There're a lot of things about Earth that Ratchet finds disgusting. He watches the news the humans send out constantly, never ceasing and never ending in their reports. Rapists go unpunished, the humans unable to track and identify the criminal. People are murdered every day—and for what? Thirty dollars and the tiny, worn pictures of their families in their wallets. The wallets and photographs get tossed to the dirt. Stepped on. Ground into the mud until they're unrecognizable. Humans beat their dogs, their cats, their children. Some are caught, but most, Ratchet knows in the darkest depths of his processors, are not. Most of the world lives in extreme poverty; without food, without clean water, without shelter, they are the ignored and the forgotten, the souls left by the wayside by a tiny minority of extremely affluent people.
Ratchet thinks of how humans drive and walk past the homeless, the hungry, the hurting, carefully looking away, talking all the more loudly to cover their cries for help, for mercy. Kindness is overwhelmed by cruelty on this planet.
He thinks of the way the humans ruin their planet with their fossil fuels, with their waste, with their garbage and their overuse. He thinks of the landfills, full of millions of tons of slowly decaying refuse, knowing that most of it could have been kept and reused, recycled. Thinks of how the pieces of plastic left under the ground will be there for longer than any of these humans or even their grandchildren or great grandchildren will be alive.
Ratchet finds this planet, the beings on it, disgusting sometimes. Their customs, their habits, their destruction. He cannot however fault their wars, however much he might want to. Ratchet, more than most, knows how very hypocritical it would make him were he to do so. For all their faults, he knows the humans have not ever fought a war as petty as the one Ratchet fights every solar cycle. For all their faults, Ratchet envies the humans. Humans know something lost to Cybertronians: how to end a war.
Whenever Ratchet gets too upset about the things he sees on Earth, eventually the inevitable realization that he is raging against a species younger than Ratchet himself is, and the effect is like a dunk in the icy ocean. Humans are a young species. They have their follies. Cybertronians have their own, and really, they are little different from the Earthlings. Does Ratchet really have the right to complain? Furthermore, does he have the right to lump them all in together?
Not all humans are bad. Most, in fact, he admits when he finally calms himself into rational thought again, are basically good people. Basically good people just trying to survive in a crazy world. He sees people helping others, people doing the right thing for no rewards, and even at the cost of their own lives or livelihood, for no reason other than it being the right thing to do. He sees sparkwarming acts of kindness and generosity, of selfless love and selfless sacrifice.
He sees so much good in so many people. It's so easy to focus on the bad, and so easy to focus on the good in only the humans he knows—Primus knows Sam has 'selflessness' coming out of his ears, when he stops being a human teenager (Ratchet must reflect with good humor that it seemed all beings, species irrelevant, go through a 'teenager' stage at some point in their development, and that it rarely reflects anything of their true nature) and starts acting rationally. There aren't many people Ratchet knows who would be willing to do so much and give so much for who were strangers. Ratchet still cannot really believe what the boy did in those first few days, before even knowing anything about the Autobots.
It's easy to focus so narrowly, but Ratchet doesn't like allowing himself to do so. He likes to see the big picture, and the big picture is that the planet Earth is a young planet, with a young dominant species. The humans are learning, with their fair share of mistakes and accidents and wrongdoings—but the humans are not, on the whole, 'bad'. It is humbling and shaming, Ratchet recognizes, to see some of the good the humans do—but it is also reassuring. The Autobots are not lone spots of light in a vast darkness. For good or bad, humans are like the cybertronians. They are not perfect, not by any means.
Ratchet doesn't think that life would be very satisfying, though, if any person or species were perfect.
It's not quite paradise
Ironhide usually isn't an introspective mech. He sees a target, shoots a 'Con, calls it a day. That's usually O.K. by him. Usually, but not always, and after a while in space with nothing but black and silence and the distant pinpoints of stars punctuated by the occasional short, careful communication from one of the others, even Ironhide runs out of routine system checks and repairs to do. It comes to a point where you think or you go crazy in your own mind, and Ironhide wasn't about to do that. He's gotten used to thinking, though, and it is kind of a habit even now, on this tiny, fast-paced little planet full of organics.
It is nothing like Cybertron. Nothing at all.
Earth isn't a bad place, he supposes, but it in't really a good one, either. Ignoring all the crap humans do, it still isn't that appealing. Very damp, muddy. Dirty little planet, really. And so very disorganized—Ironhide hates that. He hates how asymmetrical everything is! Why can the trees not grow properly perpendicular to the Earth? Would it kill them to grow an even number of branches, evenly spaced throughout the tree, at attractive angles? How can the birds stand not singing in rhythm together? And worst of all—oh, far worse than the asymmetrical trees (Ironhide constantly has to repress the urge to fix them whenever he sees trees, because he'd learned that branches could not be removed and welded in their proper place early on in his stay on Earth) are the insects.
