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dracoqueen22Title: War Without End – Thundercracker
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant
Characters: Thundercracker, Skywarp, Ratchet, Drift, Wheeljack, Dreadwing, Tracks, Prowl
Rating: T
Warnings: mentions of character death, angst, some language, canon typical violence,
Desc: Thundercracker is tired of merely surviving. He wants to live.
Thundercracker - Part Four
------------------
A new duty is added to the rotation. They are so few, stretched thin, but Thundercracker has no choice. They must monitor the human broadcasts. It's the only means they have of tracking new arrivals.
Skywarp likens it to monitor duty and pouts about it like a spoiled sparkling.
“It should be a punishment,” he whines like Starscream in a snit. Only with a lower pitch. “I could be working in my lab instead of wasting my time watching the news.”
“You watch the television all the time,” Thundercracker points out, drawing patience from a well that's rapidly going dry.
Skywarp flares his optics. “I watch documentaries. Shark Week. Mythbusters!” He throws his hands into the air, wings arching high against his backstrut. “Not the news.” A long groan of dissatisfaction rattles from his chassis.
Thundercracker plunks Warp down in front of the television set. He’s long immune to whine. Particularly from his trine.
“We all have to take a turn.”
That earns him a petulant glare. And really, isn’t Skywarp supposed to be older? To be an earlier model than Thundercracker himself?
“Ratchet doesn't.”
He keeps his grip on Skywarp's shoulders. Thereby preventing the mech from moving or teleporting away as Warp is wont to do.
“Ratchet is our only medic,” Thundercracker reminds him, “and the only one qualified to both take care of the hatchlings and keep us functioning.”
Skywarp's energy field reaches out and slaps him. “Not true. Wheeljack's a field medic. He can do it.”
Since really, if they had to choose, Wheeljack would be the one they’d all want repairing them. Yeah… Right…
“Wheeljack is an engineer.” Ratchet's voice washes over them from nearby. Fortunately, there's amusement rather than irritation in his vocals. “Emergency welds and jury-rigged repairs are the extent of his expertise. Not hatchling maintenance.”
Thundercracker's lipplates twitch. “Thus, the reason Ratchet doesn't have monitor duty.”
“I do, however, have a direct line to my processor for our base's security system,” the medic adds, just to drive the point home. And, Thundercracker suspects, because it annoys Skywarp.
His trinemate huffs so hard that Thundercracker hears the fans whine in protest. He’s far too old for such behavior, but trying to get him to act better than an overcharged civilian is impossible.
“I still say it's unfair,” he whines again.
“Your complaint is noted,” Thundercracker says dryly.
Skywarp's armor twitches beneath his hands, sending a low buzz of irritated charge into his fingers. He knows better, but Thundercracker still finds himself explaining.
“Warp, we don't have any other method of tracking incoming arrivals. Not unless Wheeljack can get the long-distance scanners running,” Thundercracker reminds him, lowering his vocals though Ratchet can probably detect them anyway. “Do you want to watch another Blitzwing?”
His trinemate goes rigid beneath him. One wing flicks out and back, smacking against Thundercracker's chassis.
“That's a low blow, TC.”
But still a valid point.
“You understand why it's important.” Thundercracker gives a brush of his own field. “I know you do.”
Skywarp's energy draws tightly against his frame. He no longer bombards his leader with jabs of appeal and dissatisfaction.
“Go away. I’m busy.” he says at last. “Watching the monitors.”
Just like Starscream. Primus and Prima help them all. Was Warp channeling him now?
Satisfied, Thundercracker releases his hold, leaving his trinemate to the task. It’d certainly be a simpler matter if they could set up the monitoring for a subroutine, one triggered by certain keywords. But humans think in such non-linear fashions that Thundercracker worries they might miss something. Aside from that, there are other details that only the broadcasts could reveal, such as what the government is currently doing or if other surviving Decepticons from the last battle have been spotted.
“You've certainly mastered the art of leading him at least,” Ratchet says, standing in the aperture of the wall that divides the monitors from the rest of the barn.
“It's an acquired talent built upon several eons,” Thundercracker counters in that same dry tone. He turns to follow Ratchet as he heads for the medbarn.
The Seeker immediately makes a beeline for the hatchlings, much to Ratchet's shimmering amusement. For once, the medic isn't a closed-off, roiling heap of tank-churning emotions. He is, dare Thundercracker say it, in a pleasant mood. Has to be plotting something then. Or he has a particular target in mind.
“I can imagine,” Ratchet says in an equal tone.
