[TFP] Event Horizon - Chapter Eight
Mar. 11th, 2012 11:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Thanks to azardarkstar for betaing this chapter!
Continuity: Transformers: Prime, post Season One
Pairings so far: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Jazz/Bluestreak, Sideswipe/First Aid, past Megatron/Orion Pax, past Perceptor/Starscream, implied Bumblebee/Blaster
Rating: M
Warning: mechslash, language, possible violence, tactile smut, past spark play/merging, SPOILERS FOR SEASON ONE
Desc: Ratchet and Sunstreaker are forced to reveal a hidden truth while the Autobots struggle to come to terms with their absent leader.
Continuity: Transformers: Prime, post Season One
Pairings so far: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Jazz/Bluestreak, Sideswipe/First Aid, past Megatron/Orion Pax, past Perceptor/Starscream, implied Bumblebee/Blaster
Rating: M
Warning: mechslash, language, possible violence, tactile smut, past spark play/merging, SPOILERS FOR SEASON ONE
Desc: Ratchet and Sunstreaker are forced to reveal a hidden truth while the Autobots struggle to come to terms with their absent leader.
Chapters: (01) (02) (03) (04) (05) (06) (07) (08) (09) (10) (11) (12) (Epi)-----------------------------------
Event Horizon
Chapter Eight
-----------------------------------
“I don't know why Megatron's bothering with this one. There's hardly enough energon to feed his troops for an Earth week, much less a month,” Jazz transmits over the comms, which then plays through the console in the main room so that everyone can hear him.
Ratchet tries to focus, to chase away the anxious trembles in his plating. “I suspect this raid is less about replenishing his stock and more about testing our ability to respond without Optimus leading us.”
Jazz's laughter echoes around the base, full of amusement and challenge.
“Megs has always underestimated us.”
“I wouldn't be so sure of that,” Ratchet retorts. “Megatron is no fool. He's only gotten craftier as of late, and I've no doubt he's hatching something.”
“Nothing we can't handle,” Jazz sends back with utter confidence.
On the screen, the red dots rapidly approach the purple dots, one of them streaking ahead of the other four, a second quickly following. Ratchet doesn't even need Jazz to tell him which of their team just broke the line.
“Tell those fool twins that if they get themselves scrapped, I'm not wasting the energon to fix them,” Ratchet growls, never taking his optics off the screen.
“Tell us yourself!” Sideswipe taunts, cutting into the comm effortlessly. “Been a while since we could kick some real Decepticon aft.”
Sunstreaker is noticeable in his silence.
“Just remember what else you're there for, Sideswipe,” Ratchet says stiffly. Though he knows good and well that Sideswipe wouldn't do anything to risk harming Knock Out, kin of his kin.
The sound of blaster fire cuts into the transmission. Jazz shouts for them to take cover, though Ratchet can tell from the screen that the twins have chosen to disregard that order. One of them launches himself at a vehicon and judging from the battle cry, it was Sideswipe.
--One of these days, I'm going to have ya reformat them into somethin' a little more inclined ta obey-- Jazz sends to Ratchet alone, though his grumbling is good-natured.
--They wouldn't be themselves if you did that-- Ratchet replies, despite his own previous threats to the terrible twins.
Amusement trickles across the communication before it abruptly shuts down as all of Jazz's focus shifts to the battle at hand. Ratchet twitches, tempted to hack into the satellite systems again, just for a glimpse, an idea of what the skirmish must be like. But the chance of discovery is too great, the risk too high. Logically, he shouldn't even have done so earlier.
“Arcee, swing around the back, drive him toward me.”
“Got it.”
“Sideswipe! Stop playing around and get over here!”
“Sure thing, boss.”
More blaster fire. The sound of metal impacting metal. A screech of gears, the distinctive noise of mechs shifting from alt-mode to root-mode and back again.
“Fraggit all!” Jazz curses and sounds truly annoyed this time as the squeal of slammed brakes echoes in the monitor room. “Sunstreaker!”
Ratchet's optics flicker to the stat screen, but no one appears to be damaged. Therefore, Sunstreaker must have done something foolish.
“This is my battle to fight, Jazz,” Sunstreaker says, voice calm and even, but Ratchet can hear the undertones. The determination, the pain. “Stay out of this.”
“Sunstreaker!” There's a clash, and Jazz curses in Cybertronian, no doubt faced with a handful of vehicons. “Ratchet!”
He shakes his helm, speaking into the comm system. “I'm no more capable of telling him what to do than you are, Jazz.”
“Knock Out!” Sunstreaker's voice echoes around the main room.
It's a shout, meant to gain attention. Ratchet wishes more than anything he could see what is going on, could lay optics on his youngling.
He hears a chuckle, picked up through Sunstreaker's external audio sensors.
“Well, well. The Autobots have summoned back up, have they?”
Knock Out's sultry tones hold no pattern of recognition, no hint that he knows who Sunstreaker is. Ratchet's every processing unit is focused on their interaction, what he can hear of it.
“Just hold still,” Sunstreaker orders, and Ratchet's probably the only one who can hear the ache in his voice. “It'll all be over soon.”
Knock Out chuckles, and there's the distinct sound of an energon prod powering up.
“Bring it on, Sunshine.”
Ratchet's fingers curl on the metal paneling of the console as he listens. He can almost see them facing each other, and he feels utterly useless. All he can hear is the sound of metal clashing, Jazz shouting orders, and the shouts of the vehicons.
A hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “This is gonna work,” Bluestreak murmurs, and his optics don’t leave the screen in front of them either. “It has to. Jazz won't let it end any other way.”
“Your confidence is reassuring,” Ratchet replies but flinches as he hears Sideswipe give a grunt of pain, only to follow it up with a roaring battle cry. “I hope you’re right.”
“Ratchet!!” Sunstreaker's demand vibrates through the speakers and causes a screech of audial-wincing feedback. “Send the Ground Bridge. Now!”
Ratchet hesitates but only because Sunstreaker is technically not in charge of this mission, and the last thing they all need right now is a power struggle. Jazz's command quickly follows, however.
“Do it, Ratch.”
His fingers fly across the keyboard. One hand shakes as it lifts to the touch screen to reactivate the landing coordinates for the first bridge.
