A/N: So, it's now January 2022.
It's safe to say the events of the past almost two years definitely weren't featured in any of those 'where do you see yourself in five years' time?' questionnaires I was told would make up the bulk of my future job interviews.
I was asked about my preferred cake in two out of those three interviews, which I feel is much more telling.
Stay safe, take the jabs, and keep up with the hand sanitising and social distancing for… well, as long as you fancy, really. I'm personally not that big on human contact so I'm not actually fussed about the distancing.
Disclaimer: My assorted OCs Nightraider, Dreadnought and Crossfire are probably more mentally healthy than I am. That doesn't mean you can swipe them. Borrow anything else you want from Hasbro, TomyTakara and IDW. They're rich, they can take the hit.
Warnings: Embarrassing abuse of proper computer coding, in addition to the usual unrequited love, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and functional alcoholism.
Crossfire: Part 10
#!/usr/bin/env unitrex
import rospy
from std_ import Int64
if _name_ == "_main_":
_node("counter_publisher")
rate = _param("/counter_publisher_rate")
counter = 0
pub = ("counter", Int64, queue_size=1)
rate = (rate)
("Starting publishing...")
while not _shutdown():
(counter)
counter += 1
()
launch
param name="/counter_publisher_rate" type="int" value="5" /
node name="counter_publisher" pkg="project primus dawn v2" type=" " output="screen"/
/launch
…
"Greetings, Primus Dawn"
Cybertron, City State of Polyhex, Darkmount Fortress, Med Bay…
Alpha Trion's aging digits flew across the battered keyboard, keying in long-forgotten subroutines and rerouting code through whatever functioning circuitry was wired into Shockwave's frame. An almost unworldly glow surrounded the elderly bot; one no doubt seen as a gift from his primal siblings.
If nothing else, it was proving to be quite handy for Knock Out as he finished cleaning the last energon coupling in Shockwave's right hand. He'd needed another light for the fiddly bits.
"…Bring through spinal back-up version 4, reroute through cervical board delta 2… another fault, left arm, fusion cannon secondary feed; reroute through main servo board alpha…"
The babble of Trion's frantic coding provided an almost soothing background noise as Dreadnought and Glit reconnected the now clean and functioning remnants of Shockwave's extremities to his rebuilt chassis. Nightraider was soldering each part into place with a laser torch, raising her welding mask every few breems to get a decent look at her repair work.
"Is that really the best you could do with the left hand?"
Dreadnought flicked a spot of oil off of the purple plating and glared up at the Femme CMO. "Whatever he did to it before he crashed, the functionality is fragged. I've rerouted the main energon lines to go directly through to the laser cannon rather than the hand, but there's some parts in the hand I can't get rid of unless we want to amputate entirely, and you saw how quickly his system rejected the replacement hand."
"So essentially he'll have a bum hand replaced with a gun barrel for the rest of his existence?"
"Better a bum hand than a dud… everything else."
"…Fair point."
She soldered an errant wire into place and studied the patient.
Shockwave's newly repaired optical cover glowed briefly under a shower of sparks. Freshly painted and buffed arm and leg plating now gleamed after Knock Out's determined ministrations; no sign remained of the toxic red and black smears that had coated the gunformer's components for the better part of a cycle. The chassis had been enlarged slightly under Trion's guidance to accommodate the new spark chamber, along with a general upgrade to the gunformer's frame. Longer audial fins, larger energon tanks, longer limbs and an extra ten terabytes of RAM and CPU storage had bulked up Shockwave's figure subtly, but significantly. The basic plating was fixed onto all of his extremities, but only enough to protect his wiring; most of the specialised armour plating was still being rendered.
Physically, he was well on the road to recovery.
His mind and spark however, those were what was causing her concern.
For all that Cybertronians were mechanical beings, the interplay of energy and information between the spark and the CPU was more organic in nature than most medics and scientists preferred to acknowledge. Lack of a functioning spark meant no electrical signature in the CPU, and while a spark could survive for a certain amount of time without a CPU, the longer it went without either, the more chance there was of burnout or chassis rejection.
Shockwave's CPU has been disconnected from his spark chamber for no more than ten breems, but with all of the damage he had already done to his chassis and his spark…
There was no way to know if he would awaken with all of his faculties intact, or if the damage had been done and he would just online as a hunk of polished cybertonium without even two neurons to rub together.
And that didn't even take Crossfire into account.
"Keeekeee?"
In a corner of the operating bay, the tiny gunformer babbled in his crib, watched over carefully by Glit. Now was as good a time as any to do some of the new-born intelligence and perception tests, all of which would be vital in ascertaining if Shockwave's unorthodox method had actually borne a baseline-normal Cybertronian sparkling.
"Kit-ty."
"Keee…keee!"
" ."
"Keeekeee!"
Glit waved a paw across the little gunformer's field of vision and watched as tiny purple hands tried to grasp at silver claws.
Now to the left… and to the right… above… and below…
Crossfire's head tracked the movements, but his optical lens didn't appear to move.
Hmmm.
He positioned himself at the head of the crib, out of Crossfire's sight, leaned down and purred deliberately into his right audial.
Crossfire shrieked with glee and tilted his head towards the sound.
Glit tried the same action on the left, earning another squeal and an attempt at a pat from grabby but gentle little hands.
Audials were fine; sight, uncertain; speech, unclear.
Not good; not dreadful either. But considering who his sire was, the early results were somewhat underwhelming.
The other tests would require spark testing and reflex testing, both of which required a senior medic with opposable thumbs.
Until Nightraider or Dreadnought were free, all he could do was wait and observe.
Dreadnought finished tightening the bolts on Shockwave's neck plates with a satisfied grunt. "Are we ready to try booting him up?"
Nightraider scanned her pad and then the mostly-reassembled frame before her.
"Hmmm… we've probably got enough of his plating on to risk it."
She glanced up at Trion.
"Do the honours?"
Trion keyed in the final boot codes and sat back, his optics darting across the Project's chassis.
"Pray to Primus this works."
"Err, wrong. Pray to me and Dreadnought, because our vengeance will be swifter and a lot more immediate if this goes aft over chestplates."
The elder mech rolled his optics but refrained from further comment.
"Knock Out?"
The red-plated fledgling trotted towards Nightraider at the crook of a digit.
