(Longrange is indoctrinated if not outright brainwashed, Sharpshot is furious at that, confusion ensues when those collide.)

“You forgot everywhere
else.” 

Longrange paused, mildly puzzled,
and looked their frame over for a moment. They hadn’t missed any visible areas,
and they knew they hadn’t gotten dirty enough to need any sort of deep
cleaning, so they were done. They tried to tell Sharpshot as much, but he was already
steering them back into the shower. Puzzled but cooperative, Longrange sat down
on the bench again, helm tilted to watch Sharpshot. “I’m- I’m sorry, but I
don’t know what you’re talking about, to be perfectly honest.” 

Sharpshot, electing to demonstrate rather than talk,
sat down next to them and showed them a long, thin brush. “This is for
cleaning under plating. Someone clearly hasn’t shown you how to use one. You’re
shiny and attractive, yes, but you need to clean the parts of you that are not visible. You need to keep
yourself comfortable. Hold still.” 

As expected, Longrange
cooperated. It usually made Sharpshot angry that they were so compliant, but,
in this case, it might be helpful. Wasn’t as if one could easily scrub under
the plating of someone who was actively running away from you. 

It was working, at least.
Longrange was still wearing their all-too-common “what in Primus’ name are
you doing” expression, but they were relaxing, and there was no undercurrent of
anything negative. Still- best to ask. 

“Longrange, do you want me to
stop doing this? If it’s unpleasant for you, I will stop.” 

No, they really didn’t mind. In
fact, Longrange leaned into Sharpshot, more than happy to go with… whatever
this was. He confused them, but he seemed very earnest about helping. However
this was supposed to help. They looked nice! They were fine! 

…although that did feel good.
If ticklish. “No, no objections, thank you, this is actually quite nice,
but- ah! Goodness! That’s- I- oh!” 

Wait, no, too ticklish. 

People who started to squirm that
much generally wanted whatever was happening to stop, so Sharpshot paused, then
shifted to a different area that didn’t earn as much wiggling. “Good. Hold
still. And, urgh- look down.” 

Primus. How long had it been
since anyone had done this? Ever? The solvent running from under Longrange’s
lifted plating was filthy where Sharpshot was scrubbing, Not enough to truly
interfere with anything, but it couldn’t be comfortable. “How much of your
weight is grime?” 

Longrange would have been light
in the first place, meant to be held on someone’s arm, and the carved markings
in their plating lessened their weight even more. It was absurd. Sharpshot
could throw them over one shoulder and carry them away. Had, once. It made them
even more confused. 

Poor, deluded, brainwashed Longrange. Somehow not
aware that they should be outraged over having their genetics lab-modified to
make them prettier for their owner. What on Cybertron did a noble even need with
a long-range telescope? What-

Oh, he was getting riled up
again. Probably best not to do that, Longrange was confused enough already
without further outrage on their behalf. 

Oh good, he’d stopped. Longrange
had no idea how to communicate “please continue doing this thing but alter
it slightly to suit my minor and unimportant request” without sounding
incredibly selfish. This was lovely. 

Entirely unnecessary,
though. “Sharpshot, this… this feels very good, but… I’m quite clean
enough. I need to maintain my image if I am ever going to find a new Lord. I-”
almost a chuckle, but not quite, this wasn’t the funniest thought, “I do
terribly hope that wouldn’t require me to take my plating off. Not that I’m…
quite certain. People have been unofficially appointing themselves to the
position for me. I haven’t needed to look. Would you… happen to have any
ideas?” 

That’s a bit sad, isn’t it?
Servitor-class mech asking how to find a new Lord. It wasn’t as though they’d
had any practice in this. Every time they’d been available, someone had…
picked them up. Often literally. It was their role in life. 

Longrange was making it very hard not to be visibly
outraged on their behalf. “No. I… wouldn’t know how to go about finding
yourself a new owner. Unless you want to go all-out, put a leash on yourself,
and hold an auction,” Sharpshot grumbled, then paused, hissed, and outright
glared up at them. “Do not do that. Instead, explain to me why you need an
owner.” 

Dear Primus, there’s that
brainwashed expression again. Like they’re baffled by the very thought of
questioning any of this. Perfectly happy with their life as a decorative
pet. 

Was it not obvious? Genuinely taken aback, Longrange
leaned away to look down at Sharpshot, optics wide and helm cocked. “I’m-
first of all, not an owner, a Lord. And… look at me. Really. My alt mde is
immobile. I am entirely useless without someone to use me.” 

This was true. Yes, they could
theoretically position themself to look at things themselves, but what good
would that do? They weren’t any sort of leader, they weren’t a strategist. The
best they could do was look at things and enjoy it. Enjoyable, admittedly, but
useless. That didn’t do anyone any good. Sharpshot really didn’t seem to be
getting the idea, though, and evidently something was upsetting here.

