picked up a bunch of giant blue glowing crystals, and, you guess, got a call from someone as he said a few words not to you.

 was it another robot??

You'll have to ask him later. It's a good thing you brought a few extra markers along with your white board, you'll probably run them all dry with all the questions buzzing around in your little skull. 

You glance up through the opening of the alcove’s rock ceiling, the night sky staring back at you through a giant hole in the rock, bright stairs twinkling and the moon glowing brightly. 

You shuffle over to the corner, tucking yourself into the coziest nook you can find. Sand brushed from your feet, shoes back on, blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders. The warmth of the fire feels like another blanket, heavier and safer than the one you're holding.

Your body starts to melt under the weight of the day. The walking. The fear. The surprise. The excitement. You don’t remember your eyes closing—but they do.

And just before sleep pulls you under, your thoughts drift to him.

Big Blue.

That’s his name now. That’s what you’ll call him.

You smile a little, buried in warmth and firelight, your last thought soft and safe:

He said he’d come back.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, you woke up slowly, blinking at the pale light spilling over your face. For a second, you expected to be in your bed—your real one, at home. Maybe the whole thing had just been a really cool dream. Maybe Big Blue was just something your brain made up.

You yawned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes with tiny fists.

Then your hand brushed gritty sand. Your fingers scraped dry rock.

You froze.

Your eyes shot open fully this time—and the dream didn’t go away.

The rock alcove was still around you, rough and silent except for the soft trickle of the stream. Your blanket was still wrapped tight around you, warm from the leftover heat of the fire. The sky above was light blue now, not quite morning-morning but close. The embers in the fire pit still glowed softly.

It was real. All of it.

And your stomach picked that exact moment to let out a dramatic growl.

You scuttled over to your backpack and unzipped it fast, hoping maybe there was more inside than you remembered. Inside you saw less than what you packed for food. 

You were able to fill your water bottles back up from the stream, but you only had one more snack pack left. 

You sat back on your heels with a sigh. The kind that made your shoulders drop a little. Then tore into the meal with your tiny hands. Crackers. That squishy little square of processed cheese. A few meat slices that tasted kinda like ham, kinda like plastic. And a brownie square that, despite being kind of stale, still made your eyes go wide.

You chewed faster than you meant to—hunger winning out. But as the food filled your belly, something else started crawling up from underneath it.

A weird twisty feeling. Not from the meal, but from… thinking.

You really ran away.

This wasn’t pretend. This wasn’t you hiding in the closet or going to the end of the street. This was the desert. The middle of nowhere. And no one had found you yet.

You thought about home. About her.

Did she know you were gone?

Had she gone to your room? Had she even noticed?

Would she be mad? Would she cry?

…Or would she smile?

You hoped it was that one. Then, maybe she'd finally gotten what she always wanted, she'd stop being angry with you.

She’d said it often enough, hadn’t she?

You rubbed your eyes again, but not because you were sleepy.

You tried not to think about it. About her voice. About how the louder she got, the quieter you had to become just to survive it.

Instead, you looked up at the sky again, squinting.

Big Blue said he’d come back.

You believed him. He was the first one you actually wanted to come back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hours passed.

Anyone else might’ve gotten bored. Really bored. Especially an eight-year-old stuck in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but rocks and sand.

But not you.

You’d had practice.

You were used to keeping yourself busy, used to quiet, used to being alone. You’d walked yourself to school most days. Packed your own bag. Scrounged up whatever food was still left in the fridge. You were always the one who made sure the door was locked. That the lights were off.

You learned how to keep busy. 

You’d learned how to wait. How to sit still. How to stay quiet without feeling the quiet too much.

And sometimes—sometimes—you even had books.

They were your favorite thing in the whole house. 

Some were from school or picked up from neighbors who gave them away. You loved them all. You read every page more than once. Some so many times that you could quote parts by memory.

Plus, always having to write on a whiteboard and reading so much meant you were actually good at something! You had the neatest penmanship in your grade, the best spelling skills and very high reading level. 

