Fire of Youth
Chapter 34
*Apologies for this taking so long to upload, guys! End of the semester is always super busy, and I've been working on other stuff.
*You happy now Craig? xD
He wasn't completely sure what he had done yet, but whatever it had been his body was less than thrilled over going through with it. The nausea and dizziness and generally yucky sense stuck around for an unforgiving length of time. Ratchet kept close as it crawled on, monitoring him. His beam swept over him once or twice; he didn't really notice. The next thing he knew a sub-mesh injector was being jabbed into the ylfinken line under his radial plating. His systems registered an influx of medical grade Energon with zinc and tungsten particulates in it. The dizziness and nausea began to fade after a few long minutes. He dared to follow the medic's movements then, as he put away the injector into his kit. There was a certain rhythm to the things he'd just done, he noticed, but it wasn't completely mechanical. He hadn't needed to hunt around for what he'd required – that injector had been waiting in the medic's kit next to a container of the stuff he'd given him. He'd been prepared for this to happen, he realized. That was the only explanation for that quick reaction and the stuff in the kit.
"The first time is always the hardest on the systems," he muttered through a quick sideways glance. "It gets easier with time."
He stared at Ratchet in surprise, "You knew this was going to happen."
"Well, not this specifically, no," he admitted in his usual terseness, "and I certainly didn't expect it to happen here of all places. But it always pays to be prepared when dealing with such an uncertain variable as a Prime – especially you it seems. You have an unfortunate habit of getting yourself into situations no one else does."
"Oh, so I'm just a variable to you now, is that it?" he joked sarcastically. "What am I? S equals insanity or something?"
The kit was clasped shut, "Don't make me sedate you."
He balked a little, "You wouldn't da–"
Ratchet re-opened the kit, grabbed the sub-mesh injector, and held it above the kit in a thinly veiled threat. Not willing to trust him to not try anything on a whim, he side-stepped a few times to put some distance between him and the medic's prickling field. Apparently satisfied, the injector was put away and the kit bolted up again for good. But as Ratchet passed by him from behind to stash the kit he caught a few glyphs for sympathy and, when he gave him a sideways glance, a humorous twinkle in his blue gaze. His expression went flat in realization, but a smirk soon weaseled its way into existence. It wasn't often the old medic displayed his unique brand of humor, and he was glad to see it. When Ratchet rejoined him at his side, his coarse kindness made itself known. He had him move his helm slowly side to side to test for motion sickness, checked the receptivity of his optics and reflexes, gave him a final once over and declared he was near perfectly recovered from his ordeal.
"I still don't feel right though," he insisted. "It's hard to describe, like –"
"Feeling like your stuck in a heavy object in water and can't seem to move properly anymore? Or maybe feeling like you're coming out of a bad hangover?"
He eyed him again, "Seriously, doc, you're starting to scare me with how much you know about what just happened."
"Seconded," Wheeljack agreed in a grunt.
"I'm surprised you don't understand what just happened," Ratchet retorted, "considering the information sources you now have at your disposal."
"Yeah, well, they're less focused on explaining that and more interested in interrogating the guy I was talking to. So if you could explain, that'd be great."
"First, tell me what happened. Precisely, word for word. Leave nothing out. Judging by how you reacted, what you did, and what you said once this was resolved, this is not what I became accustomed to with Optimus."
"Wait, this sorta thing happened to him too?" Bulkhead demanded.
"Not exactly like this, no," Ratchet corrected, "but the general concept behind what Infernus experienced I am reasonably well-versed in. Now, no more interruptions."
"Seriously, at this rate you might as well explain all this yourself," he teased. "You sound like you know more than I do."
Ratchet refused to take the bait. "Talk," he grunted.
"Not even a brief summary?"
"Talk."
"Alright, alright. Don't get your wires in a twist..."
