Disclaimer: do not own Transformers.
Part ten: in which there rescuing, in more ways than one. "Images went across her vision, one seamlessly after the next, clips from someone else's life. No…not someone else's life, she realized. It was her life. It was his life."
Favours
10: Rescue
Bumblebee hung at the tail end of the rescue party, almost guiltily hiding the two motorcycles behind his frame. He shouldn't have worried though; the rescue members were split up, and were going to infiltrate the Sector's base from different locations. Occasional transmitted messages were the only contact they had with the other Autobots.
It was just Bumblebee, Spike, and Sparkplug, and the road. All their holograms were in place. Bumblebee was shocked when Spike had used Sam's form again, but his shock had increased tenfold when Sparkplug had used Mikaela's. The shock and sadness held his vocal processors in check.
As for the younglings…they were very quiet. Maybe it was their concern for their family. Or maybe it was the—not exactly fear, but something like—of a battlefield. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was the fear of the consequences of not winning. Sam and Mikaela had often been like that. Too frightened, or too ashamed, to talk before a scuffle between the Autobots and the Decepticons occurred. Too frightened and too ashamed of their weakness. It made them easy targets. Sam's connection to the Allspark made them irresistible targets. And yet…and yet they still chose to be out there, with him. Bumblebee hoped fervently that he wasn't making the same mistake again.
The silence was deafening.
They are here. They are waiting. They have missed you so much. Talk to them.
About what? Bumblebee felt like asking.
Say anything. The boy will handle the rest.
"So…any reason why you guys chose those holograms?" Something in Sparkplug shuttered close, as though the question insulted him in some way. Spike was likewise annoyed, but more open to the question that her reserved spark-mate.
"No particular reason," she said lightly. "Fury-9 just taught us how to log on to the Internet, while at the same time putting parental security on certain sites." Bumblebee held back a laugh, especially when Sparkplug, insulted, muttered,
"As if we'd ever—" Spike went on with her tale.
"Me and Sparkplug were just browsing through human newspapers, and it showed their picture. And—and it all seemed to fit, you know? Like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, like peanut butter and jelly, like fries and ketchup, like cola and Mentos, like—"
"We get the picture, Spike," Sparkplug said in an ever-suffering voice.
"Now ask us how we chose our voices, that's an interesting story," Spike went on, ignoring her spark-mate.
"Very well. How?"
"Well we were watching this movie, right? And Sparkplug commented on how girl's voice was pretty, and I commented on…"
Bumblebee drove on, the sound of the passing road melding in with Spike's narration and with Sparkplug's comments of "Waayyy to much information there, Spike," and he had to smile inwardly.
It felt good to do that again.
X x X
Jazz lead the 'distraction' team, infiltrating on the south side. Arcee lead the 'extraction' team, infiltrating the north side. Whilst Jazz's team kept the Sector Seven soldiers busy, Arcee's team would go to the holding cells and rescue the Newsparks. Bumblebee was the wild card, infiltrating on the west side. It was his job to make sure that no one got too smart and alerted the soldiers of the second team's entrance in the north; to essentially jam the communications between the soldiers in the south and the scientists in the north.
Pandemonium broke out on one side; Jazz had started the infiltration. "You two ready?" Bumblebee asked. The younglings nodded.
A transmission from Arcee prompted Bee to careen into the west side of the building, transforming as soon as the wall was cleared. Spike and Sparkplug followed after him.
Bumblebee had the element of surprise, so the straggling soldiers coming from the north side to go to the south side did not stand a chance, and were soon held up by Bumblebee and his rather large cannon. He had the younglings disarm the soldiers, take away their communication devices, and lock them in a broom closet—which, strangely enough, had steel doors like everything else in the complex.
"You don't have 'stun' on that thing?" Sparkplug said amusedly, turning the lock against the pounding of the soldiers they had locked inside.
"No," Bumblebee answered solemnly, his face plate giving off the same effect as a raised eyebrow even though he lacked that particular body part. "'Stun' to us is much more harmful to humans. What would knock down a mech could kill a completely fit human, so we must be careful. Smaller mechs have a more variety of settings…to humans, mine has one setting only."
"Which is…?"
"To kill and/or maim."
