A/N: I own nothing, Sadly.
Pattern Weaving
Shockwave looked over the creations. They were complete. Upon his internal display the digits dwindled as his time until Lord Megatron demanded his requested troops flashed the countdown. Behind him, piled high like broken pylons lay the sad remains of hundreds of younglins. Some still retained color in their frames as their sparks slowly guttered in mute, frozen agony.
"Requested troops have been completed, Lord Megatron." Shockwave spoke bluntly to the silent laboratory. With the frames complete, he summoned a transport to the front line for Lord Megatron's approval. He looked the two frames over once more, so simple, so completely perfect in form and function. They accomplished the goal of the Lord's request to the letter: Uncompromised efficiency, expandable redundant safeguards, and unswayable loyalty.
He looked upon them, so alike, and yet so different. He rejoiced in silence at his accomplishments. He had done it! Finally, after the destruction of a throusand sparks, and the termination of dozens of others, he had made force-twins. One spark cleaved in two making twins. He looked up unknown joor later as the transport arrived. Large mechs came in through the underground entrance, collecting the large fighter framed younglings and placing them in a grounded aerial transport.
Shockwave looked at them one last time. The frames were solid hued, one black, the other white. They would be called Ruiner and Raindown. They would be the most powerful units Shockwave had ever created. He held his head high and collected the major equipment he needed. This lab had served its purpose, now he would move to urgent needs elsewhere. He went where Lord Megatron pointed, obeyed every command, and led the troops he was given with an unrelenting fist and overwhelming fear. His lone optic looked over the still twitching, and fading pile of dying younglings. They would terminate soon enough, there would be no witnesses, and the staff that helped him in this greatest of endeavors? He looked to the pile of spare parts and nodded, they had already been delt with.
Behind the ruined tower that had hidden Shockwave's lab a lone shuttle lifted off from the ground, arching lowly over the ruined landscape as it tracked to the rear command of Megatron's mobile army. The metal landscape of Cypertron passed slowly below, buildings coming ang going in the darkness. Tiny patches of fire flickered upon the ground, the only sign of continued violence in the ruined surface.
Running silently, the comms off to prevent tracking by Autobot troops, the shuttle exploded into flames. Shrapnel rained over the wasteland surrounding Tarn, chunks of debris falling to ground up to several megamiles in all directions. Exept, for one lone cargo module, and the two resting frames it carried. That alone fell straight down into the wastelands to land at the pedes of the Neutrals that had taken down the Decepticon transport.
"Hah!" one figure cried in triumph, "Now lets see the Decepticons get any of these weapons."
"Its not weapons." Their leader spoke. He opened the module to reveal two brand-new, shiny models. Both running in start-up mode waiting for their activation codes to on-line for the first time.
"They're warriors." Another breathed slowly.
"They could be pre-programmed." An older voice spoke. "We will keep them, and raise them as Neutrals. They will choose our side – or die." All nodding in silent agreement the small group of Neutral refugees attached hover clamps to the module and walked away to vanish into the darkness of Cybertron.
The Decepticon Counterpunch walked calmly through the dark depths of Tarn. The city, the dark, crazed scar across the surface of Cybertron, had fallen into worse disrepair over the allotted vorns since he had dropped off the troop request. The ground, still black with charred sooty remains of destroyed mechanoids now had the grey rubble of destroyed buildings mixed into the debris. The disturbing, fractured remains of buildings were black from fires and rose from the thick, dusty round like jagged denta of beast-mechs.
Counterpunch made his way through the silent wasteland of the streets as he followed the remembered path from his first visit. He constantly looked over his shoulder and scanned the open maw of every ruined building. The scrabbling of small figures sounded as he passed. Ped-steps echoing strangely in the preternatural stillness Counterpunch held his vents on low, hoping to stay invisible until he reached his destination. At every cross-street, every wall opening or broken doorway he tensed, the feeling of being watched, targeted, followed him with every spark beat and made his plating chill and prickle in tense, nervous anticipation.
Counterpunch shuddered as he reached his destination, his last meeting running wildly through his processors as fear of Shockwave hit him like a physical force. He moved through the last of the blackened ruins outlining the city's remains until he reached the shattered spire of the former senate building. The shattered, crazed and cracked spire of black glass that had once been a brilliant tower of crystal lay mostly broken along the ground. The ruined remains of the building lay open, the once hidden stairway down now revealed and broken.
The spychanger gulped nervously and jumped through the broken stairwell, landing several floors below with a grunt and a massive hiss of compressed air escaping his impact absorbers. He looked around, mouth opening in shock at the sight. The lab lay open and ruined before him. Piles of mech parts and grey frames twisted and distorted in agony covered the floor. To the side a work bench surrounded by dusty sterility lay in immaculate condition. He traced a finger tip across the surface and looked at the accumulated debris. This place had been abandoned several vorns ago. No more than three.
"Where did you go?" As his desperate voice echoed in the silent room, nothing moved, no one came to investigate, and Counterpunch fell to his knees. The requested troops had been completed ahead of schedule, and now he would have to report to Sentinel that his mission had failed. Once, he would not have minded. That was the nature of such things. Either you predicted correctly and succeeded, or you failed and hoped to get out alive. Now, though, he almost feared reporting to Sentinel as much as he feared facing Megatron. The decavorns had changed the Autobot commander. Rumors of him being a False Prime had started to circulate, and along with so many others in the forces of the Red Haze, Counterpunch wondered if the rumors were true.
-:- Counterpunch to Starscream, I found Soundwave's lab. There is no sign of Megatron's requested troops or Soundwave. -:- Counterpunch raidioed in to his commander, the SkyCommander.
-:- Good -:- the high, shrieking voice replied, -:- Soundwave has lost face before Megatron. Those requests will never be found. -:-
Counterpunch signed off silently, hiding the shudder that Starscream's voice filled him with. He turned from the ruins of the surface layer Tarn. Below ground the city still thrived, but that would last for another day. His contacts had already scoured the lower city looking for signs of betrayal from the demented Second in Command.
With one last look around Counterpunch stalked through the laboratory, and stumbled through the rear hall leading to a defunct landing pad. With one last sigh, Counterpunch folded down into his alt mode and took the small, hole-riddled roadway from the landing zone through the ruined city to the surrounding wasteland. He just had to make it to the edge of the Black Sector to meet his liaison. Then he could finally go home.
Jazz stood on a low ridge of broken metal overlooking the wasteland of the Black Zone. Out here energon had ceased to exist save what a mech carried within his own lines. Doubt plagued Jazz, filled his processors with unanswerable questions. The four vorn undercover mission in Paraxus had, according to Punch, been an utter failure – like Jazz.
Scared, weak, Jazz had caved into fear while protecting others and asked for help. He should have stepped up to face the challenge, instead he had stepped back and leaned on the enforcer, Prowl. It was only when he had been pulled from Paraxus and returned to his normal appearance, Punch had shown Jazz the last thing he had wanted to see.