You liked to read. Reading time at school had always been your favorite.

No noise. No yelling. No one asking you why you didn’t talk.

But silence didn't always mean comfort. 

Only the silence the lived at home. It was cold. Heavy.

 It crawled across your skin and got inside your head. That kind of silence wasn’t really silent at all. It had its own kind of noise—like buzzing. Like a thousand whispering voices, none of them kind. 

It was the kind of silence that reminded you you were alone even when someone else was there.

That silence was unbearable.

Your books were your escape from that. It replaced that dreadful drone and squeezed in your chest with joy. You were able to escape into those fictional worlds and get lost there, not coming back till you were forced too. 

You tried not to think about the books you’d left behind. You had wanted to grab them—so badly—but the only way to get to your little bookshelf was to pass through the living room. And she’d been there, passed out cold

No book was worth waking her.

So here you were, making use of your time in a desert alcove. 

You started by drawing on your whiteboard again—another doodle of Big Blue, his hands transformed into massive hammers, smashing boulders and towering debris. But before long, you ran out of space.

You didn’t want to erase your work. Not yet. Not when it made you smile every time you looked at it. You also really wanted to show Big Blue when he came back. 

So you turned to the world around you.

The sand that blanketed the ground suddenly became your new canvas. You grabbed a few sticks and started small—flowers, suns, little swirls. 

But then you noticed how much room you actually had. You made big, looping spirals and winding paths, dotting the lines with pebbles and other things scattered about. 

Soon, you were sculpting lumpy sandcastles near the stream. The sand wasn’t perfect, but it was soft enough to shape. You made humps and hills, valleys and dams, turning the whole stretch of dirt into your own little kingdom. Twigs became people. Flat stones were ships or buildings. You even paused once to watch a lizard dart past, its tiny toes kicking up dust as it ran.

You didn’t have a lot of toys back home. And nothing—not even in your books, compared to this feeling. A feeling of being free, no overbearing shadow that you would have to eventually return too. 

But as the sun rose higher, the heat started to press against your skin. Even in the shade, it made your head feel fuzzy. You were just debating taking off your jacket when—

RRRRMMMMMM.

You froze.

A low rumble echoed in the distance.

Was that… an engine?

A car?

The joy drained from you all at once.

Your stomach twisted in a way that made you want to throw up. Did someone find you? Was this one of the roads leading out from Jasper?

Panic kicked in hard.

You bolted. You didn’t even look down, didn’t notice as your feet trampled through the artwork you’d made, sticks snapping, rocks scattering. Your sandcastles were crushed in an instant.

You grabbed your backpack. Your whiteboard. Hugged them tight to your chest. One of the plastic corners dug into your already bruised body, it hurt but you didn't care.

Hiding was more important. Staying unseen was always more important.

The car’s engine roared louder. Then closer. And closer still—until it stopped.

Right on the other side of the rock wall.

You sucked in a breath.

And held it.

Your thoughts were screaming.

Was it a police car? Would they take you back? Would they yell? Would they hit you?

...Was it her?

Your fingers dug into the straps of your backpack. You shook so hard your teeth clacked together. You knew what would happen next. It was always like this. The shaking would start. Then the wheezing. Then the gasping.

You closed your eyes tight. Tried to squeeze yourself into nothing.

You didn’t hear the metallic shifting. Or the weighty footsteps drawing closer. Not until they were right there—just outside the alcove, behind the little shelter you were pressed against.

And then—

CRASH.

Something huge and metal slammed into the sand just in front of your opening. It was a loud, bone-rattling sound. You flinched hard, your whole body curling tighter.

Slowly, you peeked one eye open.

A dark, twisted hunk of metal lay in the sand outside—broken glass glinting in the sun. It looked like a… well, a hunk of metal, a badly bent one.

And then you heard it.

That voice.

Low. Gruff. Familiar.