Sparkplug made a whistling noise in appreciation. "Ours only stuns—can knock out animals and humans for a little while. Really handy when you're tearing down the highway and you see a stupid deer about to ram into you from the left-hand side."
"I'd imagine."
"Guys!" Spike said urgently, looking out of one observatory window to the basement below.
"What is it, Spike?"
She looked up at them in horror. "It's Dewbot."
X x X
"So this one's the leader?"
"Seems like. These creepy-crawlies got really ticked when we tried to take him."
"Did you hear a noise?"
"Probably nothing. The boys upstairs will take care of it."
"Yeah. Hey, it looks like a monster vending machine."
"Files show that it is a monster vending machine."
"That's just weird. Oh well. Let's get started."
"You can start by lining up by the wall," said a new voice, followed by the sound of something charging, gathering energy.
"What the—"
"You heard us. By the wall. Now."
X x X
"Spike, Sparkplug," Bumblebee said, beckoning the two to his side as he transmitted to Jazz and Arcee their location so that they could pick up Dewbot. Bumblebee held the scientists at gunpoint, and was scanning the area for a nice broom closet to shove them into.
The scene before them was eerily familiar. Dewbot was in forced stasis, on a table. Cold, spider-like arms suspended from the ceiling, their pointed ends all aiming at Dewbot's vulnerable spots. Bumblebee wanted nothing more than to—but then, the younglings were here. He didn't want to give them more nightmares than they already had.
Spike immediately turned, going to Bumblebee's side, and looked behind her when she saw that Sparkplug hadn't followed. "Sparkplug?" Sparkplug was still looking at the scientists poisonously, and then raised his cannon and shot them, knocking them unconscious.
"Sparkplug, what was that for?" Bumblebee demanded. Sparkplug looked at him.
"They threatened my adopted creator," he said defensively.
Not for the first time that day, Bumblebee was hit with a sense of déjà vu. Spike left Bumblebee's side and took Sparkplug's hands in her own, soothing his anger.
But the relatively peaceful time was short lived. There was a movement in the corner of his optic, and before Bumblebee could react, a scientist that they had somehow missed came into view with a charge weapon.
And aimed for the younglings.
Bumblebee dived, his hands going to cover the younglings as much as he could. But even though he felt a searing pain go up his hands, he still saw that some of the blast had gotten the younglings.
Much more than what Sparkplug had received just a day ago.
They went down. Bumblebee stared at the two immobile forms, unable to hold them, to check that they were okay, because the sparks that were jumping in his wires all over his hands could do more harm than good. He didn't know how much time passed.
"Bumblebee! Bumblebee, buddy, you okay?" a voice demanded. Then: "What are those two doing here?"
He looked up, and saw that Jazz and his team had disarmed the remaining scientists, and were looking at the trio in worry. They had bits of icicles dripping from various appendages—the soldiers had obviously tried to stop the infiltrators by using their liquid nitrogen machines again. The Autobots had been prepared for that though, and it looked like the cold was merely an annoyance to the rescue party.
"Jazz—" That was all he managed to get out before Jazz somehow managed to get the bigger 'bot bundled up in some insulating material—to try and isolate the after-affects of the charge weapon—and outside, mumbling something about how Ratchet was going to tear his armour from his very wires for disobeying his direct orders about the younglings, not to mention getting caught in the blast of a charge weapon. The sight of Arcee and a couple of other femmes helping up the shaken younglings and freeing the comatose Dewbot was the last Bumblebee saw of them until they reached Autobot headquarters.
X x X
Images went across her vision, one seamlessly after the next, clips from someone else's life.
A beat-up car in an equally shabby parking lot. A strange insignia on the steering wheel.
A terrifying midnight game of follow-the-leader.
Stars coming out from the sky, guardians coming to protect Earth.
Bumblebee—Bumblebee being taken away!
The Cube…the life-giver…the mother of Cybertron, the poison of Cybertron.
Running…no wheels…just running, running. With human legs and feet. Holding onto the Cube desperately with human hands.
"I wish to stay with the boy."
Getting sick…finding the poison inside of her body…
The fighting, the warring…never stopping.
The bullet and the favour.
The tunnel and the light.
The promise.
Dewbot and the milkshake.
Sam and Mikaela.
Spike and Sparkplug.
No…not someone else's life, she realized. It was her life. It was his life.
It was his life.