"Go and help Glit with Crossfire's perception tests."
"Aww, but I wanna see…"
His vocaliser trailed off at the Look in Nightraider's optics.
"That's an order, not an invitation for an argument. Go."
She pointed to the furthest corner of the medbay.
Knock Out quietly trudged off.
BOOT COMPLETE
OPTICAL SYSTEM INITIALISING…
According to his internal chronometer, he had spent almost twenty orns offline.
His optical plating was no longer cracked.
The constant nausea in his tanks had completely receded.
The fragmented, frighteningly organic sensation of oozing, crippling pain in his chestplates had disappeared.
His fingertips…
Shockwave blinked once, twice, and slowly held his right hand up to his cranium.
The plating on his fingertips was purple, with no hint of the dead grey flakes that refused to be covered before…
Before…
His right hand twitched.
He propped himself up on his left servo and pressed his hands to his chestplates.
The sparkling…?
Wait.
Hands…
His right hand was healthy and unmarked.
His left hand…
He looked down at his left arm with a feeling of…
…
Wait…
A… feeling?
Yes.
A feeling of… uncertainty.
Unpleasant anticipation.
He recalled something akin to this sensation before he had completed his final exams at the Academy.
He looked down and vented as quietly as he could manage.
His left hand was no longer a hand, but the laser attachment for his alt-mode.
He tried to transform it, receiving nothing but an error message for his efforts.
The rest of his frame swam into view in a sudden wave of… something he had not felt in many vorns.
…Dread.
He felt… dread.
His pedes were missing their main plating. His legs were only 80% assembled and still partially covered with surgical cloths.
The plating over his torso was missing.
His chestplates, pelvic plates and spark chamber were at least covered, but a scan quickly confirmed that his spark chamber was not the one his very soul had occupied for the past several thousand vorns.
One of his audial fins was partially missing.
Every limb was connected to IV lines dispensing what looked like a cocktail of high-grade, disinfectants and antibiotics.
He finally looked up at the three Cybertronians surrounding his berth.
Nightraider was observing him with a look of concern mixed with barely concealed rage.
Dreadnought was almost drinking the sight of him in with hope and… grief?
The last observer, an elderly mech with scarlet and purple plating, was staring at him with a look of professional detachment and barely masked concern.
A long-suppressed memory tickled the edges of Shockwave's consciousness.
Whoever this mech was, he not only knew Shockwave, but the sheer fact of his presence in Darkmount meant that something of world-shattering import had occurred while he had been… otherwise occupied.
Three Cybertronians.
Three…
No… Third.
Third of…
Third of…
Third of… what?
The Femme CMO stepped forward to stand in front of him.
"Sit up, facing me."
He did so, careful of the various IV lines, and only realised exactly what the icy swelling was in the base of his spark.
One that magnified by a factor of a thousand when Nightraider set her padd down by his left thigh and raised her right hand.
Except it wasn't a hand.
It was a fist.
For the first time in over 100,000 vorns, Shockwave felt fear.
KKTHRUNNNCH
Her knuckles were actually bleeding from the impact against Shockwave's partially rebuilt cranium.
"'Raider!?"
Trion and Dreadnought both looked appalled.
In their corner, Knock Out and Glit both wisely stayed silent, their optics wide and unblinking.
Nightraider shook her hand out a few times to get the feeling back in her joints and pulled a roll of zinc tape from her subspace.
She bit off a length of tape, subspaced the roll, and started rolling it around her knuckles.
"Tell me why he didn't deserve that."
"Because you don't hit a mech only a breem out of stasis who's barely got his plating on!?"
She closed her optics against the tears threatening to break loose.
"In this case, I'm willing to make an exception."
Shockwave touched tentative fingers to his cranium and probed the dents along the lip of his optical frame, quietly praying the tetra-jet didn't intend to make any further assaults upon his frame.
He backed up instantly at the sight of a primed sedative gun pointed directly into his optic.
Nightraider pressed her faceplates close enough to kiss his optical casing and hissed through her dental plates, "I know what you did. Dreadnought knows what you did. What you stole. What you created. Who you created. "
With every word spat from her vocaliser, she moved closer, forcing Shockwave to lean backwards.
Who…?
Shockwave's vents hitched. His spark went cold.
"…The sparkling?"
A sharp flick of the cranium towards the back of the med-bay. "Back there. With Glit and Knock Out."
The tip of the needle scratched against his optical casing.
He tried not to flinch.
"His designation is Crossfire. We used the frame you created and hid below your console in the control room."
An odd sense of relief flooded through his patched and maimed circuitry.
"The sparkling survived?"
"Well… that depends on your definition of survival."
She made a sharp gesture towards the felinoid and racer bent over the preemie crib at the back of the room.
"They're doing his new-born tests now."
The look of raw hatred dropped off her faceplates long enough for barely-contained grief to break through.
"I've seen enough to know it's not good."
Dreadnought sucked in a vent of air and turned towards the tiny crib.
The Femme CMO vented slowly. "Whatever you were hoping for, I can almost guarantee you haven't got it."
The strange scarlet and purple mech shot her a look of disbelief, his eye-ridges climbing up his cranium in disapproval.
"Oh, cram it up your aft sideways Trion, you haven't got a pede to stand on in this and you know it."
Trion?
…
TRION.
A long-suppressed memory suddenly clawed its way to the front of his CPU.
The air in the medbay suddenly felt extraordinarily thin.
…A dozen pairs… no, more than a dozen pairs of optics staring at him…
…Thirteen pairs…
…Stasis fluid clogging his vents…
…His spark spasming in uneven waves as he tried to scream…
He slowly turned to stare at the mystery mech.
Third.
Third of… Thirteen.
Thirteen.
The Thirteen.
TRION.
He could feel his spark suddenly begin to pulse in an extremely unpleasant fashion.
Nightraider holstered her sedative gun and shot a look of pure disgust at Alpha Trion.
"Shockwave, this is Alpha Trion, Third of the Thirteen Primes; the Archivist, the Guardian of All That Is and Was. He's one of your creators. I feel sure you've got plenty to talk about."
With that, she turned on her heel and strode towards her office, letting the hatchway slam shut behind her.
Dreadnought's optics flickered desperately between the cycloptic mech on the berth, the silent, staring duo in the corner, and the elderly mech looking askance between him and the purple gunformer.
