[Bay] War Without End - Skywarp - Pt III
May. 4th, 2014 07:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: War Without End – Skywarp
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, background pairings
Desc: Friends. Alllies. Peace. Family. Skywarp never imagined that any of those terms would include an Autobot.
“I think it needs a switchback mechanism.”
“Well, I think it's fine the way it is.”
“Because you're the expert on battle-cruiser class engines?”
“No, because the last thing we need is a double-loop on the power circuit!”
Skywarp plants his hands on his hips and stares at his opponent. His wings are twitching, and he refuses to give ground.
Neither does Wheeljack. The grounder is a few feet shorter than him, several tons lighter, and less visibly armed. Though to be fair, it is Wheeljack, and who knows what manner of explosive devices are concealed throughout his frame?
Warp's lips twitch.
Jack's indicators flash a muted purple.
Warp starts to chuckle. His systems dial back down from a brief stint toward battle protocols, an instinctual response to any sort of confrontation. Wheeljack shakes his head, field flicking out with amusement and exasperation both.
“I think we're both in over our helms.”
“Speak for yourself,” Warp retorts with an air of fake offense. “I can fly.”
Laughter rings from the Autobot, indicators bubbling a joyful blue. “Lucky you.” He turns back toward the heap of slag that they’re generously trying to turn into an engine. “This thing's hopeless.” He gives it a tentative prod with one digit.
“It just needs some TLC.” Warp circles around to the other side, poking at a few frayed cables with his own talon.
“Some?”
Warp's grin widens as he crouches and peers up into the corroded power linkages.
“Perhaps a lot. But it can be done.” Some of his humor fades. “It has to be done.”
“Sick of Earth already?” Wheeljack’s tone is soft, almost searching.
“I hated it from the moment I laid optics on it,” Skywarp replies truthfully. There are few things on this miserable planet that he appreciates.
The sky is big and blue and unencumbered, but he can't indulge in it because the threat is too great. Optimus Prime is waiting for them to slip up. The humans are eager to test new ordinance, and they're running out of Decepticons.
Jack makes a noise of agreement. “I'd probably like it more if I could get out and explore.” He ventilates a sigh of disappointment. “But all I'm getting is what we can find on the internet and television, and if either of those are an example of humanity, I'm not at all interested.”
“They're not that far off the mark,” Warp agrees. Though to be fair, he hasn't been out exploring either. His sole experience with Earth and its occupants is the battle in Chicago, immediately followed by hiding and running for his life.
His talon scrapes over a component. Dirt and rust flake to the ground.
“By the Allspark, this whole thing's going to need a flush.”
“Might be easier just to drag it into the Jackhammer's washracks, you think?” Wheeljack asks, humor flitting in and out of his energy field.
Warp catches Jack's gaze and tosses the engineer a wry grin. “And short-circuit all of my careful wiring? Over my empty frame!”
They laugh.
It’s surprisingly easy to get along with Wheeljack. It helps, he supposes, that once upon a time he’d admired the mech. He used to read every proposal of Wheeljack's that he could get his talons on. He's heard so many stories, marveled at too many creations. Wheeljack is a legend amongst engineers and inventors.
It's also nice to spend time with someone who doesn't look at him like an ancient relic recently unearthed and put on display.
“You know,” Jack says as the sound of his tinkering begins anew, including the whine of a welder powering on, “I'm rather curious as to how you became so knowledgeable in engineering.”
Luckily for the Autobot, Skywarp has already learned that his new friend often speaks before he thinks. He doesn't mean any offense intentionally.
Skywarp cycles a ventilation. “I never went to the Academy. Not like Stars. I didn't have an official education.” He pauses, a wry grin quirking his mouth. “War-build, you know. They kind of had rules about that sort of thing.”
“I remember.” Wheeljack's response is soft, tinged with regret and disappointment. “There were a lot of things about Cybertron that were ridiculous and foolish. I, for one, won’t miss the council and their slagging rules.”
Skywarp rises to his pedes, but only to pull up a crate. It's awkward to crouch.
“Me neither.” He pokes at his memory bank, glitched though it is, memories rising out of the fog to the fore. “That's how I met Stars. He was always a Seeker, a war-build, but he wasn't always a soldier, you know.”
“I remember that, too. He was brilliant.”
Was being the operative word here. It should hurt, Skywarp reflects, to talk and think about his trinemate. And in a way it does. There's an old ache in his spark, mostly for the Stars who was. For the intelligent and brightly-innocent young scientist who had so many dreams, visions of a different future.
Starscream had thought because the council was lenient and generous enough to grant him a scholarship, a chance to be better than his hatchmates, that political opinion as a whole could be altered. He thought he could prove his worth in sciences and open doors for other war-builds, confirm that soldiers could be more. By the time he learned it was a farce, a form of entertainment for the council and an experiment they never expected to succeed, it was too late.
No small wonder he had been so easily swayed by Megatron. Then again, Megatron had swayed them all with little effort. They all wanted something different, to be treated fairly, like mechs rather than armed slaves.
So when the Academy kicked Starscream out, he had no choice but to return to his roots. To the position for which he'd been sparked – the military.
“Skywarp?”
He stirs from the memories.
“Sorry. What was I saying?”
Wheeljack pauses in the midst of welding to look at Warp over the bulk of the engine. “Should I not have asked?”
Compassion too is another facet of his current functioning that Skywarp is struggling to adapt to. Compassion from an Autobot makes it even more disorienting.
“It's fine,” he assures. “Stars is... was...”
Words fail him and frustration colors Skywarp's tone. He leans forward, bracing himself on his thighs.
“One of my first assignments was guard duty for the various academia. Starscream was one of them. Shockwave was another.”
“Shockwave?” Wheeljack's indicators flash a startled orange as he ducks back behind the engine.
“You'd be surprised what you learn by watching,” Skywarp comments. “But you'd be right. Shockwave never deigned to show me anything. He liked to pretend we weren't there. That we were just drones for his personal use.”
Warp would also bet every credit he ever earned that Shockwave didn't know who he was either. Not even after vorns and vorns of war when Skywarp inexplicably found himself tied to Decepticon high command. He never seemed to recognize the Seeker who stood at Starscream's side.
“Still... it's Shockwave.” Disgust buzzes in Wheeljack's energy field.
“Tell me about it.” Warp grins. “Luckily, Shockwave preferred real drones over thinking mechanisms and dropped his military escort. I was assigned to Stars next, who was working on a project for the Senate.”
There's a rattle-clunk and a poof of smoke before Wheeljack grumbles a dissatisfied curse.
“Was that the null-ray?”
“Yeah, it was.” Skywarp can't hide his surprise. “Everyone thought it couldn't be done, but Stars pulled it off.”
“He was brilliant,” Wheeljack muses aloud, his tone carrying harmonics of honest admiration. “I read his thesis on energy states and matter conversion. He could have done so much more, if only they had let him.”
Skywarp makes a noncommittal noise. “Let being the operative term here. Anyway, Stars had guards, but he never had assistants. For some reason, they kept quitting, so he was always needing another pair of hands. He tended to snap at us to help him even though that's not what we were there for.”
