Entertainment 'N Energon
Story Ch. 1 The Dead & the Living:
Ratchet stared at his carrier in dumb shock as Château began to weep; her normally bright white and green plating was dull, almost grey. She's been starving herself, the medic thought fuzzily. He reached out to her, hugging her tightly to his sleek chassis as she cried. He'd been worrying over class notes in his Protoform Engineering class when he was summoned to the dean's office. As soon as he saw the femme, every other care vanished in the wake of a terrible understanding. The room smelled like bitter optic fluid and the dean had left without a word; leaving her standing as delicate as a glass globe in the center of the room while pale fluid trickled from almost purple optics. He'd only seen her, his happy social mother, cry like this once before… when her carrier had died.
"He's gone, oh primus, he's gone!" she wailed clutching with sharp fingers onto Ratchet's pristine white plating. "On my knight, my knight…" her words dissolved into low keening. Still, he didn't say a word, didn't need too. His maker, designated Liquor, had been a harsh mech with amber plating with crimson accents and a prominent chevron that'd been passed to his creation, as well as his unmoving sense of right and wrong. From the rotation he'd became a mechling they'd disagreed about everything, and the medic couldn't help remembering the last time he saw his sire, the last time they fought.
He'd been several deca-vorns younger, and the fire of hatred hadn't had enough time to cool. After just receiving his acceptance message from the Iacon Academy with a full tuition scholarship, he'd immediately ran to find his mother, but found his father instead. Immediately they'd lunged for each other's verbal throats and Liquor had firmly established his position on the matter.
"Stop it!" he'd yelled with fierce and rebellious optics. "Stop trying to control me!"
The massive mech had loomed over him with his absolute posture, "I'll cease when you decide to forget about your foolish whim." The voice was rich and scalding, always in control. It reminded him of magma planets; deep as their molten seas.
"It's not just a whim! I've wanted to be a medic for the past fifty vorns! How the slag can it be a whim?" he threw his servos up in fury, shaking one at the senior as smoke seeped from his vents. "Face it! I'm not going to be a Senator! I'm not going to be like you!" he was venting heavily, trying to clear away the scent of burnt metal.
He'd turned an unfeeling back toward him, "I only want you to be successful."
"Yes, well you're doing one pit fragging job of it." Ratchet let the air circle through his systems for a few moments to cool down his systems. "I knew you'd react like this," he mumbled. His dad peered over his shoulder with one orange optic, almost squashing the mechling's courage then and there. "I only wanted to let you know I'm leaving for Iacon tomorrow. Your blessing would have been welcome, but since you seem so eager to be rid of me…" he snarled, "If I have my way, you won't need to see or speak to me again." He'd promptly left the office to prepare for his departure. It would be the last time he'd see him.
His mother returned him to reality with a jolt, "It was his Nanites," she sniffed, rubbing her optics with a green decorated servo.
"What?" The medic numbly led her to the sitting area in the corner with an arm over her smooth shoulders.
Château peered up at him as she wiped up her tears with a cloth from her subspace. "He didn't tell you?" He shook his head side-to-side, earning a static filled laugh. "Figures, He always was as stubborn as a Titanium Ox." She sat in one of the uncomfortable chrome chairs, folding her hands in her lap. "Your Creator was born with a ticking time bomb in his system. A- A line of his Nanite replication code was but one mutation away from becoming viral." The beautiful femme smiled weakly, "I guess I should be grateful for how long he's lived. For the time we had to prepare. Nanite Contamination the med-bot called it."
Ratchet couldn't believe it. NC was an extremely rare disease where the buffer codes before and after the Nanite construction lines were missing, only appearing in .01% of born cybertronians. The missing code would result in the delicate replication system skewing and a painful death by the mecha's own nanobots devouring them. Few survivors made it past their hundredth vorn and only a handful made it past one thousand, that Liquor had lived over fifty thousand was a miracle in itself. A terrifying thought crossed his mind. Noticing his spark stopped expression, his carrier chuckled with understanding, "Don't worry, the doc said it can't be passed down family lines. You don't have it." She held his face in her cool hands, kissing his forehead and looking out the window pouring the city lights into the room. For a time they just sat there, finding peace in the quiet.
