Finding Home
Chapter 32
By Voodoo Queen
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Author's Note: Hello, Dear Readers! I'm happy to get back with you much sooner than I did last time. I've been thinking about this fic so much and how I want everything to play out that I'm actually dreaming about it…just trying to get it all written down. Big thank you's to everyone who's added this story to their follows and faves. Extra large thank you's to my wonderful reviewers: AquaJinx, SunnyandSidesFemme17, t0neverland7, LaurenA007, 'Guest', F-22Raptor16, adelphe24, Leonixon, poppycakes, Ekeifer, jellybeanz513, o-dragon, jgoss, KayleeChiara, Annie, SolusPrimeLightblast, ElleGirl19, Pixiekatt, CamaroLady, I Write When I am Bored, GrimmaulDee, Ponderella, Optimis is Bae, Selina Potter5, monkeybaby, WantFanFics, SummerMistedDragon, BarricadesDemon216
Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers, just my own original characters and plot.
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If they'd reached the barracks in record time, they'd reached the med bay even faster. They'd had to swear the sailor who'd assisted them to silence on the incident. Monroe had been terribly shaken by the entire affair. He'd wanted to call an ambulance for his colleague and it had taken quite a bit of assurance as well as a subtle threat involving a particular set of twins to convince him that they had the situation in hand and that it was in his best interest not to mention what he'd seen. Ratchet could appreciate the man's concern for his friend's health but was also aware that her condition would only raise questions if she were allowed to be examined by human authorities. The answers to those questions, he knew, they wouldn't accept, let alone be able to understand. He doubted they would have been able to do anything for her anyway.
Honestly, he wasn't sure if he could, either.
For all his vorns spent studying medicine and perfecting his technique, he'd never stumbled across a situation like this before. It set an entirely new precedent in regards to the dynamics between Cybertronians and organic species. It was a delicate predicament at best and he was well aware that the lives of no fewer than three separate individuals hung precariously in the balance, hinging on his ability to stabilize conditions. No pressure there. Still, as a medical professional and scientist, Ratchet embraced it as an opportunity to learn and study. The current circumstances were no exception.
"Despite the graveness of this situation, I have to say, this is truly fascinating." Ratchet hummed as he scanned the nearly comatose woman. "I certainly didn't expect this type of reaction when her condition came to light."
Prowl's face was firmly set in a look of concern as he watched the CMO work on the woman. "Have you determined what's wrong with her, Ratchet? Is this some sort of side effect of the twins' spark energy?"
"I'd say the lack of, rather." The medic cleared his vocal processor, "In humans, there is a process called cellular respiration. It's a type of metabolic reaction that converts the biochemical energy from the foods they eat into a nucleotide called adenosine triphosphate, or ATP. It is a crucial reaction as it is responsible for releasing the chemical energy that fuels all of their cellular activity. The catabolic activities in Miss Doe's cells, however, are currently nearly nonexistent."
"Care to repeat that again for those us us who don't speak science, doc?" Jazz had rushed to the med bay as soon as Prowl had contacted him and currently sat perched on a stool next to the berth, worriedly petting the woman's hair. "What does that mean?"
"Remember the whole discussion we had about humans not having sparks and how an energy load even as minuscule as the one she's received should have completely destroyed her nervous system?"
Jazz and Prowl both nodded.
"I'll have to award a point to human adaptability in this case. It's amazing, really." Ratchet put his tools away and quickly keyed some information into the medical record he'd begun keeping on the woman. "Her body has managed to find a way to distribute the spark energy and keep the level more stabile at the cellular level without damaging the neurological system by absorbing it directly into the cells' mitochondria and utilizing it instead of ATP as a fuel source. Mitochondria are more plentiful in cells that have a tendency to work harder, like, for example, those that make up the cardiac muscle. More mitochondria means a greater concentration of spark energy in that area. That would certainly account for the warmth and electrical sensation she says she feels in her chest all the time."
Jazz frowned, "That still doesn't explain why she can barely hold her head up, doc."
