[Bay] War Without End - Sideswipe Part Two
Title: War Without End Sideswipe
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, AU to AOE, War Without End
Characters: Ensemble with focus on Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Ratchet, Optimus Prime, Bumblebee
Rating: T
Warnings: character death, canon typical violence
Description: His brother is a stranger. His friends are ghosts. In the end, Sideswipe still has to choose, and it isn't much a choice after all.
War Without End - Sideswipe
Part Two
Steps, barely audible, announce the arrival of someone. They drag Sideswipe from his state of half-recharge. He forces himself online, uncurling from his position to peer into the hallway. He dares to hope, but the link with his brother is completely silent. Distant like there are still galaxies between them.
Prowl comes into view. His expression is neutral, but there are several pieces of temp plating evident on his frame.
Sideswipe leaps up thoughtlessly but lurches sideways as his injured knee and hip protest. He crashes against the wall and stays there, using it as a support.
“Prowl,” he acknowledges with a wince. “I--”
“Sunstreaker is stable,” Prowl cuts him off. “Ratchet is optimistic that he’ll make a full recovery.” There's a pause, his lips twitching in amusement. “Though given the state of his paint job, we might all come to regret that.”
Relief escapes Sideswipe in a noisy sound. He sags down the wall, his own paint scraping, until he sits in an ungainly heap on the floor.
“Thank Primus.”
His optics offline. The heavy band around his spark eases, and Sides twitches, wishing he could see his brother, touch him, apologize profusely and fix this chasm that has split between them.
“Are you injured?” Prowl asks then, and his voice is softer than Sideswipe has ever heard.
His optics snap online involuntarily and nearly jolts at how close Prowl is now. Crouching down just beyond the cell. Within touching distance save for the energy bars. He gives Prowl a hard look followed by a dismissive wave.
“I'll live. My knee's scrap. Again. But I'm functioning.”
“Functioning,” Prowl repeats, and there's something in his tone that implies distaste. He shakes his head. “Are you fueled?”
“Fifty-six percent.”
Sides can't quite hide the wariness in his tone. Not when Prowl's engine revs sharply at his answer and a small shudder ripples down the tactician's plating.
“Prime has much to answer for,” Prowl mutters to himself before turning back. He studies Sides for a long moment, searching, assessing. “I want to trust you, Sideswipe. I want to believe that you truly wish to be here.”
His optics are incredibly bright, even though the brig is well-lit. And his manner is odd. Not hostile. Or detached. Strangely relaxed. Hesitantly welcoming even.
It’s as jarring as it is confusing.
Sideswipe stares.
This only seems to amuse Prowl as he looks straight back.
“I do want to trust you.” It’s soft again, gentle at the edges, apologizing. “But until such time that I can, you must remain in this cell. I’ll send Ratchet later - with a guard - to attend you.”
A guard?
Sideswipe feels his head spin. Torn amongst confusion, gratitude, and a hundred other things. He wants to say thanks. He wants to protest. It’s all so strange. Leaving Prime. Leaving Bee. Looking at a mech wearing an Autobot badge, whilst knowing he bears one himself. Feeling like they’re both old friends and supposed to be enemies.
He cycles a ventilation. Takes a moment to center himself.
“I understand.”
Prowl nods and stands. “Very well.”
There's a moment, a pause. Then, the strange sense of expectation before the atmosphere tightens. Skywarp is there, in the cell with him.
“You will hand over your weapons,” Prowl continues, voice shifting. Even as Skywarp stands there, arms over his chestplate and looking far too smug. “You will disable your communications equipment. And you will wait - patiently - until we are free to attend to your presence. Is that acceptable?”
So this is what it feels like to be on the end of Prowl's interrogations. The tactician is neither rude nor intimidating, but Sides has the urge to spill his memory core, even though Prowl has demanded nothing from him. There's something about the flat stare, the uncompromising tone. It makes him simultaneously comforted and uneasy.
“Yeah,” Sideswipe replies. “Sure thing.”
He motions to Skywarp, disengaging his blasters and handing them over from his spot on the floor. That’s along with taking out the power cores for his blades. They're attached to his frame so he can't remove them short of yanking them out. But he can at least take away their capacity to run a charge.
The Seeker accepts his weapons in silence. In return, he hands over a comm scrambler and a cube of energon.
Energon! Real energon, too.
It's an opalescent mauve, shimmering in the confines of the cube. Sideswipe's tank gurgles. He's nowhere close to shut down from energon loss, but with the slag he's been drinking, this cube makes him feel starved.
He doesn't snatch it from Skywarp's hands, but it's a near thing. His tanks contract eagerly. He slaps the blocker on to his comm unit, where it locks into place, and uncaps the cube. Olfactory sensors draw in the sun-sweet scent of it.
Skywarp smirks at him and then pops out of existence. He takes Sideswipe's weapons with him.
“Ratchet will be down shortly,” Prowl offers as he watches everything. “He’ll bring word of Sunstreaker, I'm told. Until then, I would suggest you recharge.”
“Noted,” Sides responds and stares at his cube. It’s the safer thing to look at anyway.
He wants to drink it but not with Prowl watching. That’ll only betray how very undercharged he is because Sides knows he won't be able to completely control himself. Fortunately, Prowl just gives another nod and takes the opportunity to leave. He departs with a single backward glance, and Sideswipe waits for a moment in silence, clutching the cube of energon as though it is a lifeline.
And it is, he reckons.
He drinks as slowly as he can, savoring each drop. He marvels at what Ratchet and Prowl - with the Decepticons - have accomplished. Compared to what he left behind with Prime and the humans, there is a striking difference.
A sobering thought.
Sides slumps against the wall, setting his empty cube beside himself. He stretches out his injured leg and pokes ineffectually at the shattered knee. The energon hits his tanks, and the energy starts to permeate throughout his frame. It leaves a tingling warmth in its wake that makes him shiver.
