Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Death came to Skids slowly. 

He didn’t regret it, of course— what he had done would save the rest of the crew, give them a fighting chance against the Decepticon Justice Division. He deserved a long and painful death, the same as Quark. 

Everything blurred, then went dark. In his stupor, he thought he heard Ratchet’s voice whisper, “sleep tight, soldier,” before his audials failed him too.

He felt his spark slowly extinguish. Each moment as his life teetered between the edges of life and death felt painful, the most amount of pain he had ever felt. It had put his experience at Grindcore to shame.

The warmth of his energon slowly began to lessen. It was replaced with a biting, yet numbing cold in every inch of his frame. 

What he had not expected was to feel his optics online, his spark flutter to life with one great heave, his energon to begin pumping once more. Wherever that energon touched, though, remained ice-cold. Even his most rigorously active components didn’t begin to heat. His cooling fans stayed perfectly silent, almost deafeningly so. The sound of quiet cooling fans— whether they were his, or others’— had been a constant ambient hum throughout his millions of years of life. Now, they were completely silent.

Skids was not a religious mech, no— he left those ideas to spiritualists and priests, but wherever he was, this wasn’t Nercroworld, hell maybe, from what happened on Grindcore, it was deserved. 

Wherever he was, it was cold. Cold enough to make him involuntarily shiver as he adjusted to the blinding light. Small flakes caught onto his nose before melting shortly after… snow? Skids shifted in an attempt to move his body into something like a sitting position.

He remembered snow from one of Rewind’s movie nights. It went hand in hand with a yearly time on Earth when all the humans put up trees and pretty rainbow lights and gave each other gifts and their sparklings played together in the white, powdery material— snow. Apparently it was supposed to be really, really cold. Maybe… that was why he was so cold, and unable to move? Whatever the case, when he tried to use his servos to push himself up, it refused to form even a relatively supportive surface.

His frame failed him after a few kliks, body causing him to flail for a moment, before falling onto his side. The cold continued to seep through his frame, snow slowly beginning to form on top of his frame. After a kliks, his peds were nearly covered. He was going to be buried in snow, a stupid way to go, if he wasn’t already dead that is. 

Movement was heard from the very corner of his audials, foot-steps slowly coming closer and closer. A soft yellow glow was felt over his frame, a servo over his shoulder. 

“C’mon, get up, soldier.” The familiar voice was barely audible through the wind and swirling snow. The mech’s servo gripped tighter onto his frame, heaving him towards a chassis. 

Skids tried to ask a question, say anything to the figure holding him, but all that came out was a weak grunt. The mech chuckled, a hollow laugh as Skids was slowly but surely dragged.

“You’ll have questions, he had them too. I don’t have a ton of answers, but I’ll tell you everything I know.”  The voice continued after a few kliks of awkward silence and a few weak grunts.

“Ammm…?” Skids whispered, his voice rasped and shaky. “Ammm…buuu…..lonnn….?” It couldn’t be him, he was dead. Ambulon was dead. Unless…..

“Is-is this…the after-spark?” He wheezed, watching as his peds made a trail across the snow, quickly being replaced by new snowfall. The mech didn’t say anything. 

Both a thousand years and only a few seconds went by as Ambulon dragged him through the steadily falling snow. He wanted to ask questions but his vocal synthesizer refused to make noise, and his vents refused to draw air in. 

“Hang tight. We’re almost there,” The mech murmured comfortingly, patting his chassis.

“Wh-where?” Skids managed to choke out, wriggling in his arms as best he could, making a vaguely inquisitive noise. Then, though, through the blinding white of the snow, he saw it. A shape so familiar and safe he didn’t dare believe it.

It was the Lost Light, if not a shadow version of the ship. The white hue of the ship’s paint-job was a tarnished cream color, lights dim and the red now a faded maroon. The remains of any paint were scratched and peeling, and most of the metal plates making up the hull were dented, rusted, or missing altogether.

“We made it.” The mech whispered, Skid’s audials ringing as the ship’s boarding ramp descended with a sickening creak. He continued to be hefted up each step until he was successfully inside, the ramp going up behind him.

A few different voices were heard in the corner of his audials; the voices of dead mechs. He was more than likely hallucinating, flashes of his life before the inevitable extinguishment from his spark. The mech continued to haul him until they reached what looked to be the Lost Light’s medi-bay, though faded in color.

