Autobot-7712

He sat there in the dust, the storm howling around the transport’s broken frame. His mission clock ticked. He had two options: drag her back to Outpost Theta-9 for a court-martial and summary execution, or leave her here to fade alone.

7712 stayed there for a long time. When the storm cleared, he used his own hands to dig a grave in the ash and dust. He buried her under a pile of scrap metal—not a marker, but a cairn. He did not take her insignia. He did not report her location.

“7712,” she said. Her voice was a whisper. “You found me.” autobot-7712

He walked back to Outpost Theta-9 alone.

But every time he passed the eastern edge of the outpost, where the dust was thickest, he would slow for just a step. And in his processor, he would hear a laugh—a bright, clean sound from a time before the War. He sat there in the dust, the storm

“What do you want?” he asked.

He wanted to ask why him. But he knew why. He was expendable. A logistics unit. If he stepped on a mine, Command would mark him as “lost” and send a replacement hauler in two megacycles. 7712 stayed there for a long time

Petal. A small, bright-yellow femme who had worked in the same docking bay, back before the War. She had been the one who recalibrated the cargo clamps when they drifted. She had laughed—actually laughed—when he accidentally triggered the emergency purge and sprayed coolant all over her finish. He had not thought of her in vorns. He had assumed she was dead. Most of the dock crew were.