"…What… she said."
He turned and followed the tetra-jet's path, pausing only to pull the privacy screen around the berth, and leaving creator and creation to stare at each other in blank incredulity.
Two breems later….
"So…"
Shockwave had had too many vorns of dealing with Dreadnought and Nightraider at their most abstruse/drunk to be led into a conversational gap that easily.
He simply turned his gaze to meet that of his… co-creator, now sitting half-slumped on one of the many stools littering the med-bay, his fingers knotted together in clear discomfort.
"...You will, no doubt, have questions."
Something about that sentence struck Shockwave as a little too rehearsed.
An odd sensation began to form in the base of his vocaliser.
Something that felt like he wanted to close all of his vents and turn his back on the old mech, mixed with something that wanted to rupture the input sprays for his optic, something that made him want to snarl with dental plates that he no longer possessed, and something that felt like a bubble of pure heat mixed with a spike of icy pain sitting atop his ventilation units.
Something… red and raw, that wanted to flood through his circuits with something far older and crueller than even he could comprehend… that made him want to grab Trion by the neck and scream into his faceplates as he crushed the life from his frame, and something… dark and cold and vicious, that tickled the corners of his mind with long, squirming digits… that made him want to watch and wait with an almost calculated cruelty.
Something that would wait until Trion slipped and would eventually attack and kill.
He was not sure which emotion this was.
He was not even sure why, after 100,000 vorns, he could suddenly feel emotions.
But it felt… invigorating.
His vocaliser, when he finally engaged it, was unnaturally steady.
"…Who am I?"
Trion's vocaliser was equally as unnatural in its response. "You are Shockwave of Iacon, later revised to be Shockwave of Tarn."
"What was my onlining date?"
"…You were onlined 1st cycle 002, 001st vorn of the Golden Age."
"What was the source of my spark?"
"You were sourced directly from the spark of Prima Himself. The other 12 Primes, including myself, built your frame, and fed and nurtured your spark until you were self-sustaining."
The strange bubble atop his ventilation units moved until it was almost surrounding his spark chamber.
"Why was I created?"
Five breems later…
"…And that is what you are, what you were made to be."
Shockwave's entire CPU now felt like it had been forged from ice.
Nausea had made an unwelcome return to his tanks.
Primus.
Unicron.
Headmasters.
Targetmasters.
The Covenant.
The fall of Cybertron.
Never-ending battles between Autobot and Decepticon.
Between Cybertronians and… whatever humans were.
Between Cybertronians and Nebulons.
Beyond good and evil.
Beyond anything in his wildest imagination. [1]
And he…
He would be the weapon used to achieve Primus's objectives.
The bubble of emotion left its position around his spark and enveloped his CPU.
The edges of Shockwave's golden optic began to darken to crimson.
"And where were my desires in all of these great plans?"
Alpha Trion met the heated gaze with one of cold dismissal.
"You are an instrument of Primus. You were not designed to have desires."
And yet.
"And yet I have them."
A warning subroutine began to scream at the back of Trion's CPU.
He ignored it.
"That is no concern of ours. Your only function is, when the Chaos Bringer finally arrives, to transform to your true size and protect Cybertron with all that you are."
Shockwave's vents felt like they were expelling flames.
Something that felt like a roar was building in his vocaliser.
"I am at my true size, and I am already protecting Cybertron with all that I am. I was appointed the Guardian of Cybertron by Lord Megatron himself before the last voyage of the Nemesis. I have ensured that Cybertron remains exactly as he left it."
Trion's lip plating curled back into a sneer. "Oh, and what would that be? A dead husk? Empty of life, pockmarked by chemical and nuclear weapon exchanges, with bands of Autobots, Neutrals and Decepticons scrapping over the last meagre energon supplies?"
Shockwave slowly swung his legs over the side of the berth and tested his weight against his rebuilt pedes before standing upright to meet his co-creator's glare.
"I fail to see how the Autobots have managed to improve the surface conditions. Indeed, their energon seems to be primarily sourced from raids upon Decepticon storage depots."
"Raids that would never have needed to happen if you had shared the energon fairly!"
Shockwave found a few extra inches of height to draw upon. The cannulas in his arms tugged and stung. "Cybertron has almost exhausted its natural sources of energon. Our energon rations are allocated according to average fuel requirements, all of which are above the operational minimum. The surplus is stored and shared out as appropriate. It is thanks to this rationing that the Decepticon refineries were able to remain online after the Great Shutdown."
He leaned forward slightly, just enough to make Trion back up slightly.
For some reason, this pleased him.
"We have no reports of any Autobot refineries making similar adjustments. In fact, we have no reports of any Autobot refineries actually functioning. Any supplies that you currently hold were, as I stated previously, stolen from us."
He took a cautious step forward, feeling more confident with each spark-beat that he would remain standing.
"We ration our supplies so that all may have some fuel in their tanks, not so that some may have full tanks. It is not the ideal situation, but the Decepticons were designed to function in sub-optimal conditions. Our troops are all online. They have adequate active-duty time, leisure time, and rest time. They have guaranteed rations. They have safe shelter. They have excellent medical care when they are injured or ill. And they stand ready to fight and defend Cybertron at a moment's notice.
"We are doing the best with what meagre resources we have. I do not believe, based on our current intelligence reports, that the Autobots can say the same."
He snapped his left arm down abruptly and felt the energon flow into the converter for his gun-hand.
"So, you will forgive me if I say that you do not have permission to lecture me about what is needed to protect Cybertron."
He pointed the barrel of his gun-hand in Trion's faceplates, careless of the IV lines now dribbling pink trails down his plating.
Trion's optics went wide with horror. He backed up against the privacy screen surrounding the berth and made a desperate grasp at his hip plating for weaponry that was no longer present.
"…She… she re-engaged your emotional processing capabilities!"
"If by she, you mean CMO Nightraider, it would behove you to address her by her correct title and designation. And yes, I believe she did."
Shockwave tilted his cranium and studied his co-creator's terrified faceplates.
"Perhaps it is her form of punishment, for the pain and uncertainty I have put her, Chief Engineer Dreadnought and SMO Glit through during the past 18.4 orns. If so, I will unreservedly accept said punishment."
The power converter in Shockwave's arm hummed as it began to charge.
"Perhaps it is a gift to me; to understand the myriad of emotions that pass between creation and creator. If so, I will accept that gift."