Skids’ whole world spun for a moment as the mech who was maybe-Ambulon-but-couldn’t-be heaved him onto a cot, causing him to land with a hard clang. 

“I’d say it’s nice to see you again, Skids,” the mech said. “But it isn’t. I’m… sad to see you here. You shouldn’t be here. Not yet.”

He stepped into Skids’ view, the same chipped red and white paint, the same tired yellow optics as he once saw before Delphi. Ambulon looked… different however, namely the giant golden crack starting from the top of his helm to the ends of his peds. The medic glanced at Skids’ shocked expression before sighing. 

“How you died is visible here, I don’t want to alarm you too much, but for now don’t look down. It’ll only make you feel worse.” Ambulon chided softly. 

“What is this place? Where are we?” Skids rasped after a few moments, choosing to take his warning to spark. 

Ambulon sat heavily on a small chair beside the cot. “We call it purgatory. Because… Well, we’re pretty sure we’re ghosts. I mean, we’re all dead. How’d you go out?”

“Voluntary spark spasm.” Ambulon blinked rapidly but nodded when Skids said this, as if he was putting the pieces of a puzzle together, but didn’t question it. “And what do you mean, ‘we’? How many of you are there?”

“Just me, Pipes, and Trailcutter.” He sighed as he spoke, form flickering for a few moments before he continued. “Pipes was the first, Trailcutter only showed recently. Any other mech has either not died yet, or have been lost to the snow. We nearly couldn’t grab Trailcutter as is, he’s a big mech.”

Ambulon let out another hollow laugh, an attempt to make Skids feel more at ease, although it didn’t really work. The medic shuffled further away before he continued to speak, sitting in a slab opposite to the theoretician, a sad smile on his face. 

“Time’s different around wherever we are. Pipes was the first, but according to him, it felt like months before I showed up, and it felt like even longer for Trailcutter,” Ambulon clenched his servos together. “We haven’t been able to get off the planet, there’s only three of us, and we can’t exactly fly a ship like that.”

Skids let the thoughts seep into his very spark before sighing, shifting from his seat on the medical slab. He still felt different, his spark didn’t feel like it was entirely there, almost as if he was in two different places- he felt truly hollow. 

“How are Pipe’s and Trailcutter handling it; how are you handling this?” He uttered after a few moments. Stuck on an unidentified ice planet with a shadow of their former ship, with no hope to even get off, and they had no idea if they were even dead? It was a wonder that anyone had been surviving this long. 

The medic sighed at the question, scratching at the scar against his chassis. Clearing his throat before he spoke. 

“I’ve been… better. It’s certainly a finer situation if you compare it to Delphi,” Ambulon let out a dry laugh before continuing. “Trailcutter  has been alright, a bit anxious but that’s to be expected,”

“What about Pipes?” Skids furrowed his non-existent brow. 

Ambulon looked to the side, clearly he was uncomfortable with the question. The medic sighed, scratching his helm.

“Pipes is-not handling it as well as the rest of us. He’s been here the longest, been alone the longest,” He scratched his chassis as he spoke. “Just let him be for now, it would be better for everyone involved.” 

Peds were heard as the medi-day doors slowly creaked open, breaking the peace. The steps were  too large and heavy for a mini-bot, a faded orange and black paint-job being seen from the corner of Skid’s optics. 

Trailcutter peaked his head from the corner of the wall, offering the theoretician a sympathetic smile and wave. Jagged scars reached nearly every limb of his body, deep enough to see protoform with each movement, if he concentrated close enough he might see a smashed brain module rattling in his head, Skids shuddered. 

Ambulon let out a deep sigh, swiveling in the chair until he faced the security officer, a reprimanding expression on his face. 

“Trailcutter, I told you-” The medic began, though quickly being interrupted.

“I understand it’s just-it’s just been a while.” Trailcutter wheezed, slowly and cautiously taking a hesitant step towards Skids, as if he was a wounded turbofox. 

Skids shuffled further until his back hit the cold wall of the medi-bay, optics trained on Trailcutter and his rattling brain module. The security officer seemed to notice, immediately taking a step back, a wounded noise at the tip of his vocalizer.

Ambulon took a step out of the chair, his optics widened as he began to speak, his lips curled into a permanent line.

