[TFP] Event Horizon - Chapter Ten
Apr. 26th, 2012 03:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Special thanks to ryagelle for editing this chapter!
Continuity: Transformers: Prime, post Season One
Pairings so far: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Jazz/Bluestreak, Sideswipe/First Aid, past Megatron/Orion Pax, past Perceptor/Starscream, implied Bumblebee/Blaster
Rating: M
Warning: mechslash, language, possible violence, tactile smut, past spark play/merging, SPOILERS FOR SEASON ONE
Chapters: (01) (02) (03) (04) (05) (06) (07) (08) (09) (10) (11) (12) (Epi)
-----------------------------------
Event Horizon
Chapter Ten ----------------------------------
Ratchet wakes to a painfully familiar noise, that of a stylus moving continuously over a datapad screen, the sound of a sketch in progress. Before he onlines his optics, Ratchet luxuriates in that sound, certain that Sunstreaker must be close to him. There's warm plating beneath his helm, the comforting weight of a hand on his chassis, and he can feel Sunstreaker's energy field entwined with his own. It lacks the fury and disappointment that Sunstreaker has carried for him lately, which helps to dispel the lingering grief still echoing in Ratchet's spark.
He doesn't want to online completely. He doesn't want to face the truth which has so terrified him. He doesn't want to admit to anything, and yes, that is the cowardly way of dealing with matters. But Ratchet has never called himself anything but...
The scratching of the stylus pauses. “I know you're online.”
Reluctantly, Ratchet onlines his optics. Yellow plating is visible in the corner of his vision, and above him is the dull brown-grey of their base's ceiling. He checks his chronometer. Out for several hours it appears.
“What did I miss?” Ratchet asks, refusing to move, if only to soak in Sunstreaker's proximity for a little while longer.
“Knock Out's still in medical recharge and Jazz is upstairs, arguing with some squishy named Fowler,” Sunstreaker answers, the stylus once again moving over the datapad's screen. “He's torqued that you didn't inform him we were arriving.”
Ratchet rolls his optics, executing a sigh. “On my ever-growing list of things to do, remembering to contact Agent Fowler was pretty low in priority.” He checks his systems – fully functioning, though he could do with a cube of energon and some more recharge. “But I had better mollify him or they will cut off what little supplies they do give us.”
Before he can so much as move, however, Sunstreaker's free hand plants itself on his chestplate and pushes him down. “Stay. Jazz can handle the fleshling.”
“That's not the way things work.”
“I don't give a frag.” Sunstreaker gives him another not-subtle push and then removes his hand, only to return moments later with an energon cube, gleaming pale blue. “Take it.”
Ratchet cycles his optics down. “Sunstreaker--”
The energon cube gets shoved toward him insistently. “You very nearly put yourself in stasis,” Sunstreaker says sharply, and Ratchet doesn't miss the note of concern in his energy field. “Right now, your decision making skills are revoked.” There's anger, too. At himself? At Ratchet?
With Sunstreaker, it's always so hard to tell.
Grudgingly, Ratchet takes the cube and Sunstreaker shifts beneath him, making it easier for him to drink without having to actually sit up. The energon is low-grade, poorly refined, but better than nothing. Ratchet takes a sip, and then downs the whole thing, all the while under his partner's watchful optic.
“Satisfied?” he grunts, shaking the empty cube at Sunstreaker before throwing it over his shoulder.
Sunstreaker stares at him. “Marginally.” He sets his stylus and datapad aside, the screen going dark before Ratchet can get a glimpse of the sketch. “Ready to tell me what happened?”
Unwilling to hold his partner's gaze, Ratchet turns his helm away, and then sits up, fending off Sunstreaker's hand as the yellow mech tries to pin him down again. He's not an invalid. He's a medic for Primus' sake. He knows his own limits.
Sure, his stabilization gyros are spinning a bit out of sync right now, but they'll settle on their own. More lying around isn't going to help speed his recovery along.
“What do you think happened?” Ratchet asks, feeling fatigue settle into every joint, every circuit, every slaggin' gear. He feels aged, old, and not just because of this Primus-damned war. “For all intents and purposes, our youngling willingly joined the Decepticons. That's what I found out. What more can I say?”
He huffs and forces himself to his feet, optics scanning the room. Knock Out's been carefully laid out nearby, still in medically-induced recharge, looking peaceful and battle-scarred and so fragged unfamiliar. That resonating ache begins behind his chestplate again and Ratchet clutches at the windshields on his frame.
Echoes of Knock Out's memories reverberate through Ratchet's own memory core. Seeing things from the optics of his youngling is something he doesn't think he'll ever forget. It's too raw, too close to him.
Sunstreaker climbs to his feet, much more graceful than Ratchet's scrabble and lacking the embarrassing squeak of unoiled gears. “You can tell me what to do next.”
His shoulders slump with a squealing grind of stripped mechanisms. “My best guess? Bring him out of recharge and talk to him.” Ratchet wipes his faceplates with his hand, hating himself for not having the answers. “Though I fear he won't tell us anything I don't already know.”
Silence settles in the room,until Sunstreaker moves. “Okay then,” he says, turning toward their youngling. “We'll wake him.”
Ratchet gapes, actually gapes, at his partner. “Now?”
“What better time?” Sunstreaker asks with a dismissive flick of a shoulder panel. “Grab me that crate, will you?”
