Author's Note: First of all, I want to apologize for not only taking an obscenely long time getting this chapter together, but posting and removing it prematurely. I'm sorry for getting all of your hopes up - won't happen again, I promise.
Sidenote: This chapter was a pain to write. The next should prove far more interesting and satisfying, for me at least. ^^ For you, I hope both are satisfying and enjoyable.
As always, thanks to those who've been supporting this story! You've been the driving force for its continuation, and are my inspiration.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot and OCs.
With that, Enjoy!
Chapter Eleven
"Why use words when a wrench shoved good and hard up their fragging, idiot afts would work ten times better?" -Ratchet
"Normal speech."
Inner personal thoughts.
"Comm chatter."
:Bond Speech:
Astrosecond: 2 seconds
Klik: approximately five minutes
Joor: half an hour
Breem: nearing one hour
Cycle: meanings vary; most often half a solar cycle
Mega-cycle: one human day
Solar cycle: one Cybertronian day
Vorn: approximately two months
Orn: five years
Mega-vorn: nine years
Mega-orn: twenty years
Mechnometer: Approximately twenty-four feet
In Sector VI, twelve warp-jumps from Cybertron...
"Your reasoning isn't even hypothetically feasible!"
"How 'bout I take 'hypothetically feasible' and ram it up your exhaust port?"
"Typical femme; trying to out-mech a mech!" Scarlet optics narrowed to furious slits, and the mech in question bristled as he spoke, his dark plating ruffling.
The blue femme opposing him sneered, looking woefully unimpressed at his display. Her pedes were planted firmly, their stance wide and brash. Icy blue optics flashed an angry shade of cobalt, and the femme's servos uncrossed from her chassis to hang, poised and tense, by her sides. "Say that again," She snarled. "And we'll see how 'mech' you stay when I rip your spike off and feed i-!"
"Chromia!"
Both bots froze. Chromia shot a glare over her shoulder, looking miffed at the newcomer's intervention. "Yes ma'am?" She drawled in a feeble show of the respect a superior officer was due. Chromia knew the approaching femme too well to do otherwise.
Elita One was a classic figure. When told they were about to meet the sparkmate of the Prime, most bots expected something slight and beautiful; birdlike and elegant. It was a natural result of being more widely known, not by her own substantial feats, but by her bonded's. But this expectation was far surpassed by the reality, in this instance.
Sleek, curved, and deadly; these three words alone could not do justice to the Femme Commander of the AFC (Autobot Femme Contingent). Authority dripped from Elita One, surrounding her like a cloud and demanding respect instantly. Grace was in every movement the rosy-colored femme made, and her optics had a steel to them that was both inspiring and chilling at the same time.
Elita One walked calmly to the arguing duo, her gaze piercing them both with disapproval. The Decepticon shifted uncomfortably, looking mollified, but Chromia stood her ground, every line of her firmly declaring her innocence.
The Femme Commander's optics narrowed. "What seems to be the problem?" She asked, careful not to clarify who she was addressing. Either Chromia or the Decepticon might take offense if the other was specifically chosen to relay the story.
But, as Elita had guessed, Chromia was the first to speak.
"Had a small disagreement, ma'am." Elita's second-in-command gritted out, shooting a sidelong glare at her opponent, who returned it with a sneer.
"Enough."
At her sharp word, both pretended they hadn't so much as heard of glares or sneers, much less given any. Innocent expressions wiped guilty faceplates clean, and both straightened until they were almost at attention.
Elita turned her gaze onto the Decepticon - Helex, if she wasn't mistaken. At least, that was the mech's codename. "And you, Helex?" She asked cooly. The mech's lipplates tightened into a thin line, and his gaze narrowed at being called to task by an Autobot. But he swallowed his pride and answered her carefully and succinctly - proving he wasn't entirely as childish as Elita had first believed.