“…Tiny?”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Breakdown stepped into the alcove and didn’t immediately see your little frame, his spark dropped like a rock in his chest.

His optic went wide, scanning fast, sweeping the space.

Where is she?

Where’s Tiny?

Did she wander off?

Did something happen?

Did one of those Earth wildlife things—coyotes, wolves, whatever—sniff her out?

But then, as his processor raced with worst-case scenarios, he caught sight of something that made him slow.

The sand.

Swirls and spirals drawn into it.

Crushed sticks sticking up out of the sediment. Tiny crumbled mounds by the stream. Lines traced with pebbles all around. Shapes only a sparkling would’ve thought to make.

It had to be you.

Relieved but still tense, he stepped forward carefully, a half-smashed vending machine gripped in one servo. He’d ripped it out of some run-down gas station on the way here—figured you’d probably be hungry. 

He dropped it where the fire had been last night. The metal box hit the ground with a heavy, echoing crash.

A moment passed. Then another.

“…Tiny?” he called.

He tried to keep his voice even. Calm. Not too gruff. Not too worried.

Then came a sound—a tiny gasp, followed by shuffling, sand shifting. A small head peeked out from the rock shelter.

There you were.

Your wide eyes scanned the space, then the wrecked vending machine, and finally—him.

And the second you saw him, you smiled.

Just like that, all the tension in his frame seemed to drain out of him. The tightness in his chestplate eased. You were okay.

You shimmied past the vending machine, careful of the glass, around the little house and threw yourself straight into his pede with little arms outstretched—hugging the giant metal limb like it was a tree trunk.

Breakdown froze.

You were… hugging him?

He stood stock-still, servos slightly raised, like you were made of energon glass and he wasn’t sure what would break first: you or his composure.

“Huh…”

No Autobots had found you. No angry human search parties. No wandering off.

You were still here. For some reason you stayed put like he'd asked. 

His vents cycled out a long, quiet breath. The tension eased from his shoulders.

He couldn’t help it—his faceplates shifted into something dangerously close to a smile.

His one optic softened just a bit.

He started to lower a servo toward you, thinking maybe to pat your head, but before he could, you suddenly bounced backward and held up one finger.

Wait! You darted back to the little shelter and crawled inside.

He blinked.

Had he startled you?

No—your movements were too deliberate. You were thinking.

Curious, he stepped around the drawings you’d made in the sand (accidentally stepping on a spiral or two—scrap, sorry), and sat down with a loud creak near where he had the night before.

You emerged again, hugging the whiteboard to your chest, beaming. Holding it out to him like a trophy. The highest you could. 

He leaned in and saw the new drawing.

It was him again—this time mid-swing, his hammer-arms obliterating a wall of boulders. There were little motion lines, and even some flying debris. But the best part?

Right above it was a hand-drawn arrow pointing to him with the caption: “BIG BLUE!”

Breakdown let out a low chuckle.

So that’s what you’d been calling him, huh?

It was… honestly kind of perfect.

He gave a small smirk, resting his servos on his knees.. “Heh. Kinda cute.” it was true, he was big and blue. Something that he didn't complain about, and neither did Knockout.

He smirked and lowered his helm a bit. “Name’s Breakdown, by the way. You got a real name, Tiny?”

You nodded, eager, and wiped the board clean with your sleeve. Then you scribbled out your real name in neat, practiced letters.

Breakdown tilted his head, repeating it slowly.

It sounded clunky forming on his glossa. Earth names always did.

He snorted softly. “Hmm. Weird name. Think I’ll stick to calling you Tiny… that okay?”

You giggled, nodding. Then you erased the board and quickly scrawled another message.

You held it up proudly:

“Well I think Breakdown’s a weird name too!”

He barked a laugh. A real one.

Primus, you were a strange little human.

But… not a bad one.

Your laughter bubbled up again—but it was cut off as your stomach growled, long and loud, reminding both of you that breakfast hadn’t happened yet.

