[TFP] Event Horizon - Chapter Nine
Mar. 20th, 2012 08:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Thanks to ryagelle for betaing this chapter! Go check out her Twinning the Hatchet series. It's what inspired my love for RatchetxTwins. :)
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
Chapters: (01) (02) (03) (04) (05) (06) (07) (08) (09) (10) (11) (12) (Epi)
-----------------------------------
Event Horizon
Chapter Nine ----------------------------------
Knock Out squirms as the soft cloth rubs over his helm, the ends of it brushing over his sensory crest.
“Be still,” his genitor says, a firm hand resting on his shoulder.
His legs kick out, fingers gripping the stool beneath him. “It tickles,” Knock Out grumbles as the polishing cloth works more oil into his finish, until his black paint gleams perfectly. Sunstreaker wouldn't have it any other way.
Thanks to his genitor, Knock Out and his carrier are always perfectly painted, polished, and primed. Oh, and Sides is, too. Sunstreaker always refuses to leave the apartment with his brother unless Sides gleams, too.
“Every orn with you,” Sunstreaker retorts, but there's a smile in his tone. “Yesterorn, it was your neck cables. Orn before that, your elbow joint. I think you're just overly sensitive, bitlet.”
“That or he's realized what we all did a vorn ago,” Ratchet says as he walks past, carrying a box with bits and pieces dangling out the side of it. Another random science project again?
His genitor finishes Knock Out's helm, but moves to his upper dorsal plating, as though finding a smudge that offends him. “And what would that be?”
Ratchet smirks. “That your vanity has no limits. And now our poor mechling has to suffer for it.”
“I like being shiny!” Knock Out protests, and hunches his shoulders as the polishing cloth gets a gap between his plating, making him squirm again. “Spot tells me he can see his reflection in my chassis!”
Sunstreaker chuckles, cloth-carrying hand clamping down on Knock Out's helm as he curls his other arm around his sparkling from behind, pulling him backward into a light embrace. “Don't listen to your carrier, Knock Out. He'd go around scuffed and covered in dried energon if I left him to it.”
Rolling his optics, Ratchet scoffs. “I can see when I'm outnumbered. Carry on.” Shifting the weight of the box to one arm, his creator waves them off and continues down the hall.
Knock Out laughs softly. They've had this conversation so many times and it never changes!
His genitor's forehelm crest touches the back of his helm, affection rising in Sunstreaker's energy field, making Knock Out's spark spin happily. “That's my mechling,” his genitor says with an affectionate squeeze before he pulls back. “Now, let's get you polished up.”
Knock Out sticks out his arm, just to be contrary, and points at his elbow with his other hand. “You missed a spot.”
o0o0o
“I'm scared,” Knock Out whispers, because he doesn't want his genitor to hear him. Sunstreaker says he should always be brave. That he's got a fighter's spirit and a warrior's spark and he should let it show.
Ratchet lays his palm on Knock Out's ventral plating, right over his spark, sending a warm pulse through his hand. “I know,” Ratchet says, his voice gentle, unlike when he usually deals with patients. “It'll be fine, mechling. Before you know it, you'll be out of that too-tiny frame and into one that actually fits. You'll be able to stretch out and be comfortable again.”
He trusts his creator with every pulse of his spark, but Knock Out can't help being a little apprehensive. Upgrading to a youngling frame doesn't sound safe. Transferring his spark to another frame? It sounds outright dangerous! Even if Ratchet tells him that he's done it a hundred thousand times and everyone has to go through it.
“I could wait a little longer,” Knock Out suggests, moving to rise from the med-berth. “Honestly. It's not that bad...”
His creator's hand on his chassis is firm, but gentle as it pushes him back down. “It's time, my mechling. Don't worry. You know I wouldn't let anything happen to you. Ever.” Azure optics glimmer with love.
Knock Out forces a ventilation, tries to make himself relax. “I know,” he replies, though he still feels a bit reluctant. Until a thought occurs to him. “Will you let Sides teach me how to fight now?” Ratchet had always said sparklings were too young to know anything of martial arts, but if he upgrades, maybe his carrier will let him learn?
Ratchet chuckles, fingers brushing Knock Out's cheekplates gently. “Yes, Knock Out. I'll let that red menace teach you a few things. But only if you work hard on your lessons.”
He scowls. “They're boring.”
“But important,” his creator counters. “And you know your genitor agrees with me. He wants everything for you he couldn't have.”
Knock Out expels air from his vents loudly. “Fine,” he grumbles, and shifts on the medberth, almost surprised to find he's no longer as anxious as he was. He puts on his bravest face. “Do your worst, carrier.”
Ratchet laughs at him, shaking his helm. “You are your genitor's mechling.”
o0o0o
Sides is a lot more patient than other mechs believe. Sure, sometimes he acts like he doesn't have the time and he's really busy, but he always has a cycle or two to spare for Knock Out. Especially when both his genitor and carrier are busy with other things and Knock Out's bored out of his processor. Sides is always there with a game or a vidfile or even a good bookfile.
Right now, however, Knock Out's finally convinced Sides to teach him something. He knows both his genitor and Sides fight in the gladiator pits. He keeps asking to go see them, but they always say no. His carrier has vowed to turn the twins into something unpleasant if they even consider taking his mechling to the pits. So Knock Out doesn't get to go no matter how much he wants to. But he's seen them spar with each other, seen how fast his genitor can be, and how tricky Sides gets when Sunny pins him.
“Hold your fist up like this. No, like this.”
Sides takes Knock Out's fist physically in hand, folding his fingers the right way and tilting his arm the way it should be. “Good. Now bring up the other, closer to your frame. You want to be able to defend yourself, too.”
Concentrating, Knock Out does as Sides explains, trying to get used to keeping his pedes in their stance – loose, but prepared.
“Now what?” Knock Out asks, looking hopefully up at his genitor's brother.
Sides grins, hands planted on his hip spurs proudly. “Now we spar. And you try not to end up on your aft.”
“Don't you dent my mechling!” Sunstreaker hollers from the sidelines, where he's set up with a sketching datapad and a stylus, intending to draw while he supervises Knock Out's first fighting lesson.
Sides tosses his brother a very rude gesture that he's not supposed to use in front of Knock Out. “Stuff it, Sunny.”
“Don't call me that!”
