Changeling – Part 2
Minus 72 vorns
"Medicine," Topic said and looked at Crank over steepled fingers across the living room table.
"Yes. Sir. I have the grades for a scholarship, you won't have to pay for it."
Offsite shook his head. "It's not that we don't want to pay for it. But are you sure? You'll spend a good eighty vorns on that education and the wages aren't all that good."
Talk about skewed perception. The wages were fine, above average even. Compared to Topic's income, however, any salary a public servant received was measly.
"I wouldn't be doing it for the credits."
"That's a noble attitude," Topic said, "but are you sure that will be enough in the long run?"
"I'm not going into business administration, no matter how much you stall."
Offsite sighed. "It's not about that. We're just trying to make sure you'll be happy with your choice. We didn't," a short pause with a strained face, "adopt you so we'd have someone to help with the company one orn. I won't deny that we hoped for it, as any creator would, but you've never shown much interest, and we accept that. We'll be alright with whatever you choose, if we think it'll make you happy."
"And stop that nonsense about applying for a scholarship," Topic grumbled. "There's mechs depending on public funding, and it would be unfair to take advantage of the system if we don't need to do so."
Crank nodded, feeling ashamed suddenly. "Thank you."
"Oh baby." Offsite stood up to hug Crank. "You didn't really think we'd disown you over something so trivial."
Crank didn't answer, just leaned into his parent. Some sick little part of him had hoped they would throw a fit or several, so he'd have a reason to hate them, but they were supportive, had always been, and sometimes Crank thought he'd have to rip his spark in half to make sense of it all.
He buried his face in Offside's shoulder and let himself be rocked, as if he were a sparkling again, and innocent.
Minus 19 vorns
The comm. from Topic came one joor before Crank's shift ended.
"Get out of there now, pack and meet us at the Northern Gate in two joors."
"What?"
"There are rumors. The rebels are coming."
"Hmm." Trouble had been brewing in the southern cities for a while now. Ever since the Quintessons had left this sector of the galaxy, the Seekers had made the headlines with riots, and had finally banded together with some revolutionaries from Kaon to take over both cities. Polyhex had taken a good look at the situation and sided with them.
Crank had cheered quietly when that silver mech – Megatron? – had announced the South free.
Sentinel Prime had countered with somewhat martial rhetoric, so war shouldn't have been too much of a surprise.
"You know, they'll need every medic then."
"Topside…"
"I'm not leaving."
"The city doesn't have any defenses. I heard the shields are down, probably due to sabotage, and the army will never make it here on time. It's dangerous. Please."
"No. I'm a medic, I swore an oath. I can't just run at the first sign of trouble. I'm sorry. I'll try to get a message out when it's over."
"Don't do this to us."
"Look. I love you. I do. But I can't just run. It's not in me."
On the other side of the link, Topic sighed. "We love you, too. Will you at least meet us before we leave?"
"Of course."
Crank cut the link and tried to contact the hospital's director, who wasn't there, and, after a few more calls that ended in dead ends, decided that Topic wasn't the only one who'd heard the rumor. The so-called elite of Praxus had just decided to abandon ship and left the lower classes to crash.
So he called every news agency he could reach and then made an announcement via the building's comm.
He met Offsite and Topic at the gates two joors later, hugged them and wished them luck. They were going to stay with some distant relation at Nova Cronum, try to run the business from there.
He watched them vanish in the ever growing stream of refugees to the north.
xxx
Most had fled. Some impromptu militia had put up resistance, and the Academy was a smoking ruin now. Crank had to shake his head, they had chosen the most important place in the city to make their stand and die.
Now that the shooting had stopped, they met their new rulers on the plaza in front of the Emirate' Palace.
Megatron was huge, and there were honest to goodness, real Seekers.
"Who is in charge?" Megatron bellowed after the two groups had watched each other for a breem.
The question was not easily answered. In the end, the Palace's majordomos waved at Crank, and they made their way to the middle of the plaza.
"We're the spokesmechs," the majordomos said. "There currently is no one in charge."
Megatron grunted. "I see. Do you surrender?"
"The city of Praxus surrenders."
"Very well. I want a comprehensive list of the remaining inhabitants and their respective education. I want a list of any lodging and other building currently not in use. I also expect you to cooperate with any other requests I or my officers will have. Is that clear?"
"Of course. Sir. None of us particularly want trouble."
xxx
Things did change after Praxus was taken. First off, it was virtually deserted. Most of its two million inhabitants had succumbed to their fear, and the remaining ten or so thousand, together with some refugees from the suburbs, crowded together in the wealthier parts of town. Crank himself had packed his stuff and moved back to Topic's and Offsite's place, leaving his apartment to whoever saw fit to move in.
They put a grizzled miner, Hammerfall, in charge of the hospital's admin, and he, in turn, named Crank chief medic.
"But I'm underage, sir. And I'm not even a full medic."
Hammerfall grinned and waggled his feet. He'd put them on his desk and looked much like some crime lord. "Well, we only got three to choose from, right? Besides, you got the ball bearings to actually take charge."
"But I'm still the youngest-"
"I never been asked about my age, kid. Deal with it."
With only three medics left, things were busy, given that they got every emergency from the new Decepticon base, too, but the other two medics never complained that they now had to defer to a lowly intern.
