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.

He did understand. That was the worst part.

He reached out and took her hand—the one that still worked. His plating was cold. Hers was colder.

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.

He walked back to Outpost Theta-9 alone.

“Designation of the deserter?” he asked.

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.

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