The on-duty medic had pulled a recorder chip from Jazz's own processors. The device saw everything Jazz saw, knew every move Jazz made, knew every word spoken, every thought and fear. The only limitation was private comms. Jazz was grateful for that small kernel of privacy between him and Prowl.
Prowl, the mech with amazing processing capacities, had literally save Jazz's life as he pretended to be Enforcer Veyron. Jazz wondered if Prowl knew how much he had been used in the warehouses. Prowl likely believed he had just done his duty, but to Jazz it was more. Prowl had been Jazz's bulwark. Prowl locked off his own emotions and remained stable when Jaz had been terrified. Prowl outlined commands and plans of attack when Jazz had been blindsided so badly he couldn't even think of how to save himself.
"That's why Ah work alone. There's no one ta fear for. It's a shame." Jazz sighed. His performance had barred him from the higher echelons of black opps. That division relied solely on impersonation, improvisation and integration into whatever folds of society the job took them to. Jazz was special opps, a solo specialist and saboteur.
"Become a leader, become a follower, become anything asked of you. If you are asked to become Unicron, be Unicron and make the Unmaker proud. If you are asked to become Primus Himself, become Primus and make the world bow to your greatness. That is black opps, and you are not worthy." Punch's words had driven through his plating like red-hot metal spikes. Jazz rubbed his plating over his chestplate with a grimace, his spark felt broken.
Punch's division had been Jazz's dream since he had fallen into a black opps safe house as a burbling sparklet so long ago. He had worshipped Punch growing up, but now – now he felt disconnected from his mentor. The mech who had raised him had thrown Jazz into a training camp and seemingly washed his hands of the youngster. Now, Jazz didn't know who to turn to, or where to go. Even as he waited here in the crazed shadows of a nameless ruined city Jazz could only wonder if he would ever be someone worthwhile. He wanted to be the best, he was cold, ruthless, beguiling and friendly. He could chat a mech up, get more intel in a few breems than most inquisitors could in an orn then share an energon with his mark and walk away from the graying corpse.
So, why could he put his life in danger without balking, yet freeze the moment another life rests in his hands? The question shelved itself as a figure moved in the darkness. Jazz hunkered low in the shadows, suppressed all systems and triggered his stealth mods.
The distant figure approached, resolved itself into a familiar looking frame of reversed blue and yellow. At the sight of the Decepticon haze upon the yellow hood Jazz began moving on light peds and fired as he ran. The figure screeched to a halt, reverse hover thrusters screaming to oppose the forward momentum even as the mech transformed. The color scheme flipped upon itself, the purple haze becoming red, and there stood Punch. Blaster held at the ready Punch crouched below a pillar.
"Stupid move, old mech," Jazz ground out behind Punch his blaster pressed into the blue helm, "You never approach a rendezvous point in the wrong haze."
Punch cycled a tic, then breathed out slowly, "I know." He glanced back as much as he could to Jazz's dark visor and cold frown. The last mission had changed the lad, changed him for the better. A few more missions and some oxidation under his young plating, then maybe Jazz could try again for the Blacks. "Shockwave abandoned his lab, the order is gone."
Jazz frowned, visor darkening further to almost black, making him appear as a walking corpse with lightless optics. "That goes on your helm. I told you to place spy drones on the building."
Punch smirked, "Yeah you did. I took a chance, and I was wrong."
"Well, since you're early, guess I can take that next mission after all." Jazz spoke flatly. The warm camaraderie they had once shared was gone, broken like the shattered buildings in Tarn.
In a way Punch wanted to kick himself. Jazz had been too young to place in an immersive training camp, but the youngling had been dangerous, untrained, violent and malicious when provoked. They had had no other choice, especially after Ripper. Punch thought back on the undetected Decepticon spy in their ranks. Jazz had sensed something wrong in the mech, confided in Punch, and had been laughed at. Feeling overlooked the youngling had taken matters into his own hands. The trap Ripper had walked into had been elaborate, something worthy of a senior agent. Triggered by spark resonance and proximity combined the trap had drawn and quartered Ripper then flung his helm onto a pike. One lone reprogramed spy drone had witnessed the carnage, and when the Ripper had ceased his functions, the drone had hacked his powered down processors to replay every astrosecond of data the mech had carried, including private meetings with Megatron.
Punch frowned, instead of congratulating the youngling he had yelled at the kid, thrown him in the roughest form of boot camp know to the Autobots and abandoned him for a full decavorn. Jazz had never been the same since. "Yes, apprentice, it does." He replied coldly, hiding from his face how much it hurt to say such so coldly.
"Fine," Jazz nodded, "I was requested to meet you and forward the report. Am I dismissed?" Jazz looked coldly at his once creator figure and hero emotionlessly.
"Yes, now leave." Punch commanded and moved on, never looking back.
Jazz sighed, no wonder he preferred to be alone. He thought over all the mechs he had been raised with, who had been his family. Most had been terminated on one mission or another, the others had abandoned him just as Punch had. Jazz turned and walked the opposite direction of his mentor, heading to his next mission, the next mark. Who knew, maybe this time his mark would be feisty, and willing to swap cables before he died.
It felt like he had been reliving the same orn for the last two decavorn. Rise, take his ration, see the psychiatric patients he was unsuited to fixing, mend the small tears and minor hurts the mechs inflicted upon themselves in their deranged ravings, then went to recharge. Orn in, orn out it was always the same.
Ratchet wanted to scream. The oh-so benevolent Prime had sent him here, wherever the slag this was, to be a nursemaid to a bunch of loonies that needed more help than he could give them. This wasn't a matter of their neural circuits being fault or broken – mostly. For the majority of those kept here they had suffered such emotional and mental trauma that they could no longer function properly and their only choices were detainment here, or termination.
Ratchet hated both options. Here there was no one to help them! He seethed about that daily. How slagging difficult was it to train a few Neutral pacifists into shrinks? There were enough mechs and femmes here to fill a couple battalions spread over the entire complex. Ratchet reigned on this floor. Several other medics worth their mass in energon ruled the other floors. Most, unlike Ratchet, were grateful to be free of the fighting, the daily trauma of the repair wards.
Ratchet had other ideas. He paced his ward, absently repairing what hurts appeared before him. His hands busy of their own accord he looked for the hidden door that new patients were brought in through. Regularly new mechs appeared in their mists, some nearly sane, others so lost in their processors that none could reach them. Ratchet just wanted out of this mad house. He looked through the ward pacing, ever pacing the one long hall, on opposite sides of the long corridor single doors led off at regular intervals to separate rooms, fifteen doors on each side. Three steps, another door, the repetition was maddening.
He paced, turned, and checked a room that had fallen too quiet. The trembling femme inside had more lucidity in her optics today, maybe some improvement. He patched a small abrasion in her plating, and moved on. He passed door thirteen, fourteen, fifteen – "Wait an astro." Ratchet froze, optics wide. The left side of the corridor had a sixteenth door. Ratchet pulled the door open, optics wide he stared as the room slowly assembled from small squares of shining light.