Are you ready to come home now?
X x X
Optimus, Jazz, Bumblebee, Ironhide, Ratchet, and Arcee were in the medbay, as requested by the newly mended Dewbot. Dewbot rose on the recharge berth. In surrounding beds were the other Newsparks, all on the mend. "Autobots," he said solemnly. "I suppose now we owe you."
"No, Dew-mech," Jazz said gently. "We're all family here, after all. 'S what we're supposed to do now, ain't it?"
"Family," Dewbot muttered, shaking his head. "Yes, I suppose you are right." To the Newsparks, he addressed, "too long have we hid from those who wish to embrace us. My fellow Newsparks, let us accept the proposition of the Autobots, and welcome the new age!" Tired, pained, but happy cries were his answer, Kitt's voice booming among them, though he quieted when Arcee glanced his way, instead opting for a contented smile.
"Welcome, then, brother," Optimus said gently.
"If we are all done with the theatrics," Ratchet said grumpily. "Can you all get out of my med bay now?"
"Aw, come on, Ratch. This is time for celebration!" Jazz said, and jokingly flinched when Ratchet reached for a tool to hit him with.
"Wait. Where are Spike and Sparkplug?" Dewbot asked suddenly amidst the smiles and happy chatter, looking around. The Newsparks looked too. Bumblebee looked behind him. The younglings—who were in recharge there just a moment ago—were gone.
"I'll find them," he said immediately, before anyone could protest, and exited the med bay, not even registering the:
"Bumblebee, if you mess up your hands again doing something reckless with those two, do not expect any pity from me!" that Ratchet called after him.
X x X
He found them, walking haphazardly at the base of a hill just beyond Autobot headquarters.
Go get them, a tiny voice said. They are alright; they are waiting for you to find them. But Bumblebee ignored the small voice, because now, he was in full panic.
Slag! His mind raced through the injuries that the younglings could have suffered because of that charge weapon, and though the logic in him knew that Ratchet would never leave injuries unattended, the mother bee in him went ballistic with all the gruesome possibilities. Broken limbs, broken chips, broken wires, broken processors…
Going down on his knees, he grabbed each youngling by the shoulder, and forced them to meet his gaze. "What are your designations? What are your names?" he asked slowly, trying to ascertain any damages they might have had to their internal programming.
The time that the younglings took to answer scared Bumblebee. The fact that they kept looking at the space around him, as though not being able to bring his face into focus, scared him even more. But the eventual answer triggered an emotion which flooded out the fear.
Spike was the first to answer. She still looked at the spaces around him, as though trying to find him, and trying to answer at the same time. "My name is…My name is…" Her vocal processor changed, becoming static, like the sound of a radio when in between stations.
It finally settled, changing gradually from young female's voice to a young male's. It was a sorely missed voice; a voice that Bumblebee listened to every night, and fell into recharge to every night, a voice on an old and often used computer file labelled "Sam and Mikaela."
The youngling finally looked at him, and Bumblebee saw something there that made his spark surge. "My name is Sam." Bumblebee's grip tightened, his optics going wide in shock. The youngling didn't stop there. Instead of wriggling out of his decidedly uncomfortable grasp, the youngling's arm snaked around his in a tight embrace. The rest of her—his—her—his—his words came out in rushed, relieved, and above all joyful tones, all in that well-loved voice.
"I am Samuel 'Spike' James Witwicky, son of Ronald and Judy Witwicky… adopted femme of Dewbot and Fury-9, leaders of the Newsparks," he proclaimed, laughing.
"And I," Sparkplug stated, his—her—his—her—hervoice already changed into that of her human form's, "I am Mikaela 'Sparkplug' Banes, my parents are Daniel and Alexis, and my adopted creators are the Newsparks Dewbot and Fury-9." Like her partner, she locked Bumblebee's arm in a vice-like grip. "And I am soon-to-be-crushed because someone's holding me too hard," she added pointedly, though still in good humour.
Bumblebee forced himself to release the younglings lest he do damage to them. His hands were shaking. "Guys," he whispered, "it really is you?"
It's been six years. Believe it; you have found each other.
He believed it. He believed it!
"Yes!" both of them said, and promptly rushed into his arms. Then they embraced, six years of absence and pain and emptiness forgotten. They were whole again.