𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 ━ transformers

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

Like I promised, I tell Ironhide everything. Once the words are out in the open, they are easier to say. Explaining Cliffjumper and telling Ironhide about how he's infiltrated my thoughts and sometimes my very movements--hence my overreaction to Chromia--is done in less than five minutes.

When I'm done, Ironhide regards me with concern in his eyes. He reaches for my eye, which is no doubt burning blue, his fingers grazing underneath it, pinching the bruises. I lean into it for a moment before Cliffjumper's disgust wrenches me away from it. I fall into the door behind me.

Ironhide brought me to what he calls his alternate form--the form he uses to hide in plain sight. It's the truck, and we're in the backseat, Ironhide's human form sitting beside me. I'm curled up against the door, reciting everything I know about Cliffjumper and his presence in my mind, and everything in me is racing, but his hand is an anchor to the present.

"How long has he resided in your mind?" Ironhide asks, pulling his hand away, frowning. He took the news with less enthusiasm than I would have liked, but he wasn't angry. For that, I was grateful.

"The night that I, um, found out," I say quietly, thinking back. The memory sits heavily in my head. "About you, I mean. I saw him on the base. He was bleeding out. He was going to. . ."

My voice trails off, but Ironhide gets the gist. He swallows, nodding at the information. The cabin of the truck hums quietly, heat rushing through the vents. In his silence, I continue staring at him, stomach clenching and unclenching. I try to ease my own panic, but gazing for too long makes the picture fuzzy. It's almost like I'm waiting for the moment where Ironhide turns around and his eyes are bright red.

You were the one who trusted a Decepticon, Cliffjumper supplies in my mind.

I never trusted him, I retort, rolling my eyes. I show him my skepticism and apprehension regarding Barricade, but he continues chastising me.

Is it not a thing for humans to mistrust cops in this world, much less this country? Cliffjumper asks, sounding bored. I figured you would understand that no cop would be so concerned for a measly femme.

I was leaving, I snap next. I didn't think I would see him ever again after my trip, so I endured it.

"Is Cliffjumper. . .?" Ironhide asks, trailing off. When I glance up at him, his frown is frustrated, like he can't solve a particularly difficult problem. I must be making a face. The thought makes something in me squirm. "Is he. . . speaking to you?"

Well, obviously!

"Yes," I say, sighing.

"But how is this--how is it possible?" Ironhide says, shaking his head, grunting. Though the cabin of the truck is big, he still seems to take up more space than usual. His shoulders hunch together, a sigh escaping his mouth. "He perished vorns ago. Chromia informed us that she felt him offline."

"Felt him? Offline?" I ask, brows furrowing. That wasn't covered in Starscream's integration of Cybertronian culture. "What do you mean?"

It means she felt me die, slagger, Cliffjumper growls in my head. His voice is angry, but I can feel the anguish rolling off of him. Chromia thinking him to be dead hurts him more than he lets on.

"On Cybertron," Ironhide starts off hesitantly, glancing at me quickly, "when two 'bots. . . love one another very much--"

"No," I say, shaking my head, throwing my hands up. "Nope. You can stop right there, Iron--"

Once again, I stop on his name. Talking to him is easy because it's like talking to Ron. But Ron was a human. His body was made of flesh, not synthetic metal. He did not have armor plates. He had a mouth. Lips. Soft eyes. Hands that were rough but gentle. Warm.