"While a brilliant adaptation to an extreme situation, it appears to have had an unintended side effect, I'm afraid." Ratchet crossed the room and began searching through his cabinets, pulling out an IV starter kit and a couple bags of normal saline that he had on hand for research purposes. From another cabinet he procured a cube of medical grade energon. "Since she has no spark of her own with which to produce more 'fuel', for lack of a better term, my hypothesis is that Sunstreaker and Sideswipe have continued to feed her, so to speak, with their own. Whether through direct physical contact with her person or possibly through an extension of their EMF or their spark core force fields, they're still sharing their energy with her. Their sudden absence seems to have thrown her into a withdrawal of sorts. It would seem her body is now having difficulty making up the energy difference on its own. In very simple terms," the CMO vented, "She's starving to death at the cellular level."
"Starving?" Jazz's optics widened in concern behind his visor as his frown deepened. "How do we fix this?"
"I'm not sure we can 'fix it'," Ratchet admitted with a huff of helpless irritation. "I could possibly mitigate the symptoms but I've never dealt with a situation like this before. Her metabolism has slowed drastically, I'm assuming as some sort of energy conserving reaction. At the current rate of decline, I'm not sure she'll make it until those two hooligans return without going into a full fledged coma. Or worse."
"That isn't an acceptable outcome. There must be something you can do for her," Prowl pressed. "You said you could mitigate her symptoms."
The CMO leveled a hard gaze on the SIC, "Not without inherent risk." He motioned to the supplies he'd gathered. "There may be a possibility that infusing her with a small amount of extremely diluted energon may provide the metabolic boost needed to spur her cellular processes back into action. It certainly won't cure her reliance on the twins but may at least stabilize her condition until they return."
"Alright," Jazz vented, never taking his optics off the small, fragile human he'd grown to care so much for. "What kinda risks we talkin' about here, doc?"
"You must understand, there's a reason the humans treat energon like hazmat," Ratchet cautioned. "Introducing it directly into her blood stream could poison her. Even in a highly diluted state, there's a real chance that it could overwhelm her bodies ability to process it despite the presence of the spark energy to help burn it. That is, if her body can process it all. Worst case scenario, it could kill her or potentially damage her beyond repair capabilities if not absorbed and utilized properly."
Prowl questioned, "Do we have another option?"
"Unless you've discovered a way to magically transport the twins back," Ratchet shook his head. "We can wait and see what happens, keep her comfortable, but I can't guarantee she won't be suffer irreparable cellular damage by the time they make it home. Eventually, without fuel to carry out basic processes, her cells will begin to die and her vital organs will begin to fail."
Prowl nodded in concerned understanding and looked to the worried TIC, "With the twins gone, her care and guardianship fall to you. What do you want to do, Jazz? It's your call. I'll support your decision either way."
Jazz sucked oxygen down deep into his intakes and let it out in a slow hiss of pressurized air. He gazed at Amy long and hard, his processor quickly flitting through his options and the potential outcome of each. After a moment, he nodded. "Let's do it, Ratch. Doing something is better than doing nothing and in her condition, I don't think we have much of a choice."
Ratchet nodded in agreement. "I'll need Optimus' permission to proceed given the situation and potential consequences and repercussions should the worst come to pass but I really do believe this is her best chance until Sunny and Sides are home."
"Optimus is currently meeting with the Secretary of Defense. I'll inform him of the situation as soon as he's free," Prowl assured. "Go ahead and do what you need to do, Ratchet. The sooner she's stabilized, the better it will be for all involved. If there's any issues, I'll take full responsibility for making the call. I'll go comm the twins and make sure they're aware of what's happening."
"They're in a very precarious state, themselves, and Sunstreaker is nearly psychotic on a good day." Ratchet frowned, "Are you sure that's wise? Perhaps it would be better to wait until we have her stabilized."
