This Transformer fanfic is set in Birgit Staebler's (Gryph's) Sentinel universe. Her stories are set after Generation 1, season 3, and describe the re-establishment of Transformer society under Optimus Prime on Cybertron. The Autobot and Decepticon factions have merged. Additionally, two other factions – the Sentinels and the Seekers (a different group from the G1 Seekers) have been brought into the fold. Sentinels (and Seekers) have the ability to develop psychic links with Organic creatures through a process called Interfacing. This pairing of robot with a unique Organic partner grants the robot superior strength and speed, and the Organic partner extended life.
Earth had become alienated from Cybertron. A few refugees from Earth have established themselves on the metal planet, but generally, contact between the two worlds is rare, and relationships are charged.
The main characters in this story are:
Kyle Scott: a humanoid (non-human) doctor, interfaced with the robot Voodoo. Kyle is six thousand years old, and has recently developed memory loss.
Steven Parker: humanoid (non-human), two thousand years old, interfaced with the robot Midnight.
Jill McKennan: humanoid (non-human), older than Scott, interfaced with the robot Skywolf
These characters belong to Gryph, and some of her many wonderful stories can be found under the name "Macx" here on FanfictionNet.
The other main character in this story in Gatchel, an ordinary human from Earth, whose most striking feature is that he's a pain in the ass.
Gatchel and Lelel belong to T. L. Arens (Koontah on DeviantArt).
Her stories involving the Interfaces, along with TF fic set in her own universe, are at Torq's Cafe.
In The Game
Part One
Steven Parker screamed again and lashed out at the nurse. Psychosis and the Interface link gave him superhuman strength – the woman was flung back several meters – a scratch raised a line of red beads along her cheek – and her head made an audible "crack!" when it hit the far wall. Steve screamed again, and from a farther room, Midnight screamed in sympathy. Scott winced; Voodoo twitched; Shanygn's eyes widened; and the big brown robot looked on with interest.
Gatchel sighed. "Restraints. Restraints. Restraints. Get the orderlies." He pointed in Jill's direction and wondered who was going to raise a voice in protest this time: Scott, Shanygn, or Voodoo? He reached into his pocket and flipped on his microtaser, just in case Shanygn decided to express her displeasure physically. Jill ran a scanner over the nurse, who was able to rise shakily to her feet. Together, they left to get the orderlies.
It was Voodoo who objected. "If you had listened to Kyle when we brought Parker in, Parker wouldn't be in this mess. Kyle told you it was a K!doutl." The robot spoke suddenly, rising from his position against the wall and looming over Gatchel. "He said it would attack the lining of the digestive system. He said that it would get in the bloodstream and that it might penetrate the blood-brain barrier." The robot pointed an enormous finger at the comparatively small human. "If you had half the skull of a di-uhm, asswipe, you would have – "
Gatchel almost took an involuntary step back, then gave himself a mental kick in the head. Metalloid Cybertronians might condescend to humans; they might be intimidating; they might bully and mock; but no Cybertronian, since the Armistice, had ever harmed a human. Yet.
"Look," he sneered, grinding out the words at the back of his throat in order to keep the waver of fear from his voice: "When your partner came in, he was crazy. Nuts. Looney. Round the twist. He was suffering from the effects of Parker's dementia through their psychic link." Gatchel grimaced in unfeigned disgust. "He was ranting and mumbling, and 'K!doutl' was one of the few words we could pick up. A word, mind you, from a language that no one has spoken in over three thousand years, and from a culture located a third of the way across the galaxy. We hauled in a historical linguist as soon as we realized that he wasn't just ranting, and frankly, given what we had to work with, I think my medical team should be congratulated for figuring what the hell was going on! If we hadn't, we wouldn't have known enough to give the dramapactole to Scott, and that's all that's kept him from going bat-shit crazy so far."
Gatchel glanced at Scott, who was bent over Parker, quietly examining his partner in perversion – well, one of his partners in perversion, anyway. Gatchel looked up, and up, at the other one.
"Besides, where the hell were you? I though that Scott was your precious little pet. Why weren't you there to look after him?"
Voodoo's eyes flashed red behind his visor. He raised an enormous fist. Gatchel did jerk back this time, wondering if, at last, he had gone too far. Shanygn watched with amusement. The stocky dark brown robot, who had been standing quietly in the corner, shifted abruptly. It was at this point that Jill returned with the orderlies.
"I've brought in an extra 10 ccs of dramapactole," she said briskly. "That, along with the dose he's already taken, should knock him out."
