Prequel to my story "The Celebration".

Radishes

The medic

He stopped for a moment to take in the splendor of the palace in front of him. Magnificient was the most common used description for it, and in this very moment TurnUp could only agree. Few buildings on Cybertron were in the same league as this one, and none of them was built for function and grandeur in the same measure. It was fitting then, that this building with its many blue and gold flags belonged to the most powerful mech in Praxus, the Grand Duke of Praxus.

The very mech he was here for.

He straightened, old joints cracking with long use. This was just another noble mech, one of the many he had met over his long life as a medic. He shouldn't expect anything special, just because he was a Grand Duke and only one position beneath the blessed Prime himself. Truthfully, most of the nobles hadn't really seen in him anything beyond another faceless mech, who just happened to be treating them.

TurnUp walked up to the closed gate, the Golden Gate as the instructions had said even though usually this gate was just for visiting noble. He guessed, that the Grand Duke didn't want everyone to know that he was seeing a strange medic.

The two guards, both with Praxus' crystal crest on their breast plates, blue shoulder pads and doorwings, had observed him from afar, and were now glowering at him, waiting. They were big warframes, but in good keep. TurnUp knew enough of their frameclass to also recognize that despite their intimidating aura, they were barely older than younglings and mostly curious. Nothing indicated that they saw him as a true threat. No doubt his glyphs that proclaimed him to be a medic and as such a pacifist, too, had done their job.

"Excuse me, I am Medic TurnUp from the medic association." He bowed his head a bit to show his respect for the House. "I'm instructed to meet the Grand Duke in seven breems."

Both guards nodded. "You've been awaited, Master Medic," the left one said and TurnUp felt a sliver of relief, when the Golden Gate opened. "Please understand, that you have to go through the security check." The young mech sounded truly apologetic, as if he thought to send a medic through a security check was ludicrous.

TurnUp nodded with a smile: "No trouble, young guard. Identities have to be confirmed after all." Security checkups were to be expected with nobles and he supposed the higher they were up, the more they were in danger.

The two youngling guards relaxed when he didn't react with anger. "Of course. We try our best to keep our Lord and Master safe."

It seemed a strange remark, until he remembered that not too long ago a Grand Duke of the House of Praxus had been poisoned by his own secretary. The scandal had even reached into their peaceful halls as medics wondered appalled why a mech, who had been loyal for decavorns, would do something like this. TurnUp had ignored those discussions. Politics had never been something of particular interest to him.

He smiled at the two young mechs. "And you're to be praised for it."

The complimentary words had the two younglings guards straighten with pride.

Another pair of guards, one red and white, the other a dark green, both adorned with the blue of the house, flanked him the moment he set a second pede inside.

"Please follow us," they said and led him over a square through the palace gate itself. They were older than the first pair and moved with the predatory grace that spoke of long hours of training and a permanent alertness.

TurnUp couldn't help but scan them in secret as they walked. Where they healthy and fueled? Did they show signs of past punishments or even abuse? Both was sadly not uncommon in far too many mechs in his own district. But his scans came back with surprisingly positive results. These mechs had never suffered of starvation or sickness. Yes, they had had signs of old wounds and scars, one particularly one was even settled right next to the spark, but these were expected by warframes no matter their job and city. Especially when they were guards and soldiers. But every injury his scanners detected was well healed, and his optics only found the tiniest of silver scars, their edges smooth and even. These weren't wounds left to heal by themselves. There had been a medic and enough rest time involved. Who was the medic was that served in House Praxus? He should have looked it up, he chastised himself. It was always an opportunity to compare notes with a skilled colleague.

Despite his first findings, his suspiciousness caused by past experiences let him scan every servant that came into range. Most were a bit shorter than the medic and of the various Praxian standard frames. But in between he saw frames from all ways of life and places, even two towering smithframes with hammerhands and the thickest, blackest of armor. None of the mechs were in a particular hurry, but all seemed to have a destination in mind or worked on something. Also, none of them reacted with fear towards the warframes patrolling everywhere in sight. Security was high and discipline obviously strict.