Amusement threatens to rise to the fore.
Starscream had always expected to be obeyed. He would issue orders like it never occurred to him someone might protest. And maybe that's why he kept losing assistants.
“I learned a lot by watching,” Warp continues, yanking off a panel and ripping out a handful of electronic guts. He tosses them into the trash pile. “And then he offered to teach me. He thought it was offensive that his guards were so ignorant. Turns out, I had a real knack for weapons, too.”
“Hah. Don't we all?” Wheeljack's optics lit up with amusement, matching the bright glow of his indicators. “Some of the more interesting accidents were when I was in weapons design.”
Warp laughs. “Is that why Ratchet looks at you like an accident waiting to happen?”
Jack waves him off, starting up a grinder with a loud whirr. “He exaggerates. I've only damaged myself bad enough to need him twice in our entire functioning. All the other times were minor things he insisted on fixing. I let him because that's who Ratchet is. He needs stuff to fix.”
“I got that impression.” Skywarp smirks.
If it weren't for the hatchlings, Ratchet would probably be harassing them all about their maintenance habits, recharge schedules, refueling, and all manner of mechanical subjects. It's a good thing he has other distractions now.
As if on cue, the door to the barn rattles open, Ratchet striding through as if summoned by their very conversation.
“Hey, Ratch,” Jack greets with more than a little reservation. “What brings you by?”
“My Wheeljack senses were tingling,” the medic says with a sour note that usually indicates a mech in need of a good 'face. “You're about to do something stupid, aren't you?” He turns his helm left and right, as though scanning the laboratory for possible explosions in the making.
Wheeljack chuckles. “Whatever gave you that idea, Ratchet? It's just me and Warp here, fixing this engine.” He gives it a loving pat, and there's a dull thunk from somewhere in the bottom.
Skywarp eyes it cautiously. Wheeljack steps back a pace. A panel drops out of the bottom along with a handful of rusted gears.
“Fixing it, huh?” Ratchet comments, but his mouth curves into a grin. “Doesn't seem like you're doing a good job.”
Wheeljack rolls his shoulders. “Well, it hasn't exploded yet. I consider it a win. Must be Skywarp's good influence.” He winks an optic, and Warp grins back.
“Yeah,” he says. “Must be.”
Ratchet's field spikes, rife with suspicion and no small amount of apprehension. “That you two are getting along worries me.”
Warp braces his arm on a mount. He casually kicks the rusted parts under the suspended engine.
“Why? Are you jealous? Don't worry, Ratch, I can still fit you into my 'facing schedule.” He shutters an optic.
“I don't-- You don't-- ” The medic startles, his plating clamped down before he devolves into a scowl. “I'm going now,” he snarls and turns on a pede, leaving as abruptly as he'd come.
At least Wheeljack and Skywarp wait until he is out of the barn before they break into laughter. Ratchet tends to get even pricklier if he thinks someone is amused at his expense. And a prickly Ratchet is a violent one who likes to throw things. Though now that Wheeljack's here, it only means he has more targets.
Skywarp shakes his helm and returns his attention to the engine, though the amusement lingers. It's kind of nice, he thinks, to relax like this.
Even if it is with a couple of Autobots.
o0o0o
Astrotrain, Skywarp learns, has a habit of looming. He knows that the triple-changer is doing it on purpose. A psychological tactic, though all it succeeds in doing is making him irritated. There aren't many mechs online nowadays who would be intimidated by a little looming.
They've lived through too much for it.
Warp still isn't sure letting Astrotrain live was a good idea. That mech isn't on their side, is never going to be loyal to them, and has his own agenda. Just what that agenda is, Skywarp doesn't know. But he sure as frag is going to find out.
At least, Thundercracker and Prowl haven't completely lost their senses. Keeping Astrotrain on the moon is the smartest thing they could’ve done. He can't come to Earth without being shot down by Prime and the humans. And it wouldn't do him any good to attack Skywarp's cadre unless his processor goes completely fragged or something.
Still...
The looming is slagging annoying. Skywarp's tempted to shoot out Astrotrain's knees just to stop the itchy-crawling sensation of being watched.
--How can you stand it?--
The question, which suddenly spills into the open-comm they've designated for Astrotrain to use, makes Warp startle. He curses as his helm smacks into the bottom of the Ark's main control console. His optics have to recalibrate from the brief fuzz in his vision.
Glancing down the length of his frame, he can just make out two dark grey stumps. Astrotrain. Looming. Like always.
Skywarp bites back an exasperated comment and plants his most patient tone into his response.
--Stand what?--
--Working with the Autoscum,-- Astrotrain says, and as he shifts, the plating on his legs lifts and clamps visibly. --They're the enemy.--
Skywarp slides out from under the console. --No, the Senate was the enemy. The High Council.-- He pauses, considering. --Even Prime. All of them. Sentinel and those before him. Optimus now.--
He watches as Astrotrain's empty weapon mounts twitch. As though he's trying to cycle ammunition he no longer carries.
--The Autobots fought for the Senate.--The triple-changer insists. --That makes them the enemy.--
Skywarp can honestly say that he expected this to come up eventually. Astrotrain hasn't bothered to hide his disdain for his current circumstances, and though he treats them all with contempt, he saves his best behavior for interactions with Wheeljack and Prowl. They’re the only Autobots who actually come to the Ark.
--And now you're working for them.-- Astrotrain's transmission is dripping with disgust. --What kind of Decepticon are you?--
Skywarp gives him a level look. --The kind who wants to survive.--
Astrotrain sneers, his wings flaring as though in challenge. --They bombed Altihex. How can you forgive that?--
--Because I have to.—
Because he really has no other choice, truth be told, but Skywarp's not letting Astrotrain get that far under his plating.
--We flattened Praxus, remember? I'm sure Prowl does.--
--They razed Vos to cinders!-- Anger underlines every word, acrid in Astrotrain's energy field.
Skywarp shifts and sits a bit more upright. --And we destroyed Uraya, which was packed with civilians: Autobots, Neutrals, and sparklings alike. All because Megatron wanted to make a point.--
Amber optics brighten, Astrotrain's sneer deepening. --What? You feeling guilty for that?--
Skywarp shrugs, trying to effect nonchalance. --I'm just saying that it has to stop,-- he offers, though he doubts his words are going to get through to Astrotrain. --I haven't forgiven them, but I have to look past it. Otherwise, all we're going to do is keep fighting, keep killing. Until there aren't any of us left. And then what was it for?--
He catches himself, cycles a ventilation. Astrotrain's never going to understand, so why is he bothering? But the words are spilling out, and now, maybe Skywarp thinks they are more for himself.
The wreckage of the Ark surrounds him. The twinges of old hurts and weld lines are constant reminders.
--Though we might’ve already passed the point of no return,-- Skywarp says, and there's no concealing the regret and despair intermingled. --There may be no saving our species.--
At best, he could’ve hoped for silence. Thoughtful, if not respectful. But no. Such is beyond Astrotrain right now. Perhaps his battle-lust truly has infected him core deep.