The orderlies gently pushed Scott out of the way and arranged themselves around Parker's bed. Gatchel nodded at them. Grimly, they began to strap Parker down. Parker flailed and screamed, trying to jab at the orderlies' eyes with his fingers. From down the corridor, Midnight bellowed. Scott moaned and stumbled; Shanygn placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke quietly into his ear. A headache began to develop in Gatchel's right temple. It was a completely new kind of headache, different from the customary throb at the left side of his nose. More of a variant on the ice-pick stab that sometimes penetrated the orbital of his right eye. Peachy.
After a few minutes, though, Jill's injection began to take effect, and Parker's breathing slowed and became regular. Gatchel ran a scanner over him, Systems had stabilized for now, but the underlying problem – the K!doutl parasite – was still in the bloodstream. He was going to have to talk to Biochemistry. In his present condition Scott was going to be even less help than usual. Gatchel pocketed the scanner.
"Well?" prompted Voodoo snarkily. "So he's been tied up and traumatized. Six-to-one. Congratulations. What do you think is going to happen now?"
"It's just as you see," shrugged Gatchel. "He's stable for the moment, but the parasite is still there. My research team in Biochemistry and Neurology will examine Parker's medical history and revise what we know of the K!doutl parasite. With any luck we'll come up with some sort of chelating agent that will cleave to the parasite and allow it to be flushed from Parker's system."
"I'll get to work on it," said Scott wearily.
"No, you won't," said Voodoo, flatly. "You're ill. You need rest. Jill and Skywolf can work on isolating the parasite. And there's got to be someone else in this hospital with half a skull who can understand what's going on."
"That would be me," said Gatchel. "Unless, of course, Dr. Scott the Wonder-Psychic" – Gatchel jerked his head at Scott's grey face – "is feeling well enough to whip up some magical potion. A potion made from the urine of unicorns raised in a fairyland dimension on a planet accessible only by warp gate. Then the two of you can fly in on a rainbow, and save Gotham city. In the meantime, I'll be in the Biochem lab."
Gatchel turned and made towards the door. "Don't drag me up here if Parker has another freak out. Unless he manages to kill someone off for real this time."
Stepping outside the room, he let out a deep breath. From inside, Shanygn's voice floated out towards him.
"Primus. How the hell does anyone manage to get to be such a planet-sized shithead?"
Gatchel met Silverberg for the first time in late August. Expecting the Northwest to be cooler than the climate he was used to, he had overdressed for the heat. Besides, even though class wasn't scheduled to start for a week, there was the chance that he might run into one of his professors. But now, sweat trickled down his back, and his shirt collar was beginning to curl. He shifted the heavy plastic shopping bag carrying a stack of second-hand data pads and a (brand new!) stethoscope, and flung it over his shoulder, hoping to hide the sweat stains he was sure were running down his back. He wondered if the medical school building was air-conditioned, and began to head inside.
"Hey!" A voice bellowed from across the parking lot. "Hey you! I know you! Over here!"
Gatchel shielded his eyes and squinted across the rows of cars. Lying on the hood of a flawless 430 Modena was a bronzed Adonis, shirtless, wearing flip-flops and cutoff jeans. Like everyone at home, no doubt. Next to him was a Nubian goddess in Daisy Dukes, with long, long, long legs stretching down almost to the license plate. She was grinning around the green popsicle stuck in her mouth. The Adonis grinned too, flashing a set of perfect teeth, and waved. Puzzled, and a little nervous, Gatchel headed towards them.
"You're Gatchel, right?" asked the Adonis. "I recognize you from our class website. First-year students all have their holograms up already. I'm Silverberg, and this lovely lady is Rokia." Rokia grinned again, and raised her sunglasses in salute.
Gatchel's tongue finally unstuck itself. "Nice to meet you." He reached over and offered a hand to Silverberg, then Rokia, who both shook it solemnly.
"So, Gatchel. What are you doing hanging around the Med Faculty a week early? You working on a project with one of the professors?"
Gatchel shook his head. "I've just come from the bookstore. I've got a bag full of datapads and equipment, and I was hoping someone in the medical building could give me my locker number so I could drop this stuff off. Assuming it would be safe in there."
Silverberg shook his head. "It wouldn't. Besides, there's no one in the front office. I came in from off-planet a week ago to get an early start on a project I've got set up with Medavoy. But no one's around except the med students. So tell me, Gatchel. Where are you from? What's your specialty?"
Gatchel grinned. "I'm from Asscrack, Texarkana. And I did my Master's in stats and xenoneurochemistry at Southwestern."