The young Grand Duke, whatever else the rumors had said about him, at least seemed to take care of his staff, which was good. Not that the rumors had claimed him to be a cruel mech, but no one had called him caring as well as far TurnUp remembered.

The two Praxian warframes led him up a white staircase into the beautiful hallways of the palace, decorated with paintings of famous myths like the Fight of Prima against Megatronus, or the Journey of Trion. Once he glimpsed a golden statue of a Praxian with a lance in one servo and a shield with Praxus' crest in the other. Every line on him was regal, and spoke of power. TurnUp recognized the Praxian from his history lessons as a mechling – Vector Prime. The protector and creator of the House of Praxus.

After a few more turns they walked through a small, hidden door on the side. The room's decoration was as different as it could be from the rest of the palace. White walls, a grey floor and cold light from high above greeted him. Not only had it no window, but also was it empty of any comfort, if one didn't count the single, simple chair in the middle. It was bolted on ground.

Behind it stood another, nearly black guard with crossed arms and a grim face, awaiting them. His optics were yellow and sparkled with sharp intelligence. Even if the small honory glyphs, which were etched around the crest on his breast plate and at the edge of his doorwings, hadn't been, TurnUp would've instinctively recognized him as a leader among the guard.

"Welcome to the House of Praxus, Master medic," the higher ranking guard said with a short nod. "I am Captain Quickstrike, the Head of the Guard. I would like to apologize for this inconvenience, but I'm afraid it's necessary."

"Please, no need to apologize," TurnUp hurried to say. "I understand completely. What do you need me to do?"

Quickstrike pointed at the chair. "Please sit down. We'll scan you for weapons first, then we'll search your subspace and armor. Any questions?"

His subspace too? Even as he was shaking his head, he felt himself becoming uncomfortable. A scan was the usual procedure, and he had been subjected to an armor search before, but never before had a stranger touched his subspace. It was considered private for good reason. A subspace didn't just store weapons or things one needed later, but also very internal parts of oneself that allowed for much more sophisticated transformation sequences and altmodes.

Still, he sat down on the chair, and tried to steel himself. He was here for a duty and to run away from it for a silly reason like an uncomfortable search was simply not something a proper medic did.

The scan was noninvasive and done before TurnUp had realized it. Even though he had very sensitive equipment, there had barely been a tingle. The scanner must have been hidden in the walls, which was clever. With a bit of envy, he wished to have such an instrument in his own hospital.

Captain Quickstrike was reading the results on a datapad. Then, he nodded to the younger pair of guards: "No inbuilt weapons. Search him."

TurnUp tensed as the two approached, but they were obviously trained to do this. Instead of standing, both knelt down next to him and warned before starting touch. He tried not to squirm when hands glided over his armor and dipped into the seams in search for Primus' knows what. He supposed he really didn't want to know what dangerous things a desperate mech could hide between his ankle plates. Or his ports. Or one of the dozen other places on him they softly announced they had to investigate. Instead he stared up to the stark white ceiling and tried to think of nothing.

"Clean," announced the guard at his right side finally and both stepped away, their hands finally leaving TurnUp's frame. The medic's first reaction was relief, then he remembered with dread that the worst was still to come.

"Is this really necessary, gentlemechs?" he asked uncertainly.

Captain Quickstrike gave him a glance heavy with experience. "Yes, Master medic. Our Lord has decreed it so."

"I understand." Few things went against a Grand Duke's wishes, especially in his own House.

"We could bring our Lord the datapad with the results," offered Quickstrike quietly.

TurnUp blinked, surprised that a guard, even if it was the Head of it, knew why he was here. He shook his head: "Thank you for the offer, Captain, but I'm afraid that I have sworn to uphold the confidentiality. The only one who will receive the datapad is the Lord himself."

Quickstrike bowed his head a little, and TurnUp liked to see that he had won a little respect with the Praxian warframe. "As you wish, Master Medic. I will try to make this quick."

