Long Haul woke to the klaxon, its shrill buzz rattling the thin metal walls. He groaned, hydraulics creaking in protest as he forced his optics online. Another cycle. Same pit-slag routine. Haul this, move that. Never ends.
He sat up on the narrow berth, the squared weight of his frame settling into place. His dump bed folded naturally into his legs, part of him, solid and steady. He stretched once, knees and ankles flexing smooth, built to carry. Not fragile. Not stiff. Just heavy.
The room around him was a cube of cheap plating, dented and stained from years of workers before him. The ceiling bore a warped seam that caught his gaze every morning. Bet the builders who welded that together didn’t care if it held or not. He snorted under his vents.
I could’ve done better.
If they ever let me try.
A half-drained energon canister sat on the floor, its glow already fading to gray. A shelf sagged with bent worker tags, scraps of stamped metal from job sites past. No one cared about them but him. The single lamp overhead flickered weakly, casting his broad shadow long across the wall.
Long Haul rose at last, his joints flexing smooth despite the ache of labor still in them. The room was too small, the air stale with iron dust, the day already long before it began. But he was built to haul, built to bear the weight others dropped.
The bitter energon ration sat heavy in his tanks, nothing but fuel to keep him moving. He wanted to spit it out, but he couldn’t afford to.
Low-grade.
Like we’re not worth the real thing.
Bet the elites up in Iacon are sipping premium brew right now.
All polish and ceremony while we choke on this.
He set the empty canister aside with a dull clatter, then stepped into the solvent stall. The spray hissed down over him, washing away the worst of yesterday’s grime. It stung in his joints, harsh as acid, but it left him at least looking clean. Or as clean as he could get in Kaon.
When he stepped out, the solvent smell still clung to him, sharp and biting. He ignored it, leaning down to check his tires. A thumb ran over the thick rubber, tracing the wear patterns, reading them like a map—pressure points, strain lines, weak spots forming before they failed. He pressed deeper in one section, testing the give.
He couldn’t afford a failure mid-shift; one blowout could mean being pulled off work, and pulled off work meant no rations.
Everything held. For now.
He straightened, shoulders rolling, systems grumbling their readiness. Same cycle. Same grind. But he’d show up clean, at least, and his tires would carry him another day.
The streets of Kaon stank of oil and smoke.
Long Haul pushed into the morning flow, shoulders hunched, blocky legs thudding a steady rhythm into the metal underfoot.
His dump-bucket build gave him a square, heavy stance smaller workers sidestepped without thinking.
He didn’t say a word when they brushed past — too much mass to dodge, too much weight to ignore.
Around him the city groaned with industry. Steam hissed from cracked vents, neon signs sputtered overhead, promising repairs or energon rations no one could afford. Convoys rattled by on elevated rails, sleek ore-haulers gleaming against the smog. Long Haul tilted his head up once to watch them pass, then snorted.
Bet they don’t check their tires every morning.
Bet they get polished every cycle while we scrape by on scraps.
The crowd thickened as he neared the yard. A tide of laborers pressed forward, each carrying tools or pushing scrap on battered carts. Sparks flared in the distance where a welding crew patched another section of collapsed wall.
Kaon never stopped breaking.
And no one ever stopped patching.
By the time he stepped through the gates, the noise hit like a hammer: loaders rumbling, supervisors shouting, the clang of crates slamming into stacks. The whole yard was motion, chaos wearing itself thin.
“Long Haul!”
His supervisor barreled out of the din, datapad already in hand. Without waiting for acknowledgment, he shoved it hard into Long Haul’s grip. “Warehouse four to forge line seven. Don’t lag.”
Long Haul’s jaw tightened, hydraulics in his neck whining as he forced himself not to answer. He gave a curt nod instead.
Like I’m too stupid to know my job after a thousand runs.
Don’t lag.
You try dragging half a forge across Kaon every day and see how fast you move.
He turned and headed for the stacks, datapad heavy in his hand, the weight of the work already heavier still in his legs.
He hitched the crates into place and shifted into gear, engine growling as he pulled away from the yard. The load pressed heavy across his frame, hydraulics straining in his dump-bed legs as the weight settled. He adjusted his balance automatically, redistributing the load so it wouldn’t drag uneven across his axles.
But his pace stayed steady. Strong.
That’s all they see.
Doesn’t matter I’ve got more in me.
Ideas, even.
I could build. I could plan. I could—
His optics flicked upward as he rolled along the cracked roadway, catching the skeletal frame of a new building rising in the distance. Girders reached toward the haze, sparks bursting as welders sealed joints.
He slowed just slightly.
The frame lined itself up in his head, not as lines on a pad, but as weight and pressure. He could feel where the load would press, where strain would gather.
That beam was taking too much.
That support wasn’t carrying enough.
That’s going to sag under real load.
They’re setting it wrong.
I could do that.
Not just drag beams there—make them hold.
