Chap 1
Hatching
Your memories of the incident are vague at best. Panic jolts through your body like an electrical current; charged as if through a body of water. Fingertips are numb, joints are locked in an agonising grip, and the cold/hot/searing/sharp agony seems to grow by the second.
In an effort to remain conscious, you brave to move a part of your body, any part. Your fingers are a lost cause, so you try for your toes with little success. They seem so far away. Your face then. A twitch of the cheek or even better, opening your eyes. Cheek first, you decide.
Your face is scrunched as if in a spasm. Not surprising considering how much pain you're currently in. It's the kind of mind-numbing pain that makes it hard to tell how long you've been there. It could have been seconds, it could have been days. All you want is for it to stop .
This feeling is something you wanted desperately to end. You'd do anything to get off the ground, pick yourself back up and forget this ever happened. In this moment of trauma, your body screaming in misery, you wonder belatedly if your brain is meant to think this clearly or if you've just truly been here for so long that the adrenaline has worn off. Is your mind supposed to be this clear? You're freaking out, yes. The pain isn't subsiding, yes. But you're here; having a clear conversation with yourself in your mind.
Despite the torment that you're feeling, you revisit your goal. Twitch a cheek, or open an eye.
You force your cheek muscles to relax for a millisecond. A minute amount of light makes itself known through your left eyelid. You can do this. Just open your eyes.
Relaxing a tiny bit more, searing light stabs through the opening of your eyelid. You immediately close it. Focusing on this task makes the pain seem less concentrated; farther away. Try again.
Cracking it open again, you force yourself to keep your eye open, if only for a bit longer this time. Baby steps. As your eye blearily adjusts to your surroundings, the first thing that you notice is the light from earlier is brighter than you thought. It seems to grow and swell in a slow strobe-like fashion. The light has a pale green, teal-blue tinge to it, and it's everywhere . Reflected off of nearby surfaces (rock, you think) and ebbing slowly around you. As your eye continues to adjust, the pain seems farther and farther away now.
The surface of the ground you're on is wet, you notice. But it doesn't feel wet. The same way that tepid or perfectly warm water seems to have little notice on the human nervous system. You also realise that you must've fallen down at some point. Prone as you are, the water barely registers on your closed eyelid.
The water around you seems to be the source of the light. Its ebbing and flowing light patterns are the ripples that your convulsions are creating on the surface. The water isn't deep, as you've noticed (focusing on the details of the room rather than the agony your body is trying to forget) barely enough to cover half of your face lying on your side. It tickles your mouth a bit, but you don't dare open your lips to allow water inside. The water is opaque in its luminescence. Whatever this liquid is, it isn't normal .
Straining your eye a little further, you focus on the rest of the details in the room. Rather, calling it a room is a bit of a stretch. There are rough rock walls on every side, naturally made and somewhat unstable looking. You try not to dwell on it; one panic attack is enough for you today, thanks. (is this a panic attack?)
From where you can see, the space seems more cave-like. The thin layer of mysterious water on the ground illuminates the room well, giving it a sea cave feeling, but for the life of you, you can't remember how you got here. You chalk that up to the agony you're feeling.
The pain, coming in waves now rather than the steady thrum, gives you a moment to identify a particularly sharp rock that's digging into your side from beneath the water. Using the ebb in pain to your advantage, you shift your shoulder to fall onto your back, allowing the sharp rock to dislodge from under you. The relief you feel is instantaneous. It's like the electricity dial was lowered from a ten to a two.
The cave ceiling now has your attention. The movement allowed your pained breaths to ease somewhat; giving your body an opportunity to take in the oxygen it needs to start calming down.
Three steady breaths escape you. One, breathe in, breathe out. Two, breathe in, breathe out. Three, breathe in, breathe out.
Limbs still stiff, but with marked improvement in the past few breaths, you feel around in the water for the sharp rock. Just to give yourself a task to focus on, and to see if the vindictive item was really as sharp as it felt.