"If it's assembling –" Ratchet charged through the light, shoulder to the darkened void the chips of light poured through. He stumbled as the floor vanished beneath him, falling a short distance Ratchet landed with a clang. "– then it's not solid"
"Oh, Primus," the medic groaned, optics open to the ceiling he watched as a device resembling a cannon poured out a stream of light that fractured and broke into the millions of little squares. He stared at it, processors nearly numb from the fall.
It didn't make sense. Why was the room building itself? He finally looked around, spotting a smallish mech huddled in a cage.
"A cage!" Ratchet finally moved, peds scrabbling for purchase on the strangely smooth floor. He rose and raced to the cage holding a young mech. The trembling bot had a red helm, black shoulders and white accents everywhere. Unsteady blue optics looked up at Ratchet.
"Help – me?" Ratchet looked the bot over, watching as the small frame glitched and sparks arched from the small red sensor horns adorning his helm.
"Slag." Ratchet huffed as he pulled his laser scalpel from subspace and sliced neatly through the strange bars holding the small mech inside. "I have to access your helm port, will you let me?"
Scared, confused optics looked at Ratchet blankly before nodding once, almost involuntarily. Hands moving swiftly Ratchet uncovered the port plugged in a data scrubber module and plugged his diagnostic cable into the module. Fragmented firewalls shuddered as he ported in. Disjointed data streams flowed and churned as wires crossed and damaged circuits sent inconsistent signals making the young mech glitch and writhe.
"Calm down, it's okay youngling." Ratchet spoke softly using words he had not uttered since he tried to make younglings with Whelljack's assistance so long ago. For a second he missed his spark brother, the one he had scorned when Jack and Huffer had joined the Autobots. How long ago had it been? Two decavorn? Ten? He had stopped counting.
"Who are you?" The voice asked tentatively. Ratchet sent a data packet, guided the youngling in unraveling it as his hands mended the damaged connections. The youngling was silent as he engrossed himself in reading the data. Optics tracked unconsciously over mentally streaming data. Ratchet smiled slightly, this one was very young, and at the same time he'd been around for several decavorn.
"And who are you?" Ratchet asked with a kindly smile, though he'd rather be snarling at the mess the youngling's processing circuits were in. Someone had been experimenting on this young thing. Ratchet frowned as he worked, noting the youngling's complete blankness on a designation. With a huff Ratchet dug through the distorted memories, noting long absences where data had washed through the processors without any storage. He peeked through the time stamps finding spans of vorns skipped in the storage banks.
"No clue, huh? That's alright." Ratchet finished the work he could do and sealed the helm once again. "Can you stand?" The smaller figure nodded mutely, then on wobbly peds took his first tentative step.
"Ra-chet" The figure stumbled his word, "Help?" Wide eyes looked at Ratchet with utter innocence.
"Yes, I'll help you, but you must follow me." Ratchet spoke softly, fearing to spook the youngling. They moved across the strange, smooth room, ignoring as the empty cage was sucked into the room of glowing light and vanished. Ratchet found a hallway and moved down it. As he moved he kept tabs on the youngster behind him and slowly details he had never noticed in all his time here began to emerge.
They weren't on Cybertron. That realization hit him like a city-former. The gravity was nearly non-existent. How long had he been keeping his frame magnetized to keep him attached to the floor? Why was the youngling behind him magnetized as well, when he could not even remember how to fully access his own vocal processors? Ratchet felt as if he was waking from a dream.
He had been taking drugged energon. He could taste it now; it was past time for him to refuel. The bitter tang at the back of his glossa and the fuzziness at the edges of field of vision were symptoms of processor affecting drugs. For what? Why give him meds – ? Realization dawned on him. None of the other medics had visible tempers; none of the other medics used the choice words Ratchet was fond of. He was being drugged to become nice. Ratchet smirked as he continued to stalk down the hall. When he found out who had done this to him, that mech, femme, celestial entity or alien, whatever it may be was slagged.
"No." The youngling spoke, crackles of electricity sparking from his sensor horns. "Bad mechs, don't go."
Ratchet looked down at the hand on his arm, then over to the hazy, scared optics. "Then which way?" He asked softly, feeling somewhat amazed when the black hand pointed to a recessed doorway he had completely missed. "Through there?" The horned red helm nodded once. "Alright, just keep me going the right direction."
Ratchet had no clue why he was listening to an insane mechling with minimal processing capacity. Mybe it was the residual drugs in his systems. If it was, he hoped he'd burn through the rest before long. Being this nice felt grating. Moments later they entered a small shuttle hanger and hid.
Everywhere Ratchet looked strange tailed orgaincs with blue plating – his mind searched for the word he sought, their covering was not metal, but individual small strings grown from their heads, necks, shoulders, arms; anything eposed through their clear space shielding was covered in the blue string-stuff while their faces were tan. Fur! His mind pulled up an image of Wheeljack's victory dance when he had completed a project without an explosion as the word was finally found. The strange organics had blue fur.
"Councilor Gravitas, the treatment for these mechs has been finalized. All patient rooms are filled. The medical assignments have been confirmed, and initial programming installed. This recovery base is ready to ascend." One of the blue creatures spoke to a mech Ratchet's mind told him had fled long ago.
The mech, an ancient grey and black figure stooped with age nodded, "Master Torkulon, this collection of mechs and femmes are the best sampling of what remains of our Neutral population. These are pacifists irrevocably changed by war. Protect them, from their own people and make them sane."
The smaller organic nodded, "Yes, will do so. Payment has been approved, and accepted. Have all non-patients clear the platform. It is time for us to depart."
Ratchet swallowed and moved once the pair had passed, they had to get out of here. He slipped into an open shuttle, dragging the youngster behind him. Once he had the other strapped in, he sat in the cockpit – and stared. "Scrap." He was not a pilot. He looked over the controls and wondered where to start.
"Here." A black hand touched several buttons in sequence, initiating the flight protocols and lifting off smoothly. "Where safe?"
"Safe, ha." Ratchet sighed as the youngster took the helm and guided them from the shuttle bay out into the black expanse of the stars. "That way." He pointed to the nearby shape of Cybertron. He looked at the place they had come from, and started as he recognized the nameless shepherd moon that had tagged along to Cybertron's red moon eons ago. "Take us down in the region that looks black. We'll take our chances there."
Ranger stared at the frames lying on the hover pallet. They were beautiful. She reached to touch one of the faces, to trace its lines. She stopped a scant plating width above the black plating; she wanted to touch the newly minted frame. She couldn't, these resting younglings had yet to even be on-lined. They lay in waiting for the power up command to be given. She wanted to give it; she wanted to be the one they looked to first.
Her younglings had died. She wanted them back. She had lost two, Spin-out a quiet, timid mech with a spark of pure tenderness. He acted aloof but he was a good youngling. And, Double-Cross, despite his name he had been so sweet. He had been a rascal, always playing harmless pranks, always beaming those bright, bright smiles at everyone. Her younglings had grown up on the outskirts of the wars, and yet, they were untouched by the evilness, the cruelty.
