[TFP] Event Horizon - Chapter Seven
Feb. 24th, 2012 12:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Special thanks to jalaperilo for the beta'ing!
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, character death, blood and gore, battle/war
“When you arrived in Praxus, Knock Out wasn't there.”
Ratchet's optics online as he disengages from the memory file, returning his focus to the present. “No, he wasn't. And neither could we find Hot Spot. First Aid was a sobbing wreck, however, which was our first clue that something had happened.”
“He's gone?”
“Most of First Aid's gestalt is now,” Ratchet says with a soft ventilation. He turns back toward Jazz, leaning against his counter and crossing his arms. “We never did figure out if Megatron was targeting the gestalt's intentionally or not. Of the Protectobots, only First Aid and Blades still live. Or at least, they did the last time I spoke with First Aid, which was kilovorns ago.”
Jazz's tapping on the medberth begins anew. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“You never asked,” Ratchet replies, gaze shifting away. “Cybertron had just declared war on itself. Mechs were dying left and right. Sentinel went missing. Dark Energon started infesting Decepticon troops... at the time, my missing youngling didn't seem like something I could bother the high command with. Everyone was missing someone.”
Jazz's visor darkens. “Ratch...”
His fingers tighten around his arm, metal creaking warningly. “Not that I ever stopped looking. Every klik I wasn't on the field or in the medbay, I was out there searching. Hunting the ruins of Uraya, chasing after ghosts. Sunstreaker didn't recharge even half as much as he was supposed to, and when Sideswipe wasn't taking care of Aid, he was out there looking with us. But Knock Out was gone.”
“You two never acted like anythin' was wrong,” Jazz says softly, his energy field permeating the medbay with the buzzing drone of regret and apology. “I assumed you'd sent Knock Out to a neutral colony or somethin', some place he'd be safe.”
Ratchet's bark of laughter is anything but amused. “How I wish that were the case. We'd searched them all. Every last one. Left contact information. No one had an answer. No one cared.” His spark spins wildly in his chest. “After a few kilovorns, even I started to believe he'd been permanently offlined.”
He uncrosses his arms, one falling limply at his side, but the other remains hovering over his chestplate. One hand lingers by his spark, as though trying to cling to the ghostly sensation of his carrier's bond with Knock Out.
“The bond between carrier and sparkling is such a fragile thing. It weakens with time and distance. It's all but erased when replaced by other bonds.” Ratchet's fingers curl into a fist, one that rests over his chestplates between the doors of his alt-mode. “Yet, there were times I still felt my youngling. I wanted to believe he was alive, despite all evidence to the contrary.”
“You were right though. He is alive.”
Ratchet's optics snap upward, meeting Jazz's visor. “He's with the Decepticons! That's hardly a comfort.”
“Better than bein' dead,” Jazz counters, very matter of fact, and nearly sounding as logical as Prowl in that moment. Sometimes, Ratchet swears they are less brother-in-bond and more spark-twin the ways they are so similar.
Scraping his palm down his face, Ratchet forced three ventilation cycles to regain his composure. “That depends on your point of view.”
Jazz hops down from the berth with barely a tap of his pedes on the grated metal. He reaches up, one servo resting companionably on Ratchet's shoulder. “We're gonna get him back. Him and Prime.”
“Of course we are.” He forces a smile onto his lipplates, and wouldn't be surprised if it comes out more of a grimace.
Jazz, however, grins in return and pats Ratchet on the shoulder, tapping the Autobot symbol with one finger. “Good. Now you just tinker around in here. I'm gonna see if I can't get our errant daffodil to come back. And when I do, ya need ta talk.”
“Yes sir.” A certain pleasure is derived from teasing Jazz, if only to chase away some of the pessimistic surges Ratchet's processor is giving him.
Jazz's visor flashes at him. “Don't call meh that. Later Ratch.”
The medbay door slides open, Jazz stepping out with nary a pedestep on the metal, which proves that he's only heard when he chooses to be. The door closes behind him with a quiet beep and Ratchet ventilates softly, weariness attacking him from every angle. Five hours of uneasy recharge don't come anywhere close to the amount of defragging he really needs to set his systems right.
Though to be fair, Ratchet has forgotten what it means to be fully recharged, fully energized, and in complete repair. He can't remember the last time he had a repaint or even a touch up. Some of his paneling has been fixed so many times, the metal itself is weak and less armor and more paper-thin sheeting.
Sometimes, he swears he forgets what real energon is supposed to taste like.
And some of his team – his allies, friends, family – are in an even worse state. Ratchet does the best he can with the supplies he has available, but it's not enough. It's never enough.
Ratchet hadn't been exaggerating earlier either. The curse of having a computer to carry memories means perfect recollection. Means he can stand here and remember something that happened millennia ago as though it had happened last solar cycle. Means Ratchet can shutter his optics without trying, slump down onto a berth, and finally accept the images his memory core has been pinging at him since Jazz first brought up the painful topic.
It means he has very little choice in the matter.
Uraya had been ruined. Crumpled buildings, the offline shells of broken mechs and femmes, Cybertronians Ratchet could do nothing for. Uraya had been the stench of laserfire and scorched metal and thick smoke and screams of terror still ringing in Ratchet's audials. Uraya had been shattered dreams, his life turned to ash, and the abandonment of some of his core principles.
Uraya had been Ratching watching his partner tear into patrolling Decepticons, destroying them before they could turn their blasters onto Ratchet and Sunstreaker. Uraya had turned Ratchet's very world on its axis.
By contrast, walking into Praxus, still gleaming and functional, while guarded by a militia out in full force, is like walking into a recharge ghost-file. Ratchet's exhausted, his plating streaked with ash, his fingers weary of gripping his acquired blaster. There is an image seared into his memory core – a Decepticon symbol painted bold and bright on a chestplate until Ratchet's single shot took him down.
He might still be alive. Ratchet will never know. He couldn't stop to check.
“It's only a few kliks away,” Sunstreaker assures him, swords retracted, leaving him looking harmless, if not for the splatters of energon decorating his yellow frame. He's already brushed at them in disgust a few times, but there's naught he can do until they find some washracks.
Which Sunstreaker has reassured Ratchet will be found at their destination.
“I can make it,” Ratchet replies shortly.
There's a certain manner to the way Sunstreaker is treating him, as though he were a delicate mech from the towers who can't handle himself. Instead of the chief director of a free clinic in Uraya's underground where gladiator mechs are known to frequent.
Sunstreaker looks at him, but refrains from commenting, instead reaching with one servo to pry the blaster from Ratchet's grip. He tucks it away in subspace before Ratchet can form a comment either way, and curls his digits around Ratchet's elbow, guiding him out of the way of the crowded street.
Clamping down on his anger, borne completely of concern, Ratchet focuses instead on the matter at servo. “Where, exactly, are we doing?”
“Who do we know in Praxus, Ratchet?”
Many mechs, including First Aid and his brothers. Sideswipe has a few business partners in Praxus, and Sunstreaker has one steady patron here as well. But most of all...
The answer crawls through his sluggish processors like a bright spark. “Prowl.”
“Yes.”
