Title: Property Of
Rating: T
Summary: During Cybertronian 'peace,' ex-Cons hide the sentience of and sell humans as pets to secure Earth. Sam and Mikaela might just be the first to grasp the reality of the situation alongside their new owner.
Chapter: Innocent Mistakes
I'm not dead. Really, I'm not.
As always, thank you to PyroDea, and also to nessus and Gentle Kit for picking up on my typos and stuff like that. I actually have a printed copy of the entire fic (gotta love 'free' printing at my college) that I'm going back over and making slight edits to (which will eventually be made to the online version as well), so… I think of you frequently.
The little girl slept, bundled in her blankets and completely lost to the world. Strands of yellow-blonde hair lifted and fell with her tiny breath – such minute movements, yet all too noticeable contrasted against the complete stillness of the rest of the room. There was no breeze, no draft; she did not twist or turn, and so her body and blankets stayed still; the hand that held her appeared as though turned to stone; and the optics that watched over her had not strayed for nearing an hour.
Ironhide could not bring himself to wake her. Were he honest with himself, he would admit that he also simply did not want to. When the human youngling slept, she was one of the purest, most uncorrupted things the ex-Autobot had ever seen in his life. He dreaded the thought of losing the ability to experience that.
Why couldn't he have had at least another few orns?
It wasn't that he wished Bumblebee and Jazz hadn't found her creators – no, certainly not that. Annabelle wanted her parents. In many ways, she needed them. That they had been found so quickly should be seen as a blessing from Primus. It was entirely unbecoming of a mech with his reputation to be so caught up in the affairs of an organic youngling. He was aware she should never have been separated from her planet and family to begin with, was aware that she needed to return at the soonest possible occasion, and was aware that that time was now, and so he had a duty to see her home safely. And, by Primus, he should feel proud and content when he met that objective.
That was it. That was where his emotional investment should have stopped.
And yet…
The door whooshed open. Ironhide didn't even twitch a rotor. He was intent on the girl, waiting to see if the sound would bother her.
She didn't twitch, either.
"Are we done getting ready yet?" asked Ratchet as he entered. Even his voice did not rouse Annabelle from her dreams. When he noticed her, the medic quieted. "Still letting her sleep, I see. You know you can't carry her out of here like that, don't you? You'll need to wake her up so the transition doesn't scare her; even if you managed to get her in the carrier without waking her, when – not if – she wakes up in transit to Earth, she'll be terrified."
In transit to Earth. The phrase made several of the black mech's gears whir disagreeably, and at last he ripped his gaze from his little human.
"Ironhide… it is for the best," said Ratchet plainly, almost regretfully, when he saw how Ironhide looked up at him.
The black mech studied Ratchet a moment, and then looked silently back down at the tiny creature in his hand. It was hard enough to be asked to endure separation from Chromia – now this, too? For three cycles he'd silently cursed the otherwise good news from Prime, and now there was no more waiting.
"You think I'm unaware?" he groused. "Of course I know that she's better off with her kind, with her family… But Bee hasn't even been gone an orn yet. I didn't realize I'd be giving her up this soon."
"Not giving her up – giving her back," Ratchet quietly corrected him. When that earned him an angry yet pained glare, he added, "If she needs to be returned as a gesture of good will, there is nothing we can do. Maybe you can console yourself with the knowledge that it's for a good cause. I refuse to watch you mope."
Ironhide stiffened. "I do not mope."
"Well, whatever you're doing is pretty slagging close." Then, aiming to break some of the tension, he suggested, "Or maybe you're just scared that you're going to be gunned down by an angry human when we arrive, and you're trying to hide it."
Ironhide stiffened even more. "I am not afraid of the humans."
"Maybe not in general, but perhaps one in particular?" the CMO said knowingly.
Although the comment had been empty of teasing, laced instead with restrained concern and understanding, Ironhide grimaced irately. "No. And if you pester me about that anymore, you're gonna need a medic."
Ratchet attempted to hold in his laugh, but failed. That only made Ironhide's expression darken. "As though I haven't heard that threat before."
Despite himself, the weapons specialist's grimace morphed into the barest of grins.
"Come on, then," called Ratchet, straightening and smirking ever so slightly. "We'll miss the shuttle to Salvus if we don't leave soon. I can't imagine how they'll get along if, for some unforeseen reason, we never make it there," he teased, and for good measure put his hand on his waist in mock irritation.
Ironhide, against his will, gave a groan of subdued laughter. "Stupidest name for a colony I ever heard."
"Yet nowhere near as stupid as the name of our own, in retrospect, you must admit," said the medic.
Thinking for a moment, Ironhide paused – and then huffed once. Yes, Verita Pax – under the circumstances – was a terrible name. Before he could comment, another voice worked its way into the conversation.
"What are you talking about?" Annabelle queried, stretching and yawning and forcing herself up into a sitting position. She blinked wearily between the mechs, all sleepiness and innocence.
"Nothing, youngling," Ratchet answered in Ironhide's stead. The latter was too caught up trying to record what he assumed would be some of his last interactions with the girl. "You've been sleeping for a while. We're getting ready to leave for the ship."
Annabelle smiled. "The one that's gonna take me to Mommy and Daddy?"
"Yes, that one," confirmed Ratchet. He shot Ironhide a speculative glance. "So long as nothing goes wrong, you'll be seeing them again before the day is out."
She began to wiggle in happiness. It was the same happiness with which she had responded to the original news – that was, after a ridiculous amount of disbelief considering how young she was. At first she'd drilled them on how Sam or Mikaela could possibly recognize her daddy since they'd never met him, and how they could possibly have a telephone that reached that far to get the news on, but eventually she had broken down into excitement about seeing her parents again. Unwittingly, she'd added to Ironhide's moral dilemma by talking about them nonstop, trying to describe how much her mother loved her and how great her father was, and how brave and protective they both were ("especially Daddy," she'd said).