Both eyes now out of the water, you use your hand to wipe some of the liquid out of your closed eye. It's a struggle, but you manage weakly. The movement is sloppy and shaky, but it's the most you've achieved in a little while.
Your ears, while seemingly both submerged, hear a low frequency noise similar to plugged ears underwater which is unsurprising. Except, it's different from that. Almost like the sound of white noise, or like the hum of a fridge at night, or a lightbulb flickering into wakefulness.
The startling thing is that the sound immediately grows louder as soon as the sharp rock from earlier is lifted out of the water.
The frequency noise turns into a speaker feedback screech, and you drop the rock immediately in favour of covering your ears. The sound dims, but more from the rock disappearing back in the water than your hands muffling the noise.
Having moved so quickly and instinctively to escape the noise, you half expected to feel that shooting pain again. The noise was so alarming and unpleasant that your arms moved on their own.
You paused upon moving your arms so one beat, two beats, you wait for the painful consequences of your spontaneous action. Waiting a bit longer, the pain you expected never arrived.
Instead that feeling of clarity returned. Taking another deep breath (which sounded a bit rattled and tinny, but otherwise fine) you got to work taking stock of your body. The shadow of your body reflected onto the ceiling of the cave rather unclearly, but still discernible. Two legs, two arms, a body and a head. All accounted for. You didn't know if you were bleeding based on the wet-not wet sensation, but your head didn't throb in the way you think it would with a head injury.
Closing your eyes, you focused on the fading sensation of pain in your body. It was more of a soreness now; a stiffness and heaviness of limb. The sense of finality in your pain earlier felt so far away and less tangible. Consciousness came back with perfect clarity. Another deep breath.
Putting your hand over your heart, you willed it to stop beating erratically. You paused. Your heart wasn't beating erratically. Your hand shifted to reorient itself on your chest. A weird metallic noise rang in the cave, you paid it no mind. In fact, you were puzzled, you couldn't seem to find your pulse. Normally, in your past panic attacks, your throbbing pulse was the last thing to go. Now you couldn't seem to find it.
Reaching up to touch your neck, your fingers brushed your jawline looking for a pulse. The metallic sound didn't ring this time, but your neck felt weird. Not like it felt weird there might be something caught in your throat. No, it felt weird like it didn't feel like a human neck should .
It had the feeling of lines of string or cables; warm and active. And weirder still you felt them. Like your nerves were attached to the string. Maybe you did have a head injury.
Reaching up to check your forehead for damage, you caught a glimpse of the light reflected off of a shiny object in the room. Only this time, it was something moving.
Panic in your throat, neck, cables (don't think about it), the object followed the motion of your hand and situated itself exactly in the centre of your vision.
A metal arm.
Trailing down and attached to-
The panic returned in full force. Your body feels caught as if in an electric current.
Harsh, sharp breathing that wasn't enough, wasn't normal, wasn't calm-CALM DOWN can't calm down what's going on-why is that-what happened , what's wrong with my-something's wrong wrong WRONG
The clarity from earlier is a faraway memory, other hand (metal too, oh my g-) reaching up to grasp it's twin (all WRONG, why is it WRONG)
The bright reflection of the water on the ceiling blurring in the thrashing, panicked haze that overtakes you, a choking noise leaves your throat. (don't think about it, don't think about it, stop thinking) The noise is back again, tinny and metallic sounding, and that only drives to spike your panic to a higher level. The unsteady rock walls shake slightly in the noise your body releases. Screaming, choking, crying. Loud, unfiltered horror escapes every part of you, unbidden and unrestrained. There is no stopping this panic attack now.
The walls continue to shake, more violently now. If there's a cave in, no one will know you're down here. The screaming might alert them though, a smaller rational part of your brain thinks. But that thought is immediately drowned out with more panicked wailing, with no forethought. Your alien, wrong arms scratch at the rocks beneath you. Enough gashes and maybe you'll wake up from this frenzied reality and everything will be normal again.
