Chapter 48

Oh shnap. Chapter 48! Two more chapters! Alrighty. Down to business. I don't own Transformers, obviously, but I do own my OC's and the medical procedures that I thought up of.

The fabulous Litahatchee owns the concept of carrying, and it can be found in her story "Night Fire".

Much love for the folks over on DA! Y'all are awesome. :3 Especially xanaplayer, melaniedraidnt24, and Transflashbacks!

Oh, yeah. If you have a sparkling, and would like for me to add it to the picture that I'm drawing, please PM me (with your DA name) and let me know! I have TWO slots open. For your sparkling to be included, the following requirements must be met:

1. It cannot be a canon character - it must be an OC.

2. You must have written a story for it already.

3. You must have a really, really good physical description of the little guy/gal. And if you'd like to make my life easier, a reference picture. Preferably (but not necessarily) colored. :3

4. It will take me a while to get everything finished, so don't bother me until I message you. I might message with updates, but don't hold your breath.

5. You must like dragons.

Well, that's enough of that. Anyone else, if you have a DA account, let me know so I can say hi. :)

Many vorns in the future, when Nightshade would look back on the fateful ordeal with Emirate that winter morning, she would always come to the conclusion that it had all been too easy.

Far too easy.

Like a young lamb led into the lion's pride, Emirate had fallen for her spur-of-the-moment physical. He never suspected a thing. Nightshade had always known that a physician was more powerful than the title implied. Though not graced with the power of a front line warrior, the sharp-shooting skills of a gunner, or the combat knowledge of a tactician, she could literally hold her patient's life in the palm of her hand.

It all boiled down to pure trust.

Emirate had known Nightshade for all of one human week, and he trusted her completely. Her title as an assistant physician had instantly cleared her of any and all suspicion, solely based on the fact that he believed that she was what she was - a life saver. She could have pumped him full of poison and told him it was an energon transfusion, and he wouldn't have lived long enough to ask what it was for. She could have taken his entire motor network down and disassembled him piece-by-piece, and he wouldn't even be able to scream. She could have ripped his still-pulsating spark from his chest and watched his optics power down, but Nightshade wasn't merciful enough to give him a quick death.

Emirate had trusted Nightshade, unable to find much fault with her cold and distant disposition. He had deemed her as a submissive femme. As an honest femme. A complacent femme. Physically weaker than he and easily cast aside. Nightshade was all of this, but unfortunately for Emirate, Nightshade was also a mother. A young one, but a mother nonetheless. And he had threatened her son for the last time.

Emirate lay on the cold steel table, his bright green optics looking at everything but Nightshade. The femme remained cool and collected, her hands darting over his frame as she did her job. Even though Emirate would soon be neutralized, she was still going to do a good job. Ratchet had trained her well, and she was going to make sure it reflected when they took the body out. She jotted down a few notes, watching as she drew the bold curling spirals of Cybertronian. On a whim, she added a flourish to the end of her sentence.

Emirate watched her for a moment.

"Where were you trained?" Emirate asked, breaking the silence.

"Hm? Oh. At the Kalis Dance Academy. Why do you ask?" Nightshade asked, politely indifferent to his question. Emirate pointed at the scroll she had added to her sentence.

"Your calligraphy is faultless. I did not know that the dance academy provided other types of lessons," Emirate said, taking the data pad from her and examining the femme's handiwork. Nightshade bit down her anger and tapped her foot impatiently. After a moment, he handed it back to her. He did not speak, but only gave her a cool glance that she had come to interpret as 'continue'.

"Yes. We were taught many different subjects to weed out those that were not fit to become dancers," Nightshade said, gently prodding underneath his armor. Emirate crossed his arms behind his head, ignoring the fact that she had been examining his elbow. Nightshade bit down on her glossa, counting quietly. She could not afford to anger him. Not when she was so close to being free.

"Explain it to me," Emirate said, examining the back of his hand.

"Very well. We were woken every morning about a half-joor before the first sun rose. After refueling, the younger femmes were escorted to their primary courses - learning how to keep an estate, manage servants, care for sparklings, and other things - by the elder femmes."