Breakdown’s smirk twisted into a full grin as he pointed a digit toward the crumpled vending machine.

“I dunno what you things eat, but there’s some crinkly junk in there. Stolen it from one of those pit stops you seem to infest. Saw lots of humans going up to it…figred it would be worth ringing here.”

You turn where he points and finally get a better look at what he brought. It’s a badly mangled vending machine—dented in the middle where his grip had crushed the casing, its glass shattered completely. But the snacks inside are still visible, scattered across the metal shelves in a disorganized pile of salty chips, colorful candy, and plastic-wrapped pastries.

You set your whiteboard down with a little bounce and approach the machine, steps slow and careful now as you tiptoe around the broken glass glittering in the sand. Breakdown watches as you lean over its edge, your tiny arms stretching as far as they can, fingers twitching just short of the nearest snack bag.

You’re barely half the size of the vending machine. And to him, you look even smaller.

He lets out a quiet ex-vent and shifts his weight, more comfortable now in his seated position. His armor plates creak softly as he relaxes, chin resting in one servo while he watches you with a strange softness.

Primus. You're so small.

That thought just keeps circling back around. Over and over. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.

And then, before he can stop it, another feeling creeps in—warm and slow, curling deep within his spark chamber.

He’s felt it before.

A long time ago.

It hits him harder than expected, watching you reach for a snack with your tongue poking from the corner of your mouth in concentration. Something about the scene—so simple, so peaceful—shakes loose an old memory from the back of his processor.

Back when he used to watch over the sparklings in his old district. The little ones would scurry around the alleys, drawing in dust and chalk, stacking scrap metal into castles and laughing until their vocalizers crackled.

He’d always bring them extra energon cubes when he could get them. He’d sit with them, listening to their endless chatter, letting them climb over him like he was part of the playground. He’d been the biggest thing in their world—and the safest.

It hadn’t been about war then. Or glory.

It had been about them.

And as he watches you dig out a small bag of pretzels, eyes lighting up, cheeks puffed with effort and pride—

It hits him.

He misses them.

He misses all of them so much.

Before any lubricant could shed, he's snapped out of the memory by the sound of your footsteps returning. You plop down in front of him again with your hard-won snack in hand, peeling open the plastic with a victorious little grin.

One hand stuffs your face with food, the other busily scribbles something on your whiteboard again.

He leans forward, peering past the bulk of his own chassis to see what you're writing.

‘Thank you Blue!’

Another thank you. Sweet and simple.

He lets out a small vent of air—a chuckle, almost. Pride stirs in his spark, swelling and warm, and a wider smile pulls across his faceplate. It felt good. Really good. To provide. To protect. To make something easier for someone else.

It had been a long time since he’d felt that.

He still had his Conjunx, sure. Knock Out was his partner, his equal. But the red racer didn’t need him in the same way. Not like this.

There was something different—something deeper—about looking after someone so small. So dependent.

Breakdown was starting to realize that helping you… was filling a space in him he hadn’t even known was empty. 

Before he knew it, you’d already scarfed down the entire bag of snacks—crumbs on your fingers, cheeks puffed with the last bite. Without missing a beat, you picked up your whiteboard again, the marker squeaking softly as you wrote something new.

Breakdown stayed quiet this time, giving you space to concentrate. His optic followed your every motion, curious but patient.

You capped the marker, stood up with a determined little bounce, and held the board up as high as your arms could reach.

‘I have lots of questions to ask you. Can I please?’

Breakdown stared at the message for a klik.

Then he huffed a quiet laugh, his shoulders shaking just a little. Primus, you really were something.

He nodded, a smirk tugging at one side of his faceplate. “Yeah, alright. Hit me with ‘em, Tiny.”

That’s how the rest of your day went.

You with your whiteboard, scribbling question after question—your curiosity endless. And him, giant and gruff and surprisingly patient, answering every single one.

You learned he was an alien. A real one. From a metal planet called Cybertron where everything—buildings, skies, even the ground—was metal. He said the idea of soft things like grass or flesh still made his processor itch.