The tip of the gun barrel turned orange with banked heat.
"Perhaps it was to make you suffer; I have clearly witnessed you experience fear, anger, dread and uncertainty. If so, I am most grateful to her."
The power coupling connecting Shockwave's main energon line to his gun hand began to glow.
"Or perhaps she did it in order to facilitate communication between us, as it is logical to assume that this will be the only conversation that you and I will ever have, now that I am aware of your existence and function."
Trion's optics flicked desperately back and forth between Shockwave and the door of Nightraider's office.
"I am uncertain of her exact motives. Perhaps I always will be. But I do know that we have concluded this conversation."
The gun barrel trembled for the smallest of moments before dropping to the gunformer's side.
"Offlining you here and now would only bring unwanted retaliation by the Autobot forces, and I have no intention of making you a martyr for their cause."
Shockwave stepped back and leaned as discreetly as he could against the berth. He was not about to admit to anyone how much the confrontation had taken out of him, and he quickly concluded he would be damned if he asked anyone for help.
"I have no doubt that your continued presence inside Darkmount is only being tolerated until the major repairs on my frame are complete. After that, you will be permitted to leave. If you return…"
"Yes?"
"…If you return, I promise that you will be treated exactly like any other Autobot or Neutral foolish enough to encroach upon the sanctity of Darkmount."
Trion censored his expression, but not enough to stop a flicker of disappointment flash across his optics.
"I have one final question."
"…Yes?"
"The boot code which brought me out of stasis; it addressed me as Primus Dawn. I have no recollection of this designation. Why did it call me Primus Dawn?"
Trion, to his credit, looked slightly cautious.
"…Because that was your designation from the instant this project was made real."
The gunformer's vents hitched.
"You are Project Primus Dawn; codename: Shockwave."
From the safety of the CMO's office, Nightraider and Dreadnought watched as Alpha Trion slid the privacy screen aside, stepped through the gap, and disappeared in the direction of the stores.
Shockwave remained where he was, leaning against the berth, his crimson-tinted optic staring at nothing in particular.
The tetra-jet met the battlecruiser's optical band with a weary look, then nodded in the gunformer's direction.
"I think you can take it from here."
Dreadnought didn't need telling twice.
He darted out of the CMO'S office, stopping in front of the Military Ops officer, and gently waving a grey hand in front of a dazed optic.
"…Shockwave?"
The purple gunformer slowly raised his head. The crimson highlights disappeared in an instant to be replaced with placid gold.
"…Dreadnought."
He bent down and removed the remaining surgical cloths still clinging to his legs.
"The weapon upgrades to my frame require testing. Please accompany me to the firing range and be prepared to take notes."
"How many notes?"
Shockwave's golden optic flashed red for a brief moment.
"Copious notes."
"…Okay."
Silently, Dreadnought disentangled the various IV lines and rigged the mix of nutrient and energon bags up to one drip stand.
He chose not to notice how the gunformer was flexing the digits of his good hand.
Or how badly that hand was shaking.
At times like this, the urge to get absolutely hammered on duty was almost overwhelming.
Luckily, or possibly unluckily for Nightraider, her work ethic overrode her various coping mechanisms.
Nightraider watched quietly as Dreadnought and Shockwave lurched out of the med-bay, Dreadnought's right-hand quivering with the desire to reach out and comfort the gunformer but knowing only too well that such an advance would not go over well.
For the first time in almost half a cycle, the tension encompassing the medbay diminished to something approaching a gentle tremor, so much so that her plating actually felt ten times lighter than before.
Shockwave's case notes were still sitting open on her main screen.
She leaned back in her chair, propped her pedes against the corner of her desk and directed her next words to the ceiling with a groan. "…OK, fine, one orn with active emotions, then it's his call what he wants to do."
She dug the heels of her hands into her optics; the pressure coming as a welcome relief against the migraine building steadily in the right-hand side of her cranium. The darkest and most broken part of her CPU already knew what the Military Ops officer would most likely choose, but it didn't hurt to give him an extra option.
"'Raider?"
She warily opened her optics and focussed on the two nervous ruby optics which peered around the door frame.
Nightraider returned her pedes to the floor. "What's up kid?"
"Uh… Glit and I found a couple of weird things in Crossfire's test results. I don't know enough about what I'm looking at, and Glit wants a second opinion."
Oh Primus.
She permitted herself one exhausted vent before standing up.
Back to work.
One breem later…
"From what I can see, his CPU capacity is normal, his motor function is acceptable and he responds to outward stimuli with little issue." Glit pushed a battered datapad forward.
"It's how he's using what he has that's causing me concern."
Nightraider flipped through the various readings, and stared up at Knock Out, who had scooped Crossfire into his arms and was currently ambling around the med-bay and teaching the little mech how to say his own name.
"Cossfi!"
"Crossfire." The little mech didn't so much as twitch from his comfortable sprawl against Knock Out's chestplates.
"Cossfi?"
"Cross. Fire." Knock Out punctuated each word with a gentle tap on the backs of the little mech's hands.
"Coss. Fi!"
Knock Out fought back against the rising bubble of dread he could feel knocking at the base of his vocaliser. He freed one hand and dug around in one of the storage boxes next to the berth, finally producing a plush cybercat toy. Crossfire squealed, making little grabby hands at the toy and cooing delightedly as it was placed in his arms.
He'd read about this test in the late-night study text that Nightraider had thrown at his head the previous evening.
"OK bub, can you give me the toy?"
He carefully prised Crossfire's hands away from the toy and made a show of hiding it behind his back.
"Where's the kittykat?"
Crossfire's little head whipped back and forth.
"Where's the kittykat?"
Instead of giggling or trying to search for the toy, Crossfire's optic filled with tears and he began to wail.
The red speedster's grin melted off his faceplates like hot slag as he frantically tried to calm the little gunformer down, placing the cybercat into Crossfire's arms as he did. "Ohhh no-no-no-no-no, oh bud it's OK, it's here, don't worry…"
Back by the crib, Nightraider and Glit exchanged worried looks.
"Lack of understanding of object permanence."
Glit made a note on the datapad. "Even the most delayed sparklings recorded had some understanding of object permanence."
"…Did he try rolling over during the audial testing?"
"Not even once."