"I was assigned patrol to this corridor, Commander. We usually attempt to keep your femmes' patrols and ours staggered, so that we do not overlap. Are you aware of this, ma'am?"
"I am aware of the patrol shifts and the attempts made to time them properly, and I appreciate you and your Commander's thoughtfulness in that regard." Elita replied gracefully, inclining her helm. The Decepticon looked somewhat soothed by this acknowledgement of the Decepticon's efforts, and continued.
"In this case I had the misfortune of colliding with your officer - ah, literally. A discussion was had concerning the matter of who must have begun their patrol at the wrong place or time." Helex looked furious at the mere memory of it, and Elita could well imagine why. Chromia, sparkmate to Ironhide and Elita One's personal body-guard, was hardly known for her tact when it came to Decepticons.
Elita nodded to herself as the mech ended his explanation, making a note to talk to Commander Tarn about interfaction relations during the duration of their mission.
The DJD (Decepticon Justice Division) had disliked the close proximity they were forced to share with the Autobot Femmes as much as the femmes themselves did. The combination of their forces was necessary - and even healthy, in Elita's opinion, but not all of her fellow femmes were of a like mind. As far as the Decepticons went, she believed Tarn understood the necessity and benefits of the situation even if his mechs didn't. The DJD Commander was abnormally quiet, but the few times he did speak, he proved that he was intelligent, understanding, and had excellent foresight.
At the start of their mission, the AFC and DJD were wary of one another, respectively. The femmes outnumbered their mech allies by three to one or so, but their chosen vessel, The Nemesis, was Decepticon in make and furnishing, giving the DJD an advantage as well.
Elita couldn't have imagined a more fertile ground for the propagation of peace, as well as an increase in interfaction understanding.
Chromia and Helex's case, however, was only one of many things that proved such progress would be longer in coming than Elita had anticipated...
The femme commander turned to her second-in-command. "Chromia, please report to my offices after your patrol is finished. Helex," She turned to the Decepticon, who shifted beneath her look, plating rattling with discomfort. "I suggest you do the same and report to your Commander. I'll be sending him my own report directly." Elita had no authority over Helex. Sending him to Tarn was the best she could do.
Both bots saluted, Chromia looking satisfied, Helex slightly glum.
Elita dismissed the two with a nod, and continued down the hallway, ignoring the mutters and clanks of both Autobot and Decepticon making grudging exits.
Dull grey walls passed the pink femme on either side, shimmers of violet light dancing over their smooth surfaces. The air was cold; her ventilations misted in the air. Soon, Elita arrived at her destination.
There were many duties for Elita One. Many concerns gnawed at her insides and bit at her spark. Ever since Optimus had requested her presence on this mission, she had known it would be difficult. He had looked so sad, and spoken so softly… They both knew she wouldn't return for many vorns; there were dangers which might prevent her coming home at all.
There were splinter groups of Autobots and Decepticons strewn in pockets of war across the galaxies. Some of their positions were so remote that there was no method of contact save for actually landing there and speaking to them personally. It was to these that the AFC and the DJD were to bring the news of peace. This was their mission. So far, they had only managed to reach a small group of Decepticons and two Autobot squads, who possessed enough fuel and the means necessary to make their own way home.
Elita discovered that, in-between times when she must serve her femmes and ensure her own health, there were moments when she could relax; times when their vessel was traveling through space, with no contacts available and nothing to do but wait.
It was in times like these that she came to the place she had now sought out.
On one side, there was the dark grey, flat inhibitions of The Nemesis's corridor design. On the other was a vast expanse; a doorway into the world beyond The Nemesis's walls and protective layers of metal. Windows - thick, clear windows - drew the curtain from a masterful painting: Space.
Space had an icy beauty. Bands of glittering stars swept across fathomless, unending blackness; blazing balls of freezing fire swept their tails across horizons - there was no 'up' or 'down' in space, as there was on a planet or a moon. There was just direction: closer to Venedal Athelon, the planet marking the edge of Cybertronians' expedition into space, or farther from the same. All was distance. And distance was what separated Elita One from her sparkmate.