Right now, it is probably one of the safest places, Ratchet must agree. Prowl is not only well-known amongst Praxians, he's also well-respected and a decent rank. There is also the matter that he runs a dojo of the finest Cybertronian martial arts, and only a fool would cross a master of metallikato. And circuit-su.
With destination in mind, Ratchet feels some of the anxiety ease out of his circuits. They push through the crowded streets: residents fleeing Uraya, milling Praxians curious about recent events, and militia attempting to regain order. When Prowl's dojo comes into sight, Ratchet's spark all but sings in relief.
They circle around to the back entrance, as the front gate has been closed and locked, and use their personal codes to enter through the back gate. As it slides shut behind them, locking once more, they find Sideswipe in a limping pace back and forth in the small courtyard, performing several loops around a few elegant benches.
“What happened?” Sunstreaker growls, releasing Ratchet's arm as he stalks toward his brother, agitation in every line on his plating.
Ah, that explains his rather surly behavior. Something has upset Sideswipe and by proxy, Sunstreaker, though he likely only picked up the stronger emotions.
Sideswipe whirls on a pede toward his brother, his red armor scuffed and scratched, one optic dimmer than the other, obviously in need of a repair.
“I'm not sure.” Sideswipe's gaze flickers to Ratchet before he turns, heading toward the back door, leaving them no choice but to follow.
“What do you mean you're not sure?” Sunstreaker demands, storming after his brother.
Ratchet trails along after them, an uncertain feeling growing in his spark, making it spin faster and faster.
“I mean that I don't know!” Sideswipe retorts, voice pitched higher, stressed. Especially when Sunstreaker catches up to him, grabbing his elbow.
“Where is Knock Out?” Sunstreaker hisses, and the two brothers stare at each other, nearly identical in expression now.
Sideswipe jerks out of his twin's hold. “He's not here.” He lifts one servo, digits rubbing over a deep scratch on his other arm. “Something happened. Hot Spot's... gone. Down. Maybe offlined. I don't know. And Aid...” He trails off, staring pointedly at a doorway just down the hallway.
Ratchet storms past the both of them, fear creeping up and threatening to blacken his processor, swallow everything whole. He sees First Aid laying on a berth, mostly undamaged but optics offline. A quick scan tells him that his former apprentice is in an medically induced recharge.
“They had to sedate him,” Sideswipe says, and now the cause of his agitation makes sense.
“The others?” Sunstreaker asks, and his words are a dim echo to Ratchet's audials.
But where is Knock Out? Where is his youngling?
Sideswipe shakes his helm. “As far as I can tell, Groove, Streetwise, and Blades are fine. They're back at the apartment, trying to organize some mechs to help them search.”
“Where. Is. Knock Out?”
The question echoes through the hallway, a shout, almost a scream and Ratchet is horrified to find out the demand has come from his own vocalizer. But if there's a point where rational actions meet irrational anxiety, Ratchet is quite certain he's passed it.
Sideswipe looks at him, and by the slump in Sunstreaker's shoulders, the way his optics seem to find the scuffed floor so slaggin' fascinating, Ratchet can guess the bad news no one wants to say aloud.
Ratchet gropes at his chestplates, where he can feel his spark spinning wildly, and connected to that silver-green pulse is a thin tether, intangible but present nonetheless. It pulses with life, and if Ratchet weren't so frantic from his own emotions, he might be able to detect the ghostly whispers of the mech on the other hand.
“He's not offline,” Ratchet says, digits scrabbling over his red and white plating. “I would feel it. I would know! He's not offline, frag it!”
Sideswipe lifts his servos, as if trying to soothe a rabid Empty like the ones sometimes creeping out of Uraya's shadowed alleys. “No one's saying he is,” the red twin murmurs, optics wide and pain emanating in his gaze. He's hurting, too, but here he is, trying to be the calm one.
“Except where you are!” Ratchet shoots back, ventilations coming louder now, his systems reacting to his anxiety by reaching out. Sending an automatic ping to his youngling's comm and getting only static in return. Trying again and again and getting nothing.
A roar of fury and then the sound of crunching metal as Sunstreaker's fist slams into the wall, denting it thoroughly. He whirls on one pede, stalking toward the exit.
“Sunny!” Sideswipe calls out, and tries to half-limp, half-chase after his brother. “You can't go alone!”
Fraggitall, Ratchet hates when they chat through their bond and don't fill him in. He's left floundering on the outside, trying to follow a conversation he can't hear.
“Can and will,” Sunstreaker growls, energon swords anxiously peeking in and out of their sheaths. “Stay here, Sideswipe.”
“No. I'm coming with you,” the red mech says stubbornly, but of course, his body isn't on the same datapad as him, as his knee abruptly gives out and Sideswipe has to grab the wall before he crumples to the floor.
Sunstreaker pauses, half-turning back toward his brother and Ratchet who finds himself, for once, at a loss for both words and actions. “No,” he repeats, carefully, “you're not.”
Something akin to hope burns brightly in Ratchet's spark, even as he crosses the length of the hall to attend to Sideswipe. “You're going to look for him,” Ratchet says, offering an arm to the red twin to haul Sideswipe to his pedes.
Sideswipe leans on him heavily, only one leg functioning.
“Yes,” Sunstreaker replies, and heads back toward them, until he's within touching distance, cobalt optics gleaming with determination. “I'll find Knock Out. And I'll bring him back.”
“Ratchet?” The soft touch on his arm jerks Ratchet out of his memory loop and into the present. He startles, dropping his soldering rod and whirls around.
Perceptor lowers his hand. “I apologize. I didn't mean to startle you,” he says, taking a wise step back. “Jazz said you would be in here.”
“It's fine,” Ratchet replies, and sends a command to his memory core, locking the past back where it belongs. “You were looking for me?”
For the first time Ratchet can remember, Perceptor looks uncomfortable. “Yes.” He pauses, as though reconsidering. “Your report was very vague and I had a question.”
“Concerning?”
Another hesitation as Perceptor shifts in place before he gathers his mettle. “Starscream. Where is he?”
Ahh. Ratchet should have seen this coming. The rumors of Perceptor and Starscream being... close prior to the beginning of the war had always lingered. Ratchet wonders if perhaps it is less rumor and more absolute truth. He won't go so far as to guess bonded, but partners perhaps. Friends at the very least.
“We don't know.” Honesty is always the best policy with Perceptor. “No one has seen or heard from him since the Immobilizer incident. We suspect he's gone off planet.” Another interfactional squabble, or so Ratchet had assumed.
Megatron and Starscream never got along on the best of orns, and Starscream's attempts to “defect” had come as no surprise to anyone. Though they hadn't truly believed him either. Starscream might not be completely loyal to Megatron, but he is completely loyal to himself and his aspirations.
“I see.” Perceptor's words are even, betraying nothing, but he can't hide the cycling down of his optics, the lowering of his head in disappointment.
Ratchet wishes he had something to say. Comforting perhaps. Or reassuring. But it all feels a bit too much like falsity. He hadn't wanted pretend hope when searching for Knock Out; he imagines Perceptor doesn't want empty promises now either.