A desperation grabbed Ranger's spark, one she could not fight against. With one swift, pensive glance around she ensured she was alone with the younglings and pulled a pair of data chits from her sub-space pocket. These were the memory banks from her younglings. These were their lives. Spin-out and Double-Cross had been terminated while they recharged, they never felt a thing, they had known nothing of the agony or suffering that had taken them from her. For them, she smiled obsessively at the chits in her hands, for them they would wake up as if nothing had happened.
"And nothing will take you from me ever again. I will always be here, my younglings. I'm here. Just take these, and remember." She reached out with trembling hand, manically whispering her mantra to bring them back. Optics too bright, processors hovering on insanity she plugged the memory caches into the younglings and initiated the start up sequence. "When you wake I will be here. I will always be here."
As the younglings' systems integrated the memory chips, the process slow and arduous, an explosion rocked the neutral camp. "No!" Ranger threw herself over the prone forms and looked to the distant edge of the camp. The Decepticons had found them. She looked to the younglings, her younglings, and activated the hover clamps at the edges of the cargo module they lay in and moved to a distant, hidden crevasse that led into the depths of Cybertron's underground. "My ones, I will protect you, I will always be here." Ranger tugged the hover module behind her and vanished into the darkness, her mantra echoing in all directions in a plea of desperation, a creator's cry.
Jazz panted as he hid, blaster pointed towards the ceiling as he looked around the corner. He was trapped. Decepticon combiner teams surrounded him, their many optics searched the rubble he hid in for his presence. He was once again grateful he was on the small side, otherwise he would be a dead mech. This place had once ben a fortress, but so much damage made it impossible for him to trace the hidden passages he had memorized.
'Well, mech, what's the worst that could happen?' He asked himself as he did the one thing he had promised himself he'd never do. -:- Hey, mech, how's stalkin'? -:- he sent the query to the one mech he felt he could trust in the universe.
-:- Veyron? -:- Prowl's voice crackled across the secured comm line and Jazz grinned, he nearly sobbed in relief to hear the familiar voice. He hadn't even realized he had been scared.
-:- Sorry, mech, Veyron died nobly after returning to Iacon. -:-
-:- Bounce, then, -:- Prowl replied crisply, Jazz could practically see the door wings raise higher in the faint note of exasperation.
-:- Prowl? I need a favor. I'll owe you big buddy. -:-
-:- What do your require? -:- Prowl asked immediately, Jazz wanted to tell Prowl to stand at his side, watch his back and never leave. He wanted a partner in this madness. Instead he spoke lowly, -:- I'm trapped, I need your processors on this. -:-
-:- Send me the details -:- Prowl's voice went from the soft monotone to the cold emotionless drone that told Jazz his temporary teammate had put everything into this. Jazz formed a data packet of his mission details, enemy number, location, the building's condition and his own injuries. The last bit of data was hard to include. Jazz was almost too proud to admit he was hurt and leaking, almost. For Prowl to help him he had to know everything.
-:- Follow my directions exactly, and notify me if any situational parameters change. -:- Good, old Prowl, Jazz felt relief course through him after the silent, terrifying eternity of waiting. He moved as Prowl directed, kept a constant barrage of data packets going out on alternating frequency channels.
Finally, Jazz reached his destination. The data hub of the old High Council Pavilion stretched out before him. Lights still blinked within the shielded and heavily armored room. Here, long ago, the leaders of Cybertron had decided its fate and had stabbed the entire population in the back as they siphoned off the majority of the energon, then fled.
Jazz hacked the data hub, and condensed the entire contents into a high energy data packet he sent to Prowl. -:- I'll come back for this, hang on to it for me, would ya? -:-
-:- Of course, Bounce. -:- Prowl replied in his unconsciously regal tone.
-:- Thanks, Stalk. -:- Jazz cut the line and fled. He looked back, once the fortress was little more than a small blob in the distance and activated the remote switch. Instantly the massive combiners stalking through the fortress ruins and everything around them vanished in an explosion of light. Jazz ran, and vanished into the darkness. Now, he just had to get patched up, and find his way back to Paraxus.
Ratchet looked back to the burning ruins of the shuttle. He sighed, and hefted the unconscious patient in his arms. "Perfect slagging timing." Ratchet grumbled as he walked away into the darkness. He grumbled as he walked letting their near escape from deactivation play through his processors.
"I'm glad you can fly, I don't know how to." Ratchet spoke to the red, black and white patient. The red helm tilted slowly, the movement making Ratchet's plating prickle along the back of his neck.
"Help me?" Black hands fell away from the controls. Whatever cognizance the mech had held during the majority of their flight left him in an instant. Ratchet gaped, horror-struck as their shuttle immediately nose dived towards the dark face of cybertron. Ratchet reached, grabbed the controls and heaved against them to pull the nose up with all his might. Nothing worked! His optics scrabbled over the blinking lights and glowing toggles, looked unseeingly through swiftly scrolling holographic displays and recognized nothing.
The dark ground of Cybertron loomed closely, so near large shapes appeared as blurs and details stood out in stark contrast; the ragged teeth of a broken building reaching to impale them. The serrated girders exposed to the sky reached for them, as if hungry.
Finally, one screen stood out, one with a red flashing square on it that read 'Eject?'
"Yes damnit!" Ratchet slammed his hand through the holographic display, felt the barest trace of resistance then they were flying through the sky, away from the lethal ground. "Oh, Primus," Ratchet breathed as the ground once more loomed closely. They were going to be slagged. The instant Ratchet closed his optics, too cowardly to watch his own ending face on, parachutes deployed and pulled them back into the sky.
"And when we finally landed you were unconscious. Now I get to haul your heavy frame across this forsaken landscape. Thank you so much, you nameless brat." Ratchet huffed gruffly.
"You're all data bits and no plating." Wheeljack's voice echoed in his helm from a long time ago. "I'm not afraid, roommate. Keep cussing, I'm picking up quite the collection from your vocabulary."
Ratchet smiled wistfully, if he ever made it back to Autobot headquarters he swore he'd find Wheeljack and make up for every unintended slights he had given his friend and spark-brother – and Huffer. Ratchet paused midstep, was Huffer even online? Was Wheeljack? He thought about everyone he had left behind, and wondered if he was the last mech alive with his burden.
"Come on, youngling." Ratchet huffed as he forced himself to move once more. He strode through the darkness, hugging the edges of ruined buildings with each step. What he really needed was a medbay. The little mech cradled in his arms – little – Ratchet scoffed at himself, his patient was nearly as big as he was, still smallish, but he was burning too much energon carrying his burden.
Decision made as his tanks indicated their low-fuel status Ratchet searched for shelter. He found a ramp leading into a shadowy building. Faint traces of purple light emanated from the crazed and shattered glass that remained of whatever structure it had been. He moved up the ramp, down the lone corridor, and found himself in a sea of carnage. The corpses were old, covered in the everpresent glim that coated Cybertron. These had been younglings. The frames were hastily made, their face plates bore only vague suggestions of features and their plating bore not even a trace of oxidation.