Feet kick, and scrape against the rocky bottom of the pool. The waters foam slightly with your thrashing as you try to get those alien metal arms away from you.
Shutting your eyes again, so hard it almost hurts, you will yourself to sleep or wake up or anything other than this. The panic seeps the energy from your body, two back to back panic attacks in a brief period of time, sucking the life from you and stealing away your will to stay awake.
As the blackness from your closed eyelids sinks you deeper into an uneasy unconsciousness, you think you may have heard a questioning voice, but even that seems too far away.
The war had taken much from Primus' children. No small part was due to his involvement, of course, but that did not lessen his feelings of guilt. Optimus had always done what he thought was best for his friends and allies, but the many battles in the war for Cybertron had caused him to make many sacrifices and many horrible decisions.
The Matrix of Leadership granted many benefits to the Autobot cause, but it had taken its fair share as well. As soon as the matrix had melded itself within his spark, he had become a changed mech. Emotions gave way to cold reasoning, making hard decisions easier to bear. The longer the matrix was within his possession, the harder it was for Optimus to remember what he had been like before. After over a millennia of battle, very little of the bot known as Orion Pax remained.
War had been a part of his existence every moment in the past million years. Yet here in the early moments of the post-war mornings, he found himself at a loss.
The war had been over for just over a decivorn. Still so early and tenuous, the years of wartime had always woken Optimus in an astrosecond; alert and ready to act. This weak and infantile peace was so delicate and he worried that at any moment that peace could end just as abruptly as it started.
Peace, Optimus realised, he had no idea what to do with.
Sure there were a few stray Decepticons that had refused to listen to the peace treaty, and a few unaffiliated whose whereabouts were unknown, but after a millennia of fighting, Optimus found himself dwelling on the darker aspects of what the war had wrought. No longer able to keep his processor busy with thoughts of battle strategy, his mind sunk into dark recesses of the irreparable damage that his actions had taken part in.
Optimus sighed in his berth and offlined his optics. There were so few of them left. With Cybertron dark and the last of his people either scattered or scavenging for energon, the future of the Cybertronian race seemed dim. With every passing astrosecond, the last living Cybertronians aged with no hope of reversing the damage that had already been done.
Earth as a whole had been kind to the Autobots. With their alliance strong and their benefits numerous, Optimus knew the best way to survive as a species was to integrate themselves with the top species on a different planet. Not subservient or ruling over them, but as a partnership that benefitted both sides. Cybertronians as a race could no longer exist as an independent species; they needed those partnerships to survive. A sick part of him felt like a parasite, he clenched his denta grimly. A whole race unable to live without leaning on another species. How far they had fallen since the golden age of Cybertron.
He paused, clenching his denta. That wasn't entirely true.
The Malto family here on earth had achieved a miracle. In their mind it might be the same level of wonder as discovering that giant robot aliens lived amongst you, but to the Autobots and the children of Cybertron, it was nothing short of a light at the end of a dark tunnel.
The Malto family had somehow created new Cybertronian life here on earth. Terrans, as they were then called. They did not require energon to function, and they were intrinsically linked to their human families. Unable and unwilling to sever the link between the Terrans and the Earthlings, the newly created sparks chose to stay with their family and live a peaceful life, as was their due. Miraculous as their creation was, these beings did not have the spark to leave Earth and bring life back to the darkened Cybertron. It was not their world, and it was not their fight. Their connection to humans made their ties to Earth too strong to leave, and Optimus knew there was nothing he could do. He would never force his ideals upon such new, miraculous creations, but that didn't stop the dark feelings of disappointment that settled deep within his spark. These were not the saviours of his people. And they would not be held responsible for the actions of his kind.
That darker, rational part of his mind wanted to take the Terrans far away and instil within them the urgency of their miraculous existence. That they would be the sole wellspring of hope amongst all Cybertronians, Autobot and Decepticon alike.
He groaned. Part of him had even indirectly tested the bond between the Terrans and their human siblings. The direct connection they had with each other couldn't sustain prolonged distance without negative effect. It wasn't one of his prouder moments, but he carefully analysed and prodded the bond between the Terrans, finding no substitute for the symbiotic attachment they had to their siblings.