"And with everything else on here…"
She swallowed against the sick feeling in her fuel tanks.
Glit immediately recognised the sound of venting that was just a little too well-controlled.
He could feel the unwelcome burst of liquid against the backs of his optics.
"Just how… how mentally incapacitated is he?"
The scarlet fledgling pretended he hadn't heard the discussion. Instead, he settled the little mech back in his crib, carefully wrapped the weighted silver blanket around his tiny frame and made sure his new cybercat toy was in cuddling distance before he looked up at the tetra-jet.
"Knock Out."
Nightraider quietly consulted her datapad.
"I need his status report."
It wasn't a question.
"All vitals normal. He's taken two vials of mid-grade and emptied his waste tanks once. He…"
Knock Out bowed his head.
He wasn't sure why he wanted to cry.
"…He likes listening to the later parables from the Covenant of Primus, particularly the rise of the Beast-formers."
Nightraider smiled and made a mark on her pad.
"I've never met a sparkling who doesn't."
She set the padd aside on the nearest berth.
"In your opinion… would you consider him a functioning sparkling?"
Knock Out hesitated.
"Bearing in mind all you've seen, and all you've observed?"
He stopped, hands trembling.
He knew what the diagnosis was; frag it, any half-sane adult knew what the diagnosis was.
The tiny, optimistic part of his CPU whispered, if he didn't say it, then it might not be true.
The larger, more realistic part of his CPU told him not to be so stupid.
"I'd… I-I don't want to assume…"
Nightraider sighed and cast a hard glare at the younger mech. "Kid, you're likely going to leave here before any diagnosis is confirmed and any form of treatment is started. But humour me. What's your opinion?"
Knock Out met her optics with an identical glare, and finally gathered up the courage to voice the thoughts that had been building in his CPU for the past ten orns.
"He might be behind; he might not be. But who said I was leaving?"
That made her pause.
"Who said I was leaving?"
Nightraider exchanged a Look with Glit before counting off on her digits. "Uh, you're underage, you're under Trion's guardianship and you have a sibling on the Autobot side? That's why you're leaving?"
Knock Out's optics narrowed. He held up a hand and counted off his reasons on his digits.
"Old enough; don't care; and my brother is perfectly capable of running, or more likely, ruining his own life without me. In that order. I'm staying right here."
Nightraider wanted to cry.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to clasp him to her chestplates and never let go, but she forced herself to react rationally.
She leaned heavily against the side of the nearest berth and stared at the younger mech. "…You really think Trion's just going to let you go? He-he's put so much into your education, your upbringing… what makes you think he'd let you stay?"
The red speedster drew himself up to his full height, somewhere only slightly north of Nightraider's chestplates. "Since I'm less than 10 vorns off of my majority, and I'm already past the age where any half-way competent judge will take my wishes into account regarding where I want to live before I become a fully-fledged adult."
Off of Nightraider's incredulous look, he corrected himself slightly.
"OK, bearing in mind that any half-way competent judge on the 'Bot side amounts to Ultra Magnus and maybe Trion himself…"
"Wait, Magnus is still online? Nice."
"But honestly? I'm not about to overstate my importance to the Autobot side."
Crimson shoulder-plates sagged.
"Trion's kept me as an intern-level medic for twenty vorns. Every five-vorn review, he finds a new reason to keep me at that level, even though I know I'm better than that. I'm about ten times past the age where any normal fledglings have already made it to the second or third level of their professional course, and he just keeps saying the Primes would know more than me at that level. I'm not a Prime. I don't want to be a Prime. I've never wanted to be a Prime. It paints a target the size of Luna Alpha on your back, and contrary to what my fragged dipstick of a brother thinks, you don't constantly lead troops into glorious battle when you're a Prime, you administrate. And any time you do manage to lead troops into battle, all you end up with is a pile of paperwork the size of the Crystal Spires when you get back. If you get back. Provided the 'Bots intelligence is accurate and they have even 12% of a plan to counteract whatever it is the 'Cons have produced.
"The Autobots don't act. They react. Every time there's a Decepticon advance, they run around asking how they're gonna countermand it or come out smelling like mercury blooms. I'm not blind. All they do is swipe what energon they can from the 'Cons, and wail about what they can do to match whatever the 'Cons have done equally or better. It doesn't. It doesn't save energon in the stores, it doesn't save lives, it doesn't do anything but keep everything going, the same way it always has. And… and anything horrible the 'Cons have done, they seem to think that justifies them doing the same thing, with the same results, just because we have one of the Thirteen having a poke about behind the scenes and acting like he's better than all of us."
Knock Out blinked back a film of tears and looked down, resting a hand against Crossfire's left audial.
"I… I know the stories. The old stories. The ones Trion doesn't like me talking about. Primus and Unicron were created at the same time, but because Unicron was clever, and knew how to wind Primus up, both of them ended up turning themselves into planets. When Unicron learned how to transform, Primus learned the exact same trick, and created the Thirteen to suit his own plans. And all of the original Cybertronians came from the Thirteen and the Well of All Sparks begat by Primus. All from two brothers, and one who couldn't stand to be behind his brother. The one who chose to act, instead of react."
The crimson plated youngling looked up at Nightraider. "The 'Cons ain't saints, I know that. But ever since I've been in Darkmount, every mech and femme I've talked to has said, 'look me up, I'll show you how this works' or 'I've got some more info about the thing you were asking about, see how it reads alongside other sources and let me know what you think' or 'try it this way and see how it works'. Every single time, it's been 'well, try it; hey, you need a test-mech, go ahead, just ask me' versus 'no, don't touch it, it's bad and won't please Primus or Optimus Prime – oh why did he leave us all alone' and so on and so forth.
"If I were that important to the 'Bots, Trion would've kept me locked in the Iacon sub-levels and force-fed a diet of 'Autobot equals One Iacon, One Planet' or whatever slag would keep me on the side of 'good'. But he didn't. And I know what he is. So, either I'm gonna be offlined before I've ever achieved enough of a reputation to mean something to either side, or he knows that I'm not meant to be an Autobot, or at least not an Autobot of any importance, and he just doesn't want to admit it. I don't have enough of a death wish to be a Neutral. So, it's gotta be the 'Cons."
Knock Out made an awkward grab at Nightraider's right hand, squeezing her fingers between his own.
