[TFP] Event Horizon - Chapter Five
Jan. 31st, 2012 01:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Answers and reactions, ahoy! Special thanks to jalaperilo for the betawork!
Pairings Revealed: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Sideswipe/First Aid, Jazz/Bluestreak, Megatron/Orion Pax (past), Bumblebee/Blaster, others
Rating: T
Warnings this chapter: spoilers for all of season one, implied spark merging, mechslash, language, mechpreg
Chapters: (01) (02) (03) (04) (05) (06) (07) (08) (09) (10) (11) (12) (Epi)
“Wait a minute.” Arcee's hand slices through the air and she stalks forward, each step a ring of metal over metal. “Your youngling?”
“You're bonded?” Bulkhead asks.
“Who is it?” Arcee demands.
Bumblebee adds his own two tones to the racket.
“Since when have you been bonded?” Bulkhead asks, scratching at his helm with one blunt finger, as though unable to process the two unbelievable revelations.
“We're not bonded,” Sunstreaker retorts stiffly, and his hand withdraws from Ratchet's shoulder; the dismissal in that motion panging Ratchet's spark like nothing else.
This is yet something else that will need to be addressed. Not right now, for it is a conversation Ratchet does not wish to have in public.
“Ratchet, who is your youngling?” Perceptor asks softly, his question lacking the outrage of the others and managing to stir Ratchet into actually answering.
Ratchet shifts, trying not to appear defensive. “He's a member of the Decepticons. You all would know him as Knock Out.”
Shock spreads through the room as though it had tangibility. Arcee stumbles backward a step, outwardly surprised. Bulkhead's jaw literally drops with a metallic clang. Bumblebee's optics spiral wider, clearly not expecting this turn of events. Bluestreak inclines his helm, perfectly aware of this information thanks to his bond with Jazz.
Of them all, only Perceptor has the mildest reaction. He peers at Ratchet, making a thoughtful noise. “I don't understand. How is it that you have a youngling? I don't have memory of this in my databanks.”
There is no turning back. This is the moment of truth.
“Knock Out has... nontraditional origins,” Ratchet admits, and if he were human, he would claim he answers with bated breath. “We were forced to hide him since we weren't approved to petition the Allspark for a sparkling of our own.”
Another moment of silence where his fellow Autobots appear to digest the information. Ratchet waits, watching each of their expressions. He notes the very moment that contemplation turns to suspicion, turns to realization and then, more shock.
“You mean... Knock Out's a merger?” Arcee asks, her tones shattering the quiet.
Ratchet winces as the figurative temperature in the room drops by about twenty degrees and behind him, Sunstreaker snarls.
Ratchet whirls, snatching Sunstreaker's right arm before his partner can so much as lunge forward. Sideswipe, no doubt keyed in to his twin's immediate snap into fury, clamps onto Sunstreaker's left arm, dragging him back a good step.
“No!” Ratchet shouts, wishing that he could speak with more than his vocalizer right now. “They don't know any better.”
Sunstreaker growls and Ratchet feels the tremors in his plating, the way his energy field flares with outrage and fury. “That's no excuse!”
Arcee, wisely, takes a step back. Not out of cowardice, but intelligent self-preservation. She may be confident, but even she knows that it's not wise to take on Sunstreaker by herself. Only Prime has ever done so successfully. And Prowl on several very memorable occasions.
“Sunstreaker! Stand down!” Jazz snaps with a tone that is not to be argued with, all trace of humor and good nature gone.
Sunstreaker jerks out of Ratchet's and Sideswipe's hold, but he doesn't lunge at Arcee. Instead, he glares at her; if his optics had lasers in them, she'd be nothing but blackened metal. “Call my youngling a merger again and they won't be able to stop me,” he hisses and raises his optics to everyone else, warning them without words.
Ratchet's hand slides down his face, feeling the anger radiating off his partner. “To answer your question, Arcee, yes. Knock Out was fostered, not True Sparked.”
“Primus! How did you manage to conceal such a truth?” Perceptor asks, sounding torn between his scientific curiosity and his personal beliefs about Cybertronian law.