"I hope the monster that did this is long gone." Ratchet rumbled uneasily. He laid his patient on a double wide work table, ignoring the dusty glim that coated its surface, and searched the piles of the dead for parts. Ratchet hated this part, the unmaking of a mech, it was where spare parts came from too often. His hands pulled apart frame after frame, making a collection of bits that could be used to fix his patient. A logic chip from this frame, neural wires from that one, helm plating from another; each part had to be painstakingly pulled, then set aside. Multiples of each were isolated, each of a slightly different type.
Once the pile of parts and the variety was large enough, Ratchet moved to his patient, opened the helm and began the slow, painstaking task of remaking the scrambled circuits into something that actually functioned. As he worked Ratchet's temper rose, the youngling had been tortured. This type of damage came from an inquisition, where random wires were crossed and chips burned out until the victim began to spout all knowledge he possessed. The fact that this youngling was still alive was enough to tell Ratchet that his inquisitor had failed. Otherwise, the youngling would have been terminated.
"Well, youngling, without a med bay, or my field kit," Ratchet missed his military issue medical kit. He wanted his supplies back, the collection of spare parts, the condensed energon rations, and the complete set of tools. When he had been reassigned from Afterburn's unit everything had been taken from him. His personal tools, his weapons upgrades, all but his most basic armor, and even some of his on-board tools that transformed from his hands – even those had been pulled from his upgrades. He felt weak, "Without a medbay that is all I can do." He looked to the recharging youngling and sighed. "Time to see what else this carnal house has to offer."
Ratchet scrounged through storage units, pried up loose floor plating, dug in vents that had partially come uncovered, and searched in every corner for energon, tools or weapons. He found a hover berth, that was a boon. Now he wouldn't have to carry the youngling. He found some questionable energon, but drank it anyways and forced some down his patient's throat for good measure. But, no weapons were to be found. With a last grumble and a sigh Ratchet found a relatively clean spot on the floor and lay down to recharge. When he woke they would have move again, and he still had no clue where they were.
Jazz groaned as he forced himself up, out of recharge. He wanted to be done already, but he had that brilliant idea of leaving the data he needed with Prowl up in Paraxus. After the fortress outside of Tarn had been destroyed Jazz had been forced to hoof it across the wastelands, and now the special opps agent trudged through the ruins of Tarn. His journey was going to be very long.
He strode past the ruined crystal senate building, and froze. Fresh ped prints were etched into the glim coated ground. The peds were not overly large, but their firm indention showed the mech to have great mass. Jazz steeled his relays and followed. If any still functioned in the city, it was likely a 'Con. He moved through the broken ghost city, past silent intersections and ruined, massive courtyards. Finally, he found the remains of a camp, an indention in the glim where something large and rectangular had been set on the ground, and another indention where a mech had lain. He followed the prints out of the camp, and into a massive warehouse.
Jazz froze and plastered himself against the side of the entrance. Memories of his last experience in a warehouse replayed through his processors, and he trembled. Terror of having those five lives resting in his hands, their survival utterly dependent on his decisions still scared him. He calmed himself, and finally moved on. His journey was short. In the first room lay the rectangle. It was a floating berth.
"Primus!" Jazz breathed, "Red Alert, no." He looked over his friend, one of the few Precious Sparks he had rejoined over the vorns. Red Alert had been captured on a training mission nearly three decavorns ago. The 'Cons had caught onto his ability to sense their presence and taken away his team's most useful asset. With Red Alert alive, that made him the unit's sole survivor.
Fresh welds covered Red's helm, the ugly tracings of scars indicating long sessions of torture, torture that was likely still being continued. Jazz shuddered and activated the hover lift. He was getting Red out of here, now. With silent peds Jazz moved through recessed maintenance corridors to a rear shuttle bay. He grinned, there was one still here. The small craft looked like it had been sitting in the hangar for several megavorns. The technology was archaic. Yet, Jazz couldn't help the silent prayer that it would still fly.
He loaded Red Alert into the rear, strapped him in and moved to the cockpit. It was time to see if this baby could fly.
Ratchet felt his spark drop into his tank. He stood in the room he had left his patient in, only to find him gone. The energon cube he had scrounged up fell to the ground, forgotten. With despair rising in his spark Ratchet raced after the faint, receding ped prints and hoped he had not just lost his patient to a 'Con.
He moved through doorways he had not seen before, down a corridor that his mind told him had not existed before and found a shuttle bay just in time to see an archaic shuttle launch into the sky. "No!" Ratchet looked around frantically. The bay was empty. He raced through the warehouse, searched every room. There was nothing here.
Defeated he returned to the last place he had seen his patient, collected his energon and moved into the distant wasteland heading ever onward towards the distant city of Iacon. "They could have at least left me my alt mode." Ratchet groused as he trudged. When he had been reassigned everything was taken from him. Now all he had were a few tools his hands could still transform into, a small collection of energon in sub space, and a pile of nearly forgotten little metal plates bearing the sigil of the creator mech he had once been nearly half a meagavorn ago.
Prowl patrolled the warehouse district in his alt mode. Sweeping fins off his fenders made him more streamlined in the heavy atmosphere of Paraxus as the shields overhead held in the methane and other rich gases that made Paruxus so beautiful. Around him the mechs and femmes of his city waved as he passed. Since the Warehouse incident he had found himself respected, and among the populace, appreciated. It was a new and heady experience, one he enjoyed greatly.
He was now the Enforcer Captain of this district, a promotion he had fought doggedly for. His sensors swept over the rebuilt and improved warehouse complex. After the skirmish (according to Autobot Punch, a rather small one) the entire complex had been demolished and rebuilt. Now it stood beautifully in the starlight, the claw-like landing pads gone, replaced with towers bearing petal-like platforms as if grown from a natural crystal planting. The new complex complemented the city's beauty, and everyone agreed it was an improvement.
-:- How's Stalikin'? -:- Bounce's voice crackled across his comms.
-:- It goes well. How are you, Bounce? -:- Prowl replied.
-:- Prowl, -:- Bounce's voice grew cold, serious, -:- I found Twitch, he's not good. -:-
-:- Location? -:- Prowl demanded, voice cold, commanding. He selected several communications channels, waiting to use the one that had the closest medical team.
-:- Behind you. -:- Prowl fluidly moved from alt to root mode, plated shifting as he stood and turned, finding a mech he had never laid optics on standing behind him looking half to termination. "Heya mech, long time."
Prowl cycled his optics, matching the vocal patterns to the ones Veyron had used in private communication during the warehouse assignment nearly fifteen vorns ago. "You are?" he asked slowly, not wanting to use the youngling name he had permitted over secure comms.
"Name's Jazz, nice digs." He looked appreciatively over the sparkling city with a whistle.
"And Red Alert?" Prowl demanded, Jazz gaping that Prowl would know their co-creation's adult designation.
"Over here," Jazz led the way to a hidden grotto within a crystal garden.
-:- Enforcer Prowl requesting immediate emergency assistance to these coordinates. -:- Prowl followed, leaving an emergency beacon on for the medics to follow. They moved to Red's hover berth, Prowl flinched as he took in the many weld scars, and numerous metal patches covering the once red helm.