Ignoring his twin, Sides switches his attention to Knock Out. He easily shifts into a defensive position, similar to the one he taught Knock Out. “Okay, mechlet. Try and attack me.”
“Aren't you going to teach me something first?”
Sides cocks his helm to the side. “Learn by doing. That's the way things work.”
Knock Out isn't so sure that this is the best course of action. Sides isn't quite as vicious as Sunstreaker when it comes to sparring, but he's still a force to be reckoned with. Knock Out's not fooled by Sides' cheerful exterior. He eyes the red twin warily.
“Come on. I won't hurt you,” Sides says. “Well, beyond what bumps and dings you might need for learning.”
Knock Out leans forward, and then backpedals a step. “You want me to just... attack?”
“That's the idea.”
Scrap. He's going to get his aft pulverized.
o0o0o
His pede catches a piece of debris and Knock Out loses his balance, stumbling and lurching to the side. A firm hand clamps down on his shoulder, stopping him from falling.
He looks up at his escort gratefully.
“Thanks, Spot.”
Hot Spot's expression is impossible to tell behind his battle mask, but by the gleam in his optics, Knock Out knows he's smiling. “Stay close to me.”
That will be no problem. As staying close to Hot Spot is exactly where Knock Out wants to be, aside from with his caretakers, but neither Ratchet nor Sunstreaker are here right now. He and Hot Spot are supposed to meet them in Praxus. Soon.
Hot Spot's hand drops from Knock Out's shoulder and takes his hand, clutching it carefully. “We have to be quick, Knock Out.”
“I know.”
They hurry, trying to keep their travel quiet. Sticking to shadows and alleys, ducking in and out of teetering buildings, all the while, their optics on the sky. Every time Hot Spot heard so much as the whine of a Seeker turbine, it was down, and they cowered behind the nearest cover, hoping not to attract the keen optic of a Decepticon Seeker.
Knock Out had already asked why the Decepticons attacked Uraya. Hot Spot couldn't give him an answer. He didn't know.
He said that the Decepticons were angry with the High Council. That Megatron was leading them and he wanted freedom for everyone. Freedom and equal rights. Which doesn't sound like a bad idea in Knock Out's opinion.
“It's not a bad idea,” Hot Spot had said. “Megatron's not wrong, per se. But killing everyone to get what he wants isn't right either.”
Knock Out had frowned. “Maybe that's the only way to get the council to listen.” After all, Knock Out doesn't have much respect for the council either. They're the main reason he couldn't leave the apartment a lot before now. They're the reason his caretakers had to be so secretive, why Knock Out couldn't go out and play with the other younglings.
Oh, Ratchet and Sunstreaker never told him in explicit terms all the reasons why. But Knock Out knows how to connect to the main terminals and do some research. He'd figured out why he was so different compared to everyone else. Why his caretakers are so careful with him and why they get fear in their optics with any mention of the council. Why he can't go to the public schools and instead learns his lessons at home.
Knock Out has figured it all out on his own. That his caretakers were denied their application to the All Spark and resorted to something that could get them all offlined, Knock Out included. Actually, offlining would probably be the preferred outcome. Being turned into some experiment for the Hall of Mechanics is not on Knock Out's list of exciting opportunities.
Hot Spot had shaken his helm at Knock Out. “You might be right, but that doesn't excuse the other innocent lives suffering for Megatron's ambition.”
The conversation had ended then and there because they'd had to duck into a lower level to avoid a skirmish in the streets between the Decepticon raiders and members of Uraya's citizen guard. What remained of them after the bombing anyway. Hot Spot suspects that they aimed for all guard barracks first and foremost, and medical centers second.
The steady thrum of powerful engines above derails Knock Out's thoughts and he huddles closer to Hot Spot, who suddenly stops in the shadows of a half-demolished building, pulling Knock Out behind him. His other hand grips a guard-issued blaster as he dares a sensor sweep, the feel of it tingling across Knock Out's circuits.
Knock Out, peering around Hot Spot, can't see anymech in the street – Decepticon or civilian or Elite Guard, not that the Elite Guard would bother responding to an attack on a city as unimportant as Uraya. Right now, the High Council's too busy bickering in their high towers to worry about Uraya. Frag them.
“Is it safe?” Knock Out asks, hoping his vocalizer didn't waver noticeably. He doesn't know how long they've been standing there, peering into an open roadway growing rapidly dimmer as Cybertron continues its somnolent, dying rotation.
Hot Spot's optics are focused on the street, which seems empty. The loud rumble of engines have gone, but that doesn't mean they won't return. “No place is safe right now,” the soldier says darkly. “Come on, Knock Out.”
He obeys without question, following Hot Spot closely as they dare step into the street, carefully glancing around. Only long enough to move from one covered position to another. Knock Out honestly doesn't want to know what would happen if one of the parties of Decepticon raiders found them. How far are they from Praxus? He doesn't know. Hot Spot had tight-bursted him coordinates and directions when they first slipped out of the apartment, heading for more secure territory, but Knock Out had never been further than a few blocks from his apartment before.
Everything looks unfamiliar to him, even if half the buildings hadn't been razed and dead mechs cluttered the streetways.
Cackling echoes over the noise of distant explosions. Hot Spot whirls around, drawing Knock Out behind him, even as his blaster comes up, barely aiming before he pulls the trigger. Laser fire punctuates the dim and Knock Out hears thrusters kick to life as a shadowy figure takes off from a nearby roof.
“Not even close, groundpounder!” the voice taunts, and in a flicker of street lights, Knock Out sees evidence of gray and crimson plating, the low-blue burn of Seeker thrusters.
The rumble of more engines becomes evident, though these are closer to the ground. Scrap! It can't be anything more than Decepticons, the single Seeker likely a scout of some kind.
“Knock Out,” Hot Spot murmurs carefully, squeezing Knock Out's hand before releasing him. “I want you to run. Head for those buildings and keep going.”
Knock Out stares up at his protector. “What? No! I can fight!” he argues stubbornly. “Sides taught me how. I can help you.”
Hot Spot doesn't even look at him, his free hand twitching and pulling another weapon from his subspace, charging the energon axe with an audible whine. “That may be true, but you shouldn't have to. Do it, Knock Out.”
The powerful engines are getting louder, some of them a bit rougher than others. No High Towers mechs here, only miners with a grudge and a plan.