“We had help,” Ratchet answers, and shakes his head, trying to sound both professional and composed, though he feels neither at the moment. His allies – his friends – are staring at him as though he were this unusual creature they've never seen before. He feels like an alien under the microscope, or a Decepticon spy awaiting Prowl's tender mercies.
He feels a bit like he's surrounded by the enemy, despite knowing (assuming) that they would none of them hurt him. Isolate, perhaps, but not harm. But then, for a Cybertronian, such isolation may be worse than the physical pain.
“But that's not the point,” Ratchet continues, struggling to be in control of the situation. “What matters is that Megatron has my youngling and I don't intend to let that pass. However, I cannot do it alone.”
“And you want us to help? How do you even know he doesn't want to be a 'Con?” Arcee asks, and doesn't back down at the warning growl Sunstreaker makes.
Ratchet can hardly fault her. All evidence seems to suggest Knock Out willingly joined the Decepticons. Yet, that doesn't preclude processor-wiping or reprogramming either. Ratchet can't turn back without knowing for certain... even if means admitting an even more painful truth.
His fingers clench and unclench with a quiet creak of gears. “We don't,” Ratchet answers honestly.
His words seem to echo in the main chamber regardless. He and Sunstreaker, and even Sideswipe for everyone knows that he must have been aware all along, are the focus of their stares.
Until Bulkhead's voice breaks the uneasy contemplation. “Scrap! I'm going to be late,” he mutters, and turns with a creak of joints in need of a good oiling. They've all gotten behind on their basic maintenance as of late. He pauses, looking over his shoulder at his medic. “Uhhh... can we talk about this later, Ratchet?”
Only Bulkhead sounds a lot like he'd prefer they never spoke of this again. Better yet, he'd like to forget the whole day ever happened so long as they point him in the right direction – at the Decepticons.
Ratchet doesn't blame him. The last few weeks have been stressing, even more so than their usual state of constant military readiness.
(Sometimes, Ratchet even wonders if any of them know how to function outside of war. If it will ever be over and when it does end, if any of them will be able to know what to do with themselves. Will they even be able to function in a relative peace after fighting for centuries and knowing only death?)
Jazz flicks his hands at Bulkhead, including both a bouncing Bumblebee and a sullen Arcee in the gesture. “Go on. Get th' humans. We're done fer now.”
He doesn't have to tell them twice. All three bots shift into alt-mode and peel out of the base so quickly Ratchet is surprised that they haven't left skid marks behind. They don't even care to bother with the speed of using a Ground Bridge instead.
In their absence, Jazz lets some of his leader-vibe slip out of him and his shoulders slump as he taps fingers over his mouthplates.
“Correct me if I'm wrong,” Perceptor inserts, lifting one hand and drawing attention to himself. “But you did not seem very surprised by any of this, Jazz. In fact, you are not behaving as though you only learned of this today.”
The tapping ceases.
“It was our secret to tell, Perceptor,” Ratchet answers quickly, unwilling to sow any discord with their current leader. The Autobots need to trust Jazz. If they lose their respect or trust for Ratchet, well, it's only part of what he deserves for lying to them for so long. “Don't blame Jazz.”
“Well, I for one think that went incredibly well,” Sideswipe drawls, folding his arms over his chest.
“It could have been worse,” Ratchet agrees, and moves past all of them, heading toward the main console and tapping a few keys. “Much worse.”
Ratchet brings up Arcee's, Bulkhead's, and Bumblebee's specifications and transmission channels, their faces and coordinates appearing on screen as scrolling, real-time data. The Decepticons have been quiet since the battle against Unicron.
Too quiet.
Ratchet is unwilling to take any chances, preferring to keep an optic on all three of them as he usually does. He will also need to update his medbanks with the data on the new arrivals, though Perceptor probably has them keyed into his scanners as well.
“Did Prime know?”
“No, he did not,” Ratchet answers, barely concealing his wince. This is still very much a sore spot for him. “I didn't want him to feel torn between his duties and his friendship.” That and the fewer who knew of Knock Out the better as it lessened the chance of his origins being revealed and their youngling being hauled away for imprisonment or worse, deactivation.
Bluestreak shifts, doorwings twitching at the tension in the air, all too tangible to the delicate sensors. “What now?”