"He was very proud of you, you know." More tears streaked down her puffed face, "So piston-sucking proud." Servos covered her face when her voice cracked with a gentle squeak. "I know you think he never cared about you, but after you left he didn't leave his office for a week… He really did care." She broke down.
"Carrier…" he reached for her only to be pushed away.
"No, you need to hear this *sniff*." Turning to face him, he watched as some of her old vibrancy seemed to fill out the winding green patterns traveling up her sides. "When he heard you were being considered as a future candidate for Medic Superior it was like he came alive again. He subtly bragged about you for weeks." She smiled weakly as her servos clasped his, "Liquor was never good with his emotions and he preferred wordless support over babbling. It took him over half his life to even talk to me, though he was my secret admirer for the entirety of my education." Her optics brightened at a memory, "Do you remember that turbo-dog sparkling you received for your first upgrade day? When you became a youngling?"
Ratchet smiled, "The one I'd been begging Liquor for since I knew what a turbo-dog was? How could I forget?"
"You always thought it was me who bought it for you."
He frowned, chevron dipping, "It wasn't?"
"Nope, it was your cold-sparked Creator. He was so happy you liked it." Her small, oh so brave grin broke something in him and the years of icy resentment began to thaw, liquid guilt and grief beginning to fill the spaces. He couldn't suppress a strangled cry from his vocal processors, and optic fluid began to build. Soon he was the one cursing between bursts of static as his Carrier stroked his white helm. Primus, he never knew, never got to apologize or thank him…for anything.
Ratchet booted up several joors later, and the first thing he noticed was the fragrant scent of high quality wax. Opening his optics he saw the bright light of their twin stars illuminating frames and elegant tracery covering the walls. He checked his Carrier over from his spot with his helm in her lap. She needs food. Sitting up, he gently shook her awake. Château groggily came online still emotionally exhausted from the night before. "How about we get you some energon?" he used his arm to maneuver her sleepy form out the door and toward the lunch room. The steel halls were lonely. Only the taps of two pairs of peds wandered the halls.
"When's the funeral?" the student asked not looking at his Carrier.
Something brushed his arm making him stiffen slightly, glancing down he saw she'd wrapped her arms around his, "Three rotations from now in Hexalt's Grand Crystal Gardens, a few joors before the Stars have set… he wanted his memorial to be his grave."
He nodded, grim face set against the dull ache throbbing in his chest. "I'll be there." Château smiled, spark pulsing calmly, pleased that her two mechs no longer stood on opposite sides, even if it took Primus himself intervening to break their frozen stalemate.
The dorm room door slid open, the med student passed through to collapse on the couch. "Hey Ratch! Look at this! I figured out that –." Wheeljack stopped when his saw his roommate, weary and burdened by thoughts. "Hey," he placed a black servo on his friend's shoulder, "What happened?"
The red and white mech debated whether it would be wise to tell him.
Wheeljack's optics lightened from behind the mask, "After all these vorns I'm pretty sure I can tell when you're hurting. Please let me help." Ratchet remained silent. "Or at least let me try."
He sighed, "My Carrier visited me yesterday…" the finned mech waited. "Liquor died a few rotations ago."
"Primus…" the engineer breathed, "Is there anything you need? Perhaps the grading system's access codes?"
The pitiful attempt at humor wrenched a hollow laugh from the chevroned mech, "Thanks Jack, but its fine. We weren't that close anyway."
"Don't give me that." The firm tone made Ratchet look up with a small amount of surprise. "He was still your creator, no matter how much disagreed with him… How's your Carrier doing?"
"She's a mess. I had to nearly force feed her this morning." Silence stretched itself through the apartment before the medic spoke again, "Can you imagine what it's like to see a femme normally so happy and strong be brought to her knees after you hear that a mech you once thought was invincible was brought to his end by a mere illness?"
Wheeljack pulled him into a side-hug, "What was he like?"