Seeker turbines are terrifyingly loud in the tense silence, causing Hot Spot to shift in front of Knock Out, frame sliding into a defensive posture. He's almost twice Knock Out's size, easily concealing Knock Out's presence.
Streetlights flicker before burning brightly, temporarily offering some illumination to the increasingly dim roadway. Four mechs approaching on foot, the Seeker flying over them in tight ellipses, like a buzzbot circling its kill.
“Ah, you're a big one,” the red-grey Seeker chortles above them. “Want to join the Decepticons?”
Hot Spot makes a growling noise in his vocalizer. “I've better taste than that, Seeker.”
Said Seeker laughs. “A poor choice.” He flips in the air, an elaborate twisting motion that Knock Out would be in awe over, on any other orn. “Take him.”
Hot Spot doesn't wait for an invitation, firing upward at the red-grey Seeker. He sweeps an arm to the side, tapping Knock Out's helm. “Get out of here, bitlet!”
Blaster rounds punctuate the air around them, Hot Spot turning to shield Knock Out.
“No.” But he can't hide the trembling in his legs, or the cry of pain when a stray flash of laser fire scores his plating.
“Go!” Hot Spot all but shoves him and Knock Out stumbles several steps away, watching as the soldier whirls and starts firing into the mass of four Decepticons, causing them to spread out.
Knock Out hesitates but another round of blaster fire makes him startle, turn on his heel struts, and run toward the nearest building, the nearest shelter. If he stays, Hot Spot will focus on protecting him and not defending himself. He can't distract the soldier like that. He needs to be out of the way.
“There's another one!” one of the Decepticons shouts, and Knock Out just knows that they are referring to him.
He glances over his shoulder. One of the raiders has separated from the other four, heading straight for Knock Out, his green-black plating gleaming ominous. He's huge, at least two heads taller than Knock Out. What skills Sides has taught him will probably be of no use against the massive mech.
Fear creeping over his processors, Knock Out lunges for the building, focused on getting away. He hears Hot Spot growl angrily, even as metal clashes with metal in an echoing screech. Laser fire scorches the ruined building just above Knock Out's helm. The Decepticon chasing him grunts and hits the ground, smoke rising from a hole in his ventral plating.
Somewhere behind him, Hot Spot is grappling with the Seeker. Three other Decepticons are closing in fast. All Knock Out can do is run. He's still just a youngling. He can't do anything and there's no one here to help.
He's on his own.
o0o0o
Soft keening floats to Knock Out's audials. He creeps out of the ruins of an abandoned electric plant and follows the unusual sound. This section of Protihex has been left derelict since it was first bombed over a half-orn ago. Nothing should be here but dead husks, the occasional Empty, and scavenging retrorats.
Clutching his slapped-together Energon prod closely, Knock Out peers out the opening of the doorway, forever locked half-closed now that power to this sector of Protihex has been cut off. In the dim illumination provided by Moonbase One overhead, Knock Out can see a mech sitting out in the open, rocking back and forth as he clutches something in his arms.
The mech's about Knock Out's size and probably a grounder, though all Knock Out can see of him is his back. Knock Out can't see any visible weapons, but that doesn't mean there aren't any. The scent of fresh-spilled energon is sharp in the air, nagging at Knock Out's chemoreceptors.
He should just go. This won't be the first time Knock Out's seen one mech grieving for another and he knows it won't be the last. Besides, all that caterwauling is sure to attract the attention of one of the many plunderers creeping about Protihex's ruins. If the mech isn't on the verge of offlining now, he soon will be when the plunderers find him, seeking to offline him for the energon in his lines if nothing else.
Yet, Knock Out doesn't move. Something keeps him from simply leaving. Another keening cry from the mech resonates inside of him.
He's not sure it's a conscious decision that makes him creep out of his hiding place, daring to step into the openness of the street. He keeps one optic on the lookout for marauding mechs while the other focuses on the grieving mech. His pedesteps are barely audible, a precaution he's learned over the last several orns.
Knock Out circles around the unknown blue and white mech, finally gaining view of the dark grey and red mech that he's clutching. They're sitting in a puddle of energon, and Knock Out can clearly see a trail of energon from wherever the two had come from. Obviously fleeing battle of some kind, until the red-grey one succumbed to his injuries here. A light scan informs him that there's no spark pulse from the red-grey mech. Knock Out isn't surprised.
He takes another step, wondering how to announce his presence without getting himself shot, when the blue-white mech suddenly startles, helm shooting up. Within kliks, Knock Out has a blaster aimed straight at his chassis, the barely audible hum indicating a rifle with half a charge.
Knock Out holds up both his hands, dropping his Energon prod. “Whoa,” he says, trying for soothing. “Don't shoot. I'm not here to hurt you.”
Vivid golden optics cycle down, pain and fatigue evident in his expression. “What do you want?”
He glances between the two mechs – one offlined and one getting there. “You shouldn't be out here. It's dangerous.”
The stranger barks laughter, his other hand clutching the broken mech tighter. “It's dangerous everywhere. What should here matter?”
He has a point. Still...
“I have some energon,” Knock Out offers, still trying to look nonthreatening. “It's not much, barely palatable. But you look like you need it. And some repairs for that matter.”
Those golden optics – so similar to his genitor's plating! – gleam brighter. “Are you a medic?”
“You could say that.” All he knows is what Ratchet managed to teach him, what he's observed his creator doing over the vorns.
Thoughts of his creator makes Knock Out's spark twist with pain. He misses both of his caretakers. Some orn he'll find them. Some orn, he'll actually make it to Praxus. Hopefully, they'll still be there. Hopefully, this stupid war hasn't killed them.
The stranger barks out a laugh again, blaster lowering as his whole body shakes with the force of it, but there's no humor. Only bitterness. “That's our luck, isn't it? Finding a medic now. When it's too late.” The blaster hits the ground with a clatter. “Whatever. Do what you want, medic.”
“Knock Out,” he corrects, daring to take a step closer.
“Knock Out,” the stranger repeats, faceplates twisted with a bitter sneer. “You're a bit of a fool, aren't you, Knock Out?”
He pauses mid-step at the insinuation. “Whatever does that mean?”
“Only a fool would help a stranger in this pit-spawned war,” the mech retorts, static lacing his vocalizer. His optics flicker as he slumps a bit further, running low on energy and who knows what else. “So you, Knock Out, are a fool.”
