[TFP] Event Horizon - Chapter Four
Jan. 17th, 2012 01:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Additional warnings: It has come to my attention that some may consider this fic mechpreg. That hadn't occurred to me as there's no carrying of a physical body in this type of sparking, but I feel that I should warn nevertheless. How, exactly, the spark carrying occurs will be explained in future chapters, but there will be no building of a physical body inside the carrier (in this case, Ratchet). There will be no "birth" either. The process is actually more similar to budding, but, as I said, this will be explained in future chapters.
I apologize for unintentionally offending anyone who does not care for any idea of mechpreg. Hopefully, I still have some readers left. Please enjoy.
Pairings Revealed: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Sideswipe/First Aid, Jazz/Bluestreak, other
Rating: T
Warnings this chapter: spoilers for all of season one, implied spark merging, mechslash, language
Chapters: (01) (02) (03) (04) (05) (06) (07) (08) (09) (10) (11) (12) (Epi)
Morning dawns with all the cheeriness of the aftermath of the fall of Uraya. Weary, heartbroken bots trudge around the base, feeling lost without the leader that had been guiding them since the beginning of the war. The quarters are cramped, the energon in short supply, and they are all stuck far from home, on an organic planet that not only doesn't know of their existence, but the indigenous inhabitants would probably protest if they did know.
There is little in that to be optimistic about. Tensions between he and Sunstreaker won't improve by the sunrise either, despite that cheery human song about the “sun coming up.” Which Ratchet never really understood since sun rise has always been pretty much a given on this planet, not so much on Cybertron.
Ratchet wakes, still unused to someone sharing a berth with him after so many millennia. (Sunstreaker, on the other hand, had grown accustomed to sharing with his twin, the two of them needing the contact if they weren't plating to plating with another mech.) He lays there for a full quarter-hour, listening to the sound of Sunstreaker's ventilations, trying to memorize all the new ticks in such an unfamiliar frame.
Not that he doesn't like it. No, as a matter of fact, Ratchet is quite fond of the alt mode that Sunstreaker had chosen, and the way the golden-yellow gleam of the lamborghini's panels had translated into Sunstreaker's root mode. It's sleek and fast, but armored enough to take some damage – Sunstreaker would accept nothing less.
Right now, Ratchet should be feeling nothing but joy. Another team has been found successfully with only minor injuries at best. There are more Autobots here to protect Earth; more brilliant minds to devise a plan to drive away the Decepticons and find a way back to Cybertron in order to begin healing and rebuilding. Ratchet has been reunited with his partner and several close friends.
It seems like a series of miracles that deserve celebrating, except for all the realities that loom in the corner like a gaggle of Empties, starving for a sip of even the lowest grade Energon. Or worse, the Dark Energon infected Cybertronian zombies that now inhabit most of what remains of Cybertron. Ratchet shudders at the mere thought, his plating flaring out of unconscious self-defense.
Their leader is gone, manipulated by the Decepticon leader. One of their own had been offlined by Starscream who is missing and presumed off-planet. And now, Ratchet and Sunstreaker are at odds over the worst bit of news the two of them could have ever received: their only youngling is in Decepticon claws, possibly by his own choice.
No, there is nothing to celebrate here.
The sound of systems clicking over from passive recharge to active awareness alerts Ratchet from his pessimistic musings. He turns his head, looking at his waking partner, who regards his surroundings with confused suspicion, before landing on Ratchet.
“This isn't an endless memory loop, is it?” Sunstreaker asks, referring to the Cybertronian version of a dream.
“No.” Ratchet rises from the berth, despite how much he'd prefer to linger, feeling ancient and creaky and rusty like Miko often accuses of him. “No matter how much we wish it otherwise.”
He heads to the Energon dispenser in the corner, forming two cubes and waiting for it to sluggishly dispense their days rations. The supplies from Jazz's ship have managed to supplement their stores, but honestly it's not enough. They are going to have to scout Earth for another Energon stockpile just to support their added staff.
He turns, handing Sunstreaker his cube and sips at his own, the lackluster non-flavor of the Energon invading his chemoreceptors. It's nothing like the wonderful blends he used to consume on Cybertron, but honestly, Ratchet can't remember the last time any of them ingested Energon for anything more than sustaining their systems. He can remember a time when Energon varied in shade from fuschia to aqua and everything in between. Now, it's nothing more than the same pale blue with the same tasteless, thin texture.
Sunstreaker looks at his cube cautiously, before downing the whole thing in one go, clearly not one for savoring. He disperses the cube with a flick of his fingers, and then stares at Ratchet, only to tilt his head in a familiar manner. Pretty much the only way Ratchet has been able to tell that he is communicating with his twin.
Ratchet heartily wishes that the tension in the air would hurry up and disperse. But it doesn't. It lingers like a bad case of rust. Ratchet doesn't know what to say so he sips his Energon and waits for one of them to break the uneasy silence.