"And you've got this little guy. Whatever happens with him… I want to be there to see it through."
"Even if he ends up being a special mech?"
"…Yeah. Even if he's a special mech."
"…Oh kid."
Tears almost blinding her, Nightraider finally gave into the urge to hug the young mech in front of her. Knock Out wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his head against her shoulder.
Both of them chose not to bring any notice to the steady stream of optical fluid that trickled down Nightraider's chestplates rather coincidentally from the exact spot that Knock Out's head was tucked against.
The femme CMO rested her chin against the top of Knock Out's cranium."…If you really want to stay here, you need to speak to Trion, otherwise he's gonna think we talked you into this."
Knock Out nodded.
"I know."
Cybertron, City State of Polyhex, Darkmount Fortress, Weapons Testing Range…
His arm ached whenever he tried to focus on a target.
Tiny fleeting darts of ice fed into the base of his cranium, screaming that he could not, would not, expect to remain standing if he fired his arm cannon.
He vented and ignored the sensation.
TCSHOOOM
The target sitting second to the right exploded in a cloud of flame and dust.
He fell to one knee and stared at the ground. His good hand wrapped tightly around his drip stand.
He had been aiming at the furthest target to the left, a good three targets over.
Behind him, Dreadnought hissed and made a silent mark on his datapad.
Shockwave chose to ignore him.
It was enough that he was online.
Accuracy could come later.
He also chose to ignore the tiny part of his CPU that whispered, LIAR.
He staggered backwards as he rose to his pedes, his tanks gurgling with growing nausea.
As before, he chose to ignore the myriad warnings that his chassis was sending to his CPU.
His chassis could be replaced.
His mind… that could never be replaced.
But the new knowledge that his- that Alpha Trion had imparted.
That he was created for a purpose.
That this purpose was to protect and save the Cybertronian race.
That he would be the personal weapon of Primus.
That he would stand with his creator against the Chaos Bringer, that they would strike down Unicron himself, and lead Cybertron into a new Golden Age, that he would be honoured throughout time as one of the saviours of the Cybertronian race…
His CPU was flooded with images of the glorious future, of him standing alongside his creators, of Autobots, Neutrals and Decepticons alike cheering his name, celebrating his achievements, venerating his work, his glories, his very BEING…!
The tiny, cold, logical part of his CPU chose that moment to burst through his fevered imaginings and remind him…
When had anyone said that would happen?
When had anyone said he would be celebrated?
When had anyone said he would be acknowledged?
When had anyone said he would actually exist…
without the twisted hands of the Primes plucking him from the Allspark
without them bringing him online
without them performing Shadowplay within his very soul in order to facilitate their own plans…?
His vents hitched.
His mind reeled.
YOU EXIST AT THE WILL AND WHIM OF THE PRIMES OF CYBERTRON.
DO NOT PRESUME YOU ANSWER TO ANY WILL OR DESIRE OTHER THAN OURS.
The grating sensation of compressed dirt under his plating was unusually pleasant as he collapsed onto his left-hand side. Beside him, Dreadnought pressed two digits against his neck before screaming into his comm. link for medical assistance.
A strange spurt of anger crossed with desperation made him grab at Dreadnought's hands with his barely functioning digits.
"…You will look after my sparkling."
"…Yes."
He started to pant.
"…You will be the progenitor that I cannot be… the creator he deserves."
Dreadnought's lower lip began to tremble.
"…You will make sure he outlives me… or any future the Primes have decreed?"
"…Yes."
"…You will …make sure… all of my research into spark parthenogenesis is destroyed?"
Dreadnought's optic band flashed red with an emotion both so close to rage and yet so close to love that he couldn't bear to acknowledge it.
But he did.
A tiny stream of optical fluid forced its way out from under his optic band. He gritted his dental plates.
"…No. Do it yourself."
A single golden optic met an optic band so dark it was almost black.
"...You started this. You can-you can finish this."
The exhaustion, nausea and frustration within his frame dulled down into a single, painful point of focus.
Dreadnought of Altihex, the mech who had remained unwaveringly devoted to him, the mech who had masked his feelings of adoration, of love, for the past 100,000 vorns…
He was refusing his request? Perhaps even his last request?
His good hand clenched into a fist.
Something almost approaching hurt pierced his spark.
"…You would refuse this? Even for me?"
Dark, broken, liquid emotion rose from his soul at a thought; something old, cunning, unwanted.
Something Dreadnought would have given his very spark for Shockwave to feel; something Shockwave could watch emerging from the outermost edges of his own soul, realise it for what it was, and still never understand exactly what he had offered to the other mech.
"…Not even for love?"
The battlecruiser pulled away and rose.
His vocaliser was broken with hatred and desire.
"…You don't get to say that word."
Unconsciousness prickling at the edges of his mind, Shockwave curled his frame into the foetal position and vented desperately, painfully aware that he had said exactly the wrong thing.
And somehow desperately wanting to put it right.
He reached out with a tremulous hand.
"You have to learn what love is."
His digits turned to wisps of smoke.
Dreadnought turned away.
Shockwave's audials had just caught the last thing Dreadnought had said to him before he fell into blissful unconsciousness, faint as it was.
"…And only then, do you have the right to say it to me."
Dreadnought kept his back to the medical drones as they surrounded Shockwave's frame and loaded him onto the emergency stretcher.
He remained silent as the giant purple gunformer was carted out of the weapons range back towards the med-bay.
No-one saw Dreadnought leave the weapons range.
And none of Howlback's security teams noted the presence of a giant grey battlecruiser mech in the Darkmount control tower one orn later, when that same mech meticulously destroyed every piece of research and every piece of scientific equipment even remotely related to the creation and gestation of the tiny lavender and silver sparkling now slumbering within the medbay under the gaze of a drunken femme tetra-jet and an exhausted crimson speeder.
Two orns later…
Nightraider, to her credit, had made sure her office was empty before the unwelcome discussion of Knock Out's future career could take place, and had cleared out before one word could be said.
Trion had taken his decision about as well as Knock Out had thought he would.
And the reality was still about a million times better than what he had imagined.
The elderly mech paced back and forth, robes dragging on the floor, blue optics spitting with anger. "Let me get this straight. You're willing to throw away all of your education, all of your ongoing training, even your relationship with your brother, just to look after one sparkling who, by every test result that's come through so far, will be in specialist care and education for the rest of his life!?"