He knows he should protest. That they should probably wait for Jazz, or technically ask him first, but Ratchet does neither. Instead, he grabs the crate Sunstreaker indicated and drags it toward his partner, correctly guessing his intent. Carefully, they perch Knock Out on top of it, sitting up so that he has some semblance of dignity.
And then Sunstreaker pulls cuffs out his subspace. Ratchet gives him an incredulous look.
“You're the one who said he was a Decepticon now,” Sunstreaker says, tone bland but the whorls of disquiet in his energy field belying his calm. “And if he's spent even half a vorn on the Nemesis, he'll online swinging.”
Ratchet feels himself wilting, metaphorically sinking toward the floor. “Or maybe not. He has an... associate.”
Sunstreaker pauses in the midst of cuffing their youngling’s hands together. “Partner?”
“I didn't dig deep enough to find out,” Ratchet admits. Part of him hadn't wanted to, hoping that at least some things Knock Out could keep private. His relationship with Breakdown, whatever it construed, is best kept a mystery. That they are friends (acquaintances? Do Decepticons have friends?) is enough knowledge for Ratchet; he fears to know anything more.
Sunstreaker gives him a level look before returning his attention to Knock Out, the cuffs sliding shut with an audible snap. “Wake him up.”
He really should protest. Except that Ratchet doesn't. He obediently – and when did he allow Sunstreaker to take charge of this? When had he willingly surrendered that element of command? – connects to his youngling using the medical access and initiates Knock Out's bootup sequence. There will be a half-minute delay, which allows him enough time to close the access, spool up the cable, and shift so that he's standing in front of Knock Out.
Sunstreaker remains behind Knock Out, his hands firmly planted on red-plated shoulders. It's almost unfair, Ratchet thinks, that he is the one forced to look their youngling in the optic, while Sunstreaker doesn't have to see those now-red optics brighten into wakefulness.
It takes a klik, but Knock Out's attention immediately centers on Ratchet, rather than the mech on his side. If there is a shred of familial recognition in that glance, Ratchet will call himself a Dinobot and change his processors accordingly.
“Well if it isn't Optimus Prime's medic,” Knock Out drawls, tone lazy despite his optics swiveling in and out as they try to focus. “The so-called doctor of doom.”
Ratchet's backstrut straightens. “Scrap it, Knock Out. You know who I am. Just as I know who you are.”
“Of course you do.” He lifts his shoulders experimentally, twitching under Sunstreaker's hold. “However, I might need a little... reminder.”
Plating rattles audibly and Ratchet tosses Sunstreaker a cautionary look. Knock Out's belligerence is about apprehension as much as it is about Knock Out being Knock Out. One of the traits he no doubt picked up from his genitor.
--Easy,-- Ratchet tight beams to his partner. --He's trying to get a reaction. He's trying to make us hurt.--
Sunstreaker's fingers tap on Knock Out's plating, a light staccato. --Why?--
For that, Ratchet has no answer.
However, if that is the game Knock Out wishes to play, then Ratchet will oblige for now, if only to promote getting answers as opposed to antagonizing his youngling further. It's been eons since he last saw Knock Out. Much has changed, for all of them. Ratchet dare not take anything for granted anymore, not even their carrier's bond.
“I am Prime's medic,” Ratchet answers, using the same identification Megatron had given back in the mines. “My designation is Ratchet. Behind you is Sunstreaker. I'm certain I don't need to tell you our relation.”
“Oh. I can guess.” Knock Out's lip plates curl up in a sly smirk that is at once familiar and foreign. “Tell me, carrier, how long did it take you to realize who I was?”
Ratchet forces a ventilation, anything to calm the sudden jitters in his limbs. “We have all changed through the vorns. None of us resemble our original forms.” Least of all Knock Out, but Ratchet suspects stating such a thing will do him little good.
“And yet our sparks are the same.”
Behind Knock Out, Sunstreaker shifts, capturing Ratchet's attention as the yellow mech meets Ratchet's optics. “Are they?” Sunstreaker asks, his tone laced with pain.
“Of course they are,” Ratchet replies, a touch confused. “Our sparks are integral. Nothing can change them. They can't--”
A dark, rolling chuckle interrupts Ratchet and he startles, looking at his youngling. “You're as oblivious as ever, carrier. He's not referring to the chemical composition of a spark, but the behavioral aspects of it.” Knock Out tilts his helm, unable to look at Sunstreaker directly but speaking to him nonetheless. “Am I right?”
Sunstreaker's shoulders hunch; Ratchet can't remember the last time he's seen the yellow mech so cowed, so utterly still. “Did you honestly join the Decepticons?” His words ache to be proven wrong, for Ratchet to have been wrong.
Part of Ratchet wishes he could beg the universe of the same thing.
Knock Out twitches, distaste reflecting in his expression as his battle armor clamps down to his frame defensively. “Ask your partner. I'm sure he's already checked all possibilities. Processor. Memory core. Spark integrity. And what did you find, medic?”
“Nothing.” Static laces his answer and Ratchet's frame feels too large for his spark, that he's not getting enough power and the walls are coming down, one by one.
Knock Out lifts his chin, as though challenging him. Or mocking, perhaps. “What? No reprogramming? No processor wipes? No altered memories?”
Is it possible to feel guilt and shame and fear and grief all at once? Can such conflicting emotions truly exist all at once within one's spark?
“No,” Ratchet replies. “You know I would have found nothing.”
