To Have a Spark
Facing Agincourt
"My friends are my estate."
-Emily Dickinson
"I... I need to go back in."
"Can you?" June was the one to ask.
"I do not believe there is much hope left. The decay..."
"What have we gotten into?" Ratchet moaned. For once, the Prime almost didn't pin the voice that belonged to the question. It may as well have come from more than one of them at once.
"We must...We must try. Keep trying," Optimus unsteadily sat up, but he made no move to 'unplug'. Ratchet watched Optimus hold his face in his hands, shaking his head in some strange emotion between dismay, spark-break and confusion. Could they work with this? Could they go further into what was obviously a mind ripe for the twisting? They weren't gods, yet they had the tools right here, at their fingertips.
"What kind of...monsters would treat children like that?" June couldn't stop the question from coming out.
Fowler sighed. He had only needed to hear what came through the patch monitors to deduce what the Prime was witness to.
"We're not as stellar as we think we are, June. Places like that...still exist. They aren't as infamous as Pennhurst, but they're out there. When police find them...the ones that do their jobs, that is...these facilities are seized and shut down. The tenants are relocated, treated for injuries and placed in foster care. It's...not perfect."
"Agent Fowler, I'm not familiar with your Earth's history. Care to explain?" The look Fowler gave the medic said very clearly that he did not like doing this. He was a soldier, one of Uncle Sam's own. And like any upright soldier, he felt a chilling disgust at the dark side of American history.
"During the early twentieth century, there was...a thought. It's called Eugenics. It basically states that if you are not a fully able bodied person, you were not fit to live. You're not considered an American citizen. You were hidden, locked up in these asylums and no one cared. Abuse, unethical experiments, murder. You name it, it happened. Some think it was inspired by Adolf Hitler's ideology," Fowler made a face, like merely describing this tasted horrid in his mouth.
"Hitler?"
"A human dictator, Doc-Bot. He brutally murdered twelve million humans in a span of about five years, because he believed they were literally unfit to live."
June shuddered as Ratchet turned abruptly away. The medic almost ran to the nearest disposal bin he could find and violently purged. No one mentioned the medic's momentary loss of composure.
"You all right, Ratchet?" June whispered.
"No, I'm...I'm not. I will not be until we can deal with this."
"Do we let Prime go in again?" Fowler stood up from sitting on the catwalk stair, breathing deeply. His dark skin had an unpleasant hint of green.
"Do we have a choice?" Ratchet didn't hold back the question.
"Agent Fowler, where are his parents?" June asked.
"One's dead. The other is...distant, recently deployed to Okinawa. The family moved around a lot – Military, you know. After two years in a Florida asylum, the family was relocated and the asylum shut down, turned into an actual hospital. This kid pretty much got on on his own. After the third suicide attempt, I don't know," Fowler supplied.
"Agent Fowler. Who, in the absence of a parent, would be his guardian?" Ratchet continued June's line of questioning.
"I don't think there are any other living relatives. Not in the country, anyway. Beyond that, fostering is what's left. And before you ask, no. I'm not sure I'm going to let you 'Bots handle him for much longer."
June glared silently at him, then glanced up at the Prime.
"Optimus, are you sure? I won't let Ratchet pull that switch again until we have a game plan," she continued.
"I will. I believe legal matters can wait. Sparks cannot."
"So, again. What's the game plan? What do you plan on telling him when you get in there?" Her eyes flicked to Ratchet, silently daring him to flip the switch too early. He met hers evenly. He knew when to move.
For a minute, the Prime sat, silently running everything in his head. An idea began to form, but from the look in his optics, he didn't like it. It ground against everything he believed in.
A starving man has a choice between tainted meat...and merely continuing to starve. What ought he do?
"I know what I shall tell him," When he spoke again, both June and Ratchet almost held their breath. Seconds later, the nurse's eyebrows furrowed in a slowly burning scowl.
With the way he said that, the deduction became clear.
"Optimus Prime, are you thinking clearly?!" June Darby almost shouted at the mech sitting in front of her. She found the idea to be ludicrous. Absolutely crazy, and how many doctor-patient boundaries was he to cross? How many Autobot rules was he about to shatter in the process? She wasn't alone.
"You're almost sounding like a Decepticon," Ratchet's hands lowered to his hip actuators.
"I realise that, old friend. What else will he believe? I have no doubt there will be pain. A wound must be lanced before it can heal. And he will know the truth. When he does, he will not be alone, as you are not alone. So, I ask you. May I try this?"
None denied him, yet none were at ease.
"Fine. I've got to report to Uncle Sam. But, Prime? If you screw up, you'll be losing more than this kid you don't even know," Agent Fowler stalked out of Omega One. He never heard Ratchet hiss something deeply obscene in Cybertronian at his back, or the Prime's low, bone-rattling growl.
"Optimus..."
"How else can I do this? What I saw..."
"I know. We all saw it. I...You don't have to go in again, Optimus. We'll find another way," Ratchet laid a hand on Optimus' back.
"No, Ratchet. There is no other way," the Prime's tone remained steady by sheer will.
"Someone else could go in."