There's nothing he can do but wait.
o0o0o
He hears Ratchet before he sees him. The medic's familiar vocal tones are grumbling and accompanied by two pairs of pedesteps. Sides thinks to push himself upright, to greet them with some dignity, but he gets halfway up the wall before his knee decides that dignity is overrated.
Sideswipe bites out a cry as he lurches to the side and clatters to the floor in an ungainly sprawl of limbs. His knee spits sparks into the air. His hip throbs a protest.
“What in Primus' name... Sideswipe!” Ratchet growls irritation, and there's a multitude of beeps before Sides hears the energy bars disperse. “What have you done to yourself?”
He tries to shake it off, aiming for a smile as he attempts to roll over. “I didn't do it.”
He's not entirely sure who'd gotten him to be honest.
“It was Tracks,” a second voice corrects. This one, Sideswipe recognizes… but only just.
He fails to hide his scowl as he sees Drift just behind Ratchet's left shoulder. The medic himself is crouching on the floor and mech-handling Sideswipe onto his back.
“Ow,” Sides adds before he can stop himself.
It’s partially because he always razzes Ratchet. But mostly because Ratchet's being less than gentle and all of his aches and pains are making themselves known. Especially now that the energon is there to help him remember how much he hurts.
“Easy, Ratch. It won't make Sunny happy if you dismantle me, you know.”
“No, but it might make me feel better,” the medic grouses. Then, he shakes his helm, optics dimming. “Primus, you're a mess.”
Sideswipe shrugs in a way that would make even Jazz feel shameful.
“No medic. We did the best we can.”
Drift gives him a look that is only just not a scowl. Ratchet, however, immediately softens his touch.
“Well, you have one now.”
“How's Sunny?” Sideswipe asks then, but he knows without asking. Knows his twin is still out cold. Will be for some time yet. And really, Sides is merely trying to step away from the proverbial gestalt in the room, looming over all of them. There will be plenty of time for that later.
“What kind of a medic do you think I am?” Ratchet demands as his hands get to work. Tools spiral out of his fingers, and his subspace empties various supplies onto the floor. “The fragger’ll be just fine despite trying to kill himself. Death by Prime.”
Sideswipe frowns.
Frankly, he's not so sure that Prime wouldn't have gone after Sunstreaker anyway. Things had been weird between them, and it was more than a result of Sunstreaker's increasing belligerence and insubordination.
“You'll live, too. Fortunately for you, I now have the capacity to fix you properly,” Ratchet continues as the scent of welding fills the air. “Behave and I might even get you out of this brig.”
Sides cycles a ventilation. He does not look at Ratchet.
“How long?”
“A few days at least,” Drift offers, arms folded across his chest. His optics assess carefully, but his stance is less hostility and more watchfulness. As if unsure what to think of this entire situation but unwilling to put Ratchet in the least bit of danger.
Sideswipe considers that. Glancing finally to Ratchet and then back to Drift. For all that they’re fugitives, both are in better repair than all of Prime’s Autobots put together. Not to mention, it's a little staggering. For months, Prime has had them searching for Ratchet and the traitors and the ‘Cons. And for those same months, said traitors have been working to get themselves off-planet and away.
Amazing how different their priorities had been.
“And then what?” he asks as all of the little pain warnings suddenly cease. Tension drains out of his frame and relief colors his field. Primus… it feels good to have a real medic again.
“It's a surprise,” Ratchet drawls, giving Sideswipe a long look, even as his hands are gentle. “You know we can't tell you, brat. Not until we're sure.”
Sides puts on a pout. “You know you can trust me.”
“Actually, we don't,” Drift counters with narrowed optics. His field, once a distant tingle all but disappears. So withdrawn that Sideswipe can't even get a taste of what he's feeling. “You hesitated.”
“Hesitated,” Sideswipe repeats with a frown.
Which time?
“When Skywarp gave you a choice,” Ratchet clarifies as if reading his processor. There’s a prickle of a scan as he finishes up. Of course, for a real medic, all of Sideswipe's repairs were simple fixes. “We don't begrudge you the need to think it over, but that you didn't immediately know means you aren't entirely certain of your decision now.”
Sideswipe looks at him, hard and unyielding. It makes sense, even if it isn’t fair. Even Ratchet of all mechs should know him better.
“You honestly think I’d stay,” he begins before he even realizes the words are out. “You think I’d stay with him… with Prime after he tried to take to take my brother’s head off.”
His tone is as incredulous as it is harsh, and his words shock everyone. Including himself. But not nearly as much as his sudden swell of anger. Of rage that Prime… that a mech he’d followed through death and torture and horror had actually tried to kill his twin.
Sideswipe hadn’t really thought of it. Hadn’t let himself think it. But it’s there now. And it’s furious, sharp and deep.
He presses a hand to his chassis. As if trying to reach inside to the gaping hole where his twin should be. Sunstreaker is so distant, so far away. They might as well be in different galaxies his spark hurts so much. Aching. Gnawing. Burning with fury even as his spark cries out.
Then, there are fingers on his shoulder. Gentle. Familiar. And he’s shaking, Sideswipe realizes. Trembling as Ratchet tries to hold him up. Hold him together.
He stills then. Makes himself stop and look away. Feeling himself tense.
There are many things he could say. Many thoughts jumbling around. Circling and swirling and twisting until he doesn’t know how to make sense of it. Doesn’t even know where to begin.
“I wouldn't abandon Sunstreaker,” he finally says as Ratchet hovers next to him and Sideswipe is all but kneeling in his lap.
It’d almost be funny if it wasn’t so tragic.
“I know,” Ratchet offers and squeezes his shoulder. “I know you. I know you wouldn’t.”