The stranger is right, of course, but Knock Out refuses to admit as much. “Who are you?” he asks instead, and bolstered by the repeated act of not being fired upon, approaches the strange mech.
Closer now, he can see the scorch marks, the multiple blaster wounds, the seeping slash in his ventral plating, the sparking wires where one leg is useless. The mech hasn't left for safety because he can't, not because he won't.
“Breakdown,” the mech replies and looks down at the greying corpse in his arms. “And this was Wildrider. My brother-in-bond.”
Brother-in-bond. Like First Aid and Hot Spot. Knock Out's spark aches in remembrance of Hot Spot, whose fate Knock Out never learned. He never saw the mech again, and never made it to Praxus to find out what had happened to him.
He should have stayed. That decision continues to haunt him.
No wonder Breakdown's spark resonance feels so familiar. Knock Out's spent so much time around Hot Spot and his brothers that they've felt like his own family.
He kneels next to Breakdown, unsure of where to even begin though getting him (and most likely his brother) out of the streets is a good start. “How did you end up out here?”
“That's a long story.”
“I've got the time.”
o0o0o
The mech reeks of rust and rot, wounds seeping tainted energon and the dull glaze in his optics speaking of a frame well on its way to becoming more Empty and less mech. His companion fares little better, lacking one arm and dragging a lame leg behind him. Two others hover in the background, in much better shape, their blue optics gleaming as they watch, as though eager to partake in a free show.
The two nearer to him crowd a dizzy Knock Out in the dark of the alley, already clogged with refuse and broken buildings. Laughter and shouting echoes from the buildings to either side, the sound of brawling carrying to Knock Out's audials.
“Get off me!” he snarls, whipping the Energon prod around, stabbing it intothe one-armed mech and watching with delight as his body jerks and writhes at the attack.
“Ah, that wasn't very nice,” the rusty mech purrs static at him, making a clumsy grab for Knock Out's shoulder. Sense memory of that rusty hand groping his otherwise polished plating makes Knock Out shudder from helm to pede.
He twists out of the way, kicking out at the rust bucket in a move that would make Sides proud, knocking the mech back and into a pile of abandoned scrap.
The voyeurs think this is an opportunity to invite themselves to play. Knock Out whirls, striking at one with his Energon prod, and then growls when the second all but tackles him. Unwelcome servos paw at his plating as they slam into the alley wall, specks of rust flaking down on them. His attacker laughs in overcharged glee, fingers trying to work their way into gaps in Knock Out's newly acquired armor.
Disgust crawls over his frame, tanks roiling with threat to purge and Knock Out reaches up, newly clawed fingers digging at the mech's optics. He howls in rage as Knock Out struggles, trying to shove the larger mech away from him. Fraggin' Breakdown better hurry up or Knock Out's going to have his aft for a new berth!
Rusty mech returns, rage lighting his otherwise dim optics. “You're going to suffer for that,” he hisses.
“Think again!” A fist appears out of nowhere, slamming into the rusty mech's faceplate and shattering it upon impact.
Rusty topples backward, body jerking as sparks from his crushed helm light up the dark alleyway.
Breakdown doesn't stop to appreciate his work, whirling and firing his blaster at point-blank range into one of the other mechs’ ventral plating. He goes down, smoke pouring from the hole in his chassis.
Knock Out smirks and digs his fingers further into the optics, jerking them outward and bringing an optic with it, connectors sparking in the empty socket. Jerking a knee up, Knock Out drives the mech backward and whips an elbow across the mech's face, driving him down. A solid kick and the drifter is down.
“What took you so long?” Knock Out snarls without a missed beat, stepping on the downed mech as he stalks to Breakdown and gives him a solid smack to the helm. “They scratched my plating!”
Breakdown rolls his optics. “Looks fine to me.”
Huffing, Knock Out turns his back on his companion and crouches over the unconscious mech. “Useless I swear it,” he mutters subvocally, and starts examining the mech's limbs, checking for imperfections or the onset of rust, like his other associates. Luckily, this mech seems to have fared fairly well.
“Well, get over here and help me,” Knock Out snarls. “You're the one who needs a new arm.”
o0o0o
Megatron is more intimidating in person than Knock Out could have ever expected. The gladiator mech towers over all of his subordinates, even his second and third in command. It's clear that there are very few his physical equal, except perhaps for the infamous Prime.
Knock Out stands straight, drawing from memories of his genitor, who would never bow or find himself afraid in Megatron's presence. Next to him, Breakdown is similarly proud, though awe and reluctance intermingle in his energy field.
Crimson optics sweep over the pair of them, Megatron's hands clasped behind him as he paces back and forth, sizing up the two mechs. “You wish to join the Decepticons,” he says, more statement than question. “And what do you have to offer me?”
Knock Out doesn't glance at Breakdown, knowing that confidence is only half of what Megatron expects of them. Confidence and loyalty, but not ambition as that would be stepping beyond the pale. “No war is won without a medic, my lord. I and my assistant would consider it an honor to serve you.”
A gleam of approval appears in those scarlet optics. “I see. Medics tend to be soft-sparked Autobot fools. And yet you come here.” There is an unvoiced question in his statement.
Knock Out tilts his chin, all of the reasons he's standing here instead of in Iacon crowding at his processors, dancing on the edge of his vocalizer. All the things that his caretakers feared. All the things he couldn't be under High Council rule. The past that his genitor had been forced to survive. The future he would never have. For all he knows, both his creator and his genitor are already gone.
This is what Knock Out wants.
o0o0o
Ratchet cuts off the connection with his youngling and forces his cooling fans into operation, trying to dispel the heat working violently through his frame. His spark is spinning faster and faster within him, pain and guilt and sorrow nearly sending him into paroxysms.
Shaking fingers uncouple the cord from Knock Out's cortical port, gently closing the panel on it as the cord respools itself.
On the distant edge of his senses, he hears someone calling his name. A familiar energy field washes over him, ripe with worry.
He tilts his helm, looks up at his partner, and it feels like Cybertron falling all over again. “It was his choice,” Ratchet says, static clogging his vocalizer. “He joined the Decepticons by choice.”
Sunstreaker looks at him, optics burning with unnameable emotion, but if he plans to say something, Ratchet has no audials to hear him with. Exhaustion steals over his shuddering frame and darkness creeps over his optics. His HUD warns him of an impending shut down, a medically necessary recharge, and Sunstreaker's face is the last thing he sees.