Thundercracker peers into the first row of hatchling tanks – the Seekers. His orbital ridges rise.
“They've improved greatly.”
They look less like rusted, emaciated wrecks and more like healthy seekerlings now. Some have even started to get their colors in bright, identifying marks. One is now a vibrant yellow, nearly glowing. Another is white with red highlights.
Ratchet makes a wordless sound. “Did you expect different?”
“They were in such terrible shape. You truly are a miracle worker.” Thundercracker casts a glance over his shoulder.
Ratchet lets out a ventilation. “They survived because they were the strongest of the clutch.” He moves past Thundercracker, reaching for one of the grounders taking up residence in a bathtub.
“You don't give yourself enough credit,” Thundercracker retorts, but it’s pleasant. Amused even.
“Why should I?” Ratchet's tone softens as he cradles the grounder in his palm. Its colors are bright and cheerful, an array of red and orange. “I can help them finish their development, but I cannot give them sparks. It's a pointless endeavor.”
Thundercracker watches him work with the hatchling, completely belying his words. He calls it pointless, but he’s ridiculously gentle, treating it as the precious life that it is.
Ratchet pretends indifference, but he is the most invested out of all of them.
“It’s only as meaningless as you make it,” Thundercracker replies after a moment. “At this rate, how much longer until they are ready to be ensparked?”
“You mean, if we had access to the Allspark?” Ratchet tilts his head in consideration. “Two diun. Perhaps more. Perhaps less. At least, for the seekerlings.”
Thundercracker stares at them. Something yearns inside of him that has no real designation.
“We'll find a way,” he says more to himself. “There has to be another way.”
Ratchet watches him now. “What makes you so certain?”
“Primus wouldn't doom our kind to extinction for lack of a single artifact,” Thundercracker states, and it’s the absolute truth as he believes it.
Ratchet offers a noise of derision. “You actually believe in Primus?”
“Don't you?” Thundercracker raises his orbital ridge.
The medic pulls up a stool. He gently lays the hatchling on a pile of blankets and scanning the tiny frame.
“Once upon a time perhaps,” he allows rather gruffly.
Thundercracker considers that answer carefully.
“But not anymore?” he prompts.
“Do you really want to get into a philosophical discussion about Primus' existence?” Ratchet gives him a flat look.
Thundercracker scrubs a hand down his faceplate. “Not particularly, no.” The last thing he wants is to get into yet another heated debate. “What about Perceptor's research?”
That earns him another ventilation.
“Minimal progress. I've been discussing it with Wheeljack,” the medic admits. “We suspect it might have something to do with the Swarm.”
Thundercracker's energon lines freeze. “As in uncontrollable reproduction? A la the Insecticons?”
Amusement curls Ratchet's lip. “The manner of ensparking is similar, but we presume Perceptor had some manner of controlling the outcome.”
The chill crawls up Thundercracker's backstrut. He doesn’t like this line of thought. Not at all. But it make be their only chance.
“Had he actually attempted to replicate Shockwave's experiments?” he questions and somehow keeps his voice steady.
“Not as far as Drift knows.” Ratchet's tone turns fond, but perhaps it is because the hatchling is currently grasping his fingers with a little warble. “Perceptor is – was – a theorist. Not an experimenter. And spark manipulation is the most dangerous of sciences. Few with sense or morals ever even attempted it.” He curls the hatchling around his hand so very tenderly. “Perceptor is many things, but he isn’t reckless with the lives of others.”
Thundercracker studies the tiny grounder. “What does that mean for us?”
“I don't know.” Ratchet sighs, stroking the tip of his finger over the hatchling's head. “We're still working on it.”
“We're running out of time,” the Seeker reminds him.
Ratchet's energy field spikes. “I know that,” he snaps, though he is careful to keep his touch gentle. “But I'm working with nothing. This is unexplored territory, and frag it all, I was a politician before all of this. I simply don’t have the research background that a fully Academy-trained medic has. I'm doing the best I can.”
“I never said you weren't,” Thundercracker appeases, now sensing he's rapidly losing control of the conversation. “You’ve done everything you can, and we all know it.”
He imagines that other members of the Senate probably felt like this when faced with a Ratchet on the rampage. He isn’t a mech to be trifled with.
“I am simply disappointed that we – that I – can't do more,” Thundercracker adds and takes a pointed step backward, nearly colliding with another mech.
He startles, half-turning to find Wheeljack just behind him. There’s a sheepish glint to his indicators. The engineer rubs the back of his neck.
