This is a sort-of maybe continuation to author Raining Ink's Transformers story; "A New Beginning". IT IS NOT FINISHED, whatever you think! I just believe I got carried away somewhere and failed terribly.
Really, I have a request if you read and liked this: I need to bounce ideas. Badly. I may also need a beta reader with an interest in these gigantic robots as I prefer to be correct. No matter how much I read on the wiki, I just can't get things right. That there sounded quite rude, didn't it? I apologize. However, if you like the story and feel like, what the heck, why not? Then I'll welcome you as a reader with open arms.
And my primary language is NOT English!
/D-W
1.
The sun hung low over Tranquility. The rays of the star, which they had all fought to save, reflected in facetted glass, ricocheted off of looming, metallic buildings, and on occasion it would blink out as a bridge stretched from its hold, blocking it.
The buzz of never-ending traffic echoed across the deserted wasteland which stretched between the city and the autobots' run-down hangar.
Ratchet emerged from the recently added medical bay, using a dirty old rag to clean his servos. He blew some air through his vents, the mechanical equivalent of a snort, as he eyed his handiwork with a scrutinizing look- only to grumble something aggravated in cybertronian and continue working on the rust and lubricant which remained.
He marched on, barely looking up from the offending limb as he avoided containers, cement pipes and other stray trash, cursing as kicked up sand and road-dust stuck to his optical sensors. "Slagging, pit-born-!"
Washer fluid, optics rebooting, weapons that hummed when they powered up, he finally decided that his vision was clear enough and looked up.
He had reached the side of the tarmac, almost expected a jet to touch down to his right, but the asphalt was cracked, some die-hard grass growing, and the former white road paint had faded to a sickly yellow. Plastic was strewn across the ground, junk which had travelled with the wind to their base, and a stray cat was sunbathing further away, if it hadn't been for the heat it was radiating, the heave of its chest as it breathed, he would have thought it dead.
There was quick, cybertronian chatter- a greeting, followed by obscenities in the same language, but uttered by another voice.
The Chief Medical Officer looked up and squinted against the sunlight, trying to make out the silhouettes and shielding his optics with his good servo, finally picking out the familiar blue and red from the landscape with its many browns and yellows.
Optimus Prime stood before him, with the decepticon defector, Wheelie, sitting on his right shoulder and poking around his audio sensors.
"Ratchet", their leader nodded to him, "I could be engaged in battle and still manage to discern your knee-joints creaking."
"Pshaw, 'tis nothing compared to the state of your paintjob." The CMO waved dismissively, walking up to Optimus's side.
Indeed, their Prime's brightly-colored armor was littered with scratches, it was faded, every here and there darkened from a particularly nasty burn. Even now, sixty years after Giza, the left side of his face hadn't fully healed, and with their current lack of Energon some of those dents would likely mar his faceplates when Terra would succumb along with the rest of its solar system.
"So, why is our little turncoat poking about your audio sensors?"
Wheelie expertly picked up on the slight frown in his voice and retorted, snarling: "Big sparkling of a slagging Autobot managed to squish a rodent when he transformed this morning", the small mech slapped Optimus up the head, glaring as he did. "And he didn't have the gut to tell our resident wrench-throwing, neon..." he dared take a quick look over his shoulder, "green Chief Medical Officer, you, about it. I thought a medic was all about trust and stuff."
"And I remember asking you not to run your vocalizer about it", Optimus sighed before Ratchet quipped back and offlined his optics, shoulders slumping a bit in resignation. "It is merely a minor issue; I do believe that Wheelie can handle it."
"Yeah, listen to the Boss, you overgrown control freak!" The small mech turned around, the Autobot emblem flashing in the light of the setting sun. He proceeded to flip the CMO off with a threatening raise of one optic ridge.
"Says the two feet tall narcissist..." Ratchet mimicked Wheelie's expression, familiar whine of his buzz saw making the defector twitch. "That emblem was clearly polished this morning."
"Unlike certain others on our team, I prefer to stay in top shape", the smaller Autobot made a face when the medic's knees creaked as he shifted his weight over to the other leg. "Primus sake, check on those joints, will ya?"
The hum of the saw quieted. "I would, only my right servo is a slagging heap of scrap." Pair of pleading blue optics looked from the enraged Wheelie to the Prime, who was still staring towards the darkening silhouette on the horizon. Lost in thought, perhaps nostalgic...? "Optimus, until we have resources for me to create a right hand which won't rust and, more importantly, will stay attached to my frame, could you perhaps keep form inviting the local wildlife and accidently ruin some of your finer circuitry?"
The leader nodded his consent, though absent-mindedly so. Ratchet frowned.
"Besides, what are you doing? Silence might be a virtue on some occasions, but Wheelie here..."
Optimus blinked, glanced back to him. "I do doubt that anything has happened to him while I-"
"Yeah, 'cus leaving me in mouse-gut to my knee-joints with no company other than crickets and that fragging cat is something I don't mind at all, you pit-born glitch!"
The Prime harrumphed and met the medic's optics head on with a know-it-all look plastered to his face, "Your teachings are above reproach, Ratchet."
"I can't possibly have such a foul language." Something small and definitely metallic was flung his way, only it missed. "And you need to work on your aim, youngling."
Wheelie sputtered, swore, and threw the cloth he had used to clean Optimus's audio sensor over his left shoulder before climbing down the back of mentioned mech, cursing all sentient life and the All Spark on his way down. He fell the last few feet, landed safely on all fours and promptly transformed, doing his best to leave them in a cloud of dust as he sped towards the hangar.
Ratchet smirked to himself, his pride showing through in the cracks of a well-built facade. "Watch that youngling go. Reminds me of myself, back in the day... Once we find him a better frame he just may become a great medic."
"Two wrench-throwing medics and Wheeljack... A danger sign may be in order."
"Until they pick up on our beacon, I'll place rattraps around your office in the hangar", the CMO drawled, then sobered. "I still want answer to my question, Optimus."
The leader went quiet, enough so for Ratchet to hear the cooling fans humming inside his frame. He looked to his leader's eyes and saw that they were staring straight ahead again, though not unfocused as before, he followed his gaze back to the human city.
It was a sharp black against a spectrum of colors: red, yellow, peach and purple stretched across the sky. And memories of Cybertron, their home planet, burning, flooded both mech's processors.
When the sky was a light metallic blue, Optimus spoke in a hushed tone: "It is saddening that such a beautiful spectacle is lost on the sentient native species."
"Agreed."
Finally, the Prime turned away from the dimming silhouette of civilization, one hand raised to rest on his hip, "Where are the others?"
"Playing tag on the opposite side of the hangar, last I checked", Ratchet snorted, "Ironhide and Jolt were not participating, of course; however I believe I know where my collection of Ironman went. It's been the only thing on Jolt's processor for the last few days... And I believe our Weapon specialist is just happy to discuss the comics with him."