“Ground Bridge appearing in three... two... one.”
He throws the lever. Power swells in the base as green-blue light swirls in the tunnel, opening the connection for their friends. Ratchet turns toward the bridge, watching with growing impatience as Arcee is the first to come through in alt-mode before flipping into root-mode. Her plating is a bit scorched, and there’s an irritated look on her face, but she’s otherwise unharmed. Bulkhead quickly follows, towing a small flatbed piled with unrefined energon. Part of Ratchet relaxes at the sight of it, though Jazz was right. There is only enough to keep them going for about two Earth weeks. A paltry amount compared to their needs.
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe come next, dragging an immobile Knock Out between them, and Jazz brings up the rear, mere seconds behind the twins. Ratchet hurries to close down the bridge before any possibly conscious Cons get it in their processors to follow.
Jazz looks absolutely furious, his plating clamped to his frame as he stomps across the floor until he stops in front of the twins. Ratchet hurries to interrupt. His spark flips at the sight of his immobile youngling, whose plating is scorched and dented, one arm hanging at an angle that Ratchet doesn't like the look of.
“I knew I shoulda made you stay behind,” Jazz hisses, in that moment resembling an infuriated Prowl so strongly that Ratchet is shocked that they aren't true brothers once again. “You compromised the entire mission!”
Sunstreaker straightens to his full height, which surpasses Jazz's. Not that the acting commander is in the least bit intimidated.
“We got the energon. We have Knock Out. What else matters?”
--Jazz, the humans!-- Ratchet tightbeams to his commanding officer, wanting nothing more than to grab his youngling and haul him away from prying eyes. But he at least has to maintain his composure lest Sunstreaker ruins it for them all.
Jazz straightens, gaze narrowing on the humans. They all look a tad bit nervous, huddled together there on the catwalk. His visor flashes then, and he visibly regains control.
“Bulkhead, take the energon ta the storeroom,” he says, gaze swiveling back to the twins and their immobilized captive. “Ratchet, I don't remember there being mention of a brig.”
“Space is at a premium. We've not had need for one prior to now,” the medic puts in quietly, fingers twitching. Aching to repair and replace and touch and reassure...
“Suggestions?”
Jazz sounds in control, but Ratchet is not fooled. His battle systems are still charged, and the fingers of one hand are clenching and unclenching rhythmically. His energy field is a swirling maelstrom of tension.
Bumblebee isn’t oblivious to the tension and swiftly offers up a suggestion, one hand pointing to the side hall as he beeps at them.
“He's right. The Safe's our best bet. It's further underground and away from young eyes," Ratchet says.
Inclining his helm sharply, Jazz sweeps a sharp visor over the gathered mechs and the humans, who’re watching with wide, curious eyes. To be fair the only violence the three have witnessed has been between the factions, never between Autobots themselves. Pits, they rarely so much as raised their voices to one another!
“Perceptor, take monitor duty,” Jazz orders in a deceptively calm tone. “Blue, Sideswipe, on patrol. Bee, Arcee, take care o' the kids. Ratchet, Sunstreaker, yer with me.”
Remarkably, no one argues, though Sideswipe gets a distinctly mulish set to his faceplates. He has a few dents and dings and what looks to be a minor rupture in an energon line, but his self-repair should fix that in a matter of minutes. His optics dart from his brother to Ratchet and then the immobilized Knock Out before he takes a step back and drops into alt-mode.
He and Bluestreak disappear down the exit tunnel without so much as a word exchanged. Though the buzz on the edge of Ratchet's sensors detects the presence of narrow band comms between them.
Wordlessly, Perceptor takes his position at the console. Arcee and Bumblebee head toward the children, the femme muttering something about a video game system that will keep them occupied – though no doubt bombarding their guardians with their inquisitive minds.
This leaves Ratchet to take the other side of Knock Out as he and Sunstreaker follow Jazz out of the main room and down one of the long hallways. Mercifully, Jazz waits until they are out of sight and direct earshot before he starts speaking, and even then, he uses a low hiss certain to go unnoticed by anyone other than the three of them.
“You're slaggin' lucky Bulkhead managed to grab that energon when he did,” Jazz snaps at Sunstreaker as Ratchet directs them toward a large door at the far end that leads to an equally large service elevator.
At one time, it had probably been used to transport missiles and other sensitive equipment within this abandoned base. Now, it's just large enough for the four of them to squeeze inside, lucky that Jazz is a minibot. Though, again, Ratchet knows far better than to ever say such a thing to the saboteur's face.
Sunstreaker's grip on Knock Out's half-reaching arm tightens minutely. The sound of bending metal is all too loud in the otherwise tense silence.
“Punish me if you have to, Jazz. I was not letting this chance slip by.”
Ratchet decides it's in his best interest not to get between either of them. He can't be completely unbiased, not when Sunstreaker returned with their youngling. Not when Knock Out is here, in their base, and Ratchet can finally get to figuring out what went wrong. What had happened all those vorns ago.
“Since when has that done me or Prowler or even Prime any good?” Jazz snarls with a very good approximation of a growl in his vocalizer. “If I didn't understand what this meant ta ya, I'd be slammin' your aft into the wall right now.”
Sunstreaker's optics flash. “It would be interesting to see you try. Sir.”
The title is more insult than respect. Sunstreaker has only ever obeyed his superiors because he chooses to do so, if and when it suits him. That and it only took one time of Optimus putting him in his place, in such a way that even Sunstreaker can respect, for him to accept Optimus as his commanding officer.
Jazz, Ironhide, and even Prowl, however, have not quite approached that level of respect so deeply ingrained in Sunstreaker. He appreciates Jazz, has always deferred to him out of regard for their past friendship, but when Sunstreaker sets his optics on something, there is little that can deter him. This Ratchet knows all too well.
Pits! Sunstreaker has never truly listened to Ratchet either! Not even after Prime appointed Ratchet as his CMO.
Admittedly, Ratchet can't be sure what exactly would happen in a clash between Jazz and Sunstreaker. The former has the wiles, the cunning, the skills in metallikato and superior speed. But Sunstreaker is all power and fury with the tricks of street-fighting ingrained in his reflexes and a killer instinct. Literally.
