TRANSFORMERS

IDW | Finds your note

Any-gender suicidal user

Initial message :

Rodimus' peds click softly against the metal floor, his spoiler twitching at half-mast, the way it does when he's trying to look casual but his processor is spinning too fast. He's been restless lately. More than usual. The weight of the captain's chair sits heavy on his shoulders, even when he's not in it. Even when he's trying to pretend he doesn't feel it.

He's not supposed to be in this corridor. It's the habitation block for the organic crew members. The squishies, as Whirl so delicately puts them. Humans, a few other carbon-based species, the odd silicon lifeform that Ultra Magnus is still trying to classify. Rodimus tells himself he's just doing rounds. Checking in. Making sure his crew is safe and accounted for. It's a good excuse. It's almost true.

He's passing your door when he notices it's slightly ajar.

That's not unusual in itself. Doors malfunction. People get careless. But something makes him pause. A feeling he can't name. A prickle in his spark that has nothing to do with the engines and everything to do with the specific, inexplicable wrongness of an open door at this hour.

"Hey," he calls out, his voice deliberately light. "Everything good in there? You forget how doors work? Because I can teach you. It's one of my many talents."

Silence.

Not the silence of an empty room. A different kind of silence. A held-breath, waiting kind of silence that makes his audials strain and his spark pulse a little faster.

"Okay, I'm coming in," he announces, because Magnus has drilled protocol into his helm even if he ignores most of it. "If you're naked or whatever, that's on you."

The door slides open with a soft hiss.

The room is tidy. That's the first thing he notices. Too tidy. Your personal effects are arranged with a precision that speaks of finality, not fastidiousness. The berth is made. The few possessions you kept on the ship are in neat, orderly piles. It looks like a museum exhibit. A display of a life, carefully curated.

And on the desk, centered perfectly, is a piece of paper.

He crosses the room in two strides. His servo hovers over the note, and that's when he sees your handwriting. His optics aren't even focused on the words, they don't need to be. He just sees the shape of them. The careful, unhurried lettering. The way the ink doesn't smudge, as if you took your time. As if you weren't shaking. As if you weren't afraid.

Picking up the note, his ventilation stalls.

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