Unfortunately, it is neither Ratchet nor Sunstreaker that speaks first.
--Ratch?--
--I'll be on shift shortly, Jazz,-- he responds, assuming that the silver mech is probably in need of some recharge himself. Or that he'd like Ratchet to check on Bluestreak.
A chuckle comes across the comm. --That's good ta know, but not what I was gonna say. I'm calling a meeting. Now. Bring Sunny.--
Ratchet feels his frame seize up. --Is this for the reason I think it is?--
--Got it in one, Ratch-man. I'll rouse everyone else. Get yer story together and meet us in the main room.--
--Yes sir.--
--Primus! Don't call meh that.--
Jazz cuts off the comm before Ratchet can reply. The light hint of humor in the third-in-command's tone isn't nearly enough to ease Ratchet's tension. But it's a start.
He downs the rest of his cube, disperses it with a flick, and returns his attention to Sunstreaker. “Jazz seems to think now is the perfect time to follow through with our declaration.”
“I know,” Sunstreaker replies, rising from the berth and rolling his neck, cables stretching and straining as he works out kinks in his lines. “Sideswipe told me.”
It's like talking to a stranger for all the awkwardness between them. Can the passing millennia have changed them that much? Or was what they had so easy to break in the first place?
Is this his fault for not bonding?
He watches Sunstreaker stride past him, their energy fields brushing but barely, and head for the door, and wonders if this is what it's come to. Like their reunion the evening before had meant nothing, more a “farewell” than a “hello.”
“Ratchet.”
He turns, looking at his partner.
“Am I doing this by myself?” Sunstreaker asks with a hint of his usual ill humor.
Ratchet snaps out of his fugue, his one-bot pity party. Like the Pit he's going to stand here and watch things crumble around him.
“Of course not,” he snaps with a huff, whirling on one creaky heel strut and stomping past the yellow mech. “He's my youngling, too.”
“I was wondering when you'd remember that.”
Before Ratchet can form a retort, the door slides open, dumping them into the hallway where Ratchet nearly trips over Sideswipe. The red twin either had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or he'd been sitting outside, eavesdropping. Though his link with his brother sort of made that unnecessary.
“G'morning, fellow Autobots,” Sideswipe greets with a cheeky grin and a sloppy salute. “I see two someones survived the night.”
Ratchet resists the urge to roll his optics. “Not in the mood, Sideswipe.”
“You always say that,” the red twin quips, trotting alongside the medic as Sunstreaker follows behind. “I hope Sunny doesn't have to hear it half as much as I do-- ow!” The ringing noise of palm impacting helm echoes throughout the corridor. “Sunny!”
“Don't call me that,” Sunstreaker says simply, optics glittering with irritation. A mild reaction on his part; Ratchet should commend him on his restraint. It's just another something he's learned in that mysterious length of separation that Ratchet knows nothing about.
Sideswipe rubs his helm, though the small tap didn't even leave a dent. “I notice that you didn't deny the other half of my comment.”
Both Ratchet and Sunstreaker, by mutual, unspoken agreement, choose to ignore Sideswipe, instead keeping a much needed silence as they stepped into the central command room, already clogged with equipment, long and heavy cords, computer screens, and the the human's leftover machinery. Now, space is at a premium with the addition of five more mechs to the Autobot ranks.
Jazz stands by the main console, quietly conversing with Bluestreak who apparently let himself out of the medbay. Hmm. Ratchet would be having words with that mech later.
Arcee leans against the wall near the Ground Bridge tunnel, nonchalant as you please, arms crossed and fingers tapping on her plating.
Perceptor is standing near the display screens, peering at the information provided and no doubt consigning it to memory. Especially since one of the displays contains what Ratchet has worked out of the Synthetic Energon formula.
Bulkhead is pacing of all things, back and forth across the floor in front of the stasis chamber. As Sideswipe takes up a place somewhere next to Arcee (who does roll her optics at him) and Ratchet and Sunstreaker find a clear spot somewhere between the wall and the Ground Bridge console, Ratchet realizes that only one mech remains missing.
“Where's Bumblebee?”
--Here, Ratchet,-- the small scout replies over the comm, accompanying the answer with an audible chirp and rev of his engine as he all but launches out of the third hallway, transforming mid-brake and flipping in the air, only to land solidly on his pedes.
Sideswipe scoffs, performing a polite clap. “Show off.”
Bumblebee's doorwings flicker upward. He raises a fist in playful challenge. Sideswipe waves him off with a grin and a flick of his fingers.
“Later, little Bee. We got plenty of time for a rematch.”
“Well,” Jazz drawls, capturing everyone's attention effortlessly without having to so much as dial up his vocalizer. “I'm guessin' everyone had a good recharge since yer in such high spirits and all. What say ya we get ta business?”
Bulkhead pauses mid-pace, bouncing on the heels of his pedes and making a few things nearby rattle in their unsteady perches. “We gotta be quick though. Miko's expecting me to pick her up for school in half an hour.”
