[Bay] War Without End - Ratchet
a/n: And so it ends where it began with Ratchet.
Title: War Without End Epilogue
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, AU to AOE, War Without End
Characters: Ratchet and the Ark Crew plus new additions
Rating: T
Warnings: angst and fluff and humor, implied pairings, referenced character death
Description: In the end, Ratchet's only regret is that he didn't act sooner.
Times passes. Years by Earth reckoning. Ratchet's not sure how that computes given the distance they've traveled and the wormholes they've wandered through. He only knows that it's not long enough, and they've still only just begun healing.
Still, that they've managed to begin at all is telling.
The Ark is home, all they have. There's hope of finding a new planet, a place to call home, but it's not a matter of concern yet. They've plenty of energon and the capacity to make more and enough rooms on the ship that no one's cramped for space.
Even with the added burden of several more mechs.
Stumbling upon Blaster and Red Alert beyond Earth’s solar system had been both welcome and unexpected. Both mechs had been exhausted, damaged, broken in spark and spirit. Blaster, a carrier, alone in spark with all his symbiotes killed. Red Alert, clinging to protocol, struggling to keep himself from glitching with nothing to protect and no way to protect that nothing.
Prowl had given them a choice. He'd offered repairs and energon and a datapad filled with information. It was a collection of observations, experiences and facts from all the bots on the Ark. It was unfiltered truth, jumbled and messy, but unbiased enough for the two to make an informed decision.
They stayed on the Ark.
The beacon was Red Alert's idea. He thought it’d be prudent to warn everyone - Autobot and Decepticon alike - of what waited for them on Earth. He’d embedded a file in the message, a truncated version of what he and Blaster had been given.
Any new arrivals could make their own decisions, come to their own conclusions. After all, once they arrived on Earth, their survival wasn't guaranteed. Nor could they be sure to leave if they desired.
It's an effective solution.
Time passes, as it's known to do. Ratchet takes joy in the changes it brings.
Blaster and Red Alert fit seamlessly into their family, their cadre.
The sparklings mature more and more each day. Their progression is a joy to behold. Ratchet sees them, and all he can think is worth it.
Healing is a step by step process. Ties have been re-strung. Frayed bonds re-stitched.
Blaster makes himself home in their communications network. He declares it inadequate and rips out wires by the fistful. He sets himself the task of restructuring it all, console by console, and both Wheeljack and Skywarp are happy to let him do it. The work serves a nice distraction for the grieving carrier.
As does his growing friendship with Tracks. Ratchet often catches them laughing over some private joke or cloistered in a corner, peering at a datapad.
Like the rest of them, Blaster's path to healing is measured in microns. But at least it’s begun. Tracks helps chase the shadows from his optics. Ratchet's even caught him smiling more than once.
Red Alert, in turn, nestles himself opposite from Blaster and promptly re-codes their entire security network and programs their firewalls. He upgrades their shielding and sets up a revolving encryption that ensures they’ll never be hacked. And he loves the hatchlings like no other mech, not even matched by Ratchet's own dedication.
His off duty time is spent in the medbay, caring for the ones in stasis. He holds them, speaks to them as though they’re aware, and perhaps they are. They aren't sparked, but still, the frames develop a color of their own and react like Knock Out's nascent personality before he'd been sparked.
Red Alert loves the sparked hatchlings as much as the stasis-locked ones. He can often be found teaching and training the newly sparked, programming their firewalls personally to ensure their safety. He’s particularly fond of Sunstorm, which comes as a surprise to everyone and yet no one.
He’s also the first to volunteer to split his spark when Prowl finally feel it’s safe for them to try again. He dotes on Fireflight as much as the others, showing no favoritism. Red Alert loves them all, and he's the fiercest protector.
Ratchet pities the fool who dares attack the Ark.
He'd expected Red Alert to protest the Decepticons when he first agreed to stay. But Red had only looked them over and declared it’d be nice to have some aerial back up. Ratchet had taken it for the good fortune it was and decided not to press the issue.
Red Alert takes it upon himself to offer an explanation. Though it’s much later when he’s ensconced in the medbay with Ratchet for his maintenance check since he'd finished Blaster first.
“I was Lord Megatron's security adviser once, did you know that?” Red Alert asks, holding still as Ratchet scans him.