“There is every chance that he'll return.” Ratchet all but blurts out, for he honestly believes this. “Starscream will refuse to leave the Decepticons in Megatron's claws alone for long.” Also, where else would he go? To one of the many other planets they've managed to alienate with their war? To solitude and isolation on an uninhabited planet? To whatever remains functional in Cybertron, under Shockwave's command?
No. Starscream will return to Earth, if only to try and wrest the Decepticons from Megatron's command and regain that modicum of respect he'd once had. Ratchet strongly suspects that Starscream plans to return, not only with backup, but with a plan sure to irritate Megatron into howls of epic proportion.
Perceptor buzzes static, a noise of wordless agitation. “And what a bare consolation that is, for Starscream's return to Earth spells nothing but misfortune for this planet's native species.”
--Ratchet, we have a situation.--
Jazz's comm cut through any response Ratchet might have managed for Perceptor. And judging from the tilt of Perceptor's head, he'd received the same transmission. An exchange of glances and the two of them leave the medbay, heading for the main room.
--Decepticons?-- Ratchet asks as he hurries, though honestly, what else could it be? MECH perhaps. They have been a bit too quiet since their last failed attempt to get their hands on a Cybertronian.
Jazz doesn't reply, but Ratchet isn't offended. In all likelihood, the temporary commander prefers to explain things once rather than repeatedly.
By the time Ratchet arrives in the main room, he feels the tingle of a powerful charge in the air as the Ground Bridge activates, Sunstreaker and Bluestreak arriving in their alt-modes. A flash and both mechs stand in their root modes, Bluestreak grinning as he sloppily salutes Jazz, more tease than an attempt at military precision.
Sunstreaker is completely unreadable, closed off to everyone, even Sideswipe who sidles close to his brother and pokes him between two plates of ventral armor.
Also, the humans are now here. Wonderful.
Exactly how long had Ratchet spent lost in memories of the past?
“Hey, Ratchet!” Miko says, waving both hands wildly from where she perches on Bulkhead's shoulder. “Did you miss us?”
“You've been gone for a day at best,” he reminds her. “Which hardly gives me enough time to notice your absence, much less mourn it.”
Sideswipe chuckles quietly. “Same old Ratch.”
Miko's head turns his direction. “You mean he's always been this grumpy?”
“From the orn we first met,” the red twin answers with a smirk, shuttering one optic in Ratchet's direction before focusing on Miko once again. “In fact, the first thing he did was throw a wrench at us. Left a dent, too!” He reaches up, pointing to a spot on his helm.
Miko's eyes become big and round. “Wow.” She shifts her attention to Ratchet. “Bulk's lucky you haven't done that to him yet, isn't he?”
Ratchet splutters. “That... that was a long time ago. Longer than your species has even existed!”
“Except last week, when you threatened to reformat Bumblebee into a Volkswagon,” Arcee comments loftily, one hand gesturing pointedly.
Bumblebee chirps in agreement, causing Rafael to burst into giggles from somewhere near Bumblebee's feet, where he's perched with his computer directly at hand.
“A Volkswagen?” Jack repeats with an arched eyebrow, his arms crossed over his chest. “Doesn't sound like much of a threat.”
Bumblebee's hand slashes through the air as he beeps a profound negative.
Jack eyes the Scout. “I have no idea what you just said, but I think I can take a guess.”
A burst of loud music, accompanied with a screech of guitar and a clash of cymbals, rings through the air, echoing over and over in the large room. Ratchet startles, suspecting Bulkhead and his loud human, but no, the sound came from their acting commander.
“We could tease Ratch all orn about his temper, but there's a tiny problem of Cons to deal with first, doncha think?” Jazz points out, one servo gesturing behind him, to the main screen which shows Decepticon locator pings in a remote location, along with the scrolling information that detects unrefined energon.
Bluestreak's engine rumbles, doorwings twitching. “We could use that energon,” he says. “Our supplies were getting low before we landed here, and from what I've seen, your supplies aren't any better. We probably outnumber the Cons right now so we should take advantage of that while we can. Who knows when the others are going to get here. I mean, Prowl's team is probably right around the corner, but I'll bet Megatron's already called some of his teams, too. We'll need all the energon we can get and now--”
“Exactly,” Jazz agrees, smoothly cutting off his bonded's garrulous run without offending the gunner. “More than that, Prime wanted us to protect the humans, too. So that's what we're gonna do.”
Ratchet moves past everyone, heading for the console and sliding into place. Right now, no one needs a medic, but they do need someone who knows how all this slapped-together half-glitched equipment really works. His fingers tap over the keys as he brings up more information, tapping into Earth's satellite system to hopefully get a visual and see what they were up against.
The computer beeped at him as it accepted his override, and one of the screens to his right flickered as an image of Earth from space appeared on the screen. A few more taps of his fingers and Ratchet is able to zoom in on the coordinates, the sight of Cybertronian forms creeping across the landscape ever obvious. He can easily make out several miners and patrolling vehicons.
Overseeing them, however, is a pair of Decepticons that Ratchet recognizes in a second. Breakdown, ever conspicuous with one missing optic, and Knock Out, his red plating gleaming in the bright sun.
Ratchet's fingers pause over the keys as he stares at the screen, his spark spinning frantically in his chest. His cooling fans stall, and he sends a manual command to get them spinning again.
“Knock Out's there,” Ratchet says, forcing himself into motion as he changes the angle of the picture, trying to count the number of vehicons present. The Nemesis is nowhere in immediate sight.
Why would it be? Megatron is unlikely to take any chances to allow the Autobots to get close to Optimus – the amnesiac Orion. He'll want to keep his claws in his former partner for as long as it is feasible.
Optimus will be lucky if he's ever allowed to see the sun again frankly.
Jazz sidles up alongside Ratchet, visor trained on the screens. “I see him,” he says, vocalizer low.
--You want to do this now?-- Jazz asks, switching to a private comm channel.
Ratchet tilts his head, glancing once at Sunstreaker, whose optics are firmly locked on the satellite image showing their youngling. Sunstreaker's expression may be unreadable, but Ratchet can guess what his partner is thinking. That, alone, confirms it for Ratchet.
He quickly cuts off the connection, unwilling to hack into any satellite for too long. He is competent at insinuating himself into the human's mainframes, but Soundwave is even more skilled than he is. Ratchet doesn't wish to give Soundwave any more opportunity to track them down than the communications mech already has.
--Yes,-- Ratchet replies, and lays his palms flat on the keyboard, light enough that he doesn't depress the keys. --We may not get another chance. And if this works, he can help us get to Optimus.--
Jazz taps Ratchet's arm in agreement. --Okay, Ratch. We'll do this.-- He switches to his vocalizer, speaking aloud this time. “Two targets, my mechs. The energon and Knock Out.”
Arcee lifts a hand pointedly, the other clamping down on Jack and stopping him from speaking whatever had caused him to open his mouth in the first place. “Question. Just how do you expect to bring a Decepticon here without offlining him first, or damaging any of us in the process?”
“Wait a minute,” Miko says, waving her hands wildly as her eyes jump from bot to bot. “You want to bring him here? Why?”
Silence falls in the wake of her question, all optics turning to Jazz in query. What will their temporary commander say?