A pained look flashed across Prowl's face so quickly that it was nearly missed. "When it comes to those you care about, not knowing is worse. They're beside themselves with worry." He shook his head, "I never believed I'd live to see the day those two cared about anyone more than they cared about themselves. They deserve to be kept informed at the very least."
"I'll do it," Jazz quietly spoke. "I'll comm them. They should hear it from me. I'm supposed to be takin' care of her."
Prowl placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder and nodded, "Very well. I'll find Optimus and inform him of the situation. Keep me posted and comm me if you need me."
Jazz smiled sadly, "Will do, Prowler. Thanks."
"Yes," Ratchet agreed. "Thank you, Prowl."
The SIC took one more long look at the woman before he nodded in farewell and, turning sharply in his heel, marched quickly out of the med bay.
Once the door had shut, Jazz turned back to the CMO. "She's gonna be alright, right Ratch?"
"I certainly hope so," the medic quietly answered as he carefully set up the IV equipment. "For everyone's sake."
As Jazz contemplated exactly how he was going to explain this scenario to the twins, the pair of mechs drifted into a heavy silence punctuated only by the occasional beep of the equipment Ratchet had set up to monitor Amy's condition.
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"This is taking too long." Sunstreaker had gone from quietly brooding to pacing the garage like a caged animal. "How fragging long does it take to drive to the other side of the island and check on somebody?"
Sides vented, "Should we try calling again?"
"I just did," Sunny barked. "Went straight to slagging voicemail and I couldn't even leave a message. The box was full." He kicked the back tire of a Jeep as he stalked by, sending the vehicle skidding sideways into the side of another vehicle. The crunch of crumpling metal wasn't as satisfying as he'd hoped. "We should have told them to shove this fragging mission up their aft ports and stayed on base."
"Primus," Sideswipe scrubbed a hand down his face. "This piece of shard better be worth the trip."
The two were alone inside of the maintenance garage, Bumblebee having ventured out in search of Ironhide to give them some privacy. Not that it mattered or they cared. It was shaping up to be a bright, sunny Kentucky morning but it nearing six o'clock in the evening Diego Garcia time and they still hadn't been able to reach Amy. Neither of them wanted to voice it but they could feel something was wrong. Everything felt strangely off kilter and out of balance. They may not have been spark bonded to the woman but they were close enough to know that Amy wouldn't do something like this to them intentionally. At least, they hoped she wouldn't.
"We're not doing this again," Sunny spat. "The next time they want somebot to run their errands they can get the slagging trinket to do it."
Despite his worry for Amy, Sideswipe snorted in amusement. "Mirage? Get his hands dirty? You must have a bolt loose somewhere, bro."
Sunstreaker sneered, "That elitist glitch is going to have more than a bolt loose if he doesn't learn to keep his mouth shut and mind his own fragging business."
"He's really been grinding your gears lately, hasn't he?" Sides watched as his brother continued to pace and was somewhat grateful for a change in topic, not that it did much to quell his worry. "You never did tell me why you hit him."
"Him being a pompous son of a scrap heap isn't reason enough?" Sunny smirked, "This isn't Iacon. All his fake aft, high society friends, swanky parties, and evenings lounging around his estate sipping vintage energon out of platinum cubes don't mean slag out here and he knows it. Here, he's no better than a couple of scrappers who grew up on the streets of Kaon making ends meet by fighting in the pits."
"I'm not sure I follow," Sides' face scrunched in confusion.
Sunny laughed but there was no real humor in it. "Trinket's finally starting to realize credits and influence can't buy everything and it's fragging killing him. Or haven't you noticed how interested that fragger's been in our personal activities lately?"
"Wait," Sideswipe shook his head "Is this about Ames?"
Sunstreaker leveled his steely gaze at his brother, "It's about that glitch thinking he's so much better and more deserving than we are. It fries his circuits to think that a couple of nobody, low-caste mechs without two credits to rub together can show up on some disgusting, backwater, dirt ball of a planet and find the one good thing on it while he's still wallowing in self pity over the fact that human military bases don't have concierge service."
