A/N: Because next week is finals week and I am beyond stressed, I'll throw a chapter at you all a week earily. Plus, I promised happy and I figured many of you could use the stress relief as well.
"Action!" Miko was practically screaming, holding the DVD uncomfortably close to Jack's nose. "We need explosions, gunfire, gore!" Jack shook his head, shoving the offending hand back.
"We watched what you wanted last week, Miko. And Raf agrees with me on the Sci-fi front." Rafael glanced up from his laptop at his name, evidently paying little attention.
Miko slumped backwards, nearly falling over in her exaggerated pout. "Jack, we live in a sci-fi movie. We should at least watch something different."
"Miko!" Jack barked, "By that logic we also live in an action movie!" Ratchet glanced up from his spot on the couch with a glare. A blanket covered his limp legs and an energon drip hung from his left wrist. Bandages covered his chest in a zigzag pattern, hiding the gruesome appearance of half formed platting as nanites reconnected them to his protoform. His subspace and shoulder plating had been removed to lessen the weight on his back, revealing a large amount of protoform. He'd lost a portion of his lower abdomen to the paralysis, so several oversized pillows, referred to by humans as matrices, propped him against the back of the couch. It was the first he'd gotten out of the medbay in the last week without being constantly doted on. Evidently, peace and quiet were not going to come today.
"Well," Raf piped up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "If both sci-fi and action are out, how about a romantic comedy?"
"No!" Both children shouted in unison, Jack shuddering and Miko pulling a disgusted look. Ratchet winced, his growing processor ache throbbing with the volume.
"If you three glitches do not quiet your bickering and choose something to watch quickly," he snapped, placing his datapad forcefully in his lap, "then you will be stuck watching the documentary on the human nervous system that I have been meaning to see."
Miko cocked her head, placing a hand on her hip. "You want to watch a documentary?"
Ratchet nodded slowly, "It would be preferable to anything you children pick." Raf closed his laptop before picking himself up to stride over to the TV.
"Well," he began, flicking the television on and pulling up the recorded programs, "We can't decide. How about we just watch that?" Both Miko and Jack nodded, moving to sit on the floor on either side of the medic's pedes.
Ratchet shuttered his optics once, twice. "You actually want to watch a film on human anatomy?"
"Like Raf said," Jack began, shrugging, "we were just going to keep arguing so we'll watch what you want to."
"Well," Ratchet stuttered, "I… appreciate it." As Rafael cued up the show, the monotonous voice of the narrator echoed throughout the otherwise quiet base. Bulkhead peeked out from around the corner at the change in sound. He smiled at the sight before slipping away to set an automatic alarm on the monitors and put away the datapad he'd been reading. Once he'd gotten past all the medical mumbo-jumbo the text had proved to be rather interesting. It also served to prove just how smart the Doc had to be to write the medical journal, much less understand it.
Once everything was set, Bulkhead made his way into the rec room, silently finding a seat on the couch. Miko peered up at him, but did not budge from her spot leaning against Ratchet's pede. The medic glanced questioningly in his direction but pulled his blanket in closer to make room.
After a moment, the green mech leaned over to whisper in the white's audio. "What's it talking about?"
Ratchet couldn't help but chuckle. Bulkhead had lasted longer than he thought he would. "The human eye. The light passes through the lens and is projected on the retina, where it is received and interpreted by the optic nerve." Bulkhead squinted. The medic could almost hear the gears in his processor grinding together.
"Wait," He muttered, pointing at the screen, "Then why is the picture upside-down when it's on the… the ret- re- whatever it is." Ratchet sighed. He was pleased that Bulkhead was interested but it was truly a nuance to explain every detail to him.
"Retina," He reiterated. "The brain flips it back to the proper orientation."
"Orien – What?"
"Uprighted-ness," He clarified jokingly, "It's extremely similar to our optics. Though, they lack the zoom capacity that we posses." Bulkhead hummed, understanding marginally. The two returned to silence. Much to Ratchet's surprise, the Wrecker became so entranced in the documentary that he jumped and shrieked when a hand landed on his shoulder. All eyes turned to Optimus, who, along with Bumblebee, had returned from patrol.
