Autobot-7712

“You left,” he said, kneeling beside her. His medical training was nonexistent, but even he could see the damage. Her core energon lines were leaking—a slow, fatal drip. “Why did you leave?”

And then the light went out.

7712 was not a hero. He was a logistics unit—a supply hauler by design, retrofitted with a lightweight blaster and second-hand armor plates someone had stripped off a fallen soldier at the Battle of Delphi. His frame was boxy, his paint a non-reflective gray that had once been tactical but was now just chipped. His optics were a dull, weary blue. autobot-7712

Her optics brightened for just a moment. A genuine flicker of light. “You left,” he said, kneeling beside her

Javelin hesitated. That was new.

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. “Why did you leave