This is not something Ratchet wants the humans to know. He doesn't want them to get any false ideas about Cybertronians and their society. Especially considering what is considered the “norm” for human society. Ratchet can't even begin to contemplate the processor-ache that would be explaining partners and bonds and ensparked sparklings as opposed to fostered sparklings. For all that the humans know, Cybertronians don't form relationships like humans and Ratchet wants to keep it that way.
He will lie if he must.
Jazz taps his chin component, a scheming glint lighting behind his visor. “We gotta get Optimus back somehow, yanno. Seems like getting one of the Decepticons to interrogate – nicely I might add – is our best option. And Knock Out looks easier ta take than the other one.”
Neither Jack nor Miko seem to be taking Jazz's answer at face value. Miko frowns, her eyes narrowed in suspicion while Jack looks up at his guardian, as though he plans to grill her thoroughly on the topic later. Ratchet will have to pull aside all three guardians later and remind them of the topics which are Off Limits for humans.
Luckily, Rafael seems to be the only one in the realm of “whatever the boss bot says” because he's perched at a desk, typing furiously on his computer, conversely quietly with Bumblebee before offering up a comment on the site the Decepticons are currently mining.
“That still doesn't answer my question,” Arcee inserts, tapping one foot with an echoing click. “How are we going to do this?”
“A net?” Bulkhead suggests.
“Are you serious? On a mech who can form a sawblade from his hand?”
“I don't see anyone else making a suggestion,” Bulkhead retorts sullenly, scuffing the floor with the heel of his foot. He's been spending far too much time with his human.
“Knock Out's a medic,” Sideswipe muses aloud. “He'd be able to override any sedative we might be able to patch into his system. Unless Ratchet does it.”
Sunstreaker shakes his head firmly. “Absolutely not. Ratchet's not leaving the base.”
“I'm quite sure that's not your call to make,” Arcee says, optics flashing. “Though I'm not disagreeing. No offense, Ratchet.”
He's hardly listening to them at this point, processor whirling with plans, considered and dismissed. A way to subdue without harm and immediately.
And Ratchet remembers.
“I have an idea,” he says, turning away from the console and heading for one of the smaller side passages. “Give me a moment.”
He can feel their optics watching him, but Ratchet doesn't stop to explain. They'll find out soon enough.
He hurries to a storeroom, one of the few that are locked in their base. The others are locked, yes, but only to human hands. This particular storeroom is locked to Cybertronians as well, with only Ratchet and Optimus knowing the code to get inside. Well, now only Ratchet knows. It is another burst of data he will have to pass to Jazz before it slips his processor.
Keying open the door to the small closet, Ratchet steps inside, the contents lit by the glow of his optics. The room is unlit, bulb having burnt out long ago, but he knows exactly what he's looking for.
Along with the rest of the weapons regained from the Decepticons over the course of their clashes here on Earth, the Immobilizer sits on a top shelf, metal winking innocently. He never thought he'd have occasion to use it, as the threat of it possibly ending up in Decepticon claws again has always been too great. But right now, it's the best option they have for bringing Knock Out in without harm.
--Ratchet?--
--I'm on my way, Jazz.-- He snatches the Immobilizer carefully, then leaves the store room, taking care to seal the lock behind him.
Ratchet hears the argument before he so much as steps into the doorway leading to the main room, Sunstreaker and Jazz nearly pede to pede as the yellow mech looms over an unintimidated Jazz. Luckily, they are speaking in Cybertronian, as what they are yelling is far from what Ratchet would like the humans to hear. Said humans, by the way, are currently peeking from behind their guardians, looking unnerved.
“I don't give a frag. That's my youngling and I'm going!”
“Because yer the best at keepin' a calm processor, right?” Jazz snorts, a grating noise of metal grinding against metal. “I need a mech that's gonna follow my orders, not interpret them creatively.”
Ratchet steps much heavier than is necessary, announcing his arrival and interrupting the growing argument between Jazz and Sunstreaker. “No matter who goes, you're going to need this,” he says aloud, displaying the Immobilizer in front of him.
--Just give in, Jazz. Sunstreaker's not going to back down and the two of you are scaring the children,-- Ratchet adds in a narrow-band comm to their temporary commander. Normally, he wouldn't recommend letting Sunstreaker have his way, but in this, Ratchet agrees with his partner. One of them needs to be there.
Jazz's visor flashes at Ratchet as they both turn toward the arriving medic. “What is it?” Jazz asks aloud, switching to English for the human's benefit.
--I will this time, Ratch. But he's going to pay for it later.--
--Fair enough.--
“One of the Decepticon's weapons,” Ratchet answers, striding forward and handing it over to the saboteur. “The Immobilizer. And I believe the name says it all.”
“It's actually awesome,” Miko's voice pipes up from somewhere within Bulkhead's armor, and her head pops out warily. “That is, when it's not being used against us.”
“And it's more effective than a net,” Arcee adds with a pointed glance at Bulkhead. “Good idea, Ratchet.”
Ratchet waves off the compliment and returns to the console. “I knew it would come of use eventually. Jazz, if you're going to do this, now's the time. The Decepticons don't have a habit of lingering.”
Jazz twists the Immobilizer around his fingers in a skilled move that would make any trained martial arts planned. “Gotcha. Sunny. Arcee. Bulk. Sides. You're with me. Rest of ya, stay with Ratchet.”
His fingers flying over the keys, Ratchet starts prepping the Ground Bridge for transport to the necessary coordinates. “And Miko stays here,” Ratchet says loudly, pointedly, all without looking at said human.
“Awww. You're gonna make me miss all the action again?” the young girl whines but lets her Bulkhead set her down on the human-sized platform, in front of the television she's known to frequent.
No one responds to Miko's complaint, but Ratchet does catch a glimpse of Jack shaking his head in exasperation at her.
Jazz chuckles, twirls the Immobilizer again, and tucks it away in his subspace. “Autobots! Roll out!” he says, collapsing into his alt-mode. “Ratchet, bridge us out.”
Unable to help himself, Ratchet smirks. “Yes sir.” He curls his finger around the activating lever and pulls it down, power surging through the systems as the Bridge lights up the main tunnel, a swirling vortex of complex energies gleaming iridescent.
He turns to watch as Jazz revs his engine and speeds into the Bridge, his assigned team dropping into their alt-modes and following after him with no argument, Bulkhead bringing up the rear per the usual. Sunstreaker doesn't spare Ratchet a backward glance and not for the first time, Ratchet laments the fact that they aren't bonded, that they can't speak to each other without words.
He has no one to blame but himself.
The moment his systems register that Jazz's team have arrived safely at the coordinates, Ratchet shuts off the ground bridge and turns his full attention to the battle at hand. He brings up Jazz's comm channel, along with the four others, putting their stats and channels up on one screen, as the image of the dig site remains on the main one.
The rest of the Autobots crowd around behind him, all watching as the Autobot signals approach those of the Decepticons.
***
a/n: So I didn't make it for season two, but luckily, this should slot in nicely. Hopefully.
Thanks to everyone who's commented and reviewed so far. I really appreciate the support!
