The Diego Diaries: Quick Silver (dd8 589)
=0=In a conference room in the Ops Center
It was silent a moment as Ratchet remembered the 'good old orns'. "In the Guild you were considered an artist if you were someone like my genitors. The caste shadow was there but it was smaller than the art and the regard people had for those among them who were true artists. My genitors were considered true artists," he said. "It was like a neutral zone where artists could meet, mentor good young talent and talk about art, creating things, new ideas. Outside, it was different. Inside, it was safe."
Prime nodded. "I heard that about the Guild. There were others that were the same way, crafts organizations. Not many but they stood out as outliers."
Ratchet nodded. "Pyrite and his father weren't really into art. They believed they were but they hired really talented artists to make things from 'their' ideas. Word was that they'd have general ideas but the hired hands were the true artists who created whatever it was they were wanted to showcase. They were trying to become the 'leading experts' in the art and crafts world. It would be like someone who could paint by the numbers having pretensions to become da Vinci or Michelangelo but without the talent.
"They wanted to be craved by the museums and be consulted and all of that slag. They weren't. They didn't have the creative spark. My genitors were consulted and their stuff ended up in places where Pyrite couldn't even get in the door. Mind you, Galaxy was taking the credit and earnings but it was my family's talent that was being showcased and everyone knew that anyway."
"No one can do what your genitors can," Ironhide said. "I've watched them. I've seen the blades and tools, the swords become sentient. I actually watched it happen."
Ratchet nodded. "They wanted the processes. They menaced us on Cybertron and they're trying to do it here. There's no other artisan shop beyond Wirelite and her Weavers Guild that has as much respect and honors as my genitors here on Mars. They want to be them without the work or talent."
"What happened? How did you feel this was going south when they came in?" Springer asked.
"Their attitude was the same when they'd come in and try to make them give up secrets. I was there then and carried a lead pipe. A few swings and word out in the neighborhood that thugs were trying to strong arm my family was enough. We also vandalized their stores. Not the one in The Wells but the one on the Boulevard and the other in Fair Hill." Ratchet grinned. "I'm not saying it was me but putting a pipe bomb down the heating vent in a fancy jewelry store is really a great visual to see."
Springer grinned. "I didn't hear that."
"Then they're back to get what they didn't get there," Ironhide said with deep malice in his voice.
"I think they are," Ratchet said. "They want a sword. They're not getting a sword. None of the swords will go with them."
"Why not have them come in and find out?" Springer said as Drift grinned. "We can be there looking around. It could be fun."
Ratchet stared at the two, then grinned. "That's why you're my favorite children in your age group."
Huge laughter greeted that.
Prowl sat back. "We have to do the town. You get to babysit," he said as he smirked at Springer and Drift. "For the time being, I want to put a couple of Home Guard kids in there when they open until they close to watch things. What about their security? Cameras?"
"We boosted it the last time someone tried to give them slag," Drift said. "We'll link the cameras into us and alarm it so we can respond."
Springer nodded. "We need chapter and verse on them. Maybe we can arrest them for war crimes."
Prime grinned. "Novel solution."
"Pretty much describes a lot of them," Springer replied.
They troubleshot the situation, then Ratchet put in a call. A deep voice answered. "Pyrite, this is Ratchet of RTR Tools. You wanted a sword, correct?"
:That's correct:
"We need to get more information. Why not come over and test a few of the things in the shop. That way we can get a feel of what you want and need," Ratchet said.
It was silent a moment, then the voice answered. "Sure. When?"
"The genitors are home right now so I'm minding the store. Can you come by now?" Ratchet asked.
The voice took a moment to reply. "Sure. On my way." The line went dead.
"I better hoof it. Who's in the posse?" he asked as he stood up to go.
No one moved.
"Fraggers," he said as they rose to join him. Prowl would come as well.
"Let me know how this turns out," Prime said as they walked onward. They left as he stared at the doorway. Then he glanced at the cart. "I wish you were bigger," he said with a soft sigh.
=0=RTR
They were hustled out into a cab, leaving reluctantly. When they were gone Prowl, Springer and Drift followed Ratchet into the shop. He checked smelters, items being worked upon, then shut down the system. The ores would be kept at a minimal temperature to prevent solidification.
Prowl was holding an unfinished sword blade which was without hilt but had the start of the beautiful calligraphy that Ravel was renowned for. "This is gloriously beautiful," he said as he noted the fine curve and brilliant finish of the blade. "Its remarkable how they do this. You know the formulas and processes, too. Right?"
Ratchet nodded. "I know it all and I used to make things, too. Tool and die man here," he said with a grin. "Best find your positions, boys."
Prowl waited in the work room watching the show room on the monitor there. Drift and Springer walked out and became engrossed in the swords nearly immediately. Ratchet lounged on the counter watching them when he saw the three through the window walking his way. "They're here."
Everyone glanced at the door, then continued to be engrossed in the swords. It wasn't hard.
The door opened, the Christmas Surprise bells jingled sweetly as three mechs walked through the displays to the counter. They halted there staring at Ratchet with cold optics. Ironhide was out of sight around the corner but they could see both Springer and Drift. "You called?" he asked.