Emirate nodded approvingly. "As all femmes should be taught early in life." Nightshade ignored him and continued - those courses were helpful, but she wasn't exactly living on an estate right now.

"If not tutoring or escorting, elder femmes are usually with their mentors. Mentors were the oldest of the group, femmes that had already graduated. They were ready to dance by themselves and select their own clients. After a joor of their management classes, the youngest femmes were given a half-joor to study or do the assigned work for their upcoming classes. Afternoon classes were the core classes - history, mathematics, the sciences, theology, calligraphy, and so forth. Afternoon courses were two full joors long, and the subjects were rotated every day," Nightshade said, her nasal plate crinkling involuntarily as she remembered the many, many hours of coursework involved in being a dancer.

"All of those topics?" Emirate asked, genuinely surprised.

"Yes. There was biology for femmes that didn't like physics - fascinating, especially the second half of the vorn. We would have ambassadors from organic planets give lecture. Sometimes we had laboratories where we were allowed to examine specimens they brought. We had self-defense, basic computer skills, and shooting, though we weren't allowed visit the shooting range without heavy escort," Nightshade said nonchalantly, using a pronged instrument to recalibrate one of Emirate's gears. Emirate hummed quietly.

"It sounds nothing like the school I selected for my daughter," Emirate said thoughtfully. Nightshade blinked, surprised that he tolerated her enough to share the information with her.

"What kind of school was that?" she asked, genuinely curious. Her hands moved slower over the delicate electronics in his lower leg.

"A prepatory school somewhere in the Praxus nebula," he said shortly. She knew she wouldn't receive any more information from him. Then he continued, "the dancers that I have met don't seem to reflect that vigorous educational training." Her hands froze, and she fixed him with a steely glare. For a split second, Emirate felt his spark stutter.

"Our teachers made sure that we were capable of intelligent discussion off of the stage. A dancer does not only dance - she reflects on her creators, her school, and her clients and guests. A femme may be the most beautiful dancer in the group, but if she cannot hold her own in a discussion or entertain at a gathering, then she is worth nothing," Nightshade said, her voice growing harsh. Emirate looked at her in surprise. He hadn't expected her to take offense at her statement.

"Did she bear this emblem?" Nightshade asked, pointing at the dancer's emblem positioned just underneath her Autobot insignia. He shook his head no.

"Then she was not a dancer. She was a doll with too much free time," Nightshade said crisply.

Emirate did not speak. He winced when her examination of his joints grew a little rough for his taste. He flicked her hand away irritably.

"How long were you at the dance academy?" he asked, hoping to take her mind off of his statement. Nightshade thought for a moment.

"Exactly one hundred vorns from the day I was upgraded into a youngling. I stayed for my youngling and most of my sub-adult stages," she said absently, "I would have been upgraded into my adult frame after ten vorns of strict dance-only studies, and then I would have become a mentor. Unfortunately, the war interfered." Emirate nodded, his optics trained on the ceiling.

"What happened after your afternoon lessons?" Emirate asked. Nightshade thought for a moment.

"Well, younger femmes were taught the history behind the silk they wear - they had to study for at least twenty vorns before they were allowed to even think of dancing. Afterwards, they were allowed to watch the elder femmes for a bit, and then they were escorted to their mandatory study groups. Just after the first moon passed overhead, in the beginning of the fifth joor, they were escorted to their berths. And it started all over again. If they graduated to the second level, their afternoon classes were narrowed down to more specific topics. I had to pick between physics and biology, and I went with biology. History was narrowed down to a specific time period - I went with the first Golden Era after Prima and Vector Sigma."

Emirate nodded, clearly interested in what she had to say.

"Secondary classes, while shorter, were much, much more difficult than the primary courses. We were still expected to learn the intricacies of running an estate and managing our servants, but our main focus was on dancing and becoming more knowledgeable," she said, shrugging slightly, "I did enjoy my afternoons. We danced for a joor and had the rest of the evening to do as we pleased. I mainly stayed in the library and finished my work. I graduated third in my class."

"Why third?" Emirate sounded slightly disgusted. He did not accept anything less than perfection.