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, character death, blood and gore, battle/war
Chapters: (01) (02) (03) (04) (05) (06) (07) (08) (09) (10) (11) (12) (Epi)-----------------------------------
Event Horizon
Chapter Seven
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Event Horizon
Chapter Seven
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“When you arrived in Praxus, Knock Out wasn't there.”
Ratchet's optics online as he disengages from the memory file, returning his focus to the present. “No, he wasn't. And neither could we find Hot Spot. First Aid was a sobbing wreck, however, which was our first clue that something had happened.”
“He's gone?”
“Most of First Aid's gestalt is now,” Ratchet says with a soft ventilation. He turns back toward Jazz, leaning against his counter and crossing his arms. “We never did figure out if Megatron was targeting the gestalt's intentionally or not. Of the Protectobots, only First Aid and Blades still live. Or at least, they did the last time I spoke with First Aid, which was kilovorns ago.”
Jazz's tapping on the medberth begins anew. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“You never asked,” Ratchet replies, gaze shifting away. “Cybertron had just declared war on itself. Mechs were dying left and right. Sentinel went missing. Dark Energon started infesting Decepticon troops... at the time, my missing youngling didn't seem like something I could bother the high command with. Everyone was missing someone.”
Jazz's visor darkens. “Ratch...”
His fingers tighten around his arm, metal creaking warningly. “Not that I ever stopped looking. Every klik I wasn't on the field or in the medbay, I was out there searching. Hunting the ruins of Uraya, chasing after ghosts. Sunstreaker didn't recharge even half as much as he was supposed to, and when Sideswipe wasn't taking care of Aid, he was out there looking with us. But Knock Out was gone.”
“You two never acted like anythin' was wrong,” Jazz says softly, his energy field permeating the medbay with the buzzing drone of regret and apology. “I assumed you'd sent Knock Out to a neutral colony or somethin', some place he'd be safe.”
Ratchet's bark of laughter is anything but amused. “How I wish that were the case. We'd searched them all. Every last one. Left contact information. No one had an answer. No one cared.” His spark spins wildly in his chest. “After a few kilovorns, even I started to believe he'd been permanently offlined.”
He uncrosses his arms, one falling limply at his side, but the other remains hovering over his chestplate. One hand lingers by his spark, as though trying to cling to the ghostly sensation of his carrier's bond with Knock Out.
“The bond between carrier and sparkling is such a fragile thing. It weakens with time and distance. It's all but erased when replaced by other bonds.” Ratchet's fingers curl into a fist, one that rests over his chestplates between the doors of his alt-mode. “Yet, there were times I still felt my youngling. I wanted to believe he was alive, despite all evidence to the contrary.”
“You were right though. He is alive.”
Ratchet's optics snap upward, meeting Jazz's visor. “He's with the Decepticons! That's hardly a comfort.”
“Better than bein' dead,” Jazz counters, very matter of fact, and nearly sounding as logical as Prowl in that moment. Sometimes, Ratchet swears they are less brother-in-bond and more spark-twin the ways they are so similar.
Scraping his palm down his face, Ratchet forced three ventilation cycles to regain his composure. “That depends on your point of view.”
Jazz hops down from the berth with barely a tap of his pedes on the grated metal. He reaches up, one servo resting companionably on Ratchet's shoulder. “We're gonna get him back. Him and Prime.”
“Of course we are.” He forces a smile onto his lipplates, and wouldn't be surprised if it comes out more of a grimace.
Jazz, however, grins in return and pats Ratchet on the shoulder, tapping the Autobot symbol with one finger. “Good. Now you just tinker around in here. I'm gonna see if I can't get our errant daffodil to come back. And when I do, ya need ta talk.”
“Yes sir.” A certain pleasure is derived from teasing Jazz, if only to chase away some of the pessimistic surges Ratchet's processor is giving him.
Jazz's visor flashes at him. “Don't call meh that. Later Ratch.”
The medbay door slides open, Jazz stepping out with nary a pedestep on the metal, which proves that he's only heard when he chooses to be. The door closes behind him with a quiet beep and Ratchet ventilates softly, weariness attacking him from every angle. Five hours of uneasy recharge don't come anywhere close to the amount of defragging he really needs to set his systems right.
Though to be fair, Ratchet has forgotten what it means to be fully recharged, fully energized, and in complete repair. He can't remember the last time he had a repaint or even a touch up. Some of his paneling has been fixed so many times, the metal itself is weak and less armor and more paper-thin sheeting.
Sometimes, he swears he forgets what real energon is supposed to taste like.
And some of his team – his allies, friends, family – are in an even worse state. Ratchet does the best he can with the supplies he has available, but it's not enough. It's never enough.
Ratchet hadn't been exaggerating earlier either. The curse of having a computer to carry memories means perfect recollection. Means he can stand here and remember something that happened millennia ago as though it had happened last solar cycle. Means Ratchet can shutter his optics without trying, slump down onto a berth, and finally accept the images his memory core has been pinging at him since Jazz first brought up the painful topic.
It means he has very little choice in the matter.
Uraya had been ruined. Crumpled buildings, the offline shells of broken mechs and femmes, Cybertronians Ratchet could do nothing for. Uraya had been the stench of laserfire and scorched metal and thick smoke and screams of terror still ringing in Ratchet's audials. Uraya had been shattered dreams, his life turned to ash, and the abandonment of some of his core principles.
Uraya had been Ratching watching his partner tear into patrolling Decepticons, destroying them before they could turn their blasters onto Ratchet and Sunstreaker. Uraya had turned Ratchet's very world on its axis.
By contrast, walking into Praxus, still gleaming and functional, while guarded by a militia out in full force, is like walking into a recharge ghost-file. Ratchet's exhausted, his plating streaked with ash, his fingers weary of gripping his acquired blaster. There is an image seared into his memory core – a Decepticon symbol painted bold and bright on a chestplate until Ratchet's single shot took him down.
He might still be alive. Ratchet will never know. He couldn't stop to check.
“It's only a few kliks away,” Sunstreaker assures him, swords retracted, leaving him looking harmless, if not for the splatters of energon decorating his yellow frame. He's already brushed at them in disgust a few times, but there's naught he can do until they find some washracks.
Which Sunstreaker has reassured Ratchet will be found at their destination.
“I can make it,” Ratchet replies shortly.
There's a certain manner to the way Sunstreaker is treating him, as though he were a delicate mech from the towers who can't handle himself. Instead of the chief director of a free clinic in Uraya's underground where gladiator mechs are known to frequent.
Sunstreaker looks at him, but refrains from commenting, instead reaching with one servo to pry the blaster from Ratchet's grip. He tucks it away in subspace before Ratchet can form a comment either way, and curls his digits around Ratchet's elbow, guiding him out of the way of the crowded street.
Clamping down on his anger, borne completely of concern, Ratchet focuses instead on the matter at servo. “Where, exactly, are we doing?”
“Who do we know in Praxus, Ratchet?”
Many mechs, including First Aid and his brothers. Sideswipe has a few business partners in Praxus, and Sunstreaker has one steady patron here as well. But most of all...
The answer crawls through his sluggish processors like a bright spark. “Prowl.”
“Yes.”