Going by reaction alone he had guessed the experience Smokescreen had endured had been far more intensive and stressful than anything his old friend had ever undergone. He had not been wrong. His words conveyed his confusion and stress over the situation alongside his body, tense and strained, and his field, sharp and prickly like the many cacti that grew in the sandy desert. The interaction had jarred him badly, as had what he had seen when in the trace. There were risks present for Smokescreen that had not been present for Optimus. And he was not certain how to feel about the Thirteen tossing the youth into such a situation without at least a partial debriefing. There had been no severe effect on Miko other than the low-grade fever, so rushing to resolve the problem seemed a poor excuse. He had never known the Thirteen to be so impulsive before. This entire concept was new ground for him – completely foreign. He had deserved some clarification from them. A few seconds could have been spared for that, surely, he said.
"That's what you're for," Infernus joked.
"Apparently."
He had to admit discomfort at the tale itself, too. The beast had lingered after death willingly through a need for revenge on his killer, an unaligned Harmonexian mech named Freeflow, and so had unwittingly trapped himself in the black fog of Unicron's field. That Scorchmark's fury had subsided after the intimidating display of rank by Infernus was encouraging, but that he had held such fury in him for so long after his death was troubling. He had never known – and Optimus had never described – a spark retaining so much anger over so long a time span.
He had to wonder if the fog had done more than render Scorchmark's sense of direction moot. Being in a world of hostile, roiling shadows for so long, with no one to hear or help you, had to have an effect on the psyche.
"So?" the young Prime prompted. "You gonna explain what I just did?"
"Primes have a simple, over-arching responsibility," he said. "Protect life, no matter what form it takes."
"Yeah, yeah, I got that," Infernus interrupted quickly.
"If you want an explanation," he huffed back, "then keep quiet and let me speak."
Infernus obeyed, cowed.
"Now, as I was saying, they have that over-arcing responsibility towards the living. That much is always made plain from the very start. But because of the Matrix and their connection through it to the core of Cybertron, they thus bear a responsibility towards the dead. I don't claim to be an expert on this aspect of a Prime, and not even Optimus understood some of the finer details of it, but in simplest terms the Matrix can serve as a medium of communication with the dead. You have the capacity to see, hear, and interact with them when in that trance state, and you alone can help them if they are in trouble. A Prime, for lack of a better analogy, is the ultimate astral guide. However, what you experienced is not what I had grown accustomed to with Optimus."
The Prime's helm tilted to the side, "It was different?"
"The general concept of this, no. That remains the same regardless. That is why there is a term for it: siljunaz'tkjor vrvrlaen. For Optimus, there was very little in the way of risk – he never had to fully enter the trance state you did, and there were no dangers presented to him whenever he performed these acts. For you, though, there are risks that were not present for Optimus."
"Unicron's field?" he guessed. "But that didn't affect me. Like I said, it avoided me."
"True, but because it does not affect you does not mean it cannot affect someone else – as proven through Scorchmark. Unicron's field poses no significant threat to you, but it does obviously pose a threat to lost sparks trapped within it that do not possess the same protection as you do. As you said, they become disoriented so badly they become lost, and I suspect such disorientation over an extended period can affect their minds as well. Owing to research done by Rafael after my...incident at Yosemite, I have reason to suspect Scorchmark was far from an isolated case."
Infernus stared at him for a few moments as his words were processed. The only word that managed to make it out was "What?"
Turning, he nodded silently at Rafael. The boy nodded back and typed quickly into his personal computer for a minute. Then, hitting a command key, he turned his attention towards the larger screen on the console. He knew the child didn't fully understand their beliefs, but he knew enough now that the look on his face bordered on grave, and that look gave warning and fed into the gathered at once. Out of them all, Arcee appeared most affected by that look, and when the dozens upon dozens of images were transferred from machine to machine, she appeared to suffer the most shock at the sight of so many little lights. Not even the taciturn, emotionless Prowl was entirely immune to the implications the images brought to the forefront – his expression briefly twitched into what he thought was concern.
"Hang on," Jack leaned onto the railing and pointed. "Look. Some of those come from the British Isles," he turned to the Wreckers. "Did you guys see any while you were there?"
"No," Ultra Magnus said. "And nothing unusual was detected on scanners, either. On the other hand, we were not actively searching for them."