To make matters worse, the Emberstone, the catalyst of the Terrans creation, was lost in a cave-in. The waters of the Emberstone sustains the Terrans, but without the object itself, no new life could be created.
Optimus and GHOST had been slowly and steadily working together to excavate the cave-in and retrieve the relic, but the work had been slow going and gruelling. Something about the land being on private property and needing a permit from the local government. He rubbed his optical ridge in frustration thinking about it. How could they not see the urgency of this matter? This single object could save his entire dying race and the reason they couldn't act immediately was paperwork and red tape.
While he was no stranger to the ins and outs of political bureaucracy, war made signing documents on datapads a low priority. It was always plan first, ask for forgiveness later. How many lives could be saved in the time it would take for documents to get approved?
So with a heavy spark and slower servos, Optimus rose from his berth and prepared to start another cycle in an uneasy peacetime.
And when Optimus rose from his berth that earthly morning, he had not expected this cycle to take such a turn.
Reaching a servo to his helm, he commed Ratchet.
:Is there any update on the excavation permit?:
:Optimus, what have I told you about getting a full, proper recharge?:
The Prime in question was already walking towards the main communication room GHOST had provided, recharge abandoned.
:Bad habits are hard to shake, old friend:
Ratchet was silent on the other line, no doubt shaking his helm and muttering under his breath. So Optimus continued.
:I take it there has been no update from the local human government?:
:Actually, a representative has been dispatched to oversee our excavation who will arrive sometime this afternoon. We will provide a summarised description as to the area of land used for the dig, the surrounding area needed for evacuation to retain both privacy and safety, and an itemised list of what we hope to find and how it may be used:
This gave Optimus some pause. :Why must they know how it may be used? We have already established that the item is of great cultural importance and is not a weapon.:
:I predict that like any sentient race, they are always seeking ways in which to improve. That or they may have darker plans with unknown reasons.:
Passing through the halls of GHOST it may seem to the outside observer that the relationship between the humans and Transformers was completely honest. Posters the size of billboards lined the walls of the main halls with cooperative images of humans and Cybertronians working together. Both sides made an effort to ensure a positive public image to civilians, but there was always a level of skepticism on both sides. Neither could be fully trusted with the machinations of their goals, lest they be used against them.
So Optimus and his remaining autobots primarily spoke over comm while in GHOST headquarters. A handful of humans were more trusted than most, Lieutenant Malto among them, but for the most part he was satisfied that he gave off an air of quiet contemplation, not speaking unless absolutely necessary.
Comm speak had become more common in the halls of GHOST among the Cybertronian agents. Not everyone there was fully trustworthy. Optimus himself didn't fully trust every human in the facility, despite being the figurehead.
:I understand your caution. We will agree to the terms given, but only a surface value. Any critical pieces of information that may be used against us will be discussed over Comms first.:
:Understood, Optimus.:
With the main entryway to the communication room in sight, Optimus stepped through and greeted his allies.
"Good morning Ratchet, good morning agents."
A few human agents lingered around the smaller consoles and gave a few smiles or sharp nods in recognition.
"What's on our schedule for the day?"
The sounds of murmuring are heard above you. Slight metallic noises, tinks and clanks, are muddled in with the noise. The voices are low, deep, and they're far enough away that they're hard to make out.
The feeling of wakefulness comes back to you slowly, as if rebooting an old computer. (You don't realise how right you were until later). Cognition comes after; you're not in the water anymore. In fact, the ground feels more solid, and significantly less sharp. A metal table? Your fingers twitch and touch the surface, the cool metal seeps through the tips of your fingers.
You cautiously peek open one eye. Blinding brightness greets it. You emit a low groan, and a deep vibration spills out of your chest. Immediately the murmuring stops and the clanging metal noises grow closer. You freeze, suddenly frightened. The vibration seems to grow within your chest, and you're unable to control it.
