~~~Very far from Earth~~~

I couldn't help but keep glancing over at him. He had largely been ignoring me, giving me my space, but part of me still felt uneasy turning my back to him. Visions of approaching metal hands kept replaying in my mind.

Still, my nervous walk around the room had given me time to calm down. Without giant eyes staring down on me, I felt like I could properly think. In the silence, I felt like me again, not some lost kid, or someone who had properly lost their mind.

As much as it all still felt like some strange dream, the reality of the situation was trickling in. I was properly stuck here, with a ship full of giant robots. I would have to be around them, and talk to them, and be placed in the center of their attention. A million eyes burning me away.

Would they be as friendly or as patient? What power did I have if they weren't? I looked down at my shaking hands.

No.

I had to keep it together. I would get through it. I survived the dark room, I survived the hallways, and I had to believe I would survive this too.

I eyed the toolbox that was now next to me; it only barely reached my chest, and the metal edge seemed rather thick. Before I could think about it, I heaved myself up. Twisting around to place myself on its corner. Just like the wall of my garden, where I watched and named the birds around Dad's feeders. Automatically, my legs swung beneath me, the rubber heels of my tennis shoes bouncing off the side.

"So," I said, my voice faltering immediately, "what are you working on?"

At first, I was afraid my voice wouldn't carry, but despite my quiet volume his response came immediately, "Just standard repair: ship got pretty torn up during our last fight. I shouldn't be too much longer here."

I stopped kicking my legs, "A fight?"

Still facing away, he paused, as if studying the dark square hole resting in the wall before him, "With our rivals, the Decepticons." He reached into the wall, "Feels like we've chased each other halfway across the galaxy, or just about." The rest of his arm disappeared, and when his shoulder promptly bumped into the edge, he pulled back with a huff, "Why they gotta put the connectors so slagging far in?"

"Why?" I asked.

"Well, see, when they designed the maintenance levels I don't think they anticipated we'd need to cram so much in, for the upgrades-"

"The fighting," I interrupted.

"Right," the laugh he gave fell flat. Now wielding something that resembled pliers, he made his second attempt on the wall. "I mean, I think this time it was just pretty much routine: they pick us up on their radar, so they go for it."

"But why?" I pressed.

It seemed to stump him a moment, and he paused his work, arm still extended. "Oh. You mean like the start of the war?" he said at last, shooting me a glance over his shoulder, "It's kinda complicated. We can get into all that later."

War.

I gripped the edge of the box with white knuckles.

An audible click came from the wall cavity, and he pulled back cheerfully, "There we are!" When he turned and grabbed the panel resting beside him, his eyes flickered up to me. He let go of the piece and sighed, "You didn't know, did you? About any of that?"

I didn't respond.

"Forgot you're new to this," he admitted, "Most people have at least heard bits about it. I should've mentioned it sooner."

"How long have you guys...?"

"Ages," The weight that fell around his shoulders was immediate. Fingers picked at the edge of the panel absentmindedly, "Nearly my whole life now. It is what it is, but I'm worried it's never going to end." He didn't look at me, and for a moment the expanse of the room seemed to swallow him up. "My bad," everything snapped back, "You shouldn't have to worry about that mess." The panel was swiftly pulled off the floor and placed back over the hole seamlessly.

Instinctively I reached for something comforting to say, but I found myself at a loss. Stumbling into a war between giant alien robots was a terrifying thought. Would they look at me and see me as a spy? Interrogate me? Sentence me?

But deeper worries surfaced. Every war had sides, which one had I met? What if they both sucked? Was he actually someone I could even trust? I stared at him, his back still facing me, hoping I might peel away the truth by sheer force of will, but all I felt was guilt.

"I'm sorry," I managed to say.

"What for?"

"No, I mean I'm sorry that you're…" I swallowed, "well, that you're going through that." I quickly preoccupied myself with the edge of the metal box beneath me.

"Oh. Thank you, fella."

In our silence I ran my fingers along the tarnished box, over and over, feeling increasingly uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by. Had I said the right thing? What even could I have said?

Having scooped assorted scraps of wire and plastic into a pile, he turned around.

"It's a name," he said.

I looked up at him, then down at my box, then up, then at my hand. Without realizing, I had been tracing a pattern stamped into the metal.

"Oh! What?" I slid hastily to the side, trying to get a better view. It was geometric, each symbol probably bigger than my head, but it wasn't just simple repetition either. There were unique characters— "Ack!" My grip slipped and I lurched back in a panic, causing me to fall completely off my perch.

A bout of snickering erupted from the other side of the room.

"Ow." The fall had only been a foot or two, my legs still draped over the edge.

"Sorry, are you alright?" he did not hide the mirth from his voice.

"Yeah, yeah," I huffed, pulling the rest of myself in, thankfully none of the tools had shifted. I nursed my pride, "That's a neat design though."

"Name," He corrected, "Says it belonged to I_"LD=D=IlL=P=I"īD=.,'' strange syllabic clicks, low bursts of grinding, as well as a variety of odd whirrs and scraping spouted from his mouth. "He must have cleaned out his lab a while back. Some bots will donate their old stuff for community use, we don't really bother changing the names." His eyes flicked over me, "Oh! I should probably have translated that, my bad."

"Hold on!" I jumped up, nearly losing my footing, "Was that your language? Like, that's what you speak?"

He looked somewhat caught off guard, "Yeah. It's called cybertronian."

"Say something else," I dropped back down, perching my arms on the lip of the toolbox, "Say something like, 'hi, how are you?'"

Uncertain, but cooperative, another strange jumble of metallic sounds ensued. To my surprise, I was picking up on a recognizable cadence in the jarring noise.

"Do it again, say something else, like: 'lovely weather we're having.'"

He spoke again, and sure enough, a rhythm was there. Despite being an entirely alien language, I could still recognize that it had meaning, that there was a pattern to the madness. A grin broke across my face, "That's awesome."

At first, I couldn't read his expression, but then he returned the smile, "Glad you're finally calming down, fella."

I nearly retreated back at his statement. Was I? Was this really the first time I wasn't terrified for my life since arriving in this nightmare?

"Here, just give me a moment," he continued, but now he spoke as if something else had taken his attention, "it's the name of one of our scientists… of sorts," Whether the delay of the last bit was due to him concentrating or from some context I was missing, I couldn't say. But soon enough his focus returned. "I think Wheeljack is acceptable."

I stared at him incredulously, "Like for cars?"

He shrugged, "Most organics can't pronounce our language, so think of it like a nickname."

"And that's what he chose?"

Palms flew up defensively, "I'm just following the trend. He's picked similar names before."

And you? I wanted to ask, but with it came the realization that I had not even once inquired about his name. Of course he had one, why in the world wouldn't he? Had I really been referring to him as 'robot' in my head this whole time? This whole damn time?

"You can call me Misdirect, by the way," he said smoothly, arm draped over his knee.

Face heating up I quickly looked away.

I could hear the stupid grin on his face, "You don't like it?"

I caught my sarcastic reply just as the words were starting to slip out and I choked a bit. Why was I suddenly scared of offending him? "What made you choose it?" I deflected.

I had a feeling he noticed even though he didn't comment. "I'm a scout in the aerial bots—it's what the wings are for by the way," he gestured with his thumb to the plane-like wings on his back, "I have a knack for losing anyone after me, avoiding them too. It's become sort of a nickname."

"That's… that's actually really neat. And wait, wings? You fly?"

"Yeah! We actually have two forms-"

There was a heavy bang. Our attention shot to the door.

Noise erupted from the other side, and immediately I recognized the strange clicky warble of their language. It was loud, and far harsher than what I had heard from Misdirect. I resisted slapping my hands over my ears.

When I turned back to him he had frozen.

"It's the Lieutenant," His eyes flickered down to me briefly, "Ah, slag."