Jazz drops his hand, whirling so that all of the remaining mechs are in sight. “Our goals have a common location. We'll start there.”
Sunstreaker chooses that moment to push past all of them, stride an audible thump on the metal-concrete flooring. “I'm going on patrol.”
Ratchet turns. “Sunstreaker--”
“No.” A single syllable answer, given in Cybertronian, with all the finality the distinct glyph can offer. No elaboration, just a simple negative.
Ratchet shifts his gaze to Jazz, expecting their commanding officer to do... something, but Jazz merely holds up his palms in a gesture of mute surrender. He's even faster at picking up human mannerisms than Bumblebee!
“Sometimes,” Jazz says as Sunstreaker storms out and the sound of his tires squealing over concrete echoes in the room. “A mech just needs his space.”
“Not that mech,” Ratchet growls.
Bluestreak, however, is already sliding past both his bonded and Ratchet, heading for the tunnel. “I'll go with him. Just in case. He never minds when I come along. I can be quiet. When I want to be. Or when he wants me to be. Or when I need to be. Or both.”
“Thanks, love.”
Bluestreak nods, drops into his alt-mode, and speeds out of the base, less than a minute behind Sunstreaker. And unless the yellow twin is breaking all traffic laws, Bluestreak should catch up soon enough. Ratchet can allow himself a sense of relief.
Sunstreaker is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, yes, but Decepticons are tricky and not only that, MECH is still out there. And they've already proven themselves capable of incapacitating a Cybertronian and doing whatever it takes to acquire one.
“Perceptor, can you take over the monitor for a klik?” Jazz asks in the ensuing silence, shifting his frame toward one of the main hallways. “Ratchet? A word?”
This can't be good. Ratchet inclines his head. “Yes sir.”
Jazz groans, mouthplates curling with a hint of humor. “Primus, I'm gonna really hate that by the time Prime gets back,” he mutters, barely making a sound as he strides toward the side corridor and Ratchet moves to follow, clunking and creaking like nothing more than the rusty old mech he is.
Of course, Ratchet cannot possibly compare his abilities to someone like Jazz who is trained and proficient in both Metallikato and Circuit-su whereas all the battle training Ratchet carries has been pounded into his processors by both Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. Which means his abilities are a collection of medical intuition, street fighting, and gladiator brawling.
So if Jazz can creep around without making hardly a sound (and on one occasion, creeping up on Ratchet despite his proximity sensors being set to their highest level), all the better. Ratchet is a medic after all.
“You will get used to it,” Ratchet replies as they step into the hall, the emptiness of the walls causing Ratchet's footsteps to echo eerily. Fluorescent lighting flickers, and one of the lights drones constantly.
Jazz shakes his head, tilting his head to look up at Ratchet, though with his visor it's hard to tell where Jazz is really focusing. “I don't want ta get used ta it.”
Behind them, another set of footsteps echo on the metal and concrete.
Jazz pauses mid-stride, head cocked as though able to tell the mech by the sound of their stride alone. “I don't recall invitin' Sideswipe,” he says aloud.
The footsteps cease and a light chuckle rises up behind them – Sideswipe. “Well, you didn't give me anything else to do either.”
“The floors could use a good mopping,” Ratchet says.
Sideswipe turns on his heel with a definitive stomp of his other foot, turning his back on them. “On the other hand, I think I hear Perceptor calling my name.” He dials up his vocalizer. “Be right there, Percy!”
Sideswipe scurries out of sight and immediate hearing. Well, scrap. Ratchet doesn't think he's ever going to get those floors mopped.
Jazz outright laughs, the first true sign of amusement since the earlier tension-filled atmosphere. He playfully punches Ratchet in the arm, metal ringing noisily. “Millennia later and you still know how to handle the twins.”
“Sideswipe is easy,” Ratchet replies with a lopsided curl of his mouthplates that goes no further. It's hard to find the humor in anything right now. “Sunstreaker, however...”
“Why didn't you bond with him?”
The frank and sudden query startles Ratchet. He swings his gaze on Jazz, who looks casual as you please, like he hasn't just asked the most difficult question a mech could possibly find.
“And the war had nothin' to do with it,” Jazz adds stubbornly. “So don't try that one on me, Ratch.”