Quickstrike stepped forward, gently took the medic's lower arm and waited. TurnUp took a deep sigh. It would be over soon, it was nothing. Then, he ordered his subspace locks to open and looked away, unable to watch. Blunt fingers forced themselves inside. They felt strange, alien as if they were exposing him on a fundamental level. It was of course not logical as a subspace was just an extension and addition, but this knowledge didn't help. No one had ever done this to him, and to be forced now... He only noticed that he had started to tremble, when one of the other guards handed him a warm energon cube.

He stared at it in surprise, and the guard smiled in obvious understanding. "It helps."

"Thank you."

He took a deep gulp. Not only was it warm, but sweetened. He wondered how many mechs they had forced to do this. The cube felt good in his hand, it distracted him from there.

Another hand touched the edge of his subspace, gliding inside where it didn't belong, where everything was so tender, so him. The medic's engine hitched.

Then, suddenly, both hands and all unwanted touches, disappeared. He was alone, all three guards had stepped away from him, to the very wall. They were giving him much needed space, he realized gratefully and managed to look down, on his still open subspace locks. With a determined order, they slid close. His shaking hands started to calm.

"Do you wish for anything, Master medic?" There was true concern in their optics. "Maybe another cube?"

"No, thank you." The cube in his hand wasn't yet completely empty. He drank the rest in one fast gulp. "Can I see the Grand Duke now?"

"Of course," said Quickstrike. "The Lord is awaiting you."

TurnUp stood up, feeling better and more like himself with every klick that passed. "Then, please, let us hurry. It's unwise to let a Duke wait too long, let alone a Grand Duke."

Very unwise, if past experiences were any indication. But the guards didn't seem to share his worry. Quickstrike opened the door: "I'll show you the way, Master medic."

They stepped again into the grand hallways of the palace. The two younger guards followed them a few steps behind. TurnUp wondered if they were here as a sign of respect for him, or as yet another security measure.

Quickstrike, who walked next to him, looked down at the medic: "I would like to apologize again for the discomfort we have caused."

"No need." He tried a weak smile. "It is your duty."

"It is," confirmed the Captain with a rumble that spoke of deep pride. "Still, you are a medic and we respect that."

We – as in the warframes. Warframes were without a doubt the mechs that got injured most often. As such they were also the mechs that saw medics the most often. Over the millennia a special connection based on mutual trust had formed between their professions and frameclasses. It was difficult to describe, but it was there and real. Once, TurnUp had been a field medic in a war and witnessed a warframe going into complete berserk mode. He attacked other Knights, friends, superiors – but not a single one of the medics rushing to save his injured bondmate.

In fact, he had even heard of studies that sparks of warframes and medics were surprisingly often compatible, despite choosing such different careers. They had led to follow-up studies that were still running.

"As I respect you and your mechs," TurnUp finally said. "I hope, I am not asking for too much, Captain... but could you tell me, if there is anything special I should or shouldn't do in your Lord's presence?"

The massive guard walked for a few kliks silent next to him, then he shook his head. "Not particularly, no. Lord Prowl expects results and the usual respect for his standing, but nothing more." Quickstrike gave the medic a small smile. "He's very fair and merciful in his dealings so far. Though many describe him as quite distanced."

Distanced? He wondered how a Grand Duke had managed to seem even more distanced than the usual representatives of his caste. But Captain Quickstrike, who was obviously very loyal, was surely not the right mech to ask for more. So, TurnUp only nodded and thanked for the information.

"We're here," announced the Captain very quietly in front of a door that looked as golden and decorated as the dozen others they had already passed. He knocked: "Milord, the Master medic of the medical association is here."

"Let him in," ordered a surprisingly young voice.

"Yes, Milord." Quickstrike turned to the medic. "We wait for you outside."

"Thank you." TurnUp straightened, and walked through the opened door. Behind him it fell shut again.

The room he had entered was light, with big windows reaching from the ceiling to the floor, and a wonderfully soft, red carpet beneath his pedes. Left and right, he could make out dark datapad shelves, and in front of him stood a massive desk full with towering piles of datapads. Behind the towers sat a single Praxian, who stared entirely concentrated on a datapad in his hand.

TurnUp knelt after four steps into the room, lowering his head as the protocol demanded and waited. The Lord would give him his attention, when the Lord deemed it.