Either way, Ratchet doesn't want to be stuck putting them both back together once the energon's done flying and circuits stop sparking.
He keys open the door to the safe and once it slides open, helps Sunstreaker maneuver Knock Out inside, Jazz on their heels. The door slides back shut, locking with a musical beep, confining Ratchet with the clash of two furious, stubborn egos.
“Can we not argue about this right now?” Ratchet snaps, gaze darting between the two of them. “I need to concentrate, not worry about breaking up an altercation!”
Jazz and Sunstreaker exchange equally contrary looks – more obvious in the later than the former – before Jazz seems to let things go. For now.
“Fine,” their leader says, stalking away from Sunstreaker and approaching Ratchet. “Start by telling me what we're gonna do about Knock Out here.”
Ratchet ventilates loudly. “First, I'm going to power him down. Safer than stasis.” He circles around his immobilized youngling, drawing out a medical interfacing cord.
Knock Out's had several upgrades over the vorns. The design of his frame is so unfamiliar to Ratchet. It's nothing like the protoform he and Sunstreaker had worked so hard to create. It's still a lovely frame, the chameleon mesh of his armor light yet durable, and the flexibility of his joints are capable of a wide range of motion.
Yet... it's not the same frame that his creators had given him, and Ratchet feels a pang in his spark at the realization. No wonder he hadn't recognized Knock Out until they met faceplate to faceplate, optic to optic, and their energy fields barely brushing.
Ratchet circles Knock Out twice before he finds a medical access port, behind a ventral plate close to his spark chamber. It makes sense, Ratchet supposes, as Knock Out is a medic himself and would need one that's easy for himself to access, yet out of the way of his hands.
As gentle as he can manage, Ratchet plugs in and narrows down his focus, swept up in the multi-tiered layers of Knock Out's programming. There's more here than Ratchet and Sunstreaker ever gave their youngling. Things he's picked up over the vorns. Programming other mechs gave him. Memories are locked tight behind a partition, and Ratchet leaves them alone for now.
Knock Out's firewalls are vicious, more vicious than Ratchet has ever seen. Which leaves him to wonder if he's ever allowed anyone close, if he's so much as connected to another mech for the sake of interfacing, or if he's kept to the much safer tactile play. Laced with viruses, processor-frying trip wires, and memory wipes, Knock Out's firewalls require a delicate touch. A lesser medic would have found himself insensate and less aware than a sparkling right now.
Luckily, Ratchet has eons of experience as a wartime medic shoring up his defenses. That and eons of working on the fringes of Cybertronian society have prepared him for the surprises one might find in another mech's processor. He forges onward, cleaving through Knock Out's firewalls with an odd tangle of gentle coaxing and stubborn persistence. It helps that Knock Out's systems recognize Ratchet's presence to a degree.
Knock Out's frame may be unfamiliar, as well as much of the newer software, but the underlying programming is every bit Ratchet's sparkling. Something akin to relief rushes through Ratchet at this small reassurance, this small proof that the red-plated mech in front of him is truly his long-missing mechling.
The last firewall drops, and Ratchet's granted access. For the moment, he ignores everything but Knock Out's main protocols, gently sending his youngling into power down mode. Similar to recharge but locked with a medic's code so that only Ratchet can bring him out of it. And if he uses his creator-codes to make sure that Knock Out's own medic programming doesn't override it, well, Ratchet doesn't have to share said information.
Reluctantly, Ratchet withdraws from Knock Out's systems, as carefully as he can manage considering the fallen firewalls he leaves in his wake. Back to his own awareness, Ratchet disconnects the medical access line and straightens.
“You can mobilize him now,” he says gruffly, spark spinning and twisting within his chassis. He absently rubs over his chestplate.
Sunstreaker pulls the Immobilizer from his subspace, spinning the device expertly in his fingers. “He won't wake?”
“No.” Ratchet hesitates as he shifts his gaze to Jazz. “Unless you'd prefer I leave him like this?”
Jazz folds his arms over his chest. “Do as you will, Ratchet. Between the three of us, I'm sure we can handle him.”
The traces of irritation are gone from his tone, but Ratchet doesn't relax. Sunstreaker makes a noise of disgust, but activates the Immobilizer, which allows Knock Out's unconscious frame to slump out of the awkward pose in which it's been trapped. Ratchet hurries to catch the red mech, lowering him more gently to the floor. If Miko's stories are anything to go by, Knock Out loathes scratches and dings to his paintjob to such a degree that rivals only his genitor, Sunstreaker.
Shoving the Immobilizer in Jazz's direction, Sunstreaker moves to Knock Out's other side, carefully cradling the Decepticon with unfailingly gentle motions. The arm that had worried Ratchet earlier seems to be fine now. He chalks it up to the awkwardness of an immobilization.
“What now, Ratchet?” Sunstreaker asks, vocalizer low but conveying the pain he's been so very good at hiding up until now. His expression is neutral, but his energy field says it all.
Ratchet kneels, one hand resting on Knock Out's shoulder. “Now, I do my best to understand what’s happened to our mechling.”
He nearly startles when a yellow-plated hand covers his. Ratchet looks up, Sunstreaker's optics boring into his. He doesn't say anything, not with Jazz standing right there to bear witness, but his actions speak more than words.
“I don't know what I'm going to find,” Ratchet continues softly. “We have to be prepared for the worst.”
A whisper of sound, a footfall in the open space of the room. “Decepticon or not, he'll always be your youngling,” Jazz comments, and his voice says everything they can’t.
Always theirs indeed.
“Except that he's not a youngling,” Ratchet murmurs, his processor struggling to delineate between the young bot of his memories and the very adult mech before him now. “Not anymore.”
Neither Jazz nor Sunstreaker have anything to say in respond to that. What is there to say but empty reassurances? The truth of the matter remains. Their mechling had grown from a youngling into an adult without them.
Ratchet forces a ventilation cycle, then reluctantly draws his hand from under Sunstreaker's. He gently turns Knock Out's head to the side, seeking a cortical access port, not unlike the one used to connect Bumblebee and Megatron what feels like such a long time ago. Except that this particular method is not banned. Though there are few medics who know how to perform it properly anymore. Ratchet is one of these few, and will connect to Knock Out through the port, as opposed to the more impersonal medical access.