Right now, it is probably one of the safest places, Ratchet must agree. Prowl is not only well-known amongst Praxians, he's also well-respected and a decent rank. There is also the matter that he runs a dojo of the finest Cybertronian martial arts, and only a fool would cross a master of metallikato. And circuit-su.
With destination in mind, Ratchet feels some of the anxiety ease out of his circuits. They push through the crowded streets: residents fleeing Uraya, milling Praxians curious about recent events, and militia attempting to regain order. When Prowl's dojo comes into sight, Ratchet's spark all but sings in relief.
They circle around to the back entrance, as the front gate has been closed and locked, and use their personal codes to enter through the back gate. As it slides shut behind them, locking once more, they find Sideswipe in a limping pace back and forth in the small courtyard, performing several loops around a few elegant benches.
“What happened?” Sunstreaker growls, releasing Ratchet's arm as he stalks toward his brother, agitation in every line on his plating.
Ah, that explains his rather surly behavior. Something has upset Sideswipe and by proxy, Sunstreaker, though he likely only picked up the stronger emotions.
Sideswipe whirls on a pede toward his brother, his red armor scuffed and scratched, one optic dimmer than the other, obviously in need of a repair.
“I'm not sure.” Sideswipe's gaze flickers to Ratchet before he turns, heading toward the back door, leaving them no choice but to follow.
“What do you mean you're not sure?” Sunstreaker demands, storming after his brother.
Ratchet trails along after them, an uncertain feeling growing in his spark, making it spin faster and faster.
“I mean that I don't know!” Sideswipe retorts, voice pitched higher, stressed. Especially when Sunstreaker catches up to him, grabbing his elbow.
“Where is Knock Out?” Sunstreaker hisses, and the two brothers stare at each other, nearly identical in expression now.
Sideswipe jerks out of his twin's hold. “He's not here.” He lifts one servo, digits rubbing over a deep scratch on his other arm. “Something happened. Hot Spot's... gone. Down. Maybe offlined. I don't know. And Aid...” He trails off, staring pointedly at a doorway just down the hallway.
Ratchet storms past the both of them, fear creeping up and threatening to blacken his processor, swallow everything whole. He sees First Aid laying on a berth, mostly undamaged but optics offline. A quick scan tells him that his former apprentice is in an medically induced recharge.
“They had to sedate him,” Sideswipe says, and now the cause of his agitation makes sense.
“The others?” Sunstreaker asks, and his words are a dim echo to Ratchet's audials.
But where is Knock Out? Where is his youngling?
Sideswipe shakes his helm. “As far as I can tell, Groove, Streetwise, and Blades are fine. They're back at the apartment, trying to organize some mechs to help them search.”
“Where. Is. Knock Out?”
The question echoes through the hallway, a shout, almost a scream and Ratchet is horrified to find out the demand has come from his own vocalizer. But if there's a point where rational actions meet irrational anxiety, Ratchet is quite certain he's passed it.
Sideswipe looks at him, and by the slump in Sunstreaker's shoulders, the way his optics seem to find the scuffed floor so slaggin' fascinating, Ratchet can guess the bad news no one wants to say aloud.
Ratchet gropes at his chestplates, where he can feel his spark spinning wildly, and connected to that silver-green pulse is a thin tether, intangible but present nonetheless. It pulses with life, and if Ratchet weren't so frantic from his own emotions, he might be able to detect the ghostly whispers of the mech on the other hand.
“He's not offline,” Ratchet says, digits scrabbling over his red and white plating. “I would feel it. I would know! He's not offline, frag it!”
Sideswipe lifts his servos, as if trying to soothe a rabid Empty like the ones sometimes creeping out of Uraya's shadowed alleys. “No one's saying he is,” the red twin murmurs, optics wide and pain emanating in his gaze. He's hurting, too, but here he is, trying to be the calm one.
“Except where you are!” Ratchet shoots back, ventilations coming louder now, his systems reacting to his anxiety by reaching out. Sending an automatic ping to his youngling's comm and getting only static in return. Trying again and again and getting nothing.
A roar of fury and then the sound of crunching metal as Sunstreaker's fist slams into the wall, denting it thoroughly. He whirls on one pede, stalking toward the exit.
“Sunny!” Sideswipe calls out, and tries to half-limp, half-chase after his brother. “You can't go alone!”
Fraggitall, Ratchet hates when they chat through their bond and don't fill him in. He's left floundering on the outside, trying to follow a conversation he can't hear.
“Can and will,” Sunstreaker growls, energon swords anxiously peeking in and out of their sheaths. “Stay here, Sideswipe.”
“No. I'm coming with you,” the red mech says stubbornly, but of course, his body isn't on the same datapad as him, as his knee abruptly gives out and Sideswipe has to grab the wall before he crumples to the floor.
Sunstreaker pauses, half-turning back toward his brother and Ratchet who finds himself, for once, at a loss for both words and actions. “No,” he repeats, carefully, “you're not.”
Something akin to hope burns brightly in Ratchet's spark, even as he crosses the length of the hall to attend to Sideswipe. “You're going to look for him,” Ratchet says, offering an arm to the red twin to haul Sideswipe to his pedes.
Sideswipe leans on him heavily, only one leg functioning.
“Yes,” Sunstreaker replies, and heads back toward them, until he's within touching distance, cobalt optics gleaming with determination. “I'll find Knock Out. And I'll bring him back.”
“Ratchet?” The soft touch on his arm jerks Ratchet out of his memory loop and into the present. He startles, dropping his soldering rod and whirls around.
Perceptor lowers his hand. “I apologize. I didn't mean to startle you,” he says, taking a wise step back. “Jazz said you would be in here.”
“It's fine,” Ratchet replies, and sends a command to his memory core, locking the past back where it belongs. “You were looking for me?”
For the first time Ratchet can remember, Perceptor looks uncomfortable. “Yes.” He pauses, as though reconsidering. “Your report was very vague and I had a question.”
“Concerning?”
Another hesitation as Perceptor shifts in place before he gathers his mettle. “Starscream. Where is he?”
Ahh. Ratchet should have seen this coming. The rumors of Perceptor and Starscream being... close prior to the beginning of the war had always lingered. Ratchet wonders if perhaps it is less rumor and more absolute truth. He won't go so far as to guess bonded, but partners perhaps. Friends at the very least.
“We don't know.” Honesty is always the best policy with Perceptor. “No one has seen or heard from him since the Immobilizer incident. We suspect he's gone off planet.” Another interfactional squabble, or so Ratchet had assumed.
Megatron and Starscream never got along on the best of orns, and Starscream's attempts to “defect” had come as no surprise to anyone. Though they hadn't truly believed him either. Starscream might not be completely loyal to Megatron, but he is completely loyal to himself and his aspirations.
“I see.” Perceptor's words are even, betraying nothing, but he can't hide the cycling down of his optics, the lowering of his head in disappointment.
Ratchet wishes he had something to say. Comforting perhaps. Or reassuring. But it all feels a bit too much like falsity. He hadn't wanted pretend hope when searching for Knock Out; he imagines Perceptor doesn't want empty promises now either.