"Care to join us, Optimus?" Jack gestured to the empty spot on the couch. Bumblebee had needed no prompting and was already settled in next to Raf. Optimus smiled.
"Allow me to grab some fuel and then I will gladly join you." With that he disappeared about the corner to where the energon dispenser was located. When he returned, Arcee was in tow, rubbing at her optics to rid them of recharge. The femme found a seat on the floor opposite Bumblebee, while Bulk moved over to allow Optimus to sit between himself and Ratchet. The prime did so gladly, placing a cube of energon at his feet and a bowl in his lap.
"Optimus," Ratchet chided, glaring at the brick colored sticks in Optimus' lap, "That is not fuel." Prime almost tauntingly popped one of the rust sticks into his mouth, crunching on it loudly. The children, both human and cybertronian, gapped at his very un-Prime like behavior. He only smiled at his eldest friend. Ratchet, however, was working himself into a ranting mood. "I hid those for a reason! Where in Primus' name did you find them?"
"In you medical cabinet last night, when I was looking for a place to store the medicine Knock Out gave us."
Ratchet fumed, "I hid those for a good reason."
"So I wouldn't eat them? Ratchet, there is no harm in a few rust sticks." The medic shook his head.
"You don't stop at just a few." Rafael glanced up in honest curiosity.
"Optimus has a sweet tooth?" Miko questioned. Ratchet huffed at the understatement, but let it go, as his intakes were beginning to hurt. Optimus merely shrugged, chewing on the end of a second rust stick. After a moment, and a dismissive wave, albeit a forceful one, from Ratchet, all eyes turned back to the television. The program was long past its end, but none were willing to leave just yet. Jack switched over to the next recording, some TV drama that no one had really been following. Raf pulled out his laptop and began working, Bumblebee looking curiously over his shoulder. Miko was nearly asleep, curled into the blanket that covered Ratchet's pedes, while Bulk was close to joining her in recharge. The only thing that was keeping him alert was watching Ratchet's hand slowly inch towards Optimus' leg. He was curious to see the result.
Optimus had abandoned the bowl of rust sticks for the time being, choosing instead to sip at his cube of energon. The treat was in short supply and the ingredients were considered expensive on earth. He'd taken to savoring the ones he had left. Slowly, as not to alert the Prime, Ratchet's hand slipped into the bowl and pulled out a rust stick, which he promptly placed underneath his blanket, out of sight.
Bulkhead grinned. It was good to see the Doc doing something other than recharging or sulking. Once the Medibot was sure Optimus was not looking, Ratchet snapped off a piece of the rust stick and promptly popped it into his mouth. He repeated this action twice more before the rust stick was completely consumed and Optimus took notice, having caught him with his hand in the bowl once again.
Optimus glared down at the offending appendage. "Ratchet," He scolded, "You have been on nothing but medical grade for the past megacycle. I do not honestly believe such snacks are good for your systems." Ratchet huffed, pulling his arm back with a sheepish grin, despite the newly acquired rust stick in his hand.
"I'm perfectly fine," He chimed, "Rust sticks don't impede healing."
"But they do not help either," Bulk could no longer tell if the two were being serious or merely taunting each other. "Your tanks are completely empty and would not appreciate the first thing in them being a sweet." Optimus held out a hand for the treat Ratchet had taken. It took some coaxing and practically wrestling it playfully out of the other's hand, but Ratchet finally forfeited his prize. Optimus returned it to the bowl, which he then moved to the other side of him, placing it between Bulkhead's leg and his own. By now, every human and Autobot had abandoned the TV once more in favor of the two eldest cybertronians. The medic pouted, turning his gaze heatedly away for Optimus', instead choosing to stare at the wall. It was a rather immature move, he had to admit, but slag if he wasn't getting a kick out of it. Letting go like this was something he hadn't done in a long time.
The children began giggling and he struggled to fight off a grin imagining the look on Optimus' face at his behavior. The soft tapping on his shoulder, thus, surprised him. He glanced over at his eldest friend, finding him engrossed with the TV once more. Bulkhead, however, was smiling expectantly at him. Ratchet glanced discreetly back behind the couch. The wrecker tapped the rust stick against his shoulder once again, which Ratchet gratefully took. The medic mouthed a word of gratitude before tucking the stick away for later, once he was out of Optimus' sight.