Their bond was faint after so long and so far apart; she could barely feel flickers of Optimus' consciousness, brushing against her tenderly. It was in silence and solitude that she could best immerse herself in those weak echoes, closing her optics and simply reveling in the feel of Optimus Prime, as he did her.
But soft, weighty steps sounded from behind her, shattering the hope of once again partaking in that loving exchange…for the moment, at least.
Elita sighed to herself, not bothering to turn around and see who it was. It didn't matter; if they needed her, they would speak. If they didn't, they would move on.
She was surprised, however, when Tarn's large, menacing frame moved subtly into her peripheral vision, standing beside her and gazing out into the glittering space beyond the windows. Tarn rarely sought Elita out. Megatron's right-hand mech rarely sought anyone out, unless that person was in need of some Decepticon discipline. The massive Decepticon kept to himself and did not impose his company upon others; seeming to prefer to operate as he always had in the past - despite the benefits that cooperation with his femme allies would bring him. Yes, he acknowledged their existence and did not interfere with their methods of operation, but he did little more by way of interfaction cooperation.
That he had approached her now was a strange development.
Giving up the pretense of having not noticed him (he was twice her size, after all) Elita offered a greeting. "Commander."
He returned it solemnly, with the sense of power and menace that accompanied him everywhere. "Commander." Tarn's vocals were deep. Elita had known her fair share of deep-voiced mechs - she was bonded to one, and was close friends with another. But the Decepticon's words were was an entirely new realm of 'deep', where vocals were concerned. They sent vibrations through the floor, thrumming into her structures and purring a bass, chocolaty response. Thankfully, he spoke no more; ceasing to move in any way once his reply had been delivered. Elita barely heard his whispering ventilations, her own sounding thunderous in comparison.
It seemed ironic to realize that the leader of the DJD was, by trade and practice, a stealth operative. With his enormous chassis, broad shoulders, and well-shaped legs, he looked more akin to Megatron than any other bot Elita had seen before. He even shared the common gladiatorial trait of a small, lithe waist beneath his protruding front. But, if rumors proved true, Tarn's clawed servos were more used to inserting knives or needles into tubing than hand-to-hand combat - at least, that was what the Decepticon was renowned for. Whether or not he was also skillful in the more brutal areas of combat, Elita didn't know. But his movements and ventilations were hushed in the manner of an assassin; well-oiled and carefully modulated. It was chilling.
After a few moments of waiting for him to speak, Elita relaxed, turning her attention to the beautiful view she had sought out. The possibility that Tarn was here for precisely the same purpose was…strange, but it was becoming increasingly likely. In that case, Elita was content to enjoy herself in silence, allowing the Decepticon beside her to do the same.
So his words, spoken suddenly and without warning, came as a surprise. "I understand we are approximately five breems from our next destination."
Elita shuttered her optics rapidly, caught off guard. "I believe so." She agreed, internally checking the logs and discovering that the timeline was approximately correct.
The conversation might have ended there, but Tarn continued. If Elita hadn't known the mech as she did, she would have almost thought his tone was conversational. "Do we have an incline of whether the derelicts are Autobot or Decepticon?"
"No - their comm. links are disabled. Whatever vessel they had with them is offline as well, and the visual communications with it."
What on earth was the big mech playing at? Elita hadn't been so unsettled since she'd mistakenly believed Megatron was flirting with her when they first met, at the peace negotiations. But she kept her words steady and professional; hiding her confusion.
"A pity." From the corner of her vision, she saw the bright red optics shift, and turned to meet the Decepticon's gaze, wondering what he could possibly be trying to achieve.
Tarn's look was, as always, guarded; as though the Decepticon had too many secrets and had been forced to hide some in his optics rather than his subspace.