Ever since, Ironhide had the unsavory suspicion that once he handed her over, he was never going to see her again. If Annabelle's creators were anything like she described – especially her father, he mused in mimicry – she'd be barricaded away from him and all other mechs for the rest of her days. Ironhide had to admit that he would do the same in a similar position.
"You should… 'use the bathroom' before we leave," Ironhide said, purposefully trying to put a stop to that line of thought. He almost winced at the strange phrase. What relieving oneself and bathing had to do with one another, Ironhide had no idea – but according to Annabelle, the two were clearly linked.
Annabelle, however, seemed to find that suggestion amusing. She giggled for a second and then said, "That's what my parents always say!" She turned in a circle and then looked at the mechs. "Are you gonna let me down?"
Ironhide paused at the question. Really, he didn't want to let her down. Still, all it took was a gentle systems clearing cough from the always-perceptive Ratchet to prompt Ironhide to lower his hand to the countertop and let Annabelle climb off.
She did so sluggishly, struggling with the blankets for a moment. Then she was prancing off and disappearing into her shelter.
"Come on, you old fool," Ratchet said, giving Ironhide a light shove. "I'm sure you can at least try to focus on the good in this. Melancholy is not a good look for you. You knew this wasn't going to be easy, but what's that you were always telling new recruits back in the day?"
The question went unanswered for a while. Indeed, Ironhide considered not rising to the goad. Yet, in the end, he decided to make use of the distraction while he could. "Who are you calling an old fool? And besides; I'm sure I've shouted plenty of things at new recruits enough times that they still have recharge memory-replays about them. You'll have to be more specific."
Ratchet smirked. "Something about difficulty not being important enough a factor to discourage them in any way, I do believe."
"True enough," Ironhide conceded with a sigh.
"It's a miracle anyone stayed in the faction after they went through combat training with you. I wonder how many recruits we lost simply because they were afraid of ever having to answer to you on one of your bad days?" Ratchet mused.
"Don't make me shoot you."
"That's no way to speak if you want to make any friends," the medic chided.
Ironhide laughed once, shallowly, still watching for Annabelle's reappearance. "Yet, here you are."
"An unfortunate error in judgment made in my past," said Ratchet, shaking his head. "Made so long ago that I can no longer correct it. I've long since resigned myself to living with the consequences."
Annabelle ecstatically announced, "Finished!" and came dancing out into view. She grabbed the ends of her lengthy top – in between a shirt and a dress, she said – and twisted it back and forth. "Are there gonna be any potty breaks?"
With a grunt of amusement, Ironhide answered, "No need. The trip is not long, and we are bringing your bathroom with us."
Bright eyes widened in wonder, and while she clearly did not understand how that was possible for a moment, Annabelle didn't bother asking. She asked instead, "How long do I hafta stay in the box again?"
"Less than an hour," replied Ironhide.
"That's, like, forever!" Annabelle exclaimed, features scrunching into a pout.
Barely a blink in time, actually – and yet neither Ironhide nor Ratchet enjoyed the idea of holing her up in a fake carry-on of medical tools even for that long. If anyone asked, Softspark was staying with the same mech Signal and Complement were supposedly staying with: Botanica. The femme was always bringing in new humans and thus had so large a collection by this point that it would take more than a passing interest to uncover the lie (and while Botanica had been curious about the need for deception, she had accepted Prime's apology that they could not explain everything yet).
"The second you can come out, we'll let you. We don't want anything to happen to you, and if others find out that you're with us, something bad could happen," Ironhide explained patiently for what felt the hundredth time. With younglings, repetition was one of many things required to drill instructions home.
She sighed dramatically. "Okay."
"And what's the rule about the box?" prompted Ratchet.
A second sigh, much softer than the first. "When I'm in the box, I can't talk or hum or sing. I gotta be quiet or else someone might hear me," she recited.
Ratchet nodded. He pulled the container out of subspace and held it steady; Ironhide offered Annabelle his hands, which she climbed onto without further prompt. Carefully, Ironhide lowered her into the largely empty carry-on.
"When you come out of there, you'll be well on your way to seeing your parents again," Ironhide promised her, keeping the inappropriate disappointment from his voice.
Annabelle glowed at this. She sat down cross-legged and held her hands in her lap, giving both mechs a wide smile. If it meant seeing her mommy and daddy again, she would be on her very best behavior.
She waved at Ironhide as he hesitantly closed the lid.
"Well then," Ratchet said. He and Ironhide watched one another closely for a quiet second, and then Ratchet gently proffered the container. Ironhide took it securely into his hands. "We have a shuttle to catch."
"We do," agreed Ironhide distantly.
Ratchet studied him sidelong as they walked out of the medical bay, leaving the ship behind for Primus knew how long they'd be gone.
"I'll say it again, and this'll be the last time I do," the medic proclaimed as he began to remotely power down the Ark. "You're doing the right thing."
Ironhide didn't bother to respond. Partially, that was because he was in whole-sparked agreement. Excluding that, everything about this situation was wrong. Annabelle being taken from her family? Wrong. Ex-Decepticons lying to their recovering society, exploiting and practically enslaving an unsuspecting alien race? Wrong, albeit – in retrospect – not all that surprising. Having even the slightest sense of regret about returning Annabelle? Wrong. Really, the only thing 'right' about this from an objective standpoint was the fact that the youngling would finally get to be reunited with her creators, and they with their child.
So why did giving her up (because no matter what Ratchet said, Ironhide couldn't give her back unless he gave her up) still feel like it was a wrong all its own?