"Bulkhead." The green mech jumped at Prime's voice, "I would appreciate it if you did not give my fuel to anyone behind my back." Miko burst out laughing at the ashamed look on Bulk's face. He pulled off the look of a child that had been caught wetting the bed perfectly.
"Yes, sir," He mumbled. He couldn't help but laugh at the pun imbedded within the words. Prime only smiled back ever so slightly. Miko, now fully awake, was nearly falling over from laughter.
"What in Sam's hill are you lot doing?" Instantly the laughter stopped, though with some difficulty on Miko and Bulkhead's part as the child was forced to bit her hand to muffle the noise, furthering the bot's amusement. Fowler threw up his hands. "Don't stop on my account. You all looked like you're having a good time for once." Optimus sat up too his full height.
"What can I do for you, Agent Fowler?" The special Agent beckoned him over.
"Hate to interrupt you, but I need to speak to you and the Doc." Optimus nodded, handing his bowl to Bulkhead and placing his now empty cube of Energon on a nearby table to recycle later.
"Arcee," He was already gathering Ratchet into his arms. "Please grab the IV and bring it to my office." She nodded, snagging the blanket as well when it slid from Ratchet's form. He attempted to grab it but missed by mere inches. The femme unhooked the Energon bag and placed it on Ratchet's lap before taking the stand to the Prime's private office. Fowler trotted along side. Ratchet grunted when Optimus began moving, his back and chest aching. He wrapped his arms about the Prime's neck to do what he could to relieve some of his weight, despite knowing he weighed almost nothing to Optimus. Once they reached the back office, Optimus shifted Ratchet in his arms to palm open the lock for the door. It slid open at his touch. Fowler climbed the set of stairs that ran along the back of the Prime's desk, watching as Arcee and Optimus eased Ratchet into a chair and set the IV stand back up. The medic grabbed the blanket from Arcee, rearranging it in his lap. He did not enjoy being carried about the base and helped in everything he did. He accepted it, however, knowing he could not do any of it on his own. Once the mech was situated, Arcee left the three to join the others, the door sliding shut behind her.
Optimus turned to Fowler. The agent needed no prompting, understanding Cybertronian body language by now. "A lot has changed, Prime," He sighed, glancing at Ratchet, "My superiors and I have discussed it and we believe it would be beneficial for you to speak directly to them, without a middle man." Prime nodded, understanding.
"I as well?" Ratchet inquired. Fowler shook his head.
"No, but I wanted to discuss a few things with the both of you beforehand. It's something I'm fairly sure Ratch'd want to hear personally, otherwise I wouldn't have had you bring the Doc in here too, seeing as it's a little harder for him to get about."
"Please, Agent Fowler," Ratchet's tenor voice resonated in his intakes, creating a slight tremor, "Refrain from speaking about me as if I'm not here. It's degrading."
"Sorry," Fowler mumbled, his main focus on queuing up a document on his computer. "I didn't mean to offend." Ratchet grunted, appreciating the apology. "Remember this?" Fowler pointed to the screen. A ten page document was projected back, containing a detailed list of requested medical supplies.
"How could I not?" Ratchet mumbled, irritated as the Government official questioned his memory, "That is the list I sent you a month ago. I still have yet to receive anything." Fowler sighed, opening a second document.
"This," He muttered, already stepping back towards Prime in anticipation for the medic's reaction, "Is the list of the approved supplies." The document was butchered down to a mere three pages, amounts reduced, and little explanation was given.
"What?!" Ratchet grabbed at his chest the moment the shout left his mouth, instantly regretting his outburst. The others gave him a moment to recover as he gasped in air through every exposed vent. The vents on the sides of his chest were blocked by bandages, making it harder to cool his systems effectively. Once he recovered, his intended rant began again. "There is hardly enough there to sustain us for a few months if at peak efficiency, much less in combat or with my current condition. I need those alloys for replacement parts. Bulkhead's secondary transistor is nearly fried, and Arcee's knee joint desperately needs replacing as well as the hydraulics in her pedes. And without proper medicine I will be nothing but a useless pile of metal within a few weeks. How do those glitches assume we will survive without at least a decent amount of supplies? We had more than this meager slag even when Cybertron was on its last leg." Both Fowler and Optimus waited before speaking, making sure they were not cutting off Ratchet, an act which would only serve to anger him further. Both thanked Primus that he currently had nothing to throw.
