Cameos abound in this chapter! Nods to G1, Animated, and some of the UK marvel comics. :D Had to do quite a bit of research regarding Maccadam's whereabouts in Iacon and whatnot to add depth and flavor to the Cybertronian nightlife. All in all, this is one of my favorite chapters to write...so far.
Abandoning his alt-mode in favor of a pair of trods, Ratchet made his way slowly through an ever burgeoning crowd of 'Bots toward the famous marquis of Maccadam's Old Oil House.
This section of Iacon was always crowded, one of the main thoroughfares stretching from the High Council Pavilions to the Energon Pools, but it was the position of the brewpub that turned typical congestion into a veritable roadblock.
And for good reason.
Existing for countless stellar cycles, Maccadam's was the go-to of choice for 'Bots tired after a long day of work. Add to that 'Bots trying to drown their sorrows from a life locked in a rigid caste system, to those seeking a means of escape from a war that seemed to drag on forever, it was no wonder that Cybertronians of every shape, size, and model all but poured from its shiny blue doors. Ratchet could even see a few Decepticons in the crowd-under intense observation, of course-Maccadam's being a sort of 'safe haven' enjoyed by all, their presence tolerated by the High Council in the futile hopes of establishing dialogue for a peaceful solution.
Eh, stranger things have happened, Ratchet mused as he moved toward the entry doors.
Unfortunately, such flippant thoughts couldn't help but call to mind the true strangeness of the evening, namely his presence here in the first place. As that thought reverberated around his processor, fading as it did with the attentions of the moment, it couldn't help but make him pause.
After his discussion with Interlink, and in the ensuing drive to Maccadam's, Ratchet was convinced that he had made the right choice in following Io, and that tonight would be the night that he discovered, once and for all, where things stood between them.
And…if he even had a shot, as far as romance was concerned.
But annoyingly, romance brought up the possibility of "partnership" and that specter inevitably called forward thoughts of inadequacy-harsh self-criticisms that scrabbled and nipped at his higher functions the same way a pet turbo-fox would manipulate its master to throw a toy-and no amount of shaking his head or studiously considering the front entrance with pinched optics, could quell it, not when he was this close.
I'm hardly a prize… he couldn't help but think for the thousandth time. She would...NO! Clenching his fist, he killed the thread. Interlink is right. It's her decision to make, not mine.
And…should she choose someone else…
Ratchet lowered his head.
This was what he feared the most.
There was a subtle irony here that, had he not been filled with self-loathing, he might have chuckled. Here was a 'Bot who had braved thousands of horrors in hundreds of battlefields, who had risked imprisonment and social ostracization by shirking his caste to study ground bridge engineering and medical science, who had fought Decepticons, watched thousands of warriors fade to gun-metal gray, lost friends, mentors, shields...and here he was, terrified at the prospect of rejection from a femme the slightest fraction of his age.
Another sigh. If only…
No! Ratchet argued internally and forced himself to consider the brewpub in the hopes of banishing that depressing line of thought… and stall for time against the inevitable confrontation.
Maccadam's was a gem of clashing cultures and architectural styles, a brilliant memento of another age-or a blight, depending on who you asked.
Dominating the culture, economy, and aesthetics of Sub-level Six, Maccadam's was a 'unique' blending of Golden Age elegance and Post-modern minimalism, so 'unique' that Ratchet couldn't help but cringe every time he saw or thought of it. At first glance, the beautifully tapered cylinder that comprised the main part of the building decidedly fit into the Golden Age architecture of Historic Iacon, capped as it was by an amazing crystalline dome. In fact, the dome, easily the building's most aesthetically pleasing attribute, reflected so much light that on bright days like the summer solstice, 'Bots as far away as the Sea of Rust could see its brilliance and be comforted by thoughts of home.
But here, all beauty ended, juxtaposed as it was against the necessities of safety and convenience.
For example, the front entrance and main marquis were framed by two smaller cylinders that served as the building's primary air exchangers. These were mandatory safety measures set in place to prevent the build-up of combustible fumes from the various oils and fuels being imbibed by the building's patrons.
But, necessary as they were, they only served to make the establishment feel like a giant rocket ship, perpetually teetering on the edge of ignition.
And, given the clientele, this wasn't that poor of a metaphor. Fights were so commonplace that only the really legendary ones received any attention, and it wasn't out of the ordinary for some explosion or another-never pinpointed but probably from the production of some of the more exotic libations-to rock the region from Sub-Levels Three to Seven.
Further complementing this image, were two, luminous fins-giant billboards that proclaimed "Maccadam's" in glowing, pink neon characters, each easily half a mechanometer tall-welded to the sides of the main cylinder. At their base, each fin was moored into a nearly featureless, triangular ni'ri, a small building disconnected from the main gallery by a retractable partition. These building served as private meeting rooms and could be subdivided into as many as four separate compartments for maximum versatility. And, as if that wasn't plebeian enough, the bar had gotten so popular over the stellar cycles as to necessitate a drop shaft to allow patrons to access the different levels within the main cylinder-a large, ugly rectangle sticking from the back of the pub like some unsightly cockpit.
Smoothness of form garishly adorned with harsh angles and necessarily evils, the bar had always seemed like it had originally been planned for some other, higher purpose, only to be denigrated by dealing with and serving the dregs of Cybertronian society.
They could have at least tried to make it fit. Ratchet shook his head, as he always did, disapprovingly. Part of him wished that some lofty, multi-dimensional being would sense all of the inherent, architectural wrongs about the building, visit Cybertron and vaporize the structure in a benevolent gesture of mercy.
Smiling at his own dry humor, the seasoned medic, calmed as he was by the astroseconds of consideration, unconsciously started toward the big blue doors.
"Are you going to stand there all night, crie'st'laxni?" A breezy voice called out over his shoulder. "Pining yet never acting? Or are you actually going to pass the threshold and experience all that life has to offer?"