Ironhide hates insects. They make obnoxious noises, they fly in the middle of roads and splatter their tiny, glue-like bodies all over a bot's hood and grill and windshield and refuse to come off without vigorous scrubbing. They make nests—NESTS!—inside of a bot's wheel well, they crawl up a mech's tires and into his chassis and scurry around for days tickling incessantly, and worse besides. They are gross.
The local wildlife isn't much better. Ironhide can't understand how the small rodents managed to survive so long—the things, squirrels, Will had called them, dart into roads and hurtle into bumpers. They are suicidal little beasts, and worse than being hard to clean off, it makes Will's mate and sparkling cry whenever they strike one. The little beasts seem to wait for Ironhide to be carrying the Lennox family somewhere, for only then do they leap under his tires to die a mercifully quick but terribly messy death. Oh, how he loathes squirrels.
No—nothing like Cybertron. But, Earth has its upsides, too.
Ironhide watches often, because on this planet there is sometimes little else to do. He watches at NEST headquarters, the soldiers training. He doesn't always help out, but likes watching the humans work together to solve problems. They do it well, sometimes moving like they have private com links the way Cybertronians do. They don't, and that just makes it all the more amazing to Ironhide. To see them work together, he knows firsthand the trust it takes to work together on the battlefield, even with someone with whom you are in communication at all times, who you can constantly track and monitor.
To do the same things without that…He has seen the humans; they go in and do their parts of the jobs, trusting without question, without hesitation or doubt that their partners will do their parts of the plan the right way without problems and get out safely. He has seen them do these things together, alone but together, somehow, in the heat of battle without the comfort of scanners or private com links or anything but their own confidence, skill, and trust in their partners. He has seen them, time after time, come out victorious, and has marveled at these small, fragile beings. Their trust and affection for their teammates, their support and love was boundless.
Ironhide has also seen them in those times when they lose one of those much-loved members of the team. He has seen the way that the humans grieve quietly, respectfully for their fallen team member, and bear the body back to the families. He has heard the quiet ceremonies the soldiers have on their own time, remembering a fallen comrade with fierce pride, with sorrow and with strength. Ironhide has heard them quietly honoring their comrades to the families of the departed, telling frankly and honestly the stories of their death, of their honor in battle and their bravery. He hears them speak in funerals of valor, of sacrifice, of nobility.
Ironhide sees this nobility, this respect and devotion in every one of the soldiers at NEST. These soldiers are not Cybertonians. They are not Autobots or decepticons. But in these people, these humans, Ironhide feels a kindred spirit. Here, with these people so very different from himself, on a planet far from home and nothing like the place he came from, Ironhide can feel at home.
Not quite paradise…but it sure feels like home.
Optimus knows that most humans are ignorant to their presence on this planet. He knows that of those that do know, a number of them do not welcome them to stay. He understands why, and he respects it. Optimus fears, though, that they will be asked to leave Earth.
The Autobots live here on borrowed time: this, better than anyone else, Optimus knows well. He wants it that way. He does not want the others fearing to lose their new home. He does not want them to recoil from the humans and cease to make connections and friendships, because Optimus knows that it will hurt the Autobots as much as it will hurt their human friends. As much as it will hurt their chances to stay. With no connections to the people here, they will have no chance at being asked to remain. Being allowed to remain.
Optimus does not want to leave.
He knows they walk a fine line between a tentative welcome and being thrown off of the planet in disgust, and in the process forfeiting it to the Decepticons. A chill runs through him at the thought of what will happen to this small planet and its young inhabitants should that happen. The fear he feels in response to the thought is not only for the humans, though, but also for himself and for his followers. How many homes can a mech have torn from them before they break? How many friends can a bot lose before they shut down entirely?
The thought of leaving Earth fills Optimus Prime with a deeper fear than any Decepticon has ever instilled in him. It is the same fear he once felt for Cybertron, and he knows that he has taken Earth as his new home, in such a short time. There is still a wound inside him, throbbing and jagged and raw, empty and void—the loss of a home. A planet. That sort of thing will do that. Optimus does not know if he could handle such loss again.
The Autobots live on borrowed time. They are not guaranteed a home here, they are only granted it. He hopes he can earn a home, but for now they must walk a fine line, balance carefully so that they remain welcome. One day, maybe, he thinks that they can live among the humans openly, secure in their welcome and secure in their place here as a part of this planet and a part of this society. He hopes such a day will arrive sooner than later, but for now, he speaks with Presidents, with Kings, with Queens, with dictators. He speaks with ambassadors and generals and defense authorities and anyone else who wishes to speak with him, until his head throbs and his vocalizer hurts, and he will never complain. Talking earns them a place here. Fighting earns them a place here.
Maybe a day will come where they will not have to pay so dearly to remain in the place Optimus knows they are all growing to love. Until then, he will wait, and he will pay, and he will have faith that one day, they will have a place of their own here—uncontested, permanent, a home of their own.
Not quite paradise—we can rent to own.