“I think it's become my habit to interrupt you,” Wheeljack says, optics sliding back and forth between them.
Both Thundercracker and Ratchet latch onto the distraction as though it is a lifeline.
The medic flickers his optics. “We're just talking,” he retorts, rolling his shoulders as well with the sound of metal against metal. “What did you want?”
“Testy, testy. I think all these eons just worsened your mood.” Wheeljack tosses Thundercracker a long suffering look. But when Ratchet's glare sharpens, he pulls a datapad out of his subspace. “The list you requested, dear leader.”
He holds it out to Thundercracker who eyes the datapad with no small amount of trepidation. Considering the level of disasters that tend to happen around Wheeljack, he thinks it wise to be cautious.
“Don't call me that,” Thundercracker practically orders and takes the datapad, which is already powered on. He scans the contents, unsurprised to find a lengthy and specific list.
Where on Earth does Wheeljack expect him to find all of this?
“I know it's a lot,” Wheeljack comments, indicators now a grim color. “Sadly, that's the bare minimum. The other parts I'll be able to manufacture with what's already listed.”
Thundercracker's frown deepens. “It's impossible. I wouldn't know where to begin for half of these things.”
A quick search on the human's internet would help him locate the other half, at least. Humans love to put all of their business into the public eye.
A presence tickles at the edge of Thundercracker's senses before Ratchet leans into his personal space for a look of his own.
“Primus, that much?”
Wheeljack nods, misery radiating from his frame in waves. “When I sat down and looked at my scans in depth, I saw other things that would need tending.” He taps the edge of the datapad pointedly. “And some of that's just for the Jackhammer.”
“A few of these materials aren't even available on Earth as far as I’m aware.” And hope sinks with each realization. “We’d have to be able to mine off-planet. Or even go to another solar system. Say nothing of the trade routes that are no longer open to us.”
Wheeljack's doors droop. “I know. I see little other option. Unless we steal from the humans.”
“At this point, they owe us.” Thundercracker powers off the pad, tucking it into a compartment on his hip. “Though considering the quality of their work...” He trails off, gaze falling to the hatchlings.
Yet another way that they’ve failed.
“You know,” Ratchet inserts, words drifting between them, “you might have the right idea, Wheeljack.”
Both of them turn and stare. Thundercracker especially as he would’ve never thought Ratchet to sanction any direct action against the humans.
“Come again?” Wheeljack asks.
Ratchet shifts up onto their single medberth with the groundling still in hand. “To be fair, I wouldn't call it stealing so much as reclaiming what belongs to us in the first place. We've left a lot of tech lying around over the past five years. Tech the humans have been taking and storing with great zeal.” His expression has turned thoughtful.
“You know where they keep it?” Thundercracker asks, spark reluctantly surging.
Ratchet inclines his helm. “When they finally decided to permanently house us in DC, it was all shipped there. Sentinel destroyed that base, but he didn't take out the warehouses.”
“What about all the tech left behind in Chicago?” Wheeljack inquires, indicators starting to brighten.
Ratchet's drums on the berth with his free hand. “It was being temporarily stored on base. Whether or not they've shipped it to DC, I don't know. But I guarantee we can find what we need in some shape or form.”
“We had at least six warships in stasis on the lunar surface.” Thundercracker calls up the files in the back of his mind, all of the supply lists from Sentinel and Megatron's plot. “They were all shot down. The parts must be salvageable.”
“It's sure to be guarded,” Wheeljack muses aloud.
“All of the Autobots are in Chicago,” Ratchet points out, too. “And the DC base isn’t being used at the moment. It'll be staffed by human soldiers. They'll be equipped with anti-mech weapons, but we should be able to circumvent them.”
Thundercracker considers the situation, their current staff, and how on Earth they are going to pull this off. The odds aren’t that great, but they do have surprise on their side. Not to mention a bot with intimate knowledge of the Prime’s base. And a teleporter. Can’t forget him.
“We'll need a distraction,” Thundercracker decides. “Something to keep their eyes away while we raid the storehouse. The last thing we want is for the Autobots to try and stop us. We don't have enough on our side.”
“We don't want to draw their attention here either,” Wheeljack asserts. “The distraction will have to be elsewhere, preferably far away from both DC and our base.”
“And what would be more distracting than a pair of unknowns?”
Thundercracker turns at the unexpected voice, and Dreadwing edges into the confines of the medbay where space is already limited. They all have to shuffle around to make room for the large Seeker.