"Who? Who could see that again? I could no more ask you, or any of the others than I could..." Optimus' tone suddenly shot with an unknown fury, only to trail off brokenly.
"I could go in."
"No, Ratchet. We need you on the outside. You are the medic."
"Optimus, I can't let you go in that human's head again! Not if it breaks you like this!" Ratchet cried, swinging Optimus' shoulders around to meet him face to face.
Briefly, the medic asked himself why he'd followed the Prime to this Pit-forsaken dirtball in the first place. His own thoughts answered his own question. They all could nearly predict what the Prime would say, and they loved him for it. They loved him for his words, his ways. It was why he followed him, why they all followed him, why they looked up to him so, but the medic now wondered if Optimus Prime really did have a breaking point. A part of him never wanted to find out where that threshold lay.
"Suggestions then, Doctor?" The responding question was nearly ground out between clenched dentae.
"I...have none."
"Proceed, Ratchet," his words were almost an order. Almost. One optic glanced at June as he lay back down. The nurse nodded curtly.
The waking world dissolved, almost shattered in transition.
s=
The world shattered into focus again. For some reason, Optimus Prime was thankful that he landed next to the memorial statue. Above him, the roiling amethyst-black sky opened up with a thin, cold sheet of misting rain – the kind of rain that patiently chills to the bone.
Optimus frowned and knelt before the memorial. He didn't like the deepening, dingy grey-yellow discolouration. Or the spider-web cracks forming in the stone. A hand carefully lifted, fingers touching the statue's face so lightly the Prime almost wasn't sure he made contact at all.
"Who were you, that your death cuts so deeply?" the Prime murmured. He didn't expect a response in this desolate dreamscape.
He had to find out. The oblivion around him did not answer. Optics flickered around the memorial, noting dozens of shattered-glass shards hanging about. He stood and patiently explored them, peering into two lives at once.
One shard displayed a pair of boys, one about twelve or thirteen and the other one about five years older. They stood together in a choral arrangement. Their voices contrasted yet blended nicely in song – one the boyish contralto and the other, the deepening tenor-baritone of manhood.
Another displayed the same two individuals, this time outside. Beneath a massive pine tree, one taught the other. The elder gently guided the younger into various martial poses.
"Like that. No, your left hand needs to come up a little more. Just like that," Leonard's warm voice encouraged.
"So when you bring it down, your own bodyweight backs the force up?" Renalt hesitantly questioned.
"Exactly. No brute strength necessary. Besides, you're not built for that. You're not a bruiser or a tank."
"And you are?" Renalt laughed.
"More of one than you. Think light-medium-heavy. I'm a medium-weight," Leonard's voice conveyed his smile.
The Prime gave a sound that might be described as a purr of approval. He moved on to another shard. This one depicted the same two boys, though it was clear a little time had passed. Leonard was clearly into manhood now and wore Army fatigues. Renalt wasn't far behind but still had his boyish gangliness. Both were damp with sweat, covered in dirt and rock-dust.
"Damn, that rock is a beast!" Renalt exclaimed before downing water from a canteen.
"That's why they call it 'The Crag', Renault. Listen, I want to share something with you," Leonard guided Renalt to a spot they clearly frequented, one of those secret spots close friends find in hidden places. It was a small, woody clearing overlooked by 'The Crag'. The two sat on the ground facing one another. Renalt heard the clicking hiss of a pocket knife.
"What's going down, Len?"
"I want to make it formal. You know, like the ancient peoples did. The Greeks called it Adelphopoiesis. Icelanders called it a Leikr," Leonard's voice took on a tone one might hear before a highly sacred religious event.
"Wait. Seriously?" Shock was evident.
"I'm serious, Renault. You're the little brother I never had. So...would you want to?" Len gently brushed a single tear from his companion's eye.
Renalt silently nodded, finding himself unable to speak. His eyebrows arched a little as he heard a cork pop. Liquid poured. He smelled blood.
"Give me your hand."
Renalt did as he was asked. He managed not to wince too much as his right palm was sliced. Their hands came together, clasping. With his free hand, Leonard lifted a plain-looking, yet obviously "for religious use only" chalice to his lips. He sipped the sweet, weak wine, then guided the cup to his soon-to-be brother's free hand.
"Take a sip. It's okay, it's watered down. I asked the chaplain," Leonard guided, then smiled as Renalt sipped. He put the glass down and waited about thirty seconds in silence.
"Repeat after me, okay?"
"Okay."
"Brother to brother, I am yours in life and death," Leonard's piercing blue eyes met Renalt's own in a one-way gaze.
The vision in the glass faded from the Prime's eyes then.
Optimus stood then, returning to the stone relic. A shuddering rush of air preceded his words. A hand extended, brushing the statue's face with a feather-light touch.
"Forgive me, Leonard, for what I believe I must do. I fear for his life."
The rain grew colder. The effigy crumbled to dust under his hand. Alarmed, the Prime drew back and almost stumbled over something. Or someone. Standing behind him, the wiry little teenager with tanned skin and sandy blond hair made himself known. It wasn't entirely clear if he'd heard the Prime's low, desperate whisper.
"Who are you?"
"I am he."