It's also more dangerous, but the only way to be absolutely certain, granting him greater access to all of Knock Out's processor, rather than just the physical systems. It'll give Ratchet the opportunity to examine his very coding, to take a closer look at everything outside of spark resonance that gives Knock Out personality. He'll be able to do a complete processor scan, check the integrity of his data systems, and see if any of it has been altered in any possible way. He'll also be able to bypass the barriers surrounding Knock Out's memories, if needed.
Ratchet flicks open the small panel covering the tiny port and once again withdraws his medical access cord. He plugs in as gently as he can manage and rests his hand on Knock Out's chestplate, over a gleaming headlight.
Accessing a mech's physical systems requires only a basic focus. Ratchet's awareness still remains attached to his own form, and he can return in a moment's notice with little to no repercussions. Accessing through a mech's cortical port is entirely different. It involves Ratchet's entire being immersing itself through the connection, not unlike Soundwave's oft-rumored telepathy. Though he won't be intruding upon Knock Out's consciousness, like if this were a psychic patch. That’s the true danger.
Ratchet's own systems shift into a power saver mode, different than shut down, and only operating the basic functions. Energon continues to pump, his HUD remains active, but the awareness is gone. And were he to be startled, abruptly yanked from the connection and shoved back into his own processor, the consequences could be dire. Coding errors, fractured synapses, fried circuits...
But for his own youngling, there’s little Ratchet wouldn’t risk.
On the edge of his awareness, he senses Jazz beginning to pace, a slow and steady loop around the three of them sprawled out over the floor. Their position is less than ideal, but furniture is pretty well nil around the base, at least in Cybertronian size. The floor is all that they have to offer right now.
Jazz registered, Sunstreaker near enough that their energy fields mingle, Ratchet closes down his connection to his own frame, and narrows down his focus onto Knock Out. He shutters his optics and turns his awareness inward, all of the data streams that comprise his existence coalescing into a near-tangible current that follows the flow outward, traveling along the cable and sliding into Knock Out's systems.
It's an experience hard to put into words, hard to describe. Ratchet hasn't the imagination for lyrical or poetical descriptions. He's sure that Sunstreaker could paint quite the vivid image of what Ratchet is “seeing” or experiencing right now. But all Ratchet has access to is the clinical descriptions and the scientific terminology and the medical analyses.
His own data stream feels like a twined spool of green and silver, his awareness shored by rigid barriers but spontaneous reflexes. Knock Out's data stream, by contrast, is a woven web of gold and green and Decepticon purple. Knock Out's conscious lies quiescent, cowed by the power shut down and Ratchet's medical codes. There is a flicker of recognition – creator meeting creation – where Knock Out's stream turns luminescent, before it settles once again.
Ratchet takes a single, aching moment to admire his youngling's very self, the coil of data that is Knock Out's thoughts and core coding and life systems. It’s the only thing that has proven familiar so far. As much as he desires to do so, he can't linger. He can't risk Jazz or Sunstreaker thinking he's taking too long and daring to disturb him. Reluctantly, Ratchet moves along.
Every Cybertronian for the most part, has their inner workings arranged in the same manner. The outer plating may change. The running programs might be altered, added, or deleted. The locations, however, remain the same.
Ratchet decides it's in his best interest to check Knock Out's core coding first. It’s the most integral part of Knock Out's function, ruling his every thought and action and value. If the Decepticons had altered anything, it’d be his core coding.
He sinks deeper, until lines of code appear in front of him, resembling little more than strings of electric impulses interspersed with computing language that very few are capable of understanding. Most medics, yes, and some scientists like Perceptor. But the average mech? No.
Soundwave, Ratchet knows, is an excellent programmer and coder. Ratchet half-expects to find Soundwave's signature everywhere if any changes have been made. No matter how brilliant a programmer is, they’ll always leave evidence behind. Glitched connections, contrary commands, and possibly dark or blank spots where the coding had been completely erased.
He finds none of this. No matter how hard Ratchet searches or how closely he follows each line of coding, he can find nothing that indicates an alteration has been made. He sees where some has been added and easily identifies that which is similar to his own: namely medic protocols and the groundwork for battle systems. But nothing which could change Knock Out's core personality. There is not a single scrap of evidence of tampering, not even so much as a glitched circuit in his personality matrix.
Ratchet honestly can't say if he's disappointed or not. Relieved that his youngling hasn't had to go through something as loathsome as forced coding alteration. Disappointed that it isn't the explanation for Knock Out's wartime choices.
Backing away from Knock Out's coding, Ratchet shifts his focus to his mechling's processors. A complete wipe would be the more prominent culprit, though it wouldn't be beyond the Decepticons to only erase portions of Knock Out's processing systems. Simply removing the recognition software between friend and foe would go lengths to shift an impressionable youngling to their side.
Once again, there is nothing. No sign of tampering, nothing to indicate Decepticon involvement in Knock Out's faction choice. Any alterations have Knock Out's personal stamp upon them, no sign of Soundwave or Hook or pits, even Vortex.
This time, Ratchet winces out of true disappointment but forges on. There has to be something. Part of him hopes there to be something.
Knock Out's circuits are unaltered. They're carrying all of the information properly with no corruption along the route. Frag it.
His spark chamber displays no signs of forced merging or tampering. It retains its integrity. All Ratchet learns is that his youngling has not been forcibly bonded. Or bonded at all, for that matter. He could have a partner, however, and Ratchet wouldn't know.
Out of options, Ratchet can only check one other thing: Knock Out's memory core. Ascertaining the integrity of it is easy enough. With a glance, Ratchet can tell no alterations have been made. That there aren't large gaps in the circuitry nor does it exhibit sign of tampering. The true test lies in going deeper which is infinitely more dangerous.
Initiating the cortical connection is hazardous enough, but to actively access Knock Out's memory core, relive Knock Out's memories from his youngling's point of view... Ratchet runs the risk of being trapped in Knock Out's systems for an unknown future. Much like Megatron had hitched a ride within Bumblebee, Ratchet will be trapped within his youngling, lost without the tether to take him back to his own frame.
He can't let that happen. Nor will he let this chance pass him by. He has to know. Steeling himself, Ratchet ghosts into Knock Out's memory core and immediately finds himself in the past.