“I do.” The words are triumphant, his tone less so.
Knock Out pauses, optics going a shade dim, taking on the look Ratchet knows all too well. The look of a mech accessing his own systems, going much deeper than the basic layout available in a HUD. Knock Out is a medic. No doubt he is tracing the path Ratchet had taken, following each search step by step until--
Yes, Knock Out sees it now. His optics brighten with curiosity. “And what's this? A cortical connection to my memory banks? You were desperate.”
The guilt rises up again, threatening to pour out through his energy field, swallow the entirety of the room in Ratchet's self-shame. But through it all, fights the despair. “Can you imagine how it felt to finally find my missing youngling, only to discover he's become the enemy?”
His words have the opposite effect he intended. Rather than garnering sympathy in Knock Out, appealing to their caretaker bond, Ratchet invokes a spark-stopping rage. Knock Out's Decepticon-red optics spiral wider, every limb going rigid.
“Or to discover your genitors are too busy fighting the council's war to search for their missing brat?” he all but spits at Ratchet, the end of his statement accompanied by a squawking noise that can only reflect his utter fury.
Ratchet hesitates in the wake of that vehemence, but where he loses his words, Sunstreaker finds his. He abruptly releases Knock Out's shoulders and circles around their youngling so that they can finally see each other optic to optic, similar face to similar face. Recognition blooms inside Ratchet now, finding it easier to see his youngling in this unfamiliar frame.
By Primus, Ratchet remembers designing Knock Out's protoform to resemble Sunstreaker's more as Sunstreaker is the more attractive of the two of them. And after all these vorns, rather than go for a complete overhaul, a frame transfer, Knock Out had opted to keep that design and simply build around it. What does it mean? What does it say?
Sunstreaker, however, is all but vibrating with rage, battle systems coming online with a high-pitched hum that Ratchet knows to recognize. Not because he sees Knock Out as a threat, an enemy, but because Sunstreaker doesn't know how else to deal with those volatile emotions. He has always needed the gladiator rings and now, he has the war.
But here, in this room, there is no mech to shoot. Nowhere to aim the violence of his own despair.
“Vorns,” Sunstreaker snaps at Knock Out, beyond sentences, each word carefully spoken in Cybertronian, with all its many layered glyphs and emotions. “Battlefields. Broken cities. Crowded clinics. Databases. Neutral colonies. Vorns!” A shudder rakes him from helm to pedes, plating alternating between clamping and flaring. “I never stopped. Never.”
Vents heaving, struggling to cool overheated circuits, Sunstreaker shakes his helm. He steps forward, and Ratchet intervenes, gently laying a hand on Sunstreaker's shoulder. He doesn't speak, just washes calm through his energy field, lets it seep into Sunstreaker's field. When they intermingle, Ratchet can feel the extent of Sunstreaker's pain, which matches Ratchet's own, beat for beat.
“Sunstreaker,” he says softly, but adds nothing more.
It hurts. There is no denying the pain that grips his spark, that makes him wonder what he could have possibly done to make Primus hate him so. But Sunstreaker yelling isn't going to help anything.
Knock Out has had vorns to convince himself of this truth. No matter what Ratchet and Sunstreaker tell him, nothing will change Knock Out's opinion. He's as stubborn as his genitor and their words will not sway him.
Sunstreaker jerks out from under Ratchet's hand, whirling away from both he and Knock Out, stalking across the concrete floor. His blades slide in and out of their sheaths as he struggles to control his battle systems, energy field awhirl with conflicting emotions.
Ratchet forces a few ventilation cycles, if only to regain his own composure. He doesn't know what well of equanimity he manages to draw from, but it enables him to look at his youngling without being swallowed in his grief. He'll have all the time in the world to collapse later; right now, he has to hold himself together.
“Is that why you joined the Decepticons?”
Knock Out snorts, though his optics slide uneasily to a pacing Sunstreaker before shifting back to Ratchet. “Don't flatter yourself. Besides, didn't you see everything you want to know already?”
“You are aware of the dangers of a cortical connection,” Ratchet replies, tapping the side of his helm with a finger. “It would have taken me days – weeks even – to view everything. Time I didn't have.”
Those Decepticon red optics shift away and Knock Out twitches on the crate, as though testing the strength of the cuffs. “At least I get to keep some mystery.”
Behind them, there is a loud, crackling thud. Ratchet winces, not needing to look to know that Sunstreaker has just punched a gouge in the wall. The door to the Safe slides open and Sunstreaker is gone, taking the swirl of negative emotion with him.
The ensuing silence feels as though it presses all around Ratchet. He looks at Knock Out, feeling irredeemably helpless. “Do you despise us so much?”
Knock Out's optics swivel back toward him with a speed that surprises even Ratchet. “Hate has never been part of the equation.” His tone is flat, emotionless. “Keep me here if you want, but I'll never join the Autobots.”
Aching, Ratchet dares to step closer, their family bond burning bright with the increase in proximity. Where it had once been a vague echo, a ghost of the past that Ratchet had always feared meant his offspring had been offlined, the bond is now gently pulsing at him, urging him to renew it.
What can he say to such a statement? There's finality in Knock Out's energy field. Certainty in his tone. Where will words matter?
Ratchet's plating clamps close to his frame, his shoulders slumping. “I'm sorry,” he says, vocalizer emitting static. There's nothing else he can say. Datapads of apologies aren't going to change the past.