Ratchet vents loudly. He doesn't know how to respond to that. Oh, he knows the truth, the reasons, and the neverending cowardice. He knows all the lies he's told himself and the half-formed excuses he's given Sunstreaker. But he doesn't know how to answer that question, to explain himself to a mech he hasn't seen in millennia, much less to himself.
Redirection becomes the name of the game.
“Is this what you wanted to talk to me privately about?” Ratchet asks as the recessed doorway of his medbay comes into view.
“No. Though it's still relevant. I'm sorta invested in you two.”
“Invested?” Ratchet keys open the panel, reminding himself that he'll have to give Jazz his own codes for the Cybertronian enhanced lock. Primus only knows what kind of mischief Miko could find herself in if Ratchet hadn't made securing the medbay one of his first actions the moment Optimus decided to allow humans constant access to their base.
Jazz steps in first at Ratchet's gesture and stands in the middle of the cramped, understocked room, looking around pointedly. “Yes, invested,” he says, and tosses a glance at Ratchet over his shoulder. “Nothing like Uraya, is it?”
“Not hardly,” Ratchet retorts with a snort. This medbay is primitive even by the standards of the free clinic where Ratchet volunteered his services. Most of the tools here have been made by hand, forged of Earth's incompatible and crude metals.
Jazz makes a contemplative noise, a buzz of static not unlike Earth's almost obsolete modem connections. He then chooses the nearest med-berth and hops up on it, this putting their optics at nearly the same level. Jazz has never had a complex about his height, but woe unto the mech that dare name him a minibot. (Despite evidence to the obvious that states he is one).
“So as I was sayin,” Jazz starts, legs swinging jauntily as he pins Ratchet with a look felt even through the filter of his visor. “Since I helped ya get together, I feel a bit responsible. Also, proud.”
Ratchet turns his back on the skilled infiltrator, poking at the machine he'd been half-heartedly working on last night. “I'm well aware that I have you to blame for a lifetime of processor aches.”
“As well as decavorns of happiness, circuit-blowin' interfacin', and a mech who's the spittin' image of both of ya from what I hear.”
Ratchet listlessly picks up a tool, spark lurching once again within him, as though he can't help the pain and sorrow that tints the memories. “Ask your question, Jazz.” What is worse? Answering the questions he can't? Or the constant reminders of what used to be and what he's probably lost?
There's a pause before Ratchet feels the brush of another energy field against his, just a friendly flicker buzzing with apology, sincerity, and affection. Ratchet doesn't have the same level of familiarity with Jazz as he does Sunstreaker, but he had been good friends with the TIC even before the war broke out. This is not something he wants the passing millennia to have changed.
He pulses back gruff resignation, and forgiveness, echoing it all with an aged fondness. He's not truly angry with Jazz after all. None of this is Jazz's fault and he doesn't deserve Ratchet's less than friendly attitude.
“What happened?” Jazz asks, the inquisitive buzzing of his energy field drawing away, leaving Ratchet feeling a bit colder. Figuratively speaking. “Back in Uraya? How did you two get separated from Knock Out?” Three actually, as Sideswipe had been with them at the time.
Ratchet shutters his optics. Trust Jazz to ask the difficult questions. “A series of failures for whom I have no one to blame but myself.”
“Tell me.”
“Is that an order?”
Jazz's fingers tap a nonsense rhythm on the surface of his perch. “Don't make me make it one, Ratchet. You know I'm just as fond of the mechling as Sideswipe.”
Ratchet sets the machine down once more, quite convinced it will never be fixed, and plants the flat of his hands (servos, by Primus he's become too accustomed to the humans) on the counter. His memory files are pulled to the front of his processors without his permission, as though Jazz's question has summoned them. He can remember it all so clearly, so vividly, as if it had happened yesterorn and not kilovorns ago.
“That's the curse of being Cybertronian,” Ratchet says with a resigned slouch of his shoulder components. “Millennia pass, but the memories don't fade. Ever.”
****
a/n: Coming up next... flashback chapter! In which we see what separated Ratchet and Sunstreaker from Knock Out so long ago, and also, the moment in which the war became real for all of them.