Bumblebee chirps in agreement. Rafael will be waiting for him, too. No doubt Jack expects Arcee as well, though the motorcycle doesn't say it.
“Humans.” Sunstreaker makes a sound of disgust, a noise of gears grinding that Ratchet sympathizes with. For a long time, he didn't have much interest in the humans either. To be fair, he still doesn't care for the general population. “Must they come here?”
“It was Optimus' orders,” Ratchet replies, reminding them all. Optimus may be absent at the moment, but Ratchet refuses to abandon anything that their leader would have approved. “They still stand.”
Bluestreak raises a hand, doorwings lifted perkily. “I'm not sure I understand what happened. I mean, I read the report. I'm pretty sure we all did but some of the details are a bit hazy. And unclear. And you said that Optimus forgot everything but I didn't know we could do that, short of a virus maybe. Or processor damage? So is that even possible?”
“Yes. It's not like we're organic or something,” Sideswipe agrees, rocking back and forth on his heels with a grate of metal on metal.
Ratchet ventilates noisily. “The Matrix stores the memories of a Prime. In theory, if a Prime were to surrender the Matrix, he would surrender all of his experience as a Prime as well.”
Jazz hitches himself on top of a console, legs swinging. “In theory?”
“It's not as though this has happened before,” Perceptor replies, finally turning away from the screen he's been perusing. “There's no record of a Prime passing on the Matrix and existing beyond it. They have always offlined immediately.”
“What about Sentinel Prime?”
Ratchet's armor flares at the reminder of one of their most prominent Primes and he has to consciously smooth it back down. “He wasn't a True Prime.”
“Now I'm more confused.” Bluestreak's door wings droop noticeably and he taps at his chin. “What do you mean by True Prime? I didn't know there was a difference.”
Ratchet looks at Perceptor, feeling an unexpected weariness tugging at his struts. “Perceptor, would you like to answer this one?”
“Certainly.” The scientist all but beams as he slides into his famous teaching stance, shoulders straight, limbs locked, hands clasped behind him. “Sentinel wasn't accepted by the Matrix. He was Prime in name only. It was something the High Council decided because Nova Prime offlined so suddenly without a named successor.”
“Sentinel was only supposed to be Prime for as long as it took for them to find a worthy candidate, someone whom the Matrix would accept,” Ratchet adds, though he wondered how many of the young mechs in this room would truly understand the politics of Cybertronian government. “Temporary, however, lasted so long it became an institution.”
Silence fills the main room, save for the soft beeping of the Ground Bridge console and Ratchet's cobbled together computer systems.
“I think I speak fer everyone when I ask... can we fix Optimus?” Jazz asks, folding his arms over his chest.
Ratchet and Perceptor exchange glances, one that speaks without having to exchange words. This is not one problem; this is several.
“I do not know if that's possible,” Ratchet hedges, feeling like a traitor for even admitting so. Feeling like a failure of a medic for being unable to help in this case.
Bluestreak leans forward. “We're not just going to give up, are we?” he asks, sounding aghast. “I mean, sure he won't have the Matrix anymore, but he'll be our Prime anyway. He just needs to get his memories back! So didn't he have backups? I mean, I have backups and you'd think as a Prime he'd know to have backups.”
A backup? Primus! Ratchet hasn't even considered that fact up until now. Of course Prime must have backups somewhere. Ratchet can't think of a single Cybertronian that doesn't keep a secondary copy of their memory files in some secure location. The question, however, is where would Prime have hidden his, and how recent is the data?
Arcee palms her face, shaking her head. “We've been so busy trying to figure out what to do about the missing Matrix, none of us considered the possibility of a backup memory core. Stupid!”
“Where would he keep them?” Perceptor asks.
“I don't know.” Frustration pours through Ratchet.
“You're our medic!” Arcee says, hands waving through the air. “Shouldn't you know these things?”
Ratchet whirls toward the femme. “I don't know where you keep yours either, Arcee. Or Bumblebee's or Bulkhead's. That information is generally reserved for bonds or partners, remember?”
“Prime doesn't have a bonded,” Sideswipe muses aloud.
Ratchet hides his wince. That's not entirely... accurate. But any memory cores that Megatron knows of are outdated, from a time when Optimus had been Orion alone. That and Megatron is not likely to help them return Prime's memories. In fact, those backups are more in danger of being destroyed by Megatron.
“Would he have hidden them here? On Earth?” Bulkhead asks.
Sideswipe snorts. “Are yours here?”
None of them need to hear the answer to Sideswipe's question to guess it. They've not been on Earth long enough to feel confident in leaving such important data somewhere. Ratchet's own backups are offplanet, back on Cybertron for the most part. And only the twins know where to find them. And First Aid.
“There may be one on the Ark,” Ratchet muses aloud. He'd left a secondary backup of his own on the Ark, though it is minimal compared to the complete cores he'd hidden on Cybertron.