--Heh.-- The laugh is mocking and cruel. --Look at you, trying to sound smart.--
Skywarp withdraws his energy field so fast it gives him figurative whiplash. He directs a glare at the triple-changer and shoves himself back under the console, scraping his wings in the process. Ratchet's going to bitch later. Strange that Skywarp's actually looking forward to that.
--Shove it up your afterburner, Astrotrain,-- he retorts and grimly picks up his tools. --If you can't get with the program, you're welcome to leave.--
Astrotrain kicks at a chair and sends it careening into the darkness. --I'm not leaving. Not until I've done what I need to do--
Despite his efforts, Skywarp's servos still. --And what would that be?--
--Don't you worry.-- The floor shakes with the force of Astrotrain's steps as he retreats out of the bridge. --Your precious group of traitors don't hold any interest for me. I couldn't care less that you're all a bunch of deserters.--
Astrotrain cuts off the comm, leaving Skywarp alone in a silence that is both welcome and worrisome. What are Astrotrain's intentions? What is he waiting for?
--I suspect our Astrotrain problem will solve itself,-- Dreadwing inserts, and Warp starts again, having forgotten that he was listening in. --Sooner rather than later,-- he adds, his words coming across their private comm, one Astrotrain cannot access.
--What do you mean?--
--His loathing for Prime is no secret. He may do something unwise.-- Dreadwing, who is currently onboard the Jackhammer, ensuring that it doesn't get appropriated by their unfriendly triple-changer, transmits a contemplative glyph.
--Like attempt a direct assault on Earth?--
--We don't have the resources to save those who don't want to be saved,-- Dreadwing replies, which isn't so much an answer as an evasion. --It's come to this. We can only do what we can do.--
Skywarp sighs. --He's not on deck anymore. Do you see him?--
--He's standing out here, staring off into space.--The other Seeker sounds partially amused and partially irritated. --Safer to leave him alone.--
Skywarp can agree with that. Sometimes, as they say on Earth, it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.
--Besides,-- Dreadwing continues. --Don't you have work to do? We want to leave Earth sometime this century.--
Warp sends him the Cybertronian equivalent of an emoticon across the comm. --You've been working with Prowl too long. He's made you boring.--
--And you would know this how?--
Skywarp refrains from answering. He slides back under the console, tools in hand. Dreadwing's right at least. The Ark isn't going to fix itself, and they are on a time crunch.
It's time to get back to work.
o0o0o
“You must be bored.”
Warp rolls his helm upward, optics following. “What makes you say that?”
Ratchet tosses him an amused look. “Because you're lingering in here, quite possibly the least entertaining place to be right now.”
“Maybe I enjoy your company.” Warp offers him a winning grin.
Ratchet barks a laugh. “I don't believe that for a second.”
Skywarp snorts. “It's true. You haven't thrown anything at me in days!”
Actually, come to think of it, the medic has been in a fairly decent mood lately. Warp's caught him smiling a couple of times and his energy field isn't vile enough to knock a gestalt over either. It's almost as if something has happened, something that has finally evened out the dissonance in his spark...
“I can always change that, you know,” the medic says, heedless of the epiphany that Warp has just stumbled upon. “I've got a nice--”
“You and Drift finally caught a clue, didn't you?” Warp accuses, leaping to his pedes with a gleeful quirk of his wings.
Ratchet startles, mouth briefly clamping shut. “I... You... I don't know what you're talking about,” he blusters, but Skywarp can tell he's flustered. He drops his gaze, starts puttering around, picking things up and putting them down again in no certain order.
Warp's grin widens. “Oh, I think you do. You know exactly what I mean. Congratulations must be in order then.”
Ratchet huffs. He casts an askance look as he pretends to look busy by examining the hatchlings, which have doubled in size since they were first rescued.
“You are impossibly nosy,” he grumps. “And full of wild stories.”
“Sticks and stones, Ratchet.”
Skywarp trails along after the medic. Ratchet had at least been partially right. He is bored, and he's not due to work on the Ark until Jack gets back, which means he needs to find something to entertain himself. Something that's not watching Tracks polish himself mirror-shiny or Prowl and Thundercracker play some kind of strategy game or Dreadwing read a datapad.
Needling Ratchet is its own form of entertainment.
“Besides, you looked in need of some company,” Warp adds as he follows Ratchet down the steps and into the area set aside for growing hatchlings. “Seeing that Drift is on patrol at all.”
Ratchet ventilates a sigh. “You are like a turbofox, aren't you? Always sniffing where you aren’t wanted?”
“It's part of my charm.” Warp smirks and stands back, leaning against a precarious stack of crates as Ratchet wanders through the maze of containers and their precious contents. “So when are they due to hatch?”
The medic tosses him a wry look. “They aren't organic ovum, Skywarp. They don't hatch.”
“Semantics.” Warp waves off the medic's dour expression. “When do they get to decant from the nutrient bath?”
Ratchet pauses by one of the tanks, a Seeker maybe. Or Skywarp thinks perhaps one of the other flight-class frames.
“At this rate, within the next season.”
Skywarp winces. “That's... soon.”
“Yes. I know.” The medic's happily buzzing energy field flattens like a balloon that's been deflated. “And we'll have a dozen healthy drones underpede. Lucky for us.”
Skywarp pushes himself off the crates, moving to the nearest tank substitute, one containing a grounder. The little bitling is actually kind of cute, even if it isn't a flyer. And also, not so little anymore. The smallest of their cadre is Drift, and the hatchlings would probably come up to his chestplate, the Seekerlings would match him in height.
“Still no luck on Perceptor's research?”
“Drift's told me all he knows,” Ratchet replies. “I've added it to my databanks, compared it to my own knowledge, but there are no answers.”
Leaning on the edge of the tank, Skywarp idly drags a talon through the nutrient bath. It’s more an energon gel packed with supplements the growing protoforms need.
“What about budding?”
“You mean self-propagation?”
Warp lifts his shoulders in a shrug.
“Whatever the medical terminology. I seem to remember hearing a rumor about Shockwave dabbling in something similar.”
It's only a small white lie as it isn't so much a rumor as something Skywarp witnessed for himself when he was working as part of Shockwave's armed guard.
Ratchet makes a noise of disgust. “Yes, and that’s why we have Insecticons.” He pauses. “And to a lesser extent, the Vehicons, though the latter is far more coherent.”
Skywarp tilts his helm. He watches as Ratchet scans one of the tanks and then turns with a frown, as though the gel is lacking something.
“Explain it for the medically disinclined.”
Casting him an impatient glance, Ratchet nevertheless launches into a retelling of the facts as he knows them.
“Self-propagation is not unheard of or difficult. Any mech is capable of doing so. That doesn't mean it's not dangerous. There's a limit to how much of our spark energy we can spare. And that limit prevents spark portions from achieving full sentience.”
It takes a moment for Skywarp to parse the terminology.
“So what you're saying is that the spark percentage is too small?”
“Yes.”
Warp considers.