Elita felt an instinctive urge to smirk at his serious expression, but refrained for diplomacy's sake. "Oh?" She said instead, openly challenging him to explain himself.
The Decepticon rose to the occasion. "It would be more efficient if we knew which of our number to send down," He explained. "In case of hostility towards one faction or the other."
"Yes," Elita agreed readily, already imagining the sort of tragedy that could occur of they sent down the wrong bots. She winced. "Unfortunately, unless we send in a reconnaissance team, there's no way of preventing that situation."
"Such a team could be arranged." Was it her imagination, or did he sound as though he were trying to reassure her? But it was too polite and formal to be a reassurance.
But what he offered would not be sufficient or helpful, unless… "Do you mean Decepticons or Autobots as a single group, or a combination of our soldiers?" She asked curiously.
Tarn's reply sent jolts of shock through Elita. "A combination would be most efficient and tactically sound." He asserted, turning away to look once more out of the windows, scarlet optics flickering.
Elita smiled openly, feeling a warmth in her spark. What her fellow Commander was offering wasn't much, but after a vorn of settling disputes and attempting to bring their squads into better cooperation, it was a wonderful start.
"Thank you, Commander." She told him, pouring sincerity into her words.
Surprised, Tarn shot her a sharp look. "You're welcome, Commander." Her replied, and the 'fragging strange femmes...' did not need to be spoken aloud.
Elita turned away, trying to stifle a laugh, but froze.
Space stared back at her, but Elita wasn't meeting it's gaze. She was frozen, shocked by the sensation rippling through her spark.
He was gone.
Tarn's voice, sounding slightly confused, sounded behind her. "Commander?"
Elita shook. When she spoke, her vocalizer sparked with static, rasping with shock. "Where is he…?" She whispered, blind to anything but the strange emptiness in her spark. Her frame trembled; her plating shivered; pink servos clutched at her chassis, the digits crunched together in a desperate clasp over her spark chamber.
"Comma-"
She didn't hear the rest. With a painful jerk of sudden movement she was running, stumbling along the hall, her pedes slamming down and propelling her forward. She could feel the vibrations of somebot giving chase - heard the whisper of a voice calling - but she didn't care.
The bond between her and Optimus was still there - he hadn't died. But there was a vacant space where there had never been one before.
He hadn't died. He wasn't gone.
He wasn't. He couldn't be. But where was he?
She didn't know where she was going - as long as it took her closer to her bonded, whether by inches or by miles, she couldn't care less. She was sprinting past bots now, shoving a green-tinged femme aside. Her vision was blurred. Wet trails streamed down her cheeks, and her intakes were rattling painfully.
Large, clawed servos snaked around her waist - she jerked to a halt in their hold.
"No!" She screamed, static ripping her words, tearing them into a nonsensical howl. "Let me go!"
"What the frag-!"
"Let her go, Decepticon!"
"Commander, what-?!"
Elita ignored them all, scratching and snarling at the servos that held her immobile. Their owner grunted in a deep, growling tone as her assault bit into him, he only reeled her in in response. A heavy chassis pressed tightly against her back - thick arms wrapped her in a solid embrace. Elita roared her fury, writhing furiously in her assailent's grip.
"He needs me!" She snarled, trying to explain, but the bot didn't listen. The corridor was moving swiftly around her; the ground was flashing by beneath her captor's pedes as the bot brought her back the way she had come - farther from Optimus. Sounds of battle thundered in Elita's audials, receding into the distance as they moved on, but it meant nothing to her. She bucked and writhed, desperately trying to get away - to get to him.
"Let me g-!"
Pain throbbed suddenly in the femme's spark, and she let out a shocked wail. Fire burned within her - agony licked her spark with malicious delight. She was tearing, falling, shattering, dying.
"Elita One!" A deep voice hissed, breaking through the storm of sensation and loss; echoing harshly in her audials.