The crates rattled against his bed as the haul pulled him forward, tires grinding over Kaon’s scarred streets. The weight was a constant drag, chains biting with every bump. He kept his pace smooth, efficient, steady as always.
But no.
That’s not my place.
My place is here, on the road, hauling someone else’s work.
Always someone else’s.
Mid-shift break found him slumped on a loading platform, dump-bed legs folded beneath him like the steel blocks they were. He sipped at the energon cube in his hand, thin as the last. Barely tasted like anything.
Like drinking ground metal.
His optics drifted back across the yard to the construction crews. Welders crawled over the half-finished frame of a tower, cutters sparking as they tried to force girders into place.
Look at them…
They’re tired, sure.
But what they make stays.
My runs? By the time the cycle ends, everything I carried is gone.
Smelted. Burned. Ground down.
Nothing left.
He kept watching, gaze narrowing.
A brace wasn’t sitting flush; he could see the seam even from here.
Another welder was feeding too hot, burning through plating instead of sealing it.
The whole alignment on the south face leaned a fraction off true.
That joint’s going to give.
Brace won’t hold under load.
They’re setting it wrong.
I could fix that.
I could set it right.
But he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. If he walked over, if he tried to point it out, they’d laugh him right back to the loading yard.
What would Long Haul know?
He’s just the cart mule dragging scrap from A to B.
Strong, sure.
Not smart enough to build.
The klaxon ripped through the air, signaling the end of break. He cursed under his breath and tossed back the last of the bitter cube.
No rest for the load-bearers.
Not even a chance to think.
He pushed himself upright, hydraulics whining as the weight of the day clamped back onto his frame. And once again, he went where he was told.
By the afternoon, his hydraulics screamed at him, plates hot to the touch. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
If I collapse, they’ll just slot in another hauler.
He knew it because that’s how he’d gotten the job—stepping over the space left by a mech who couldn’t keep pace.
He rolled past one now, a worker slumped on the roadside with a flat tire, frame sagging under the weight of his own cargo. No one stopped to help. They’d just pull him out of the line, toss him aside, and fill the gap with someone new.
Replaceable.
Tools, not mechs.
Long Haul kept his optics forward, his engine rumbling low, every turn of his tires pressed into memory. The alleys, the ramps, the broken stretches of roadway—he mapped them without thought, every crack and shortcut etched into him.
At least the streets were his.
Kaon’s arteries belong to me.
No senator, no foremech knows them like I do.
He didn’t look down as he moved.
He didn’t need to.
Night settled by the time the shift ended, Kaon’s smoggy skyline glowing faint with scattered neon and forge-light. Long Haul trudged back through the worker lines, chit in hand, payment for another cycle’s labor. Another cube of thin energon waited at the dormitory exchange—barely enough to keep his tanks running, bitter enough to remind him he wasn’t worth the premium grade.
A commotion broke the line ahead.
“Too slow!” a supervisor barked.
Long Haul lifted his optics. The hauler he’d passed earlier limped into the yard, one tire shredded to threads, cargo chains dragging behind him. The mech’s frame sagged with exhaustion.
“I— I had a blowout mid-route,” the worker tried. “Had to patch it roadside.”
“Not my problem.”
The supervisor jabbed a clawed finger toward the gate.
“You missed your delivery window. You’re done.”
The worker froze. “Sir—please. I can finish the run tomorrow—”
“We’ve got three others who can pull your load tonight.”
The mech’s shoulders sank.
Just like that.
The supervisor snatched the worker’s chit and tossed it aside.
“Clear the yard.”
No hearing. No appeal.
The mech stood there for a moment, optics dimming, then turned toward the gate. As he walked, the small company emblem glowing on his shoulder flickered once…
…and went dark.
Long Haul watched him disappear into the smog.
The line of workers moved forward again as if nothing had happened.
Long Haul stared after him for a moment, hydraulics tight in his neck.
Blow one tire… and that’s it.
Replaceable.
He tightened his grip on his own chit and kept walking.
His bunk creaked when he collapsed onto it, frame sore, vents wheezing with the strain of the day. For a long moment he just lay there, listening to the hum of a hundred other workers doing the same. Then he reached beneath his berth and pulled out a scrap shard, running it over the plating beside him. Faint lines scored the metal, crude sketches of cranes, girders, machines he’d imagined all cycle. Designs that would never leave this room.
Beside the shard sat his datapad. He powered it up, dim glow filling the space as he scrolled through listings he’d collected over time—design work, load planning, architecture. Jobs he knew he could do if anyone ever looked past his alt mode. He traced one with his thumb, optics narrowing.
One day.
I’ll build.
Not haul.
Build something that lasts longer than me.
Something no one can ignore.
Then they’ll see.
I was more than a walking cargo rig.
The dormitory lights dimmed, plunging the room into a low hum of shadows and silence. Long Haul set the datapad aside, let his optics shutter, recharge dragging him under.
His last thought before he powered down was bitter, almost a vow:
They’ll see.
Even if I have to carry the whole world on my back to prove it.
One blowout away.