“He’s got a point!” Skywarp inputs from the main section of the barn, perfectly capable of hearing their conversation even if he can't see any of them past the partition. “They’ll be confused all to the Pit when they see a couple of mechs they didn't know were on-planet.”
Dreadwing makes a noise of agreement. “They'll trip over themselves, second-guessing their energon net, to figure out how we arrived planet-side without their knowledge.”
“Don't send Wheeljack,” Ratchet says, excitement nearly palpable in his vocals. “No offense, Jack, but you're stuck on the ground. They can corner you a lot easier than they can the Seekers.”
“And Tracks,” Dreadwing confirms. “We can put on quite the show, make them even more confused when they see both Autobot and Decepticon sigils.”
Thundercracker rubs a hand over his chin. “While Wheeljack, Drift, and I can retrieve the materials.”
“What about me?” Warp demands, near a whine.
“You’ll accompany us for a time,” Thundercracker says, though he can't conceal the whuff of irritation. “And when we need a distraction from our distraction, you'll have a part.”
“Hmm… Complicated and confusing,” Skywarp offers. “I like it!”
“Not as much as you make it out to be,” Dreadwing returns, leaning against a stack of crates that wobble dangerously. “We draw their attention, put on a show, and you arrive out of nowhere to take out whatever they send against us.”
Thundercracker taps his faceplate. “Lead them on a merry chase even, away from the base, and when it's time to go, you’ll head into the upper atmosphere where they can't follow.”
“This could actually work.” Ratchet sounds surprised.
Dreadwing nods. “It has a certain degree of success. Regardless, it’s a risk we have to take. We're not leaving the planet on scraps and dreams. We need materials, and it's only fair that we reclaim what is already ours.”
Agreement ripples through them.
“The sooner we get started, the sooner repairs will be completed,” Thundercracker states, a fact no one disputes. “We go tomorrow.”
They journey to DC under the cover of darkness, leaving near dusk and arriving an hour after sundown. There is less chance of humans spotting anything in the sky, and the Seekers don't need light to navigate. Their sensors are more than enough to compensate for the lack of daylight.
Drift and Wheeljack have it easier, their alt-modes more common on the highways than a pair of F-22s wandering randomly. Thundercracker arranges for the two vehicles to arrive first, parking nearby and pretending to be nothing more than insentient human transports. Wheeljack's even gone so far as to equip them with miniature spark dampeners to further avoid detection, not that anyone's paying them much attention.
Running silent and dark and equipped with his own spark dampener, Thundercracker initiates a quick pass over the warehouse, Skywarp on his wing. He spies Drift and Wheeljack parked on the street, powered down but alert.
The warehouses and former Autobot headquarters are a mass of police tape, crumpled buildings, piles of wreckage, and vast areas of darkness where there is no exterior lighting anymore. It's practically an invitation for thievery.
One Thundercracker is happy to accept.
--Remember,-- he transmits to the frequency specifically chosen for this mission. --We have to be quick. We can’t give the humans or Autobots enough time to scramble a counterattack or give chase.--
--Speed isn’t a problem,-- Wheeljack replies with a happy clip that completely belies the seriousness of the situation. --I know exactly what we're looking for.--
Thundercracker certainly hopes so. Since right now Dreadwing and Tracks are putting their sparks on the line, and though Thundercracker has a contingency plan, he doesn't want to put them in that position in the first place.
--Which ones should we target?-- Drift asks as Thundercracker sees him move out of his parking space below, running silent and careful. --Ratchet was unclear as to the organization of the contents.--
--Even if he had told us, I doubt everything would’ve remained the same after Sentinel's attack,-- Thundercracker responds.
Wheeljack offers a thoughtful noise. --My scans indicate that B7 contains weapons of some sort. There's a high volume of duryllium in C3, and I'm detecting some specific tech in D1 that's got my designation all over it.-- The engineer's grin is all but tangible over the transmission.
Beside him, Skywarp nudges Thundercracker with a wingtip. --My scans are showing some useful bits and pieces in A5, too. Interesting compositions and energy signatures.--
His scientists are practically begging him. Time for an executive decision.
--We will split up,-- Thundercracker says, processor weighing and measuring options. --Ignore the weapons. We don’t need them and not even Prime's stupid enough to let the humans have them.--
--We mightn’t need the weapons, but we could use their power cores if any survived,-- Wheeljack counters.
Thundercracker bites back a wing flare. --Fine. I'll take B7. Skywarp, A5. Wheeljack, D1. And Drift--
--Let me guess,-- the swordsmech inserts with a dry tone. --C3?--
Skywarp's chuckle bubbles across the transmission. --Brilliant deduction, smart-aft. Can you cook, too?--
Cook?