"I know, Ratch," Fowler attempted to sooth, "That's what I'm trying to fix. I didn't want you to be at the meeting because it may be too long for you to handle right now and I worry about your temper." Ratchet made to retort but Optimus waved him down, "But I do want your medical opinion before we go into this." The medic took a calming breath, fiddling with the line in his left venous port on his arm. It had grown uncomfortable and would need to be moved to his right arm soon. It took a moment, but he eventually quelled the anger boiling in his systems.
"Ratchet could actually be a great asset during this meeting," Optimus provided, "If he feels up for it." Fowler cocked his head. Ratchet saw fit to explain.
"I admit I have a temper, Agent Fowler," He began, "But I do know how and when to control it. I simply choose not to. I was a politician for a short time before the war, and despite the fact that I did little to sway the councils' thinking, I have researched your government and understand the inner workings of it quiet well." Fowler tapped his chin, considering.
"He knows more about government and persuasion than myself," Prime reaffirmed, "I may have studied history extensively but never looked into politics until the war began. Even then, it was never my strong point."
The agent's brow rose mockingly. "Politics, huh? Never took you for the ruling type," He teased.
Ratchet huffed in an undignified manner, "I hardly enjoyed it. Cybertron's class system was ruthless, and by attempting to convince the council to ease the restrictions and abolish the gladiator rings, I became somewhat of an outcast. Not that I minded much. Besides, I never 'ruled' anything. I was the minister of health. I had very little power."
"Very well," Fowler sighed, "I'll arrange the meeting for some time next week."
Ratchet yawned, mimicking the human gesture unconsciously. Fowler smiled, remembering fondly back to when he'd first met the bots. Neither party had been too pleased about their situation but Optimus had made the best of it. Fowler, however, had only seen the mechs as imposing, threatening, and had acted defensively. He'd been aggressive, bothering to learn very little of their customs. There had been several times when one group had unintentionally offended the other. Fowler remembered vividly how, early on, a young scientist had requested innocently to see Ratchet spark when the medic was explaining Cybertronian anatomy. If it weren't for Optimus, the young man would be nothing but a stain on the wall. As it was, it had taken the Prime's full strength to restrain the medic. It was only after the incident that the humans learned that the spark was the very embodiment of the Cybertronian soul and was the most sacred thing each possessed. It was an insult of the highest degree to ask to see one's spark without the other first offering. After the incident, both parties had seen fit to warn the others about such possible insults.
"Agent Fowler," Will glanced back up, ripped from his mussing by Ratchet's gruff voice. "Would you explain a human custom to me? I believe Miko referred to it as Christmas." Fowler shook his head, chuckling slightly. He's been asked about human culture but never by the grouchy medic.
"Ah," He scratched at the back of his neck, "What do you want to know?"
"I've looked it up and the internet spoke greatly in a religious context, but I know that Miko does not subscribe to your culture's Christianity. She also mentioned gifts?" Fowler nodded, understanding his confusion. Over the centuries, many human traditions had become so muddled in their history and customs that they were hard to understand, while due to their longer life spans and more advanced technology, Cybertronian holidays and cultures had remained virtually the same throughout the eons.
"Not many people see Christmas as solely religious anymore," he explained, "Most of us, like myself, and most likely all of the children, take it as an opportunity to be thankful for the family and friends that we have and share that with them through presents."
Ratchet pulled the blanket back up as it had begun to slide down again. The flimsy tarp was uncomfortably slick and produced large amounts of static when he moved it, electricity he was grateful he could not feel through the dead sensors in his legs. "What kind of gifts?"
Fowler laughed openly, "Thinking of getting the other's something, Doc?" The medic gave him a wry look, fringing on irritation, "It depends on the person. Nothing too big, just something that you know they would enjoy." Ratchet nodded. His curiosity was truly endearing. Fowler paused. That was not a word he would have ever associated with the medic… "Do you have any similar holiday back on Cybertron?"