“Which is... where exactly?” Perceptor asks.
Arcee pushes off the wall, heading toward the main computer console. “Hidden. On the moon.” She deftly hits a few buttons, bringing up a schematic of the Ark on the main screen. “It didn't seem prudent to leave it here on Earth where the humans might discover it. And now that we know about MECH, it's an even better idea to leave it where it is. Besides, it's not exactly... functional.”
A kind way of putting that the Ark is pretty much scrap. They'd had a rough landing after a particularly devastating battle with the Decepticons.
“MECH?” Sideswipe repeats.
Jazz waves him off. “Later. They're an issue, but not the main one. We need ta focus on gettin' Prime back first.” He turns toward Ratchet. “Do ya think ya can find it back on the Ark?”
“Maybe.” Ratchet doesn't like being so unsure, but he can't be certain of anything, not anymore. Also, how in the world would they get to the Ark? Did he dare trust his cobbled-together Ground Bridge system to get them that far? “My largest concern is that a backup memory core might not be enough.”
Perceptor taps his chin thoughtfully. “Mmm. You have a point, Ratchet. We know so little of how the Matrix operates and what affect it has on it's host. We know so little about Primes. It may be that we risk obtaining a memory core for no purpose.”
“What do you suggest then?” Arcee asks.
“It may be that we will need to access the data in the Archives to be better prepared for this particular situation,” Perceptor replies.
“The Archives?” Bulkhead repeats, drawing to a stop as he stares at them. “As in the Archives that are on Cybertron? Dark Energon Zombie infested Cybertron?”
Ratchet folds his arms over his chest. “The very same.”
--But the Space Bridge was destroyed,-- Bumblebee broadcasts on a general line, statement accompanied by an audible click.
“It is not impossible to construct another.” Perceptor's optics brighten, as though he's already running the calculations with the schematics. “It would, however, have to be a last resort as a newly built Space Bridge would be an immediate target for the Decepticons.”
“Not to mention the zombies,” Bulkhead mutters, though not so quiet that everyone didn't hear him.
“So fer right now, we'll focus on the memory cores,” Jazz says, hopping down from his perch as he begins a slow circuit around the gathered Cybertronians. “And trying to get a pair of optics and audials on the Nemesis.”
“With Soundwave lurking in the shadows?” Arcee asks with a demonstrative huff. “That's not going to be easy.”
Jazz pauses in his circuit, close enough to Ratchet that the edges of their energy fields brush, and the third in command tilts his visor toward Ratchet. A warning. A reminder.
“It's gotta be done,” Jazz says. “Because I'm not leavin' two of our own in Decepticon claws any longer than it takes.”
Another tension filled silence sweeps through the room, though approximately half of them are aware of what Jazz means.
Ratchet's spark stutters and he finds himself taking another step closer to Sunstreaker, as though needing his partner's proximity to console him.
This is it. No turning back now. They are committed to telling the truth, committed to this. Committed to getting their youngling back even if it means facing the possible revile of their friends and allies.
“Two?” Arcee repeats. “I don't understand. No one else is missing. Cliffjumper... there's no way he's survived. Not after what Megatron has done to him.”
“I wasn't referring to Cliffjumper,” Jazz replies, a pang of loss echoing behind his words. “But rather someone else.
“Who?” Perceptor asks, sounding equally puzzled.
Jazz turns his head, visor focusing on Ratchet and Sunstreaker. “If ya'd prefer, I can break the news.”
A half-dozen pairs of optics swivel their direction, and Ratchet can all but feel the confusion and curiosity radiating through the air. Especially from the other three members of the original team, who have heard nothing of this up until now.
Ratchet sighs again, plating clamping close to his frame protectively. His battle routines try to stir into priority, interpreting his rising tension as that before a battle, and Ratchet has to tamp them down. He can feel Sunstreaker's anxiety as well, though one wouldn't be able to tell by looking at the yellow mech, whose expression is the perfect depiction of blank and neutral.
“No,” Ratchet says, and feels absurdly grateful when he finds himself bracketed by a pair of frontliner twins, Sunstreaker's arm brushing his. “This is my – our – story to tell.”
“Ratchet,” Perceptor says, appearing to hesitate before he steps forward, more or less in front of Bluestreak. “What is this about?”
Is there a way to ease them into the truth? To put it delicately? Where should he even start? At the beginning?
There's no easy way to do this. Better to deal with it like like an attached scraplet – as soon as possible lest it eat its way through you.
“My youngling,” Ratchet replies, his vocalizer low but his declaration nonetheless carrying through the room. Sunstreaker grips his shoulder, as though to remind Ratchet of his part in the matter, and Ratchet amends, “Mine and Sunstreaker's.”
****
a/n: A bit of a cliffhanger here, but the next chapter should come rather quickly. I'm almost done with this fic, and once I finish writing, I tend to update a lot quicker. This takes a lot of time for me, personally, because I'm trying to edit it on my own and I have to let chapters sit before I can catch mistakes.