He has failed Knock Out in every way that matters.
“Huh. Seems like I missed th' party.”
The voice is unexpected, but still, Ratchet doesn't startle. He feels too numb for that reaction. Instead he half-turns, keeping one optic on Knock Out as he glances at the entrance to the Safe.
“Jazz.”
Said mech strolls inside, Sunstreaker on his heels. “Couldn't wait ta interrogate him, could ya?” Jazz asks, and there's a hint of chastisement in his tone.
Knock Out laughs. “If this is what the Autobots call an interrogation, I'm in for a vacation.”
“I wouldn't be so sure of that.” Jazz comes to a halt next to Ratchet, looking down at the cuffed mech with his hands planted on his hips. “Lotta attitude with nothing to show fer it, aren't ya?”
Knock Out's optics swivel down in obvious offense. “Why don't you remove the cuffs and we'll find out?”
“Oh, I'd hate ta ruin such a pretty paint job,” Jazz all but purrs. “Dents are unbecomin', don't ya think?”
A shudder visibly races across Knock Out's frame. “A threat?”
“Somethin' like that.” Jazz reaches up, taps a finger on his chin. “'Course all I want is some answers. Then I'll see what I can 'bout settin' ya free.”
Sunstreaker shifts noticeably behind them. “Jazz,” he hisses pointedly.
Knock Out glances past both of them, a flicker of recognition toward Sunstreaker. “Hmm. I don't think my genitor likes that plan.”
“Lucky fer ya, it's not his choice to make.”
Lipplates curling upward, Knock Out gives Jazz a coy look. “What do you want to know?”
“Optimus.”
“You mean Orion, right?” Knock Out barks a laugh. “Lord Megatron's new berthwarmer?”
Ratchet goes utterly still and though it's scientifically impossible, he swears that the temperature in the room drops by several degrees. He can all but hear Sunstreaker bristling at the implied insult. Of them, only Jazz keeps his outward calm, but Ratchet knows Jazz too well. The saboteur is boiling on the inside.
He ignores the incendiary remark with natural grace. “Is he a prisoner?”
Knock Out stares at him. “You really have no clue, do you?” He tilts his chin upward, looking smug. “Orion is Megatron's right hand mech, and... other things, much to Airachnid's disappointment.”
Ratchet doesn't need Knock Out to elaborate. Megatron must be full of glee (or whatever constitutes it for Megatron) to have another chance to make Orion Pax his. And to conquer Optimus Prime all in the same instance.
Jazz remains unflappable. “Have any other Decepticons come to Earth?”
“Now why would I tell you something like that? Maybe it's a surprise.”
“What is Megatron planning?”
“Do I look like somemech who knows that?”
“Where's th' Nemesis?”
“Oh, I'm sure it's around here somewhere.”
Knock Out remains unrepentant; Jazz, unflappable. He stares at the Decepticon with nothing short of thinly disguised disappointment.
“You're not going to change sides, are you?” Jazz asks, and his quiet query breaks the cadence of rapid-fire interrogation he'd used moments prior.
“No.” There is no hesitation in Knock Out's denial.
“All right then.” Jazz turns away from the bound mech, tilting his helm in such a way that indicates he's accessing his comms. --Bluestreak, come down to the Safe, please,-- he says over the main line, not bothering to make it a private contact.
Ratchet frowns. “Jazz?” Just what has the saboteur decided in that crafty processor of his? There are times Jazz can be so unreadable and now appears to be one of them.
Jazz moves toward the door, crooking a finger over his shoulder at the medic. “Come on, Ratch. You, too, Sunny.”
Glancing at his partner, Ratchet's pedes feel firmly rooted to the floor. The idea of leaving Knock Out now that he's right there doesn't settle well in his spark. And Sunstreaker seems to have the same hesitation.
“But--”
“You're already on thin ice, Sunshine,” Jazz says shortly, his tone full of warning and impatience. “Don't push it.”
The door to the Safe opens with a creak of rusty hinges, Bluestreak poking his helm through the crack. “You rang?”
Jazz plants both hands on his hips, glancing at his bonded appraisingly. “That was fast.”
“I was curious so I was waiting just down the hall.” He shrugs, unrepentant, as he steps further into the room. “I didn't hear anything though. Except what you wanted me to hear. Which isn't much. You're so stubborn sometimes. I can keep a secret you know. Better than Bulkhead at any rate.” He pauses, tilts a bit to the left, catching sight of the bound mech on the crate. “Are you sure that's Knock Out? Because he looks different. Like noticeably different.”
Knock Out sneers. “And you haven't changed one bit.”
“It's part of my charm,” Bluestreak replies sweetly, a wide grin on his faceplate. Yes, Bluestreak is perhaps the best choice of guard.
Jazz claps his bonded on the shoulder, squeezing familiarly. “You two go ahead and get reacquainted. We adults have business to discuss.”
Bluestreak gives him a thumbs up, shuttering one optic in semblance of a wink. “Leave the brat to me, boss.”
“Brat?” Knock Out repeats, sounding offended. The crate which serves as his seat creaks ominously.
“That's what I said,” Bluestreak replies, door wings lifting and settling in a gesture Ratchet has learned to read as amusement.
Jazz snickers and pushes open the door, gesturing for both Ratchet and Sunstreaker to precede him. “Come on, you two. You're with me.”
It might as well be an order. They've no choice but to leave Knock Out behind, dread building within them.