Knock Out's resolve grew by another mechanometer. He gritted his dental plates together and stayed where he was, leaning against the side of the desk.
"I thought looking after the undercanid was something the 'Bots championed."
Alpha Trion rolled his optics towards the battered ceiling of Nightraider's office.
"The undercanid, yes. A mech so developmentally delayed he might as well not be functioning, no!"
A bolt of furious realisation coursed through him so quickly it almost made him gasp. "So, you're only interested in helping sparklings who are onlined with all of their faculties intact."
"When resources are as limited as they are, yes!"
"Would you be pitching this kind of fit if it was an Autobot sparkling who was this far behind?"
The pause and stuttered vent of air told Knock Out all he needed to know.
"I thought as much."
The red speedster raised his head, optics narrowed and chin jutting out in an unmistakable display of defiance.
"I'm staying here. Deathsaurus and Esmeral will look after me. Nightraider, Dreadnought and Glit will sort out my further education."
"Knock Out-"
Ruby optics flashed bright with purpose. "I've made my decision."
Sensing he wasn't about to win this argument, the Third of the Thirteen backed off and folded his arms across his chestplates.
"And what of your brother?"
Knock Out's expression changed briefly to one of regret. He matched Trion's pose and silently squeezed the leading edge of his grill, praying the elder mech wouldn't see the movement.
"Tell him…"
The pain focussed him, tore him away from any last-breem misgivings.
"…Tell him I've made my choice. That I'm happy, that I'm safe, and I'm sorry."
Trion sighed, rather more loudly than his response required. He recognised that particular note in his apprentice's voice.
Knock Out was not a mech to make a decision such as this without serious consideration. If he chose a particular path, that was what he would dedicate himself to, no matter the cost.
Even if it cost him his friends, a teacher, family.
Even his soul.
This was what the Covenant had foretold, and even now…
There was nothing more he could say now, nothing that would influence the former Autobot either way, nothing that even the Quill could rewrite.
He turned and marched towards the med-bay doors.
"…Trion?"
A pause.
"Tell Hot Rod that he'll always be my brother. Nothing more, nothing less."
A pause… and finally, a nod.
Alpha Trion departed Darkmount three orns after his final conversation with Knock Out of Nyon.
Nothing was said of the brief departure and return of the Third of Thirteen for the better part of a cycle during the depths of the Great Shutdown.
Nothing was said about the sudden departure and subsequent absence of the crimson speeder-type fledgling that Trion had been fostering around that time.
Nothing was said about why that fledgling had chosen to leave Trion's company, where he was now, and why he had stayed where he did.
But every vorn, and for every vorn afterwards, within the broken and buckled Temple of Primus within Iacon's depths, Hot Rod of Nyon would light an energon candle in the memory of the little brother he had lost.
And would see again, as the Covenant had foretold.
Two orns after the departure of Alpha Trion…
"CMO Nightraider to Femme Commander Esmeral…"
Esmeral slapped the side of the vidscreen until it stopped flickering. The dark grey faceplates of the Femme CMO fritzed a few times, and finally wavered into focus.
"Esme, can I borrow you for a few breems?"
Esmeral sighed. "Oh, there's a phrase that doesn't bring good news."
On screen, Nightraider looked down and paused long enough to vent. "It's Crossfire."
Dread and sadness warred for equal space on her faceplates, before finally settling on a frown.
"We ran his final intelligence and processing capability tests a few joors ago. The final results are back and… it's not good."
The pink and red femme gritted her dental plates. "How bad is 'not good'?"
Nightraider ran her right hand over her cranial plates and rubbed the back of her neck cabling. "He's developmentally delayed, by… a lot. Shockwave provided more than enough hardware for him when he designed his frame, but for whatever reason, the little guy is…"
She waved her free hand a few times.
"…Not retaining or recalling information the way a sparkling of his age should be."
Esmeral shut her optics, feeling cleaning fluid gathering in her optical reservoirs. "Special mech?"
"Special mech."
"Oh Primus."
"Yeah." Nightraider's frown shifted into something almost apologetic.
"I'll deal with Dreadnought and Shockwave. Knock Out helped me with running the tests, and he was putting on a good front, but he…"
Esmeral reluctantly finished the sentence. "…Is pretty shaken up."
"From what I can tell, he's encountered the odd youngling before on the Autobot side, but they were all operating at normal processing capacity. Crossfire…" She sighed again.
"You might have to talk him down a bit. Maybe you and Deathsaurus both; I know he's dealt with DD cases in the past."
"Acknowledged."
The kaiju-femme let a sad smile cross her faceplates.
"Thanks for the warning. I mean it truly."
"No problem. Nightraider out."
The vidscreen flickered out just as the main door opened and Knock Out slouched in.
Even without the Femme CMO's warning, she would have guessed something serious had happened just from a glance. Knock Out's optics were deliberately fixed on the battered floor plating; his entire frame was quivering slightly due to the tension in his shoulders, and his faceplates were fixed in what he clearly thought was a neutral expression.
"Knock Out?"
Knock Out glanced briefly up at her, then flicked his optics away to stare at the corner of the couch with unnatural intensity.
"Sweetspark?"
The red-plated mech stayed where he was, completely motionless.
He gulped back a sob.
Tears glinted at the corners of his optics.
Esmeral studied him for the space of a spark-beat. A discreet tap to her comm. alerted Deathsaurus to an urgent request for his presence.
Knock Out was confused but desperately grateful to find two slender silver arms wrapping around his neck and gently pressing his faceplates against warm red shoulder plates. He looped his arms around the femme's mid-section and closed his optics tight.
The hatchway hissed once again. Deathsaurus's spiky shadow fell over the room.
Esme?
She stared up at her bondmate. The message: The tests on Crossfire are complete. Special mech. flashed onto the kaiju's HUD.
Deathsaurus closed his optics and bowed his head for a moment. His optics, when he opened them again, were full of pained understanding.
How's the kid taken it?
Esmeral moved her head and optics in tandem to indicate just how tightly Knock Out was clinging to her.
Not well.
Deathsaurus sighed.
Two giant clawed hands gathered the slender femme and shivering youngling close to warm, battle-scarred chest-plates, before they were both rearranged enough for Deathsaurus to carry them over to the battered seating area and settle them in his lap.