If anyone is interested in becoming my beta, that would be wonderful. Until then, feel free to point out mistakes, inconsistencies, etc. I won't be offended.
Feedback is welcome and appreciated!
I apologize for unintentionally offending anyone who does not care for any idea of mechpreg. Hopefully, I still have some readers left. Please enjoy.
Pairings Revealed: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Sideswipe/First Aid, Jazz/Bluestreak, other
Rating: T
Warnings this chapter: spoilers for all of season one, implied spark merging, mechslash, language
Chapters: (01) (02) (03) (04) (05) (06) (07) (08) (09) (10) (11) (12) (Epi)
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Event Horizon
Chapter Four
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Event Horizon
Chapter Four
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Morning dawns with all the cheeriness of the aftermath of the fall of Uraya. Weary, heartbroken bots trudge around the base, feeling lost without the leader that had been guiding them since the beginning of the war. The quarters are cramped, the energon in short supply, and they are all stuck far from home, on an organic planet that not only doesn't know of their existence, but the indigenous inhabitants would probably protest if they did know.
There is little in that to be optimistic about. Tensions between he and Sunstreaker won't improve by the sunrise either, despite that cheery human song about the “sun coming up.” Which Ratchet never really understood since sun rise has always been pretty much a given on this planet, not so much on Cybertron.
Ratchet wakes, still unused to someone sharing a berth with him after so many millennia. (Sunstreaker, on the other hand, had grown accustomed to sharing with his twin, the two of them needing the contact if they weren't plating to plating with another mech.) He lays there for a full quarter-hour, listening to the sound of Sunstreaker's ventilations, trying to memorize all the new ticks in such an unfamiliar frame.
Not that he doesn't like it. No, as a matter of fact, Ratchet is quite fond of the alt mode that Sunstreaker had chosen, and the way the golden-yellow gleam of the lamborghini's panels had translated into Sunstreaker's root mode. It's sleek and fast, but armored enough to take some damage – Sunstreaker would accept nothing less.
Right now, Ratchet should be feeling nothing but joy. Another team has been found successfully with only minor injuries at best. There are more Autobots here to protect Earth; more brilliant minds to devise a plan to drive away the Decepticons and find a way back to Cybertron in order to begin healing and rebuilding. Ratchet has been reunited with his partner and several close friends.
It seems like a series of miracles that deserve celebrating, except for all the realities that loom in the corner like a gaggle of Empties, starving for a sip of even the lowest grade Energon. Or worse, the Dark Energon infected Cybertronian zombies that now inhabit most of what remains of Cybertron. Ratchet shudders at the mere thought, his plating flaring out of unconscious self-defense.
Their leader is gone, manipulated by the Decepticon leader. One of their own had been offlined by Starscream who is missing and presumed off-planet. And now, Ratchet and Sunstreaker are at odds over the worst bit of news the two of them could have ever received: their only youngling is in Decepticon claws, possibly by his own choice.
No, there is nothing to celebrate here.
The sound of systems clicking over from passive recharge to active awareness alerts Ratchet from his pessimistic musings. He turns his head, looking at his waking partner, who regards his surroundings with confused suspicion, before landing on Ratchet.
“This isn't an endless memory loop, is it?” Sunstreaker asks, referring to the Cybertronian version of a dream.
“No.” Ratchet rises from the berth, despite how much he'd prefer to linger, feeling ancient and creaky and rusty like Miko often accuses of him. “No matter how much we wish it otherwise.”
He heads to the Energon dispenser in the corner, forming two cubes and waiting for it to sluggishly dispense their days rations. The supplies from Jazz's ship have managed to supplement their stores, but honestly it's not enough. They are going to have to scout Earth for another Energon stockpile just to support their added staff.
He turns, handing Sunstreaker his cube and sips at his own, the lackluster non-flavor of the Energon invading his chemoreceptors. It's nothing like the wonderful blends he used to consume on Cybertron, but honestly, Ratchet can't remember the last time any of them ingested Energon for anything more than sustaining their systems. He can remember a time when Energon varied in shade from fuschia to aqua and everything in between. Now, it's nothing more than the same pale blue with the same tasteless, thin texture.
Sunstreaker looks at his cube cautiously, before downing the whole thing in one go, clearly not one for savoring. He disperses the cube with a flick of his fingers, and then stares at Ratchet, only to tilt his head in a familiar manner. Pretty much the only way Ratchet has been able to tell that he is communicating with his twin.
Ratchet heartily wishes that the tension in the air would hurry up and disperse. But it doesn't. It lingers like a bad case of rust. Ratchet doesn't know what to say so he sips his Energon and waits for one of them to break the uneasy silence.
Unfortunately, it is neither Ratchet nor Sunstreaker that speaks first.
--Ratch?--
--I'll be on shift shortly, Jazz,-- he responds, assuming that the silver mech is probably in need of some recharge himself. Or that he'd like Ratchet to check on Bluestreak.