"Rise, medic," came the order, when he had barely gotten into position.

TurnUp stood up again, relieved to be spared the attention game other nobles loved to play, and was greeted by the sight of the Lord placing the several datapads on one already very high stack. The Grand Duke was a typical Praxian frame with elegant doorwings and an overall bulky frame. The trained optics of a medic recognized the expertly hidden and enforced armor with ease, which gave this unassuming mech a protection similar or even superior to a warframe. The Lord's color scheme was surprisingly plain. Black and white was deemed very conservative, though, and the red chevron on his head, the gold accents here and there were nice contrasts.

When the Lord looked at TurnUp, the medic nearly gulped. These optics... seemed cold. Empty, even.

"Master medic TurnUp, I presume?" Lord Prowl stepped around his desk. "I hope you enjoyed your journey from Iacon."

So, Lord Prowl had informed himself of who his visitor was. Luckily, TurnUp could answer truthfully: "Very nice. The hotel in Praxus which your staff recommended to me is exquisite as well."

The Lord nodded satisfied. "Good. Do you have the results with you?"

"Of course, Milord." TurnUp removed a small suitcase from his subspace and placed it on the floor. With experienced hands he entered the long code that had protected his information.

The Lord stepped next to him, with a spark of interest lightening up his optics. "You haven't seen my results yet, medic?"

TurnUp shook his head. "No, my Lord, I haven't. The medic association takes the oath of confidentiality seriously. The results of the super computer are automatically recorded on datapads and stored inside these suitcases. The first mech to see your results will be yourself, Milord."

Lord Prowl crossed his arms. "It seems that I do get something for my credits after all."

TurnUp nearly winced, well aware that Lord Prowl had paid a small fortune for this information. But the medic association needed the money to provide the same service for less well-off mechs. "We try our best, Milord," he only said instead and stepped away from the suitcase. "My part of the code has been entered. Please enter the part you have been given, when you sent us the request."

Lord Prowl nodded, and knelt down without hesitation. He appeared very calm and collected, but TurnUp saw the soft flutter of the doorwings – the Grand Duke was excited. TurnUp had to smile. Some things were the same, no matter your station.

Lord Prowl entered the code within a few kliks and the suitcase opened. Inside it was a single, plain datapd. The Praxian noble took it and activated it.

TurnUp could only imagine how the Grand Duke felt, but he still remembered is own datapad very well. The searches were always expensive, even though normal citizens paid far less than nobles. As a medic he had gotten even further discount, which had prompted him to run the compatibility test on his current lover, when they had been together less than two vorns. But he had been so sure, had felt his spark racing whenever he had been near and prayed that his lover was compatible. That they could be more than lovers, could be a family, bondmates, never alone anymore.

Primus had answered his prayers with 91 per cent of compatibility. They had bonded two vorns later and never regretted that step. He couldn't imagine life without his bondmate anymore. They were one.

As such, he knew the wonderful feelings that this moment evoked.

Some showed their joy with laughter, some with only a small smile that lit their face. One mech had once started to cry, when he saw the glyphs of a long lost mechling love.

Maybe Lord Prowl already had a lover and only wanted confirmation? Or was still searching and wanted not to risk dating without compatibility?

"This is the Cybertronwide search result, medic?"

The question tore the medic away from his musings: "Yes, Milord. As you requested."

The Lord had stood up, suitcase forgotten, and he stared at the datapad as if it held all answers. Lord Prowl's face, which hadn't been very expressional before, had completely closed off and his doorwings had stilled. The whole mech appeared... frozen.

The medic felt suddenly a bit worried. "Milord?"

But Lord Prowl didn't answer, didn't even twitch his doorwings.

"Is something wrong, Milord?"

There was still no reaction, and the worry exploded full force. Sometimes, though rarely, the searches showed unexpected and unwished for results. Especially, when mechs had wanted to bond and were told that it was impossible.

"Milord, are the results... undesirable?" he dared to ask.

Lord Prowl's head snapped up. Optics dark with emotion, the Lord shuddered: "Go."