"Um, ex… excuse me?" buzzed Wheeljack, trying his hardest not to fall over as he bent down and peered under the light stand.
Nick was there, just as he had been for the past several cycles, bunched up on top of some cleaning fabrics and tucked far away from the edge of his safe haven. Indeed, the solider had only ventured from the place twice, according to Wheeljack's cameras.
The engineer had immediately accepted (albeit sadly) the rescued human's unwillingness to truly interact with him. Hoping to quell some of the soldier's anxieties, Wheeljack had constructed a small table – on which he later put a fascinating off-world light he'd come across vorns ago, crafted from a most curious species that had taken the form of semi-solid gelatinous masses – to serve as a hideaway. Taking into account Nick's dimensions, Wheeljack had carved out the bottom of the otherwise solid metal table so that, should he choose, the human would be able to stand under it. Then he had soldered on peg-like legs that left a gap from the floor that spanned approximately two-thirds of the man's height. Finally, there was a perimeter separating the initial gap from the carved out living space underneath that stretched about the length of one of Wheeljack's fingers.
In short, Wheeljack had tried to ensure that even he couldn't reach under the table if he wanted to, leaving Nick perfectly safe from mechs – yet comfortable, and with all of his living requirements – underneath.
The human's near refusal to leave his little sanctuary was a raving endorsement of the success of Wheeljack's design. Truly, the only times Nick had ventured out since Wheeljack had presented him with the table had been to suspiciously scope out the home on two occasions when the ex-Autobot had left for business.
Presently, Nick was preoccupied with the second 'gift' Wheeljack had given him: a small puzzle, similar to ones often crafted for younglings. It involved rearranging interconnected blocks and rings of various textures in order to achieve specific patterns, each requiring a unique sequence of moves. Wheeljack had redesigned it specifically for the human.
Nick didn't even look up at the first summoning.
"Excuse me," Wheeljack tried again.
This time, Nick heard him. He snapped his head up and shoved the toy down into the blankets, perhaps trying to hide the fact that he'd been playing with it. "What?" he asked, hard and to the point (although, not quite as venomous or openly suspicious as he'd been in previous cycles).
"I was wondering if you wouldn't mind trying something on for me."
Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't that. Nick's eyes widened a fraction, and he stared at Wheeljack like he'd never seen anything like him. Just as the silence and staring were starting to get to the engineer, the soldier blinked and said, disbelievingly, "You seriously think I want to play dress up for you?"
Wheeljack contemplated this for a moment, head fins flickering in consideration. "Um… no? I admit that I'm not entirely certain what you're referring to," he acknowledged his unfamiliarity with the phrase, "but this is similar to any standard equipment fitting protocol, I assure you, and you are free to stay where you are if you still don't wish to come out."
Nick mouthed the words 'equipment fitting.' "What kind of equipment…?"
Here, the inventor lit up – both figuratively and literally. "To make humans more versatile in their environments, natural or otherwise, I'm trying to construct a set of 'grappling gloves,' so to speak. I'm hoping they'll be able to multiply your arm strength and help dig into surfaces to enhance climbing grips and the like. It's all about mobility, after all – could come in handy eluding or attacking Cybertronian enemies on Earth!" He added sheepishly, "A lot of my inventions wind up not working very well or 'malfunctioning spectacularly,' but I'm taking extra precautions on this one, I promise."
Nick's first impulse was to ask just how high a failure or malfunction rate the mech's inventions had – or just how spectacular the malfunctions were – that he felt the need to mention it right up front like that. Nick chose to voice his second thought instead. "You're making something that's supposed to help people fight you guys and get away from you."
Although meant to be a question, it came out rather deadpan.
"Of course," agreed Wheeljack. "You seemed very enthusiastic about protection and defense when I first brought you here. I figured that meant you would appreciate a few defensive and offensive materials to add to your arsenal! So, how about that fitting?"
This was, quite possibly, the toughest decision Nick had had to make in some time.
"Let me see it first," he compromised.
Flashing his fins happily, Wheeljack straightened up and carefully picked the prototype off of the lamp table between two fingers. He smiled approvingly at his handiwork before getting down onto the floor (now that he was reasonably assured that Nick was amenable to the fitting, he could get a little more comfortable). Once he was settled, he displayed the shimmering glove. "See?"
To any observer, Wheeljack surely would have looked ridiculous. Even when he was at his most optimal angle and level, he could only barely see Nick under the table – which was the way he'd designed it. So, he had his face pressed into the floor while he gestured at the tiny contraption and quickly described how it worked.
Apparently the ridiculousness of it worked in Wheeljack's favor. Nick hesitated a good long while before he deemed it safe and shuffled out of his blankets to approach the edge of his haven. He stopped, however, shortly before the dividing section where he'd have to bend and crawl, effectively leaving a safe distance between him and the mech.
Wheeljack tried to hide his excitement at the proximity, safe zone between them notwithstanding.
"So I only have to put it on my arm and squeeze that… palm bar thing… to activate it?" he questioned warily.
"Yes," confirmed the ex-Autobot. "When it extends, it should fit securely almost up to your elbow joint. It might be better for human musculature if the finished product or a later model encompasses the entire limb, including the shoulder, but working your joints' articulation into the apparatus will take considerably more time to engineer. I thought I'd start small for now."
Nick acquiesced after one final measuring look. "Roll it under here."
Wheeljack did so immediately, placing the condensed glove onto the floor and giving it a gentle push. It slid, whirling slightly, under the table, stopping only when it collided with Nick's feet.
Although he waited several seconds before picking the early prototype up, Nick eventually found himself turning the glove over in his hands, inspecting it. It was slightly heavier than it looked, but still surprisingly light if what Wheeljack said about it was true – and, at the moment, it looked like an incredibly fancy and bulky fingerless glove.