“On top of that,” the medic continues, “Self-propagation in itself would only produce a dim copy of the original donor, which doesn't help us at all. We can't repopulate our species by making faulty copies of ourselves thousands of times over.”
Skywarp actually chuckles at this. “I imagine not. Can you imagine a world filled with Wheeljack, each dumber than the one before it?”
Ratchet tosses him a glare. “I meant that such an attempt is how we got the Swarm. But that’s an important point as well.” He dumps something into one of the tanks that looks like metallic dust. “Over time, we'd reduce ourselves to machines, like de-evolution.”
Such isn’t the intended result at all. They are looking to repopulate, not make matters worse.
Skywarp withdraws his talons from the tank, shaking off the excess energon. Okay, so self-propagation isn’t the answer. Though he could’ve swore Perceptor's research mentioned something about the spark's ability to regenerate. There's got to be something!
“Wait a klik.” Skywarp turns, orbital ridge flattening. “What about twins? Split-sparks?” It's the same concept, isn't it?
Ratchet shakes his helm. “That's different.”
“How?”
The medic sighs and moves to the next tank. “Twins like Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are split from a single, abnormally large and unstable spark. Ninety percent of the time it disassociates. Occasionally, it survives as a single, unstable spark. Rarely, it splits into two separate but viable sparks.”
“So it's possible.” Warp folds his arms, wondering how to apply this to their current situation. But spark physics and Cybertronian biology are hardly his fields of expertise.
“No, it isn't.” Ratchet turns toward the Seeker, one servo dragging down his faceplate. “A split spark is still a single spark, only divided. The two halves are smaller than the average.”
“Meaning?”
One hand flicks through the air in dismissal. “It isn't large enough to spare the extra energy for budding. In effect, a twin could never self-propagate even if the process did work.”
Warp's hopes wither. “So a normal spark splitting--”
“--would result in deactivation for both halves.”
Ratchet turns back toward the tank, but he doesn't scan. Instead, he braces himself on the edge, looking down at the hatchling with a dismal push of his energy field.
“And the safest percentage, even at the highest limits, is not enough to achieve the desired results.”
Skywarp mulls over the mathematics. Half of a spark is too much, killing the donor. A third is too little with not enough charge to achieve sentience.
“What about two?”
Ratchet's entire frame goes still.
“Two?”
The calculations start working at a frantic pace in Skywarp's processor and he knows Ratchet must be crunching the possibilities, too.
“Yes. Two. What if two donors budded and the results stuck together?”
The medic whirls. “You mean merging them?”
He sounds horrified at the mere thought, but underneath it all is a current of possibility.
Skywarp nods, fingers rapping over his forearm panel. “Would that be a sufficient spark charge?”
It's simple mathematics. Two-thirds is more than one-half, and if the donor spark can survive on two-thirds, then it stands to reason that the newspark could as well.
“It would be dangerous!” Ratchet's hand slices through the air, his horror magnified. “Bad enough to attempt that process on one mech. But on two? And then there's no guarantee the two partials would unite. And--”
“But would it be enough?” Skywarp interrupts, surprising himself with his own patience.
Ratchet's mouth clamps shut. He backpedals, sinking down onto the med berth. He says nothing, but Skywarp knows he must be performing the calculations, dumping possibilities into his processor. And he knows, by the sinking of Ratchet's shoulders, that the medic has come to the same conclusion as Skywarp.
“It is, isn't it?” he presses, eager for Ratchet to confirm his calculations.
“That doesn't make it plausible,” the medic snaps, field whipping into a frenzy that mingles excitement, fear, and desperation. “It's highly dangerous. Split sparks are unstable, prone to dissipating. And the primary spark is weakened.”
Skywarp arches an orbital ridge. “But it recovers.”
The sigh that emerges from Ratchet's vents echoes audibly. “Eventually, yes. The rift seals itself, and the spark slowly regenerates the lost mass.”
“Like a self-sustaining energy plant,” the Seeker comments.
“More or less.” Ratchet slumps further, the initial excitement dwindling to nothing, replaced by a marked lack of hope. “That doesn't mean we can start experimenting as we please. We are too few to risk the loss of one.”
Warp shakes his helm. He’s unwilling to let this chance go.
“We're already dying, Ratchet. If we don't try, what's the point?”
The medic has no answer for him. He gives Skywarp a look that best resembles pity, a contrary set to his frame that indicates he isn’t going to bend on this.
“He’s right, you know.”
Skywarp isn’t sure who’s more surprised, himself or Ratchet. They both turn around to find Prowl just within the medbarn entrance. He regards both of them with curious optics.
“If we do not take this opportunity, our kind will cease to exist,” Prowl continues, stepping further inside and sliding the door shut behind him.
Ratchet's optics cycle down. “We're talking about a process I know very little about. With no guarantees of anything.”
“Nothing is ever guaranteed. Except death,” Prowl says, and his sensory panels are arched and rigid behind him.
A storm dances across Ratchet's faceplate.
“Fine,” he all but snarls at them, throwing his servos into the air and rocks to his pedes. “If you're that bent on tearing the fabric of the universe, be my guest. But I'll have no part of it.”
Tearing the fabric...? Skywarp cannot help but be amused by the seemingly melodramatic medic. Surely, it can't be that serious.
“That is your decision,” Prowl replies, unflinching in the face of Ratchet's ire. “Though I am sure we’d be more successful if we had your assistance.”
The medic tilts his gaze away. “No,” he states, arms crossing his chassis. There's no room for persuasion in his tone.
Skywarp still intends to try. But then, Prowl sets a hand on his arm. The look in his optics carries all the warning the tactician needs.
“If you insist.” Prowl keeps his tone carefully mild. “Skywarp, perhaps you would join me in further discussion...?”
Ratchet doesn't look to be budging anytime soon, and Warp would bet a fair amount of cubes that the medic is devolving toward a sulk. Best to clear out before the tools start flying.
“Sure.” Skywarp gives Ratchet one last look, but since the medic won't meet his gaze, it’s a lost cause. For now.
He follows Prowl outside, waiting until the door shuts before he dares talk.
“Why did you--?”
“Ratchet is stubborn,” Prowl offers before he can finish the question. “The more you argue, the more he remains belligerent. You have to give him time to decide for himself.”
“Yeah. Sounds like somebody I used to know.”
It's uncomfortably familiar, actually. Stars used to have much the same problem.
Of course, Starscream liked to argue against Megatron of all mechs.
Prowl's lips curve in a half-smile that Warp has come to recognize as amusement.
“Don't worry. I will talk to him later. Wheeljack as well.”
“And I'm sure Drift will have something to say, too.”
More amusement trickles into Prowl's energy field.
“Perhaps.” Prowl tips his helm and brushes a light hand across Warp’s back as he moves away. “We shall see.”
The tactician leaves then, aiming for the storage barn, where a small common area of sorts has been arranged. It’s also the last place Skywarp remembers seeing Thundercracker.
Surprise, surprise. Only not.
Warp chuckles to himself and turns toward his lab-slash-occasional living quarters. He has work to be done.