TurnUp's first impulse was to obey, but the breaking of the voice let his medic programs take over, which told him very clearly to stay as this mech was in pain. Thankfully, medics usually had a bit of a leeway in such situations. With concern he noticed, that the doorwings had started to tremble low and fast, a sure sign of huge emotional stress.

TurnUp's spark clenched. "Even if the results do not show the mechs wished for, there can still be happiness found with the sparks that are compatible..."

Usually, he would suggest a bigger search as most mechs only had the money to pay for partial searches of one mech or at maximum one frame class of their state. But the Grand Duke had demanded a cybertronwide search and paid for it as well. The mechs on the datapad, that were all mechs the Lord could ever consider to bond with.

But to TurnUp's shock his words brought not comfort. Instead, they seemed to have made it worse, as the cold mask he had thought to be the Lord cracked to reveal a young, helpless mech fighting for control of his emotions. Shaking hands threatened to let fall the very datapad the Lord was staring at with obvious tears in his optics.

"Primus," whispered TurnUp. Had the Grand Duke always been this young? Seemingly barely ten vorns out of his youngling upgrades? TurnUp's medic spark and programs went out to this mech and ignoring all protocol he walked up, until he was standing next to him.

"Milord, the results..." What could he say to help? "Even if your lover isn't listed, or your enemy is, this doesn't mean anything..."

A new shudder went through the Lord and with horror the medic realized that these were repressed sobs.

"No... This means everything," whispered Lord Prowl, fighting for control and losing fast.

"I- I don't understand..."

The datapad was cracking, when the noble sob-shuddered anew. "Read," then Lord Prowl simply handed the datapad over.

TurnUp took it and feared the worst when he looked at the datapad which was supposed to be filled with rows of names and glyphs and contact numbers. Instead he was greeted by emptiness and three crushing words:

Zero matches found.

He cycled his optics. Reread it. It remained the same. Deep pity invaded him and a strange sense of failure.

Zero matches. Among the billions of mechs of Cybertron.

Zero. A single number that showed what this mech would never have, never experience.

This mech would never search for a bondmate. Would never court. Would never know that he was beloved beyond death. Would have no sparklings, no heirs. No family. Worse, if this got out no one would want to even date a mech that couldn't offer his spark. No lovers. Pariah.

This mech would be alone. Forever.

All words of sorry and comfort dried up within TurnUp. There was nothing to make this better.

He had heard of such mechs. Everyone had, but there hadn't been one in such a long time that many had called it a myth or something that had resulted out of a much smaller population.

Sparkless, they were called. Or worse, the Rejected. Something was wrong with them, they weren't right. In some states they had even been killed as they had been seen as Unicron's spawn.

He looked up, to the Grand Duke, whose tears were now openly running down his face.

"Milord, ... you ... maybe, you can go to your family?" he offered quietly.

"No."

"Or a friend. Someone who cares and you trust...? You shouldn't be alone now."

Another shudder. "There is none."

If possible TurnUp's spark became even heavier. "But..."

He stopped himself as his thoughts raced, digging up old, forgotten memory files of news snippets and conversations. The poison that had killed old Grand Duke and his bondmate. The treason from within. The death of the original heir. He had seen and experienced security measures far beyond standard, even though he had been expected and researched in advance. He could only guess at the amount he hadn't seen – which was probably most of the measures.

This young mech was fearing for his life every single orn, had enemies near and far and was obviously lacking any support.

Now, the datapads on the desk added to the grim picture. The young Lord was working hard, trying to shoulder all the responsibilities which usually a whole clan or family of nobles divided up between them. There were no mechs left he trusted enough to give the datapads to them. Not even a secretary it seemed... after all, the last one, an old friend of the family, had delivered the poison.

He looked at the condemning datapad in his hand. Had Lord Prowl simply wished for company with this search? For someone, anyone he could trust?

"I've heard that you have a younger brother," he finally said, grasping that last hope. "Maybe you can go to him...?"

But Lord Prowl shook his head, looking frail, breakable. "Smokey... He's still too young... a youngling and going to a boarding school. If I go...everyone will know. And I don't wish to put such a burden on him."