Bumblebee's life has never been simple. He was sparked not long before the War began, and ever since it's been one long struggle to survive. A struggle to not be found, to stay alive long enough to be trained to defend himself, to defend himself long enough to escape, to escape long enough to rest, to rest long enough to fight more. He's spent more of his life in space without any home, without anything but wondering where his next bit of rest or comfort was coming from, watching the stars for the telltale flash of engines or optics that would signal friend—or foe—approaching.
Bumblebee's spent most of his life alone. Little of his life was spent on Cybertron before it was destroyed, and since then, he's seen fewer and fewer of his people. He's known for a long time somewhere deep inside that they were all dying out, and that if they didn't find the Allspark, there would never be any others.
There really aren't words to describe how it feels in the dark, oppressively silent void of space all alone. Bumblebee got used to being alone after a while, because there wasn't anything else he could do. At first there were others, and then fewer, and then the day came when there weren't the near-constant comms from others giving them updates on their status. He remembers the deep, aching loneliness when there was not even an occasional comm. There was just emptiness and endless, endless silence.
A time came when Bumblebee stopped thinking of himself as the youngest Autobot. He realized, at some point along the way, that he was not only the youngest. He was the last sparkling. And he knew that one day he wouldn't just be the last sparkling. Unless he got killed in battle beforehand or offlined through some unforeseeable accident, Bumblebee would be the last Cybertronian in the universe. Long after ancient Ratchet and Ironhide's bodies rusted over and stopped working, after Optimus fell still, Bumblebee would still be alive. Not young, maybe, but alive. Functional. Alone.
Bumblebee was used to being lonely. But he didn't want to be alone. Even when he was with the others he felt alone, sometimes. It wasn't that he didn't feel involved with the other Autobots; they strove to include him, and he really was a part of the team. But they were so very old, and Bumblebee…wasn't. Jazz was the only one young enough he could really relate to in his immediate team. They were best friends, and not only because they were closest in age in the team. There was that feeling of sameness to them, as though they were cast from the same mold and made as sparkbrothers.
Then Jazz died and left him with the others, alone and friendless on a small planet full of organics so different from them that they couldn't possibly understand. Alone.
Except, that isn't quite the truth. Bumblebee won't say that he'd known immediately that he and Sam would be friends, because that would be silly. At first, it had only been about protecting the one who had the glasses and the secret to the Allspark, because if he could only keep this small, fragile organic safe long enough, they would have the Allspark back and maybe—just maybe—Bumblebee wouldn't be the last.
Somewhere along the way, though, the little organic boy became more than a means to an end. There is a connection that goes both ways. Bumblebee remembers with a shudder the look on Sam's face as Sector Seven dragged the boy away and into a car while spraying Bumblebee with the liquid nitrogen. Sam had been terrified and angry, but not, Bumblebee knows looking back, scared for himself. Sam had been frightened for Bumblebee. The knowledge is warming, even if the situation was terrible.
Sam saved Bumblebee from Sector Seven, an act Bumblebee is even now grateful for. That though, he muses, was probably the point at which Sam became more to Bumblebee than just a commodity. Bumblebee did not have to take Sam with him, he knows, after getting the cube. But Bee is glad that he did, for all the bad that followed, for all that Jazz was killed in that horrible battle and that they lost the Allspark
Because Bee found that he had more friends than he'd thought, that day. Mickaela, Sam. Even the soldiers who later became NEST. Bumblebee can't imagine what life on Earth would be like without his human friends and companions; the thought is unspeakable to him.
More amazing than Bee's own connection to Sam is Sam's connection to Bee.
Bumblebee sits on the lookout in his bipedal form, cradling the small organic to his face in the dim light of the city below and the stars above, feeling tiny, soft hands gliding over his faceplates, a warm cheek touching his own with wisps of soft hair tickling him. He sees Sam's dark eyes, darker in the night, looking at him with affection. He sees the healing bruises and cuts on Sam's already-scarred skin and knows that this war, their war—Sam's war, too, now—was as hard on the human as it was on Bee. The boy, Bee's close friend, carries the burden well, though. He hears Sam's voice, quiet and still a little hoarse, whispering how he can't picture life without Bee. He hears the hitch in Sam's breathing and curls his hand around the boy in some semblance of a hug, always careful with the fragile body.
Sam wasn't an Autobot, and Earth wasn't Cybertron. Not even close. But…Bumblebee isn't alone or friendless. Not even close.
Not quite paradise…but we don't have to be alone.
We made it okay
Somewhere in the back of your mind
When you see your demons come to life
And the world fades away
You'll know it's okay
It's gonna be okay.
Notes: Just a bunny from a song. Check out "Not Quite Paradise" on the Titan AE soundtrack on Youtube. :3 I likes it. Anyways...yeah. XD I'm so sappy. Please review! Even if it's just a blank review from an anonymous reviewer, it will make me happy! 3 Thanks for reading. :3