He pauses then, seeming to want to say something else. To say something else.
Instead, he squeezes Sideswipe’s shoulder again and slowly rises to his pedes. His hands are painfully gentle as he helps Sideswipe shift to a sitting position. It’s only then that Sides realizes that his knee can actually bend now. And without pain even. Imagine that.
“I know you wouldn’t,” Ratchet repeats as he does another quick scan, “but it's not up to me anymore. Frag, it's not even up to Prowl. We all have to agree.” He doesn’t look at Drift. He doesn’t have to. “Though some of us are being more contrary than others.”
Drift huffs out a burst of air, but his manner is more relaxed again. His field is once more present, reaching out to brush Ratchet. And Sideswipe by proxy as close as they are.
“Excuse me for being concerned about your safety,” he mutters, but its all bark and no bite.
“I wouldn’t hurt Ratchet,” Sideswipe retorts, more than a little disgusted by the implication. Frag, the idea of lifting his blaster against Ratchet had been one of the main things holding him back.
He owed his spark to the medic a thousand times over. Like frag he'd repay that by trying to kill Ratchet.
Drift stares him down. “We’ll have to agree to disagree about that then. For now, you'll just have to be patient and wait in here like a good little sparkling.”
Sideswipe's optics narrow, but Ratchet's hand rests on the top of his helm, giving him a little pat.
“Ignore Drift,” Ratchet says, mirth darkening his tone. “He seems to have acquired a case of jealousy.”
Drift, to Sideswipe's amusement, sputters.
Ratchet chuckles, continuing with, “He is right, unfortunately. You'll have to stay in here for a little while yet. Though I'll do my best to encourage them to change their minds sooner.”
“Unlikely,” Drift mutters and moves toward the exit.
Sides watches them go. “I won't betray you.”
Drift pauses, turning to look back. “Then why did you stay with Prime?” he inquires, and when Ratchet made a noise, he shakes his helm. Miraculously, Ratchet lapses back into silence.
Clearly, Drift expects an answer.
Sideswipe sighs and drapes his arms over his knees. “Where else would I go? Would we go?” he asks right back.
When Drift's optics darken, Sideswipe shrugs. It’s not as casual as he’d like though. Not when he thinks of what happened to Sunny. Of what almost happened to Sunny.
“Besides,” he adds and tries for nonchalance, “he's the Prime. I made a vow.”
Drift studies him. “And that was enough for you?”
His helm dips, and he looks at nothing.
“You weren't there,” Sideswipe murmurs. “You didn't see him take out the Fallen. Or kill Sentinel and Megatron. You don't know what he's capable of.”
Drift and Ratchet both stare at him. He shakes his helm, vocalizer glitching a crawl of static.
“He’s just… He’s…” He shrugs again and tries a different track. “I'm not that strong. I can't carry that much shame. I have to believe I was on the right side. Otherwise, I no more deserve a second chance than the ‘Cons that Prime destroys.”
“Destroys,” Drift repeats, and his vocal tones go flat. “That’s an apt word.” He steps out of the cell, hitting the switch on the panel so the energon bars reactivate. “He’d have killed Sunstreaker. Offlined him right in front of you. Just remember that.”
Sideswipe's hands curl into fists before he can stop himself, and he’s on his pedes then. But the look Ratchet gives quick-freezes his temper. He shakes himself back from the edge.
Remember? As if he could ever forget.
“I'm more than aware,” Sideswipe shoots back. “I’ll never go back to Earth. Or to Prime.”
“Good,” Ratchet says, all but elbowing Drift aside and giving him a chastising look. “That's what we want to hear. Until then, get some recharge. We'll come for you.”
They vanish down the hallway. Still, Sides can almost pick out the sound of them arguing until their steps take them too far away.
He vents and wonders who they’ll send next.
o0o0o
His chronometer counts the time, still adjusted for Earth, so Sides knows that it’s three days before they come release him. Three days of solitude and silence, where someone delivers energon whilst he's in recharge, and no one stops by to answer his questions.
That all changes on the morning of the fourth day. He’s stirred from recharge by the sound of the bars powering down. It's a testament into itself that he had been so deep in recharge. That he'd felt comfortable enough to do that even when here in a brig.
He'd never fully shut down while with the Autobots. He couldn't trust the humans. He couldn't trust his allies. In the end, he couldn’t even really trust his brother.
Besides, the warehouse was fragging uncomfortable.
But in a brig in the rebuilt Ark? In the company of traitors? He recharges like a sparkling. What does that say?
“Up and at 'em, Sideswipe!” says a familiar voice, one that’s more than a little too cheerful. “You want out of this cell, don't you?”
Sides groans, sitting up on his berth and swinging his legs around the edge.
“Wheeljack?”
He can't help it; he gapes. It's been deca-vorns since he's seen the engineer.
Que would be thrilled to know his mentor’s still alive. That is, if Barricade hadn't killed him. Fragger.
“You think a little something like a planet-wide war would kill me?” Wheeljack asks and with a flash of his vocal indicators hands over a cube of energon. “We're free of the solar system. Prowl seems to think now is as good a time as any to let you go.”
“Prowl?” Sides repeats, taking the energon.
He's noticed that while they keep bringing him the same grade, the portions have been getting smaller. How Ratchet's managing his fuel intake from a distance is a mystery to him.
Flashing optics are all the indication he has of Jack grinning. “Our leader. There are ten of us. Eleven if we count Sunstreaker and twelve if we count you.”
“Ten?”
Wheeljack laughs at that. Then again at the look on his face.
“Come on, I'll show you.”
There’s a gesture for Sideswipe to follow, so he hops off the berth, marveling at the stability of his knee. It hasn't felt like this in vorns. Oh, there's the telltale ache of recent repairs, but it's a good ache. Like coming out of alt-mode after being trapped in it for hours on patrol.