***
Back to Part II | On to Part IV
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, background pairings
Desc: Friends. Alllies. Peace. Family. Skywarp never imagined that any of those terms would include an Autobot.
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Skywarp - Part Three
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Skywarp - Part Three
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“I think it needs a switchback mechanism.”
“Well, I think it's fine the way it is.”
“Because you're the expert on battle-cruiser class engines?”
“No, because the last thing we need is a double-loop on the power circuit!”
Skywarp plants his hands on his hips and stares at his opponent. His wings are twitching, and he refuses to give ground.
Neither does Wheeljack. The grounder is a few feet shorter than him, several tons lighter, and less visibly armed. Though to be fair, it is Wheeljack, and who knows what manner of explosive devices are concealed throughout his frame?
Warp's lips twitch.
Jack's indicators flash a muted purple.
Warp starts to chuckle. His systems dial back down from a brief stint toward battle protocols, an instinctual response to any sort of confrontation. Wheeljack shakes his head, field flicking out with amusement and exasperation both.
“I think we're both in over our helms.”
“Speak for yourself,” Warp retorts with an air of fake offense. “I can fly.”
Laughter rings from the Autobot, indicators bubbling a joyful blue. “Lucky you.” He turns back toward the heap of slag that they’re generously trying to turn into an engine. “This thing's hopeless.” He gives it a tentative prod with one digit.
“It just needs some TLC.” Warp circles around to the other side, poking at a few frayed cables with his own talon.
“Some?”
Warp's grin widens as he crouches and peers up into the corroded power linkages.
“Perhaps a lot. But it can be done.” Some of his humor fades. “It has to be done.”
“Sick of Earth already?” Wheeljack’s tone is soft, almost searching.
“I hated it from the moment I laid optics on it,” Skywarp replies truthfully. There are few things on this miserable planet that he appreciates.
The sky is big and blue and unencumbered, but he can't indulge in it because the threat is too great. Optimus Prime is waiting for them to slip up. The humans are eager to test new ordinance, and they're running out of Decepticons.
Jack makes a noise of agreement. “I'd probably like it more if I could get out and explore.” He ventilates a sigh of disappointment. “But all I'm getting is what we can find on the internet and television, and if either of those are an example of humanity, I'm not at all interested.”
“They're not that far off the mark,” Warp agrees. Though to be fair, he hasn't been out exploring either. His sole experience with Earth and its occupants is the battle in Chicago, immediately followed by hiding and running for his life.
His talon scrapes over a component. Dirt and rust flake to the ground.
“By the Allspark, this whole thing's going to need a flush.”
“Might be easier just to drag it into the Jackhammer's washracks, you think?” Wheeljack asks, humor flitting in and out of his energy field.
Warp catches Jack's gaze and tosses the engineer a wry grin. “And short-circuit all of my careful wiring? Over my empty frame!”
They laugh.
It’s surprisingly easy to get along with Wheeljack. It helps, he supposes, that once upon a time he’d admired the mech. He used to read every proposal of Wheeljack's that he could get his talons on. He's heard so many stories, marveled at too many creations. Wheeljack is a legend amongst engineers and inventors.
It's also nice to spend time with someone who doesn't look at him like an ancient relic recently unearthed and put on display.
“You know,” Jack says as the sound of his tinkering begins anew, including the whine of a welder powering on, “I'm rather curious as to how you became so knowledgeable in engineering.”
Luckily for the Autobot, Skywarp has already learned that his new friend often speaks before he thinks. He doesn't mean any offense intentionally.
Skywarp cycles a ventilation. “I never went to the Academy. Not like Stars. I didn't have an official education.” He pauses, a wry grin quirking his mouth. “War-build, you know. They kind of had rules about that sort of thing.”
“I remember.” Wheeljack's response is soft, tinged with regret and disappointment. “There were a lot of things about Cybertron that were ridiculous and foolish. I, for one, won’t miss the council and their slagging rules.”
Skywarp rises to his pedes, but only to pull up a crate. It's awkward to crouch.
“Me neither.” He pokes at his memory bank, glitched though it is, memories rising out of the fog to the fore. “That's how I met Stars. He was always a Seeker, a war-build, but he wasn't always a soldier, you know.”
“I remember that, too. He was brilliant.”
Was being the operative word here. It should hurt, Skywarp reflects, to talk and think about his trinemate. And in a way it does. There's an old ache in his spark, mostly for the Stars who was. For the intelligent and brightly-innocent young scientist who had so many dreams, visions of a different future.
Starscream had thought because the council was lenient and generous enough to grant him a scholarship, a chance to be better than his hatchmates, that political opinion as a whole could be altered. He thought he could prove his worth in sciences and open doors for other war-builds, confirm that soldiers could be more. By the time he learned it was a farce, a form of entertainment for the council and an experiment they never expected to succeed, it was too late.
No small wonder he had been so easily swayed by Megatron. Then again, Megatron had swayed them all with little effort. They all wanted something different, to be treated fairly, like mechs rather than armed slaves.
So when the Academy kicked Starscream out, he had no choice but to return to his roots. To the position for which he'd been sparked – the military.
“Skywarp?”
He stirs from the memories.
“Sorry. What was I saying?”
Wheeljack pauses in the midst of welding to look at Warp over the bulk of the engine. “Should I not have asked?”
Compassion too is another facet of his current functioning that Skywarp is struggling to adapt to. Compassion from an Autobot makes it even more disorienting.
“It's fine,” he assures. “Stars is... was...”
Words fail him and frustration colors Skywarp's tone. He leans forward, bracing himself on his thighs.
“One of my first assignments was guard duty for the various academia. Starscream was one of them. Shockwave was another.”
“Shockwave?” Wheeljack's indicators flash a startled orange as he ducks back behind the engine.
“You'd be surprised what you learn by watching,” Skywarp comments. “But you'd be right. Shockwave never deigned to show me anything. He liked to pretend we weren't there. That we were just drones for his personal use.”
Warp would also bet every credit he ever earned that Shockwave didn't know who he was either. Not even after vorns and vorns of war when Skywarp inexplicably found himself tied to Decepticon high command. He never seemed to recognize the Seeker who stood at Starscream's side.
“Still... it's Shockwave.” Disgust buzzes in Wheeljack's energy field.
“Tell me about it.” Warp grins. “Luckily, Shockwave preferred real drones over thinking mechanisms and dropped his military escort. I was assigned to Stars next, who was working on a project for the Senate.”
There's a rattle-clunk and a poof of smoke before Wheeljack grumbles a dissatisfied curse.
“Was that the null-ray?”
“Yeah, it was.” Skywarp can't hide his surprise. “Everyone thought it couldn't be done, but Stars pulled it off.”
“He was brilliant,” Wheeljack muses aloud, his tone carrying harmonics of honest admiration. “I read his thesis on energy states and matter conversion. He could have done so much more, if only they had let him.”
Skywarp makes a noncommittal noise. “Let being the operative term here. Anyway, Stars had guards, but he never had assistants. For some reason, they kept quitting, so he was always needing another pair of hands. He tended to snap at us to help him even though that's not what we were there for.”