"That's a right-handed model," observed Wheeljack, "because I noticed you favored your right hand. I plan on constructing a complementing left hand mold, as well."
Nick gave Wheeljack a sideways glance which lasted barely half a second. Awkwardly, he fit his fingers into the open loops clearly designed for them, and used his left hand to shove the bulk of the gear as far down the back of his hand as he could; his fingers came to rest against their rings snugly. He flexed his hand a few times, twisting it this way and that, carefully avoiding the grip that slid along his palm.
A part of Nick rebelled at the very idea of having this mech-made contraption on him, and it took a few moments for him to feel like he was ready to activate it.
"Just a squeeze, and it'll do everything on its own?"
"If it works the way I designed it," Wheeljack said. The smile in his voice was evident.
After staring for a few more seconds, Nick tightened his face in determination and fisted his hand, clamping down on the smooth bar.
The results were instantaneous.
Nick stumbled a step back when thin sheet after thin sheet of metal rippled out along his arm, appearing to overlap like an armadillo's armor. Much of the bulk 'vanished' as the surface area increased, and an involuntary shiver emanated from his arm as the metal ghosted its way towards his elbow.
It was done in little over a second.
The two parties looked at the glove in silence: Wheeljack had catalogued the activation process for future review, and Nick was staring wide-eyed, trying to keep himself from having any undignified freak-out or similarly degrading reaction.
"So? How does it feel? Too tight, too loose?"
"It… fits like a glove," Nick said before he even realized it.
"A good-fitting glove, or a bad-fitting glove?" probed Wheeljack, confused. That was perhaps the most unhelpful response possible. "I definitely didn't intend for it to fit like a shoe or a hat." Although perhaps some type of boot with built-in propulsion or climbing grips wouldn't be unreasonable to add…
From the way Nick looked at him a moment later, Wheeljack surmised that the phrase had probably been a colloquialism. This hypothesis was proven correct when Nick said, "That means it's snug."
"Wonderful!"
"How does it grapple?"
"It doesn't at the moment. It's not fully outfitted yet," Wheeljack explained, incredibly enthused that he'd been asked a question. That meant Nick was interested! That, or he was uneasy and trying to relieve stress through idle talk… in which case, at least he was willing to talk! "See the empty space on top? I want to put an actual grappling hook there. I needed to make sure it was a proper fit before I continued."
"Well, it fits," the young man confirmed, holding in his uneasiness and trying to steady his heartbeat. He couldn't deny that the thing made him feel the teeniest bit tougher than usual (even though it wasn't done yet), but looking down at the clearly alien device on his arm was… a strange experience, to say the least. He half expected it to suddenly leech wires into him and turn him into a mindless drone. "Now how do I get it off?"
"The release is a simple electrical… interface… mechanism… Hm." Wheeljack slowed down and then stopped abruptly. Nick didn't like the sound of that; he dreaded raising his eyes from the strange sleeve-like contraption and onto Wheeljack's motionless face. "Though your nervous system operates on electrical impulses, you don't have the control over it to stimulate electrical sensors," he realized aloud.
"No, I don't." The terminology and exact implications were lost on the soldier, but one thing was perfectly clear to Nick. He couldn't have kept calm even if he'd tried. "You mean this thing's stuck on me forever?"
Wheeljack frantically began to shake his head. "No, no, no! No, it's not stuck! You just… can't remove it by yourself. I… I don't know why I didn't realize – I mean, you're not Cybertronian in the slightest, of course you can't activate those release sensors on your own… It'll need to have a button – carefully concealed, of course, so that it's never accidentally activated – or maybe programming for vocal recognition shutdown, or some sort of key. Of course, keys can be lost, so maybe…" Realizing he was beginning to ramble, Wheeljack shut up and refocused on the still-freaking-out Nick Vega. "It'll come off without a problem, but… you need to let me help you," he explained hesitantly.
They were quiet for several tense seconds. Eventually, Nick's expression of disbelief-tinged-with-anger (as though he suspected this had been the plan all along and a nefarious 'stage two' had been entered, and he was now about to regret agreeing to this) turned to something just as fierce, but mostly questioning. The silent 'How are you going to help?' was as loud as it possibly could have been.
"I know you don't like coming out of there," acknowledged Wheeljack with a downcast glance, "but I'd need you to step out for a minute and give me your arm. It would only take a second to activate the shutdown sensors."
For a moment, Nick contemplated keeping the glove on indefinitely. Then, to Wheeljack's mild surprise, he made the same face of determination he had before squeezing the grip – and then bent down and started to crawl out.
Wheeljack pushed himself up into a sitting position and nudged himself further away from the table so that Nick would have his space when he got out and stood.
The soldier stretched with a cracking in his spine that sounded painful to Wheeljack, but to which Nick didn't even respond. He flexed his fingers again, contemplatively, and caught Wheeljack's optics.
Time slowed. Each stared at the other, not wanting to make the first move, not certain what to say…
… and then Nick raised his metal-laced arm high, stiffly. "Here," he said, sounding and looking a lot calmer and more confident than he felt. "Get it off."
"Oh, of… of course, right," Wheeljack said quickly, leaning forward again.
He tried not to loom, really he did. He apologized twice as he came closer and extended his own hand, carefully closing his fingers over the limb. Nick managed to hold remarkably still (discounting two powerful inhales and exhales) despite having his entire arm firmly enclosed in both alien gadgetry and an alien himself.
Wheeljack sent several signals into the grappling glove, and a moment later the plating slid back in on itself, collapsing into its original state. He reclaimed his fingers and let Nick slide the glove from his hand.
They shared another look, and then Nick held the equipment out. When Wheeljack offered his hand, Nick deposited it.