"Seems they only show up around dusk or after dark, too." Wheeljack noted. "We were headed back here by that time."
Jack's face scrunched into a puzzled squint, "Okay, but if these are sparks that are out wandering looking for a way out of the spider-web, was Scorchmark one of them?"
"No, he wasn't."
"How come? What was the difference with him?"
"It was something to do with the mound he was buried in, I think," Infernus answered. "Since old superstitions about Knocknarea prevented people from excavating like what happened with the other stone structures and mounds, and the black fog left him trapped and disoriented, he couldn't get out of the tomb. He was stuck in there until someone breached it. First it was the 'Cons coming in and taking his body away, then Wheeljack blowing a hole in it so Miko could get in and snag that fragment."
"So why hitch a ride in that one tiny fragment and not the rest of him?"
"He didn't go with the 'Cons. His body went ahead of him, but he remained behind. He was hoping to gather intel as a gift for the 'Cons."
He couldn't help scoffing aloud, "Doubtful such a tactic would have worked. As I learned through Grimwing, memories are not preserved well in cases of forced reactivation. Some of it might have survived, perhaps, but it would be fragmented, vague. Nowhere near useful as tactical data. I'm uncertain if a patch could recover the data."
"Which brings me to a question you may slap me for asking," Infernus said.
"I'll be the judge of that," he huffed.
The young Prime plowed into his question with about as much tact as Miko usually displayed, "If Shockwave can just reactive Scorchmark, what the heck was the point of what I did? And what would be the point of doing it for all of them," he gestured to the screen, "if they'll be reactivated by Shockwave, too? What I do is a band-aid, not a long-term solution."
"Smokescreen –"
"If it were just a few of them, I wouldn't be asking," he continued quickly, "but we're talking dozens, maybe hundreds. I'm one mech. One."
His voice became firmer, "Smokescreen –"
But the stress in the young Prime's voice went to fever point regardless, "I can't do that, doc! That's not possible! It's not even feasible! There's risks, and the number of them, a-and the after effects, and your supplies won't last for–"
"Smokescreen!"
"What?"
"Your argument is valid," he said simply. "Every single point you made is sound, and I am not arguing with you. This is not Cybertron, and this is not what I have grown accustomed to with Optimus; there are risks that could pose a threat to you that pose a present, greater risk to the lost, but this problem is too large for one individual, Prime or not, to handle alone. I agree. But I believe there is a solution to this. I can detail it to you word for word."
Some of the panic in his gaze evaporated. He nodded, "O-Okay. Okay. What's the plan?"
"Download the location information regarding these lights from Rafael's computer so that Onyx may transfer it to his guides. That way, the search area is narrowed down and shortens the time they will remain exposed to Unicron's field. With Unicron incapacitated for the time being, I hope, I believe this would be the ideal time to do this since his field is weaker than I suspect it was in the past, therefore reducing the risk further."
"That fog was pretty thick though," he retorted warily.
"I expect it was, but fields can vary in intensity depending on the state of the one it belongs to. I expect it was far thicker for Scorchmark in the past, when Unicron's spark was not in a shut down state."
"Right. Right," he agreed. "I got them. Onyx has them now, too."
"Good. That is all that has to be done on our end."
"Really?"
"Really."
Infernus's helm went back a few degrees as air escaped his mouth and neck vents.
"Can I pass out now?"
"No. You've already done your passing out for today."
His optics rolled to the side to eye him. A smile formed, "I hate you so much."
He smiled back in smug satisfaction, "You're welcome."
He had no reason to trust the ghost stag, and the ghost stag had no reason to trust him. And yet the spirit had somehow managed to get him from the hills to the west coast and through the city of Galway, Ireland without getting him caught. Now, he was hunkered down flat on his chassis on the roof of a building that sat along the bay, more convinced than before that the spirit was trying to get even by getting him caught. Why else would he lead him into a bustling port city?
"Now what?" he growled at the flickering light beside him.
The light flashed back. This was as far as he could take him. The rest of the journey had to be done alone.