From high above you, an answering frequency meets your ears. It's low, like the voices, but careful and hesitant. You don't know what's happening, and at this point you're too scared to open your eyes. The rhythm that seems to originate from you doesn't stop, if anything it continues its ramp up in tone, sounding more like the high pitched ring of a crying baby.
"Optimus stop, you're scaring it." A gruff voice speaks from high above you.
The deep frequency immediately stops. Your fingers clench at your sides.
A low hum is heard from above you. It sounds different from the first voice.
"Little one," the second voice, deep and slow, seemingly addressing the room. Masculine sounding. Is he talking to you?
"Optimus, maybe this one doesn't speak English." The first voice, also masculine, but more gravelly than the second. "Do you understand us, little one?"
You freeze, but don't respond. Maybe if they think you're asleep they'll leave you alone. Your fingers are starting to hurt your palm from how tight you're clenching them. The vibration emitting from you amps up at the question.
Something large and metallic touches your arm. (Don't think about it, don't think about it.) It picks up your arm and lifts it gently, like a large set of pliers. Your body reacts, immediately snatching it out of the hold, and rolling what you can only assume to be further away. Your hand grabs the part of your arm that was touched, and you try to gain an upright position. Knees still on the metal surface, but still very much ready to run, your eyes snap open in the blinding light and you finally get a look at your surroundings.
The room you're in is dim, and fairly militaristic. There are many levels of stairs and structures built into the building, with a large swatch of seemingly empty space in the middle creating long pathways big enough for a plane to pass through. The lights, bright and cold, are the only source of illumination, giving you the sensation of being underground. You can't see any windows looking out, but with how open concept it is, this is either a huge building or underground. There are even a few vehicles on a floor far beneath you, definitely military style.
Your now harsh breathing echoes a little off the concrete and metal walls. The surface that you're currently standing on is shiny metal, unpainted and unpolished; it almost looks thrown together in a hurry. Some sections have exposed wood overtop the concrete. High above are screens and posters sparsely lining the upper walls. One screen says 'We wouldn't be G.H.O.S.T without your spirit!' It depicts a military man shaking hands with something obscured by a poster in the foreground.
But more alarmingly are the two giant metal figures towering above you. One clad in shades of blue and red, slightly taller than the other in white and red. The white and red's hand is outstretched in a reaching position. The giant pliers you felt from earlier were his fingers . Both look nervous, or maybe alarmed.
The red and white one tries again to reach for you. The moment his fingers move, you back up a little further, shaking slightly. His hands immediately open, palms up in a placating manner.
"Whoa there, I won't come near you. Just wanted to make sure you were functioning optimally." His voice is clear and calm. He puts one hand to his chest. "I'm a doctor."
His tone helps calm the vibrations of your chest. They slow, but do not stop. Plucking up your courage, you finally speak.
"W-where am I? What's going on?"
"Oh, you do speak English. Wonderful!" His metal face opens up a touch with a hint of a smile. "I'm sure this is all very new to you. My name is Ratchet, and this is Optimus Prime." He gestures to the red and blue robot who hasn't moved since you opened your eyes.
You don't respond, looking nervously between the two of them.
"Do you have a designation? You look very new. Where's your human?"
My human? Your face furrows. Confusion must be evident on your face because the red and white robot (Ratchet) mimics your expression. He turns to Optimus Prime.
"Do you think the human ran off once coming into contact with the Emberstone?"
The deep voice of the one called Optimus rumbles from above you. "It would be understandable given the situation. I'm only glad the stone's energy signature allowed us to find you before an inevitable cave-in." His blue eyes pierce you. You almost wish you hadn't opened your eyes in the first place. The intensity you see frightens you.
"And reacquiring the Emberstone is a great asset for our kind." Ratchet adds, offhandedly. His large fingers type away at some giant screen mounted on the wall beside you. His tone seems almost as mechanical as his body. There's a lot of complexity in his words, and you don't understand what they're talking about.