***
a/n: Next chapter is a flashback chapter. This time, we get to see some of Knock Out's past. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
And here is where I humbly ask for assistance. My usual beta is having lots of Real Life trouble right now ( I totally sympathize) and until things get settled, I could use someone who'd like to look over some Event Horizon chapters. My grammar isn't terrible, but I don't get along with commas and I sometimes miss my own mistakes. Anyone out there willing to beta for me?
Event Horizon
Chapter Eight
-----------------------------------
“I don't know why Megatron's bothering with this one. There's hardly enough energon to feed his troops for an Earth week, much less a month,” Jazz transmits over the comms, which then plays through the console in the main room so that everyone can hear him.
Ratchet tries to focus, to chase away the anxious trembles in his plating. “I suspect this raid is less about replenishing his stock and more about testing our ability to respond without Optimus leading us.”
Jazz's laughter echoes around the base, full of amusement and challenge.
“Megs has always underestimated us.”
“I wouldn't be so sure of that,” Ratchet retorts. “Megatron is no fool. He's only gotten craftier as of late, and I've no doubt he's hatching something.”
“Nothing we can't handle,” Jazz sends back with utter confidence.
On the screen, the red dots rapidly approach the purple dots, one of them streaking ahead of the other four, a second quickly following. Ratchet doesn't even need Jazz to tell him which of their team just broke the line.
“Tell those fool twins that if they get themselves scrapped, I'm not wasting the energon to fix them,” Ratchet growls, never taking his optics off the screen.
“Tell us yourself!” Sideswipe taunts, cutting into the comm effortlessly. “Been a while since we could kick some real Decepticon aft.”
Sunstreaker is noticeable in his silence.
“Just remember what else you're there for, Sideswipe,” Ratchet says stiffly. Though he knows good and well that Sideswipe wouldn't do anything to risk harming Knock Out, kin of his kin.
The sound of blaster fire cuts into the transmission. Jazz shouts for them to take cover, though Ratchet can tell from the screen that the twins have chosen to disregard that order. One of them launches himself at a vehicon and judging from the battle cry, it was Sideswipe.
--One of these days, I'm going to have ya reformat them into somethin' a little more inclined ta obey-- Jazz sends to Ratchet alone, though his grumbling is good-natured.
--They wouldn't be themselves if you did that-- Ratchet replies, despite his own previous threats to the terrible twins.
Amusement trickles across the communication before it abruptly shuts down as all of Jazz's focus shifts to the battle at hand. Ratchet twitches, tempted to hack into the satellite systems again, just for a glimpse, an idea of what the skirmish must be like. But the chance of discovery is too great, the risk too high. Logically, he shouldn't even have done so earlier.
“Arcee, swing around the back, drive him toward me.”
“Got it.”
“Sideswipe! Stop playing around and get over here!”
“Sure thing, boss.”
More blaster fire. The sound of metal impacting metal. A screech of gears, the distinctive noise of mechs shifting from alt-mode to root-mode and back again.
“Fraggit all!” Jazz curses and sounds truly annoyed this time as the squeal of slammed brakes echoes in the monitor room. “Sunstreaker!”
Ratchet's optics flicker to the stat screen, but no one appears to be damaged. Therefore, Sunstreaker must have done something foolish.
“This is my battle to fight, Jazz,” Sunstreaker says, voice calm and even, but Ratchet can hear the undertones. The determination, the pain. “Stay out of this.”
“Sunstreaker!” There's a clash, and Jazz curses in Cybertronian, no doubt faced with a handful of vehicons. “Ratchet!”
He shakes his helm, speaking into the comm system. “I'm no more capable of telling him what to do than you are, Jazz.”
“Knock Out!” Sunstreaker's voice echoes around the main room.
It's a shout, meant to gain attention. Ratchet wishes more than anything he could see what is going on, could lay optics on his youngling.
He hears a chuckle, picked up through Sunstreaker's external audio sensors.
“Well, well. The Autobots have summoned back up, have they?”
Knock Out's sultry tones hold no pattern of recognition, no hint that he knows who Sunstreaker is. Ratchet's every processing unit is focused on their interaction, what he can hear of it.
“Just hold still,” Sunstreaker orders, and Ratchet's probably the only one who can hear the ache in his voice. “It'll all be over soon.”
Knock Out chuckles, and there's the distinct sound of an energon prod powering up.
“Bring it on, Sunshine.”
Ratchet's fingers curl on the metal paneling of the console as he listens. He can almost see them facing each other, and he feels utterly useless. All he can hear is the sound of metal clashing, Jazz shouting orders, and the shouts of the vehicons.
A hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “This is gonna work,” Bluestreak murmurs, and his optics don’t leave the screen in front of them either. “It has to. Jazz won't let it end any other way.”
“Your confidence is reassuring,” Ratchet replies but flinches as he hears Sideswipe give a grunt of pain, only to follow it up with a roaring battle cry. “I hope you’re right.”
“Ratchet!!” Sunstreaker's demand vibrates through the speakers and causes a screech of audial-wincing feedback. “Send the Ground Bridge. Now!”
Ratchet hesitates but only because Sunstreaker is technically not in charge of this mission, and the last thing they all need right now is a power struggle. Jazz's command quickly follows, however.
“Do it, Ratch.”
His fingers fly across the keyboard. One hand shakes as it lifts to the touch screen to reactivate the landing coordinates for the first bridge.
“Ground Bridge appearing in three... two... one.”
He throws the lever. Power swells in the base as green-blue light swirls in the tunnel, opening the connection for their friends. Ratchet turns toward the bridge, watching with growing impatience as Arcee is the first to come through in alt-mode before flipping into root-mode. Her plating is a bit scorched, and there’s an irritated look on her face, but she’s otherwise unharmed. Bulkhead quickly follows, towing a small flatbed piled with unrefined energon. Part of Ratchet relaxes at the sight of it, though Jazz was right. There is only enough to keep them going for about two Earth weeks. A paltry amount compared to their needs.
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe come next, dragging an immobile Knock Out between them, and Jazz brings up the rear, mere seconds behind the twins. Ratchet hurries to close down the bridge before any possibly conscious Cons get it in their processors to follow.
