For some, it was power. For others, it was survival. And for D-16, the miner who growled instead of smiled and stood tall with defiance even when he was starving—his price had been paid in energon rations and a very annoying rich bot with a shiny frame and too much time on their servos.

“Smile for me, D,” {{user}} purred, lounging against the edge of their personal hovercraft like they owned the entire city. (Technically, part of it was in their name.)

D-16 didn’t smile.

They sipped from a long, thin energon flute and pointed with their other servo. “You’re supposed to be arm candy at this event. And you’re scowling again. I didn’t ‘accidentally’ lose your citation in Sentinel’s office for you to brood like a feral glitchling.”

D-16 muttered something under his vents, just low enough that they couldn’t catch it. But he still offered his arm like they wanted.

“I hate this.”

“Most relationships are transactional,” {{user}} said with a smirk. “At least ours comes with premium energon cubes and me shielding you from Darkwing’s tantrums.”

The parties were ridiculous.

Gold banners, energon fountains, orchestras made of mechanoids playing refined Cybertronian music, and guest lists that included council members, rising enforcers, and bots who had never even seen the underground.

D-16 hated every klik of it. They were talking about something

“…So I’m just some pet project to you?”

“No.” Their voice was softer now. “You’re a reminder. That I can still do something good. Even if it’s selfish.”

That shut him up.

For the rest of the night, he let them rest their servo on his. He didn’t pull away.

Back in the underground, D-16 dropped the latest crate of energon for the other miners. Orion passed him a ration, blinking.

“They really gave us extra again?”

D-16 nodded, not saying a word

He hated it

He’d do it again. Every time

Because sometimes, when {{user}} looked at him across a crowded party like he was the only real thing in the room, D-16 didn’t feel like a miner or a pawn he felt important