The taller robot's blue gaze continues to bore down on you.
"You were created using the Emberstone, a relic of our kind. There are others like you, but they are far away and cannot be reached at the moment." He pauses as if contemplating. "We've taken to calling your kind Terrans, since they are entirely new beings born here on Earth. Robotic Autonomous Beings, like us-only different."
You look down at your hands, clenched tightly, silver and foreign. You shut your eyes and try to stop the panic that's building inside you. The vibration builds with your panic.
This is all so weird. You don't know what's going on, and the not-knowing, the absolute alien-ness of everything makes you feel so alone. But, their voices and tones are so gentle with you. These beings aren't really adults so maybe-
"How did I become like this?" Your mind skips over the panic and the words spill out of you. Your voice rings out shakily through the empty room.
The sound of quiet typing stops, plunging the room into a queer silence. Ratchet speaks up after a long moment.
"Like what?"
Your clenched fists open and close fluidly, you can't take your eyes off of them. The shine of new metal stares back at you. Ribbons of that blue green light from the cave emit from the cracks around your arm. A round gem sits at the back of your right palm. If you looked closely enough, you could even catch a glimpse of your reflection. You're too terrified to look closer so you muster your courage and look up at Ratchet.
"Metal."
Ratchet's eyes swiftly dart to Optimus and he returns the gaze quizzically. They share a moment of silence, almost too long, before returning their eyes back at you. It seemed like they shared an unspoken moment of communication.
"May I see your hand?" His giant hand reaches out towards you, palm up, ever so slowly as if not to spook you. (You appreciate this, you're ready to jump out of your skin. If you still have- don't think about it, don't think about it.) His hand is grey coloured, and blunt at the fingertips. There's no light emitting from the joints, unlike yours. His blue eyes, a different hue than Optimus', meet yours.
His hand stops moving a few feet away from you, giving you the decision to make the final move. Reminding yourself that he's a doctor, even though you have yet to see any of his credentials, you place your palm on the tip of his index finger.
A small red laser spills out of Ratchet's opposite hand and scans your foreign limb. You try not to flinch but fail miserably. A few beeps are heard from the computer screen high above to your left, and Ratchet gently removes his hand to continue typing, this time his eyes glued to the screen.
A few beats pass, the typing never ceasing, and the self proclaimed doctor makes a few scoffing noises, shakes his head once, and even scowls at the screen.
The vibration from your chest is quieter now, but not unnoticeable. Your fingers, no longer touching Ratchet, grip themselves tightly, fingers intertwined, the anxiety within you evident.
The typing continues, faster than ever, and you even try to peer to see what he's writing. The symbols are alien to you, and you quickly give up in favour of looking at Optimus' expression. You don't know these creatures, and you don't know their motives or why they've brought you here. But their faces give away a little of what they're thinking. Quizzical confusion, a quick flash of sadness, a sudden flash of hope, and something deep and dark makes itself known for a moment. For two beings who aren't speaking, they sure do seem like they're having a heated conversation.
Ratchet's eyes flash to you for the briefest of moments, and then back at the screen. His typing slows, and then stops. He turns and looks at Optimus, brow furrowed, and then back to you.
"Do you have a designation?"
You blink. "A what?"
"A name. Do you have a name?"
Oh. That's an easy question."Yes?"
His eyes furrow a bit more, if possible."And who gave you your name?"
It was your brows' turn to furrow. Confused, you answer, "My parents, obviously."
Silence rings like a shot in the room.
Optimus leans forward a bit too quickly to your liking.
"Are you human? Were you human?" His voice is rushed and not at all calm like before. His hands rest unsteadily on the platform where you kneel. Ratchet shoots him a warning look but ultimately doesn't say anything.
You look at Optimus with big questioning eyes, a little more scared than you were a second before. You answer quickly, startled. "What? Of course. Weren't the others?"
Optimus' blue eyes never leave yours. He stares down at you, as if scanning every part of you. It makes you uncomfortable, being so scrutinised. You glance over at Ratchet, who's staring just as intently.