“There's me, of course. And Ratchet and Prowl and Drift,” Jack explains as he leads them out into the corridor. Three other cells are visible though on a vessel of this size, there have to be more. “You know about Skywarp and Thundercracker, too. I came with Tracks and Dreadwing.”
Sideswipe listens with half an audial as the engineer babbles on, talking about all the mechs they have on board and the many things they've accomplished since splitting off from Prime. For his part, Sides is fascinated by how much work has been done on the Ark. He remembers what it used to look like, having seen the image-captures Ratchet had taken the first time they ventured to the moon.
He sees evidence of a rebuild. Panels that don't quite match in color or construction that are fitted into the walls like a puzzle. Doors that are very obviously sealed off. Streaks of rust and char marks in the ceiling and floors. Some of the lights flicker or don't work at all, though there are plenty enough to see with.
They pass an open doorway, what looks to be some kind of storage room. Then, Wheeljack leads them into a lift of all things. A lift!
Sideswipe gapes a little as they step inside, the buttons indicating that there are at least eight levels. Jack presses the button to the bridge, and up they go, the lift click-clicking as it rises.
“I can't believe how quickly you rebuilt this,” he comments when Wheeljack's babble pauses. “How did you manage it?”
Wheeljack chuckles. “Lots and lots of nights without recharge. Skywarp is a capable hand, and Astrotrain proved valuable as well when he wasn't being an aft. Dreadwing and Thundercracker were good for heavy lifting.”
“Astrotrain?”
The engineer's tone turns serious.
“Prime killed him.” His helm tilts as though he only wants to watch the lift slowly creep down. “Astrotrain had revenge on his processor, and nothing else would suffice. He wouldn't listen to any of us.”
The lift chimes, and the door slides open. Wheeljack's off, almost faster than Sides can follow, forcing him into a jog. He hurries to catch up, only to skid to a halt when he realizes where he is.
The bridge.
Prowl's at the helm, hands resting on a holographic console, sensor panels at rest. A familiar, large Seeker is on his right at another console, communications Sideswipe supposes. The dark blue mech is the one who had blindsided Prime, enabling Skywarp to swoop in and claim Sunstreaker.
There's also a brightly-tinted yellow flyer on the other side. He’s yet another Seeker by the looks of him.
Wheeljack plants his hands on his hips. “Well, don't you all look busy,” he drawls with his helm swiveling as he looks around. “Where's TC?”
Sides has a klik to sense someone looming at his backstrut.
“Behind you.”
Sideswipe's plating crawls as he whirls around. He hadn't heard the mech approach, and it's more than a little disconcerting to have him suddenly there. That he towers over Sides by more than a few helms might have something to do with it.
“Or didn't you notice?” Thundercracker asks, something like amusement in his features as he brushes past them and heads to the control console. He hands Prowl a datapads.
“You skulk around here almost worse than he does,” Wheeljack retorts with a cheerful huff, nodding his helm at Prowl. “So no, I didn't notice.”
“You should be more observant,” Thundercracker replies. His words are a chastisement, but his tone hints of a tease.
Sideswipe boggles at them. It's so creepy how comfortable they are with one another.
“I'm as observant as I need to be,” Jack drawls and then pats Sides on the shoulder, all but shoving him forward. “Our prisoner, boss. Just as you requested.”
“I've told you not to call me that,” Prowl comments, door panels jutting sharply as he glances at his datapad. “And it would be poor manners to call Sideswipe a prisoner.”
“Bait then,” Thundercracker corrects with a smirk. His voice is deep but disturbingly playful as he glances at Prowl.
Muffled laughter emerges from the sun-yellow Seeker at the next console. He smiles but doesn't look up from his datapad.
“He’s an ally. For now,” Prowl corrects and hands his datapad back. “I leave the bridge in your hands. Try not to wreck my ship.”
Thundercracker flickers his optics, fingers snapping the edge of Prowl's doors. “I'm not the one who crash-landed on Earth.”
“You certainly didn't make for a skillful landing either. From what I hear, Ratchet was picking debris out of your joints for weeks,” Prowl retorts.
Sideswipe looks on in utter horror. Are they flirting?
“You'll get used to it. Just be glad Dreadwing's not adding his two creds worth,” Wheeljack says in an aside.
Sides shakes his helm, all of the sudden sympathetic with the human phrase of wanting to pinch oneself awake. He feels as though he's tumbled down a rabbit hole, and the universe doesn't make sense anymore.
And how awful is it that fighting and war and death are what make sense to him now?
“Why would he?” he questions, and his tone is more than a little dazed.
Wheeljack's indicators flash at him. “Oh, you'll find out.”
“Don't you have somewhere to be?” Prowl interrupts, vocals a little stiff and optics narrowed as they focused on Wheeljack.
The engineer chuckles. “On this ship? I have a list the size of Luna-1 of things that need to be fixed.” He sketches a salute that he must have picked up from the humans. “But back to work I go. See ya later, Sides.”
Jack abandons him to the madness, leaving Sideswipe to look at Prowl with nothing short of wariness.
“You look better,” the other mech offers with a quick glance up and down Sideswipe's frame. “Fully-repaired and fueled, I imagine.”
“Ratchet does good work,” Sides replies, and he makes a show of looking around the bridge, lingering on the unfamiliar faceplates. “You going to introduce me, or does a prisoner not get that right?”
“You are not a prisoner,” Prowl reiterates, though he does half-turn and gestures to each mech in turn. “You know of Thundercracker. Dreadwing is on communications, and Sunstorm is currently studying. Or at least he should be.” The latter is said with a firm look the yellow Seeker's direction.
Obediently, Sunstorm bends back over his datapad, wings flattening against his back as though trying to hide himself from Prowl's scrutiny. It's almost cute, sparkling-like behavior, but he’s far too large to be that. Not that they are capable of sparking them anymore anyway.