It takes all Ratchet has within him not to look over his shoulder at his unrepentant youngling.
***
a/n: Phew. Took me way to long to update this. Sorry, folks. I promise not to make you wait so long in the future. I've got plenty more chapters to come, plus a possible sequel, and updates to the Origins series.
Feedback is very welcome!
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
Ratchet wakes to a painfully familiar noise, that of a stylus moving continuously over a datapad screen, the sound of a sketch in progress. Before he onlines his optics, Ratchet luxuriates in that sound, certain that Sunstreaker must be close to him. There's warm plating beneath his helm, the comforting weight of a hand on his chassis, and he can feel Sunstreaker's energy field entwined with his own. It lacks the fury and disappointment that Sunstreaker has carried for him lately, which helps to dispel the lingering grief still echoing in Ratchet's spark.
He doesn't want to online completely. He doesn't want to face the truth which has so terrified him. He doesn't want to admit to anything, and yes, that is the cowardly way of dealing with matters. But Ratchet has never called himself anything but...
The scratching of the stylus pauses. “I know you're online.”
Reluctantly, Ratchet onlines his optics. Yellow plating is visible in the corner of his vision, and above him is the dull brown-grey of their base's ceiling. He checks his chronometer. Out for several hours it appears.
“What did I miss?” Ratchet asks, refusing to move, if only to soak in Sunstreaker's proximity for a little while longer.
“Knock Out's still in medical recharge and Jazz is upstairs, arguing with some squishy named Fowler,” Sunstreaker answers, the stylus once again moving over the datapad's screen. “He's torqued that you didn't inform him we were arriving.”
Ratchet rolls his optics, executing a sigh. “On my ever-growing list of things to do, remembering to contact Agent Fowler was pretty low in priority.” He checks his systems – fully functioning, though he could do with a cube of energon and some more recharge. “But I had better mollify him or they will cut off what little supplies they do give us.”
Before he can so much as move, however, Sunstreaker's free hand plants itself on his chestplate and pushes him down. “Stay. Jazz can handle the fleshling.”
“That's not the way things work.”
“I don't give a frag.” Sunstreaker gives him another not-subtle push and then removes his hand, only to return moments later with an energon cube, gleaming pale blue. “Take it.”
Ratchet cycles his optics down. “Sunstreaker--”
The energon cube gets shoved toward him insistently. “You very nearly put yourself in stasis,” Sunstreaker says sharply, and Ratchet doesn't miss the note of concern in his energy field. “Right now, your decision making skills are revoked.” There's anger, too. At himself? At Ratchet?
With Sunstreaker, it's always so hard to tell.
Grudgingly, Ratchet takes the cube and Sunstreaker shifts beneath him, making it easier for him to drink without having to actually sit up. The energon is low-grade, poorly refined, but better than nothing. Ratchet takes a sip, and then downs the whole thing, all the while under his partner's watchful optic.
“Satisfied?” he grunts, shaking the empty cube at Sunstreaker before throwing it over his shoulder.
Sunstreaker stares at him. “Marginally.” He sets his stylus and datapad aside, the screen going dark before Ratchet can get a glimpse of the sketch. “Ready to tell me what happened?”
Unwilling to hold his partner's gaze, Ratchet turns his helm away, and then sits up, fending off Sunstreaker's hand as the yellow mech tries to pin him down again. He's not an invalid. He's a medic for Primus' sake. He knows his own limits.
Sure, his stabilization gyros are spinning a bit out of sync right now, but they'll settle on their own. More lying around isn't going to help speed his recovery along.
“What do you think happened?” Ratchet asks, feeling fatigue settle into every joint, every circuit, every slaggin' gear. He feels aged, old, and not just because of this Primus-damned war. “For all intents and purposes, our youngling willingly joined the Decepticons. That's what I found out. What more can I say?”
He huffs and forces himself to his feet, optics scanning the room. Knock Out's been carefully laid out nearby, still in medically-induced recharge, looking peaceful and battle-scarred and so fragged unfamiliar. That resonating ache begins behind his chestplate again and Ratchet clutches at the windshields on his frame.
Echoes of Knock Out's memories reverberate through Ratchet's own memory core. Seeing things from the optics of his youngling is something he doesn't think he'll ever forget. It's too raw, too close to him.
Sunstreaker climbs to his feet, much more graceful than Ratchet's scrabble and lacking the embarrassing squeak of unoiled gears. “You can tell me what to do next.”
His shoulders slump with a squealing grind of stripped mechanisms. “My best guess? Bring him out of recharge and talk to him.” Ratchet wipes his faceplates with his hand, hating himself for not having the answers. “Though I fear he won't tell us anything I don't already know.”
Silence settles in the room,until Sunstreaker moves. “Okay then,” he says, turning toward their youngling. “We'll wake him.”
Ratchet gapes, actually gapes, at his partner. “Now?”
“What better time?” Sunstreaker asks with a dismissive flick of a shoulder panel. “Grab me that crate, will you?”
He knows he should protest. That they should probably wait for Jazz, or technically ask him first, but Ratchet does neither. Instead, he grabs the crate Sunstreaker indicated and drags it toward his partner, correctly guessing his intent. Carefully, they perch Knock Out on top of it, sitting up so that he has some semblance of dignity.
And then Sunstreaker pulls cuffs out his subspace. Ratchet gives him an incredulous look.