The doctor's voice is quieter when he speaks next. There's a hesitancy in his voice.
"How old are you?"
Another blink, another furrowed brow. "I'm sixteen." You lied. Robots can't tell if you're lying right? All this tension made you instinctively defensive. Sixteen was always a safer age to say than thirteen. You swallowed nervously.
The age you gave didn't seem to make them feel any better. If anything, it seemed worse . Optimus' eyebrows raised and his eyes widened. His gaze finally left your body and looked towards Ratchet. That dark look, combined with a glint of hope, shone in his eyes.
"And was there anyone in the cave with you? What do you remember?" Optimus' hands tense as if holding himself back.
These beings seem desperate for something, that's for 's something you don't know yet, and you're hesitant to give them the information they're asking for. Trusting so soon after meeting them isn't a wise move in your past experience, but you feel you have to give them something if you expect them to help you. But information goes two ways.
Ignoring his questions, and feeling a little braver, you ask, "Where am I?"
The bigger blue robot's anxious hands freeze as if forgetting something. He straightens and mimics clearing his motion seems stiff and unpracticed.
"This is G.H.O.S.T. a small government organisation that helps Cybertronian and human relations. We do our best to help the community, and keep humans safe from any extraterrestrial opposition." He goes on to explain some particulars of the organisation, but a lot of the words are new to you and you have trouble following along. The speech seems very dry and practised, as if spoken like a guest speaker at a school or on the news. You try to follow along, but when he starts to go into detail about some war 30 years ago, you kinda tune out. It seems important, but your brain just can't follow. All this back to back stress makes it easy to zone out a bit, and luckily Optimus doesn't seem to notice.
Ratchet's typing in the background slows and he glances at you a few times during Optimus' speech. Once or twice you see him raise his hand with the lazer and point it at you, only to shake his head and change his mind before putting it away unused.
You get the gist of Optimus' speech that he's trying to make himself look positive in your eyes. That this place is meant to help you. It's working, kinda, but only because you don't see any other options. Ratchet seems a little more detached, you can work with that.
Looking up at Ratchet instead, you address him.
"How did this," you gesture to your metal arms, "happen. Can you fix it?"
You hate your voice for sounding so small. The metal under your knees feels cold. You try not to look down to see what the rest of you looks like.
Ratchet meets your eyes after a beat, slowly tearing his eyes away from the screen. He opens his mouth and closes it, as if trying to decide what to say. Logic wins, and he replies.
"The Emberstone is a relic of Quintus Prime, one of the many important artifacts of our people. It has the ability to 'seed' life on other planets, allowing those of Cybertronian nature to live there. It takes organic material and with the addition of cybermatter, it can create new life."
He continues, "the Terrans, that we mentioned before, were created with the same Emberstone. There is only one known in existence. Those Terrans were created by bonding with human hosts and sharing experiences with them. They exist in separate bodies than their human counterparts, but they are no less connected. We learned they share emotions and even pain. Over time they became members of their human families and decided to stay with them in seclusion where they would be able to live more peaceful lives. We still see them sometimes, but-"
Optimus' deep voice interrupts him.
"The Terrans are unlike you. They were born on this planet and have an unbreakable connection to their human partners. I made the error before assuming you were of the same ilk. Something seems to have happened to make the Cybertronian form exist overtop of the human host. I will put Ratchet in charge of researching hypotheses on how this could have happened."
"It is unknown yet whether this is a reversible change. Your condition is unprecedented."
Ratchet's tone had an edge of finality.
You shut your eyes for what seems like the hundredth time. Seeing is too much, and you struggle to not let it overwhelm you.
After a moment, Optimus continues. "But if it means anything, I'm glad you're here." His voice has that tone that you would hear from a parent addressing a child, a little dismissive or maybe just busy. It has a layer of desperation underneath it you don't quite grasp.
He stands to his full height, you didn't even realise he was bent slightly while talking to you, and looks around the room with a smile.