*****
a/n: Three or four more chapters to go and then I need to plow headfirst into the sequel. This series has grown a life of it's own.
I do hope you enjoyed! Feedback is very welcome and appreciated.
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
Chapters: (01) (02) (03) (04) (05) (06) (07) (08) (09) (10) (11) (12) (Epi)
Event Horizon
Knock Out squirms as the soft cloth rubs over his helm, the ends of it brushing over his sensory crest.
“Be still,” his genitor says, a firm hand resting on his shoulder.
His legs kick out, fingers gripping the stool beneath him. “It tickles,” Knock Out grumbles as the polishing cloth works more oil into his finish, until his black paint gleams perfectly. Sunstreaker wouldn't have it any other way.
Thanks to his genitor, Knock Out and his carrier are always perfectly painted, polished, and primed. Oh, and Sides is, too. Sunstreaker always refuses to leave the apartment with his brother unless Sides gleams, too.
“Every orn with you,” Sunstreaker retorts, but there's a smile in his tone. “Yesterorn, it was your neck cables. Orn before that, your elbow joint. I think you're just overly sensitive, bitlet.”
“That or he's realized what we all did a vorn ago,” Ratchet says as he walks past, carrying a box with bits and pieces dangling out the side of it. Another random science project again?
His genitor finishes Knock Out's helm, but moves to his upper dorsal plating, as though finding a smudge that offends him. “And what would that be?”
Ratchet smirks. “That your vanity has no limits. And now our poor mechling has to suffer for it.”
“I like being shiny!” Knock Out protests, and hunches his shoulders as the polishing cloth gets a gap between his plating, making him squirm again. “Spot tells me he can see his reflection in my chassis!”
Sunstreaker chuckles, cloth-carrying hand clamping down on Knock Out's helm as he curls his other arm around his sparkling from behind, pulling him backward into a light embrace. “Don't listen to your carrier, Knock Out. He'd go around scuffed and covered in dried energon if I left him to it.”
Rolling his optics, Ratchet scoffs. “I can see when I'm outnumbered. Carry on.” Shifting the weight of the box to one arm, his creator waves them off and continues down the hall.
Knock Out laughs softly. They've had this conversation so many times and it never changes!
His genitor's forehelm crest touches the back of his helm, affection rising in Sunstreaker's energy field, making Knock Out's spark spin happily. “That's my mechling,” his genitor says with an affectionate squeeze before he pulls back. “Now, let's get you polished up.”
Knock Out sticks out his arm, just to be contrary, and points at his elbow with his other hand. “You missed a spot.”
“I'm scared,” Knock Out whispers, because he doesn't want his genitor to hear him. Sunstreaker says he should always be brave. That he's got a fighter's spirit and a warrior's spark and he should let it show.
Ratchet lays his palm on Knock Out's ventral plating, right over his spark, sending a warm pulse through his hand. “I know,” Ratchet says, his voice gentle, unlike when he usually deals with patients. “It'll be fine, mechling. Before you know it, you'll be out of that too-tiny frame and into one that actually fits. You'll be able to stretch out and be comfortable again.”
He trusts his creator with every pulse of his spark, but Knock Out can't help being a little apprehensive. Upgrading to a youngling frame doesn't sound safe. Transferring his spark to another frame? It sounds outright dangerous! Even if Ratchet tells him that he's done it a hundred thousand times and everyone has to go through it.
“I could wait a little longer,” Knock Out suggests, moving to rise from the med-berth. “Honestly. It's not that bad...”
His creator's hand on his chassis is firm, but gentle as it pushes him back down. “It's time, my mechling. Don't worry. You know I wouldn't let anything happen to you. Ever.” Azure optics glimmer with love.
Knock Out forces a ventilation, tries to make himself relax. “I know,” he replies, though he still feels a bit reluctant. Until a thought occurs to him. “Will you let Sides teach me how to fight now?” Ratchet had always said sparklings were too young to know anything of martial arts, but if he upgrades, maybe his carrier will let him learn?
Ratchet chuckles, fingers brushing Knock Out's cheekplates gently. “Yes, Knock Out. I'll let that red menace teach you a few things. But only if you work hard on your lessons.”
He scowls. “They're boring.”
“But important,” his creator counters. “And you know your genitor agrees with me. He wants everything for you he couldn't have.”
Knock Out expels air from his vents loudly. “Fine,” he grumbles, and shifts on the medberth, almost surprised to find he's no longer as anxious as he was. He puts on his bravest face. “Do your worst, carrier.”
Ratchet laughs at him, shaking his helm. “You are your genitor's mechling.”
Sides is a lot more patient than other mechs believe. Sure, sometimes he acts like he doesn't have the time and he's really busy, but he always has a cycle or two to spare for Knock Out. Especially when both his genitor and carrier are busy with other things and Knock Out's bored out of his processor. Sides is always there with a game or a vidfile or even a good bookfile.
Right now, however, Knock Out's finally convinced Sides to teach him something. He knows both his genitor and Sides fight in the gladiator pits. He keeps asking to go see them, but they always say no. His carrier has vowed to turn the twins into something unpleasant if they even consider taking his mechling to the pits. So Knock Out doesn't get to go no matter how much he wants to. But he's seen them spar with each other, seen how fast his genitor can be, and how tricky Sides gets when Sunny pins him.
“Hold your fist up like this. No, like this.”
Sides takes Knock Out's fist physically in hand, folding his fingers the right way and tilting his arm the way it should be. “Good. Now bring up the other, closer to your frame. You want to be able to defend yourself, too.”
Concentrating, Knock Out does as Sides explains, trying to get used to keeping his pedes in their stance – loose, but prepared.
“Now what?” Knock Out asks, looking hopefully up at his genitor's brother.
Sides grins, hands planted on his hip spurs proudly. “Now we spar. And you try not to end up on your aft.”
“Don't you dent my mechling!” Sunstreaker hollers from the sidelines, where he's set up with a sketching datapad and a stylus, intending to draw while he supervises Knock Out's first fighting lesson.
Sides tosses his brother a very rude gesture that he's not supposed to use in front of Knock Out. “Stuff it, Sunny.”
“Don't call me that!”
Ignoring his twin, Sides switches his attention to Knock Out. He easily shifts into a defensive position, similar to the one he taught Knock Out. “Okay, mechlet. Try and attack me.”