“You're the one who said he was a Decepticon now,” Sunstreaker says, tone bland but the whorls of disquiet in his energy field belying his calm. “And if he's spent even half a vorn on the Nemesis, he'll online swinging.”
Ratchet feels himself wilting, metaphorically sinking toward the floor. “Or maybe not. He has an... associate.”
Sunstreaker pauses in the midst of cuffing their youngling’s hands together. “Partner?”
“I didn't dig deep enough to find out,” Ratchet admits. Part of him hadn't wanted to, hoping that at least some things Knock Out could keep private. His relationship with Breakdown, whatever it construed, is best kept a mystery. That they are friends (acquaintances? Do Decepticons have friends?) is enough knowledge for Ratchet; he fears to know anything more.
Sunstreaker gives him a level look before returning his attention to Knock Out, the cuffs sliding shut with an audible snap. “Wake him up.”
He really should protest. Except that Ratchet doesn't. He obediently – and when did he allow Sunstreaker to take charge of this? When had he willingly surrendered that element of command? – connects to his youngling using the medical access and initiates Knock Out's bootup sequence. There will be a half-minute delay, which allows him enough time to close the access, spool up the cable, and shift so that he's standing in front of Knock Out.
Sunstreaker remains behind Knock Out, his hands firmly planted on red-plated shoulders. It's almost unfair, Ratchet thinks, that he is the one forced to look their youngling in the optic, while Sunstreaker doesn't have to see those now-red optics brighten into wakefulness.
It takes a klik, but Knock Out's attention immediately centers on Ratchet, rather than the mech on his side. If there is a shred of familial recognition in that glance, Ratchet will call himself a Dinobot and change his processors accordingly.
“Well if it isn't Optimus Prime's medic,” Knock Out drawls, tone lazy despite his optics swiveling in and out as they try to focus. “The so-called doctor of doom.”
Ratchet's backstrut straightens. “Scrap it, Knock Out. You know who I am. Just as I know who you are.”
“Of course you do.” He lifts his shoulders experimentally, twitching under Sunstreaker's hold. “However, I might need a little... reminder.”
Plating rattles audibly and Ratchet tosses Sunstreaker a cautionary look. Knock Out's belligerence is about apprehension as much as it is about Knock Out being Knock Out. One of the traits he no doubt picked up from his genitor.
--Easy,-- Ratchet tight beams to his partner. --He's trying to get a reaction. He's trying to make us hurt.--
Sunstreaker's fingers tap on Knock Out's plating, a light staccato. --Why?--
For that, Ratchet has no answer.
However, if that is the game Knock Out wishes to play, then Ratchet will oblige for now, if only to promote getting answers as opposed to antagonizing his youngling further. It's been eons since he last saw Knock Out. Much has changed, for all of them. Ratchet dare not take anything for granted anymore, not even their carrier's bond.
“I am Prime's medic,” Ratchet answers, using the same identification Megatron had given back in the mines. “My designation is Ratchet. Behind you is Sunstreaker. I'm certain I don't need to tell you our relation.”
“Oh. I can guess.” Knock Out's lip plates curl up in a sly smirk that is at once familiar and foreign. “Tell me, carrier, how long did it take you to realize who I was?”
Ratchet forces a ventilation, anything to calm the sudden jitters in his limbs. “We have all changed through the vorns. None of us resemble our original forms.” Least of all Knock Out, but Ratchet suspects stating such a thing will do him little good.
“And yet our sparks are the same.”
Behind Knock Out, Sunstreaker shifts, capturing Ratchet's attention as the yellow mech meets Ratchet's optics. “Are they?” Sunstreaker asks, his tone laced with pain.
“Of course they are,” Ratchet replies, a touch confused. “Our sparks are integral. Nothing can change them. They can't--”
A dark, rolling chuckle interrupts Ratchet and he startles, looking at his youngling. “You're as oblivious as ever, carrier. He's not referring to the chemical composition of a spark, but the behavioral aspects of it.” Knock Out tilts his helm, unable to look at Sunstreaker directly but speaking to him nonetheless. “Am I right?”
Sunstreaker's shoulders hunch; Ratchet can't remember the last time he's seen the yellow mech so cowed, so utterly still. “Did you honestly join the Decepticons?” His words ache to be proven wrong, for Ratchet to have been wrong.
Part of Ratchet wishes he could beg the universe of the same thing.
Knock Out twitches, distaste reflecting in his expression as his battle armor clamps down to his frame defensively. “Ask your partner. I'm sure he's already checked all possibilities. Processor. Memory core. Spark integrity. And what did you find, medic?”
“Nothing.” Static laces his answer and Ratchet's frame feels too large for his spark, that he's not getting enough power and the walls are coming down, one by one.
Knock Out lifts his chin, as though challenging him. Or mocking, perhaps. “What? No reprogramming? No processor wipes? No altered memories?”
Is it possible to feel guilt and shame and fear and grief all at once? Can such conflicting emotions truly exist all at once within one's spark?
“No,” Ratchet replies. “You know I would have found nothing.”
“I do.” The words are triumphant, his tone less so.
Knock Out pauses, optics going a shade dim, taking on the look Ratchet knows all too well. The look of a mech accessing his own systems, going much deeper than the basic layout available in a HUD. Knock Out is a medic. No doubt he is tracing the path Ratchet had taken, following each search step by step until--
Yes, Knock Out sees it now. His optics brighten with curiosity. “And what's this? A cortical connection to my memory banks? You were desperate.”