"Thank you," said Wheeljack, once more pulling back to grant personal space. "I'll update the shutoff mechanism first thing, and try and get the stress nodes working so you can test out the strength function…"
Nick didn't retreat to his hideout right away, like Wheeljack had expected. Instead, he considered the Cybertronian for a short while.
It prompted Wheeljack to ask, optimistically, "I know you have a crude blade, but I believe you are also used to projectile weapons – guns, I mean?"
"I know a thing or two about them," Nick conceded suspiciously, still not turning away.
"Only solid projectiles, though, right? I believe your guns propel bullets, not… not plasma or heat or other condensed energy?"
Wondering where this was going, Nick said, "No, we don't run around firing lasers at each other. That technology is a little beyond us."
"Mm, lasers probably wouldn't be as effective against all Cybertronian armor as plasma… It may be difficult to condense a plasma generating mechanism into a weapon manageable for your species, but I can certainly try…" He blinked wondrously up at the ceiling in thought, then glanced at Nick. "If I make a prototype human plasma gun, would you be willing to test that, too? Although maybe I shouldn't focus solely on military aspects, because your information networks are definitely important, and I should probably be thinking about ways to safeguard those for you. Guess I might want to find Blaster and ask him a thing or two before I do that, though, since I'm no communications expert…"
There was nothing this mech could possibly do to hurt their networks any more, Nick figured. And, the notion of getting a laser gun – or whatever he'd called it – appealed to the soldier deep down. He considered saying something, but Wheeljack had already started talking again.
"But you'll definitely need a weapons upgrade first, seeing as yours only nicked me. Hey! How about that," Wheeljack interrupted himself with a start. He chuckled at the realization that he had been 'nicked' by a being with that same name. The man in question simply raised his eyebrows. "I'll make a more effective replacement first, then try and figure out a communications system for your Earth-bound brethren, hm?"
Wheeljack carefully stood, and Nick instinctively cut a path back to his safety zone.
Although he had no idea why, the moment he turned to retreat with his many new thoughts, a foreboding feeling washed over Nick. It had seemed alright at first, but, for some reason, he had the as-of-yet unfounded feeling that he should be wary about this mech working with explosive weapons…
Lennox was torn about whether he should be pleased that the other patrols had listened to him and they hadn't been ratted out yet, or upset that no one was following procedure and running off to inform the people at the top. Camaraderie aside, there were regulations about these things, and for good reason. It just so happened that the lack of adherence was working out in his favor this time (and he hoped he would've skirted around protocol, too, if it had been him being let in on the secret), but what did that say about security?
For all they knew, there were dozens of mechs sitting in on settlements, known or unknown, with everyone disobeying command and simply not saying anything about it.
He looked steadily over at the questionable foursome: Sam, Mikaela, and Bumblebee – but particularly the kids – were talking to Jazz, trying to explain something to him. The explanation involved someone named Miles and someone named Prowl, and from what Will was hearing, it sounded as though this Miles guy was one of the teens' friends, who was currently under the surveillance of (aka, 'the ex-pet of') this Prowl fellow, who happened to be one of Jazz and Bumblebee's friends.
It had produced the most immature reactions from Jazz, who still didn't seem like he believed them, no matter how hard they tried to explain or how many nods of agreement Bumblebee provided.
Lennox looked back down at the latest inventory report, which, understandably, was not exactly a page turner. He glanced back over at the strange conversation.
Against all odds and expectations, nothing of importance had happened since the disclosure meeting five days prior. A part of him expected that he'd either wake up in or return to the safe point from a patrol and find the place leveled. Recently, he expected to wake up or come back to a pair of handcuffs or something for harboring these mechs (and being willing to invite a third one in so he could have Annabelle back).
Yeah… Sarah had responded to that exactly like he had predicted. Silence, then calm denial, which had leapt quite quickly into heated denial. From there, it was a hop, skip, and a jump straight to breaking down in crazed tears and head shaking, and feeble attempts to push him away when he'd tried to hold her and calm her down. That had lasted a good long while. Then, finally, once she'd gotten all of her resurfacing emotions out of the way, she'd turned to much calmer hysterics (yes, such thing existed) about the prospect of having her baby girl again.
He'd smartly neglected the tidbit about the mech who was returning her being an artillery master and eons old frontliner.
But, damn, how he was dying for a response from whatever mechs had received Jazz's message, so he could have something more to hold on to, something else to tell Sarah. Sure, he had been warned that a response might take a while, but that did nothing to make him relax.
"You know, Will, I keep expecting you to develop your own narrator," Epps said matter-of-factly.
Casually – as though there weren't mechs chatting it up thirty feet away – Will twisted to face his longtime friend.
They looked at one another in silence, Lennox's face asking for clarification. "See," Epps obliged, "you keep giving these brooding, meaningful looks. Perfect fodder for a narrator voiceover to turn on and explain what's going on in that head of yours."
"Nothing worthwhile," said the captain, making an unintentional show of shifting and ruffling quickly through the inventory report before turning attention back to his friend. "There's just a lot to think about lately."
"I hear ya."
Lennox retraced his thoughts. Nothing significant had happened in the last few days – yes, he'd gone over that… Discounting, he chided himself, the announcement from Bumblebee that they were more than halfway done modifying the scanners to pick up those alloys they'd been talking about. Why the mech should treat that with the same level of enthusiasm as a kid opening a present was unfathomable to Will. Hell, even he wasn't that excited about it, and it was his safe point's security that was at risk.
Oh, and, apparently, the kids had found out only yesterday where exactly in the country they were.
"Stanislaus?" Mikaela and Sam had both echoed when Mulderrig told them.
"The national park? In California?" Mikaela had pressed.
"National forest, yeah," Mulderrig had agreed.