Ratchet jumped yet again-was everyone going to do this to him tonight? Did he have a sign on him? He made a mental note to check-and turned his head sharply, scowling as he considered the shorter black-and-white mech that had since moved to stand next to him.
"Jazz?" He wondered, his scowl disappearing quickly behind a surprised smile.
The younger mech returned the expression and considered Ratchet thoughtfully from behind his trademark, blue visor. "Indeed." He clapped Ratchet affectionately on the shoulder-cap. "It's been a while."
Ratchet took the blow with a faltering smile.
Fifty stellar cycles.
The last time he had seen Jazz was also the last day he had visited Maccadam's… the day that Gamma died.
Involuntarily, snippets of that evening surged through his processor: going to the pub with the purpose of getting as slag-faced drunk as he could possibly manage; dulling the pain of Gamma's loss; trying to drown out the anguish of his own culpability in the matter; flipping a table; some sort of self-initiated rant; punching someone; being carried home by Jazz and Optimus…
He focused on Jazz to ward against the warm energon that threatened to suffuse his face and fight against the subtle twinge in his spark.
"It still bothers you, doesn't it?" Jazz said in a mellow, non-accusatory tone.
A cursory inspection showed sincere concern etched onto his faceplate and Ratchet couldn't help but allow a portion of his smile to return.
"It always will," Ratchet replied, softly.
Jazz nodded, smiled sympathetically, and clapped Ratchet's shoulder again. "So," he began in a slightly more upbeat tone. "What brings you here tonight? Not looking to drink yourself into oblivion, I hope." he chuckled disarmingly, and held up his hands at Ratchet's scowl. "My bearings are still sore from the last time I had to drag your aft home."
Ratchet glanced down at the smaller mech and allowed a slight smirk to play across his features. Jazz always had a way of making those around him smile. From his playful antics, to his laid-back attitude, to his almost limitless knowledge of esoteric cultural phenomenon, the former Iacon data-clerk always managed to find the good in every situation, dour or otherwise.
Which is why he and Ratchet had become good friends though the medic had few others.
Turning his head so that he could reconsider Maccadam's main entrance, the medic replied. "I'm meeting someone."
"Really?" Jazz wondered moving quickly on his trods so that he could meet Ratchet's thoughtful gaze. "Meeting someone as in 'socially'?" He clarified with a coy smile.
"And why, pray-tell, is that of any consequence to you?" The old medic snapped, his hands taking a defensive posture atop his hip-plating.
"Ah, now there's the Ratchet we all know and love." Jazz replied with a laugh. "Just curious. After all, we are talking about you."
Ratchet rolled his optics. The medic's sense of humor was almost non-existent, an aspect of his personality that Jazz seemed to do everything in his power to exploit, almost as if making the old medic scowl at every opportunity was part of some elaborate game of wills with the end goal of getting the old medic to laugh. Even if just once.
Perhaps that was another reason why Ratchet condescended to tolerate the speedster's presence, just to deny him that victory, however small and insignificant it might be.
"Well?" Jazz pressed with a smirk.
"'Well' nothing. It's none of your business." Ratchet replied, smugly, crossing his arms and tossing his helm.
"All right, be like that, then, you old pipe-in-the-mud." The young mech replied with a chuckle. "No big loss here-Blaster'll fill me in on any provocative developments."
Ratchet reconsidered his friend, his right brow-ridge raised thoughtfully. "Blaster?" Now there was a 'Bot that Ratchet hadn't seen in a very long time. "You mean he's…"
"Here? Oh, yeah." Jazz jerked his thumb toward the front entrance. "Forte-the musician who practically created the istm'e genre-was scheduled to handle all of tonight's entertainment. That's why I'm here; got special leave from Optimus so I could record his performance." Suddenly, Jazz's expression darkened. "The 'Cons intercepted his convoy just south of Tagon. He was found by some soldiers on patrol, but died before they could get him to a clinic." He shook his head, and his lips twisted into a frown. "Such a waste…"
Ratchet's expression softened. "I'm sorry to hear that…"
"Thanks, man." A smile crept back across his lips as he continued-it was hard to make Jazz unhappy for long. "Any way… Blaster got the 'gig. He's set up near the distillery. You can't miss him, though I don't think he'd be much for conversation."
"Why not?" Ratchet couldn't help but wonder. Blaster loved to talk almost as much as he loved music, which was saying something.
"He's trying something new tonight, playing around with some holo-tech that Hound set him up with." Jazz's expression brightened. "The other day I was digging through some Golden Age stuff, files about music culture on organic worlds. It's amazing the things that they think of, organics, I mean." he met Ratchet's gaze and smiled, dreamily. "Being unable to transform, they create technology that allows them to function in ways that go well beyond their original design, their musicians not-withstanding. They create sound tables and synthesizers and operate them manually!" Though his optics were hidden by his visor, Ratchet was almost certain that they were wide with excitement. "Can you picture that? Manual operation? Anyway, when I told Blaster about it, he loved the idea so much that he swore he'd try to rig up some sort of holo-avatar for his next performance, literally create something that would appear to be playing him as if he were an organically derived machine. He managed to pull it off tonight; it's really unique."
"I…bet it is." Ratchet replied with a grimace. The thought of being played with or manipulated by an inferior, flesh-based creature was about as appealing as the thought of giving Megatron an oil bath.
"Ne-who, I won't keep you any longer, my friend." Jazz said with a smile and another affectionate clap on the shoulder. "No doubt your ivlis is waiting."
At the use of the word "ivlis" Ratchet felt his face-plate warm. It was an older term, perhaps early Golden Age. It translated to "deep, romantic love interest;" like "partner," only more intimate.
A self-satisfying smirk played across Jazz's lips, almost as if he had intentionally used the word hoping that it would dislodge some nugget of juicy gossip. "See 'ya 'round, Ratch." The he said with a chuckle, clapping Ratchet one last time on the shoulder, before he turned and slipped quietly away into the loitering masses.