The hastily-stifled sniffles from Knock Out's direction made Deathsaurus pause for a spark-beat, long enough for him to gently cup his hand around the speedster's cranium and stroke a claw along his cheek-plate.
"It's OK kid, it's just the three of us here. No shame in being upset."
Knock Out whimpered something which neither of the adults caught properly.
"Wanna run that by us again?"
Sniffles and choked sobs filled the tiny room.
"…S'posed t'be a proper 'Con, not care if he's special…"
Deathsaurus carefully rested his chin atop Knock Out's head and tucked the younger mech as close to him as possible. Knock Out curled himself into a ball, quietly soaking in the soothing aura of calm emanating from the great kaiju.
Safely caught between the young mech she had so recently taken into her spark and the fearsome mech who shared her quarters, mind, and soul, Esmeral squeezed his fingers between her palms.
"Where does it say that being a 'Con means you can't care about someone, or love someone?"
Knock Out's lower lip plates trembled. "…I'm s'posed t'be tough. A good medic's s'posed to not care what they're doing, just patch everyone up."
The two elder 'Cons exchanged a Look. If that was what the young mech had been learning during his brief and rather haphazard apprenticeship, perhaps an intervention was needed.
Deathsaurus placed his hand at the nape of Knock Out's neck and gently coaxed the younger mech to raise his head and meet his optics. "Now, did Nightraider or Glit or Dreadnought ever say that; not to get involved or care about what they're doing?"
The red speedster's vocaliser wobbled dramatically, as if it were trying to work out which octave it needed to function in. "No… but I've seen 'em when they're working. They get everyone patched up and out the doors ASAP, an' don't get involved."
Esmeral pressed a gentle hand to his shoulder, understanding flooding her optics. "And what about when they're off-duty? Do you see what they do then?"
The youngling sniffled and wiped his optics with the heel of his palm. "No… they said I'm still underage an' don't need t'see that. Trion used t'say the same thing."
The couple exchanged another Look before Deathsaurus carefully tucked Knock Out's head back under his spiked chin-plates.
"Oh kid. You got lucky."
He could feel Knock Out staring up at him in askance through his tears.
"You ended up working with a whole bunch of Cybertronians who know how to professionally detach while they're working. They know what they're doing, they know how to do it, and they know how to protect themselves emotionally, physically and mentally while they do it."
He gently rubbed the younger mech's neck plates.
"What you don't see, and what you won't ever see until they decide you're ready, is how they cope with what they do when they're not doing it. I can't speak for what Trion did, or for how Dreadnought copes, but Nightraider and Glit are both trained medics. The way they cope on the job is to detach as much as possible, and only collapse when it's safe. I know Glit hibernates for an orn at minimum when he's wiped out, and 'Raider…"
He paused, not entirely sure how much of the Femme CMO's private life he should reveal. Esmeral came to the rescue, as she so often did. She cupped Knock Out's faceplates between her hands and gently stroked his cheekplates with her thumbs.
"Have you ever heard of the term, 'functional addiction'?"
Knock Out wiped an arm across his optics. "…Yeah. It's when someone's addicted to a drug or chemical, but the addiction doesn't rule their life as long as they get a fix every so often."
Esmeral nodded. "That's essentially correct. There's plenty of mechs and femmes on the 'Con side, and no doubt plenty on the other side that need something to help them get through the orn, maybe even the vorn; be it Syk, cygars, high-grade or the frequent… intimate company of others."
She paused for a moment.
"Nightraider's solution to her emotional issues has always been high-grade."
Knock Out was silent.
"She relied on it for relief after Soundwave of Kaon bore all six of his sparklings, and she's relied on it near-constantly since the Nemesis was declared lost. She's never missed a shift, and she's never lost a patient, but she needs a significant hit of high grade every few orns in order to stop her looking inwards, stop her thinking about everything she's lost."
Two critical pieces of a puzzle Knock Out didn't have the finished image of finally clicked together. His spark almost cringed with the realisation.
"…Did she and Soundwave have a thing?"
"No… but it's painfully obvious to anyone who knows her that she was in love with him and never told him how she felt."
Deathsaurus took over, his claws gently digging into the tenderest parts of Knock Out's frame. "When she's really strung-out, or if she's had a bad run in the med-bay, shanix to screws you'll find her in Maccadam's trying to crawl into a bottle of engex. I've had to pull her out of there more than once when she's hit her limit or when Mac's cut her off."
The red speedster leaned against his carer's chestplates, his optics downcast.
"And I've got to give her more credit than I thought if she's trying to stop you from developing the same bad habits."
Deathsaurus stroked a hand down Knock Out's back.
"Any medic worth their sodium chloride has a coping mechanism, and most of them will have the good sense to know that their coping mechanism isn't worth slag. The best thing they can ever try and teach their pupils, is to find a better way to cope."
He rubbed his thumb over a perfectly polished shoulder plate.
"How do you think we both knew that you were in a bad place, emotionally speaking?"
Knock Out's vocaliser sounded as if it were coming from the next solar system over.
"…Because 'Raider told you."
The giant kaiju nodded, his pointed chin gently bumping against Knock Out's cranium. "Because she knows you have two carers who only want the best for you. She knows that we will never stop trying to help you and support you; even if you think you're already too big for it, even if you think you're supposed to handle something like this by yourself."
Esmeral found and squeezed his hand. "Helping to care for a preemie is one thing. Helping to care for a preemie who has severe developmental needs, and helping you to help him?"
She cuddled him as close as the three-way embrace allowed. "That's what we're here for. You will not go through this alone. Neither will Nightraider. Neither will Dreadnought. Neither will Glit. Whatever any of you need, we will help you all as much as we can."
Deathsaurus wrapped his wings tightly around his mate and his honorary youngling.
"Crossfire might be slower to learn than other sparklings, but he will learn. And you are going to be very surprised at what he will learn."
It wasn't the last pep-talk Knock Out received from his foster guardians, but it was the one that made the biggest impact.
And it was certainly the one that, thousands of vorns later, when he was sitting cross-legged on the wash-rack floor, covered in cleaning fluid and filling in Crossfire's developmental chart while the tiny gun-former delicately pressed his finger against a bubble and squeaked with delight when it didn't burst, that echoed through his CPU and spark.
TBC
[1] Sorry, couldn't resist.
