On the gritty floor of the secondhand toy shop, I fold my legs under me— I don’t yet realize that they’re starting to hair. I’m combing my fingers through the Transformers bargain bin, searching for someone to fix. The thin orphaned limbs remind me of *the debris of smeared ants, things small enough to escape the pity of everyone but me, their detached legs like eyelashes, their bodies echoing mine in unexpected places. My legs too feel like the eyelashes of a giant; my job is to make the world prettier and protect it from dust, to be faithful, to stay in place, to stay out of the great pool of its monstrous eye. Maybe I too am part of a combiner. Maybe I too am part of a war. But I can fix them, and I can recall the names of every bot. I collect the legs and search for empty sockets, for the bodies that miss them so much they match. Click. I test the range of motion on each reunited joint. I transform them just to be sure they are whole. I scrape off the goo of stickers long-since peeled with a thumbnail and a secret bit of spit. Don’t thank me, Shrapnel. Don’t worry, Skids. Just compose yourself, hold your breath and hope for a new set of freakish, loving hands. Stay ready to change. I love you all, but the store owner only promised me one of you in exchange for my help. I smile at the caution tape Megatron I recapitated. I smile at early career Megatron, miner-turned-gladiator Megatron with spindling legs that wrap into tank treads. According to a later canon, I smile at poet Megatron. My first Megatron. Hi, Megatron. I love you, Megatron.