Amusement threatens to rise to the fore.
Starscream had always expected to be obeyed. He would issue orders like it never occurred to him someone might protest. And maybe that's why he kept losing assistants.
“I learned a lot by watching,” Warp continues, yanking off a panel and ripping out a handful of electronic guts. He tosses them into the trash pile. “And then he offered to teach me. He thought it was offensive that his guards were so ignorant. Turns out, I had a real knack for weapons, too.”
“Hah. Don't we all?” Wheeljack's optics lit up with amusement, matching the bright glow of his indicators. “Some of the more interesting accidents were when I was in weapons design.”
Warp laughs. “Is that why Ratchet looks at you like an accident waiting to happen?”
Jack waves him off, starting up a grinder with a loud whirr. “He exaggerates. I've only damaged myself bad enough to need him twice in our entire functioning. All the other times were minor things he insisted on fixing. I let him because that's who Ratchet is. He needs stuff to fix.”
“I got that impression.” Skywarp smirks.
If it weren't for the hatchlings, Ratchet would probably be harassing them all about their maintenance habits, recharge schedules, refueling, and all manner of mechanical subjects. It's a good thing he has other distractions now.
As if on cue, the door to the barn rattles open, Ratchet striding through as if summoned by their very conversation.
“Hey, Ratch,” Jack greets with more than a little reservation. “What brings you by?”
“My Wheeljack senses were tingling,” the medic says with a sour note that usually indicates a mech in need of a good 'face. “You're about to do something stupid, aren't you?” He turns his helm left and right, as though scanning the laboratory for possible explosions in the making.
Wheeljack chuckles. “Whatever gave you that idea, Ratchet? It's just me and Warp here, fixing this engine.” He gives it a loving pat, and there's a dull thunk from somewhere in the bottom.
Skywarp eyes it cautiously. Wheeljack steps back a pace. A panel drops out of the bottom along with a handful of rusted gears.
“Fixing it, huh?” Ratchet comments, but his mouth curves into a grin. “Doesn't seem like you're doing a good job.”
Wheeljack rolls his shoulders. “Well, it hasn't exploded yet. I consider it a win. Must be Skywarp's good influence.” He winks an optic, and Warp grins back.
“Yeah,” he says. “Must be.”
Ratchet's field spikes, rife with suspicion and no small amount of apprehension. “That you two are getting along worries me.”
Warp braces his arm on a mount. He casually kicks the rusted parts under the suspended engine.
“Why? Are you jealous? Don't worry, Ratch, I can still fit you into my 'facing schedule.” He shutters an optic.
“I don't-- You don't-- ” The medic startles, his plating clamped down before he devolves into a scowl. “I'm going now,” he snarls and turns on a pede, leaving as abruptly as he'd come.
At least Wheeljack and Skywarp wait until he is out of the barn before they break into laughter. Ratchet tends to get even pricklier if he thinks someone is amused at his expense. And a prickly Ratchet is a violent one who likes to throw things. Though now that Wheeljack's here, it only means he has more targets.
Skywarp shakes his helm and returns his attention to the engine, though the amusement lingers. It's kind of nice, he thinks, to relax like this.
Even if it is with a couple of Autobots.
Astrotrain, Skywarp learns, has a habit of looming. He knows that the triple-changer is doing it on purpose. A psychological tactic, though all it succeeds in doing is making him irritated. There aren't many mechs online nowadays who would be intimidated by a little looming.
They've lived through too much for it.
Warp still isn't sure letting Astrotrain live was a good idea. That mech isn't on their side, is never going to be loyal to them, and has his own agenda. Just what that agenda is, Skywarp doesn't know. But he sure as frag is going to find out.
At least, Thundercracker and Prowl haven't completely lost their senses. Keeping Astrotrain on the moon is the smartest thing they could’ve done. He can't come to Earth without being shot down by Prime and the humans. And it wouldn't do him any good to attack Skywarp's cadre unless his processor goes completely fragged or something.
Still...
The looming is slagging annoying. Skywarp's tempted to shoot out Astrotrain's knees just to stop the itchy-crawling sensation of being watched.
--How can you stand it?--
The question, which suddenly spills into the open-comm they've designated for Astrotrain to use, makes Warp startle. He curses as his helm smacks into the bottom of the Ark's main control console. His optics have to recalibrate from the brief fuzz in his vision.
Glancing down the length of his frame, he can just make out two dark grey stumps. Astrotrain. Looming. Like always.
Skywarp bites back an exasperated comment and plants his most patient tone into his response.
--Stand what?--
--Working with the Autoscum,-- Astrotrain says, and as he shifts, the plating on his legs lifts and clamps visibly. --They're the enemy.--
Skywarp slides out from under the console. --No, the Senate was the enemy. The High Council.-- He pauses, considering. --Even Prime. All of them. Sentinel and those before him. Optimus now.--
He watches as Astrotrain's empty weapon mounts twitch. As though he's trying to cycle ammunition he no longer carries.
--The Autobots fought for the Senate.--The triple-changer insists. --That makes them the enemy.--
Skywarp can honestly say that he expected this to come up eventually. Astrotrain hasn't bothered to hide his disdain for his current circumstances, and though he treats them all with contempt, he saves his best behavior for interactions with Wheeljack and Prowl. They’re the only Autobots who actually come to the Ark.
--And now you're working for them.-- Astrotrain's transmission is dripping with disgust. --What kind of Decepticon are you?--
Skywarp gives him a level look. --The kind who wants to survive.--
Astrotrain sneers, his wings flaring as though in challenge. --They bombed Altihex. How can you forgive that?--
--Because I have to.—
Because he really has no other choice, truth be told, but Skywarp's not letting Astrotrain get that far under his plating.
--We flattened Praxus, remember? I'm sure Prowl does.--
--They razed Vos to cinders!-- Anger underlines every word, acrid in Astrotrain's energy field.
Skywarp shifts and sits a bit more upright. --And we destroyed Uraya, which was packed with civilians: Autobots, Neutrals, and sparklings alike. All because Megatron wanted to make a point.--
Amber optics brighten, Astrotrain's sneer deepening. --What? You feeling guilty for that?--
Skywarp shrugs, trying to effect nonchalance. --I'm just saying that it has to stop,-- he offers, though he doubts his words are going to get through to Astrotrain. --I haven't forgiven them, but I have to look past it. Otherwise, all we're going to do is keep fighting, keep killing. Until there aren't any of us left. And then what was it for?--
He catches himself, cycles a ventilation. Astrotrain's never going to understand, so why is he bothering? But the words are spilling out, and now, maybe Skywarp thinks they are more for himself.
The wreckage of the Ark surrounds him. The twinges of old hurts and weld lines are constant reminders.
--Though we might’ve already passed the point of no return,-- Skywarp says, and there's no concealing the regret and despair intermingled. --There may be no saving our species.--
At best, he could’ve hoped for silence. Thoughtful, if not respectful. But no. Such is beyond Astrotrain right now. Perhaps his battle-lust truly has infected him core deep.