She was sobbing, her cries no more than ragged rasps, her tears streaming in stinging trickles down her faceplates. All her strength was gone - she felt weak and powerless.
She was flat on her back on the ground, and scarlet optics were blazing above her. Her struggles screeched feebly against heavier plating, and the mech crouching over her stared down with an indiscernible look on his faceplates.
He could look all he wanted. She didn't care, anymore.
With a shuddering gasp, Elita curled inward towards whatever was grasping her wrists, searching for something solid and stable in the whirling storm of chaos that surrounded her. She pressed her faceplates against it, her tears staining the surface's dark metal, which twitched as she came into contact with it.
The emptiness ate at her. Her frame shivered with exhaustion. Her spark guttered in her chassis, and Elita's vision flickered as her systems responded in kind, mimicking their source of life.
She was almost glad when darkness took her, devouring her consciousness until there was nothing left but blackness and a pair of scarlet optics watching her fade away.
"Optimus…"
In the Decepticon Med-bay...
"Get him down-! Slag it, Ironhide, hold his legs! Megatron, you big oaf! Stop staring and start sitting on the slagger!" Ratchet's hands blurred, tools clicking and whirring into place as the medic moved with a precision learned from long years of war. His red and white frame was stained with smoke and ash, mixed into a disgusting sludge by the addition of trickles and spatters of energon on his plating. But none of it was important - beneath his servos, Optimus Prime thrashed, his body buckling and spasming. The mech himself was offline, processor-wise, but a Prime functioned differently than most cybertronians. Their systems could not be taken offline. It had been a source of great pain for the Prime and his medic, in times past. Now, it was proving itself once again to be a pit-worthy irritation. The two biggest mechs at Ratchet's disposal were struggling to keep Optimus from ripping himself apart with his jerking movements, or shearing off Ratchet's servo with a badly timed thrash.
Ironhide's engine snarled, and Ratchet spared his friend a look, gauging the cause.
The Autobot Weapons Specialist was overheating from the strain of his actions; his optics were almost white. The black mech heaved and grunted, all but laying himself out over Optimus' lower half in an attempt to halt the Prime's movements.
Ratchet turned back to the enormous wound in Optimus' chest, pushing his worries for Ironhide to the back of his processors. He simply couldn't afford to care, at the moment. If he took the time to do so, Optimus would deactivate.
To Ratchet's right, Megatron was restraining Optimus' upper half with far less difficulty than Ironhide was experiencing with the lower. Megatron and Optimus were of a size, and as such the silver mech was perfect for the task Ratchet had given him. The one-time Decepticon Lord barely shivered with Optimus' increased ferocity, scarlet optics fiery and determined, his grip as powerful as it had ever been. If several vorns of peace hadn't changed his understanding of the gladiator, Ratchet might have thought he looked murderous rather than eager to save the life of his one-time nemesis.
Manuevering around Megatron's massive arms and clawed servos was difficult, but Ratchet managed it. Their position was extremely awkward - Ratchet had to practically shove himself back against Megatron's chassis, his leg hooked around the Decepticon's forearm - but that didn't matter to Ratchet, and he couldn't care less if it mattered to Megatron. What mattered was keeping the pale blue, faintly flickering orb of life in Optimus' chassis alive.
Ratchet ripped the red plating aside like bits of tin, delving into the circuitry beneath with skillful precision. Sparking wires were removed and replaced in blurs of movement; burnt bits of metal were cut entirely away, and leaves of new metal were left in their place, fused together by Ratchet's smoldering welder. Wires connected into Optimus' systems, and Ratchet cut through malfunctioning code brutally, weaving together the threads he could salvage, and severing those he couldn't.
His frame was trembling, steadied only by the solid mass of the Decepticon Lord's chassis behind him. Once upon a time, Ratchet would probably be dead in seconds from this position, but at the moment the support was all too welcome.