And that engine you’d heard yesterday? That had been him. He could transform.

It took some explaining, but eventually he offered to show you. Leading you out of the alcove, he gave a quiet “Stand back,” before his parts began to shift. The grinding, clicking, folding sound echoed through the air like thunder. You watched, mouth wide, as his massive frame folded and twisted in on itself—

Until where Breakdown once stood, now sat a huge armored vehicle, the same blue and gray metal with a big front bumper and reinforced windows. A military truck? A transport van? You couldn’t tell exactly. He didn’t know either—just said it was the first “mean-looking Earth vehicle” he scanned when he arrived.

Your eyes sparkled, practically bouncing on your toes as you walked around his alt mode, inspecting every detail. He chuckled lowly through his speakers, clearly amused.

Then he showed off.

It started slow—just a roll forward, revving his engine loud enough to rattle your bones. Then he picked up speed, making wide donuts in the desert sand. Kicking up dust like a sandstorm. Spinning sharp corners with expert control.

He never got too close. Always careful to keep a wide radius around you. But you laughed so hard your sides hurt, clapping and jumping and cheering every time he pulled off something extra flashy. You don't remember the last time you ever laughed like this.

It made something in his spark ache—in a good way.

When you eventually scribbled on your board, “Can I ride with you next time?”, he went quiet.

“Sorry, Tiny,” he rumbled through his external speaker. “Too dangerous. You wouldn’t even reach the pedals.” You pouted, just a little.

But he promised to drive again tomorrow. For a performance. Just for you.

He ushered you back into the alcove, a careful nudge from his big metal servo at your back. “That’s enough for today,” he rumbled, though his voice wasn’t stern—more like he was worried.

He’d noticed the flush creeping into your cheeks from standing out in the hot sun. His vents kept him cool, but you were human. Soft. Fragile. Breakable in ways he didn’t fully understand. The thought of you overheating made his spark clench.

You both sat back down in the shade. This time, he was the one asking the questions.

Things about you. About Earth. What was your favorite food? Why did humans need to drink so much water? Why were clothes made out of so many different things? And—he squinted his optic—why did humans only have fur on the tops of their heads but nowhere else?

You giggled at that one, the sound making the corner of his mouthplate twitch. It was funny explaining things you thought were obvious, but you tried your best for Big Blue. He listened closely, nodding along as he read your neat handwriting and watched your little hand gestures.

Then came the question that made you freeze.

“So… what’s up with your voice box, Tiny? Is it glitched or somethin’?”

You stilled, marker hovering in your hand. Slowly, your eyes lifted toward him, wide and uncertain—like you’d been caught doing something wrong. The joy in your face faded into something nervous.

Breakdown’s spark gave an uncomfortable twinge. He hadn’t expected that reaction. Did something serious happen to you? Was that why you didn’t talk?

A low hum of worry ran through his frame as you bent over your board, writing slower this time. His own hands twitched before hovering awkwardly in the air, halfway between wanting to comfort you and being afraid he might hurt you.

On Cybertron, when a sparkling was upset, their EM field would instinctively reach out for reassurance—touching his own field, letting him know what was wrong without a word. He’d pick them up, wrap them in the familiar hum of his presence, and hold them until they felt safe again.

But again…you were human. His field reached instinctively for yours—only to find nothing.

The absence hit him harder than he expected. It was like reaching out into the dark and realizing no one was there to reach back.

He tried to keep his cool in front of you, keeping his voice light, not wanting to upset you further. He was about to ask if you were okay, but you were already turning the board toward him.

This time, you didn’t hold it up so high. Your gaze stayed fixed on your lap, shoulders curling inward as though bracing for the answer.

The words, written in neat but uneven strokes, made something tighten in his chest.

‘Are you mad at me?’

