Chapter Text
There was nothing to be said about the utter agony and pain that came from no longer having a voice. Ratchet called them phantom pains; energy trying to spark through something that was no longer there, that could no longer feel anything. That could no longer operate.
The endings of B-127’s wires sparked, and that caused a feedback loop of itching, but not necessarily pain. It could just be that the afflicted spot was temporarily offline, that it had sustained damage so that the connections met nothing at all.
B-127 knew better.
If he needed physical proof, he needed to look no further than the counter of the infirmary, where his voice box sat on full display. It was nothing more than a mangled mess of scrap, bent wire and splintered metal leering out from all ends. It didn’t even resemble a voice box, though B-127 never would’ve known what a voice box looked like prior to this.
Ratchet had shown him diagrams. It all felt kind of pointless, like Ratchet was gesturing between perfection and what B-127 had let happen. Here is what it should be, and here is your folly. Your blunder. Where you fragged up everything.
It felt like its own degree of torture, which, again, was completely unnecessary. B-127 had already gone through that, personalized just for him and everything. He didn’t need Ratchet joining in, too.
Logically, he knew that wasn’t what Ratchet meant. Otherwise, the medic wouldn’t be half-bent over the countertop, balanced on a stool, as he tried to smolder B-127’s vocoder back together again. Everyone was trying to help, which was, theoretically, nice.
But the emptiness in his pipes was apparent. His inability to make a noise, no matter how far he opened his mouth, was crippling in its own right. Fluctuating terror rang through him, B-127 struggling for purchase as he waited.
It never got easier, no matter how many times Ratchet dug his voice box out of his neck to work on it. It reminded him too much of being pinned against the ground as cruel claws tore away at him. Ratchet was controlled as he pressed the panel to reveal B-127’s precious device, whereas Megatron had been almost frenzied from his anger.
Yet, it felt like he was reliving it again, sprouting terrified hisses into the air that disappeared the moment digits wrangled around the box and pulled it free.
B-127 was lucky, they said, to have survived the ordeal. He was even luckier that Sunstreaker had taken an extra second to locate his voice box from where it had been thrown carelessly to the side.
Lucky, lucky that Megatron hadn’t torn it to shreds until it wasn’t recognizable. Lucky, lucky that they hadn’t cannibalized his voice box like they usually did with sparklings and their precious parts.
B-127 was the most fortunate scout to ever walk the barren lands of Cybertron.
Why, even though his voice box was barely more than scrap at this point, at least he could still beep and chirp with it, as long as it remained in his throat! Lucky he was, again, that an ancient Cybertronian language made up of not even fifty words just happened to fix the bill for the sounds he could still make!
An old language from the Quintesson mines that the only bots left who even knew it existed was archivists in Iacon. That’s right; it had been Optimus himself who had taken the time to make B-127’s life a fraction easier. Even then, it had taken him four whole orbital-cycles to find it and download the files into B-127’s processor, but he could communicate again!
With select bots who chose to also download the files. The sad truth was, not many bots cared to.
But yes. B-127 knew to count his blessings. He had heard enough jeerings from the precious few other sparklings here to know he should consider himself very lucky to be able to communicate at all. To have the potential to make sounds.
If only he could just not panic whenever he was without his voice box, without the ability to even buzz, it would be perfect. He might start regaining the reputation he had made as Optimus’ personal scout. His stupid ward.
Primus. He felt pathetic.
Reduced to a mere ten stellar-cycles old by a simple removal of parts for a groon every once in a while. He was nearly three vorns old, and yet his frame trembled as he watched his voice box be nudged, played with, slowly fastened back together.
He wanted to pull Ratchet’s arm, beg him to put it back and never take it away again, but that wouldn’t come across well without his voice. Instead, he would look like a sparkling throwing a temper tantrum for no reason.
Not to mention, Ratchet was trying to help. He was wanting to fix what Megatron had done to him and present him back to Optimus, as good as new. It was an unexpected kindness from a medic who hadn’t even met him until that fateful solar-cycle after Tyger Pax, and B-127 couldn’t be more grateful.
Or, he could be. But it was hard to be more grateful, and B-127 felt bad about that. Ratchet deserved every inch of his praise, and all that B-127 could scrounge up was bitterness that he wasn’t already fully repaired.
“You know,” Ratchet said distractedly, fishing for tiny pliers without looking up from his work. “You don’t have to be here for this. You should be with your friends.”
B-127 didn’t have friends. None of the other sparklings liked him; thought he was pretentious and spoiled for being chosen as Optimus’ scout.
The few people he did get along with were his superiors, and B-127 was decently sure that they only tolerated him because he couldn’t speak. Before the incident, he was confident that they had been worried he’d rat them out to Optimus if they sent him away.
Besides, he’d much rather be here so that if something did happen to his voice box – if, Primus forbid, Ratchet screwed something up – he would be here to hear about it. To know immediately, so he wouldn’t have to face utter disappointment when he eventually came back to get it put back in.