Still, it meant that Megatron's growl rumbled through him and into Optimus, rattling loose plating, and Ratchet stiffened. "Stop your grumbling!" He snarled over his shoulder, only half paying attention to his own words or the fact that they were directed at a hulking, living weapon that was currently bearing most of the medic's weight. The vibrations would affect Optimus' spark - possibly negatively so. Thus, they needed to stop, and screw the diplomatic relations.
Ratchet's digits blurred as he worked. The med-bay lights stared down apathetically at the scene, as, Ratchet cynically thought, did Primus.
But the medic still sent a desperate prayer to the deity, and he knew that there were many others doing the same.
The last Prime alive might die, this night, and still the world would spin on.
That thought was more terrifying to Ratchet than all the Megatrons there could ever be.
Two Solar Cycles Later...
Memory file .001…accessed…begin playback? Yes. Playback commencing…
Cold. Heat. Darkness. Light.
Together, side by side in massive black digits - fear as amber orbs glowed down, blazing but soft; gentled by emotion.
Love, flowing between the three; circling their sparks and fluttering happily within their very being.
"My twins…"
(Skip to frequently visited site: 43rd cycle of life: Sideswipe-Sunstreaker? Yes. Playback commencing…)
"Axelond, stop it!" Servos holding his arms, pulling his bucking, blood-red frame back and away from the two figures writhing on the floor; high-pitched shrieks of laughter ringing in his audials. "Stop it, you guys! Stop it!" -
- Dark servos gripping him, gouging deep, heavy scratches into dull, sickly yellow plating. A voice yelling; he knew the owner, and suddenly wished the person anywhere else but here. he didn't want to be seen like this… -
- Sunstreaker on the ground, silver faceplates crumbling, a tear glittering down a battered cheek. Fury. Yelps of fear, anger, and shock. Axelond's frame beneath his digits, the metal warped and pounded under a rain of blows from his fists.
"Sideswipe!" Jade.
"Sides, don't!" Daystar.
Shame from his other half. Self-loathing. :You had to save me…: He couldn't disagree. He'd had to. :You always have to.: -
- Useless. Dirty. Broken. Sideswipe, tearing into Axelond, who screamed his own twin's name aloud: "Evanescence! Eva, help!" That he'd had to say it out loud only proved how shattered and distant the two's bond had become. -
- "What is this?" A towering, winged black figure billowing into their midst, scooping up the two quarreling sparkling and separating them. Warm amber watched them both with sadness in its gaze. Sire was disappointed. He cringed, trying to ignore the sting of adult digits digging into his plating.
"They were hurting Sunny!" He protested, but was silenced with a shake.
"Enough. No insult or injury is worth discord among my sparklings. Sunstreaker must learn to defend himself."
"But they don't let him talk!"
"He must learn to make them listen."
It didn't make sense, but Sideswipe trusted his sire. The sting of betrayal that stabbed through the bond came as a complete surprise. He whimpered.
Ionicon's look darkened, and Sideswipe felt it shift; felt the nervous fear from his twin as Ionicon's attention found Sunstreaker.
"Enough. Come with me."
There was terror in the bond, and Sideswipe bristled automatically, snarling at the cause. Ionicon struck him, and he fell, rolling heavily across the uneven floor.
"Sunstreaker. Come…with me." Deadly. Sunstreaker obeyed, and the bond slid shut. Sideswipe curled into a ball, shivering; ignoring the somewhat worried glances the others shot his way. It felt cold without his twin. He felt empty.
(Skip to frequently visited site: 88th cycle of life: Sideswipe-Sunstreaker? Yes. Playback commencing…)
Run. Stop. Breathe. Clasping servos. Dancing shadows clawed across a wall. Energon seeping. Pain. Fear. Run.
They couldn't stop. As unused to their new frames as they were, their progress was further impeded by the dripping wounds inflicted by the others.