Sunstorm.
Sideswipe runs the name through his databanks, but it doesn't come up familiar. Not that he knows every Decepticon that has ever existed, but this particular one has never done anything notable in the war effort. Dreadwing, however, is a designation Sideswipe recognizes. If only because he was once a commander.
The more obvious detail sticks out to Sideswipe like a gummed-up hydraulic.
“Your bridge is full of Decepticons,” he points out.
“There are no Decepticons here,” Prowl returns. He motions for Sideswipe to follow him, probably a wise thing considering the glares he's now earning from two of the three Seekers. “Just as there are no Autobots.”
Sideswipe scoffs. “Then what do you call yourself?” he demands with a pointed look at the brand still emblazoned on Prowl's shoulder.
Prowl hits the button for the lift and gives him a long look. “A survivor.”
A soft chime announces the lift's presence, and the door slides open. Prowl enters. Sideswipe follows, still chewing on that answer. They are all survivors, aren't they? In one form or another? Strange, however, that Prowl hadn't used the term Neutral.
“Ratchet wants to see you first,” Prowl continues as he picks the level he wants and settles in to wait. “After which, I'll give you a brief tour, explain your duties and our expectations, and then show you your quarters. You'll be bunking with your brother. Space is limited, after all.”
Sideswipe frowns as he processes that.
“Duties?”
“You have to earn your keep. There's plenty to do.” Prowl gives him an entertained look. “I hear Ratchet is looking for a second pair of hands.”
“I'd rather have monitor duty,” Sideswipe drawls with a roll of his optics.
“That can be arranged.”
The lift comes to a stop as Prowl's field floods with amusement, brushing briefly against Sides' own. Prowl steps out with Sideswipe following. His spark gives a little jump that lets him know that Sunstreaker is close. But it’s still muted, which means that his twin has to be in stasis at best.
He contemplates that even as they head down a quiet hallway.
“Most of the rooms are still sealed as they await reconstruction,” Prowl explains, pointing at doors that have two strips of colored tape crisscrossing them. “In the future they can be hab-suites or storage rooms or whatever we need them to be.”
Sides inclines his helm. “This Ark. It's home now, isn't it?”
“It’s the closest thing we have to one, yes,” Prowl answers, and his sensor panels stiffen. “Since we have nothing else.”
Sides can agree with that. Earth had never felt like home to him, and with Cybertron gone, he supposes this ship is the next best thing. At least, he won't have to worry about a human doing something untoward to him during his recharge. He'll be, dare he say it, safe.
And that thought sends something warm and shivery down his backstrut. He can't put it into better words than that.
Two doors come into view, the small windows and the words emblazoned across the front identifying the medbay. Sideswipe feels an unreasonable urge to turn around and run away because entering Ratchet's domain is never a smart thing.
Then again, the medic finally has the facilities he's needed. Perhaps that means he'll be in a good mood.
Eh… doubtful.
Prowl walks in without fear, brave mech that he is, and Sideswipe isn't too ashamed to admit that he uses the other bot as a shield. Inside, the medbay is bright and shiny as though new. There are at least two medberths, dozens of pieces of medical equipment Sides can't name, and two mechs, only one of whom he recognizes. The other is a dark red and black mech who’s unfamiliar but looks like a ‘Con. Beyond them is another door, though it's not obvious where it goes.
Sideswipe barely sees any of that, however. He’s too distracted by the short bank of CR chambers against one wall, particularly the only occupied one.
Sunstreaker's frame is blurry behind the thick glass and energon gel, but he's whole and alive and Sideswipe's spark surges in his chassis. He walks forward as if on automatic, hands rising and pressing to the thrumming chamber that holds his brother. Sunny’s optics are dim with stasis. But he's alive, and that's what matters to Sideswipe.
Tension escapes Sideswipe in a whoosh. His shoulders sag, and his helm tips forward, leaning on the thick glass. He offlines his optics, focuses on his spark, and feels the pulse of Sunstreaker's own. It’s a bright echo with them so close.
“I told you he was going to be fine,” Ratchet says, gruff tones approaching from Sideswipe's left. “What kind of second-rate medic do you think I am?”
Sides gives Ratchet a one-opticked look.
“Right now, I'm thinking you're a miracle worker. Or this whole ship is. Once upon a time, you wouldn't have had to supplies to fix him.”
Just like Jolt, his processor whispers. Just like Hound.
Sideswipe bites back a shudder. He doesn't need that reminder.
“I still don't have the supplies,” Ratchet offers, and he steps up next to Sideswipe, fiddling with the readout on the chamber and adjusting the inputs. “He's going to be in here for orns more. Maybe longer.”
“Better than dead.” Side pushes off the chamber and straightens. His voice is earnest, grateful as he reaches out to touch an elbow. “Thank you, Ratchet. I mean it… Really.”
The medic lets out a slow vent and turns away. “Since when have I ever needed that?” He takes a klik but waves a hand over his shoulder. “Come on. You still need some maintenance. I can hear that joint grinding from here.”
Sides obeys because if there's one thing that's been ingrained in his processor, it's that he's supposed to listen to Ratchet. And it's a bit of a relief to have that familiarity, to have their medic ordering him around. That at least makes sense. Prowl, for all the centuries that have passed, feels something of a stranger now. He own twin does, too.
But Ratchet?
He's home. He's the gruff caretaker Sides wished to have rather than the overseer they’d gotten. An overseer who had no idea what to do with a pair of split-spark twins and opted for discipline when they didn't and couldn't conform to his ideal of a perfect soldier.
Sideswipe hops up on the berth, twitching when a shock of pain echoes through his hip gimbal. Prowl, he notices, is still lingering, but he's deep in conversation with the maroon mech Sideswipe had noticed earlier.