His plating trembled, "So impossibly strong," red servo's clasped each other, "I saw him grapple with a steel cat that had escaped from the zoo and win. I thought he was so reliable; he always came through with his promises and never made any he couldn't keep. But I hated him, Jack." Ratchet's vocalizer let out a burst of static, "He pushed me brutally through the studies that put me at the top of my class. Taught me how to mediate disputes, how to run Hexalt…grooming me to be the next Senator. Primus I hated him…but I relied on him too. I hated myself for that."
Wheeljack let out a small chuckle, "Don't we all. I remember my Creator threw a fit when I told him I wanted to be an inventor just like him." He grinned, "I bet you can guess why."
"Hah! I bet you blew up his lab every time you stepped in there."
"Just about." His fins flashed in amusement. "I'm sure he forgave you a long time ago, Ratch. That's what Makers do."
"Maybe, but I didn't forgive myself. I never even wanted to apologize before my Carrier told me how he really felt."
"Well," an optic smile, "I'm sure Primus would be happy to send him a message."
"Thanks, Jack."
The explosion prone mech patted his back a few times, "What are friends for? Now come on we need to get you ready for the funeral."
Funeral preparations were exhaustive for cybertronians, especially for Hexaltians. Whereas other sentient species either just buried their dead or launched them into a star; the mechas took careful pains to preserve their memory. The processor and spark chamber were carefully removed and a death mask was made before they melted down the body into a container with two compartments. The extracted parts would be placed individually in the sections, which were then filled with liquid mercury, welded shut and inscribed with an account of the mecha's lifetime in curving calligraphy. The death mask was then fused to the top of the container to preserve the image of the deceased. The shape and protective layers of the urn could vary, from thick plates of aluminum to titanium alloys; it depended on a family's class and financial status. However, the only person who could see the urn before the funeral was the mortician and the artist. It was believed that if a mecha saw the box before it was being laid to rest, the spark wouldn't return to the Well and would haunt the family until appeased.
Many other preparations were needed for the memorial service, something Ratchet was beginning to loath as he stood for joors at a time being painted in ancient blessings and prayers in chilly colors on both his secondary and primary plating. It was all to show that they had lost a family member to the community. But Ratchet, seeing how he wasn't especially religious, found it a waste of time only accepted because his Carrier had asked him too. The music had to be picked, musicians to be found, and preparations for friends and family be made. His mother was designing the entire service herself, staving off her depression with work and in the process leaving Ratchet practically useless. Much to his frustration.
He'd arrived in Hexalt only a few days before the service, but found himself thrown into the intensive care he'd left behind. Another glyph had to be added to his identification code, he had to be decked in suitable ornaments (making him feel like a one-bot-lightshow), and thoroughly drilled in the steps. Thankfully the matter of Liquor's will would be dealt with after the ceremony, giving the family a little more time to heal.
Eventually, the dawn was upon them and the exhausted Ratchet had risen late in the day and driven in his medical alt to the Grand Crystal Gardens under a bright blue sky; ignoring the pitiful whispers that followed him. The massive city was a marvel of engineering. Considered the capital of invention and progress, it was easy to see why when the massive towers and roads were connected so fluidly. Naturalists gathered here as well to oppose needless destruction on the remaining Cybertron ecosystems, resulting in a beautiful balance nature and city.
His mother had designed most of the city plans. It was her that created the Great Crystal Gardens and placed them right in front of the city hall after a trip to Praxis. Château had been utterly charmed by their crystals, but had been unable to come close to their beauty. The park was a public commons that had been carefully maintained and filled with laughing younglings. What remained of the life was a mass of bots of all kinds of models that almost flooded the entire lot, all bearing the painted calligraphy, and remaining eerily silent. Ratchet was in awe, I know he knew a lot of bots but this many? Where did he meet all of them? He made his way to the huge marble statue of Liquor as the crowd parted for him. Faces the medic hadn't seen since he left the life of luxury floated in the masses but no one said a word. This was a time for the dead and only the Priest could speak during these hours. He found his mother standing next to the cleric on the effigy's base, silver sensor strands flowing down her helm and back. Even in mourning she looked beautiful, like a queen. Her head was high, belying her weakness, a strong nose and carefully made cheek plates casting dramatic shadows. A nod and her creation stood next to her, waiting.