"Boun – Jazz, was there another at that location?" Prowl asked softly.
"Yeah, figured it was a 'Con. Ah had to go through Tarn, and that's where ah found 'im." Jazz replied, suddenly feeling uneasy about his split second decision.
"I will not give your designation. I will report that a stranger brought a damaged mech from outside of Paraxus. I would suggest you contact your commanders to report a mech's presence in Tarn. Either the ones responsible for Red's torture are still out there, or someone else was trying to save him as well."
Jazz gaped. A rescue attempt by someone else of his co-creation had slipped his mind. "Oh slag, do ya mean I mighta left a poor bot out there?"
Prowl nodded, "I suggest you disappear, this way no repercussions will find you."
"I can't say I want to," Jazz looked at Prowl, "Ah'd like ta get ta know ya again."
"As would I," Prowl nodded as the barest trace of a smile quirked his lips, "Jazz, please be safe."
"You as well, neither of us have the safest job description." Jazz smirked and left, already feeling bereft of the mech with such astounding processing capacity.
"Before you bounce, I owe you something." Prowl spoke up before Jazz had taken even two steps. "Here, this is yours." He placed a small data chit in Jazz's hand then turned back to Red. When he looked over his shoulder, Jazz was gone.
Ranger watched with needy optics as the younglings – her younglings! Slowly began the start up process. They had integrated the memory banks of her younglings, their plating changed hue from simple black and white to one burgundy and grey, the other neon venom green. She smiled so brightly as they finally opened their optics.
"You're awake, I was so worried." She held one hand to each dear face. "They had to rebuild you, almost completely. I don't know how they managed to save you."
Optics, one pair a pale blue, the other a deeper turquoise, looked at her. Ranger's lines ran cold, her plating tingled along her spinal struts and a spark deep terror griped her. These were not her younglings. Their optics were cold, insidious and dangerous. The moment lasted but a spark beat before their optics cleared and finally focused.
"Ranger?" Double-Cross's optics looked at her and brightened. "Ranger! Where are we? Where's camp?"
The femme's optics shuttered in grief, her once rich burgundy and dark green plating had gotten tarnished and worn since they had last seen her. "They're – they're gone, my sweet ones. The Decepticons attacked, and killed almost everyone." Everyone but her; they had left her to cradle the cold, gray corpses of her younglings alone.
"Did they hurt you?" Spin-Out finally asked, his pale optics cold and hard in a way that scared Ranger more than the Decepticons did.
"N-no, they just left me alone, I thought you were dead too." She had searched for a spark signature for orns. She had tended their grayed frames with sips of energon and sheltered them from the acid rains, but her little ones never came back. Then she had collected their memory files, deleted their termination time stamps and left the forlorn frames behind.
"So, did you pick these frames?" DC asked, "Cause, they're hideous."
Ranger gasped, her younglings had chosen these colors, begged to be bigger, stronger. "But, you asked –"
"To be bigger, not heavy." Spin-Out cut in, sneering aloofly at the thick armor shielding his frame.
"C-come on, we need to get you some rations." Ranger spoke brightly, forcing a smile on her trembling lips. How had her darlings become so cold? They had all their memories, but not their sparks. She looked sadly at the creatures she had released and wondered if she could turn them back into her precious sweetlings.
"You want us to drink that?" Spin-Out demanded with a sneer, "You got us upgraded frames, we need upgraded energon, or would you like us to have to be rebuilt, again?"
Ranger looked at them with wide optics. "But, this is all the energon we have." She nearly wailed. It had taken joors to get the rations, to seek the depleting supplies this little conclave in the underground was able to maintain.
"I got this," DC grinned, only the smile didn't reach his optics. His optics held no emotion at all. Ranger gulped, moved to speak only to realize he had already vanished.
"We're not staying here." Spin-Out proclaimed the instant DC had vanished. "Come on, we're leaving."
"But, this is our home." Ranger gasped, she had made a small place for them. It was still serviceable.
"Then stay, we're going." He stood without looking back and strode with immense pride through the small squalid hovel Ranger called their home. He snorted elegantly, 'ridiculous'.
"But Double-Cross –"
"Will come when he has suitable rations." Spin-Out left the border of the hovel, moved on silent peds through the dark underground passage and moved towards a destination he could only sense in his spark. Something called to him in the distance. He moved onward, slowing only as DC caught up.
"Here ya go." He handed out the rations, sipping the upper midgrade with a grin.
"How did you get it?" Ranger asked nervously.
"It was a reward for stopping a thief." DC grinned victoriously, though it did little to stave Ranger's worries.
DC's memories told him the mechs in the shallow below him were dangerous, and that he should run. But his spark told him they were easy marks. He slipped down behind a spire of twisted metal and listened.
" – I already told you the goods are in the warehouse. Just pick them up from Drywall." One spoke, DC grinned. He moved away after finding out where the warehouse was and what 'Drywall' looked like. He moved on, and found a mech disconnecting from the still, lifeless grey frame of a femme.
"Too bad, I wanted more fun than that." The mech turned, optics slitted dangerously as he spotted the younger mech watching him. "Want to be next?" The mech leered, interface cables already sliding from their compartments.
"Nah, just thought you looked thirsty." DC grinned. "I got a share of energon, but its too much for me to carry. You can take as much as you want if you'll help me get it."
The mech grinned, "Sure, I can do that."
DC smiled innocently, his memories telling him this mech was going to kill and rape him if he messed up. His spark, however told him the mech wasn't so smart. They moved to the warehouse, the mech taking the lead as he swaggered to the door.
"Who are you?" The mech that fit Drywall's description demanded as the other approach.
"Slicer. I'm here on orders from Downspiral. He said he wants the goods." Slicer repeated what DC had overheard.
"How much does he want this time?" Drywall asked with a bored sigh.
"Everything." Slicer replied, his arm transformed into a thick blade and he stabbed Drywall through the spark with a cackle. The warehouse was open before them, piles of energon of all grades reached to the ceiling. "Now, punk, its your turn!"
DC looked up, optics wide as Slicer's blade slammed him into a wall. DC screamed, and slid down the blank metal to fall in a heap.
Behind them voices raised, making Slicer panic. The mech fled, leaving DC alone on the floor.
"Get him!" Downspiral's voice thundered, as hands picked up DC.
"Please! Don't hurt me!" DC pleaded as he trembled, his entire frame vibrating as he dangled from the taller mech's hand.
"What are you doing here?" Downspiral snarled.
"That mech –" DC keened brokenly, "I s-saw him k-k-kill a femme. He did so-something terrible to her." His vocals hitched, optics wide and shimmering too brightly, "I came after him to – I wanted to catch him after what he'd done."
Downspiral sighed, "You're just a youngling, despite your size." He set DC down, "Where are your creators?"
"I only have Ranger, and my brother. We've been traveling looking for energon. I thought, I could stop the bad mech and turn him in for a ration. We won't take much."