He’s one of Ratchet's favorite patients for just that reason actually. He doesn't squirm, he doesn't whine, and he makes it so much easier.
Ratchet skims his memories, but it's harder to access those from before the war. Every tag search comes up empty, and he has to admit defeat.
“No,” Ratchet replies. “I didn’t.”
Though he should’ve known. Some senator.
Red smiles softly, optics going dim as though in fond memory. “My designation was Flare back then. I changed it when I surrendered my post to join Prime. I did so knowing full well I’d be protecting him from the very mechs I used to command.”
The ache in Red Alert's tone is unmistakable. As is the tentative request for comfort in his field. Ratchet obliges, quietly listening as he continues.
“I used to protect all Cybertronians. That was my duty, my function,” Red Alert continues, his optics distant as he stares at a point over Ratchet's shoulder. “I had to rip out code to merely function when the war first started. My programming wouldn't let me harm or allow harm to any Cybertronian. I was a protector in a time when there were no such things as factions.” Red Alert's field shimmers with a spark-deep sadness. “I long to be so again.”
The depth of yearning in his tone makes Ratchet's own spark ache. He sets his scanner aside, laying one hand over Red Alert's.
“I could’ve helped. Why didn't you tell me your glitches were a core programming clash?”
“I needed the struggle. The pain.” His optics focus, shifting to Ratchet and brightening with something akin to relief. “To remind myself what I had done and why.”
It makes sense and sounds familiar. Especially to Ratchet who remembers his own struggles. How he had spent hours shivering and redlining as he ruthlessly battled and stripped out every line of code that ceded his loyalty to Optimus Prime and Optimus Prime alone. If he hadn't done so, Ratchet knows he would’ve never been able to leave or stay hidden. Remorse would’ve driven him back to the Autobots and most likely to his death.
“Then I am glad that you can be here with us,” he offers instead, squeezing Red Alert's hand before drawing his own away. “It’ll be nice for all of us to find a measure of peace. To return to our prior functions.”
Red Alert smiles his agreement, and for a moment, Ratchet feels a stab of unreasonable grief.
If only Prime could see this. Could recognize the miracle for what it is. If only the Prime Ratchet had loved could be here to celebrate.
That Optimus is dead. If he ever existed at all. And isn't that a sobering thought?
It's a painful memory, one that Ratchet keeps to himself. While all the Autobots here have served under Prime at one point or another, none had known him as long as Ratchet. Jazz isn‘t here. Ironhide isn’t here.
Only Prowl would remember, and Ratchet isn't going to give the tactician that burden. There’s an anger within Prowl still, a fury that Ratchet doesn't dare tap. Prime’s betrayal had been a knife to Prowl's coding. Prowl, who is coded to be loyal. Who had stayed for so much longer because surely Prime couldn’t have become so wrong.
Ratchet doesn't know how to help Prowl. He's glad he doesn't have to try. That particular burden he's given to Thundercracker and Dreadwing. Whatever they are doing, it seems to be working. That and the fact Sunstreaker is now up and about.
Watching Prowl and Sunstreaker interact is almost enough to make Ratchet jealous. It certainly baffles him. Sideswipe is no less affected.
The distance between he and his twin is closing by microns, but there remain stumbles.
Sideswipe has always made his emotions outward and clear. But Sunstreaker draws inward, and even Ratchet can see that the weight of loss drags him down.
And then, Ratchet finds Sunny in the memorial room. It's a storage space on deck three. Ratchet's not sure how it started, but it's where they keep their memories. Of Cybertron. Of their past lives. Of fallen soldiers, Autobot and Decepticon and Neutral alike.
It's a shrine to everything they've lost, the treasures they can't retrieve, the loved ones they'll never see again. After all, without the Allspark, not even Ratchet’s sure what comes next.
But one day, he finds Sunstreaker in there with a datapad, a holographic array, and Hound's likeness in exquisite detail. The array has been set within a small generator to keep it powered, and occasionally, it shifts from the portrait to playing video clips of Hound though there's no audio.
Sunstreaker, meanwhile, is fiddling with another array. As Ratchet gets closer, an image springs to life. Ratchet's jaw drops, and his spark startles with a surge of ache and grief.