Feedback is welcome and appreciated. Season Two, February 18th, who's anxiously waiting?? :)
Pairings Revealed: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Sideswipe/First Aid, Jazz/Bluestreak, Megatron/Orion Pax (past), Bumblebee/Blaster, others
Rating: T
Warnings this chapter: spoilers for all of season one, implied spark merging, mechslash, language, mechpreg
Chapters: (01) (02) (03) (04) (05) (06) (07) (08) (09) (10) (11) (12) (Epi)
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Event Horizon
Chapter Five
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Event Horizon
Chapter Five
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“Wait a minute.” Arcee's hand slices through the air and she stalks forward, each step a ring of metal over metal. “Your youngling?”
“You're bonded?” Bulkhead asks.
“Who is it?” Arcee demands.
Bumblebee adds his own two tones to the racket.
“Since when have you been bonded?” Bulkhead asks, scratching at his helm with one blunt finger, as though unable to process the two unbelievable revelations.
“We're not bonded,” Sunstreaker retorts stiffly, and his hand withdraws from Ratchet's shoulder; the dismissal in that motion panging Ratchet's spark like nothing else.
This is yet something else that will need to be addressed. Not right now, for it is a conversation Ratchet does not wish to have in public.
“Ratchet, who is your youngling?” Perceptor asks softly, his question lacking the outrage of the others and managing to stir Ratchet into actually answering.
Ratchet shifts, trying not to appear defensive. “He's a member of the Decepticons. You all would know him as Knock Out.”
Shock spreads through the room as though it had tangibility. Arcee stumbles backward a step, outwardly surprised. Bulkhead's jaw literally drops with a metallic clang. Bumblebee's optics spiral wider, clearly not expecting this turn of events. Bluestreak inclines his helm, perfectly aware of this information thanks to his bond with Jazz.
Of them all, only Perceptor has the mildest reaction. He peers at Ratchet, making a thoughtful noise. “I don't understand. How is it that you have a youngling? I don't have memory of this in my databanks.”
There is no turning back. This is the moment of truth.
“Knock Out has... nontraditional origins,” Ratchet admits, and if he were human, he would claim he answers with bated breath. “We were forced to hide him since we weren't approved to petition the Allspark for a sparkling of our own.”
Another moment of silence where his fellow Autobots appear to digest the information. Ratchet waits, watching each of their expressions. He notes the very moment that contemplation turns to suspicion, turns to realization and then, more shock.
“You mean... Knock Out's a merger?” Arcee asks, her tones shattering the quiet.
Ratchet winces as the figurative temperature in the room drops by about twenty degrees and behind him, Sunstreaker snarls.
Ratchet whirls, snatching Sunstreaker's right arm before his partner can so much as lunge forward. Sideswipe, no doubt keyed in to his twin's immediate snap into fury, clamps onto Sunstreaker's left arm, dragging him back a good step.
“No!” Ratchet shouts, wishing that he could speak with more than his vocalizer right now. “They don't know any better.”
Sunstreaker growls and Ratchet feels the tremors in his plating, the way his energy field flares with outrage and fury. “That's no excuse!”
Arcee, wisely, takes a step back. Not out of cowardice, but intelligent self-preservation. She may be confident, but even she knows that it's not wise to take on Sunstreaker by herself. Only Prime has ever done so successfully. And Prowl on several very memorable occasions.
“Sunstreaker! Stand down!” Jazz snaps with a tone that is not to be argued with, all trace of humor and good nature gone.
Sunstreaker jerks out of Ratchet's and Sideswipe's hold, but he doesn't lunge at Arcee. Instead, he glares at her; if his optics had lasers in them, she'd be nothing but blackened metal. “Call my youngling a merger again and they won't be able to stop me,” he hisses and raises his optics to everyone else, warning them without words.
Ratchet's hand slides down his face, feeling the anger radiating off his partner. “To answer your question, Arcee, yes. Knock Out was fostered, not True Sparked.”
“Primus! How did you manage to conceal such a truth?” Perceptor asks, sounding torn between his scientific curiosity and his personal beliefs about Cybertronian law.
“We had help,” Ratchet answers, and shakes his head, trying to sound both professional and composed, though he feels neither at the moment. His allies – his friends – are staring at him as though he were this unusual creature they've never seen before. He feels like an alien under the microscope, or a Decepticon spy awaiting Prowl's tender mercies.