Jazz looks absolutely furious, his plating clamped to his frame as he stomps across the floor until he stops in front of the twins. Ratchet hurries to interrupt. His spark flips at the sight of his immobile youngling, whose plating is scorched and dented, one arm hanging at an angle that Ratchet doesn't like the look of.
“I knew I shoulda made you stay behind,” Jazz hisses, in that moment resembling an infuriated Prowl so strongly that Ratchet is shocked that they aren't true brothers once again. “You compromised the entire mission!”
Sunstreaker straightens to his full height, which surpasses Jazz's. Not that the acting commander is in the least bit intimidated.
“We got the energon. We have Knock Out. What else matters?”
--Jazz, the humans!-- Ratchet tightbeams to his commanding officer, wanting nothing more than to grab his youngling and haul him away from prying eyes. But he at least has to maintain his composure lest Sunstreaker ruins it for them all.
Jazz straightens, gaze narrowing on the humans. They all look a tad bit nervous, huddled together there on the catwalk. His visor flashes then, and he visibly regains control.
“Bulkhead, take the energon ta the storeroom,” he says, gaze swiveling back to the twins and their immobilized captive. “Ratchet, I don't remember there being mention of a brig.”
“Space is at a premium. We've not had need for one prior to now,” the medic puts in quietly, fingers twitching. Aching to repair and replace and touch and reassure...
“Suggestions?”
Jazz sounds in control, but Ratchet is not fooled. His battle systems are still charged, and the fingers of one hand are clenching and unclenching rhythmically. His energy field is a swirling maelstrom of tension.
Bumblebee isn’t oblivious to the tension and swiftly offers up a suggestion, one hand pointing to the side hall as he beeps at them.
“He's right. The Safe's our best bet. It's further underground and away from young eyes," Ratchet says.
Inclining his helm sharply, Jazz sweeps a sharp visor over the gathered mechs and the humans, who’re watching with wide, curious eyes. To be fair the only violence the three have witnessed has been between the factions, never between Autobots themselves. Pits, they rarely so much as raised their voices to one another!
“Perceptor, take monitor duty,” Jazz orders in a deceptively calm tone. “Blue, Sideswipe, on patrol. Bee, Arcee, take care o' the kids. Ratchet, Sunstreaker, yer with me.”
Remarkably, no one argues, though Sideswipe gets a distinctly mulish set to his faceplates. He has a few dents and dings and what looks to be a minor rupture in an energon line, but his self-repair should fix that in a matter of minutes. His optics dart from his brother to Ratchet and then the immobilized Knock Out before he takes a step back and drops into alt-mode.
He and Bluestreak disappear down the exit tunnel without so much as a word exchanged. Though the buzz on the edge of Ratchet's sensors detects the presence of narrow band comms between them.
Wordlessly, Perceptor takes his position at the console. Arcee and Bumblebee head toward the children, the femme muttering something about a video game system that will keep them occupied – though no doubt bombarding their guardians with their inquisitive minds.
This leaves Ratchet to take the other side of Knock Out as he and Sunstreaker follow Jazz out of the main room and down one of the long hallways. Mercifully, Jazz waits until they are out of sight and direct earshot before he starts speaking, and even then, he uses a low hiss certain to go unnoticed by anyone other than the three of them.
“You're slaggin' lucky Bulkhead managed to grab that energon when he did,” Jazz snaps at Sunstreaker as Ratchet directs them toward a large door at the far end that leads to an equally large service elevator.
At one time, it had probably been used to transport missiles and other sensitive equipment within this abandoned base. Now, it's just large enough for the four of them to squeeze inside, lucky that Jazz is a minibot. Though, again, Ratchet knows far better than to ever say such a thing to the saboteur's face.
Sunstreaker's grip on Knock Out's half-reaching arm tightens minutely. The sound of bending metal is all too loud in the otherwise tense silence.
“Punish me if you have to, Jazz. I was not letting this chance slip by.”
Ratchet decides it's in his best interest not to get between either of them. He can't be completely unbiased, not when Sunstreaker returned with their youngling. Not when Knock Out is here, in their base, and Ratchet can finally get to figuring out what went wrong. What had happened all those vorns ago.
“Since when has that done me or Prowler or even Prime any good?” Jazz snarls with a very good approximation of a growl in his vocalizer. “If I didn't understand what this meant ta ya, I'd be slammin' your aft into the wall right now.”
Sunstreaker's optics flash. “It would be interesting to see you try. Sir.”
The title is more insult than respect. Sunstreaker has only ever obeyed his superiors because he chooses to do so, if and when it suits him. That and it only took one time of Optimus putting him in his place, in such a way that even Sunstreaker can respect, for him to accept Optimus as his commanding officer.
Jazz, Ironhide, and even Prowl, however, have not quite approached that level of respect so deeply ingrained in Sunstreaker. He appreciates Jazz, has always deferred to him out of regard for their past friendship, but when Sunstreaker sets his optics on something, there is little that can deter him. This Ratchet knows all too well.
Pits! Sunstreaker has never truly listened to Ratchet either! Not even after Prime appointed Ratchet as his CMO.
Admittedly, Ratchet can't be sure what exactly would happen in a clash between Jazz and Sunstreaker. The former has the wiles, the cunning, the skills in metallikato and superior speed. But Sunstreaker is all power and fury with the tricks of street-fighting ingrained in his reflexes and a killer instinct. Literally.
Either way, Ratchet doesn't want to be stuck putting them both back together once the energon's done flying and circuits stop sparking.
He keys open the door to the safe and once it slides open, helps Sunstreaker maneuver Knock Out inside, Jazz on their heels. The door slides back shut, locking with a musical beep, confining Ratchet with the clash of two furious, stubborn egos.
“Can we not argue about this right now?” Ratchet snaps, gaze darting between the two of them. “I need to concentrate, not worry about breaking up an altercation!”
Jazz and Sunstreaker exchange equally contrary looks – more obvious in the later than the former – before Jazz seems to let things go. For now.
“Fine,” their leader says, stalking away from Sunstreaker and approaching Ratchet. “Start by telling me what we're gonna do about Knock Out here.”
Ratchet ventilates loudly. “First, I'm going to power him down. Safer than stasis.” He circles around his immobilized youngling, drawing out a medical interfacing cord.