Burden. TurnUp's spark hurt. No heirs meant that the current Prince and heir, Smokey – surely that wasn't the full designation -, would have to bond as soon as possible, or else.

"And there is no one else...?"

"No." The Lord shuttered his optics, defeat heavy in his voice. "No one else is left."

TurnUp wished he could hug the Lord, but he didn't dare. It wasn't his place to, and yet... he rarely had seen a mech so deserving of one. Quietly, he placed the datapad back in the suitcase and sealed it again, wracking is processor at what he could offer this mech.

Something, anything must be possible to be done, right?

"I thank you, Master medic, for coming," the Lord said with shaking voice, while walking back to his cluttered desk with the tired, resigned steps of a much older mech. "Can I do anything for you?" Tears were still falling from the noble's face, but the trembles were calming and the wings stilled, hanging deep and low in a position TurnUp had only seen before with mechs in deep mourning.

Mourning a life.

"No, Milord, though your offer is very graceful." It felt wrong to take anything from a mech whose every dream for the future he had just destroyed. And suddenly he knew what he could offer. It was barely better than nothing, but it existed. "Even if this compatibility test was negative, that doesn't mean it always will be."

The Lord looked up. A small, tiny glimmer in his blue optics – hope. So fragile. "What do you mean?"

"Every decaorn new mechs are born, others are coming of age," explained the medic carefully. "And they all sooner or later do a compatibility test. It is possible to test all of them when they enter out databanks."

The doorwings went a tiny, little bit higher, but else there was no reaction. "And I guess, I'll have to pay for these thousands of tests?"

TurnUp winced, he hadn't thought that far. "I'm sure a discount is possible..."

No need to make it nice. The association would never do it for free, because with a regular paying customer of Lord Prowl's caliber they would've several money worries less. But this mech behind the mask and duty of a noble deserved better.

"I see." Lord Prowl sighed, protoform deep exhaustion showing. "And you believe it is possible that a compatible mech might still be created?"

"Absolutely." TurnUp straightened with conviction. "I would swear it on my oaths as a medic."

He meant it. The oaths defined him and his life and he would never break them.

Lord Prowl was quiet for a klik, then two, three, clearly thinking the words over. Finally, slowly he nodded as if in defeat. "I can not with good consciousness waste that much credits on a constant search all over Cybertron for vorns. Sooner or later, it would empty even my treasure. But I am willing to make a deal, Master medic TurnUp. I will pay that for every new spark in the state of Praxus, and for every mech who searches in Praxus a compatibility test with I is made."

Considering that they were talking about a possible indefinite solution, the amount of money Lord Prowl was ready to give was breath staggering.

"But because this is an unusual situation, at least I guess it is," TurnUp confirmed this with a fast nod, "I want that my results never become public. And they surely would, if I officially continue searching."

Which was true. Mechs would ask where all the credits were going. "I'm sure this can be arranged somehow," he hurried to say, hoping it was true. He was a medic, not an accounting specialist.

But the Lord shook his head. "Not somehow. I want that officially the money will be used to make the searches for every Praxian, no matter standing or frame, cheaper."

TurnUp stared. "Milord, you want to officially pay a... subsidy?"

"Exactly."

It was... clever. It would neatly explain the money and help with one of the biggest worries of the association, that the poor mechs couldn't pay for the searches despite the much lowered rates. Of course, the usual price was tiny compared to what Lord Prowl paid and would pay. TurnUp could only see advantages: "I will talk with the other Master medics about it," he promised. "Though I can't imagine them declining such a deal."

Lord Prowl only nodded, the sadness having never left him. Guilt churned in his tanks and TurnUp stepped a bit closer. "Milord, I'm grateful that you want to continue to pay the usual rates of your standing..." He gulped. "But are you sure it is wise? It will be expensive."

Very expensive, but the Grand Duke seemed to know this better than him as he gave the medic a soft, sad smile. He transformed the whole face for a split second into a different, warmer mech. "Yes, TurnUp, it will be. But I will use my private treasure and not state money." The smile broke and vanished, leaving only coldness behind. The mask was slowly reassembling itself. "Besides I have nothing else to spend the money on."