The old medic smiled and followed his friend for a moment with his optics. Then, with a sigh, he turned and continued on toward the main entrance.
Flanking the door was the bar's bouncer, a Megatron-sized 'Bot named "Rocky." Almost simian in appearance, the large mech loomed over the crowd, his optics constantly on the move, dancing from 'Bot to 'Bot as if he expected any one of them to suddenly start something-which, with Decepticons in the crowd was always a possibility.
As Ratchet approached the door, Rocky turned his head and considered him with a look of surprise that quickly mutated into a dark scowl. "You?" he growled in a deep, rumbling baritone. Leaning forward, the armor of his chassis and arms flexing and flaring in a manner that might have made a lesser 'Bot run for the hills, he brought his face close to Ratchet's. "You've got some pretty big bearings coming back here after that stunt you pulled last time."
"It's been fifty stellar cycles."
Rocky rubbed his jaw, the kind of action a 'Bot might make remembering an old injury, and considered the smaller medic. "It took two stellar cycles to repair all the damage! Two!" Lifting his right hand, he flexed his five, huge fingers into a fist that was easily as large as Ratchet's grill. "No, you step out of line, tonight, and you'll have me to answer to."
Considering the tone-this time he couldn't help but recoil subconsciously-Ratchet replied. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Then we understand each other." He rumbled warningly even as he moved to open the door.
The jarring juxtaposition of loud, cacophonous music and the collective chatter of hundreds of individual voices all carousing and singing at maximum volume, assaulted Ratchet's audio-receptors the moment the portal opened, but, considering the glaring look Rocky continued to give him, without hesitation the seasoned medic slipped into the bar as quickly as he could manage.
Even organic-handling seemed preferable to any length of time spent in Rocky's presence.
As the door closed behind him, all he could do was stare numbly ahead for several
moments, the bouncer's not-so-subtle threat rumbling through his processor like the remnants of a terrible dream.
What a way to start an evening, the medic couldn't help but think.
Shaking his head, he turned and considered his new surrounding, his optics searching here and there for any sign of his shield.
Immediately to his left was the distillery, an ornate collection of tall, golden cylinders that were used to store-and in some instances, create-the various intoxicants served to the building's patrons. There were energon tanks as well, though these were only ever used for storage as energon was impossible to synthesize.
On the north side of the distillery, next to the bar, was an open section of floor normally reserved for live entertainment. As it were, the entire space was occupied by a complex-not to mention garishly colored-assortment of mixers, speakers, and amplifiers; Blaster giving his alt-mode a spin.
And, just as Jazz had said, leaping from component to component was a holographic organic creature roughly the size of Ratchet's index finger. It was a squat being with clawed hands, weak-looking limbs, and three fins framing it's round, fleshy face. Portions of its scaly body were covered with a thin, flimsy fabric that didn't seem to serve any useful purpose other than to augment the creature's natural, green color scheme.
One of the cavorting on-lookers held out their hand, and Blaster-ever the showman-willed the creature to leap onto the proffered limb where it performed a little dance, much to the delight of the gawking patrons.
Ratchet shook his head, even as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. How the young musician could live with himself was beyond him.
Just as he turned to consider the crowded bar area, he felt something land on top of his helm.
Much laughter ensued.
"Oh, for Primus' sake, Blaster…" he muttered, as an ugly, alien face smirked its way into his line of sight. Judging by the way the hologram's weight was distributed, Ratchet was certain that the holo-creature was dangling upside-down from his chevrons.
"Oh, so that's how it's going to be." Blaster's voice pouted. Complimenting his tone, the creature's cheek's sagged, and it crossed its tiny arms all the while turning up its non-existent nose. "Too important, too high-and-mighty, now that you went and got yourself promoted." The creature then considered him with a shrewd, slatted eye. "Is that any way to treat your old drinking buddy?"
"Oh, come off it." Ratchet replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, his lips stretching into a playful smirk. "At least I've had something legitimate keeping me occupied."
"Ouch." Blaster replied with a chuckle. "It's a good thing I don't take you seriously, otherwise I might have actually taken offense to that comment."
Ratchet rolled his optics, and winced as Blaster allowed the hologram to slide off of his helm where it made a nimble turn in mid-air, grabbed his right chevron with one of his clawed hands, and swung easily to perch on his shoulder.
Ratchet found it amazing that Blaster could perform such fine-scale manipulations and still manage his music, which the musician had since toned down to something that might have been enjoyable, had Ratchet not been thinking about Io and all the thousands of ways their relationship could possibly go wrong.
Not to mention how absolutely ridiculous he must have looked standing there in the middle of a crowded bar with a tiny, green alien perched on his shoulder.
"So, Jazz tells me that you're here lookin' for love…er, I mean your shield." With a growl of displeasure, Ratchet reached for the avatar, only to have it leap nimbly from between his fingers and jump back to the top of his helm where he stood, smugly, with a lopsided grin. "Still the same old Ratchet…" He mocked. "Can't take a joke to save your spark."
"Do you honestly delight in making me look like a fool?" Ratchet snapped.
"Sure do." Blaster replied with a chuckle.
"Why do I even bother…" the medic wondered with yet another disapproving shake of his head.
Blaster laughed again. "Because you enjoy hating me too much to make me go away."
Ratchet sighed and allowed his arms to flop heavily to his sides.
"Of course, if it makes you feel any better," the musician began in a slightly more sympathetic tone. "Io is sitting at the table nearest the patio…" His voice cut off suddenly in time with the snapping of Ratchet's neck as he turned to study that part of the bar.
Even through the mass of gamboling Cybertronians, he could see her.
And feel a healthy twinge of jealousy.
Sitting next to her, so close that Ratchet would be hard-pressed to intentionally lose another J-spanner, was a red and blue mech, possibly a soldier given the nature of his armaments. It was clear through his mannerisms-the broad, sweeping arm gestures, cap flaring, and chassis posturing-that he was trying to win her affection.