“Skids is-”

“Skids is fine.” The Theoretician interrupted, casting an empty smile towards Trailcutter. Ambulon let out a sigh, running a servo across his face. 

Skids ignored the sigh, shuffling off of the chair and towards the security officer, taking an indecisive step forward. He grabbed one of Trailcutter’s servos, holding it tightly, an effort to make sure all of this was real. 

Trailcutter blinked, his orange optics dull but surprised. “It feels like it’s been a lifetime!”

“What are you doing here? Last time I heard, you were found dead on Ofsted XVII,. The DJD…”

The mech chuckled but there was no humor in it. He absentmindedly fiddled with his servos.  “Oh. Yeah. That fraggin’ ‘con. It’s okay, though. I don’t… it doesn’t hurt anymore.” He gestured to the cracks in his chassis. Ambulon shot him a look. 

Skids looked between the pair, not interrupting their silent argument, not daring to say anything. Their optics were locked onto one another’s, gazes unyielding. Skids processor buzzed. He couldn’t deal with more arguing, whether it was silent or not.

The theoretician stood up. Neither mechs seemed to notice as he wandered mindlessly past them, through the desolate halls of his past home. 

The Lost Light had once been a homey place, filled with the amicable shouts of friends and the sounds of the pandemonium that came with having two hundred bots fresh from war. Now, though, it was silent, so quiet that Skids was sure he could hear his own spark beating. That was if he’d still had one. 

The walls themselves seemed to leak the essence of loneliness, the feeling of having been forgotten. Skids was reminded of a quieter, emptier version of Grindcore. It sent shivers down his chassis. 

Something scratched on metal behind him. He whipped around, the shivers in his chassis strengthening. The hall behind him was empty. 

There’s nothing there, he thought to himself. Nothing there. The ship is empty. Except for Ambulon and Trailcutter and Pipes. 

He continued to creep down the hall, not entirely sure what he was looking for. The forgotten bar called to him. A dim light illuminated the room that had once held parties and sprawling celebrations. Skids felt a pang of loss, seeing the empty seats and silent dance floor. 

A figure sat in one of the barstools, a sour illumination of an energon cube leaving a soft glow on the mech’s frame-Pipes.

Skids took a step back, nearly gasping at his appearance. He’d known, thanks to Ratchet, that Pipes had been crushed to death by Overlord, but he immediately felt terrible for whomever had found the minibot’s body.

 His chassis, his frame, his limbs, all of it, were crushed and bent beyond repair. One of his optics rested higher than the other on his face. His right arm was bent almost backward, both at the joint and at the bicep. A huge dent laid in his chassis, crushing his chest nearly flat and making his shoulders rest unevenly. The glowing scars that Skids had seen on the other bots covered Pipes.

Pipes tilted his helm towards the theoretician’s direction, his voice a mere whisper as he clutched the energon cube like a lifeline. 

“Skids,” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Skids let out an awkward laugh, cautiously stepping towards him, servos in the air and palms out in a gesture of peace. “I haven’t been here for long, but I’m starting to realize that I don't think any of us do. What is this place?”

Pipes glanced at him, broken optics staring straight into his potential spark, clutching the energon cube until it burst. Broken glass scattered over his hands as he spoke, his tone cold.

“Hell.” He responded simply. 

Chapter Text

Ravage had been the next one to come. It had been weeks since Skids arrived, but the days were slow and meaningless. The snow continued to fall outside of the Lost Light, sticking to the windows of the ship until they were unable to see outside. 

Skids found him kicking and writhing in the snow, having joined Ambulon on their daily search for others. He had been yelling curses at the mech that tore him in two.

“Don’t touch him yet,” Ambulon warned, crouching beside the bestial mech. “He still thinks he’s there; the necro-planet, you said?”

He nodded in confirmation, ducking from a near slash to the helm. The cat-mech’s scar looked similar to Ambulon’s, although sideways. Skids shivered at the thought of… whatever ended Ravage's life. 

Ambulon waited until the cat rested for a split moment, grabbing the scruff of his neck and lifting up. Ravage went limp, scowl drooping. He glanced at Skids, chuckling as they moved.

“Let me guess, the afterspark?” Ravage murmured, analyzing the scar against Skids’ chassis. He squirmed under the gaze, shrugging.

“Maybe, maybe not. Let’s get out of the snow first.” 