"You're welcome to stay here while we try to figure out a solution." He nods at Ratchet, who frowns back at him. "I will arrange for a private room for you where you can have your privacy."
"In the meantime, with your help, we have acquired the Emberstone, which is a great asset to our species." (You're not sure if he means you, with you both being metal and all.) "With it, I'm sure we can figure something out. And our best doctor is on the case!"
Ratchet seems to only frown deeper, but he doesn't disagree. Maybe he just doesn't like being told what to do? Optimus continues. "Until then, we at G.H.O.S.T. will ensure your safety and do everything in our power to assist you."
You get the feeling that he's trying to end the conversation politely, a stark contrast to how eager he was when you first woke up and spoke to him. His large grey hands usher you to your uneasy feet and scoop you up unceremoniously. The motion is so alarming that you let out a small 'eep' and your head rushes as the ground shoots further away.
"I'll take you to your new quarters so you can rest."
And without another word to Ratchet, he holds you in one palm and covers you with the other. The obstruction of your vision means you don't get a good look around, but you get the sense that he's moving urgently. His heavy stomps are set to a neutral but hurried pace as you wonder where the hell you're going.
A few moments pass without conversation and from between the cracks of Optimus' fingers you can see small figures deep below you walking around. Not many, just a few human folks in dark military uniform, and you decide against getting their attention. (What would they do against a robot a hundred times their size?)
Shuffling a little closer to the thumb, you continue to watch the floor going by beneath you. Curling up a little smaller, your fingers seem so small in comparison to the ones you're surrounded by. The metal palm you're in is not uncomfortable, but you don't like the way every step seems to bounce you up and down slightly.
Moments after you get used to the slight bouncing and obscured light, Optimus' upper palm lifts away and you can feel yourself being lowered into a room below you.
Stepping gingerly off of the grey hand, you get a good look at your surroundings as Optimus speaks.
"I'm afraid these quarters will have to do for now while we get your accommodations prepared. I theorised that you would be more comfortable sitting and lying on something softer and more familiar."
He gestures around to the surrounding military vehicles and office chairs. You seem to be in some sort of large storage hangar. There are vehicles of different sizes and purposes littered around the concrete floored hanger is so big that Optimus can stand at his full height and not have to worry about his head grazing the ceiling. Each of the walls are cold steel, unpainted and unadorned, with the exception of a black logo that you guess has something to do with the organisation he was talking about earlier. A few spare office chairs are littered around the hanger, seemingly random and not at all comfortable looking. Everything is steely grey and uncoloured, professional and cold. The air in this room must be freezing, but you don't feel it.
The room goes so far back that you can't even see the far wall. Big tarps obscure large vehicles from dust and a large hangar door, big enough that even the largest vehicle can pass through, sits at the midpoint on the left wall. The doors are massive, and look incredibly heavy. A huge beam keeps the doors tightly shut with a mechanism that probably only Optimus or Ratchet could use. If you wanted to escape from there, you don't see how.
"The doors are unlocked in all the vehicles if you need somewhere to lie down. Feel free to use this space to relax while we get a proper room ready for you."
You notice that he never asked if you wanted to stay here. He's not giving you a choice, or maybe he's just forgotten to ask. You hope it's the latter, but you don't speak up.
Without your noticing, he has turned and faced the door you probably came in. Your sight was obscured on the way in.
"Either Ratchet or I will be with you shortly once the preparations are complete." His hand hovers on the massive door frame. He pauses as if to say something else, his mouth opening, but then he shuts it and turns away, having changed his mind apparently. His booming steps get quieter as he walks away, the door shutting behind him automatically with a deep mechanical thump.
You're alone now, as the silence creeps around you. The walls, ever expansive, seem to press in closer suffocatingly. You shuffle over to the closest vehicle and lie down on the back seat, closing your eyes. The leather is cold but it doesn't bother you. It's kinda stiff but anything is better than solid concrete and steel floors.
Clutching your fingers together tightly, you curl into a ball, and try not to think of anything.