Why Ratchet hadn't foreseen this possibility was obvious-he had been focusing so much on Io and all of the possible conversations, responses and outcomes of their time together tonight-but it should have been expected, another problem that effectively made an already delicate situation more tenuous.
Ratchet started to add it to the growing pile of his internal maunderings, beginning the permutations of possible outcomes and dwindling chances of success, but the look on Io's face made him stop.
All the while the young mech primped and preened, Io absently swirled her drink with an unconscious claw. And if that wasn't enough to express her utter disinterest, optics that seemed fixed on a ceiling blemish said that she would much rather be listening to one of Crossarm's motivational speeches than some heavily overedited "wing-flaring."
"Yeah, that mech's been on her since she sat down." Blaster commented from his perch where he sat momentarily forgotten. "I'll tell you one thing, your shield has the patience of a Prime. I'd have probably punched his lights out by now."
Ratchet couldn't help but smile at his friend's comment. Though he would never admit it, he had entertained the same notion. When he had first noticed Io's…companion, his processor was seized with the sudden desire to wipe the smirk from the mech's face-plate with a well-placed right hook.
It would have made Io laugh… but it would also have undoubtedly ruined any chance they might have had for friendly conversation, what with Rocky gunning for his energon.
Ratchet pursed his lips, contemplatively.
What could he do to "win" his shield's attention without provoking the young mech?
Scanning the rest of the bar, he watched as two laughing mechs rose slowly to their trods and staggered toward the door, singing a bawdy tune at the top of their voice boxes. Their abandoned table was positioned in such a way that if Io lowered her head, anyone sitting there would be directly in her line of sight.
The old medic smirked.
As he started toward the table, he heard Blaster chuckle above him. "Got a plan, have you? I'll keep and optic out; see how things materialize…or don't." Ratchet swatted at the avatar once again, invoking yet another mocking laugh from his friend as he willed his avatar to safety. "Later Ratchet." He called out even as he landed on the shoulder of an unsuspecting triple-changer.
As Ratchet sat down, he was greeted by one of the bar's waitresses, a young, unfamiliar femme with large, bright optics and wheeled trods. "How's it going tonight, se'vei?" She said cheerily as she cleared away a veritable army of empty energon cubes.
Suppressing a sigh, Ratchet shook his head. "Fine, I guess." He muttered even as his processor stumbled over her use of the word "se'vei," or "antiquated one."
Do I really look that old? He thought, stifling yet another sigh... and yet another stab to his already deflated pride.
"So, what would you like to start with tonight?" The waitress asked proffering a small, rectangular device, a genetic scanner, in her outstretched hand.
"Visco, if you wouldn't mind." Ratchet replied placing his index finger within a small depression atop the box. He felt a sharp, but short-lived, stab of pain, as the device pierced his mesh to collect a tiny sample of energon.
The practice of tying energon use to the genetic code of the individual was realized near the start of the war as an efficient means of rationing what could only become a precious and rare commodity. The Autobots took this a step further, especially as the war got closer to Iacon, allotting to each 'Bot only that which was essential and making recreational use tied to performance. For every eight solar cycles of productive work, one earned the right to consume 1/35 of a nar of energon above and beyond one's basic allotment, zealously controlled by a database housed in the Hall of Records.
It was all routine, especially in an establishment of this size and popularity, and the waitress waited patiently for a response from the city's database, glancing around the bar and trying not to make Ratchet feel uncomfortable. At the confirming beep from the scanner, she glanced down.
And stared at the numbers on the tiny holo-screen with wide, disbelieving optics. "Y-you…" She looked up at Ratchet with a look that seemed to flutter between shock and amazement. "When was the last time you…?"
"A while." The medic finished with a smile.
"I'd say," was her somewhat flummoxed response. "And you…?"
"Would like that to end tonight."
Ratchet continued to smile, even as he turned and considered Io. Though her head was still cocked ceiling-ward, she had since turned her optics and was now considering the red and blue soldier with a look that the old medic could only describe as scarily contemplative, as if she were weighing the odds of physical retaliation against a future career in the medical field.
"I see," he heard the femme say.
"If you don't mind, could you deduct her drinks from my account?" Ratchet gestured toward Io, and the wheeled femme pivoted slightly on her trods so that she could note the location of the medic's benefactor.
"You old bots don't waste any time, do you?" She giggled.
Ratchet directed a poisonous glare over his shoulder, eliciting another chuckle from the waitress, even as she sped off toward the bar to fill his drink order.
For Primus' sake! The old medic sighed heavily, and covered his face-plate with his hand, his head shaking slowly, disapprovingly. That is just what I need. What am I doing here?
He had no answer nor had he looked up by the time the waitress had returned, stopping only long enough to place his drink on the table, but as he felt her speed away he couldn't help but follow her progress.
As the waitress stopped by her table, Io turned her head and considered the femme with a curious-and seemingly thankful-smile. Anything, it would seem, to distract her from the antics of her, now very much, inebriated companion.
Ratchet couldn't exactly hear what was being said, but he knew the moment the waitress laid out his intentions, because Io's attention turned slowly toward him, her expression a beautiful fusion of curiosity and confusion.
As she took in her anonymous benefactor, her optics widened to their limits and her mouth opened in apparent shock.
Despite the fluttering in his spark, Ratchet managed a smile and a slight wave.
Her response was instantaneous. Rising to her trods, she started toward him, simply got up, leaving behind her nearly finished drink and wannabe-suitor almost as if she had forgotten their collective existence. Slipping silently through the crowd-unnoticed by the red and blue mech, who kept preening, oblivious-her optics never wavered, though her lips were quick to abandon their earlier dismay, stretching into an ever widening smile as she drew closer to her charge.
