Six Oh | Brave Police OC

After that mission, the one where he'd been hardly any help—a medic taken down and rendered obsolete—Six threw himself into his work. Too many long shifts in the medbay, waving off the concern with a smile and a promise that he was recharging and eating.

("Don't worry about me, sugar, I'm just fine. Helping where I can since we're down a few hands.")

It didn't stop the feelings of inadequacy but at least it kept him busy. And when he was off shift, he spent his time in the Brigade Labs, selling the same lies to Starscream and knowing they weren't believed. But at least no one pushed. No one asked for more than he was willing to share.

(Looking back, perhaps someone should have. Maybe it would have stopped the bridge from— no. That's a dangerous line of thought.)

One day, Six was at the medbay for his shift, and the next he wasn't. It's hard to say how much time passed for the R2. But for Six? For Six it was a very long eight months.

The space bridge takes, and then takes again when you least expect it.

He was home. In L.A.

(Could he call it home? R2 was home. He was a different mech than before.)

No time had passed for his team at all. It was like he walked into a different room for them. Seconds for them, minutes at most. Over a year of his life and it had been only minutes.

But Gods he was so happy to see them. To feel his original form. To be a tank, and know his duty. He knew more now. He could do more now. He did repairs on the field during missions, coded weapons on the fly.

It was brilliant. It was everything.

It wasn't enough.

About a year ago, Six had been given a glance into the future. His frame taken and twisted, yes, but he'd been granted knowledge from that time as well. A dead brother, a missing best friend, unlikely allies.

He'd thought surely it wouldn't happen. Surely he could prevent it.

He couldn't.

Fours went missing first. No notes, no hints, no word or sign. Just gone. Six went through every piece of coding and equipment he had to try and track her down, but Fours had always been better than him. Always.

Sleepless nights became sleepless days became sleepless weeks.

They took him off duty. Forced him to rest. Shut him down to repair his overtaxed systems when that didn't work.

(Maddox sneered every time he looked at Six, and Six stared right back unflinching.)

Then came the battle. The mission that changed everything.

Trip…

Even with all of Six's medical knowledge he couldn't save him.

You can't save a melted AI chip. There's no coming back from that.

He could have repaired the frame. Could have reattached limbs and soldered wires. But he can't fix a chip, and they had no back ups.

(Maddox didn't keep back ups for his machines.)

Six stood at his brother's side, Trip's oil cooling on his hands, for hours after the fact. He tucked the chip into his hip pocket, and he stood vigil. He brushed off the rest of the team, wouldn't let them comfort him. Wouldnt even let them try.

He'd had the time to prepare. He'd known it was coming. It was his fault.

(If he'd only shot faster, moved faster, told Trip to duck, begged harder for him to stay back—)

It was Six's fault.

A missing friend, a dead brother, and eight months between him and the R2.

Eight months of Six getting gradually quieter. Smaller.

(Is he cursed? Unlucky? He can't do anything right. His team needs him but he can't, he can't, he just holds them back.)

They bring in a new Brave to replace Trip.

(Six spends the next 12 hours hiding and purging everything in his tank.)

They bring in Braves from the Tokyo branch to help with the adjustment.

(Shadowmaru is there!! Shadowmaru can help, Shadowmaru will know—

Shadowmaru does not know who Six is.

Six locks himself in his workshop and works until the exhaustion makes him black out.)

He keeps his head down. He tries to combine with everyone. He adjusts as best he can.

And then on the beach in late September, Six gets shot. He remembers intimately what death feels like. This is the third time now he's felt it.

The slow shut down if his systems, the glitch of his screens as his wires catch fire and blacken, the distant thump of his knees hitting the sand.

He knows death. He's friends with it at this point.

He hears Five Alarm scream for him. He can just barely see Eights racing across the beach towards him.

His vision glitches—("Stay with me, cowboy!")—and Six doesn't fight.

He closes his optics.

Breathes.

And everything lurches.

He knows the sound of the engines. Knows the sound of the space bridge. He hits his hands and knees on the bridge room floor and heaves even though there's nothing in his tank to come up in the first place.

(There is a new scar through his midsection. Molten, shredded metal warped together and sealed again. It's courtesy of the shot that took him out. This frame, at least, would bear the scars with the memory.)

Death always leads to the space bridge. Death will always lead him right back here.

Six curls in on himself and waits for the room to stop spinning. Then he gets up, lets himself into the Brigade Lab, and picks up a project like he'd never left at all.

(Faking being okay was the only thing he was good at now.)