Slowly the suns began to set, drawing in a sense of anticipation. Then the crystals began to hum softly. Thin silver bots crept from the shadows to the stones and pulled out mallets. The largest crystal in the park was attended by two musicians its red surfaces shone, branches slicing the sky. At the same time, the bots struck its trunk. A burst of light rippled from the impact that formed a deep peal to ripple through the air, and Ratchet forgot how to breathe. The Crystal Players then coaxed from the young and old crystals a score that pulled the listener to the sky and threw them down to the pits. Over and over the melody swung and peaked, each strike producing a flash of light that illuminated the nearly invisible players for but a moment. Their armor reflected each tone, each emotional color as they came. Twirling and tumbling through the air with impossible grace, they gave homage to the deceased. They tapped the crystals with an invigorating tempo, steadily winding down the hymn and finishing with a single high ring from a tiny white crystal held with extreme care by a horned polyhexian at the base of Liquor's statue.
With a jolt, Ratchet realized the urn, covered with a red cloth, had already been delivered by a bronze escort. It was gently removed from its pedestal and placed in its new home: a sunken niche carved into the statue's base. As they stood back the priest stepped forward and slipped away its covering. From the dark pit appeared a grim face, lines firm and unflinching. It was a face made from the thousand facets of rubies and jasper pieces. Pyrite glimmered around orange tourmaline optics above long strips of obsidian that ended with his chin. The chevron, so like Ratchet's, was a red tinted gold gently sculpted to perfection and the entire work was polished to an outstanding shine. Liquor's Solar Crest had been reproduced in a titanium gold alloy, the sun-like rays extended from the mask around its head from the crest to the base of the neck where it merged into the cube. The artist appeared to have captured his very spark, from the strong jaw line to the slight round in his olfactory sensor. Really, it was almost heartbreaking that such a work was being buried in the ground, away from prying eyes.
Château gracefully sunk to her knees, bowing to press her forehead to the death mask's. This was the final farewell, and mechas often sent a prayer to Primus with the hope that it would reach the loved one. She stayed like that for a few kliks then stepped behind the priest, watching the attendees. It was Ratchet's turn. He pressed their chevrons together, gold against black, and sound seemed to fade away. In his head he prayed, Primus… if you can hear me, if you haven't left me as I have left you, please give Liquor, give my…Creator a message. Tell him… tell him I loved him, no matter how much I yelled I loved him as much as any youngling. I know I never showed it – Heh, must be another thing I got from him – but I still love him, and I am so, so grateful for what he's done for me. I know he wanted the best for me even if I didn't want his advice. He tried his best, and I've forgiven him for his mistakes. No matter how long we live we're still mortal aren't we? And ask him, ask him to look out for us, for my Carrier and I. Especially her, she's taking it hard and I worry about her. If you could just send him that Primus, It would set my spark at peace. Cobalt blue optics met the semi-precious replicas in a face that peered out at him from the void. He didn't feel any shift or sense of great relief, just disappointment and pain. Retreating, he stopped and let the memories flood him, the few memories of his father that had been so full of the love between a youngling and his creator.
When his turbo-hound, Vino, caught a Sparkingbird and began chasing him with it. The youngling had been so scared, he'd ran straight into his Creator's office and leapt into his arms, burying his pearly helm into his father's red and black chest plates. The senator had looked from his creation to the turbo-dog then calmly reached out, took the dead bird from the pet, and left the meeting. He'd carried him outside where he dug a small hole with his servos and laid the bird to rest; staying with Ratchet as he bawled over his first experience with death until Château came and took him inside to gorge himself on rust sticks. Then there was the time he'd come home humiliated and covered in dents. Liquor had taken one look at him and asked, "Did you win?" He'd shaken his head no. The fiery mech had then proceeded to teach his youngling how to throw a punch and make sure it hurt. Needless to say the bullies never bothered anyone around Ratchet again.