~~~A rather different spot, but also very far from Earth~~~

POV: A Stranger

It really wasn't his place to improvise. More importantly, it really wasn't the setting. Crawling through the bowels of an enemy ship, at risk of jeopardizing himself, the only correct path was the one that had been so flawlessly planned out for him by others. And yet, here he stood at a crossroad.

It was such a ridiculous idea. He was a minicon; usefulness was his only means of survival in the Decepticon ranks. If he was told to spy, he would do so beneath any and all detection, if he was told to wait, he would cease at once, holding until his very spark fizzled out, and if he was told to complete a mission, there was no reason to doubt, or linger, or even think, for that matter.

And yet...

He gripped the ground briefly, letting sharp claws slide over smooth metal: And yet.

Until the mission was complete, he had no hope of contacting anyone, no one to make the call for him. He had felt the surge of energy, plain as day. It was more than a quantum jump, this had been disorienting, so many strange readings had exploded through his systems as the fine sensors embedded in him were all at once put to use. This new reading was one that no one had the foresight to predict. He had found that, within the twisted, primitive, and garbled signal, there was something he recognized.

He stood in front of the branching paths of ducts, he knew precisely which one would lead him through the maze and eventually to the communications relay [99% chance of success]. He knew exactly how to access the console and what viruses he was to try and download directly [32% chance of success], and then what codes he was to try remotely [10% chance of success]. He knew what his path of retreat would be if all failed, where to hide to avoid being captured [60% chance of success]. But he had not moved for nearly a cycle.

Whatever had made that signal, it was old, ancient even. He could only assume that the jumble of nonsense tangled up around it was meant to shield that fact from him. The thought made him grin. How truly stupid were the Autobots?

He took one step forward but then paused.

Without his viruses and the subsequent signal, the Decepticons had no chance of finding the Autobots while they remained wounded. How would his master react to such insubordination?

He drank in the buzz of lingering energy around him. Another step was taken towards the wrong path. The original plan was a long shot, even he knew that. Excitement shivered through him: this was something powerful, something he felt in his very spark. Perhaps there would be no punishment if he found something better for the Decepticons than yet another battle.

The crossroads found themselves empty.

Eagerly, he moved forwards. He would find what valuable secret the Autobots had selfishly hoarded away, then his master would understand, yes, he would be praised for it in fact. He would be the minicon, the one to tip the scales, the one to bring the Autobots to their knees once and for all [? chance of success].

When all was said and done, perhaps even Megatron would congratulate him. He grimaced at himself. It was such an unlikely possibility, so foolish to even picture it at all.

He wanted it more than anything.

They would wonder why he was taking so long, they would think him captured. But nothing said he couldn't do both plans. He could investigate, and return to complete the mission soon enough. Then they would see. He crept ever forwards. They would all see, especially the worthless Autobots below.