Turning slightly to the side,
Longrange placed their servos on Sharpshot’s servos, meeting his optics. Well-
meeting his center optic, that was probably the best place to look. “Sharpshot,
I am servitor-class. When needed, I work for strategists. When not in active
warfare, I work for nobles. Nobles use my alt for their enjoyment, and, as you
can see by my plating, the rest of me is used for decoration. That is my role
in life. And it’s, really- it’s fine!” they crooned, armor lifting, optics
bright and earnest. “It’s not hard! I follow someone around, I keep myself
clean, I transform when requested, and that’s it. One of the easiest jobs I
know of.” 

…oh dear. Sharpshot had that
furious expression in their optics again. It was borderline terrifying,
honestly, his scope-optic whirred and dilated rapidly as if focusing on a
target. 

Ow, okay, that hurt. Sharpshot’s
primary optic physically couldn’t focus on anything this close, so he shut it
and shook his helm, using the moment of time to settle his plating down. He was
probably scaring Longrange, wasn’t he? 

Dear Primus. He’d hoped that
asking Longrange what they thought was happening would help him figure out how
to get around it, but it was mostly just making him angry. 

A few deep vents to settle himself, then he patted
Longrange’s arm, sighing quietly. “I understand that you… are very set
in your role here. I suppose it offers you some level of stability, hm? But
stability that centers around being controlled by, used by,
other people for no reason other than the frame you were born into. You are a
person. You are not a tool. Look at me- my alt is incapable of operating
properly without assistance! But I do fine on my own. I don’t need an owner. Stop- stop
saying ‘Lord’, Longrange. If someone controls your every movement and what
you are allowed to do, if they fuel you and provide you with a place to live
only so you will do something for them, if they have ultimate control over
everything including whether or not you are allowed to interface, they see
themselves as owning you!” 

He tried to stay calm. He really
did. It didn’t work. “And- and another thing! You are not going to burn
out your lenses if you overload! Believe me, overloads have not hurt me, not one iota. We
are living beings born of a species meant to self-reproduce in a process
involving overloads, there would be no practical reason for overloads to do us
any harm! How do you think your ancestors reproduced if not by interfacing and
overloading?” 

Ah, he was getting through, Longrange was starting to think, he
could see it in their optics- 

Until it faded into a
forced-looking version of the infuriating mindlessness from before. 

That- that couldn’t be- 

Sharpshot was almost scaring Longrange at that point
with the outright fury in his optics. He was nearly shaking, armor
flared, optics blazing, gripping Longrange’s arm in one servo, as intimidating
as someone his size could be. The one thing keeping Longrange from being
genuinely afraid was the fact that it wasn’t directed at them. It was at, what-
their Lord? For- for wh- 

He was right. He was right about-
about overloads, wasn’t he? And about- yes, fine, “owner” was a more
accurate word, Longrange had nearly been their Lord’s pet, but that was okay because pets got fed
and- 

…being
a pet was okay? Being, essentially, one of the bred-out-of-practicality leashed
mechanimals was okay? Being- being lied to about their own frame, being told
they couldn’t interact with others because their Lord was too busy to stand
around and allow it, being picked up and carried at any moment despite their
feelings on the matter was okay? 

…no, no, this line of thought was dangerous, this
line of thought got people transferred -no, sold– to places no one ever heard
from them again, and it- and their- 

Their Lord had always been kind
to them. Aloof, but kind, keeping them clean and well-fueled and away from
people who looked at them wrong, had never demanded anything of them but what
their frame was made for, had- 

-how had it become such an
accepted thing that a servitor-class mech might have to do more than what their
alt was made for? How- how was that- 

How did- 

What- 

But they- 

Vocalizer clicking a quiet noise of distress,
Longrange sat back against the wall, hunching into the corner for protection
against the onslaught of things they’d never had reason to think of before.
They didn’t have anything to put against Sharpshot’s- well, not quite evidence,
but everything he was saying made sense. Far too much sense. 

They didn’t know what to do.

They really, genuinely didn’t
know what to do. 

So they defaulted. They stood up,
stepped in front of Sharpshot, and waited for orders. 

Frag. 

Frag frag frag. 

Was that- had he just run afoul
of some sort of slave coding? Sharpshot’s spark lurched, but Longrange didn’t
have that faded look in their optics, the way people did when something pushed
their rational thought away. They looked incredibly, unbelievably confused, and
a little bit like they might be about to cry. 

Whoops. 

Maybe Sharpshot should have been
more gentle. This was probably his fault.

At least Longrange was thinking.
Even if that thinking included seemingly running out of processor power and
just standing there waiting for him to give them an order. Poor mech. 

…maybe an order would help,
actually. Gesturing slightly, Sharpshot whispered “come here, Longrange”
and coaxed the taller mech closer, petting and lightly pressing on their frame
until they were back on the bench with him. This time, lying down, helm in his
lap. “There. Now… stay here. Let me keep cleaning you. All right?” 

Longrange
didn’t seem to have any complaints. 

Probably wouldn’t say if they did.

Primus save the poor thing from their own processor.