He feels a bit like he's surrounded by the enemy, despite knowing (assuming) that they would none of them hurt him. Isolate, perhaps, but not harm. But then, for a Cybertronian, such isolation may be worse than the physical pain.
“But that's not the point,” Ratchet continues, struggling to be in control of the situation. “What matters is that Megatron has my youngling and I don't intend to let that pass. However, I cannot do it alone.”
“And you want us to help? How do you even know he doesn't want to be a 'Con?” Arcee asks, and doesn't back down at the warning growl Sunstreaker makes.
Ratchet can hardly fault her. All evidence seems to suggest Knock Out willingly joined the Decepticons. Yet, that doesn't preclude processor-wiping or reprogramming either. Ratchet can't turn back without knowing for certain... even if means admitting an even more painful truth.
His fingers clench and unclench with a quiet creak of gears. “We don't,” Ratchet answers honestly.
His words seem to echo in the main chamber regardless. He and Sunstreaker, and even Sideswipe for everyone knows that he must have been aware all along, are the focus of their stares.
Until Bulkhead's voice breaks the uneasy contemplation. “Scrap! I'm going to be late,” he mutters, and turns with a creak of joints in need of a good oiling. They've all gotten behind on their basic maintenance as of late. He pauses, looking over his shoulder at his medic. “Uhhh... can we talk about this later, Ratchet?”
Only Bulkhead sounds a lot like he'd prefer they never spoke of this again. Better yet, he'd like to forget the whole day ever happened so long as they point him in the right direction – at the Decepticons.
Ratchet doesn't blame him. The last few weeks have been stressing, even more so than their usual state of constant military readiness.
(Sometimes, Ratchet even wonders if any of them know how to function outside of war. If it will ever be over and when it does end, if any of them will be able to know what to do with themselves. Will they even be able to function in a relative peace after fighting for centuries and knowing only death?)
Jazz flicks his hands at Bulkhead, including both a bouncing Bumblebee and a sullen Arcee in the gesture. “Go on. Get th' humans. We're done fer now.”
He doesn't have to tell them twice. All three bots shift into alt-mode and peel out of the base so quickly Ratchet is surprised that they haven't left skid marks behind. They don't even care to bother with the speed of using a Ground Bridge instead.
In their absence, Jazz lets some of his leader-vibe slip out of him and his shoulders slump as he taps fingers over his mouthplates.
“Correct me if I'm wrong,” Perceptor inserts, lifting one hand and drawing attention to himself. “But you did not seem very surprised by any of this, Jazz. In fact, you are not behaving as though you only learned of this today.”
The tapping ceases.
“It was our secret to tell, Perceptor,” Ratchet answers quickly, unwilling to sow any discord with their current leader. The Autobots need to trust Jazz. If they lose their respect or trust for Ratchet, well, it's only part of what he deserves for lying to them for so long. “Don't blame Jazz.”
“Well, I for one think that went incredibly well,” Sideswipe drawls, folding his arms over his chest.
“It could have been worse,” Ratchet agrees, and moves past all of them, heading toward the main console and tapping a few keys. “Much worse.”
Ratchet brings up Arcee's, Bulkhead's, and Bumblebee's specifications and transmission channels, their faces and coordinates appearing on screen as scrolling, real-time data. The Decepticons have been quiet since the battle against Unicron.
Too quiet.
Ratchet is unwilling to take any chances, preferring to keep an optic on all three of them as he usually does. He will also need to update his medbanks with the data on the new arrivals, though Perceptor probably has them keyed into his scanners as well.
“Did Prime know?”
“No, he did not,” Ratchet answers, barely concealing his wince. This is still very much a sore spot for him. “I didn't want him to feel torn between his duties and his friendship.” That and the fewer who knew of Knock Out the better as it lessened the chance of his origins being revealed and their youngling being hauled away for imprisonment or worse, deactivation.
Bluestreak shifts, doorwings twitching at the tension in the air, all too tangible to the delicate sensors. “What now?”
Jazz drops his hand, whirling so that all of the remaining mechs are in sight. “Our goals have a common location. We'll start there.”