--Heh.-- The laugh is mocking and cruel. --Look at you, trying to sound smart.--
Skywarp withdraws his energy field so fast it gives him figurative whiplash. He directs a glare at the triple-changer and shoves himself back under the console, scraping his wings in the process. Ratchet's going to bitch later. Strange that Skywarp's actually looking forward to that.
--Shove it up your afterburner, Astrotrain,-- he retorts and grimly picks up his tools. --If you can't get with the program, you're welcome to leave.--
Astrotrain kicks at a chair and sends it careening into the darkness. --I'm not leaving. Not until I've done what I need to do--
Despite his efforts, Skywarp's servos still. --And what would that be?--
--Don't you worry.-- The floor shakes with the force of Astrotrain's steps as he retreats out of the bridge. --Your precious group of traitors don't hold any interest for me. I couldn't care less that you're all a bunch of deserters.--
Astrotrain cuts off the comm, leaving Skywarp alone in a silence that is both welcome and worrisome. What are Astrotrain's intentions? What is he waiting for?
--I suspect our Astrotrain problem will solve itself,-- Dreadwing inserts, and Warp starts again, having forgotten that he was listening in. --Sooner rather than later,-- he adds, his words coming across their private comm, one Astrotrain cannot access.
--What do you mean?--
--His loathing for Prime is no secret. He may do something unwise.-- Dreadwing, who is currently onboard the Jackhammer, ensuring that it doesn't get appropriated by their unfriendly triple-changer, transmits a contemplative glyph.
--Like attempt a direct assault on Earth?--
--We don't have the resources to save those who don't want to be saved,-- Dreadwing replies, which isn't so much an answer as an evasion. --It's come to this. We can only do what we can do.--
Skywarp sighs. --He's not on deck anymore. Do you see him?--
--He's standing out here, staring off into space.--The other Seeker sounds partially amused and partially irritated. --Safer to leave him alone.--
Skywarp can agree with that. Sometimes, as they say on Earth, it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.
--Besides,-- Dreadwing continues. --Don't you have work to do? We want to leave Earth sometime this century.--
Warp sends him the Cybertronian equivalent of an emoticon across the comm. --You've been working with Prowl too long. He's made you boring.--
--And you would know this how?--
Skywarp refrains from answering. He slides back under the console, tools in hand. Dreadwing's right at least. The Ark isn't going to fix itself, and they are on a time crunch.
It's time to get back to work.
“You must be bored.”
Warp rolls his helm upward, optics following. “What makes you say that?”
Ratchet tosses him an amused look. “Because you're lingering in here, quite possibly the least entertaining place to be right now.”
“Maybe I enjoy your company.” Warp offers him a winning grin.
Ratchet barks a laugh. “I don't believe that for a second.”
Skywarp snorts. “It's true. You haven't thrown anything at me in days!”
Actually, come to think of it, the medic has been in a fairly decent mood lately. Warp's caught him smiling a couple of times and his energy field isn't vile enough to knock a gestalt over either. It's almost as if something has happened, something that has finally evened out the dissonance in his spark...
“I can always change that, you know,” the medic says, heedless of the epiphany that Warp has just stumbled upon. “I've got a nice--”
“You and Drift finally caught a clue, didn't you?” Warp accuses, leaping to his pedes with a gleeful quirk of his wings.
Ratchet startles, mouth briefly clamping shut. “I... You... I don't know what you're talking about,” he blusters, but Skywarp can tell he's flustered. He drops his gaze, starts puttering around, picking things up and putting them down again in no certain order.
Warp's grin widens. “Oh, I think you do. You know exactly what I mean. Congratulations must be in order then.”
Ratchet huffs. He casts an askance look as he pretends to look busy by examining the hatchlings, which have doubled in size since they were first rescued.
“You are impossibly nosy,” he grumps. “And full of wild stories.”
“Sticks and stones, Ratchet.”
Skywarp trails along after the medic. Ratchet had at least been partially right. He is bored, and he's not due to work on the Ark until Jack gets back, which means he needs to find something to entertain himself. Something that's not watching Tracks polish himself mirror-shiny or Prowl and Thundercracker play some kind of strategy game or Dreadwing read a datapad.
Needling Ratchet is its own form of entertainment.
“Besides, you looked in need of some company,” Warp adds as he follows Ratchet down the steps and into the area set aside for growing hatchlings. “Seeing that Drift is on patrol at all.”
Ratchet ventilates a sigh. “You are like a turbofox, aren't you? Always sniffing where you aren’t wanted?”
“It's part of my charm.” Warp smirks and stands back, leaning against a precarious stack of crates as Ratchet wanders through the maze of containers and their precious contents. “So when are they due to hatch?”
The medic tosses him a wry look. “They aren't organic ovum, Skywarp. They don't hatch.”
“Semantics.” Warp waves off the medic's dour expression. “When do they get to decant from the nutrient bath?”
Ratchet pauses by one of the tanks, a Seeker maybe. Or Skywarp thinks perhaps one of the other flight-class frames.
“At this rate, within the next season.”
Skywarp winces. “That's... soon.”
“Yes. I know.” The medic's happily buzzing energy field flattens like a balloon that's been deflated. “And we'll have a dozen healthy drones underpede. Lucky for us.”
Skywarp pushes himself off the crates, moving to the nearest tank substitute, one containing a grounder. The little bitling is actually kind of cute, even if it isn't a flyer. And also, not so little anymore. The smallest of their cadre is Drift, and the hatchlings would probably come up to his chestplate, the Seekerlings would match him in height.
“Still no luck on Perceptor's research?”
“Drift's told me all he knows,” Ratchet replies. “I've added it to my databanks, compared it to my own knowledge, but there are no answers.”
Leaning on the edge of the tank, Skywarp idly drags a talon through the nutrient bath. It’s more an energon gel packed with supplements the growing protoforms need.
“What about budding?”
“You mean self-propagation?”
Warp lifts his shoulders in a shrug.
“Whatever the medical terminology. I seem to remember hearing a rumor about Shockwave dabbling in something similar.”
It's only a small white lie as it isn't so much a rumor as something Skywarp witnessed for himself when he was working as part of Shockwave's armed guard.
Ratchet makes a noise of disgust. “Yes, and that’s why we have Insecticons.” He pauses. “And to a lesser extent, the Vehicons, though the latter is far more coherent.”
Skywarp tilts his helm. He watches as Ratchet scans one of the tanks and then turns with a frown, as though the gel is lacking something.
“Explain it for the medically disinclined.”
Casting him an impatient glance, Ratchet nevertheless launches into a retelling of the facts as he knows them.
“Self-propagation is not unheard of or difficult. Any mech is capable of doing so. That doesn't mean it's not dangerous. There's a limit to how much of our spark energy we can spare. And that limit prevents spark portions from achieving full sentience.”
It takes a moment for Skywarp to parse the terminology.
“So what you're saying is that the spark percentage is too small?”
“Yes.”
Warp considers.