Of course, it was impossible to say all of that without a voice. Perhaps he could write it down, but B-127 didn’t keep his datapad on him outside of debriefings and missions.
B-127 let his silence sit in the air and simmer. It was as heavy for him as it was for Ratchet, the awkwardness pungent.
“Fine,” Ratchet sighed at long last. His volume lowered a couple ticks, and he didn’t turn around to make up for it. “I’ll figure out how to fix this soon, B-127. You have my word. You’ll have your voice back soon.”
Ratchet had been saying that for stellar-cycles.
B-127 didn’t believe it anymore, but that was just how it was. Waiting endlessly for promise after promise. Being told the war would end soon, that everything was another step in the right direction.
But the planet was dying. The Allspark was gone. B-127’s voice had degraded into nearly nothing. There was nothing left anymore, aside from a lifetime of knowing his voice box would be pulled out and worked on as long as he and Ratchet’s sparks burned.
He did not dare complain about the kindness, even when his vocoder was working.
Ratchet could not possibly know how much the absence of his voice box hurt B-127. He had told the scout time and time again that if he was ever uncomfortable with the procedure, that he could come to Ratchet and just tell him. Yet B-127 never did.
Therefore, it was no weight off his back to push himself off the medical berth. He crossed the distance between them and tapped Ratchet’s shoulder, waiting patiently for Ratchet to put down his tools and turn around.
“What is it, B-127?” Ratchet asked, removing his welding visor from his face to give him a long look.
Ratchet was never prone to touch, especially for being a medic. His bedside manner was, admittedly, lacking. But B-127 would’ve been annoyed if he had been coddled at any point, especially during such an important, frightening time.
B-127 cast his arms around Ratchet’s neck and leaned in, widening his field to fully envelop the old medic. He might not have known Ratchet for as long as he knew his scout commander or Optimus, but the medic had his own special place in B-127’s spark chamber. Somewhere warm and safe.
If he were capable of such words, with or without his voice box, B-127 would tell Ratchet how much it meant to him that the medic was there at all. “I love you”s were few and far between among the Autobots, but if B-127 could, he’d use it now.
However, there was nothing he could say with his voice box’s current capabilities that translated nearly as well as a hug.
Ratchet’s servos were frozen in the air for only a moment before they hesitantly wrapped around B-127’s back. Another klik of silence, and then Ratchet dipped his helm against B-127’s shoulder and pulled him closer. “I am… so sorry, B-127. For everything.”
B-127 tapped his back, three times, trying to reassure him that it was okay.
Ratchet seemed to believe it as little as B-127 did, because he shook his head. “It’s not, B-127. Cycles ago, I promised a young sparkling that I would fix him, and I have failed. I am unsure how long I will continue to fail. And I apologize for that.”
I’m sorry, too, that it hurts you so much. B-127 thought, blinking his eyes open to stare at the offending voice box. The cause of so much annoyance and strife. If only he hadn’t mouthed off to Megatron so much, and just had kept his silence, maybe they could’ve avoided all of this.
Or maybe he’d be dead in a ditch somewhere. Either one was completely possible.
Maybe the problem was how deeply B-127 felt about his voice box. If he could just let it go, they could both be okay.
Yet, it was impossible to rewrite his processor to make up for that unless he either wanted to turn into some heartless scrapheap like Shockwave or was truly willing to turn on his scouting protocols and turn into an emotionless bundle of wires until this whole war was over.
So he guessed they were both stuck like this, with emotions and the crawl of failure too great to bear. How ridiculous, and what a pair they made.
“If I could scrap a Decepticon for a new one, I would do so in an instant.” Ratchet told B-127, withdrawing but keeping his servos fully clenched on his shoulders. “But you and I both know that it wouldn’t be the same.”
B-127 patted both hands over his chassis and puffed himself up. He let the pose of authority lie for a nano-klik before rolling his eyes.
Ratchet understood his poor attempt at charades for what it was, because Ratchet always made B-127 never went unheard whenever he could help it. “Yes, yes, and Optimus would never allow it. That too, I suppose, but let it never sound like I’m questioning the Prime’s orders!”
As if B-127 hadn’t heard Ratchet yell at Optimus over every little thing a dozen times over since he came to join them in Iacon. He vented and shoved Ratchet’s shoulder affectionately, and Ratchet finally let go.
“Alright, leave me be. I still have a few more things to try before it’s good to go back in, so sit down or go away.” Ratchet huffed, reverting back to his old grumpy self and turning away from B-127. His visor slid back down, and just like that, their moment never happened.
B-127’s pipes still felt hauntingly empty, aching for something that would never be there. But Ratchet was a very good friend. Somehow, that balanced the aching of it all out with something softer.
He could mourn for something that was no longer there, but B-127 could admit it; he felt happy and content.