“Who's that?” he asks as Ratchet bustles up to him, plopping a scanner and a small case of tools on a nearby table.
“You can't tell me you don't recognize Prowl,” Ratchet retorts and flips a hand at him. “Lay back.”
Sideswipe flickers his optics and obeys. “The ‘Con, Ratch.”
“He's not a Decepticon,” Ratchet replies. The distinct sensation of a scan washes over Sideswipe. “His designation is Knock Out. He's my apprentice.”
Sideswipe considers. “Never heard of him.”
Ratchet hits several buttons on a console. His back is oddly turned away, but Sides still feels his attention.
“That's because he's a newspark.”
Sideswipe's optics whip toward Ratchet, surprise a sharp burst in his field. “The Allspark is gone, Ratchet,” he says. “That’s not even funny.”
His lower half goes numb as Ratchet bends over his hip, totally focused on his work.
“It's true. It’s also classified,” Ratchet retorts, and there's a hint of humor in his field. “Sunstorm is new, too. He was on the bridge.”
The yellow Seeker, he recalls.
But that’s crazy. Insane. Improbable. Impossible!
How in the frag could they have newsparks?
And then, Sideswipe remembers.
The hatchlings. The reason Ratchet tackled him in the first place, way long ago when they went to Africa and Ratchet betrayed them.
“They survived?” Sideswipe demands.
His optics jerk to Knock Out again, taking in the sight of mech who was only a helm or so shorter than Prowl. He doesn't look like the emaciated things Sideswipe had seen in the savanna.
What kind of miracle has Ratchet worked this time?
“But how did you--”
“Classified,” Ratchet grunts, and the scent of hot metal fills the air as he starts to weld.
“You don't trust me.”
It's too hard to hide the disappointment in his tone.
Ratchet looks up at him. Something in his optics speaks of the conflict in his field.
“There’s a lot at stake. More than you can guess. As much as I want to trust you, we have to know for sure.”
Sideswipe's gaze falls. He picks at the berth beneath him, still marveling at the fact they have a berth and berth covers and a medbay. It's crazy that it’s all such a fragging luxury to him now.
“You have something to protect,” he says softly, quietly, and he is acutely aware of Sunstreaker floating in a nearby chamber. “So do I.”
“I know.”
The feeling returns to his lower half as Ratchet pats his thigh and straightens. “You can sit up now. You still need to visit the washracks. I think some of that grime has been on you since you landed.”
Sideswipe grimaces, pulling himself up. “Yeah, well, the humans weren't all that concerned with making sure we had proper facilities. The closest I could get to a wash was to stand in the rain.” Which was, he reflects, marginally better than the cold spray of the car washes.
A shudder ripples across Ratchet's plating in a wave.
“Yes, I remember.” His scowl deepens, though it's not directed at Sideswipe. Ratchet gestures over his shoulder. “Knock Out, get over here.”
Sides watches as the maroon mech saunters over, giving Sideswipe a once over before he directs his attention to Ratchet.
“You bellowed?” he drawls with an attitude just short of Sunny’s usual insubordination.
“This is Sideswipe.” The back of Ratchet's hand slaps Sideswipe's chestplate. “Be prepared to see him a lot. Like Sunstreaker, he has a propensity for getting himself slagged six ways to moonbase.”
“It comes with the territory. Taking down…” he hesitates and corrects “…the enemy is my job. Damage is par for the course.” Sides returns Knock Out's curious look fully.
“Sideswipe is one of our best frontline warriors,” Prowl adds. “If you intend to seek combat training, you’d find few better teachers.”
Ratchet smirks. “And he's far less likely to snap at you than Sunstreaker.”
“Sunny's mellowed a lot,” Sides defends and slides off the berth, testing his hip and grinning when it swivels smoothly. “Which I guess I have you to thank for.” He shifts his gaze to Prowl.
The tactician's sensory panel's flick. “We’ve all changed. Some for the better and some for the worst.”
Truer words have not been spoken.
“I, of course, remain my perfect self,” Knock Out says with a smirk and a hand planted firmly on his chest.
Ratchet lifts his optics to the proverbial heavens and shoos the mech with both hands. “You have two modules you should be reviewing,” he declares and ushers Knock Out away. “Or I'll make you Wheeljack's assistant instead. See if I don't.”
“That's actually more of a threat than you would think,” Prowl allows, his lipplates twitching with restrained humor. “Knock Out is worse about his paint job than Sunstreaker.”
Despite himself, Sides chuckles. “I didn't know that was possible.”
“You will learn otherwise.” Prowl steps past him, indicating that Sides should follow. “Come along. I'll show you to your room, the refueling station, and the washracks. Then, you can rest.”
Sideswipe casts a glance at Ratchet and then Knock Out. He shrugs.
“Sounds good to me.”
Sideswipe follows him out, but not before sneaking another look at Ratchet and Knock Out, the former pointing firmly at a datapad set in front of the latter. Beyond them, a door stands curiously closed. But Sides thinks that there is plenty of time for exploration and questions later. He suspects it has something to do with how they are sparking the hatchlings anyway.
Back in the corridor, Prowl heads for a door that leads to a sloping, spiral ramp and down one level they go. Looking up and down, Sides can see that it extends in both directions, like an emergency exit in case of power failure. It's also wide enough for their alt-modes. How convenient.
“What kind of duties are you going to give me?” he asks, his vocals echoing.
“Right now, we have little need for soldiers.” Prowl opens a door on the next landing and gestures Sideswipe ahead of him. “However, we left in a hurry. In the process, much of our storage rooms are an uncategorized mess.”
Sideswipe groans to the depths of his spark and beyond. He even feels Sunny give a sympathetic twitch.
“Inventory? Really, Prowl?”