Pierce had quickly explained, "Largely uninhabited land, concealed by nature – national parks with forests are hot territory for refugee camps. You know, if internet was up, I'm sure your friend would get a kick out of the geography." He'd gestured at Bumblebee while saying that.
"Why?" Sam had asked.
"Nah. We gotta have some secrets," Pierce had grinned.
Though miffed about being denied information, Sam and Mikaela had been pretty happy about that news. That meant they weren't too far from home. Not nearby, certainly, yet also not across the country like they had somewhat feared.
But beyond those two bits of otherwise unexciting information, the days had been mercifully calm. Lennox could tell that was about to change from the way Jazz suddenly straightened and then held his hand out for silence.
Will narrowed his eyes as he regarded the silver mech. "What?" he prompted.
"I just decoded Prime's reply to my message, and I'm about to read through it," said Jazz brightly.
Everything inside the warehouse stilled for one calm, glorious moment, and then Lennox broke it by demanding ineloquently, "What now?" at the exact same time as Epps straightened and said, "Whoa, whoa, whoa – you what?"
Jazz tilted his head. Hadn't he been clear? "Just decoded the reply from Prime."
"Just decoded…? You've been talking to these guys for over an hour. When did you have time to decode anything?" Lennox asked, utterly, shamelessly confused.
Jazz, for a brief moment, looked like he didn't understand the question. Then he registered the surprise on all the humans' faces. Not only Epps and Lennox, but Mikaela and Sam were staring at him as though he'd customized another head onto his frame. "I was multitaskin'. You talk and play games at the same time, don't ya? I talk and decode."
"Well, when did you receive the message, then?" Epps pressed for clarification.
"Uh, about seventeen hours ago?" answered Jazz, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. "Why does that matter if you wouldn't have understood it before right this second?"
Lennox made to speak once, then twice, and found himself incapable of producing sounds both times. Then he took a deep breath, stared hard at the ceiling, and finally lowered his eyes back down. He fastened them on the blue visor of the confused mech. "You've had the reply pertaining to my daughter for over seventeen hours, and you didn't say anything? That didn't register as something you might want to at least let us know about?"
"I didn't wanna get your hopes up before I knew what it was all about. You'da just been preoccupied with it for that whole time," Jazz explained his reasoning, honestly apologetic now that he saw his fault. "I wasn't tryin' t' slip something by ya. In the future, I'll let ya know first thing, how about that?"
Epps and Lennox stared at one another.
In the end, Lennox chose to ignore that problem for now. "Well? What's the response?"
They all waited in rapt attention, like kindergarteners awaiting story time. Sam even crossed his legs and leaned closer.
"First off, Prime was happy to hear from us and to find out you didn't try an' offline us on the spot. Also extends his apologies and regrets, promises he's workin' on his end to get to the bottom of this an' rectify the situation," he managed to both rattle off and still maintain his superior's sincerity.
That was all well and good, but Lennox quickly prompted, "What about Annabelle?"
"I was gettin' there," Jazz said patiently. Suddenly, the mech frowned. "Oh. Hm." He ran a claw-like finger across the side of his face. "That coulda come with a little more forewarnin'," he said.
William Lennox was normally an easygoing man. Nothing, however, about this situation was normal. He was close to leaping out of his own skin with impatience. "What is it? What could have come with more forewarning?"
Jazz blinked at Bumblebee, and judging from the way the yellow mech leaned back and began buzzing his now-stiff doorwings, a radio message had been shared. Bumblebee appeared completely surprised by this news, whatever it was.
"Optimus says Ironhide's comin' here," said Jazz at last. "And so is Ratchet."
"Really?" said Mikaela, amazed. "I thought they were trying to avoid raising suspicion!"
Jazz nodded slowly. "Says… says he doesn't want anything else 'hindering relations'. I… hmm. I understand wantin' t' get your daughter back t' ya as quick as possible to show his good intentions," he explained, "but I don't understand sendin' Ratchet, too."
"Ratchet. Is that what one of you said a medic friend of yours was called?" Lennox addressed Sam and Mikaela.
They looked appropriately put on the spot. "I mean, yeah," Mikaela confirmed.
"You didn't say anyone was hurt here, did you?" asked Sam, just as stumped as everyone else.
It was Bumblebee who hesitantly spoke up, "I think I might know why Prime would want them to come together." He looked apologetically at everyone present and ultimately settled his optics on Jazz. "It makes sense, when you think about it. You know how Ironhide is when he's in unpredictable and… unfavorable conditions. The one 'Bot other than Prime who can keep him calm no matter what happens is Ratchet."
The warehouse became quite again. However, whereas the two mechs looked thoughtful and the two teenagers looked pleased, the two soldiers were a mix of incredulous and mortified.
"You mean," began Epps, very slowly, like he was having a hard time comprehending what he was hearing, "that there are two more mechs coming here? Two more. So there's going to be four of you."
"Yeah. Bee and I make two, Ironhide and Ratchet make two, and two plus two gets ya four, last I checked," Jazz agreed.
The tech sergeant turned his head sharply to Lennox. "How is that going to come across as looking like anything but a mounting assault? And I thought two was bad!"
Lennox looked absolutely lost for a moment. He closed his eyes and raised a hand to his forehead, resting his temple in his palm like he'd spontaneously developed the mother of all headaches. He sat like this for several seconds and then dragged his hand down his face, dropping it heavily onto his leg and gripping his knee.
"We'll spread the word along to Graham and Howard and them. We'll explain we weren't given any other option, that their side couldn't wait to enter communications and had to act now, so there wasn't a choice," reasoned Lennox, trying to stay calm and salvage the situation.
"Maybe it was the only opportunity they had," Sam agreed. "It's not like you can pack up and leave without anyone noticing it – you have to have a reason. Maybe this was the soonest they could do it with an alibi," he tried to help.