"Mirage is always talking out his aft." Sideswipe waved off his brother's concern. "That's nothing new, Sunny. Mechs like him, they were sparked believing they can throw some credits around and get whatever they want. When that doesn't work, they start acting like sparklings. You can't take that slag personally. Besides," he shrugged, "she isn't like that, Sunny. She doesn't care about any of that slag."
Sunstreaker demanded, "How do you know? We barely know a fragging thing about her!"
"We know enough." Sides huffed in exasperation, "Primus, Sunny, give her some credit, will you? This is Ames we're talking about, not some high-caste femme with a penchant for cyberfox hunts and weekends in Crystal City. Her great indulgences in life are the ocean and chocolate chip granola bars."
Sunny glared at his brother for a moment before looking away, his jaw clenched so hard it made his denta creak. "Fine," he reluctantly conceded. "You're right…but if that fragger says one word to her…"
Sideswipe snorted, "What could he possibly say that has you wound so tight that you're over clocking your processor?"
Sunstreaker opened his mouth to answer. He wanted to tell his brother that there was plenty that could be said. The truth of the matter was that even though he continued to have a deep rooted disgust for the sticky, organic mess that was humanity, he wanted the Squishie to see them in a favorable light. They had a past. A dirty, disreputable, and sometimes unscrupulous past that garnered neither the faith nor respect of those made privy to it. Even among their fellow Autobots it sometimes felt as if they were constantly having to prove themselves worthy of being a part of the team. The thought of having their human look at them, a condescending look of vague uncertainty as to the sincerity of their motivations gleaming in her wide, green eyes, sent a sharp spike of coldness straight through his spark.
He never got the chance.
At that very moment, the base seemed to quite literally explode in a cacophony of sound and flurry of frenzied motion that had both mechs immediately charging toward the doors and out into the bright morning light, weapons drawn, powered up, and ready to fire. As the warning siren continued blaring, a booming voice over the base-wide address system began shouting orders for the human soldiers to take up arms and reinforce defensive positions. Other voices soon joined the ruckus, crackling over various radio frequencies as forces were scrambled and advised that the Kentucky Air National Guard out of Louisville had jets in the air and were en route.
Sideswipe surveyed the frantically scurrying humans, trying to get a bead on what was happening. "The Pit is going on?"
"Decepticons," Sunstreaker rumbled darkly. Already, the anticipation of battle sent a familiar heat flowing through his lines. His body settled into a disturbingly familiar combat stance. This was something he knew well, something he was good at. Something he was the best at. He hadn't even thrown the first punch yet and already felt more into his element than he had in months. Certainly more so than he had since Sideswipe had gotten them irrevocably tangled up with the human. He opened a comm link, "Hide, where are you?"
"Air strip," the Weapon Specialist immediately replied. "Get your rusty afts over here. We've got company inbound. Want to make sure we greet them properly."
"On our way," Sunny replied brusquely before severing the connection. He turned to his brother, "Ready to cave in some Con heads?"
Sideswipe grinned menacingly, "Always."
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The air strip was about a quarter mile from the maintenance garage. With their chosen alt modes, came to ability to go from 0 to 60 miles per hour in just 2.9 seconds and nothing got the twins moving faster than the opportunity to smash Decepticons. Growing up and living their lives inside of a Decepticon controlled City-State, they were more than familiar with just how vile and depraved their adversaries could be. Therefore, the pair had no qualms about turning their talents against the very ideologies that had forced them into a position to cultivate them to begin with. As the human saying went, payback was a bitch.
As they came upon the scene, they could immediately see Bumblebee grappling with Barricade. The youngling may not have been the largest or strongest of the Autobots, but time and experience had made him an adequate, if not capable fighter. The twins often mused that, had the young mech not been so soft-sparked and so baby-faced, to use the human terminology, he may have been intimidating given the right circumstances. As it was, the normally upbeat, jovial bot didn't have a truly violent bolt in his body.
The twins, however, were a completely different story.
