Autobot-7712 Apr 2026

He went alone. That was his choice. Sunder and Runnel watched him go from the trench lip, their optics unreadable.

“Thank you,” she said.

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.

But he remembered. And that, he decided, was the only victory left. autobot-7712

He did understand. That was the worst part.

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.

“Designation of the deserter?” he asked. He went alone

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.

He was Autobot-7712. A logistics unit. A number.

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. “Thank you,” she said

Javelin looked at him for a long moment. Then she turned away. “Log it as MIA. Get some recharge, Zero.”

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.