Knock Out's had several upgrades over the vorns. The design of his frame is so unfamiliar to Ratchet. It's nothing like the protoform he and Sunstreaker had worked so hard to create. It's still a lovely frame, the chameleon mesh of his armor light yet durable, and the flexibility of his joints are capable of a wide range of motion.
Yet... it's not the same frame that his creators had given him, and Ratchet feels a pang in his spark at the realization. No wonder he hadn't recognized Knock Out until they met faceplate to faceplate, optic to optic, and their energy fields barely brushing.
Ratchet circles Knock Out twice before he finds a medical access port, behind a ventral plate close to his spark chamber. It makes sense, Ratchet supposes, as Knock Out is a medic himself and would need one that's easy for himself to access, yet out of the way of his hands.
As gentle as he can manage, Ratchet plugs in and narrows down his focus, swept up in the multi-tiered layers of Knock Out's programming. There's more here than Ratchet and Sunstreaker ever gave their youngling. Things he's picked up over the vorns. Programming other mechs gave him. Memories are locked tight behind a partition, and Ratchet leaves them alone for now.
Knock Out's firewalls are vicious, more vicious than Ratchet has ever seen. Which leaves him to wonder if he's ever allowed anyone close, if he's so much as connected to another mech for the sake of interfacing, or if he's kept to the much safer tactile play. Laced with viruses, processor-frying trip wires, and memory wipes, Knock Out's firewalls require a delicate touch. A lesser medic would have found himself insensate and less aware than a sparkling right now.
Luckily, Ratchet has eons of experience as a wartime medic shoring up his defenses. That and eons of working on the fringes of Cybertronian society have prepared him for the surprises one might find in another mech's processor. He forges onward, cleaving through Knock Out's firewalls with an odd tangle of gentle coaxing and stubborn persistence. It helps that Knock Out's systems recognize Ratchet's presence to a degree.
Knock Out's frame may be unfamiliar, as well as much of the newer software, but the underlying programming is every bit Ratchet's sparkling. Something akin to relief rushes through Ratchet at this small reassurance, this small proof that the red-plated mech in front of him is truly his long-missing mechling.
The last firewall drops, and Ratchet's granted access. For the moment, he ignores everything but Knock Out's main protocols, gently sending his youngling into power down mode. Similar to recharge but locked with a medic's code so that only Ratchet can bring him out of it. And if he uses his creator-codes to make sure that Knock Out's own medic programming doesn't override it, well, Ratchet doesn't have to share said information.
Reluctantly, Ratchet withdraws from Knock Out's systems, as carefully as he can manage considering the fallen firewalls he leaves in his wake. Back to his own awareness, Ratchet disconnects the medical access line and straightens.
“You can mobilize him now,” he says gruffly, spark spinning and twisting within his chassis. He absently rubs over his chestplate.
Sunstreaker pulls the Immobilizer from his subspace, spinning the device expertly in his fingers. “He won't wake?”
“No.” Ratchet hesitates as he shifts his gaze to Jazz. “Unless you'd prefer I leave him like this?”
Jazz folds his arms over his chest. “Do as you will, Ratchet. Between the three of us, I'm sure we can handle him.”
The traces of irritation are gone from his tone, but Ratchet doesn't relax. Sunstreaker makes a noise of disgust, but activates the Immobilizer, which allows Knock Out's unconscious frame to slump out of the awkward pose in which it's been trapped. Ratchet hurries to catch the red mech, lowering him more gently to the floor. If Miko's stories are anything to go by, Knock Out loathes scratches and dings to his paintjob to such a degree that rivals only his genitor, Sunstreaker.
Shoving the Immobilizer in Jazz's direction, Sunstreaker moves to Knock Out's other side, carefully cradling the Decepticon with unfailingly gentle motions. The arm that had worried Ratchet earlier seems to be fine now. He chalks it up to the awkwardness of an immobilization.
“What now, Ratchet?” Sunstreaker asks, vocalizer low but conveying the pain he's been so very good at hiding up until now. His expression is neutral, but his energy field says it all.
Ratchet kneels, one hand resting on Knock Out's shoulder. “Now, I do my best to understand what’s happened to our mechling.”
He nearly startles when a yellow-plated hand covers his. Ratchet looks up, Sunstreaker's optics boring into his. He doesn't say anything, not with Jazz standing right there to bear witness, but his actions speak more than words.
“I don't know what I'm going to find,” Ratchet continues softly. “We have to be prepared for the worst.”
A whisper of sound, a footfall in the open space of the room. “Decepticon or not, he'll always be your youngling,” Jazz comments, and his voice says everything they can’t.
Always theirs indeed.
“Except that he's not a youngling,” Ratchet murmurs, his processor struggling to delineate between the young bot of his memories and the very adult mech before him now. “Not anymore.”
Neither Jazz nor Sunstreaker have anything to say in respond to that. What is there to say but empty reassurances? The truth of the matter remains. Their mechling had grown from a youngling into an adult without them.
Ratchet forces a ventilation cycle, then reluctantly draws his hand from under Sunstreaker's. He gently turns Knock Out's head to the side, seeking a cortical access port, not unlike the one used to connect Bumblebee and Megatron what feels like such a long time ago. Except that this particular method is not banned. Though there are few medics who know how to perform it properly anymore. Ratchet is one of these few, and will connect to Knock Out through the port, as opposed to the more impersonal medical access.
It's also more dangerous, but the only way to be absolutely certain, granting him greater access to all of Knock Out's processor, rather than just the physical systems. It'll give Ratchet the opportunity to examine his very coding, to take a closer look at everything outside of spark resonance that gives Knock Out personality. He'll be able to do a complete processor scan, check the integrity of his data systems, and see if any of it has been altered in any possible way. He'll also be able to bypass the barriers surrounding Knock Out's memories, if needed.
Ratchet flicks open the small panel covering the tiny port and once again withdraws his medical access cord. He plugs in as gently as he can manage and rests his hand on Knock Out's chestplate, over a gleaming headlight.