He watched while bots steadily paid their respects. Their steps were soundless and the mourning paint shrouded his view of them. Really, they all looked like a pack of ghosts; joints didn't make a sound in even the oldest bots; the results of extensive care no doubt. Many faces were half forgotten, other's he'd never seen before, each one spent a different amount of time praying. There was that femme that he'd courted for ten vorns then dumped him when he left to become a medic; his old tutor, thin and gray and severe as ever. Watching them go by was akin to viewing his past in terms of faceplates. Ratchet saw a very tall androgynous mech take longer than the others and wondered how his creator knew the odd mech.
Finally everyone had said their goodbyes and the cleric, colored in the blues and purples of the church raised his arms and chanted an ancient prayer for the living and the dead. May they each find their place in both worlds. The bronze mechs fortified the grave with various devices that made it almost impossible for grave robbers to desecrate. Finally the missing slab of marble was slid into place, so exact it looked like nothing had ever been there.
It was late into the night and everybody began to leave, some taking their time to stroll through the garden, others rushing out to snatch more rest before the suns rose. Château took one last look at Liquor's memorial then fled the park, long limbs giving her extraordinary speed. Ratchet remained and took a long look around. Here he was, on top of his creator's grave in the middle of the Grand Crystal Gardens beneath the stony gaze of the one mech he'd hated and loved with equal strength, with only the stars for company. He wondered what would happen now. More likely than not, everything would slowly return to normal. He'd go back to school and earn his degree, and would probably forget about his dad with all the work. His mother wouldn't rebound so easily. She wouldn't— couldn't have any other lovers; she'd bonded, and would remain so until her death. It was lucky her spark was so strong; otherwise she could have very easily followed her mate into Primus's arms.
Someone tapped his shoulder and he turned to see the sexless mech towering over him, "You are Ratchet? Liquor's creation?"
"Yes," he nodded, "And you are?"
"Ah, pardon me. My name is Merlot." He bowed low at the waist, smooth gold secondary plating gleaming in the moonlight, perhaps he was a colony mech? "I was one of your creator's most trusted advisors and business partners."
To his annoyance he almost had to crane his head to make optic contact with him, "Sorry I don't know much of you. My creator and I weren't on good terms when we last me."
His yellow optics blinked, "Yes he told me."
"What else did he tell you? Nothing too bad I hope," he smiled slightly, optics faded.
"Not at all, your maker was most emphatic about your accomplishments; it is my pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."
"So what can I do for you? Has my maker left some unfinished business with you?"
The intricate mask covering his mouth made him hard to read, "Actually, yes; but nothing pertaining to me. I am merely the envoy." He reached into his subspace and held out a data cube with the tips of spidery fingers. "He gave this data cub to me before he expired and asked me to deliver this to you; describing it as something of utmost importance. He related to me that the sensitivity of the information inside warrants an indoor, private viewing."
Ratchet took it from him with a crimson servo, "Do you know what it is?"
"I do, but only because Liquor felt it just to tell me." Merlot's accent was strange stretching the R's and mispronouncing some syllables (Think Russian). "I expect to be seeing you much more these days my friend. Please, let me give you my contact code should the need arise. Do not be so skeptical of me if you would. I served your creator well and I intend to do the same for you, if you'll permit me the honor. Your carrier can vouch for me." The strange mech's code was all but forced on the medic, but other than that he seemed agreeable enough; if a bit stiff.
"The matter of his will is being settled tomorrow, yes?"
"Er…yeah?"
"Then I shall meet you again there." He turned to leave, "One more bit of information. Don't. Open that if you can see the sky. Wait until you have four walls, a floor and a ceiling, yes?" He left without an answer, leaving Ratchet standing bewildered in the dark. He found he didn't like standing there alone, in the dark, where he could be mugged, and was gone in a whirl of emergency lights.