A chuckle comes across the comm. --That's good ta know, but not what I was gonna say. I'm calling a meeting. Now. Bring Sunny.--
Ratchet feels his frame seize up. --Is this for the reason I think it is?--
--Got it in one, Ratch-man. I'll rouse everyone else. Get yer story together and meet us in the main room.--
--Yes sir.--
--Primus! Don't call meh that.--
Jazz cuts off the comm before Ratchet can reply. The light hint of humor in the third-in-command's tone isn't nearly enough to ease Ratchet's tension. But it's a start.
He downs the rest of his cube, disperses it with a flick, and returns his attention to Sunstreaker. “Jazz seems to think now is the perfect time to follow through with our declaration.”
“I know,” Sunstreaker replies, rising from the berth and rolling his neck, cables stretching and straining as he works out kinks in his lines. “Sideswipe told me.”
It's like talking to a stranger for all the awkwardness between them. Can the passing millennia have changed them that much? Or was what they had so easy to break in the first place?
Is this his fault for not bonding?
He watches Sunstreaker stride past him, their energy fields brushing but barely, and head for the door, and wonders if this is what it's come to. Like their reunion the evening before had meant nothing, more a “farewell” than a “hello.”
“Ratchet.”
He turns, looking at his partner.
“Am I doing this by myself?” Sunstreaker asks with a hint of his usual ill humor.
Ratchet snaps out of his fugue, his one-bot pity party. Like the Pit he's going to stand here and watch things crumble around him.
“Of course not,” he snaps with a huff, whirling on one creaky heel strut and stomping past the yellow mech. “He's my youngling, too.”
“I was wondering when you'd remember that.”
Before Ratchet can form a retort, the door slides open, dumping them into the hallway where Ratchet nearly trips over Sideswipe. The red twin either had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or he'd been sitting outside, eavesdropping. Though his link with his brother sort of made that unnecessary.
“G'morning, fellow Autobots,” Sideswipe greets with a cheeky grin and a sloppy salute. “I see two someones survived the night.”
Ratchet resists the urge to roll his optics. “Not in the mood, Sideswipe.”
“You always say that,” the red twin quips, trotting alongside the medic as Sunstreaker follows behind. “I hope Sunny doesn't have to hear it half as much as I do-- ow!” The ringing noise of palm impacting helm echoes throughout the corridor. “Sunny!”
“Don't call me that,” Sunstreaker says simply, optics glittering with irritation. A mild reaction on his part; Ratchet should commend him on his restraint. It's just another something he's learned in that mysterious length of separation that Ratchet knows nothing about.
Sideswipe rubs his helm, though the small tap didn't even leave a dent. “I notice that you didn't deny the other half of my comment.”
Both Ratchet and Sunstreaker, by mutual, unspoken agreement, choose to ignore Sideswipe, instead keeping a much needed silence as they stepped into the central command room, already clogged with equipment, long and heavy cords, computer screens, and the the human's leftover machinery. Now, space is at a premium with the addition of five more mechs to the Autobot ranks.
Jazz stands by the main console, quietly conversing with Bluestreak who apparently let himself out of the medbay. Hmm. Ratchet would be having words with that mech later.
Arcee leans against the wall near the Ground Bridge tunnel, nonchalant as you please, arms crossed and fingers tapping on her plating.
Perceptor is standing near the display screens, peering at the information provided and no doubt consigning it to memory. Especially since one of the displays contains what Ratchet has worked out of the Synthetic Energon formula.
Bulkhead is pacing of all things, back and forth across the floor in front of the stasis chamber. As Sideswipe takes up a place somewhere next to Arcee (who does roll her optics at him) and Ratchet and Sunstreaker find a clear spot somewhere between the wall and the Ground Bridge console, Ratchet realizes that only one mech remains missing.
“Where's Bumblebee?”
--Here, Ratchet,-- the small scout replies over the comm, accompanying the answer with an audible chirp and rev of his engine as he all but launches out of the third hallway, transforming mid-brake and flipping in the air, only to land solidly on his pedes.
Sideswipe scoffs, performing a polite clap. “Show off.”
Bumblebee's doorwings flicker upward. He raises a fist in playful challenge. Sideswipe waves him off with a grin and a flick of his fingers.
“Later, little Bee. We got plenty of time for a rematch.”
“Well,” Jazz drawls, capturing everyone's attention effortlessly without having to so much as dial up his vocalizer. “I'm guessin' everyone had a good recharge since yer in such high spirits and all. What say ya we get ta business?”
Bulkhead pauses mid-pace, bouncing on the heels of his pedes and making a few things nearby rattle in their unsteady perches. “We gotta be quick though. Miko's expecting me to pick her up for school in half an hour.”
Bumblebee chirps in agreement. Rafael will be waiting for him, too. No doubt Jack expects Arcee as well, though the motorcycle doesn't say it.