Lennox nodded absentmindedly. "Yeah, that's fine, that's fine. How long do we have to get everything ready and coordinate patrols?"
"Factoring in the send date and how long the trip will take…" Jazz barely paused a fraction of a second to calculate, "They should be here by midday tomorrow."
Will wanted to laugh. He really, really did. Somehow, he managed to keep it in and instead stared mutely. "You're not joking, are you," he soon mumbled.
"Nope."
"Well that was fast," commented Epps, dryly. Then he tried to cheer up. "Hey – at least that means Annie'll be home before you know it. I can't imagine how happy Sarah's gonna be."
Yes, that was true… Lennox supposed he couldn't be upset about that. Anything that got her home quicker couldn't be bad. He supposed that twenty-four hours was more than enough time to find the patrol heads and move some things around to clear up space for two more mechs.
"You two are going to have to help us move some of this stuff around so we can make room," Lennox said aloud, glancing around at the two actual vehicles and some of the nearest crates (including the one he was sitting on) before fastening Bumblebee and Jazz with stern looks.
"No problem, but you should probably know… You're gonna be hard-pressed to keep Ironhide holed up in here. He gets… antsy," Jazz warned.
Lennox was about to retort ("like I care what his preferences are!"), then froze. He took a deep breath. "My daughter's not only with a walking cannon, she's with a trigger-happy walking cannon?" In that moment, he bore a remarkable resemblance to some of Wheeljack's more infamous inventions, simply waiting to explode.
"He may have been called that once or twi-!" Jazz began to confirm, only to frown when Mikaela started speaking at the top of her lungs to drown him out.
"I think what he means is Ironhide doesn't seem like the type to sit quietly in a corner all day," she said.
After giving Jazz a look that made it perfectly clear that he knew what the mech had been saying, and that he didn't approve of it at all, Lennox turned to Mikaela. "That's too bad. If you think having two mechs idling in a warehouse was cause for concern, just wait until there are four. Next thing you know, there's gonna be five, then six, or as far as some of my teammates are concerned, twenty. Don't even talk to me about one of them being hard to keep under control. I guarantee that won't blow over well."
Bumblebee whined quietly. "There's also the problem that Ironhide doesn't have the dampening mods that we have. I don't think Ratchet does, either. They'll set off your perimeter alarms."
The soldiers digested that silently.
Figuring now was as good a time as any to tack on his last piece of bad news, Jazz pointed out, "Plus, I don't have an alt mode scanned for Ironhide the way I had one for Bee. I got Ratchet one, 'cause I thought it was funny at the time – not expecting I'd ever need it – but I don't have one for 'Hide, and none of the ones you got in here are gonna match him."
"What are you saying?" Epps asked.
"If they're following Bee's coordinates, they aren't gonna land anywhere near anyplace they can scan an alt. That's fine for Ratchet, I got him covered. 'Hide? Not so much. I need to go back to the highway and pre-trans-scan a form for him."
"Not by yourself you don't," Lennox said quickly, standing up.
He had lost control of the situation with the reception of a single message. Subconsciously, it made him wonder if he'd ever had control to begin with. He didn't like thinking about that.
"I'm game to someone coming with," Jazz said easily.
"And they don't count," Lennox added hastily when he saw the teens light up. Their faces fell disappointedly; Jazz shrugged.
Epps raised his hand. "I'll go. The one-oh-eight's a few hours' walk from here. If we leave right now, we might be able to get back by nightfall, depending on how long it takes you to find a disguise for your friend."
Lennox frowned. "It'll take at least twenty minutes for someone to get here and get ready to go with you."
"Don't need it," Epps said, sighing. He straightened and stretched. "Realistically, what's one or two more of us going to help if he's trying to pull something? Let me just grab my gun and a snack and I'm good to go. You can survive here without me until night, right?"
"What do you want me to tell the patrols when they switch?"
Epps actually smirked as he walked away to start gathering his sparse gear. He gave Jazz a sly expression and then twisted his head to regard Lennox. "Say my will broke down and I couldn't resist taking him for a test drive. That's not a suggestion for my mode of transport, by the way," he added. "We both got two feet and we're gonna use them."
"Suit yourself," Jazz shrugged. "I'm just sayin', my seats seem pretty comfy to me. It'd be a shame t' waste 'em forever."
Ignoring the saboteur, Epps gave Lennox a meaningful look, waiting for the official clearance.
It was Will's turn to sigh. "Fine. I'll fill Chun in when she gets back and explain where you are." Then, he turned to the other people present. "It's a good thing our patrol shift is coming up. You're coming with us," he gestured at Bumblebee, Sam, and Mikaela. "You'll help shut down the scanners, and without going through the system. If a superior sees part of the perimeter grid offline, we'll be in a world of trouble."
"Understood," Bumblebee readily agreed.
"Good," Lennox approved.
Sam glanced between the two soldiers and the two mechs. "So, when this whole thing is over, does that mean we can move on with trying to get the news out about the 'not all mechs are evil' thing? And actually start planning what we can do about what's going on?"
Now, that was a good question – one that had everyone present exchanging glances.
"I don't see why we can't start looking into it once everything is hammered out. You haven't given us any explicit reasons not to trust you yet, I'll give you that," Lennox acknowledged, "but it's not like you've earned no-questions-asked trust, either. We take this slow. And, right now, you focus on getting my daughter back. We'll move forward from there, one step at a time," he finished solidly, firmly.
Sam gave an understanding nod and then settled back.
"I guess we'll be on our way then. No point wasting time," Epps announced right as the warehouse was falling silent again.