Silverberg whistled. "Wow. That's pretty impressive, particularly from a native asscracker. I myself have just wound up my PhD thesis defence on the interface between neurocellular systems and psychic phenomena in non-Phaedomic humanoids. Rokia, darling, you?"
"Namibia. Yale. Genetic correlates of haematological malignancies." Rokia slurped happily on her popsicle. "Dude. You look like you're going to die in that suit."
"You look way too hot, man," Silverberg agreed. "Take off your shirt and have a popsicle: they're lime bourbon."
Gatchel grimaced. The thought of exposing his lean, pasty torso next to those bronze bodies made him flinch.
"No, thanks," he said trying to sound casual. "I need to get back to my apartment and finish putting furniture together. See you both around, though."
"No problem, Gatchel," said Silverberg, and settled back comfortably against the windshield. "Take a popsicle before you go." Rokia giggled, and passed one over. Gatchel licked green syrup off his fingers and turned away.
"Later, Gatchel," called Silverberg. "I'll see you first week of class. Or if I don't, I'll look you up."
Silverberg did look Gatchel up. No-one ever figured out why. Some thought that Gatchel's high score on the medical admissions exam might have caught Silverberg's attention. However, there were several students in their class who had scored even higher than Gatchel, and yet it was definitely Gatchel who attracted Silverberg's interest. Some suggested the converse: even a brilliant, wealthy, worlds-travelling sophisticate like Silverberg needed a foil. Why not a Texarkana non-entity like Gatchel? Yet, again, there were other students in the class even duller than Gatchel. Gatchel, although quiet enough, had a tendency, when pushed, to biting displays of temper that prevented him from developing the role of Silverberg's yes-man. Not that flashes of sourness ever bothered Silverberg: he would just laugh, and clap Gatchel on the back.
In fact, very little appeared to worry Silverberg. He seemed to float above the tension and the petty politics of medical school with ease, convivial with everyone, his demeanor never ruffled. Stressing over the weekly exams and many quizzes was not for him: two solid hours of studying each evening appeared to be all he needed. The rest of his time, when he was not organizing some charitable drive, was spent starring on the basketball court, or in the lab. Eighteen months into the programme he had his name on five articles submitted to top journals. Gatchel, who had managed to get his name on only one, never even considered being envious. The comparison would have been too ridiculous, like a fly measuring himself against an eagle. Or against one of the Aerialbots.
Gatchel sighed, pulled off his glasses and tossed them on his desk, then pinched the bridge of his nose. His vision had begun to blur. That slice of space opera in Parker's room had been followed by a one hour interview with two distraught parents whose three-month-old baby had just been diagnosed with progressive neurological disease. Next had come a marathon two-hour session with a family whose matriarch had been identified with early onset Alzheimer's, and which to date had proven resistant to conventional treatment. One of the residents had raised the possibility of excising damaged tissue and replacing it with cybernetic implants, and all hell had broken loose. Preliminary reports from the Neurobiochemistry division with respect to Parker's case had then arrived. Initial attempts to find a neutralizing agent that would bind to the parasite had shown mixed results. The synthetic agent was binding to antigens in the digestive lining, and these could be flushed out of the system easily enough. However, the agent was not able to penetrate the blood-brain barrier. Dr. Scott was now under heavy sedation, and could not offer suggestions. Jill and Skywolf were working on the problem, but their expertise was in the area of biophysical and cybernetic psychic phenomena, not in neurochemistry or parasitology per se. What did Dr. Gatchel suggest?
Gatchel wanted nothing more than to lie down on his office carpet and sleep for half an hour. Instead, he settled for rhythmically pounding his scanner against his desk. The physical-engineering sector kept on upgrading the scanner specs, which left every Organic in the hospital who did not possess a computer science degree in a permanent state of bemused catch-up. Gatchel had taken to using his scanner as a stress toy. It wasn't as if he could damage it, after all: the things were designed to withstand accidentally being stepped on by enormous robots. The scanner beeped in protest at the mistreatment, and Gatchel threw it against his office door…
…just as it opened to reveal a half-alien woman with a gaping mouth and a newly formed welt across her nose.
"Wha…? wha…?" she burbled.
Gatchel lost no time, but jumped up and hustled her inside, sending a quick glance up and down the corridor. Good, no one there. He shut the door, guided the alien woman to a chair, picked up the scanner, and began to heal the abrasions. The woman was silent for a minute, then wiped away a tear.