“Aren't you going to teach me something first?”
Sides cocks his helm to the side. “Learn by doing. That's the way things work.”
Knock Out isn't so sure that this is the best course of action. Sides isn't quite as vicious as Sunstreaker when it comes to sparring, but he's still a force to be reckoned with. Knock Out's not fooled by Sides' cheerful exterior. He eyes the red twin warily.
“Come on. I won't hurt you,” Sides says. “Well, beyond what bumps and dings you might need for learning.”
Knock Out leans forward, and then backpedals a step. “You want me to just... attack?”
“That's the idea.”
Scrap. He's going to get his aft pulverized.
His pede catches a piece of debris and Knock Out loses his balance, stumbling and lurching to the side. A firm hand clamps down on his shoulder, stopping him from falling.
He looks up at his escort gratefully.
“Thanks, Spot.”
Hot Spot's expression is impossible to tell behind his battle mask, but by the gleam in his optics, Knock Out knows he's smiling. “Stay close to me.”
That will be no problem. As staying close to Hot Spot is exactly where Knock Out wants to be, aside from with his caretakers, but neither Ratchet nor Sunstreaker are here right now. He and Hot Spot are supposed to meet them in Praxus. Soon.
Hot Spot's hand drops from Knock Out's shoulder and takes his hand, clutching it carefully. “We have to be quick, Knock Out.”
“I know.”
They hurry, trying to keep their travel quiet. Sticking to shadows and alleys, ducking in and out of teetering buildings, all the while, their optics on the sky. Every time Hot Spot heard so much as the whine of a Seeker turbine, it was down, and they cowered behind the nearest cover, hoping not to attract the keen optic of a Decepticon Seeker.
Knock Out had already asked why the Decepticons attacked Uraya. Hot Spot couldn't give him an answer. He didn't know.
He said that the Decepticons were angry with the High Council. That Megatron was leading them and he wanted freedom for everyone. Freedom and equal rights. Which doesn't sound like a bad idea in Knock Out's opinion.
“It's not a bad idea,” Hot Spot had said. “Megatron's not wrong, per se. But killing everyone to get what he wants isn't right either.”
Knock Out had frowned. “Maybe that's the only way to get the council to listen.” After all, Knock Out doesn't have much respect for the council either. They're the main reason he couldn't leave the apartment a lot before now. They're the reason his caretakers had to be so secretive, why Knock Out couldn't go out and play with the other younglings.
Oh, Ratchet and Sunstreaker never told him in explicit terms all the reasons why. But Knock Out knows how to connect to the main terminals and do some research. He'd figured out why he was so different compared to everyone else. Why his caretakers are so careful with him and why they get fear in their optics with any mention of the council. Why he can't go to the public schools and instead learns his lessons at home.
Knock Out has figured it all out on his own. That his caretakers were denied their application to the All Spark and resorted to something that could get them all offlined, Knock Out included. Actually, offlining would probably be the preferred outcome. Being turned into some experiment for the Hall of Mechanics is not on Knock Out's list of exciting opportunities.
Hot Spot had shaken his helm at Knock Out. “You might be right, but that doesn't excuse the other innocent lives suffering for Megatron's ambition.”
The conversation had ended then and there because they'd had to duck into a lower level to avoid a skirmish in the streets between the Decepticon raiders and members of Uraya's citizen guard. What remained of them after the bombing anyway. Hot Spot suspects that they aimed for all guard barracks first and foremost, and medical centers second.
The steady thrum of powerful engines above derails Knock Out's thoughts and he huddles closer to Hot Spot, who suddenly stops in the shadows of a half-demolished building, pulling Knock Out behind him. His other hand grips a guard-issued blaster as he dares a sensor sweep, the feel of it tingling across Knock Out's circuits.
Knock Out, peering around Hot Spot, can't see anymech in the street – Decepticon or civilian or Elite Guard, not that the Elite Guard would bother responding to an attack on a city as unimportant as Uraya. Right now, the High Council's too busy bickering in their high towers to worry about Uraya. Frag them.
“Is it safe?” Knock Out asks, hoping his vocalizer didn't waver noticeably. He doesn't know how long they've been standing there, peering into an open roadway growing rapidly dimmer as Cybertron continues its somnolent, dying rotation.
Hot Spot's optics are focused on the street, which seems empty. The loud rumble of engines have gone, but that doesn't mean they won't return. “No place is safe right now,” the soldier says darkly. “Come on, Knock Out.”
He obeys without question, following Hot Spot closely as they dare step into the street, carefully glancing around. Only long enough to move from one covered position to another. Knock Out honestly doesn't want to know what would happen if one of the parties of Decepticon raiders found them. How far are they from Praxus? He doesn't know. Hot Spot had tight-bursted him coordinates and directions when they first slipped out of the apartment, heading for more secure territory, but Knock Out had never been further than a few blocks from his apartment before.
Everything looks unfamiliar to him, even if half the buildings hadn't been razed and dead mechs cluttered the streetways.
Cackling echoes over the noise of distant explosions. Hot Spot whirls around, drawing Knock Out behind him, even as his blaster comes up, barely aiming before he pulls the trigger. Laser fire punctuates the dim and Knock Out hears thrusters kick to life as a shadowy figure takes off from a nearby roof.
“Not even close, groundpounder!” the voice taunts, and in a flicker of street lights, Knock Out sees evidence of gray and crimson plating, the low-blue burn of Seeker thrusters.
The rumble of more engines becomes evident, though these are closer to the ground. Scrap! It can't be anything more than Decepticons, the single Seeker likely a scout of some kind.
“Knock Out,” Hot Spot murmurs carefully, squeezing Knock Out's hand before releasing him. “I want you to run. Head for those buildings and keep going.”
Knock Out stares up at his protector. “What? No! I can fight!” he argues stubbornly. “Sides taught me how. I can help you.”
Hot Spot doesn't even look at him, his free hand twitching and pulling another weapon from his subspace, charging the energon axe with an audible whine. “That may be true, but you shouldn't have to. Do it, Knock Out.”
The powerful engines are getting louder, some of them a bit rougher than others. No High Towers mechs here, only miners with a grudge and a plan.
Seeker turbines are terrifyingly loud in the tense silence, causing Hot Spot to shift in front of Knock Out, frame sliding into a defensive posture. He's almost twice Knock Out's size, easily concealing Knock Out's presence.
