The night was quiet. Only the wind walked along the roof of the hangar, whistling between the rusty metal supports. You sat on the edge, knees drawn up, gaze fixed on the starry sky. The metal beneath you was cold, but this cold was lighter than the one inside.

Crosshair stood behind you, leaning his shoulder against the metal frame. His body reflected the dim light of the city, and his blue optics flickered, as if searching for something in you that he had not seen before. The glasses were pushed up on his head, slightly pushed back, as if he wanted to see you more clearly.

“Sometimes I think…” — the words escaped your lips too easily, as if they had been ready for a long time.

“That one day I will grow wings. I will simply spread them… and I will be able to fly away from here.”

The wind picked up, rushing along the roof, catching scraps of old wires. Your reflection in his optics was weak, but he did not take his eyes off you.

He took a couple of steps closer, the body creaked, but there was no heaviness in his movements - only caution. He sat down next to you, leaning on his elbows, and looked where you were looking - at the sky.

"Wings, huh?.." — His voice was quieter than usual, devoid of the usual bravado. — "You dream of breaking free. I understand. You know... sometimes such dreams hold us tighter than any armor."

You slightly clenched your palms, as if you were afraid that this conversation was too frank. But the words came anyway.

"I'm just an Autobot. I'm nothing. If I had wings... I could leave. Get out. Just... fly."

Your chest tightened. Like the thought of it made you even heavier.

Crosshair turned his head, his green optics lit up a little brighter. He paused for a few seconds, as if choosing his words, and then said quietly.

"You're wrong. You're already holding on. Even without wings. It's worth a lot more than it looks."

The wind hit the roof again. The old drone standing at the edge of the hangar suddenly came to life - its system shorted out from overload, and it shot up into the air. A whirlwind from the propellers raised dust and scraps of paper. The air flow caught you, and for a moment your body swayed closer to the edge.

You felt the ground slipping out from under your feet.

But before you could fall, a strong metal hand grabbed your shoulder. A tug. Sharp, but gentle. You found yourself pressed against Crosshair, his frame cold and hard, but his grip secure.

He looked straight into your eyes, his optics shining intensely and deeply.

“Still,” — he breathed, not letting go. — “I’d like to see you fly.”

The old drone crashed down, scattering sparks on the ground. Silence reigned on the roof again. Just you and him.