Accessing a mech's physical systems requires only a basic focus. Ratchet's awareness still remains attached to his own form, and he can return in a moment's notice with little to no repercussions. Accessing through a mech's cortical port is entirely different. It involves Ratchet's entire being immersing itself through the connection, not unlike Soundwave's oft-rumored telepathy. Though he won't be intruding upon Knock Out's consciousness, like if this were a psychic patch. That’s the true danger.
Ratchet's own systems shift into a power saver mode, different than shut down, and only operating the basic functions. Energon continues to pump, his HUD remains active, but the awareness is gone. And were he to be startled, abruptly yanked from the connection and shoved back into his own processor, the consequences could be dire. Coding errors, fractured synapses, fried circuits...
But for his own youngling, there’s little Ratchet wouldn’t risk.
On the edge of his awareness, he senses Jazz beginning to pace, a slow and steady loop around the three of them sprawled out over the floor. Their position is less than ideal, but furniture is pretty well nil around the base, at least in Cybertronian size. The floor is all that they have to offer right now.
Jazz registered, Sunstreaker near enough that their energy fields mingle, Ratchet closes down his connection to his own frame, and narrows down his focus onto Knock Out. He shutters his optics and turns his awareness inward, all of the data streams that comprise his existence coalescing into a near-tangible current that follows the flow outward, traveling along the cable and sliding into Knock Out's systems.
It's an experience hard to put into words, hard to describe. Ratchet hasn't the imagination for lyrical or poetical descriptions. He's sure that Sunstreaker could paint quite the vivid image of what Ratchet is “seeing” or experiencing right now. But all Ratchet has access to is the clinical descriptions and the scientific terminology and the medical analyses.
His own data stream feels like a twined spool of green and silver, his awareness shored by rigid barriers but spontaneous reflexes. Knock Out's data stream, by contrast, is a woven web of gold and green and Decepticon purple. Knock Out's conscious lies quiescent, cowed by the power shut down and Ratchet's medical codes. There is a flicker of recognition – creator meeting creation – where Knock Out's stream turns luminescent, before it settles once again.
Ratchet takes a single, aching moment to admire his youngling's very self, the coil of data that is Knock Out's thoughts and core coding and life systems. It’s the only thing that has proven familiar so far. As much as he desires to do so, he can't linger. He can't risk Jazz or Sunstreaker thinking he's taking too long and daring to disturb him. Reluctantly, Ratchet moves along.
Every Cybertronian for the most part, has their inner workings arranged in the same manner. The outer plating may change. The running programs might be altered, added, or deleted. The locations, however, remain the same.
Ratchet decides it's in his best interest to check Knock Out's core coding first. It’s the most integral part of Knock Out's function, ruling his every thought and action and value. If the Decepticons had altered anything, it’d be his core coding.
He sinks deeper, until lines of code appear in front of him, resembling little more than strings of electric impulses interspersed with computing language that very few are capable of understanding. Most medics, yes, and some scientists like Perceptor. But the average mech? No.
Soundwave, Ratchet knows, is an excellent programmer and coder. Ratchet half-expects to find Soundwave's signature everywhere if any changes have been made. No matter how brilliant a programmer is, they’ll always leave evidence behind. Glitched connections, contrary commands, and possibly dark or blank spots where the coding had been completely erased.
He finds none of this. No matter how hard Ratchet searches or how closely he follows each line of coding, he can find nothing that indicates an alteration has been made. He sees where some has been added and easily identifies that which is similar to his own: namely medic protocols and the groundwork for battle systems. But nothing which could change Knock Out's core personality. There is not a single scrap of evidence of tampering, not even so much as a glitched circuit in his personality matrix.
Ratchet honestly can't say if he's disappointed or not. Relieved that his youngling hasn't had to go through something as loathsome as forced coding alteration. Disappointed that it isn't the explanation for Knock Out's wartime choices.
Backing away from Knock Out's coding, Ratchet shifts his focus to his mechling's processors. A complete wipe would be the more prominent culprit, though it wouldn't be beyond the Decepticons to only erase portions of Knock Out's processing systems. Simply removing the recognition software between friend and foe would go lengths to shift an impressionable youngling to their side.
Once again, there is nothing. No sign of tampering, nothing to indicate Decepticon involvement in Knock Out's faction choice. Any alterations have Knock Out's personal stamp upon them, no sign of Soundwave or Hook or pits, even Vortex.
This time, Ratchet winces out of true disappointment but forges on. There has to be something. Part of him hopes there to be something.
Knock Out's circuits are unaltered. They're carrying all of the information properly with no corruption along the route. Frag it.
His spark chamber displays no signs of forced merging or tampering. It retains its integrity. All Ratchet learns is that his youngling has not been forcibly bonded. Or bonded at all, for that matter. He could have a partner, however, and Ratchet wouldn't know.
Out of options, Ratchet can only check one other thing: Knock Out's memory core. Ascertaining the integrity of it is easy enough. With a glance, Ratchet can tell no alterations have been made. That there aren't large gaps in the circuitry nor does it exhibit sign of tampering. The true test lies in going deeper which is infinitely more dangerous.
Initiating the cortical connection is hazardous enough, but to actively access Knock Out's memory core, relive Knock Out's memories from his youngling's point of view... Ratchet runs the risk of being trapped in Knock Out's systems for an unknown future. Much like Megatron had hitched a ride within Bumblebee, Ratchet will be trapped within his youngling, lost without the tether to take him back to his own frame.
He can't let that happen. Nor will he let this chance pass him by. He has to know. Steeling himself, Ratchet ghosts into Knock Out's memory core and immediately finds himself in the past.
a/n: Next chapter is a flashback chapter. This time, we get to see some of Knock Out's past. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
And here is where I humbly ask for assistance. My usual beta is having lots of Real Life trouble right now ( I totally sympathize) and until things get settled, I could use someone who'd like to look over some Event Horizon chapters. My grammar isn't terrible, but I don't get along with commas and I sometimes miss my own mistakes. Anyone out there willing to beta for me?
no subject
Date: 2012-03-11 10:26 pm (UTC)I'd offer to beta,but you really don't want me.I'm a suck-tastic beta. Though about posting in one of the comms looking for one?
no subject
Date: 2012-03-12 02:02 am (UTC)I actually don't post this to any of the TF comms (I wouldn't even know where to start in that aspect) so it never even crossed my mind.