“There is every chance that he'll return.” Ratchet all but blurts out, for he honestly believes this. “Starscream will refuse to leave the Decepticons in Megatron's claws alone for long.” Also, where else would he go? To one of the many other planets they've managed to alienate with their war? To solitude and isolation on an uninhabited planet? To whatever remains functional in Cybertron, under Shockwave's command?
No. Starscream will return to Earth, if only to try and wrest the Decepticons from Megatron's command and regain that modicum of respect he'd once had. Ratchet strongly suspects that Starscream plans to return, not only with backup, but with a plan sure to irritate Megatron into howls of epic proportion.
Perceptor buzzes static, a noise of wordless agitation. “And what a bare consolation that is, for Starscream's return to Earth spells nothing but misfortune for this planet's native species.”
--Ratchet, we have a situation.--
Jazz's comm cut through any response Ratchet might have managed for Perceptor. And judging from the tilt of Perceptor's head, he'd received the same transmission. An exchange of glances and the two of them leave the medbay, heading for the main room.
--Decepticons?-- Ratchet asks as he hurries, though honestly, what else could it be? MECH perhaps. They have been a bit too quiet since their last failed attempt to get their hands on a Cybertronian.
Jazz doesn't reply, but Ratchet isn't offended. In all likelihood, the temporary commander prefers to explain things once rather than repeatedly.
By the time Ratchet arrives in the main room, he feels the tingle of a powerful charge in the air as the Ground Bridge activates, Sunstreaker and Bluestreak arriving in their alt-modes. A flash and both mechs stand in their root modes, Bluestreak grinning as he sloppily salutes Jazz, more tease than an attempt at military precision.
Sunstreaker is completely unreadable, closed off to everyone, even Sideswipe who sidles close to his brother and pokes him between two plates of ventral armor.
Also, the humans are now here. Wonderful.
Exactly how long had Ratchet spent lost in memories of the past?
“Hey, Ratchet!” Miko says, waving both hands wildly from where she perches on Bulkhead's shoulder. “Did you miss us?”
“You've been gone for a day at best,” he reminds her. “Which hardly gives me enough time to notice your absence, much less mourn it.”
Sideswipe chuckles quietly. “Same old Ratch.”
Miko's head turns his direction. “You mean he's always been this grumpy?”
“From the orn we first met,” the red twin answers with a smirk, shuttering one optic in Ratchet's direction before focusing on Miko once again. “In fact, the first thing he did was throw a wrench at us. Left a dent, too!” He reaches up, pointing to a spot on his helm.
Miko's eyes become big and round. “Wow.” She shifts her attention to Ratchet. “Bulk's lucky you haven't done that to him yet, isn't he?”
Ratchet splutters. “That... that was a long time ago. Longer than your species has even existed!”
“Except last week, when you threatened to reformat Bumblebee into a Volkswagon,” Arcee comments loftily, one hand gesturing pointedly.
Bumblebee chirps in agreement, causing Rafael to burst into giggles from somewhere near Bumblebee's feet, where he's perched with his computer directly at hand.
“A Volkswagen?” Jack repeats with an arched eyebrow, his arms crossed over his chest. “Doesn't sound like much of a threat.”
Bumblebee's hand slashes through the air as he beeps a profound negative.
Jack eyes the Scout. “I have no idea what you just said, but I think I can take a guess.”
A burst of loud music, accompanied with a screech of guitar and a clash of cymbals, rings through the air, echoing over and over in the large room. Ratchet startles, suspecting Bulkhead and his loud human, but no, the sound came from their acting commander.
“We could tease Ratch all orn about his temper, but there's a tiny problem of Cons to deal with first, doncha think?” Jazz points out, one servo gesturing behind him, to the main screen which shows Decepticon locator pings in a remote location, along with the scrolling information that detects unrefined energon.
Bluestreak's engine rumbles, doorwings twitching. “We could use that energon,” he says. “Our supplies were getting low before we landed here, and from what I've seen, your supplies aren't any better. We probably outnumber the Cons right now so we should take advantage of that while we can. Who knows when the others are going to get here. I mean, Prowl's team is probably right around the corner, but I'll bet Megatron's already called some of his teams, too. We'll need all the energon we can get and now--”
“Exactly,” Jazz agrees, smoothly cutting off his bonded's garrulous run without offending the gunner. “More than that, Prime wanted us to protect the humans, too. So that's what we're gonna do.”
Ratchet moves past everyone, heading for the console and sliding into place. Right now, no one needs a medic, but they do need someone who knows how all this slapped-together half-glitched equipment really works. His fingers tap over the keys as he brings up more information, tapping into Earth's satellite system to hopefully get a visual and see what they were up against.
The computer beeped at him as it accepted his override, and one of the screens to his right flickered as an image of Earth from space appeared on the screen. A few more taps of his fingers and Ratchet is able to zoom in on the coordinates, the sight of Cybertronian forms creeping across the landscape ever obvious. He can easily make out several miners and patrolling vehicons.
Overseeing them, however, is a pair of Decepticons that Ratchet recognizes in a second. Breakdown, ever conspicuous with one missing optic, and Knock Out, his red plating gleaming in the bright sun.
Ratchet's fingers pause over the keys as he stares at the screen, his spark spinning frantically in his chest. His cooling fans stall, and he sends a manual command to get them spinning again.
“Knock Out's there,” Ratchet says, forcing himself into motion as he changes the angle of the picture, trying to count the number of vehicons present. The Nemesis is nowhere in immediate sight.
Why would it be? Megatron is unlikely to take any chances to allow the Autobots to get close to Optimus – the amnesiac Orion. He'll want to keep his claws in his former partner for as long as it is feasible.
Optimus will be lucky if he's ever allowed to see the sun again frankly.
Jazz sidles up alongside Ratchet, visor trained on the screens. “I see him,” he says, vocalizer low.
--You want to do this now?-- Jazz asks, switching to a private comm channel.
Ratchet tilts his head, glancing once at Sunstreaker, whose optics are firmly locked on the satellite image showing their youngling. Sunstreaker's expression may be unreadable, but Ratchet can guess what his partner is thinking. That, alone, confirms it for Ratchet.
He quickly cuts off the connection, unwilling to hack into any satellite for too long. He is competent at insinuating himself into the human's mainframes, but Soundwave is even more skilled than he is. Ratchet doesn't wish to give Soundwave any more opportunity to track them down than the communications mech already has.
--Yes,-- Ratchet replies, and lays his palms flat on the keyboard, light enough that he doesn't depress the keys. --We may not get another chance. And if this works, he can help us get to Optimus.--
Jazz taps Ratchet's arm in agreement. --Okay, Ratch. We'll do this.-- He switches to his vocalizer, speaking aloud this time. “Two targets, my mechs. The energon and Knock Out.”
Arcee lifts a hand pointedly, the other clamping down on Jack and stopping him from speaking whatever had caused him to open his mouth in the first place. “Question. Just how do you expect to bring a Decepticon here without offlining him first, or damaging any of us in the process?”
“Wait a minute,” Miko says, waving her hands wildly as her eyes jump from bot to bot. “You want to bring him here? Why?”