The guilt rises up again, threatening to pour out through his energy field, swallow the entirety of the room in Ratchet's self-shame. But through it all, fights the despair. “Can you imagine how it felt to finally find my missing youngling, only to discover he's become the enemy?”
His words have the opposite effect he intended. Rather than garnering sympathy in Knock Out, appealing to their caretaker bond, Ratchet invokes a spark-stopping rage. Knock Out's Decepticon-red optics spiral wider, every limb going rigid.
“Or to discover your genitors are too busy fighting the council's war to search for their missing brat?” he all but spits at Ratchet, the end of his statement accompanied by a squawking noise that can only reflect his utter fury.
Ratchet hesitates in the wake of that vehemence, but where he loses his words, Sunstreaker finds his. He abruptly releases Knock Out's shoulders and circles around their youngling so that they can finally see each other optic to optic, similar face to similar face. Recognition blooms inside Ratchet now, finding it easier to see his youngling in this unfamiliar frame.
By Primus, Ratchet remembers designing Knock Out's protoform to resemble Sunstreaker's more as Sunstreaker is the more attractive of the two of them. And after all these vorns, rather than go for a complete overhaul, a frame transfer, Knock Out had opted to keep that design and simply build around it. What does it mean? What does it say?
Sunstreaker, however, is all but vibrating with rage, battle systems coming online with a high-pitched hum that Ratchet knows to recognize. Not because he sees Knock Out as a threat, an enemy, but because Sunstreaker doesn't know how else to deal with those volatile emotions. He has always needed the gladiator rings and now, he has the war.
But here, in this room, there is no mech to shoot. Nowhere to aim the violence of his own despair.
“Vorns,” Sunstreaker snaps at Knock Out, beyond sentences, each word carefully spoken in Cybertronian, with all its many layered glyphs and emotions. “Battlefields. Broken cities. Crowded clinics. Databases. Neutral colonies. Vorns!” A shudder rakes him from helm to pedes, plating alternating between clamping and flaring. “I never stopped. Never.”
Vents heaving, struggling to cool overheated circuits, Sunstreaker shakes his helm. He steps forward, and Ratchet intervenes, gently laying a hand on Sunstreaker's shoulder. He doesn't speak, just washes calm through his energy field, lets it seep into Sunstreaker's field. When they intermingle, Ratchet can feel the extent of Sunstreaker's pain, which matches Ratchet's own, beat for beat.
“Sunstreaker,” he says softly, but adds nothing more.
It hurts. There is no denying the pain that grips his spark, that makes him wonder what he could have possibly done to make Primus hate him so. But Sunstreaker yelling isn't going to help anything.
Knock Out has had vorns to convince himself of this truth. No matter what Ratchet and Sunstreaker tell him, nothing will change Knock Out's opinion. He's as stubborn as his genitor and their words will not sway him.
Sunstreaker jerks out from under Ratchet's hand, whirling away from both he and Knock Out, stalking across the concrete floor. His blades slide in and out of their sheaths as he struggles to control his battle systems, energy field awhirl with conflicting emotions.
Ratchet forces a few ventilation cycles, if only to regain his own composure. He doesn't know what well of equanimity he manages to draw from, but it enables him to look at his youngling without being swallowed in his grief. He'll have all the time in the world to collapse later; right now, he has to hold himself together.
“Is that why you joined the Decepticons?”
Knock Out snorts, though his optics slide uneasily to a pacing Sunstreaker before shifting back to Ratchet. “Don't flatter yourself. Besides, didn't you see everything you want to know already?”
“You are aware of the dangers of a cortical connection,” Ratchet replies, tapping the side of his helm with a finger. “It would have taken me days – weeks even – to view everything. Time I didn't have.”
Those Decepticon red optics shift away and Knock Out twitches on the crate, as though testing the strength of the cuffs. “At least I get to keep some mystery.”
Behind them, there is a loud, crackling thud. Ratchet winces, not needing to look to know that Sunstreaker has just punched a gouge in the wall. The door to the Safe slides open and Sunstreaker is gone, taking the swirl of negative emotion with him.
The ensuing silence feels as though it presses all around Ratchet. He looks at Knock Out, feeling irredeemably helpless. “Do you despise us so much?”
Knock Out's optics swivel back toward him with a speed that surprises even Ratchet. “Hate has never been part of the equation.” His tone is flat, emotionless. “Keep me here if you want, but I'll never join the Autobots.”
Aching, Ratchet dares to step closer, their family bond burning bright with the increase in proximity. Where it had once been a vague echo, a ghost of the past that Ratchet had always feared meant his offspring had been offlined, the bond is now gently pulsing at him, urging him to renew it.
What can he say to such a statement? There's finality in Knock Out's energy field. Certainty in his tone. Where will words matter?
Ratchet's plating clamps close to his frame, his shoulders slumping. “I'm sorry,” he says, vocalizer emitting static. There's nothing else he can say. Datapads of apologies aren't going to change the past.
He has failed Knock Out in every way that matters.
“Huh. Seems like I missed th' party.”
The voice is unexpected, but still, Ratchet doesn't startle. He feels too numb for that reaction. Instead he half-turns, keeping one optic on Knock Out as he glances at the entrance to the Safe.
“Jazz.”