"Please tell me that it's you-I mean really you-and not just some figment of my imagination." Io managed, once she was in sound-shot. Then, in a motion that was as quick as it was unexpected, the femme reached forward and tugged forcefully on both of his chevrons.
"Ow!" Ratchet exclaimed with a gruff chuckle. Gently, he captured her hands, lest she attempt to torment some other component of his anatomy. "You know, you could have just asked." Though his comment came off harsher than intended, he couldn't help but smile down at her.
Io returned the expression. "So, what changed your mind?"
Ratchet's right shoulder cap jerked, involuntarily. "Just…er…well…" His voice faltered and, dropping one of her hands, he rubbed the back of his neck. "I…had a change of spark is all."
Io cocked a questioning brow-ridge, though she didn't pursue the matter any further. Instead, she shrugged her nacelles and smirked back at him in a way that was as playful as it was analytical. "Well, whatever the reason..." She said after a moment. "I'm glad you're here."
"W-wait…y-you…you're really…?"
Adjusting her wings, the femme and sat down next to Ratchet and met his gaze; her smirk rapidly giving way to an interested smile. "Yes."
Ratchet stared at her for a moment, confused. "If I might ask…" he began after a few failed starts. "Why?"
Io cocked her head and flashed him with a look that seemed to suggest amusement. "Well, for starters, you saved me from a long, awkward evening with Mr. Congeniality over there." She jerked her thumb in the direction of her former table-mate.
Ratchet raised his optics to follow her gesture, only to discover that the red-and-blue mech was still seated where Io had left him…
And was glaring daggers at the two of them, his hand clenched tightly around the remnants of an energon cube. Realization dawning, the spurned suitor had obviously identified what had diverted the attentions of his charms... and wasn't pleased in the slightest.
"He's furious, isn't he?" Io's voice drew Ratchet's attention, and he couldn't help but smile at her tone.
"Just a bit."
"He'll get over it…" A devilish smirk claimed her face-plate. "If he knows what's good for him."
Ratchet's smile broadened and eventually he couldn't help but chuckle. Not that he found her comment amusing, but rather because he knew that she was more than capable of delivering on the subtle threat.
"So, he was that annoying, was he?"
Io's expression darkened, a subtle and short-lived expression, replaced quickly as it was by one of her trademark smirks. "Yeah…" she said finally in a tone that seemed incongruous with her expression. "He was."
Ratchet couldn't help but raise a curious eyebrow at what Io had left unspoken-the old medic couldn't conceive of anything that Mr. Red and Blue could have done or said to her that she wouldn't have just shrugged off the same as she did everything else-but, as she became suddenly cheerful, looking up at him with a broad smile and a comment of "Anyway, enough of that," he didn't really have any space left in his madly spinning processors to give it any further mind.
Especially because the femme met his gaze and touched his bracer in the same playful manner as she did back in his lab." There are so many things that I want to ask you, I'm not quite sure where to start."
Ratchet smiled at her enthusiasm and took a tentative sip of his beverage.
Visco was a unique blending of palladium and chlorine-laced energon with ori, a synthetic polyolester. As the concoction was an in-house recipe, the palladium content tended to vary with the whims of the creator, and as such should always be taken in moderation when first starting out, lest one find themselves intoxicated beyond all reason.
A quick chemical analysis told him that this batch was stronger than anything he had ever consumed. He would have to take it slow lest he add intoxication to the awkwardness.
"So, where to begin…" Io mused thoughtfully, claws tapping at his bracer.
The sprightly waitress appeared for a brief moment to drop off a fresh cube for Io.
Ratchet considered her drink with a raised brow ridge. "What is that?" he wondered, his lip curling at the viscous, blue-gray fluid occupying the container.
"Ven'sle." She replied with a smirk.
Ratchet's optics widened in surprise and revulsion. Ven'sle was little more than refined factory waste. Hardly a proper beverage, it was developed eons ago by low-caste laborers as a cheap alternative to energon-based intoxicants. "You can actually drink that stuff?"
She nodded, brought the cube to her lips and drained a small sample. "I developed quite the taste for it in Kaon." She elaborated, meeting her mentor's still-off put stare. "It hardly fazes me anymore."
Curled lip turning into a smile, he couldn't help but reply with an astonished chuckle. "You're just full of surprises."
Io smirked; her claws resumed their thoughtful tapping. "I might say the same thing about you. After all…" her smirk deepened. "Tre'strixini'th'a'an, changing one's caste standing without the blessings of the council, is quite the felony. Or, well…" She paused and shrugged. "At least it was until the war started."
He opened his mouth to answer her-it wasn't something he would have chosen to discuss, and certainly not as a first salvo into a night of revelations, but they had to start somewhere.
"And you'll have to tell me how you managed to store up fifty stellar cycles worth of recreational energon."
Ratchet and Io talked the entire evening.
They talked so long that many patrons either left of their own accord or were thrown out on their sorry, inebriated afts by an all-too-happy Rocky-with much resistance against enthusiastically draconian resolve of course. They talked long enough that even Rocky sat down at the bar and nursed a cube of what Io could only presume was ven'sle-based on the constant scowl he directed at everyone-as the flow of new patrons died down to a trickle.
Oh, there were quite a few 'Bots still in the bar, but only the hard types, the ones that knew how to control their energon consumption, measuring their intoxication throughout the night, always looking like they were still at their peak of battle-readiness and eyeing the remaining patrons as if in the hopes that someone would start some real trouble. Io knew their kind-Wreckers, mainly, along with a healthy dose of free-agents, frontline singletons, and deep-cover soldiers, "dregs" as they were known to the social elite. Like Ratchet, they too, were probably making good on stored energon credits, coming in for one last "hurrah" before being sent back out to the front-lines.