He can feel Prowl smirking from behind him. “It must be done, and I’ve other tasks that I must have the others complete. Or would you rather assist Wheeljack in his lab, or accompany Skywarp in the engine room?”
Sideswipe winces and silently thinks neither are a good option. He doesn't have much interest in engineering or spending time with ‘Cons. Inventory might be boring, but he supposes if it's useful and encourages them to trust him, he'll do it.
“Fine. I'll do inventory,” Sides says, stepping into another long, brightly lit hallway, though this one has more evidence of neglect and disarray. Someone has made a cursory attempt to clean but looks to have given up halfway through. “Primus. Are these the storage decks?”
Amusement rumbles in Prowl's chassis. “No. These are the living quarters.”
Sideswipe cycles his optics. “Am I going to be assigned janitorial duty or something?”
“Not yet. We're leaving that up to the discretion of whomever it bothers more.” Prowl chuckles, clasping his hands at the base of his spinal strut. “I have a wager that Tracks will crack first, if not Sunstreaker whenever he emerges.”
Prowl's probably right, Sideswipe thinks. Sunny never could abide by mess, whether on his own frame or in plain sight. Their quarters have always been perfectly neat, and woe be unto Sides if he didn't keep them that way.
“There are fifteen rooms on this side,” Prowl continues. “Only half of them are capable of being occupied. Dreadwing and Tracks share this one here with Skywarp and Sunstorm opposite of them. Next is Wheeljack's suite, though you'll scarcely see him in it as he prefers to sleep in his laboratory. You and Sunstreaker will be across the hall from him.” Here, Prowl stops at an unmarked door. “You'll be able to change the code if you desire.” He keys a generic passcode into the illuminated panel. “Keep in mind that I do contain the overrides for all the doors on the Ark.”
The door slides open, and Prowl moves to enter. Sideswipe lingers, turning in a slow circle.
“Who's on our other side?”
“Knock Out. He shares with Drift.” Prowl smirks then. “Though, again, Drift can rarely be found here. You’d be better of searching for him in the medbay.”
Sides reboots his audials. “Come again?”
Prowl has the audacity to turn that smirk directly at him. “They are something of a partnership. If you want details, I leave the asking to you, however.” His smirk widens. “Ratchet, by the way, has claimed the suite attached to the medbay. Whereas myself and Thundercracker can be found on the command deck.”
“Together?”
Prowl's door-wings offer a teasing flutter. “That would be telling,” he says and gestures Sideswipe into the suite. “Do you want to see inside, or shall I continue the tour?”
“I think I know what a suite looks like,” Sides returns blandly. “How about the washracks?”
“I should’ve guessed.” Prowl chuckles as he steps back out. He starts down the hallway, Sides trailing after. “It's stocked with human-made supplies, but it’s better than nothing.”
“I'll say,” says Sideswipe and he can't help scratching at a seam in his side, flakes of weeks-old grit floating out.
The racks are just down the hall and through an entryway that is completely lacking a door. Something that is obviously still door must be on their to-do list. He can hear, however, the sound of cleanser pattering against the floor. Someone’s already making use of the facilities.
Sides steps inside, more than eager to partake himself. Prowl hesitates in the doorway, the frown on his lipplates indicative of an internal conversation. As is the hand he has raised to his comm unit.
“Prowl?”
“There is a matter that needs my attention,” he replies with a flicker of his optics. “I'll leave you with Tracks for now. He has my comm if you need to contact me.”
And with that, Prowl promptly ups and leaves with a quickness to his stride that almost makes Sideswipe want to chase after him. He suspects trouble, and that at least, Sides understands.
He stares after Prowl for a klik before tensing at the soft steps coming up behind him.
“And once again, I have you right where I want you,” someone drawls then.
Sideswipe turns to see the familiar blue and red mech, the same one he’d fought not so long ago. The bot smirks at his recognition, standing there and brazenly dripping wet. By process of elimination, Sideswipe can only assume that this is Tracks.
“You got lucky,” Sideswipe retorts, wheeling right by him into the washracks and taking in the facilities.
It’s all very simplistic by their homeworld’s standards, but for someone who has had practically nothing for vorns, this is a paradise of sprays and soaps.
“I prefer to call it skill, but whatever allows you to recharge easier,” Tracks allows as he comes up to Sides’ left. He rolls his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “Do you want assistance?”
Sides purposefully doesn’t look at him. “Not from you.”
Tracks studies him for a long moment that begins to stretch into awkwardness. Then, he offers another shrug.
“Suit yourself.” He turns back to his earlier rack, hitting a button to activate the spray.
Finally. A moment of peace.
Sideswipe cycles a ventilation and pokes around the rest of the washracks. He counts four separate stalls and selects the one farthest away. Pipes rattle and clank as he sets them to activate, and when the first spray of cleanser hits his back, Sideswipe doesn't bother to hide the sigh of satisfaction.
He does linger. The humans had built what they called a car wash but it was nothing like this. Nothing so private. Nothing remotely appropriate.
Simply put, Sideswipe is amazed at how much this small band of mechs have accomplished. The Autobots have had more help and more time and more resources. And still, they sleep in warehouse stalls, bowing to every whim of a human. It's as though, step by step, they’re becoming the mindless machines the humans believe them to be.
He hears Tracks shut off the spray before the other mech struts over to a stack of folded cloths to swipe his frame dry. Though Sides wants to linger, he doesn't know if they have recycling systems already set up or if they need to conserve their resources. So he works to quickly scrub out his seams before shutting off his own spray.
And then, Tracks is there. Offering him a cloth. For all intents and purposes, it looks like sheets for a human bed.
“Thanks,” Sideswipe murmurs, giving himself a quick drydown.
“Welcome.” Tracks leans against the wall, helm tilted as he watches. “I see Ratchet does good work.”