Silence falls in the wake of her question, all optics turning to Jazz in query. What will their temporary commander say?
This is not something Ratchet wants the humans to know. He doesn't want them to get any false ideas about Cybertronians and their society. Especially considering what is considered the “norm” for human society. Ratchet can't even begin to contemplate the processor-ache that would be explaining partners and bonds and ensparked sparklings as opposed to fostered sparklings. For all that the humans know, Cybertronians don't form relationships like humans and Ratchet wants to keep it that way.
He will lie if he must.
Jazz taps his chin component, a scheming glint lighting behind his visor. “We gotta get Optimus back somehow, yanno. Seems like getting one of the Decepticons to interrogate – nicely I might add – is our best option. And Knock Out looks easier ta take than the other one.”
Neither Jack nor Miko seem to be taking Jazz's answer at face value. Miko frowns, her eyes narrowed in suspicion while Jack looks up at his guardian, as though he plans to grill her thoroughly on the topic later. Ratchet will have to pull aside all three guardians later and remind them of the topics which are Off Limits for humans.
Luckily, Rafael seems to be the only one in the realm of “whatever the boss bot says” because he's perched at a desk, typing furiously on his computer, conversely quietly with Bumblebee before offering up a comment on the site the Decepticons are currently mining.
“That still doesn't answer my question,” Arcee inserts, tapping one foot with an echoing click. “How are we going to do this?”
“A net?” Bulkhead suggests.
“Are you serious? On a mech who can form a sawblade from his hand?”
“I don't see anyone else making a suggestion,” Bulkhead retorts sullenly, scuffing the floor with the heel of his foot. He's been spending far too much time with his human.
“Knock Out's a medic,” Sideswipe muses aloud. “He'd be able to override any sedative we might be able to patch into his system. Unless Ratchet does it.”
Sunstreaker shakes his head firmly. “Absolutely not. Ratchet's not leaving the base.”
“I'm quite sure that's not your call to make,” Arcee says, optics flashing. “Though I'm not disagreeing. No offense, Ratchet.”
He's hardly listening to them at this point, processor whirling with plans, considered and dismissed. A way to subdue without harm and immediately.
And Ratchet remembers.
“I have an idea,” he says, turning away from the console and heading for one of the smaller side passages. “Give me a moment.”
He can feel their optics watching him, but Ratchet doesn't stop to explain. They'll find out soon enough.
He hurries to a storeroom, one of the few that are locked in their base. The others are locked, yes, but only to human hands. This particular storeroom is locked to Cybertronians as well, with only Ratchet and Optimus knowing the code to get inside. Well, now only Ratchet knows. It is another burst of data he will have to pass to Jazz before it slips his processor.
Keying open the door to the small closet, Ratchet steps inside, the contents lit by the glow of his optics. The room is unlit, bulb having burnt out long ago, but he knows exactly what he's looking for.
Along with the rest of the weapons regained from the Decepticons over the course of their clashes here on Earth, the Immobilizer sits on a top shelf, metal winking innocently. He never thought he'd have occasion to use it, as the threat of it possibly ending up in Decepticon claws again has always been too great. But right now, it's the best option they have for bringing Knock Out in without harm.
--Ratchet?--
--I'm on my way, Jazz.-- He snatches the Immobilizer carefully, then leaves the store room, taking care to seal the lock behind him.
Ratchet hears the argument before he so much as steps into the doorway leading to the main room, Sunstreaker and Jazz nearly pede to pede as the yellow mech looms over an unintimidated Jazz. Luckily, they are speaking in Cybertronian, as what they are yelling is far from what Ratchet would like the humans to hear. Said humans, by the way, are currently peeking from behind their guardians, looking unnerved.
“I don't give a frag. That's my youngling and I'm going!”
“Because yer the best at keepin' a calm processor, right?” Jazz snorts, a grating noise of metal grinding against metal. “I need a mech that's gonna follow my orders, not interpret them creatively.”
Ratchet steps much heavier than is necessary, announcing his arrival and interrupting the growing argument between Jazz and Sunstreaker. “No matter who goes, you're going to need this,” he says aloud, displaying the Immobilizer in front of him.
--Just give in, Jazz. Sunstreaker's not going to back down and the two of you are scaring the children,-- Ratchet adds in a narrow-band comm to their temporary commander. Normally, he wouldn't recommend letting Sunstreaker have his way, but in this, Ratchet agrees with his partner. One of them needs to be there.
Jazz's visor flashes at Ratchet as they both turn toward the arriving medic. “What is it?” Jazz asks aloud, switching to English for the human's benefit.
--I will this time, Ratch. But he's going to pay for it later.--
--Fair enough.--
“One of the Decepticon's weapons,” Ratchet answers, striding forward and handing it over to the saboteur. “The Immobilizer. And I believe the name says it all.”
“It's actually awesome,” Miko's voice pipes up from somewhere within Bulkhead's armor, and her head pops out warily. “That is, when it's not being used against us.”
“And it's more effective than a net,” Arcee adds with a pointed glance at Bulkhead. “Good idea, Ratchet.”
Ratchet waves off the compliment and returns to the console. “I knew it would come of use eventually. Jazz, if you're going to do this, now's the time. The Decepticons don't have a habit of lingering.”
Jazz twists the Immobilizer around his fingers in a skilled move that would make any trained martial arts planned. “Gotcha. Sunny. Arcee. Bulk. Sides. You're with me. Rest of ya, stay with Ratchet.”
His fingers flying over the keys, Ratchet starts prepping the Ground Bridge for transport to the necessary coordinates. “And Miko stays here,” Ratchet says loudly, pointedly, all without looking at said human.
“Awww. You're gonna make me miss all the action again?” the young girl whines but lets her Bulkhead set her down on the human-sized platform, in front of the television she's known to frequent.
No one responds to Miko's complaint, but Ratchet does catch a glimpse of Jack shaking his head in exasperation at her.
Jazz chuckles, twirls the Immobilizer again, and tucks it away in his subspace. “Autobots! Roll out!” he says, collapsing into his alt-mode. “Ratchet, bridge us out.”
Unable to help himself, Ratchet smirks. “Yes sir.” He curls his finger around the activating lever and pulls it down, power surging through the systems as the Bridge lights up the main tunnel, a swirling vortex of complex energies gleaming iridescent.
He turns to watch as Jazz revs his engine and speeds into the Bridge, his assigned team dropping into their alt-modes and following after him with no argument, Bulkhead bringing up the rear per the usual. Sunstreaker doesn't spare Ratchet a backward glance and not for the first time, Ratchet laments the fact that they aren't bonded, that they can't speak to each other without words.
He has no one to blame but himself.
The moment his systems register that Jazz's team have arrived safely at the coordinates, Ratchet shuts off the ground bridge and turns his full attention to the battle at hand. He brings up Jazz's comm channel, along with the four others, putting their stats and channels up on one screen, as the image of the dig site remains on the main one.
The rest of the Autobots crowd around behind him, all watching as the Autobot signals approach those of the Decepticons.
a/n: So I didn't make it for season two, but luckily, this should slot in nicely. Hopefully.
Thanks to everyone who's commented and reviewed so far. I really appreciate the support!