:Go on.:
:I won't! They'll kill you!:
:Don't die for me. They've always preferred you.:
:We're the same. They want us both.:
A heave; struggling; plating grinding alongside the hiss of burning slag and crumbling rubble. Drip, drip, drip…
:He isn't our sire.:
:Yes, he is.:
:We shouldn't be alive.:
A humorless chuckle.
:Does that make us a calamity or a miracle?: No response, then:
:I love you.: Soft, quiet, honest. Vivid, passionate, and true.
:I love you too.:
Sideswipe woke with a jolt, systems shrieking warnings at him. The red twin's body contorted, twisting into a defensive crouch, denta's bared - his servos tensed, ready to claw, rip, and tear whatever was attacking them into a mess of bleeding slag.
He wasn't expecting the wrench that solidly collided with his helm.
His helm jerked backward, his neck cricking painfully. His forehead stung, and the pain was distracting. "Ow! What the fra-!" But before he could finish his profanity, two large, shockingly red servos snagged his helm and tweaked something at the back of it.
Sideswipe's frame went limp, sprawling in an graceless mess over the top of the medical berth he was occupying. Errors pinged, red glowing icons flaring to life in his vision. The bot had - apparently - disabled his motor controls…How…?
"Before you get started on your list of stupid things to do today, let me offer you some advice." Blazing blue optics came into focus above him; the mech's face was cast into shadow by the overly bright med-bay lights overhead. The resulting effect would be called sinister by even the most courageous mechs.
Sideswipe glowered up at his attacker, remaining sullenly silent. Obviously taking this as a sign of submission, the strange mech continued, his rough vocals snapping the words out crisply; like bits of rusting metal crunched underfoot.
"A: I'm not about to take any slag you might have planned. Two: You're a patient in my med-bay. That means I as good as own your sorry carcass until I deem you fit to be kicked out of here. I expect utter obedience from my property. C: If you're planning any escape attempts, just know that's exactly what they'll be: attempts." The mech looked serious.
Sideswipe gaped.
"It won't be an attempt when we leave your body in pieces on this floor, mech."
Good old Sunstreaker; always ready to have a verbal slugging match with those more powerful than them, and at the time one would least expect him to be willing to converse with anyone.
Sideswipe leeched down the bond to see how his twin was faring, only to discover that Sunstreaker had experienced much the same wake-up procedure as he had, with the one exception being that his ordeal had been several minutes prior to Sideswipe's. The golden twin was laid out in a careful manner on a med-berth somewhere behind and beyond Sideswipe's helm. Funnily enough, most of his ire seemed to stem from the fact that the mysterious wrench-wielding mad-mech had arranged the twin's body himself, after the decking and immobilizing part of the procedure.
Said mech laughed derisively at Sunstreaker's threat, already snagging Sideswipe's ankle and jerking it - with his leg - into an (admittedly) more pleasant position. The same process was used for the rest of the red twin's body, and Sideswipe had to endure the indignity of it along with Sunstreaker's possessive snarls and promises of revenge. "You couldn't take apart a circuit-board, kid."
The insult stung all the more since neither of the twins knew what a 'circuit-board' even was, let alone how to take it apart. But in such destructive areas as tearing things to bits, one could always afford to improvise.
Sneering, about to smack this comeback into the strange mech's faceplates, Sideswipe opened his lips to speak - just as the mech decided to move away. The red twin promptly gaped at what was revealed to have lain behind the cherry-servoed menace, laid out meticulously on a large med-berth at the center of the room.
Optimus Prime. One of the first mechs they'd met in this base.
