He did understand. That was the worst part.
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.
The next cycle, he went back to the supply trench. He checked the pressure seals. He walked the perimeter. He did not laugh. He did not speak unless ordered.
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
“They already did,” she whispered. “I’m not Petal anymore. I’m Unit-512. A malfunctioning piece of equipment.”
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.
Her optics flickered once, twice. “I want someone to remember that I was not always a soldier.” He did understand
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.
Petal was crouched inside the burned-out husk of a transport carrier, her yellow paint scoured down to raw metal in patches. One arm hung at an unnatural angle. Her optics were dim, flickering.
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. The next cycle, he went back to the supply trench
“7712,” she said. Her voice was a whisper. “You found me.”
He reached out and took her hand—the one that still worked. His plating was cold. Hers was colder.
He walked to his bunk. He did not recharge. He sat in the dark and thought about what it meant to be a number. To be 7712. To be Zero.
And then the light went out.