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On the 42nd cycle of their deployment, Javelin called a briefing.
“She left her post without orders. That’s the definition,” Javelin replied. “Bring her in, Zero. Or don’t come back.”
And then the light went out.
The terrain was worse than usual. A dust storm had rolled in overnight, reducing visibility to twenty meters. His magnetized feet crunched over shattered metal and something softer he did not look at. His blaster was useless in this weather—he could not see far enough to shoot anything. So he walked.
His squad was three other mechs: , a former medic who had stopped carrying medical supplies after the first month; Runnel , a scout with a cracked voice box who communicated in static clicks and gestures; and Javelin , their commander—a sleek, arrogant femme who still believed the war could be won with proper tactics and discipline. autobot-7712
The name hit his processor like a short-circuit.
7712’s job was simple. Every third cycle, he walked the eastern supply trench, checked the pressure seals on the reserve energon cubes, and reported back. It was a two-klick round trip through terrain that had been bombed so many times it no longer resembled a planet’s surface—just sharp-edged craters and fine gray dust that got into every joint. On the 42nd cycle of their deployment, Javelin
“7712,” she said. Her voice was a whisper. “You found me.”