“Humans.” Sunstreaker makes a sound of disgust, a noise of gears grinding that Ratchet sympathizes with. For a long time, he didn't have much interest in the humans either. To be fair, he still doesn't care for the general population. “Must they come here?”
“It was Optimus' orders,” Ratchet replies, reminding them all. Optimus may be absent at the moment, but Ratchet refuses to abandon anything that their leader would have approved. “They still stand.”
Bluestreak raises a hand, doorwings lifted perkily. “I'm not sure I understand what happened. I mean, I read the report. I'm pretty sure we all did but some of the details are a bit hazy. And unclear. And you said that Optimus forgot everything but I didn't know we could do that, short of a virus maybe. Or processor damage? So is that even possible?”
“Yes. It's not like we're organic or something,” Sideswipe agrees, rocking back and forth on his heels with a grate of metal on metal.
Ratchet ventilates noisily. “The Matrix stores the memories of a Prime. In theory, if a Prime were to surrender the Matrix, he would surrender all of his experience as a Prime as well.”
Jazz hitches himself on top of a console, legs swinging. “In theory?”
“It's not as though this has happened before,” Perceptor replies, finally turning away from the screen he's been perusing. “There's no record of a Prime passing on the Matrix and existing beyond it. They have always offlined immediately.”
“What about Sentinel Prime?”
Ratchet's armor flares at the reminder of one of their most prominent Primes and he has to consciously smooth it back down. “He wasn't a True Prime.”
“Now I'm more confused.” Bluestreak's door wings droop noticeably and he taps at his chin. “What do you mean by True Prime? I didn't know there was a difference.”
Ratchet looks at Perceptor, feeling an unexpected weariness tugging at his struts. “Perceptor, would you like to answer this one?”
“Certainly.” The scientist all but beams as he slides into his famous teaching stance, shoulders straight, limbs locked, hands clasped behind him. “Sentinel wasn't accepted by the Matrix. He was Prime in name only. It was something the High Council decided because Nova Prime offlined so suddenly without a named successor.”
“Sentinel was only supposed to be Prime for as long as it took for them to find a worthy candidate, someone whom the Matrix would accept,” Ratchet adds, though he wondered how many of the young mechs in this room would truly understand the politics of Cybertronian government. “Temporary, however, lasted so long it became an institution.”
Silence fills the main room, save for the soft beeping of the Ground Bridge console and Ratchet's cobbled together computer systems.
“I think I speak fer everyone when I ask... can we fix Optimus?” Jazz asks, folding his arms over his chest.
Ratchet and Perceptor exchange glances, one that speaks without having to exchange words. This is not one problem; this is several.
“I do not know if that's possible,” Ratchet hedges, feeling like a traitor for even admitting so. Feeling like a failure of a medic for being unable to help in this case.
Bluestreak leans forward. “We're not just going to give up, are we?” he asks, sounding aghast. “I mean, sure he won't have the Matrix anymore, but he'll be our Prime anyway. He just needs to get his memories back! So didn't he have backups? I mean, I have backups and you'd think as a Prime he'd know to have backups.”
A backup? Primus! Ratchet hasn't even considered that fact up until now. Of course Prime must have backups somewhere. Ratchet can't think of a single Cybertronian that doesn't keep a secondary copy of their memory files in some secure location. The question, however, is where would Prime have hidden his, and how recent is the data?
Arcee palms her face, shaking her head. “We've been so busy trying to figure out what to do about the missing Matrix, none of us considered the possibility of a backup memory core. Stupid!”
“Where would he keep them?” Perceptor asks.
“I don't know.” Frustration pours through Ratchet.
“You're our medic!” Arcee says, hands waving through the air. “Shouldn't you know these things?”
Ratchet whirls toward the femme. “I don't know where you keep yours either, Arcee. Or Bumblebee's or Bulkhead's. That information is generally reserved for bonds or partners, remember?”
“Prime doesn't have a bonded,” Sideswipe muses aloud.
Ratchet hides his wince. That's not entirely... accurate. But any memory cores that Megatron knows of are outdated, from a time when Optimus had been Orion alone. That and Megatron is not likely to help them return Prime's memories. In fact, those backups are more in danger of being destroyed by Megatron.
“Would he have hidden them here? On Earth?” Bulkhead asks.
Sideswipe snorts. “Are yours here?”
None of them need to hear the answer to Sideswipe's question to guess it. They've not been on Earth long enough to feel confident in leaving such important data somewhere. Ratchet's own backups are offplanet, back on Cybertron for the most part. And only the twins know where to find them. And First Aid.
“There may be one on the Ark,” Ratchet muses aloud. He'd left a secondary backup of his own on the Ark, though it is minimal compared to the complete cores he'd hidden on Cybertron.
“Which is... where exactly?” Perceptor asks.
Arcee pushes off the wall, heading toward the main computer console. “Hidden. On the moon.” She deftly hits a few buttons, bringing up a schematic of the Ark on the main screen. “It didn't seem prudent to leave it here on Earth where the humans might discover it. And now that we know about MECH, it's an even better idea to leave it where it is. Besides, it's not exactly... functional.”