An exasperated hiss escapes Thundercracker. His trinemate spends far too much time watching human television.
--Skywarp. Focus.—
That earns him a prickle from Warp’s nearby energy field.
--I know, I know. I'll behave.--
Thundercracker highly doubts that.
--And don't dawdle either. You may need to leave in a hurry.--
--Whatever you say, bossmech!—
Skywarp gives a cheeky glyph across the comm. He then waggles his wings before vanishing, never one to fly when he can warp.
--He's so charming,-- Drift comments in Skywarp's absence. --Really, I don't know why you haven't berthed and bonded him.--
Thundercracker ignores them both. It's not a statement that bears reaction.
--There aren't any alarm systems. Complicated ones, I mean,-- Wheeljack adds, a bit belatedly since Skywarp’s already rifling through the stockpile. --They didn't think to be worried about Cybertronian thieves apparently.--
It helps also that the majority of the energon detectors in the city were destroyed by Sentinel Prime.
--That’s good news for us.-- Thundercracker banks into a turn, heading for the warehouse he assigned to himself. --Alright, everyone. Get to work.--
A chorus of affirmatives chimes across the transmission before it falls silent.
Thundercracker lands, identifying a few patrolling humans who seem more interested in their cell phones than security. There are several cameras pointed at the human entrances, but none at the bay doors. It's easy enough to hack the system and set the video feeds at a loop.
Even Drift, who isn't scientifically inclined in the slightest, is capable of doing this.
Thundercracker quietly lifts the bay door, optics sharp for patrolling humans as it creaks and rattles its way upward. None come to investigate the noise, even though it carries in the humid summer air. Amateurs.
Inside, there are copious but unorganized piles of Cybertronian technology. No effort has been made to sort anything, most of which are weapons of a personal nature. They’re all basic as well. Blasters and energy blades and the like. There’s no evidence of specialized or augmented weaponry. Perhaps Prime had shown foresight in keeping it from human grasp.
Thundercracker doesn’t care either way. He simply gets to work, ripping out useful components and stowing as many power cores as he can carry both in his subspace and cockpit, which was scanned as part of the human alt-mode but utterly useless. Even so, he runs out of salvage long before he runs out of space. He casts one final look around, certainly he hasn’t missed anything useful. Then, he carefully eases out of his warehouse to help Wheeljack, who’s just whined over the comm about running out of storage. They make quick work of that warehouse, too.
Thundercracker is finishing a last walkthrough when Dreadwing sends him a high frequency ping. It’s the signal for extraction, and Thundercracker nearly startles in surprise.
This is the moment of truth.
--Skywarp, it's time to disappear,-- Thundercracker orders. --That goes for the rest of us, too.--
--And I was having so much fun,-- Warp retorts, though the humor in his response is evident. --I'm on it, boss.--
--It's just as well,-- Drift adds in. --This scrap is heavy, and I'm not built for hauling.--
--You should’ve picked a more useful alt-mode,-- Wheeljack teases, slamming his passenger door on the last of the salvage that Thundercracker had earlier placed.
Drift's wry repartee is crystal clear through the transmission. --Speak for yourself, he of the flashy paintjob.--
--I like my colors,-- Wheeljack shoots back, indignant. --They give me character.--
Drift laughs. Thundercracker can hear the rev of a high performance engine as he pulls into view, headlights darkened.
--I think you already have enough character,-- the Seeker informs them both.
--Is that supposed to be a compliment?--
Thundercracker restrains an ex-vent as the two continue their tete-a-tete. So much for radio silence unless absolutely necessary. Lucky that the humans haven't put any effort into monitoring this location.
--Enough, you two. Back to base.-- Thundercracker attempts to his best ability to shoo both away from the warehouses.
--Right away, sir,-- Wheeljack replies with a mischievous tone that dances the line between respect and insolence. He really has been spending too much time with Warp.
Drift offers a sound not unlike a human snort. Wheeljack nudges him with a door as they pass by, and then, off they go.
Elite soldier cadre they are not. Strangely, Thundercracker actually prefers it this way.
--Do we have everything we came for?-- Drift asks even as they leave.
--We have plenty!-- Wheeljack answers as Thundercracker takes to the air, circling above. --More than I could have hoped for.--
His tone is excited and thrilled both. A ray of brightness on the dark horizon.
Hope threatens to build, and this time, Thundercracker lets it come.