“On top of that,” the medic continues, “Self-propagation in itself would only produce a dim copy of the original donor, which doesn't help us at all. We can't repopulate our species by making faulty copies of ourselves thousands of times over.”
Skywarp actually chuckles at this. “I imagine not. Can you imagine a world filled with Wheeljack, each dumber than the one before it?”
Ratchet tosses him a glare. “I meant that such an attempt is how we got the Swarm. But that’s an important point as well.” He dumps something into one of the tanks that looks like metallic dust. “Over time, we'd reduce ourselves to machines, like de-evolution.”
Such isn’t the intended result at all. They are looking to repopulate, not make matters worse.
Skywarp withdraws his talons from the tank, shaking off the excess energon. Okay, so self-propagation isn’t the answer. Though he could’ve swore Perceptor's research mentioned something about the spark's ability to regenerate. There's got to be something!
“Wait a klik.” Skywarp turns, orbital ridge flattening. “What about twins? Split-sparks?” It's the same concept, isn't it?
Ratchet shakes his helm. “That's different.”
“How?”
The medic sighs and moves to the next tank. “Twins like Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are split from a single, abnormally large and unstable spark. Ninety percent of the time it disassociates. Occasionally, it survives as a single, unstable spark. Rarely, it splits into two separate but viable sparks.”
“So it's possible.” Warp folds his arms, wondering how to apply this to their current situation. But spark physics and Cybertronian biology are hardly his fields of expertise.
“No, it isn't.” Ratchet turns toward the Seeker, one servo dragging down his faceplate. “A split spark is still a single spark, only divided. The two halves are smaller than the average.”
“Meaning?”
One hand flicks through the air in dismissal. “It isn't large enough to spare the extra energy for budding. In effect, a twin could never self-propagate even if the process did work.”
Warp's hopes wither. “So a normal spark splitting--”
“--would result in deactivation for both halves.”
Ratchet turns back toward the tank, but he doesn't scan. Instead, he braces himself on the edge, looking down at the hatchling with a dismal push of his energy field.
“And the safest percentage, even at the highest limits, is not enough to achieve the desired results.”
Skywarp mulls over the mathematics. Half of a spark is too much, killing the donor. A third is too little with not enough charge to achieve sentience.
“What about two?”
Ratchet's entire frame goes still.
“Two?”
The calculations start working at a frantic pace in Skywarp's processor and he knows Ratchet must be crunching the possibilities, too.
“Yes. Two. What if two donors budded and the results stuck together?”
The medic whirls. “You mean merging them?”
He sounds horrified at the mere thought, but underneath it all is a current of possibility.
Skywarp nods, fingers rapping over his forearm panel. “Would that be a sufficient spark charge?”
It's simple mathematics. Two-thirds is more than one-half, and if the donor spark can survive on two-thirds, then it stands to reason that the newspark could as well.
“It would be dangerous!” Ratchet's hand slices through the air, his horror magnified. “Bad enough to attempt that process on one mech. But on two? And then there's no guarantee the two partials would unite. And--”
“But would it be enough?” Skywarp interrupts, surprising himself with his own patience.
Ratchet's mouth clamps shut. He backpedals, sinking down onto the med berth. He says nothing, but Skywarp knows he must be performing the calculations, dumping possibilities into his processor. And he knows, by the sinking of Ratchet's shoulders, that the medic has come to the same conclusion as Skywarp.
“It is, isn't it?” he presses, eager for Ratchet to confirm his calculations.
“That doesn't make it plausible,” the medic snaps, field whipping into a frenzy that mingles excitement, fear, and desperation. “It's highly dangerous. Split sparks are unstable, prone to dissipating. And the primary spark is weakened.”
Skywarp arches an orbital ridge. “But it recovers.”
The sigh that emerges from Ratchet's vents echoes audibly. “Eventually, yes. The rift seals itself, and the spark slowly regenerates the lost mass.”
“Like a self-sustaining energy plant,” the Seeker comments.
“More or less.” Ratchet slumps further, the initial excitement dwindling to nothing, replaced by a marked lack of hope. “That doesn't mean we can start experimenting as we please. We are too few to risk the loss of one.”
Warp shakes his helm. He’s unwilling to let this chance go.
“We're already dying, Ratchet. If we don't try, what's the point?”
The medic has no answer for him. He gives Skywarp a look that best resembles pity, a contrary set to his frame that indicates he isn’t going to bend on this.
“He’s right, you know.”
Skywarp isn’t sure who’s more surprised, himself or Ratchet. They both turn around to find Prowl just within the medbarn entrance. He regards both of them with curious optics.
“If we do not take this opportunity, our kind will cease to exist,” Prowl continues, stepping further inside and sliding the door shut behind him.
Ratchet's optics cycle down. “We're talking about a process I know very little about. With no guarantees of anything.”
“Nothing is ever guaranteed. Except death,” Prowl says, and his sensory panels are arched and rigid behind him.
A storm dances across Ratchet's faceplate.
“Fine,” he all but snarls at them, throwing his servos into the air and rocks to his pedes. “If you're that bent on tearing the fabric of the universe, be my guest. But I'll have no part of it.”
Tearing the fabric...? Skywarp cannot help but be amused by the seemingly melodramatic medic. Surely, it can't be that serious.
“That is your decision,” Prowl replies, unflinching in the face of Ratchet's ire. “Though I am sure we’d be more successful if we had your assistance.”
The medic tilts his gaze away. “No,” he states, arms crossing his chassis. There's no room for persuasion in his tone.
Skywarp still intends to try. But then, Prowl sets a hand on his arm. The look in his optics carries all the warning the tactician needs.
“If you insist.” Prowl keeps his tone carefully mild. “Skywarp, perhaps you would join me in further discussion...?”
Ratchet doesn't look to be budging anytime soon, and Warp would bet a fair amount of cubes that the medic is devolving toward a sulk. Best to clear out before the tools start flying.
“Sure.” Skywarp gives Ratchet one last look, but since the medic won't meet his gaze, it’s a lost cause. For now.
He follows Prowl outside, waiting until the door shuts before he dares talk.
“Why did you--?”
“Ratchet is stubborn,” Prowl offers before he can finish the question. “The more you argue, the more he remains belligerent. You have to give him time to decide for himself.”
“Yeah. Sounds like somebody I used to know.”
It's uncomfortably familiar, actually. Stars used to have much the same problem.
Of course, Starscream liked to argue against Megatron of all mechs.
Prowl's lips curve in a half-smile that Warp has come to recognize as amusement.
“Don't worry. I will talk to him later. Wheeljack as well.”
“And I'm sure Drift will have something to say, too.”
More amusement trickles into Prowl's energy field.
“Perhaps.” Prowl tips his helm and brushes a light hand across Warp’s back as he moves away. “We shall see.”
The tactician leaves then, aiming for the storage barn, where a small common area of sorts has been arranged. It’s also the last place Skywarp remembers seeing Thundercracker.
Surprise, surprise. Only not.
Warp chuckles to himself and turns toward his lab-slash-occasional living quarters. He has work to be done.
Back to Part II | On to Part IV