Optimus folded his hands in his lap, shaking his head. "Not particularly. When two mechs start courting, they will often give each other gifts to show that they are serious. But it is standard for those to be hand crafted, so even that tradition died down during the war, when resources were low. Many of our customs were abandoned after centuries of destruction." Fowler hummed. It was a sad truth that many cultures had faced before, and with the amount the bots had traveled to alien worlds over the last millennia, it was not unexpected.
"Now," The special agent cleared his throat, attempting to pull the two back to more pressing matters, "I know this is a way off, but it's a possibility we need to plan for. One that I pray we won't have to consider, but the chances are high, and I need to know what we're planning." Both Optimus and Ratchet raised their brows expectantly, staring down at the special agent.
"Go on, Agent Fowler," Optimus encouraged, "We are listening."
He breathed deeply, hunching his shoulders and putting on a brave face. "I don't know what traditions you have on Cybertron but we need to think about a burial." He held up a hand before either bot could interject. "We don't have the resources for a cremation and as your friend; I'm averse to melting anyone down."
"You mean, melting me down." Ratchet snapped. Fowler could only nod.
"On Cybertron," Optimus started, "It was fairly common to melt a mech's armor into a vase or sculpture, but the protoform has such a high melting point that it was illogical." He glanced down, the topic a difficult one to discuss. "Ratchet and I discussed many years ago, the possibility of launching a frame into space. However, without our ship, that possibility has been exhausted. I believe the best option now is a simple burial, near the base."
"Ah-ah," Ratchet tithed, "I get a say in this too."
"Of course," Optimus nodded, "We did not intend to leave you out of the conversation. You have the final say."
"I better," He huffed, "And I'm not too keen on being eternally surrounded by organic dirt." Fowler couldn't help but chuckle.
"Ratchet," Optimus shook his head, a hint of glee in his voice, "You will be in the Well of Allsparks, your frame will be buried."
"I know that," He crossed his arms, "But the principle still stands. I like my frame clean, thank you very much."
Fowler scratched at his chin, "What about a coffin? You'd be shielded from the dirt but could still be buried."
Ratchet sighed, feeling his entire form begin to ache, "That would be better, but I'd still like to see if we can figure anything else out."
"Is there anything else you want done, Ratchet? I know it was common to remove helm kibble in Polyhex." Optimus smiled softly, still distressed by the topic but willing to endure. Ratchet shrugged, pondering.
"Honestly," He sighed, "I've never subscribed to family keeping pieces of a mech but if you want to keep my chevron I won't object. Though, I would appreciate having my spark chamber removed before I'm jammed in the ground."
Fowler cocked his head, "Spark chamber?"
"Our sparks are surrounded by much stronger metal than that of our armor. My spark will have extinguished but the spark chamber is still very significant, and personal." He nodded, understanding. There was a lot about Cybertronian physiology and culture that Fowler couldn't even begin to understand, but by the look in both Cybertronian's optics, he could tell that this was important. Ratchet sighed, rubbing at his face plates. "Now, I'd like to get to my quarter before I fall into recharge where I'm sitting."
"Your quarters?" Prime stood to help him.
"I've recharged in the medbay enough recently for one vorn, thank you very much." Prime chucked, easing Ratchet back into his arms. Fowler watched them leave, a smile sneaking across his features.
A/N: We are nearing the point where I run out of pre-written chapters. Reviews at this point are good for two things. 1) A de-stressor for poor Jordan. And an unstressed Jordan writes better. And 2) motivation to write more of this tragically depressing story.
Also, I've changed around how a few of the key plot points work (I write an outline before I ever begin a story), and thus my estimation of chapters has increased from 15 to 17 chapters, total. We'll see how this goes.
Until then, Reviews are needed. Seriously, I think I'm going to faint from stress if I don't get some relief soon. Good, bad, flames. Honestly, I don't care. Any and all reviews make me smile like a maniac. (Yes, I do smile at flames, and laugh hysterically, too. It scares the people on the lightrail...)