She had worked with their kind all too frequently before-oh, true, they wore a different insignia and had more overt tendencies toward homicide-and she could easily pick them out of a crowd by their all-too-perfect pretense of being completely at ease. In this time of constant hostilities, no one could be that perfectly uncaring-not even the overenergized ones-unless one believed themselves above such worry. She didn't mind them, of course, as they were essential to the propagation of the war, but neither did she need to actively seek out their company. They were the types that were best appreciated from afar but never approached.
As such, she made sure never to make eye contact with any of them.
A sudden cascade of noise and a string of colorful invectives effectively snapped the femme from her musings. A curious smile flittered across her lips as she turned to consider the source of the outburst, the red-and-white medic at her side.
Apparently, Ratchet had used the brief pause in their conversation to build a tower using the host of empty energon cubes that he had amassed throughout the evening.
The key word being "had."
Clearly he had attempted too lofty of a goal, literally and figuratively, and the tower had collapsed. This setback didn't deter the mech from his goal, however, and he quickly gathered up the fallen cubes so that he could start anew. One cube at a time, each placed with such meticulous care that one would think that they were the only things on Cybertron that mattered, Ratchet slowly rebuilt his obelisk of overindulgence.
Just as he was setting the last cube, a random passer-by nudged the table, causing the tower to sway.
Immediately-and with a surprising amount of speed, given the degree of his intoxication-Ratchet wrapped his arms protectively about the building, using his bracers to steady and also nudge the wobbling cubes back into their previous alignment. Muttering to himself-or to the tower, she couldn't tell-he slowly removed his limbs. Once certain that the tower could stand on his own, he reached for the final cube and with a self-satisfying smirk, placed it atop the pile.
"HA!" He exclaimed, even as he leaned back so that he could study his handiwork from a distance.
Io's smile broadened.
Though she had known Ratchet for two and a half stellar cycles, their time together tonight made it quite obvious that there was a lot more to his personality than he let on. While most 'Bots knew him as a humorless workaholic, content to tear down those that he considered intellectually inferior, her conversations with him had revealed a softer, more sensitive side.
She had seen a small snippet of that persona after their time in Gorn Station, in the gentleness of his touch as he mended her arm, and again in the tone of his voice when he explained his actions to her the following solar cycle. But this...
This was humorously neurotic.
"We need to get more..." Ratchet said, and her thoughts crashed once again.
"More?" She said with a laugh, even as she met his gaze. "How could you possibly want more energon? I think you've out-imbibed everyone in here, including me, and that's saying something."
The medic chuckled and waived his hand dismissively. "You misunderstand. I don't want more energon, necessarily, just the cubes. If I add a few more here," He gestured at the base of the tower. "I can make it look like the Tower of Pion."
Io blinked rapidly at his response, then at the construction-only he could drink nearly two stellar cycles of energon rations and still have the intellectual fortitude to mimic a cultural landmark-then laughed again. "You're something, you know that?"
"I suppose..." He replied with a smirk. Then, all in the space of an astrosecond, his expression brightened and patted her hand excitedly. "Oh! Do you think the bartender would give me some empty cubes if I asked nicely?"
The femme stared at him for a moment with a puzzled smile. Then, laughing once again, she shrugged her nacelles and shook her head. "I'm...sure she would," She managed, finally. "But you'll need to explain what you need them for, of course."
"Of course!" Ratchet said, as if such a proposition was requisite to a successful transaction. Optics beaming brightly behind a wide smile, he clapped her shoulder affectionately before rising to his trods. As he claimed his full posture, he wobbled unsteadily. Raising his bracers for balance, he paused, leaned forward a bit, then started determinedly toward the bar.
Io watched his departure with a curious optic.
True, she always watched him wherever he went-his body structure was a unique blending of bulk without excessive brawn, the kind of form that enabled large feats of strength such as carrying 'Bots from the field while at the same time outfitted for the delicate work of the operating room-but never before had she seen such a noticeable spring in his step.
It was the kind of pep she used to see in newly promoted Decepticon soldiers...or a sparkling with a new toy.
The femme smiled at the thought and drained the last bit of ven'sle from her cube. Setting the empty vessel next to Ratchet's tower so that he could make use of it upon his return, she turned her head so that she could observe his progress.
As she watched him explain his request to the stocky femme behind the bar-replete with expressive hand gestures...and, knowing him, explanations of load-bearing necessities, and descriptions of dimensional proportionality-Io couldn't help but sigh, contentedly, and lower her head so that her chin rested lightly on the back of her hands.
No ill-intent with that one... The femme thought.
Like most 'Bots "under the influence," Ratchet's lowered inhibitions made him an open book not only from an informational standpoint-as he had been more than willing to divulge some interesting tidbits from his youth-but from an emotional one. And everything she had seen of him fit on one gradational scale of innocence and naiveté.
It was often said that one could learn a lot about someone by the way that they behaved whilst over-energized. Were they a creep? Prevailing wisdom said "get them drunk and find out."
At this, Io's smile faltered.
Sadly, she had discovered this was more true about Autobots than Decepticons.
Decepticons were at least honest in their illicit dealings. They took what they wanted from whom they wanted, with no pretenses of civility or respect. Energon intoxication, therefore, revealed little about a particular 'Con's personality. If anything, it simply increased the number of dealings, or made one prone to act in a manner that was not conducive to longevity.
The Autobots, as a more reserved faction, however, acted more counter-typically when over-energized. Instead of the stalwart, peace-loving, law-abiding, bastions of good as sung about in the Histories of the Great War, she had found that some Autobots could be just as mischievous, malignant, and maladjusted as the Decepticons. They just hid it better until their energon levels exceeded recommended limits.
Add to this the exotic tendencies and fantastical license like pleasure tech or chems that many Decepticon turn-coats had brought with them and it created the perfect breeding ground for the erosion of moral fiber and emergence of behavior previously done in secret. In fact, as they were eagerly snapped up by 'Bots looking for a brief reprieve from reality, and as city leaders tended to turn a blind optic to these new vices, lauding instead the "new recruits" as shining examples of the eventual Autobot victory, Io believed it was only a matter of time before the "good side" had a real problem on their hands.