The Decepticon scout was many things but he wasn't stupid. Seeing the infamous pair of former gladiatorial combatants enter the fray, Barricade immediately attempted to disengage the younger Autobot in order to fall back to a more suitable, safer position. He hadn't agreed to accompany Starscream on this mission to retrieve the shard in order to boost the Decepticon ranks just to end up a twisted piece of scrap. What the Air Commander may decry as cowardice, he chose to view as a strategic retreat.
The Con's evasive maneuvering hadn't escaped the twins' careful survey of the battlefield.
"I call dibs on Barricade!" Sides grinned as he he unsheathed his arm-mounted Cybertanium swords and skated off eagerly in the direction of the retreating mech, blowing past Bumblebee at speeds the younger mech couldn't even hope to achieve in his alt form.
Sunstreaker watched his brother head off in pursuit, satisfied that he could handle his own against the Decepticon. Refocusing, he could see Ironhide across the airstrip, taking potshots at a jet that circled high above. It had been too long since he'd last pitted his skills against a Seeker. His lip plates curled into a malicious sneer, "Starscream."
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Prowl had scoured the hangar in search of his leader. Prime hadn't been in his office. The meeting with the Secretary of Defense had seemingly been cut short. There were only so many places a mech as large as Optimus could disappear to. That led Prowl to the conclusion that he was no longer in the vicinity. He needed to find him and alert him to the status of Petty Officer Doe and the twins. His optics did one more careful sweep of the hangar, just to make sure he hadn't perhaps overlooked the faction leader possibly contorting himself into some small, dark corner in an attempt to allude undesirable bureaucrats…like Galloway.
Prowl shuddered at the thought of the snide, sniveling man and his constant, selfish demands.
Instead of a camouflaged Prime, however, his optics landed instead on the Autobot infiltrator perched casually atop a large cargo container against the far wall as if he hadn't a care in the world. With a huff of slight irritation, he strode purposefully toward the mech.
"Dino," the SIC barely managed to keep from rolling his optics at the absurd nickname Mirage had given himself.
"Prowl," Mirage greeted with a polite nod. "It is good to see you. It is a lovely evening, no?"
"No," Prowl deadpanned. "It isn't."
Mirage lifted a brow plate on surprise, his mouth pulling down into a frown. "Non bene?" He seemed to contemplate for a moment before offering, "Is there anything I can do?"
"I highly doubt it." The SIC vented, "Have you seen Prime?"
"Sì," the other mech nodded. "He was in a meeting. Lennox and Epps came running into the hangar. Next thing I see, they are all running back out. Molto veloce." He paused a moment before continuing. "Optimus, he did ask me where you were but, I tell him you're dealing with a medical emergency."
Prowl eyed the mech, "What do you know about our medical emergency?"
"Niente," he denied. "I see you and Ratchet and Jazz all hurry to the med bay. I assume something serious has happened."
"Do you know where Prime went?"
"No," Mirage shook his head. "He did not say. If I had to guess…maybe control hangar."
"Thanks," Prowl pivoted sharply on his heel and headed for the exit.
Mirage called out after him, "This…emergency? Everything is okay, yes?"
"It better be," Prowl bit out as he strode out into the evening air.
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Prowl found Prime right where Mirage had assumed he'd be. The mech looked stressed, as he often did, a perpetual mask of worry creasing his face plates. He leaned heavily against the railing that circled the nerve center of their operations, his optics glued to the various monitors and screens, seeming oblivious to the small, organic creatures that swarmed around his feet in a strangely coordinated dance of activity. Prowl felt his optic twitch. Something had obviously gone wrong.
More than what he was currently privy to, that is.
"Optimus," Prowl cautiously approached his leader, bracing for whatever it is he was about to learn and also steeling himself to pass along the information he'd picked up in the med bay. "I'm afraid we may have a serious problem."
"Yes," Prime vented wearily as he continued to stare at the satellite data and casualty reports flooding into the data stream from half a world away. "I'm afraid we do, old friend."
End of Chapter 32