The room he rented was simple but well kept. The berth was sturdy and covered with firm foam, perfect after a long day, and the cooling unit held samples of moderate energon quality. He pulled out a cube of yellow midgrade on his way to the sitting corner consisting of a single loveseat and table. Sipping at the cube, rolling it around in his mouth to fully taste the solar energy, the data cube was softly placed in the center of the table. A quick press down and it appeared to have exploded then reversed, forming a thin data pad. The model was older and it still had a metal back instead of a light screen, one of his Creator's favorites if memory served him well. After it finished booting, he pulled up a contents screen and found the most recently accessed file: A video. With a quick tap he sat back to wait for it to load. A picture of Liquor sitting at his desk in front of a window in City Hall appeared. He looked younger than his death mask, like this was filmed a few vorns before his death.
"Hello Ratchet. If you're watching this, then I'm dead." He said it so calmly, like he was expecting it. "Before I begin, you need to promise yourself not to stop watching this once I begin. I remember your tantrums as a sparkling, but this is one data pad you can't break." He paused as if waiting for an answer. "Good. Now I chose Merlot to convey this to you for one reason. If you take what I'll offer, he'll be your main assistant. Anything you need, he can obtain for you. Now listen closely." He shuffled a few thin data pads, glancing down at them. "If he's given this to you right after my funeral, you're going to hear the will tomorrow. I have chosen to give you my estates and my love will receive the majority of my finances. That's right; all the land I own will be yours if you decide to assume it."
"You never gave me anything without a consequence. What do you want now?" the medic knew it was strange to talk to a video File, but it helped orient his thoughts.
"Now as you might have guessed, there are some strings attached." Abruptly his face hardened, turning from neutral to spark attack serious in a few seconds. "My largest property is a Highgrade Yard by the name of Suns Valley. It means a lot to me and the requirement for receiving all of the land is that you must take up the management of this corporation. I know you think you won't have time, but that's what Merlot's for, and if you don't…" He looked down, shuttering his optics, "I fear the consequences will be greater than you realize." His head rose again, gold helm sensors standing tall and proud. "Have you ever wondered where I gained my political influence Youngling? I wasn't always a Senator you know, and my Creator was a simple pilot." The metal panels were reorganized again, "Do you remember how in class the instructors told you how the Lord Prime averted a Civil War by making an agreement during a Summit at Tiger Pax?"
Ratchet nodded, it wasn't like he could forget, the teachers loved to blab about their heroes.
"Well, I had a hand in its success. What most bots don't know is that our new and old Primes both tried many times to convince Megatron to sign an agreement with him. But his demands were unreasonable and he wouldn't accept anything but everything. So I sent a messenger to the Summit organizer, and promised that I could make Megatron more…receptive to the compromise with a secret brew of mine from Suns Valley. She agreed to buy several cases, and later told me of its success. The more Megatron ingested the mellower and more relaxed he became, until even the most timid of servants were laughing along with him."
"Pfft, really? That's hard to believe Creator." He shook his head but resisted the urge to power the device down.
"I know it sounds unbelievable but I want you to stop and think about it for a second. Highgrade can have a variety of effects on a mecha. Some personalities change completely and others just enjoy the buzz." A small smile crept along the red plating, "Did you know Highgrade has often been referred to as "Liquid Courage." I find this to be very true, but the substance has been used for eons to manage emotions and sooth an overstressed body. However, the art of matching a mech to the best brew is one that continues to elude me and my competitors. If I'd been wrong in my choice for Megatron…" He shook his helm, "Luckily I was right, and he and the new Prime was able to convince him to sign a treaty."
"You might not have realized this until now, my mechling, but it's the influence of the media and our leader's peers that affect the game the most. Parties and political events allow for the opportunity to manipulate your opponent into a corner, where they can quietly be removed from the board. The problems that can arrive after a mishandled festivity have caused wars, and economic disasters. There are bots who have sought this power only to be used as puppets and tossed aside. Mechas want the bots like me have gained… many of my friends have been killed for it. But I have been lucky so far, thanks to my unorthodox approach, but I am sure it won't last much longer." Ratchet, remained silent. "For years I have played the mediator between politicians and bots of sway. I have kept all of Cybertron in a delicate peace for almost my entire life-cycle, and now you must decide. It is a hard job, but I fear what could happen without it." Liquor looked right into the camera, nailing Ratchet to the wall with its intensity even after death, "So I am forced to ask you. Will you take my place as the Intermediary?"