His helm whipped towards the light. "What? How come?"
"Cannot stay long," the light blinked. "Fog thinning. Can hear the song of home at last."
"Oh, so you're just going to ditch me in the busiest, most populated city in Ireland so you can run back to daddy?" he sneered. "Gee, thanks."
In hindsight, considering who he was talking to, he had no reason to get snippy with the spirit. That he was helping him at all was confounding.
"You must cross the waters."
Shock coursed through him. "Are you loopy? Full reserves or not, there is no way I'm flying across the slagging Atlantic! Do I look like an airliner to you?"
The light rippled. He had never said he was to fly.
"So what do you suggest I do?"
"Simple," the light blinked. "Hitch a ride."
A little tendril extended from the wavering sphere, pointing down briefly to the hefty cargo hauler ships being loaded by crane. He blinked quickly. That wasn't actually a half-bad suggestion. There was probably room in one of the shipping containers if he squeezed in, or if that failed he could slip into the cargo hold and camp out there.
"But which one do I take?" he wondered. "Where am I going?"
"Follow the route that so many Irish took when faced with the threat of starvation."
"America?"
The light flickered once in confirmation. Then it began to fade. He panicked.
"No, no, no. Wait, wait!" he begged. "America is a huge country! Which ship do I take?"
"Follow the path of the summer storm."
And then the light was gone.
He swore, slamming a fist against the roof. That answer was too broad. Hurricanes could go absolutely anywhere. They didn't follow a set route like ships or planes or cars. Wind drove them, not a map or a pilot.
"Yeah, great advice!" he whispered loudly, voice dripping in sarcasm. "Maybe be a little more cryptic next time!"
Frustrated, his optics darted from ship to ship in search of one that would be headed to the North American continent. There were a decent number scattered around the docks. None of the ships were the giants said to pass through the Gulf of Mexico, but the port of Galway could only handle so many ships. And then they stopped on one particular container ship. The ship wasn't as impressive as some of the larger vessels in port, and she was still being loaded by crane. He couldn't tell what was in the containers, but written in bold white letters on the side of its dark grey-green hull was a name: MV Summer Storm.
He couldn't help smirking. His helm bobbed. Clever spirit. The words had been a straightforward direction, not a vague riddle as he'd thought.
"I dunno why you're helping me," he admitted aloud to the empty air, "but thanks."
Transforming, he leapt from building to building, keeping his body low, until he was near to the ship. When a break in passerby occurred, he leapt down into a space between two buildings, then darted out to shelter behind a container. Container by container, he made his way through the docks until a single container lay between him and the ship's platform. When crane and operator were busy with another crate, he made a mad flight up to the platform and squeezed between more crates. He sniffed at one out of curiosity. Contents smelled like someone had just walked out of a hospital, so he had to guess the ship was carting medical equipment. He tapped it with one claw. The echo that came back judged it as about half full. Probably not the best place to hide. Human healers were picky about hygiene. Drawing in air, tapping at containers with the tip of a claw, he wove among the giant metal boxes in search of one he could claw into. Finally he found one that smelled of silicon, other metals, and plastics. Technology of some variety he guessed, and the container didn't sound too full. He turned and plucked one of his tail blades off, grasped it in one dexterous front paw, and prised open the locks just enough to let him squirm inside.
It took a split second for his sight to adjust to the dark. Boxes of many sizes and shapes were stacked inside, held in place by thick bungee cords in case of choppy seas. Carefully he walked across them towards the back where the larger, sturdier boxes were held down. Shifting back to biped, he began to move them around to make a nook around himself hidden from easy sight, mindful to bungee cord the stacks back into place. There were display sets, televisions, held inside the largest boxes according to the labels, and internet routers and smart phones stored in the smaller ones.
"Might as well have some entertainment and snacks for a long trip," he joked dryly.
He shifted back to beast and coiled up in his nook. Two hours later, and he felt the ship chug to life and begin to move.