Said mech strolls inside, Sunstreaker on his heels. “Couldn't wait ta interrogate him, could ya?” Jazz asks, and there's a hint of chastisement in his tone.
Knock Out laughs. “If this is what the Autobots call an interrogation, I'm in for a vacation.”
“I wouldn't be so sure of that.” Jazz comes to a halt next to Ratchet, looking down at the cuffed mech with his hands planted on his hips. “Lotta attitude with nothing to show fer it, aren't ya?”
Knock Out's optics swivel down in obvious offense. “Why don't you remove the cuffs and we'll find out?”
“Oh, I'd hate ta ruin such a pretty paint job,” Jazz all but purrs. “Dents are unbecomin', don't ya think?”
A shudder visibly races across Knock Out's frame. “A threat?”
“Somethin' like that.” Jazz reaches up, taps a finger on his chin. “'Course all I want is some answers. Then I'll see what I can 'bout settin' ya free.”
Sunstreaker shifts noticeably behind them. “Jazz,” he hisses pointedly.
Knock Out glances past both of them, a flicker of recognition toward Sunstreaker. “Hmm. I don't think my genitor likes that plan.”
“Lucky fer ya, it's not his choice to make.”
Lipplates curling upward, Knock Out gives Jazz a coy look. “What do you want to know?”
“Optimus.”
“You mean Orion, right?” Knock Out barks a laugh. “Lord Megatron's new berthwarmer?”
Ratchet goes utterly still and though it's scientifically impossible, he swears that the temperature in the room drops by several degrees. He can all but hear Sunstreaker bristling at the implied insult. Of them, only Jazz keeps his outward calm, but Ratchet knows Jazz too well. The saboteur is boiling on the inside.
He ignores the incendiary remark with natural grace. “Is he a prisoner?”
Knock Out stares at him. “You really have no clue, do you?” He tilts his chin upward, looking smug. “Orion is Megatron's right hand mech, and... other things, much to Airachnid's disappointment.”
Ratchet doesn't need Knock Out to elaborate. Megatron must be full of glee (or whatever constitutes it for Megatron) to have another chance to make Orion Pax his. And to conquer Optimus Prime all in the same instance.
Jazz remains unflappable. “Have any other Decepticons come to Earth?”
“Now why would I tell you something like that? Maybe it's a surprise.”
“What is Megatron planning?”
“Do I look like somemech who knows that?”
“Where's th' Nemesis?”
“Oh, I'm sure it's around here somewhere.”
Knock Out remains unrepentant; Jazz, unflappable. He stares at the Decepticon with nothing short of thinly disguised disappointment.
“You're not going to change sides, are you?” Jazz asks, and his quiet query breaks the cadence of rapid-fire interrogation he'd used moments prior.
“No.” There is no hesitation in Knock Out's denial.
“All right then.” Jazz turns away from the bound mech, tilting his helm in such a way that indicates he's accessing his comms. --Bluestreak, come down to the Safe, please,-- he says over the main line, not bothering to make it a private contact.
Ratchet frowns. “Jazz?” Just what has the saboteur decided in that crafty processor of his? There are times Jazz can be so unreadable and now appears to be one of them.
Jazz moves toward the door, crooking a finger over his shoulder at the medic. “Come on, Ratch. You, too, Sunny.”
Glancing at his partner, Ratchet's pedes feel firmly rooted to the floor. The idea of leaving Knock Out now that he's right there doesn't settle well in his spark. And Sunstreaker seems to have the same hesitation.
“But--”
“You're already on thin ice, Sunshine,” Jazz says shortly, his tone full of warning and impatience. “Don't push it.”
The door to the Safe opens with a creak of rusty hinges, Bluestreak poking his helm through the crack. “You rang?”
Jazz plants both hands on his hips, glancing at his bonded appraisingly. “That was fast.”
“I was curious so I was waiting just down the hall.” He shrugs, unrepentant, as he steps further into the room. “I didn't hear anything though. Except what you wanted me to hear. Which isn't much. You're so stubborn sometimes. I can keep a secret you know. Better than Bulkhead at any rate.” He pauses, tilts a bit to the left, catching sight of the bound mech on the crate. “Are you sure that's Knock Out? Because he looks different. Like noticeably different.”
Knock Out sneers. “And you haven't changed one bit.”
“It's part of my charm,” Bluestreak replies sweetly, a wide grin on his faceplate. Yes, Bluestreak is perhaps the best choice of guard.
Jazz claps his bonded on the shoulder, squeezing familiarly. “You two go ahead and get reacquainted. We adults have business to discuss.”
Bluestreak gives him a thumbs up, shuttering one optic in semblance of a wink. “Leave the brat to me, boss.”
“Brat?” Knock Out repeats, sounding offended. The crate which serves as his seat creaks ominously.
“That's what I said,” Bluestreak replies, door wings lifting and settling in a gesture Ratchet has learned to read as amusement.
Jazz snickers and pushes open the door, gesturing for both Ratchet and Sunstreaker to precede him. “Come on, you two. You're with me.”
It might as well be an order. They've no choice but to leave Knock Out behind, dread building within them.
It takes all Ratchet has within him not to look over his shoulder at his unrepentant youngling.
a/n: Phew. Took me way to long to update this. Sorry, folks. I promise not to make you wait so long in the future. I've got plenty more chapters to come, plus a possible sequel, and updates to the Origins series.
Feedback is very welcome!
no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 09:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 09:31 pm (UTC)