For a moment, he just sat there, one servo hovering in the air like he’d been caught mid-motion. His optic widened despite himself. Primus, no—

“Woah, hey, kid—no, no, I’m not mad at ya.” His voice came out a little too quick, a little too loud, and he winced at himself. Awkward, great start. “I was just askin’, is all. We’re, uh… we’re gettin’ to know each other, right?”

He shifted his weight like the floor was suddenly real interesting, then crouched down more—slower this time—trying to catch your eyes without making you feel cornered. His optics darted between you and the board, like maybe it’d give him the right words.

One of his digits came up, hesitated mid-air, then tapped lightly at the top of your helm.

“Hey,” poke.

“Tiny, c’mon—” poke poke.

It wasn’t exactly the smoothest approach, but it was all he had—half teasing, half hoping you’d look up so he could figure out if he was doing this whole “comforting” thing right. He hasn't had to do this for Eon or two.

He could see your nervousness falter, a little smile coming back as he played with you. He smiles too, his chuckle coming back, more spark felt.  

“Hey…if ya want, you ask me somethin’ kay? Anything, kid” he offered, his finger still not leaving your head. You let out some tiny laughs as you tried to push his giant finger away, both your little hands on the tip of his digit. 

He backed off, the air around you both now back to normal. You picked up your marker and board, scribbling out something. 

Before you showed him, you had a shy smile on your face, you thought about his words. Getting to know each other…

You showed him what you wrote. 

‘Is your eye okay?’

He blinked at your question, servo lifting briefly to his right side of his face plate. 

It was such a simple thing you’d written, but it hit harder than he expected. For a moment, his servo twitched like he didn’t know what to do with it.

“Eh—yeah. Yeah, it’s fine,” he said, waving a hand like it was nothing. His tone was lighter than the way his field suddenly tightened. “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout that, kid. I’ve had worse.”

He shifted his weight, glancing anywhere but your face for a beat too long before leaning forward again, trying to cover the odd flutter in his spark with a smirk. “Besides… makes me look tough, huh?” a big grin on his face plate, showing all his denta.

You had your head tilted a bit at his reaction, but his question made you giggle again. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was right, his eyepatch did make him look really tough. Everything about him made him seem tough.

When he’d asked about your voice, it hurt. It was the same sting you’d felt every other time that question came up. In school, other kids had laughed at you or called you weird. Other adults you’d met — their friendly smiles would fade into that same hesitant look — and then they’d start talking slowly and loud, like you couldn’t hear. It made you feel stupid.

And it’s not like you didn’t want to talk. You did. You tried. Forcing a voice out felt like emptying your little body of all its air, even though you were barely breathing. You just… couldn’t.

When you were little, your mom would tell you to be quiet. Show you what happens when you don’t.

But as you grew, you just… lost control of when your body wanted you to say something. Even if your mom screamed at you to speak and tears rushed down your cheeks — your brain would just fill up, jumbled and stuck.

You giggled at his full smile—he was even flexing a little, showing off how tough he was. If he could be tough with something like that… Could you, too?

Your arms curled loosely around yourself, palms resting on your own frame. Too light. Too narrow. You could almost hear your mother’s voice, the way she’d pinch at your arm or glance you up and down with that little smirk. Weaker than me, she’d say, like it was a joke. Like it was a fact. She’d remind you often, not out of concern, but as if she needed it to be true.

You had far more bruises and welts scattered over your body than he ever seemed to. Still holding the marker, you rose from your seat and padded over, resting a hand against the solid plating of his leg to get his attention.

Mid-flex, his optic flicked down toward you. He froze, lowering those massive arms. “Yeah, Tiny?”

You turned away from his gaze, fingers tugging at the cuff of your jacket. Slowly, you rolled the sleeve back—past your wrist, past your forearm—until skin mottled with faint purples and yellows was bare to the cool air. With your other hand, you raised the whiteboard so he could read it.

Then you looked back at him, a hopeful smile just barely curving your lips, as if showing him your arm might be enough to ask the question you couldn’t speak aloud.

‘Do I look tough too?’