Streetlights flicker before burning brightly, temporarily offering some illumination to the increasingly dim roadway. Four mechs approaching on foot, the Seeker flying over them in tight ellipses, like a buzzbot circling its kill.
“Ah, you're a big one,” the red-grey Seeker chortles above them. “Want to join the Decepticons?”
Hot Spot makes a growling noise in his vocalizer. “I've better taste than that, Seeker.”
Said Seeker laughs. “A poor choice.” He flips in the air, an elaborate twisting motion that Knock Out would be in awe over, on any other orn. “Take him.”
Hot Spot doesn't wait for an invitation, firing upward at the red-grey Seeker. He sweeps an arm to the side, tapping Knock Out's helm. “Get out of here, bitlet!”
Blaster rounds punctuate the air around them, Hot Spot turning to shield Knock Out.
“No.” But he can't hide the trembling in his legs, or the cry of pain when a stray flash of laser fire scores his plating.
“Go!” Hot Spot all but shoves him and Knock Out stumbles several steps away, watching as the soldier whirls and starts firing into the mass of four Decepticons, causing them to spread out.
Knock Out hesitates but another round of blaster fire makes him startle, turn on his heel struts, and run toward the nearest building, the nearest shelter. If he stays, Hot Spot will focus on protecting him and not defending himself. He can't distract the soldier like that. He needs to be out of the way.
“There's another one!” one of the Decepticons shouts, and Knock Out just knows that they are referring to him.
He glances over his shoulder. One of the raiders has separated from the other four, heading straight for Knock Out, his green-black plating gleaming ominous. He's huge, at least two heads taller than Knock Out. What skills Sides has taught him will probably be of no use against the massive mech.
Fear creeping over his processors, Knock Out lunges for the building, focused on getting away. He hears Hot Spot growl angrily, even as metal clashes with metal in an echoing screech. Laser fire scorches the ruined building just above Knock Out's helm. The Decepticon chasing him grunts and hits the ground, smoke rising from a hole in his ventral plating.
Somewhere behind him, Hot Spot is grappling with the Seeker. Three other Decepticons are closing in fast. All Knock Out can do is run. He's still just a youngling. He can't do anything and there's no one here to help.
He's on his own.
Soft keening floats to Knock Out's audials. He creeps out of the ruins of an abandoned electric plant and follows the unusual sound. This section of Protihex has been left derelict since it was first bombed over a half-orn ago. Nothing should be here but dead husks, the occasional Empty, and scavenging retrorats.
Clutching his slapped-together Energon prod closely, Knock Out peers out the opening of the doorway, forever locked half-closed now that power to this sector of Protihex has been cut off. In the dim illumination provided by Moonbase One overhead, Knock Out can see a mech sitting out in the open, rocking back and forth as he clutches something in his arms.
The mech's about Knock Out's size and probably a grounder, though all Knock Out can see of him is his back. Knock Out can't see any visible weapons, but that doesn't mean there aren't any. The scent of fresh-spilled energon is sharp in the air, nagging at Knock Out's chemoreceptors.
He should just go. This won't be the first time Knock Out's seen one mech grieving for another and he knows it won't be the last. Besides, all that caterwauling is sure to attract the attention of one of the many plunderers creeping about Protihex's ruins. If the mech isn't on the verge of offlining now, he soon will be when the plunderers find him, seeking to offline him for the energon in his lines if nothing else.
Yet, Knock Out doesn't move. Something keeps him from simply leaving. Another keening cry from the mech resonates inside of him.
He's not sure it's a conscious decision that makes him creep out of his hiding place, daring to step into the openness of the street. He keeps one optic on the lookout for marauding mechs while the other focuses on the grieving mech. His pedesteps are barely audible, a precaution he's learned over the last several orns.
Knock Out circles around the unknown blue and white mech, finally gaining view of the dark grey and red mech that he's clutching. They're sitting in a puddle of energon, and Knock Out can clearly see a trail of energon from wherever the two had come from. Obviously fleeing battle of some kind, until the red-grey one succumbed to his injuries here. A light scan informs him that there's no spark pulse from the red-grey mech. Knock Out isn't surprised.
He takes another step, wondering how to announce his presence without getting himself shot, when the blue-white mech suddenly startles, helm shooting up. Within kliks, Knock Out has a blaster aimed straight at his chassis, the barely audible hum indicating a rifle with half a charge.
Knock Out holds up both his hands, dropping his Energon prod. “Whoa,” he says, trying for soothing. “Don't shoot. I'm not here to hurt you.”
Vivid golden optics cycle down, pain and fatigue evident in his expression. “What do you want?”
He glances between the two mechs – one offlined and one getting there. “You shouldn't be out here. It's dangerous.”
The stranger barks laughter, his other hand clutching the broken mech tighter. “It's dangerous everywhere. What should here matter?”
He has a point. Still...
“I have some energon,” Knock Out offers, still trying to look nonthreatening. “It's not much, barely palatable. But you look like you need it. And some repairs for that matter.”
Those golden optics – so similar to his genitor's plating! – gleam brighter. “Are you a medic?”
“You could say that.” All he knows is what Ratchet managed to teach him, what he's observed his creator doing over the vorns.
Thoughts of his creator makes Knock Out's spark twist with pain. He misses both of his caretakers. Some orn he'll find them. Some orn, he'll actually make it to Praxus. Hopefully, they'll still be there. Hopefully, this stupid war hasn't killed them.
The stranger barks out a laugh again, blaster lowering as his whole body shakes with the force of it, but there's no humor. Only bitterness. “That's our luck, isn't it? Finding a medic now. When it's too late.” The blaster hits the ground with a clatter. “Whatever. Do what you want, medic.”
“Knock Out,” he corrects, daring to take a step closer.
“Knock Out,” the stranger repeats, faceplates twisted with a bitter sneer. “You're a bit of a fool, aren't you, Knock Out?”
He pauses mid-step at the insinuation. “Whatever does that mean?”
“Only a fool would help a stranger in this pit-spawned war,” the mech retorts, static lacing his vocalizer. His optics flicker as he slumps a bit further, running low on energy and who knows what else. “So you, Knock Out, are a fool.”
The stranger is right, of course, but Knock Out refuses to admit as much. “Who are you?” he asks instead, and bolstered by the repeated act of not being fired upon, approaches the strange mech.