Red and blue plating, scarred and stained almost beyond recognition, rose and fell with the enormous bot's weak ventilations. The frame was gutted - systems were removed from its insides and placed on nearby tables, still connected and functioning effectively. Suspended by heavy cables, reenforced metal rods, and a skeletal scaffold, a spark chamber hung, just above open chassis plates. Feeble, flickering blue light cast faint shadows on the surrounding surfaces. Sideswipe felt Sunstreaker's awe as the golden twin saw through Sideswipe's optics. The more detail-oriented twin saw the subtle streaks of black and silver over deathly still servos; the subtle weld-lines along the intricate web of structures within the chassis. Something had cut through Optimus Prime's back, slicing brutally through energon-lines, systems, and even the spark chamber itself. There was a jagged but neatly repaired line along the bottom corner of the big mech's spark housing.
The big mech was damaged beyond belief, but he was alive.
Feeling Sunstreaker's awe turn to interest, Sideswipe allowed his twin to continue the examination alone. He felt ill.
Gulping heavily, Sideswipe turned his attention to the strange mech, only to find dusty white backplates and a shiny red aft facing him. Medical insignias were printed in the bot's paint nannites, making no visible mark on the smooth surface, but signaling his rank in a bold proclamation:
Chief Medical Officer.
Oooh. He probably should have noticed that sooner. Wait. What? What the frag had that wrench been, then?
"Excuse me, but are you a medic?" Sideswipe asked politely, forcing his tone to be extra sweet. He got a strange look in response: half bemused, half wry irritation.
"You must be more damaged than I thought." The mech grumbled easily, resuming his attentions - he was swiping a polishing rag over the unconscious Prime's plating. "Yes, I'm the Autobot CMO."
"Oh, that's nice. Mind telling me why the frag they let a pit-slagged sadist be CMO?!" His pleasant tone had warped into a furious, rattling shriek by the end; Sideswipe let fury rage through his circuits. It seemed as though, no matter the place and no matter the time, the twins couldn't find a decent medic anywhere. They were all insane. Just his and Sunstreaker's luck…
The bot gave him an unimpressed look, silver lips thinning to a displeased line. "No, I don't mind. Just as soon as you tell me how you got here, I'll tell you how I got here." He spoke as though he were talking to a particularly stupid sparkling with learning disabilities. Sideswipe broiled.
"We came looking for medical treatment." He bit out, trying to sear optic-shaped burns into the medic's faceplates with his glare.
"Why'd you need it?" The bot shot back, returning the glare with one of his own. He was far more experienced than Sideswipe, in the area of looks-meant-to-kill. Had probably graduated with maximum honors, by Sideswipe's reckoning.
The red twin shifted his gaze onto an innocent bystander - some sort of vent overhead. He felt vindictive, and since the medic wasn't about to bow beneath his assault, the vent would serve as a stand-in.
Sullenly, Sideswipe answered the medic's question - because really, at the end of it all, it would be better for the mechs they sought help from to know what was coming for them. "Our Sire didn't take well to our decision to leave him."
The hum and soft shifts of the medic's systems stalled, and Sideswipe could tell the mech was listening carefully. "You're…Sire? It was my understanding that at the level of development you two have gotten to - Primus only knows how - that Sires had no holding over their creations…" The medic trailed off, sounding thoughtful. Then suspicion entered his tone - suspicion, and a kind of reluctant expectation. "How old are you?" He asked.
Sideswipe kept his gaze firmly fixed on the grate overhead. He didn't want to see how this news was received.
"Oh, about three vorns." He tossed out blithely, attempting to sound careless and unconcerned.
Something clattered to the floor, and within seconds of it's descent, the twins learned the true meaning of "profanity", both gaping in stupefied awe as the medic spewed filth from his vocalizer in streams of snarls, growls, and furious barks, before ending in one wrathful howl.
"I'm going to fragging kill him!"
Author's note: Well, there it is. Not entirely satisfied with it, but that's mostly because there's too much going on to fully explain all of it at once, and it's all needed for the next chapter. -_-
I hope you liked it! Again, sorry for the wait and false alarm. :(
Please please please review! For this one especially, I'd like to hear what you think. Also, there's a poll on my profile regarding this story if anyone's interested.
Until next time!
~TheWeepingWillow555