Sunstreaker chooses that moment to push past all of them, stride an audible thump on the metal-concrete flooring. “I'm going on patrol.”
Ratchet turns. “Sunstreaker--”
“No.” A single syllable answer, given in Cybertronian, with all the finality the distinct glyph can offer. No elaboration, just a simple negative.
Ratchet shifts his gaze to Jazz, expecting their commanding officer to do... something, but Jazz merely holds up his palms in a gesture of mute surrender. He's even faster at picking up human mannerisms than Bumblebee!
“Sometimes,” Jazz says as Sunstreaker storms out and the sound of his tires squealing over concrete echoes in the room. “A mech just needs his space.”
“Not that mech,” Ratchet growls.
Bluestreak, however, is already sliding past both his bonded and Ratchet, heading for the tunnel. “I'll go with him. Just in case. He never minds when I come along. I can be quiet. When I want to be. Or when he wants me to be. Or when I need to be. Or both.”
“Thanks, love.”
Bluestreak nods, drops into his alt-mode, and speeds out of the base, less than a minute behind Sunstreaker. And unless the yellow twin is breaking all traffic laws, Bluestreak should catch up soon enough. Ratchet can allow himself a sense of relief.
Sunstreaker is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, yes, but Decepticons are tricky and not only that, MECH is still out there. And they've already proven themselves capable of incapacitating a Cybertronian and doing whatever it takes to acquire one.
“Perceptor, can you take over the monitor for a klik?” Jazz asks in the ensuing silence, shifting his frame toward one of the main hallways. “Ratchet? A word?”
This can't be good. Ratchet inclines his head. “Yes sir.”
Jazz groans, mouthplates curling with a hint of humor. “Primus, I'm gonna really hate that by the time Prime gets back,” he mutters, barely making a sound as he strides toward the side corridor and Ratchet moves to follow, clunking and creaking like nothing more than the rusty old mech he is.
Of course, Ratchet cannot possibly compare his abilities to someone like Jazz who is trained and proficient in both Metallikato and Circuit-su whereas all the battle training Ratchet carries has been pounded into his processors by both Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. Which means his abilities are a collection of medical intuition, street fighting, and gladiator brawling.
So if Jazz can creep around without making hardly a sound (and on one occasion, creeping up on Ratchet despite his proximity sensors being set to their highest level), all the better. Ratchet is a medic after all.
“You will get used to it,” Ratchet replies as they step into the hall, the emptiness of the walls causing Ratchet's footsteps to echo eerily. Fluorescent lighting flickers, and one of the lights drones constantly.
Jazz shakes his head, tilting his head to look up at Ratchet, though with his visor it's hard to tell where Jazz is really focusing. “I don't want ta get used ta it.”
Behind them, another set of footsteps echo on the metal and concrete.
Jazz pauses mid-stride, head cocked as though able to tell the mech by the sound of their stride alone. “I don't recall invitin' Sideswipe,” he says aloud.
The footsteps cease and a light chuckle rises up behind them – Sideswipe. “Well, you didn't give me anything else to do either.”
“The floors could use a good mopping,” Ratchet says.
Sideswipe turns on his heel with a definitive stomp of his other foot, turning his back on them. “On the other hand, I think I hear Perceptor calling my name.” He dials up his vocalizer. “Be right there, Percy!”
Sideswipe scurries out of sight and immediate hearing. Well, scrap. Ratchet doesn't think he's ever going to get those floors mopped.
Jazz outright laughs, the first true sign of amusement since the earlier tension-filled atmosphere. He playfully punches Ratchet in the arm, metal ringing noisily. “Millennia later and you still know how to handle the twins.”
“Sideswipe is easy,” Ratchet replies with a lopsided curl of his mouthplates that goes no further. It's hard to find the humor in anything right now. “Sunstreaker, however...”
“Why didn't you bond with him?”
The frank and sudden query startles Ratchet. He swings his gaze on Jazz, who looks casual as you please, like he hasn't just asked the most difficult question a mech could possibly find.
“And the war had nothin' to do with it,” Jazz adds stubbornly. “So don't try that one on me, Ratch.”