A kind way of putting that the Ark is pretty much scrap. They'd had a rough landing after a particularly devastating battle with the Decepticons.
“MECH?” Sideswipe repeats.
Jazz waves him off. “Later. They're an issue, but not the main one. We need ta focus on gettin' Prime back first.” He turns toward Ratchet. “Do ya think ya can find it back on the Ark?”
“Maybe.” Ratchet doesn't like being so unsure, but he can't be certain of anything, not anymore. Also, how in the world would they get to the Ark? Did he dare trust his cobbled-together Ground Bridge system to get them that far? “My largest concern is that a backup memory core might not be enough.”
Perceptor taps his chin thoughtfully. “Mmm. You have a point, Ratchet. We know so little of how the Matrix operates and what affect it has on it's host. We know so little about Primes. It may be that we risk obtaining a memory core for no purpose.”
“What do you suggest then?” Arcee asks.
“It may be that we will need to access the data in the Archives to be better prepared for this particular situation,” Perceptor replies.
“The Archives?” Bulkhead repeats, drawing to a stop as he stares at them. “As in the Archives that are on Cybertron? Dark Energon Zombie infested Cybertron?”
Ratchet folds his arms over his chest. “The very same.”
--But the Space Bridge was destroyed,-- Bumblebee broadcasts on a general line, statement accompanied by an audible click.
“It is not impossible to construct another.” Perceptor's optics brighten, as though he's already running the calculations with the schematics. “It would, however, have to be a last resort as a newly built Space Bridge would be an immediate target for the Decepticons.”
“Not to mention the zombies,” Bulkhead mutters, though not so quiet that everyone didn't hear him.
“So fer right now, we'll focus on the memory cores,” Jazz says, hopping down from his perch as he begins a slow circuit around the gathered Cybertronians. “And trying to get a pair of optics and audials on the Nemesis.”
“With Soundwave lurking in the shadows?” Arcee asks with a demonstrative huff. “That's not going to be easy.”
Jazz pauses in his circuit, close enough to Ratchet that the edges of their energy fields brush, and the third in command tilts his visor toward Ratchet. A warning. A reminder.
“It's gotta be done,” Jazz says. “Because I'm not leavin' two of our own in Decepticon claws any longer than it takes.”
Another tension filled silence sweeps through the room, though approximately half of them are aware of what Jazz means.
Ratchet's spark stutters and he finds himself taking another step closer to Sunstreaker, as though needing his partner's proximity to console him.
This is it. No turning back now. They are committed to telling the truth, committed to this. Committed to getting their youngling back even if it means facing the possible revile of their friends and allies.
“Two?” Arcee repeats. “I don't understand. No one else is missing. Cliffjumper... there's no way he's survived. Not after what Megatron has done to him.”
“I wasn't referring to Cliffjumper,” Jazz replies, a pang of loss echoing behind his words. “But rather someone else.
“Who?” Perceptor asks, sounding equally puzzled.
Jazz turns his head, visor focusing on Ratchet and Sunstreaker. “If ya'd prefer, I can break the news.”
A half-dozen pairs of optics swivel their direction, and Ratchet can all but feel the confusion and curiosity radiating through the air. Especially from the other three members of the original team, who have heard nothing of this up until now.
Ratchet sighs again, plating clamping close to his frame protectively. His battle routines try to stir into priority, interpreting his rising tension as that before a battle, and Ratchet has to tamp them down. He can feel Sunstreaker's anxiety as well, though one wouldn't be able to tell by looking at the yellow mech, whose expression is the perfect depiction of blank and neutral.
“No,” Ratchet says, and feels absurdly grateful when he finds himself bracketed by a pair of frontliner twins, Sunstreaker's arm brushing his. “This is my – our – story to tell.”
“Ratchet,” Perceptor says, appearing to hesitate before he steps forward, more or less in front of Bluestreak. “What is this about?”
Is there a way to ease them into the truth? To put it delicately? Where should he even start? At the beginning?
There's no easy way to do this. Better to deal with it like like an attached scraplet – as soon as possible lest it eat its way through you.
“My youngling,” Ratchet replies, his vocalizer low but his declaration nonetheless carrying through the room. Sunstreaker grips his shoulder, as though to remind Ratchet of his part in the matter, and Ratchet amends, “Mine and Sunstreaker's.”
a/n: A bit of a cliffhanger here, but the next chapter should come rather quickly. I'm almost done with this fic, and once I finish writing, I tend to update a lot quicker. This takes a lot of time for me, personally, because I'm trying to edit it on my own and I have to let chapters sit before I can catch mistakes.
If anyone is interested in becoming my beta, that would be wonderful. Until then, feel free to point out mistakes, inconsistencies, etc. I won't be offended.
Feedback is welcome and appreciated!