"I did." Ratchet met Pyrite's gaze easily. He'd been through more than this slagger could imagine and for his family he had no fear. "You want a sword. A lot of mechs and femmes do. We need to know a few things, however. We need to gauge the length of the blade and the grip."
"So you make them, too?" one of the others, a younger brother named Latinum asked with a surly tone.
Ratchet glanced at him, a mech well known in the tabloids of the media for his high stepping ways, his bad attitude and sense of entitlement. Given a name like Latinum, another term for money, it was probably inevitable. "I'm a master metallurgist. I make these things, too."
They stared at each other coldly, then Pyrite glanced around. "What do you use to measure?"
"I use a blank sword but given that they're locked up and I don't have the combination, one of those in the showcase will do," Ratchet said smoothly.
Pyrite stared at him, then the glittering showcases that lined two walls with swords suspended in gravitational devices. They hung in the air yet turned slowly under artful lighting that caused them to sparkle and glow. He walked to the nearest one, looked them over, then gripped a long slightly curved 'hand and a half' sword, one longer than usual with an emerald grip. He stepped back to examine the artistry of the calligraphy Ravel had etched into the incredibly hard steel. It was an ode to Primus and The one. He turned toward Ratchet who was watching him calmly. He swung it one way, then the other.
:Amateur: Drift said to Springer.
Springer who was examining a tool kit grinned.
Pyrite held it up to his face, seeing his own in its reflection on its glossy finish. That's when the sword bit his ass.
=0=Prowl
He read the search results on his datapad, the 'cop' one he kept in subspace. The information coming in was that they were insanely rich, created and/or endowed art galleries and museums, funded art schools in the University system and made a show of having creative tendencies in an upscale series of salons. Shows were held there, artists were featured and they were a 'big deal' in the art world but not especially known for innovation or high creative talent.
The three sons, Pyrite the Younger, Latinum who fancied himself a playboy and the middle son with a knack for business, Merchan loved the artistic life. They didn't have any creativity, per se, but they worked at making it seem they did. They did have an optic for up and coming artists and thus, they were often ahead of the curve in the art world. They bought, collected and sold art of all kinds in their businesses and their personal collections rivaled that of Ironhide's three 'aunties'.
The three aunties hated all of them, the poseurs. They would highly disagree with 'that family' and their 'collections'.
The search on his datapad was still going when a bellow in the show room brought him back to the screen. Apparently, a sentient sword bit Pyrite in the servo. He dropped it, then grabbed his servo. The sword fell to the ground, skittering toward the other two brothers before stopping.
"WHAT THE FRAG!" Pyrite said as he wrung his hand.
"Oh. There's that." Ratchet stared at him calmly.
"What?" Merchan said as he stared at the sword.
"I wouldn't pick that up," Ratchet said as he started to walk around the counter.
Merchan picked it up. It bit him, too. "OWWWWWWWW! WHAT THE FRAG!?" he bellowed as he dropped the sword.
"What's the matter with you two?" Latinum asked as he frowned at his brothers.
"Pick it up and find out," Pyrite said with malice as he gripped his servo.
Latinum stared at it, then glanced at his brothers. "You don't think I would?"
"I wouldn't advise it," Ratchet said in a small voice.
Latinum picked it up. He held it a moment, then grinned at his brothers. Then the sword bit his aft. Hard. "WHAT THE FRAG!?" he cried out as he threw the sword at the wall.
Ratchet caught it before it hit the wall with one servo. He brought it close to inspect it. "You fraggers are lucky that you didn't harm this sword."
"US!?" Merchan asked with outrage.
Ratchet glanced up. "Yes. These swords take about 6 months to make by hand. They're worth more than the three of you combined all by themselves."
"Is that so," Latinum said as he walked closer to Ratchet. He gripped his servos as he glared at the big medic.
"This sword and everything we make is sentient," Ratchet said. "You're lucky to be alive. I saw a fragger get carted out to the hospital for disrespecting one once upon a time."
"You knew that would happen," Pyrite said with malice.
"These swords will only go with mechs or femmes that respect them, understand that they're special and Primus-Blessed and who are worthy. They're brought to sentience by Solus Prime Herself. They know whether a mech is worthy or not. Try to pick up a tool or dagger. Everything we make is fussy that way." Ratchet walked to the case, then gently and expertly put the sword back into the display. "I'm going to have to rub you down. I will later," he said to the sword.
"You're talking to a sword, slagger," Latinum said.
"Bingo," Ratchet said as he turned to the three. "Nothing we make will ever leave this place with you. They're funny that way. They won't serve anyone who doesn't deserve them."
Pyrite stared at him with fury. "We came here once to get the processes. You could have shared and there'd be no bad blood."
"We had slaggers do the same thing once a decaorn since forever. Our processes are ours. They will never be shared because no one but us can make these things. No one else can," Ratchet said.
"Is that so?" Latinum said as he stepped closer to Ratchet.
"It is," a deep voice said.
=0=TBC 12-13-2022
JackalKat: HUGS! I agree. :D:D:D