In just the latter half of this orn she had had no fewer than three propositions asking boldly about things that would have been viewed as corporal offenses not two stellar cycles previously, and yet now was considered nothing more than the "harmless antics of the depressed masses searching for a world free from the specter of war."
Io sighed heavily as if at an unpleasant memory, then shook her head to force herself to refocus.
Ratchet had clearly succeeded in persuading the bartender to part with a few empty cubes. He had since stopped to converse with the entertainment, a red and yellow Autobot mech who she knew to be named Blaster. Supposedly, he was one of Optimus Prime's lieutenants along with Prowl-the Autobot who spearheaded her post-defection interrogation-but she had never verified this information for herself. Sure, he was an attractive mech-his sleek helm and uniquely-styled body was quite captivating, especially considering how he managed to work the speakers and tables from his altmode into the lightly built sokha'ath frame.
But, as time had shown, attractiveness and integrity seemed to be inversely related.
Another frown.
Over the general rumblings of the bar, she heard Ratchet's voice rise in a hearty laugh. The femme cocked her head quizzically at the sound-she had only ever heard him laugh once, and that after the pink oil prank when he had to administer his own antidote to a very scared and irate Crossarm-and watched with a steadily growing smile as her mentor came to life with a series of expressive arm movements that, after more careful consideration, might have been a prelude to some sort of event or contest.
Whatever it was, Blaster responded enthusiastically with a second series of motions that, though distinct from Ratchet's, were clearly meant to emulate the style that he had used.
The medic laughed again, shook his head, and set his prized cubes on the bar behind him. Then, after a brief pause-almost as if he were collecting his thoughts-her mentor, the irascible Doctor Ratchet, began to dance.
The mech started with a sweeping arm motion that, through deliberate, conscious control, seemed to transition fluidly to into two distinct motions. The first passing from his outstretched hand to his right leg, past his knee-pikes and into his trod, which slid smoothly backwards across the floor. The second, rising upward through his bracer, where it split, again: his right shoulder cap flaring and flexing mercurially, at the same instant that the various plates and slats of his chassis arched, resulting in a wonderfully graceful bow. At the base of the bow, the motion reversed at the grill and seamlessly transitioned into at least ten distinct, yet fluid movements that not only allowed the mech to reclaim his full posture, but pulled him smoothly back across the floor until he stood facing a contemplative Blaster.
It was like she was watching a wave propagate across the Sea of Rust, an concussive roll generated by an Fission Bomb, radiating outward for kliks before rarefaction brought it crashing destructively back to the center.
The musician seemed to take all of this in for a moment before responding with his own series of gestures and motions that, to her untrained opitcs-seemed to capture the unique style of the dance without directly copying Ratchet move-for-move.
The old medic watched his friend with a calculating optic and stark, blank expression, his focus-face-something that couldn't quite qualify as a scowl, but stern enough to be intimidating to anyone who didn't know him. After a few more moments of careful consideration, Ratchet stopped the mech with a quick, sideways chopping gesture. He then began to correct Blaster, replaying his improvised moves with a grace and skill that not only belied his age, but clearly out-performed the young musician by several orders of magnitude.
Io found herself mesmerized by the interchange. Clearly an archaic form of dance, she had never seen anything even remotely like it either in Nova Cronum, nor while shackled to the Decepticons. Granted her former comrades' conception of dancing seemed more geared to pounding the brainpan of anything that came within reach, so it was easy to dismiss, but this, this was beautiful in a way that she couldn't quite place, and seeing Ratchet's body move in such a sinuous and controlled manner was... enthralling.
The femme smiled as warm energon suffused her face-plate.
It wasn't the first time she had entertained such feelings...or the thoughts of partnership that inevitably surrounded them. She and Ratchet had grown very close these past few orns, and though she had originally been hesitant about broaching the subject with him, their time here tonight-especially the fact that he left behind his work at the clinic to meet her here-had effectively removed any and all reservations.
Of all bots, he seemed like someone that she could truly trust, who wouldn't just use her to whatever end and discard her afterwards, like a useless piece of scrap-metal.
He wasn't a Decepticon, assuredly, but neither was he truly an Autobot new or otherwise.
He was, quite simply: Old, crotchety, lovely, unique Ratchet.
At least that was her hope. And considering how everyone in Iacon seemed to hate her for her transgressions, or as many of them only saw her through the tainted lens erected by her previous mentor, this hope of actually being wanted and needed, a being in a unique position loving and being loved by a truly unique being...was all that she really had to live for.
And that was, she realized, was the hardest to admit, even to herself. It was what she had been stumbling over since he had decided to defect in the first.
She had no home, no family.
She fit in nowhere.
She hated the Decepticons for what they had done to her home and yet many of the Autobots hated her for what they perceived she had done to theirs. It was, as Dreadwing, her former commander had once said-albeit with a decidedly different intention-a "perfectly pitiful and hopeless position". True, she had made some tolerant acquaintances, but even her good rapport with Interlink couldn't take the place of the long-term friends that had perished in the siege of Nova Cronum.
In short, she had no one in which to truly confide. She was alone, alienated, probably more so than anyone else in Iacon, save for Ratchet.
Ratchet...
Her optics sought out his familiar form at the bar, and she couldn't help but smile as she watched him lightly grab Blaster's tablet-like bracer so as to physically guide him through some sort of complicated movement.
Seeing Ratchet in such rare form only solidified something that she had been wondering about for the entire duration of their relationship: That all of the spark-rending circumstances and frustrations of his youth combined with the feelings of loss that he still felt for Gamma had forced him to create his gruff persona. A combination of intensity of presence and a dry wit that he wielded like a shield effectively drove people away from him, all so that he would never again be confronted with the pain of another loss.
That wasn't to say that he didn't have any friends. No, it was clear from the manner of his interactions with Blaster here at the bar and with others, such as Triage and Interlink, that they meant more to him than just any passer-bot.