Closer now, he can see the scorch marks, the multiple blaster wounds, the seeping slash in his ventral plating, the sparking wires where one leg is useless. The mech hasn't left for safety because he can't, not because he won't.
“Breakdown,” the mech replies and looks down at the greying corpse in his arms. “And this was Wildrider. My brother-in-bond.”
Brother-in-bond. Like First Aid and Hot Spot. Knock Out's spark aches in remembrance of Hot Spot, whose fate Knock Out never learned. He never saw the mech again, and never made it to Praxus to find out what had happened to him.
He should have stayed. That decision continues to haunt him.
No wonder Breakdown's spark resonance feels so familiar. Knock Out's spent so much time around Hot Spot and his brothers that they've felt like his own family.
He kneels next to Breakdown, unsure of where to even begin though getting him (and most likely his brother) out of the streets is a good start. “How did you end up out here?”
“That's a long story.”
“I've got the time.”
The mech reeks of rust and rot, wounds seeping tainted energon and the dull glaze in his optics speaking of a frame well on its way to becoming more Empty and less mech. His companion fares little better, lacking one arm and dragging a lame leg behind him. Two others hover in the background, in much better shape, their blue optics gleaming as they watch, as though eager to partake in a free show.
The two nearer to him crowd a dizzy Knock Out in the dark of the alley, already clogged with refuse and broken buildings. Laughter and shouting echoes from the buildings to either side, the sound of brawling carrying to Knock Out's audials.
“Get off me!” he snarls, whipping the Energon prod around, stabbing it intothe one-armed mech and watching with delight as his body jerks and writhes at the attack.
“Ah, that wasn't very nice,” the rusty mech purrs static at him, making a clumsy grab for Knock Out's shoulder. Sense memory of that rusty hand groping his otherwise polished plating makes Knock Out shudder from helm to pede.
He twists out of the way, kicking out at the rust bucket in a move that would make Sides proud, knocking the mech back and into a pile of abandoned scrap.
The voyeurs think this is an opportunity to invite themselves to play. Knock Out whirls, striking at one with his Energon prod, and then growls when the second all but tackles him. Unwelcome servos paw at his plating as they slam into the alley wall, specks of rust flaking down on them. His attacker laughs in overcharged glee, fingers trying to work their way into gaps in Knock Out's newly acquired armor.
Disgust crawls over his frame, tanks roiling with threat to purge and Knock Out reaches up, newly clawed fingers digging at the mech's optics. He howls in rage as Knock Out struggles, trying to shove the larger mech away from him. Fraggin' Breakdown better hurry up or Knock Out's going to have his aft for a new berth!
Rusty mech returns, rage lighting his otherwise dim optics. “You're going to suffer for that,” he hisses.
“Think again!” A fist appears out of nowhere, slamming into the rusty mech's faceplate and shattering it upon impact.
Rusty topples backward, body jerking as sparks from his crushed helm light up the dark alleyway.
Breakdown doesn't stop to appreciate his work, whirling and firing his blaster at point-blank range into one of the other mechs’ ventral plating. He goes down, smoke pouring from the hole in his chassis.
Knock Out smirks and digs his fingers further into the optics, jerking them outward and bringing an optic with it, connectors sparking in the empty socket. Jerking a knee up, Knock Out drives the mech backward and whips an elbow across the mech's face, driving him down. A solid kick and the drifter is down.
“What took you so long?” Knock Out snarls without a missed beat, stepping on the downed mech as he stalks to Breakdown and gives him a solid smack to the helm. “They scratched my plating!”
Breakdown rolls his optics. “Looks fine to me.”
Huffing, Knock Out turns his back on his companion and crouches over the unconscious mech. “Useless I swear it,” he mutters subvocally, and starts examining the mech's limbs, checking for imperfections or the onset of rust, like his other associates. Luckily, this mech seems to have fared fairly well.
“Well, get over here and help me,” Knock Out snarls. “You're the one who needs a new arm.”
Megatron is more intimidating in person than Knock Out could have ever expected. The gladiator mech towers over all of his subordinates, even his second and third in command. It's clear that there are very few his physical equal, except perhaps for the infamous Prime.
Knock Out stands straight, drawing from memories of his genitor, who would never bow or find himself afraid in Megatron's presence. Next to him, Breakdown is similarly proud, though awe and reluctance intermingle in his energy field.
Crimson optics sweep over the pair of them, Megatron's hands clasped behind him as he paces back and forth, sizing up the two mechs. “You wish to join the Decepticons,” he says, more statement than question. “And what do you have to offer me?”
Knock Out doesn't glance at Breakdown, knowing that confidence is only half of what Megatron expects of them. Confidence and loyalty, but not ambition as that would be stepping beyond the pale. “No war is won without a medic, my lord. I and my assistant would consider it an honor to serve you.”
A gleam of approval appears in those scarlet optics. “I see. Medics tend to be soft-sparked Autobot fools. And yet you come here.” There is an unvoiced question in his statement.
Knock Out tilts his chin, all of the reasons he's standing here instead of in Iacon crowding at his processors, dancing on the edge of his vocalizer. All the things that his caretakers feared. All the things he couldn't be under High Council rule. The past that his genitor had been forced to survive. The future he would never have. For all he knows, both his creator and his genitor are already gone.
This is what Knock Out wants.
Ratchet cuts off the connection with his youngling and forces his cooling fans into operation, trying to dispel the heat working violently through his frame. His spark is spinning faster and faster within him, pain and guilt and sorrow nearly sending him into paroxysms.
Shaking fingers uncouple the cord from Knock Out's cortical port, gently closing the panel on it as the cord respools itself.
On the distant edge of his senses, he hears someone calling his name. A familiar energy field washes over him, ripe with worry.
He tilts his helm, looks up at his partner, and it feels like Cybertron falling all over again. “It was his choice,” Ratchet says, static clogging his vocalizer. “He joined the Decepticons by choice.”
Sunstreaker looks at him, optics burning with unnameable emotion, but if he plans to say something, Ratchet has no audials to hear him with. Exhaustion steals over his shuddering frame and darkness creeps over his optics. His HUD warns him of an impending shut down, a medically necessary recharge, and Sunstreaker's face is the last thing he sees.
a/n: Three or four more chapters to go and then I need to plow headfirst into the sequel. This series has grown a life of it's own.
I do hope you enjoyed! Feedback is very welcome and appreciated.