The walk back was bleak. Snow slowly rose above his peds, stopping just below his knees. The storm was getting stronger as of late. Cold settling deep inside his frame, never leaving.

Trekking to the ship was getting harder and harder each time; it was getting nearly painful to step outside the ship. Soon, these “looking for others” expeditions would be coming to an end. 

The Ghost Light (wonderfully named by Skids himself) hinged and creaked as the mechs walked through; the immediate closing of doors sent shivers down Skids’ spine. He offered Trailcutter a grin as he stepped in, following Ambulon to the medi-bay. 

Pipes did not wait for them by the entrance, but he often never did. He normally sat in his habsuite alone, only leaving every once in a while to haunt the bar. 

Their peds were heard across the entire ship, echoing throughout the hallways. Trailcutter stuck his head out of his habsuite, walking with them to the medi-bay.

“How did you die?” Trailcutter bluntly interrogated, crouching down to look at the feline and his position draped against the medi-berth.

Ambulon sighed, rubbing the ridge of his nose as he began to scold the larger mech, a disappointed expression on his features.

“Trailcutter, it’s rude to ask a mech how he died-”

“Ripped apart by Tarn,” the beastformer grunted, lying his head against the medi-bay slab. 

Skids frowned as he slowly pushed past the larger mech. Though the memories of his “death” were clouded, the imagery of the beastformer’s mangled form dropping in the DJD leader’s arms were burned into his optics. 

He turned to Ambulon, who furrowed his brow, and glanced between Skids and Ravage for a moment before realization hit.

“He died before you, I’m guessing,”

Skids nodded.

“I have a theory that the more severe the cause of death, the longer it takes to cross over to here.” 

Ambulon continued after a few moments. 

“It’s what happened to me, anyways. I died right after Pipes, but it took me a while to recuperate from being… sliced in half. Since he was crushed, his spark gave out immediately, he came here faster whereas I was still alive before I died. Ravage was also sliced in half, causing him to take longer to appear since it wasn’t a direct spark injury.”

The theoretician’s expression deepened. Trailcutter patted his back. 

“It’s confusing, we know. You just gotta go with the flow.”

Skids sighed, nodding slowly. It seemed to be the mantra of this place at this point. Go with the flow, check outside, go inside. A repetitive cycle, no matter Pipes was the way he was.

Maybe, if he stayed as long as him, he would turn out the same.

Ravage rolled his eyes, his chin rested against the slab’s end. His ear twitched for a moment, as if taking all of it in. He turned in Ambulon’s direction, optics creased.

“Any chance at leaving this dump?” the beastformer questioned. 

Ambulon shook his head, ignoring Ravage’s long and drawn-out groan. 

“None of us know how to pilot the ship; everything seems to be working the same, but unless a pilot dies next, we’re stuck.”

Ravage peered at Skids and the theoretician shrank under his gaze.

“You’re an outlier whose ability is super learning, and you haven’t learned how to fly a ship?!” 

Skids evaded the room’s gaze, ignoring Trailcutter’s sharp laugh which had been quickly silenced from a harsh slap against the larger mech’s chassis by Ambulon.

“I know how to drive smaller ships, but the Ghost Light is… something else,” the theoretician started, taking a moment before he continued. 

“I was looking into learning how to pilot it just in case, but didn’t get the time before the mutiny.” He trailed off, looking towards the side.

Ravage peaked his chin up, and the others watched as the beastformer leapt off the medi-bay slab, as his joints creaked as he walked out the medi-bay doors.

For a moment, everything was silent. Trailctutter glanced between Ambulon, then at the ground, before he settled onto looking into Skids’ optics. 

Meanwhile the medic picked at the golden welds against his form, unable to look the theoretician in the eyes, more than likely embarrassed that in the weeks that Skids’ been there. None of them had thought about that. 

“I can find you some holopads,” Ambulon murmured after a few moments. “If you think you can pilot, that is.”

Skids snorted, think? He knew he could. The medic noticed the look on his face, he stood up quickly, leaving just Trailcutter in the room with him.

He tried not to look at the brain module rattling about in the larger mech's brain, his optics darted to an empty shelf, audials wincing at each step the larger mech took before silence filled the room.

The theoritican’s chest burned, a soft churn of what was once a spark. Skid’s itched at the golden cracks absentmindedly, ignorant as snow continued to pile outside the window, sticking to the lower deck.