Jazz stood with the gentle sound of sliding armor and stretched casually (trying to pay no heed to Lennox's habitual staring) while Epps finished making rounds: he snatched up a couple weapons, doubled back, rummaged through the cabinets, grabbed what looked like a few granola bars, then returned to his starting point.
"All ready," said Epps. He slapped Lennox on the shoulder, nodding once. Then he looked over and up at Jazz. "It's you and me; let's get this done."
The ex-Autobot grinned. "Sure thing."
"If we're not back by night… well, I'm sure you'll think of something," Epps started strong and then shrugged. He nodded in farewells to the teens and then walked purposefully out of the door.
Not wanting to be left behind even for a moment, Jazz gave a pleasant wave and followed, only he exited from one of the much larger garage doors.
That left Sam, Mikaela, Bumblebee, and Lennox blinking after them.
After a few seconds, Lennox turned to look at his remaining charges. As if drawn magnetically, they all turned to look at him. They stared at each other for a moment or two, and then Lennox cleared his throat. "What? Go back to talking."
"Sir, aren't you…" Mikaela began and then paused. "Aren't you happy Annabelle's coming back sooner? I know it's short notice, but it's still a good thing, right? You aren't only upset, right?"
Lennox eyed her, then her boyfriend, and said, "No. No, I'm not. I think a part of me won't believe it until I see it, but yes – it's a very good thing. Me getting all emotional isn't going to help anything, though, so," he gestured at them and retook his seat, picking up his inventory report again, "go back to talking. About something else."
Nodding their understanding, Sam and Mikaela tried to start a new conversation.
"So… how about that orange juice this morning? All orange. And juicy. And in a cup," Sam tried.
In mere moments, the fumbling background conversation was nothing more than unintelligible buzz. Lennox's gaze was intent upon his papers, as though he was going to be quizzed. Truthfully, he couldn't even make out the words right now.
This time tomorrow, he might see Annabelle again. This time tomorrow, he might be able to wrap his arms around her. This time tomorrow, he might be able to bring her home to Sarah, and they could finally be a complete family again – no more wondering where she was, no more tears, and no more unanswered questions.
Just one more day. One more day, and the nightmare that he and his wife had shared for the past fourteen months might finally be resolved.
"If Bl-Blackout's latest t-t-target is invalid, then we will-ill have four strays and one li-i-ine of the fam-am-amily left to work th-through," Frenzy announced once he sorted through the latest transmission from the overseas communications expert.
What should have been encouraging news (more like an encouraging reminder) only served to bother Barricade. Their small team had been at this for far too long now – two months, by human reckoning. Four targets were still off the grid; Primus only knew where they had ended up in the confusion, or if they were even still alive. They still had a line of the family to work through, and for all they knew, every last one of the slaggers could have fled their homes and made the job of tracking them next to impossible.
Even worse: one of Barricade's favorite pastimes now was griping about Starscream's lack of foresight in dismantling the humans' networks and civilization, and yet, Barricade himself had been instrumental in implementing those orders, and he'd had fun doing so, meaning he had played a key role in making his current job harder on himself. This only frustrated him more.
If he was frank, Barricade had his doubts that the glasses even existed anymore. Glass was fragile and humans were stupid, and there was no way such an inferior species would know the importance of that little artifact.
Maybe it would be better to double check the geographical location of Megatron, find him, and reanimate him. He, at least, was sure to know exactly what his navigation settings were meant for and whether or not the AllSpark was on this world.
Of course, that wasn't a suggestion they could make to Starscream. He could see it now. He could hear it now – that grating voice reaming him out in unrighteous, arrogant ire and making his audios ache.
It wasn't worth it yet. Barricade would stick this out until the end, taking his pleasure from the moments of destruction that made the venture bearable.
Then, maybe, when the search was exhausted, he might talk to Blackout about a little secretive mutiny. After all, did they really need Starscream's permission to go after Megatron? Although, even Barricade had to admit that he wasn't certain that he wanted the tyrant back yet, either.
All he had was the meantime. And he greatly disliked the meantime.
/ If this turns out fruitless – and we find out we wasted the last several orns looking for glasses that have either been destroyed or can't be decoded – then I'm taking it out on the last descendant we encounter. 'Samuel James Witwicky' will regret being born into this family if we get to him and even he doesn't have them, / he transmitted to Blackout.
In his ever-mounting anger and impatience, he didn't even bother to put any encryptions or encodings on either the frequency or the message itself.
A.N.
So, my computer got a pretty nasty virus for a while over break, and was rendered utterly useless for a couple weeks before I went on my week-long scholar program international study trip to the Dominican Republic. I saw and learned a lot of things there that have deeply moved me, and as of the 18th, I was just happy to be home.
I missed the chance to answer a lot of PMs and stuff during that time. I'm going to try and catch up on all of those now. I promise I wasn't trying to ignore you or anything.
Okay – this seemed fated. I was looking for a reasonable place to put the safe point in terms of proximity to important geographic places in the first movie (i.e. Tranquility (which was originally supposed to be in Nevada but was retconned to California), Mission City/LA, Hoover Dam, etc.). I was checking out forested areas that were even remotely near there on googlemaps, checking distances between places, yadda yadda. And it JUST so happens that I accidentally zoom in on this very specific part of Stanislaus National Forest near the 108, and guess what the name of a small 'unincorporated community' there is called? Go on, guess.
Bumblebee.
I kid you not. Look up 'Bumblebee, California.' It exists. And, I probably never would have known that if not for my accidental zooming. So, considering this a sign from God, I decided that my search for where they were stationed was over. That's what Pierce and Mulderrig are talking about, by the way, and what they won't give Sam and Mikaela an answer to.
Finally, in parting, I wish to extend very belated New Years and holiday wishings to everyone (and here's to hoping the world doesn't end in December). Sorry for the delay.
R&R. It keeps me sane.