Sideswipe huffs a ventilation. “You didn't damage me that badly.”
Primus. Ego much? He and Sunstreaker would be well-matched.
“If you say so.” He feels more than sees Tracks smirk again. “If you get bored, however, the offer to spar is out there. I could use the exercise.”
Sideswipe narrows his optics but opts not to respond. He may not know Tracks very well, but he knows when he’s being goaded. The other mech is being combative on purpose.
He tosses the soaked cloth into the same bin Tracks had used and heads for the door. Tracks intercepts him by leaning against the frame.
“Going somewhere?”
He fights back a sigh. “Wherever you're supposed to lead me, I guess. Is there an ETA on when I’m free to go off on my own?”
“Not as far as I'm aware. Prowl works on his own schedule.” Tracks pushes off the frame and leads them into the hallway. “I do have my orders though. You are to refuel and then recharge. Ratchet says so.”
And the Pit hath no fury like a medic ignored.
Sideswipe shakes his head. After a moment, he looks at Tracks again, studying him, wondering. There’s not a trace of a brand anywhere on the mech's plating. Then again, Sunstorm and Knock Out don't have one either. Neither did Wheeljack or Drift. Though Ratchet and Prowl still have theirs, and so does Thundercracker.
“You're not an Autobot?” he asks, honestly curious. The gleaming lines of Tracks’ base-form suggest a construction of higher forging. Noble most likely. A high one, if Sideswipe is gauging correctly.
“There are no such things as Autobots anymore. Or Decepticons,” Tracks replies loftily. “Both factions have strayed so far from their original purpose that they’re interchangeable and therefore the same.”
Sides frowns. “You were Neutral?”
“Must everything have a label for you?” Tracks demands, tossing a look over his shoulder. It isn’t coy like earlier, instead cool and calculating. “Must we all fit into a category in order for you determine whether or not we are of value?”
There's real anger in his field, agitation in the way his plating ruffles. Whether it's at him in particular or dissatisfaction over a general mindset, Sideswipe doesn't know. He does realize that rocking the boat, so to speak, is not in his own best interest.
“I've spent the last several millennia identifying mechs by their faction for the sake of my own survival,” Sides replies and folds his arms. “‘Cons bombed my home. A Neutral thought it’d be fun to play with one-half of a split spark for the sake of science. And just last week, Autobots tried to kill my brother. It was just a fraggin’ question.”
There's a moment's pause. Sideswipe's backstrut tingles, messages popping up, asking him if he should shift to defensive protocols because that's what he has become. Fight first, ask questions later. Survival comes first, recrimination much, much later. If he survives at all.
Tracks just looks at him. Optics unfathomable as he studies the bot before him.
“I do not wear a brand because I don't need one,” Tracks finally responds, and his voice is softer now. Contemplative even. He turns around, letting Sideswipe follow at his back without a care.
Tracks offers no other explanation, simply leaving Sideswipe to chew on the implications of his words. Not that he's given much time to do so before Tracks leads him into a large room filled with tables, chairs, and - of all things - an energon dispenser. Sideswipe honestly can't remember the last time he saw a real dispenser.
“We're not on rations, but I'd advise that you do not be wasteful,” Tracks explains, gesturing to the dispenser. “We have a few additives in the cabinet beneath if you want. Jack is working on more in his free time, which is spare as of late.”
Sideswipe offers a sharp nod of gratitude. “I'll bet.”
There's a simple pleasure in drawing his own cube, rummaging through the cabinets, and pulling out a few shavings of magnesium to spice it up. It tastes far better than the gunky grunge of processed biofuels or petroleum that the humans had provided. Like whoever processed it gave a damn about who’d be drinking it.
“And that concludes our tour,” Tracks says as it sips at a cube of his own. “There are other decks, but most of them are sealed off until they can be fully repaired. Any room that you aren’t allowed to access will be barred to you. Prowl will contact you with your first assignment after you complete your recharge. I trust you remember which is your hab-suite?”
Sideswipe glances up. “Yeah… I do.”
Tracks gives his own regal nod but stops to tilt his head. No doubt listening to his internal comm. He’s quite for a moment before coming back to himself.
“Prowl just informed me that you’re allowed on your own recognizance while on this floor.”
Sides flickers his optics at that. He’d half-expected Tracks to follow him into his room.
“Thanks,” he says then and honestly means it.
Tracks gazes at him a moment longer before waving it away. He leaves, and Sideswipe is not at all sorry to see him go.
Sideswipe shakes his helm and settles for finishing his cube before looking around once again. He’s unexpectedly impressed with all the work they’ve managed to get done. Everything vital is functional, if not rough around the edges. The Ark doesn't look brand new and has obviously been scraped together from whatever they could find. But none of that matters.
Not when they have energon and medical facilities and washracks and actual berths to sleep on.
Sides returns to his assigned room in a sort of daze. So many changes so quickly, and his processor is having a hard time catching up. Cybertronians are designed to adapt, but shifting from war to something scarily close to peace is too abrupt of a change. There'd been no transition.
The room is more than adequate for him, even if he’s sharing with Sunstreaker. It's on the small side but still larger than two of the stalls in the warehouse on Earth. There are two berths, a console, and two end tables. Beneath the berths are storage lockers.
A berth shouldn’t be a luxury, but it is, and when Sideswipe lays down on his, he feels every inch of his frame relax. His ventilations even out, and while his spark is still a worried tremble in his chassis, he isn't anxious. His defensive subroutines aren't picking out every little sound.
He can hear the thrum of the ship, the off-beat cadence of the powerful engines that illustrate they’re still in need of some maintenance. But it's familiar. It's comfortable. It's not worrying. It's a change that’s more than welcome.
Sideswipe slips into recharge.
***
a/n: Part two of three. Almost there!
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