But there was a limit to how involved he allowed himself to become. For example, though Ratchet was the most compassionate 'Bot she had ever met, by effectively secluding himself in his lab for fifty stellar cycles and seemingly being content with that, there was little likelihood that anyone could ever see that side of him, thus negating the possibility of a partnership.
It was the perfect combination of behaviors to ensure minimal uncontrolled emotional responses. In short, he was perfectly lonely except when he wanted to break the façade, and, given his tendency to reclusiveness, it was something he did rarely.
The femme's spark tightened within her chest and her brow ridges drooped slightly.
I wonder if he set a limit for me? The thought was in her processor before she knew it, but she had little time to consider.
"Hey, there, sweetspark." A familiar voice purred over her shoulder. Thoughts crashing for a third time in as many cycles, Io turned her head and considered Foray-a blue and red Elite Guardsman-over her shoulder.
Sighing, she broke his gaze.
To say that Foray was obnoxious would have been an understatement: The mech was down-right boorish. Claiming her as his femme the moment she had ventured into the bar, his continued presence even after she had told him to get lost, his banal assumption that she would be willing to "service" him...
She shook her head, banishing the thought before she could finish it.
That part of her life was over.
She had served her time with the 'Cons, and she swore that she would never again take up her former "profession."
Not for Foray.
Not for anyone...not even Ratchet; though the femme was hard-pressed to believe that the old mech would actually ask such a thing of her. In fact, had the situation been any different, she might have actually laughed at the thought. Ratchet was perhaps, the most decent 'Bot that she had ever met; naive to be sure, but respectful of her and her privacy. Heck, even two years later, it was clear that he still had not read her personnel file.
Granted, part of her was grateful that he hadn't, but at the same time, she couldn't help but feel that if their relationship progressed any further, that he might come to resent her for withholding certain...sensitive information.
The femme frowned and reconsidered her mentor at the bar, her gaze distant.
The thought of Ratchet actually hating her-for past events that she, at the time, was powerless to prevent-caused her spark to twist painfully.
"Hello?" Foray interjected, culling her thoughts yet again.
"What do you want?" She growled with a bit more bite than she truly intended. Complementing her tone, her fingers tightened and her claws made a sharp scraping noise as they were dragged along the textured metal of her table.
"Woah, what's with the attitude?" The soldier chuckled, raising his hands disarmingly. "You ran off on me, remember?"
Io shook her head and pinched the bridge of her chevrons with her hand. "Look," she began flatly, meeting is gaze after short pause. "I don't know what it is that you think you're going to get out of me, or what slag-poor information you may have come by regarding any of my professions, past or present, but as I told you before: I am not interested."
The mech's expression darkened, and his lips pursed in annoyance. "Is that so?" He drawled, crossing his large, wheeled arms. After a thoughtful pause, he jerked his thumb toward the bar. "Look, I don't know what the old 'Bot's paying you, but I'll triple it."
Io responded with claws across a startled Foray's face. As he stumbled backward, surprise and rage plain in his optics, Io couldn't help but feel similarly surprised but her anger was borne out of a need to not only erase the truth at what he had asked, but to erase the realization that such an idea had permeated even one of the elite guard.
Further, the knowledge that her actions would have serious repercussions-Autobots rarely assaulted each other in anger or hate and their punishment was swift and severe, but she could only imagine how they would respond to a "reformed" Decepticon attacking an elite guardsman-prompted her to follow through with her advance, a growl flowing through the bar as she repeatedly struck him on any exposed mesh.
If I am going to burn for this, she thought, then they are going to learn what not to say.
Oh, she had no intentions of lethality, but she had seen that look in his optic that said he needed a lasting lesson in proper decorum.
As the sounds of their altercation spread throughout the bar, 'Bots clamored to trod to see just what-in-the-slag was going on. Most regarded her open-mouthed as if in complete disbelief that a member of the elite guard was so engaged and seemingly losing, while others considered her thoughtfully, as if wondering if she really was a Decepticon at spark and chose at this moment to show her true colors.
The last two remaining "tolerated" Decepticons made a quiet exit out of the bar, their minders completely ignorant as they focused intently on the actions of the tiny femme.
Of course, all this was lost to her as her attentions were all on her slag-begotten "'Bot-friend."
Finally coming to his senses-or battle-senses overcoming his surprise-Io's claws deflected off of his right bracer and she was forced to dodge a fist.
Slag, he's fast!
And as her conscious mind took hold of her, she couldn't help but realize just how big he was. It wouldn't have stopped her, but was something to note. He might not have been as large as Ratchet, but he was easily as wide as Triage, and she could imagine if one of those fists connected, she would certainly feel it.
Coming in low to hit him mid-section, she was surprised when caught her about the neck and lifted her off her trods.
True, she expected retaliation, but she didn't expect to be so easily defeated.
Struggling against his iron grip and lashing out at everything-his arm and faceplate...she was not going down without a fight-she waited for the final blow to fall.
What will Ratchet say, she thought suddenly, one of those humorous, incongruous thoughts borne out of adversity. Unfortunately, it was immediately followed with the more horrifying thought of I hope he doesn't get involved. If Foray could take her out this easily, Ratchet wouldn't stand much of a chance.
"I have to hand it to 'ya: you've got a lot of spark for a thost," Foray growled, energon dripping from his jaw... and seemingly a hundred other places. They were mostly superficial cuts, lacerations of the mesh, but they looked like the Pit of Kaon and they certainly didn't make him happy. In fact, his expression said he was going to enjoy this, his arrogance at triumphing over one of her kind the same she'd seen on many a 'Bot's face as they defeated a 'Con, but more personal, glorying in showing all of Cybertron how little value she actually had.
The soldier raised his clenched fist and grinned.
But the steel-gray fist attached to a large, red and white blurr ruined the ambiance.