Downspiral roared a laugh, "A ration, he says, for three mechs! Ha, youngling, you tried to do right. And that's something hard to come by. Take these, you tried. That's all that matters."
DC's optics widened hugely, "Sir, you mean it? Six whole rations?"
Downspiral laughed again, "Yes, youngling. It's not much, but it will help your family get where they're going."
"Thank you!" DC called over his shoulder as he ran away with a smile.
"The warehouse keeper said it was for trying to do the right thing." He grinned at Ranger, his optics now brighter, more like they had been. She smiled back proudly.
"He's right, you know. As long as you do right by others, even if you can't succeed, the attempt is all that matters." Ranger sighed, maybe she was expecting too much of her younglings. It must be hard recalibrating to new frames. They trudged onward, each sipping their ration in silence. It didn't matter where they went, Ranger decided, as long as they were together.
Ratchet knew he was going to die out here. The wasteland went on forever. Sixteen orns of walking, and the distant, dark horizon never changed. He held on to his last cube, the final tenth of what he had collected in the ruined city he had lost his patient in. His tanks were empty, his processors hazy, he'd have to drink his last cube soon, or die for lack of energon with a cube still in one hand.
Ratchet almost drank, almost. He sighed and sealed the cube. He'd drink when he stopped, whenever that was. That had been his agreement with himself for the last three orns. His legs kept moving, so tired he wondered if he'd die and keep walking, his legs programed to never cease long after he'd gone.
Overhead the stars wheeled across the sky, changing from the brilliant stars of the on-cycle, to the dim, scattered stars of the down-cycle. He wanted to stop, to rest. He was so tired. Ratchet scanned the flat horizon looking for a stub of a building, a buckle of ruined plating, yet nothing appeared. Was this Unicron's Pit? To walk unending after losing so many patients? He continued to walk, each step more halting than the last. Ratchet trudged on, seeking something, anything that was not more of the flat, lifeless glim coated metal.
A thought stuck in Ratchet's processors making him give a desperate giggle. Cybertron would become a desert planet whose shifting sands was the dried mechblood of all the idiots who had once dwelt there and killed themselves in a neverending war. He cackled, his voice filled with a kind of desperate insanity. Slowly the hysteria abated and Ratchet looked up from his peds in surprise. He'd stopped! He popped open the final cube and drank deeply. He smiled around the edge of the cube, estatic to finally take in more fuel.
Only, when the energon hit his tanks it felt like he had taken in only vapor. Ratchet hung his helm and cursed roundly. Oh, yes those many things that had been taken from him had stolen any advantage he might have had out here, and to top if off the one thing they could have taken – his expanded on-board energon storage tanks – had been left in place. Now the tanks he had once used to provide in-field transfusions to keep other bots alive were going to be the death of him.
Worn out, tired and wanting nothing more than to recharge for an eternity, Ratchet laid on the ground and instantly fell into unconscious slumber.
Creator. Bright optics looked up at 3:1:0, a sea of faces ranging from the tiny Precious Sparks to the few Guardians he had constructed. His spark clenched in agony. Were they all dead too? He looked around him, expecting the fiery smelter Unicrion's Pit – but found only laughing younglings.
"Creator?" Two faces looked up at him, their bright blue optics looked at him happily, "When will Carrier return?"
Carrier? Ratchet looked at the youngsters, he didn't know them. A figure steped from Ratchet's frame, a mech of indigo and grey, "She will be home soon, my heirs. Come, we will wait for her upon the hill." The figures walked away from the wasteland and into a glowing, golden sunset. A distant star had come close enough to grace Cybertron with its light. They stood on a hill, "Do you remember what this hill is called, my mechlings?" The figure that was not Ratchet asked.
"It is the shoulder guard of Primus. We stand upon his shoulder to keep watch over his sleeping frame." One of the two younglings replied.
"Teacher's pet." The other sneered.
"Enough –"
"Enough!" A bellow pulled Ratchet out of his slumber, the distant dream or recollection of an impossible past faded leaving him jittery and disturbed.
"Who?" Ratchet looked around, optics shuttering and unshuttering as he desperately tried to focus.
"Ha, look at that, boss, this one's still kickin'." A sinister voice above Ratchet's helm drawled.
His optics darted up, took in the dark figure leered at him from the prow of a hover ship. Beside the dark shadow, nearly as black as Cybertron had become crouched a second figure of blue. Ratchet stared, optics shining in fear. "Decepticons!" He gasped and scrabbled away, hands and peds slipping in the thick glim coating the planet's native metal.
"Calm down stranger," A third figure moved in from the shadows, "I'm Cryotek, Captain of the Blue Deployer. These two thugs are my crew members, Blue Bacchus and Black Shadow. They wear the haze, and join if the price is right. Otherwise, we're simple merchants." Cryotek grinned and Ratchet's hackles raised.
"Who are you, friend? This is no place to make camp. Anyone with their lamps off could sneak up on you." Although Crotek's voice was pitched to sound kind, Ratchet could hear the cold rasp of the mech's hands rubbing together in glee.
"I'm," Ratchet paused, did he dare? He looked at the three he'd been introduced to, then to the other two he could see in the darkness and wondered how many others were hiding. "I'm Ratchet."
"The medic?" A green mech stepped forward, this one towering over his comrades. "Good." The last was said with an almost purr that made Ratchet tense. "Word is, some mechs are offerin' good money for info on your location."
"And how about my safe return to Iacon?" Ratchet countered, he had decavorns of pay chits stored in subspace. He just needed to offer enough to get himself home without getting slagged.
"Ah ha, mechs, our friend is willing to make a deal." Cryotek rubbed his hands together with a sly grin. "How much do you think your worth?"
"I'm a run down old medic past my prime. You tell me." Ratchet snarled, he felt old and hollow by now.
"Well, now, that's not what several key players are claiming. Now why do you think several key players in this war are wanting you alive?" One of the mechs asked.
"And who would that be? An old mini-bot medic? Or a youngster playing at being general?" Ratchet asked caustically. His optics dim and hopeless.
"Huh, you really don't know?" Cryotek asked with a smirk. "Alright then, you get yourself a ride. I'm interested to see how you react to seeing your benefactors." The mech turned towards his crew, "Mechs, load up!"
Ratchet reluctantly followed them into the main cabin of their ship. He wanted to gag. Grey frames lay on every available surface. Some were fresh off the field, others had already been stripped of their parts. He was in a metal merchant's ship, a ship that sells the remains of the dead.
"Hey now, maybe you could answer me a question," Cryotek clapped his hand on Ratchet's shoulder, making the medic start. "How does a perfectly good frame come to be without its neural cables? Rather odd isn't?"
"Not really," Ratchet replied, "I had a patient, and I needed the parts. Until some of your buddies came and stole him."
"Bud- oh, you mean some 'Cons took a patient of yours? What were you doing way out here?"
"Escaping." Ratchet replied bluntly and sat on an empty stool with a groan.
"Hmm, you pulled out the cabeling, and yet no other parts were damaged. I might be persuaded to waive my finder's fee, if you take care of our friends here. You're not the only medic needing parts, friend."