"Dr. Gatchel," she began, "what happened? I tried knocking, but there was a pounding noise inside and I guess you didn't hear me. I came to ask you about Dr. Scott. I know he's sick and he hasn't answered any of my calls. I've been so worried! Can you please tell me how he's doing?"
Something in Gatchel's brain clicked. Lelel. Of course. That was her name. The creepy half-alien woman was obsessed with the Interfaces, and particularly with Scott. She followed him everywhere, pestering him for interviews, offering massages. She must have been thrilled when she'd heard about Scott's psychic link with Parker. The homoerotic subcontext of their relationship was every fan girl's wet dream.
"Ms. Lelel, you know I can't discuss Dr. Scott's health with you," he said as patiently as possible. "That would be breaking confidentiality.
"Oh, I don't want you to break confidentiality," she assured him earnestly. "I just want to know how he is."
"Ms. Lelel, really. I can't take about Dr. Scott when he's not here. You have his number. I'm sure he'll return your calls when he can. He's just got a lot to deal with right now."
The half-alien woman nodded, and her eyes filled with tears again. "I know. It's just that… I admire him so much, Dr. Gatchel. Dr. Scott and the Interfaces, they're like superior beings, almost, like angels. Nobody understands them either. I wish…"
Gatchel fought with the urge to give her another smack across the nose. "Really, Lelel. I'm sure that Dr. Scott would be the first to say that he puts on his pants one leg at a time, just like the rest of us," he lied. "In the mean time, I'm very, very busy with a case. I'm sure that you understand how important it is for me to get back to work, hm?"
"Of course! Oh… I didn't mean… I just wish I could help! I've taken all the way up to Organic Chemistry 4 and I got an A minus in Organic 3! If Dr. Scott let me volunteer on his medical team I know I could be really useful!" Lelel wailed. "And my nose still really hurts!"
Jesus Christ. He couldn't kick her out of his office in the state she was in now. She'd wander around the hospital wailing until she bumped into someone willing to listen to her story of how she'd gotten clocked in the face by the head of Organics Division. On the other hand, an abstract, non-personalized description of Steve Parker's problem would a) retain confidentiality and might b) flatter her ego, while c) boring her enough that she might leave his office of her own accord.
"Why, Lelel," he began, smoothly enough, "I didn't know you were such a chemistry buff. The problem we're dealing with is a bit knotty, but you might provide some insight. Right now, we're dealing with a situation in which a parasite has passed through the blood brain barrier. We've got an agent with relatively high pka – it's charged at blood-level pH – that can bind to the antigen and neutralize it. However, as long as the agent is charged, it can't pass through the cell membranes that make up the blood brain barrier. So when it's charged, it can't get onto the brain. Yet, when the agent is uncharged, it won't bind to the parasite. So you see, we have something of a dilemma here." Gatchel gave her his best conspiratorial smile and patted her on the shoulder.
Lelel was deep in thought. "Can we inject the agent directly into his brain?"
Gatchel noted the 'we'. "No, Lelel. 'We' – meaning the physicians here at the hospital – don't inject drugs directly into our patients' brains. We like to leave our patients' brains unaerated."
"Well, can you teleport the drug in?"
Gatchel's thin patience was starting to slip. "No. We can't teleport it in. This isn't Star Trek. Are you feeling better? Because it's probably time for you to go."
Lelel stood up. "What about a second drug? One that could stick onto the first drug once they've both gone through the blood brain barrier. The second drug could protonate the first drug once they're both in the brain, and the first drug could bind to the parasite."
"No, I don't think that would work, said Gatchel absently, starting to push her to the door. "And Lelel… I should explain about what happened earlier and how you got your nose bumped. Normally I have a basketball hoop over my door but I forgot it wasn't there and I threw my scanner at the door because I lost my basketball only you opened the door just at the wrong moment ha ha and so you can see it was just an accident and there's absolutely no need for you to tell anyone about this misunderstanding. Ha ha."
Lelel looked confused. "No, there isn't. I mean, I don't have to tell anyone. Besides, my nose has stopped hurting. Thanks for the … well, thank you, Dr. Gatchel. I guess."
The door finally shut behind her. Gatchel, at long last, breathed a sigh of relief, and sat down at his desk. He glanced once more at the last page of Parker's lengthy file. He had a distant nagging feeling. Something someone had said recently about Parker's parasite and the drug delivery problem. What was it? A wisp of a thought floated across his brain…
To be continued.
Note: Some of the Biochemistry in this section drew on the work of Nicholas Bodor