After a decacycle of indecision, some Seeker named Arrowhead was appointed as the new Emirate, and the remaining people who didn't have some vital job were put to work in a new munitions factory or on the construction of better defenses. But all in all, they were treated decently enough, despite the rationing. The Seekers especially seemed to have a grudging respect for those that didn't balk at the first hint of danger or discomfort.
Sometimes, the place shook when the Autobots made an attempt to recover Praxus, but they never got close enough to even hit the newly installed shields. It was on those occasions that Crank stayed past his shift because there were going to be wounded.
Sometimes he was aware that he was helping the wrong side in this war effort. They all were, but it felt right. Seekers, as a rule, made better patients than the average Praxian. They frequently seemed surprised at how determined the medics were to do a good job.
And then there were things like these…
Seekers also were delighted to be in rooms with windows. At first, Crank hadn't believed it when one of his patients told him about that, how they had to bunk in some dark dorm and how it cost their money or dignity to make it into quarters with windows.
"I'd go stir crazy," Crank had said.
"Well. Take away the 'stir' and you get the outside opinion," the Seeker, some mech rather high ranking with a raspy voice, had deadpanned, optics never leaving the window. "It's not a surprise that this happened now, when there aren't any offworld wars to distract us anymore. The never gave us energon, and then they took away the circuses."
And this one.
The light blue and anthracite Seeker had unsubspaced the portable gaming console as soon as he'd woken up from surgery and now, thirty breems past lights out, he was still at it.
After standing, unnoticed, in the doorway of the ward for a breem, Crank said, "You must really like that game."
The Seeker frowned and did some more finger-wriggling, probably pausing his game, before looking up at Crank with a somewhat bashful expression. "I found this," he explained, sounding timid, as if expecting a major scolding, "and it's – I've been saving up for one of those, for eternities, but." A wave of a hand to indicate that war had happened and made any savings worthless by having the state-issued accounts frozen.
Crank nodded, ignoring the fact the 'finding' of the console probably involved some breaking and entering. "I know they can be pretty addictive. But aren't you a little old for this?"
The Seeker frowned. "I'm forty five vorns. Is that really too old?"
"No. That sounds about right." Crank felt very tired suddenly, the sadness weighing him down. "But you still need to recharge. Save that game and get some rest, huh?"
The Seeker pouted but obeyed and curled up on his berth. Crank had the absurd urge to get one of the heat-dispersing blankets they kept around for shock patients, tuck the Seeker in and kiss him goodnight on the helm.
"Good night, kid," he said instead.
"Night," the Seeker murmured back.
It was somewhat disquieting to see that same kid's wingmates visiting the next orn and kissing him rather thoroughly.
When Crank made his rounds in the evening, he planned in some extra talk time with the kid.
"… so. Silverline, isn't it," Crank asked and let himself plop down on the unused berth in the ward.
The Seeker sighed and looked up from his game. "Yeah? Sir."
"Your two visitors this orn were your trine?"
"Sure."
"You're quite close, I presume."
Silverline blinked, as if confused. "They're my trine," which was obviously enough of an explanation for a Seeker.
"Hmm. I hate to be so blunt, but are you aware how sparklings get made?"
"Umm." Silverline found a sudden interest in his hands. "Yeah? Why?"
"Are you also aware how not to make sparklings?"
"Uh-huh."
"Good. If you want, I can switch your baffle to default on. A medic will have to check that occasionally, but in general it's safer."
Silverline didn't say anything about that, but two decacycles later, he came in, ushering his two rather embarrassed trinemates.
From then on, Crank made a habit of addressing the matter with every Seeker that came in. Most of them took him up on his offer, if they hadn't already undergone the procedure. It seemed each of them knew stories of 'accidents' or 'scares' – that was how they put it. 'So and so had an accident,' they'd say. They consciously seemed to avoid the words 'sparkling', or 'carrying'. Naming the 'accidents' like that was already letting themselves get too close, Crank deduced.
And this.
One orn, Crank met one of his old school teachers on his way to work. He'd been aware Subtext had stayed, but he'd never run into him again.
Nevertheless, Subtext stopped to chat, and after the usual small talk, Subtext said, "I actually shouldn't be feeling as well as I do."
Crank raised an optic ridge.
"At first, they put me to work in one of the factories. In my free time, I was teaching the few remaining younglings, together with two old colleagues. It was exhausting, but rewarding. And then I discovered my overseer couldn't write."
Crank's mouth fell open of its own accord. What?
"Exactly my reaction. He knew how to read, and consequently, how to type, but actual handwriting was out of the question."
"That's…"
"Preposterous, I'd say, if I didn't know better. Two cities full of adults who can't even write. Well. I offered to teach him, word got around, and now I'm into adult education." He offered a smile. "Then I thought, it makes some kind of dreadful sense. If you teach people how to write, you have to give them something to write, no? You automatically go into text composition and argumentation. So they weren't only denied a skill, they were denied basic education."
Crank nodded. "Keep them stupid…"
"My thought exactly. Only it didn't work in the long run, obviously. Anyhow. Sometimes I'm thinking I shouldn't be doing it, helping the enemy."
Crank nodded. "Sometimes, yeah, but then I see how surprised they are when you treat them decently."
Subtext sighed. "Yes. I try not to think about what made them so. It's a wonder most of them are sane." He shifted. "But I have to run now, else I'll be late for class. Just – my pupils are putting together a small online magazine every decacycle. Look at it sometime."