TurnUp wanted to cry for this mech, instead he bowed in deep respect: "I understand, Milord."

"Good." The word and blue optics were cold, colder than ever before. Only the tear streaks told that there was more, hidden deep inside once again. "Tell the association about my wish. You may go."

"As you wish, Milord."

Again the medic bowed and then he left, spark hurting and grieving for the mech behind him. A mech that seemingly had all, yet nothing that really counted.

5 vorns later:

His red and black bondmate, Sidetwist, greeted him with a kiss when he came home. "How was your orn?"

"Good," TurnUp answered with a smile, while he walked to their cozy kitchen. The apartment was quite small, as he was a Master medic but worked for the poor which couldn't really pay. As a result, they weren't rich, but it was all theirs and they were happy. "How was yours? You seem happy."

"I am." Sidetwist grinned as he followed him. He was taller than TurnUp, with very delicate hands which he used to created special energon cubes, used for parties among nobility. Since the sparking Sidetwist had steadily reduced his workload, until he was more at home than in the workshop. "The checkup went well and I found a wonderful new toy for our sparkling."

TurnUp chuckled, while turning to prepare their energon. Usually, they took the same, midgrade with a bit of copper, but as a medic he was capable enough to mix the special kind Sidetwist needed now. "The spark hasn't even dropped into the protoform. We will not need toys for a long time still."

"And?" Sidetwist took a chair across the table so he could observe TurnUp. "It's a lovely toy, bright green and it chirps when touched. Who knows if in 25 decaorns it would still being sold."

TurnUp shook his head in amusement. "As long as you don't buy a toy every orn, lover, because then we couldn't store them all anymore."

"I promise not to, just every second one." Sidetwist winked. "As I said I like them."

"Overgrown sparkling," muttered TurnUp.

"I heard that!"

"Good, that means your audios are functioning." TurnUp put the energon cubes on the table. "Drink, even if it tastes bad."

Sidetwist sighed. "I suppose it's good for the little one..."

"It is." TurnUp knew very well what happened without such cubes and he would do his best to avoid it happening. "I even added a bit of a sweeter."

Sidetwist smiled. "You're the best." He drank a small gulp and then stared in the cube. "TurnUp, before I forget it, there was a mech here today with a message."

"A courier...?" TurnUp was immediately worried. A courier only brought important letters – which more often then not had bad news. But his bondmate shook his head:

"An envoy." Sidetwist sighed and looked up, into the optics of his bondmate. "He was from Praxus, from the Grand Duke of Praxus, and brought a job offer."

TurnUp was speechless. Oh, he remembered the Grand Duke very well, but he had never thought to hear from the mech again. His bondmate pushed a single letter over the table, thin, with beautiful glyphs and the blue crest of Praxus. Spark beating fast, he took the letter and very carefully read it.

It was a job offer and a very good one too. He would become a medic at the House of Praxus, with a high salary, certain income, respect and even the chance for a career. It was a very generous offer all in all. Just... he would have to leave Iacon and his patients, who had no one else. The poorest of the poor.

"What... what do you think?" he finally said.

Sidetwist shrugged. "I go where you go. But we don't have to decide now."

TurnUp smiled. "True." He put the datapad aside, though in his spark he already knew that he didn't want to go. He wasn't a medic because of money or respect, he was because he wanted to help.

Two orns later the sparkling dropped from Sidetwist's supporting spark into the protoform – and split on the way. The result was a messy operation on the open spark, two very, very weak and far too small sparklings, a traumatized, barely alive bondmate and mounting bills for all of their medicines, that even his insurance as a medic struggled to cover.

With his family in the hospital, alive but still in danger, he took the job offer anew in hand. He needed better insurance. He needed more money. He needed a job that would care for his sparklings, should his bondmate and in turn he himself offline.

He sent a letter detailing the situation and if the offer was still open. The answer was quick and to the point: Yes.

Two decaorns later, with a sparkling in each of their arms, the bondmates walked through the gate of Praxus into a new life.