There was a hostility in the air that had not been there in the launch bays before, and it all came from the little ones. The she-devil's pack was not on friendly terms with the other little ones brought in for reasons it could not understand and that the little ones refused to clarify, and the hostility was not leaving. It did not like that uncomfortable charge in the air their hostility brought – the charge caused strange flashes of things that felt familiar but were unrecognizable. The only thing that appeared to prevent an all-out brawl from occurring between them was Ravage's glowing red gaze and its own large presence. As long as one or both were present, the hostility was kept under control.
The black she-devil walked past where it lay, watching. There was still a venom in her gaze, but it thought it detected a certain amount of respect now, or maybe something close to it. It could never tell with her. The others were easier to read. They never addressed it – none of them did. It had no means of being addressed yet. It was still waiting.
It shifted. It was no longer content to wait for a name. It wanted one. Now. It was the only being on the vessel that had no name. Surely it had waited long enough?
"Ravage?" it asked.
The black hound lifted his helm. "Yes?"
"I want a name."
"That's something the Builder usually does. That's not my call to make."
It screeched. Could he at least help with suggestions?
"Normally it's something significant done towards the cause that earns you a name, like I did,"Ravage said, "or something unique to the individual. Since you haven't done the first yet, we can use the second for now."
That sounded agreeable, it said. But what was unique about it?
Ravage lifted a paw and rubbed the top of it against his lower jaw. He admitted he had no idea, but back in the era when beasts had ruled Cybertron, Draconians had almost always been selected as the Predaking, the supreme alpha of their kind, for their brute strength and innate ability to lead. It was a little presumptuous, he said, considering how young he was, but he did bear the crest of the Predaking on his chest. That was hint enough he had been a Predaking before.
"Before?"
"In another life."
It did now know how to react to Ravage's words. The name though – Predaking. It liked the sound of that name. There was a familiarity to it that it could not place.
"Could I use that name?"
"Officially, that's up to Shockwave to decide, not you or me. But between us beasts – I suppose so. Maybe it'll convince the mini-cons to be more cooperative whenever you're around. There were very few who would disobey a Predaking, and fewer still brave enough to challenge one. They were the absolute rulers of our society."
Images, smells, sounds, sensations, disjointed and fragmented, suddenly flashed in his mind. He was standing on a world of metal that shone in the sun, other beasts like him surrounding him on all sides. Some sat proudly beside him. Other before him bowed low in reverence. A screaming roar exactly like his own thundered in his audials, so clearly he thought the sound was coming from him at that moment. The other beasts emitted noises of their own: roars, howls, neighs, and noises he had no words to describe. The ones before him appeared so small, so weak compared to him, but they appeared pleased at seeing him and joined in the noise. And then it all disappeared. The gleaming metal world was replaced with the dark violets, blacks, and greys of the vessel, and the other beasts he did not know were replaced by ones he did.
"Predaking..." he repeated to himself. "Predaking..."
He rose up from the floor. He spread his wings and screamed, screamed loud enough for the whole the ship to hear, "I AM PREDAKING!"
None of the little ones were impressed. The she-devil flicked her tail and requested he keep the ruckus down in a flat, annoyed voice, then laid her helm back down on her paws to resume her power down.
He growled at her. She did not mean it as an insult, he knew, but it felt like one regardless, and he did not understand why.
"Don't let it go to your helm," Ravage warned. "Predaking is an earned title, not one slapped on at request. For now, it's a name to address you by. Nothing more, nothing less. You want it to be the real title, prove you are strong enough to hold it."
He found himself bobbing his helm in agreement. Yes. Yes. He needed an opponent, one strong enough to earn him his new name permanently. But where to find one?
Ravage eyed him through those four glowing lights. "I think I know."
"Who? Who can I challenge?"
"There is another Draconian among the Autobots, him and a traitor. Kill either, and you will earn your keep of the title."
"Where can I find him?"
"You won't need to. He will come to you. All that is needed is the right lure. The Decepticons will provide that for you. They're good at attracting his attention."
Author's Note: I apologize for this being so short, but this is mostly a wrap up/lead-in chapter.