"I failed my parenting class," Nightshade said sheepishly. Emirate smiled. He gave her a genuine smile.

"Parenting is something that you learn on your own. No one can tell you how to properly cater to your child," he said, and Nightshade wondered if she was dreaming. There was no way that Emirate could know the difficulties of parenting, especially a sparkling. Emirate seemed to sense what she was thinking. His features became cold and distant once more, and she knew that their brief moment of understanding had passed.

"Are you finished?" he asked. Nightshade shook her head.

"I've got to examine your electrical system," she said. He nodded, making himself more comfortable on the berth. For a few moments, Nightshade did not speak. Her curiosity overcame her, and she spoke up.

"Emirate?"

He grunted.

"What was your daughter's name?" Nightshade asked curiously.

"Is. Her name is Astoria," Emirate said sharply. He relented, memories of his young daughter surfacing. How they had played games and read holocubes. How life had been before the war had spread to the outer tendrils of the Omega asteroid belt.

"It's a pretty name. How old is she now?" Nightshade asked, attempting to make conversation.

"She is just about 320 vorns of age," Emirate said. Nightshade nodded, setting down her tools.

"You're finished here, Emirate," she said, addressing him directly. He nodded, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the berth. He stood up and turned his back on her. She did not hesitate, for she knew that if she did, she would quite possibly never get another chance. Nightshade silently stood up, un-subspacing her dagger and aiming carefully. She paused for a second before leaping forward. Time seemed to slow as she watched the dagger arc through the air.

The dagger slid through a large gap in the armor between his shoulders, cutting through the lines and wires underneath with ease, severing his main support structure. He didn't have a chance to react as his processor seized and shut down. He collapsed onto the floor face-first, eerily still. Nightshade knelt beside him, her skilled hands parting his armor and disabling every system that wasn't vital for his survival. Her blow hadn't been lethal, but it had been deadly. Without Ratchet, he would be dead within a half-joor. Nightshade repaired what she could, her hands trembling as the guilt began to seep into her spark.

She didn't regret stabbing him. He had kidnapped her and taken her sparkling, threatening to kill them both. She was only defending her child, herself, and her friend. She would have stabbed him a dozen times more if she had to. But the guilt welled up as she looked around the medical bay. She had harmed in a place of healing.

She wasn't fit to be a physician - what was Ratchet going to say? What was he going to do? Nightshade shuddered, the energon in her fuel tanks rising as she looked over at the motionless mech. He had a daughter. He had raised and loved and cared for a precious little sparkling. Emirate was still mostly a horrendous monster in her optic, but he had a child, too. That detail alone had saved his life. Nightshade couldn't take a femme's father from her, especially if they hadn't seen one another in so long. Nightshade had been separated from her creators for only fifty or sixty vorns, and it had nearly killed her. She would have probably died of grief if she had found out that her creators were killed.

Nightshade backpedaled away from Emirate's body, her body making a clang as she slammed up against the cabinet. Her optics were focused on the steadily growing pool of energon around Emirate. She had spared him. That had to count for something.

…right?

Her optics stung painfully as she wrapped her arms around her knees, her CPU whirling with the 'what if's' and 'could have's'. She ducked her head down into her arms, her shoulders shaking as she tried to repress the sobs rising in her body. She had failed and betrayed Ratchet - she was supposed to fix and protect. Not stab her patients in the back. Not kill when she could heal. Nightshade suddenly felt dizzy. She had been so focused on Emirate that she did not notice that the pain killers were starting to wear off, leaving a dull, throbbing pain that lanced up and down her abdomen. It intensified with every passing breem until she could barely see properly. Warnings went off in her vision as her computing center began to strain underneath the deluge of information from her pain receptors. She managed to block the pain receptors from her computing center, but she could not shut them down completely. Luckily for her, Nightshade remembered the codes that Red Alert had used to lessen the reception. Though she was only able to lessen the pain reception to about eighty five percent, it helped nonetheless, and she could now move without screaming in agony.

Nightshade managed to get to her feet and stagger over to one of the sinks before purging her fuel tanks.

And that's it for Chapter 48. I am working on 49, so the wait won't be as long next time. Hopefully. :)