"And you're just providing a good deed." Ratchet huffed with a small snarl. He was too tired to really fight, too tired to argue. He turned to the first frame and began the tedious task of the unmaking.
Prowl hovered near Red Alert's berth. He remembered the orn the feisty red mech had come to Paraxus City as a trainee security operative. So much of the security measures the city boasted had been outdated, at every step Red had bemoaned the impending Decepticon intrusion.
"Too late." Prowl spoke flatly, "They infiltrated our main warehouse district only a few orns ago. That is why you are here. Somehow they infiltrated our defenses."
"You are not a commander." Red spoke nervously, optics casting for the mech in charge.
"No, I am the tactician you were sent to speak with." Prowl gestured to the data pad Red held. They looked at each other, em fields reaching out and recoiling before embracing slightly. The outer fields of energy barely touching told them they were who the other had sought.
-:- Twitch?-:- Prowl asked via comms, optics steady despite the desperate hope that filled his lines.
-:- Stalk! -:- Red kept his face on the nervous side of impassive, "I see, Prowl was it? Very well, you will debrief me on the occurrences within the warehouse. Then I will need to speak with the others involved"
Prowl nodded, his surprise at finding another of the lost Precious Sparks so shortly after finding the disguised Bounce. "All will oblige your request, save Commander Veyron. He was recalled –" Prowl paused at Red's upraised hand.
"His statement has already been processed." Red gestured towards the enforcer stations' records room. "Please guide me through what went on. I will then be able to analyze the weaknesses within your systems." They moved into the room and went through their official motions.
Red twitched in his recharge, Prowl found himself holding his intakes. Was Red awakening?
"Do not get your hopes up. Fixit is positive Red Alert's injuries are bad enough to warrant several joors in stasis. Whoever tortured him knew what they were doing. His pain was great." Smokescreen spoke as he stepped into the room. The psychologist of the enforcers had been keeping close tabs on Red Alert with the medic Fixit, both monitoring his mental and physical state as he healed. "Fortunately someone else was mending him, giving him the care he needed. If it had waited much longer, Fixit believes Red Alert would have been lost to us."
"And whoever that was, is likely terminated by now. Bounce found Red Alert in the wastes. He saw ped prints."
"I read the report," Smokescreen sighed, "Prowl, when Red Alert is stable, I will be transferring to the Autobots. I will follow Red and keep track of him. We may not meet again for a long time afterwards."
"I know," Prowl nodded, "The day I signed on I told the commanders I would remain with the enforcers until war coming to Paraxus was eminent. Even after the warehouse, war has only a thirty percent probability of coming here. I will remain until there is no other recourse."
Smokescreen smiled, "Why am I not surprised? You always did want to save the universe."
"No, when we were last together I only wanted to save our family."
"To younglings that small, their family is their universe." Smokescreen replied solemnly, wishing he could be the co-creation he wanted to be to Prowl and Red Alert. Yet, they didn't dare. Before the warehouse incident the commanders had known that Prowl was a Precious Spark. Afterwards, not a one seemed to remember.
For now, the Precious Sparks were no more than a broken memory.
"Boss, the mech's asleep." Blue Bacchus moved to the bridge. The medic lay recharging in the cargo bay with the grey frames. It was a beautiful dichotomy, a sole living mech sleeping with the dead. Blue Bacchus' fingers itched to turn the white mech grey, to watch the moment of passing.
"Good, he won't know what hit him when he wakes." Cryotek grinned evily. They moved towards the ruins of a former Autobot stronghold. The base had held strong in the early parts of the war, now it was a Decepticon training base.
"I see our contacts." Black Shadow called out, pointing towards a low crest of warped metal forming a twisted rise. Three figures stood in the darkness, one smaller, one a flier and a third more massive than either who bristled with weapons and spiked armor.
"So strange, to see a Seeker with grounders." Blue Bacchus chuckled, he had little room to talk. His heilo mode and Black Shadow's seeker mode made them stand out among the grounders of their crew, but few other Seeker's shared their pragmatism for making credits off the war.
"Where's our credits?" Cryoteck demanded as he stepped off his hover ship, letting the bow scrape against the hill slightly as it docked.
"Where's the medic?" The closest mech demanded, red optics from the black face shimmered dangerously with his demand.
"Right here, recharging like a new spark." Cryotek gestured to the medic cradled in a green mech's arms.
"Lay him down." The black and white demanded fiercely.
"Sure, sure, Barricade. Are you positive you three have my credits?"
"Positive," The other grounder, Sixshot, rumbled dangerously as he tossed a pay chit at Cryotek's peds. "Now hand him over."
"Sorry, friends," Cryotek smile winningly, "the medic is useful I couldn't part with him for any less than triple the price."
"I don't think so." Skywarp spoke behind the pirate as his after image wavered standing between Sixshot and Barricade. "The medic is ours."
"And so are your lives." Sixshot warned as he transformed into a massive battle cat and leapt onto the boat. Massive talons ripped into the opportunistic metal dealers, the boat racing backwards to escape and forcing Sixshot to leave his prey. He jumped into the air, took on his heilo mode and returned to Barricade's side then folded down into his tank mode. Several missiles fired on the pirate ship, but not even Sixshot could destroy it so easily.
"Let them go." Barricade rumbled. He looked down on Ratchet, sensing in the unconscious mech the spark resonance of their creator. "He can't know about us. He can't know we're Cons. Find an empty flitter, get him on it and send it towards the Elites' Tower. The inner grid still supports an Elite sanctuary. He will be safe there."
"Why do we care?" Sixshot asked, "He left us."
"You don't remember?" Skywarp asked softly, optics downcast. "Circle Glide took him away, put him in the closet he slept in. Twitch threw a fit, and Target followed him just to shut him up. Bounce and Slip got the rest of us to follow. We hid in a hole in the floor Glide kept credits in."
"I remember waking up there, but I don't remember going in." Sixshot sighed. "I have a flitter we can send the medic off in." None of them were willing to use their creator's current designation, each afraid that to speak it would wake the resting mech.
Barricade wanted to call out to 3:1:0 in this new form, to see their creator wake up and recognize them. But, they were Cons, deep in Con territory. Sixshot moved to pick up Ratchet, until Skywarp stopped him. "If we send him in a flitter, he could get shot down. I'll take him to the outskirts."
"When do you go for trine selection?" Sixshot asked softly before Skywarp could vanish.
"Next orn. No matter who I go with I will have to submit to trine recognition conditioning." He grimaced, "There is only enough slots for one full trine, and I'm not strong enough to lead." He looked to his companions one last time, then gathered Ratchet in his arms and vanished.
"When the trine leaders are finished with him, Skywarp will not be the same." Sixshot rumbled.
"I know," Barricade turned to face the distant lights of the training base, "After next orn none of us will." Tomorrow they were to recieve their first assignments as elite warrior Decepticons. They had spent decavorns in training, taking training missions and learning to be the best. Now it was time to prove it.
To be continued ...