Ratchet vents loudly. He doesn't know how to respond to that. Oh, he knows the truth, the reasons, and the neverending cowardice. He knows all the lies he's told himself and the half-formed excuses he's given Sunstreaker. But he doesn't know how to answer that question, to explain himself to a mech he hasn't seen in millennia, much less to himself.
Redirection becomes the name of the game.
“Is this what you wanted to talk to me privately about?” Ratchet asks as the recessed doorway of his medbay comes into view.
“No. Though it's still relevant. I'm sorta invested in you two.”
“Invested?” Ratchet keys open the panel, reminding himself that he'll have to give Jazz his own codes for the Cybertronian enhanced lock. Primus only knows what kind of mischief Miko could find herself in if Ratchet hadn't made securing the medbay one of his first actions the moment Optimus decided to allow humans constant access to their base.
Jazz steps in first at Ratchet's gesture and stands in the middle of the cramped, understocked room, looking around pointedly. “Yes, invested,” he says, and tosses a glance at Ratchet over his shoulder. “Nothing like Uraya, is it?”
“Not hardly,” Ratchet retorts with a snort. This medbay is primitive even by the standards of the free clinic where Ratchet volunteered his services. Most of the tools here have been made by hand, forged of Earth's incompatible and crude metals.
Jazz makes a contemplative noise, a buzz of static not unlike Earth's almost obsolete modem connections. He then chooses the nearest med-berth and hops up on it, this putting their optics at nearly the same level. Jazz has never had a complex about his height, but woe unto the mech that dare name him a minibot. (Despite evidence to the obvious that states he is one).
“So as I was sayin,” Jazz starts, legs swinging jauntily as he pins Ratchet with a look felt even through the filter of his visor. “Since I helped ya get together, I feel a bit responsible. Also, proud.”
Ratchet turns his back on the skilled infiltrator, poking at the machine he'd been half-heartedly working on last night. “I'm well aware that I have you to blame for a lifetime of processor aches.”
“As well as decavorns of happiness, circuit-blowin' interfacin', and a mech who's the spittin' image of both of ya from what I hear.”
Ratchet listlessly picks up a tool, spark lurching once again within him, as though he can't help the pain and sorrow that tints the memories. “Ask your question, Jazz.” What is worse? Answering the questions he can't? Or the constant reminders of what used to be and what he's probably lost?
There's a pause before Ratchet feels the brush of another energy field against his, just a friendly flicker buzzing with apology, sincerity, and affection. Ratchet doesn't have the same level of familiarity with Jazz as he does Sunstreaker, but he had been good friends with the TIC even before the war broke out. This is not something he wants the passing millennia to have changed.
He pulses back gruff resignation, and forgiveness, echoing it all with an aged fondness. He's not truly angry with Jazz after all. None of this is Jazz's fault and he doesn't deserve Ratchet's less than friendly attitude.
“What happened?” Jazz asks, the inquisitive buzzing of his energy field drawing away, leaving Ratchet feeling a bit colder. Figuratively speaking. “Back in Uraya? How did you two get separated from Knock Out?” Three actually, as Sideswipe had been with them at the time.
Ratchet shutters his optics. Trust Jazz to ask the difficult questions. “A series of failures for whom I have no one to blame but myself.”
“Tell me.”
“Is that an order?”
Jazz's fingers tap a nonsense rhythm on the surface of his perch. “Don't make me make it one, Ratchet. You know I'm just as fond of the mechling as Sideswipe.”
Ratchet sets the machine down once more, quite convinced it will never be fixed, and plants the flat of his hands (servos, by Primus he's become too accustomed to the humans) on the counter. His memory files are pulled to the front of his processors without his permission, as though Jazz's question has summoned them. He can remember it all so clearly, so vividly, as if it had happened yesterorn and not kilovorns ago.
“That's the curse of being Cybertronian,” Ratchet says with a resigned slouch of his shoulder components. “Millennia pass, but the memories don't fade. Ever.”
a/n: Coming up next... flashback chapter! In which we see what separated Ratchet and Sunstreaker from Knock Out so long ago, and also, the moment in which the war became real for all of them.
Feedback is welcome and appreciated. Season Two, February 18th, who's anxiously waiting?? :)