It's Ironhide.
“Sunny--”
“I can't get the audio to work right,” the frontliner grunts, still fiddling with the device. “That kind of slag was Hound's department. I designed it. He animated it.”
Ratchet struggles to find words. “They're beautiful,” he says honestly and feels it a paltry compliment.
Sunstreaker tweaks something on Ironhide's array. The colors become more vibrant and life-like. Ratchet swears he can hear Hide's gruff vocals in the back of his processor.
“They don't deserve to be forgotten. For any reason.”
“Of course not,” Ratchet agrees.
A part of him wants to cross the room because that array is detailed enough to be real. He knows that it’s only a likeness, but his spark wants to ping that dark frame, expecting the familiar response.
Sunny moves back to Hound's display, standing in front of it. He watches the current array, which has moved into a video. On it, Hound’s laughing, his optics focused on someone or something. There's a small, tender smile on Sunstreaker’s lipplates. As though he's amused and affectionate it all at once.
Realization strikes Ratchet in a wave. The vidfile must be from Sunny’s own memory banks. Primus, but they must have been close. There's an intimacy in the image that one doesn't see in casual conversation.
“I want to do this for everyone we can remember,” Sunny says. “I even asked the ‘Cons. No one deserves to be forgotten.” He pauses, a bark of a laugh that's far from amusement escaping him. “Not even Starscream.”
Despite himself, Ratchet grins. “You've changed, Sunny.”
Sunstreaker half-turns toward him. “I know.” He smirks right back. “Sides tells me all the time. Can’t tell if he’s disapproving or proud.”
“I approve,” Ratchet insists
“Yeah. Me, too.”
Sunstreaker lifts a hand, resting it on the base of Hound's display. It's a delicate touch as though he fears breaking it. His field is a ripple of grief, tempered by something Ratchet would’ve never believed Sunstreaker capable of - peace.
If someone had told him vorns upon vorns ago that Sunstreaker would be the first to accept peace over Sideswipe, Ratchet would’ve scanned that mech's processor for damage. But the truth stands in front of him, obviously grieving, but just as obviously accepting the relief of peacetime.
Miracle of miracles.
Or maybe, Ratchet thinks, the true gift from Primus is what’s currently developing between Prowl, Thundercracker, and Dreadwing. It isn’t overt, but Ratchet has become adept at reading between the lines and beneath the surface.
Such as the time Ratchet shuffles onto the bridge to deliver his report in person and suddenly feels as though he's walked into someone else's hab-suite.
Prowl’s standing at the helm per the usual, but Dreadwing and Thundercracker stand to the left and right of him. The latter in particular is near enough to be in Prowl's field, which is highly intimate for their kind. That could possibly be considered innocent if not for TC's hand on Prowl's sensory panel as though on the tail end of a caress. Dreadwing is facing Prowl, and he's in the midst of pulling back as though having leaned forward to whisper.
That Prowl looks so tiny between them is a source of amusement. He might be smaller in appearance, but Ratchet will lay a bet that one sharp word, and both Seekers would abate.
“Oh,” Ratchet comments and never one for retreating, barrels forward anyway. “Am I interrupting?” He doesn't bother to hide his chuckle either.
“Of course not,” Prowl replies, smooth as always and unruffled.
Dreadwing takes a step back. He wings twitch in obvious irritation.
“Shouldn't you be in recharge?” TC demands in a flat tone, armor puffing out in deference to his embarrassment as he tries to throw a cloak of dignity over his shoulders.
It takes all Ratchet has not to burst into laughter. He settles for a grin instead.
“I’ll be shortly. I wanted to deliver this first.” He holds out the datapad, making a point to scan their frames and the air.
No distinct scent of ozone, unsurprising. They might be getting all cuddly on the command deck, but propriety would keep them from outright crossing cables. However, is that a streak of white paint on TC’s right thigh panel?
It so is.
Ratchet's grin broadens.
“You could’ve waited until morning,” Dreadwing says with all the stiffness of a political opponent offended.
“And miss this?” Ratchet lifts his orbital ridges, making it a point to look at each guilty faceplate. “You do know someone has to watch the perimeter, yes? You're on duty after all.”
Except for TC. The Ark's rather fluid schedule has him logged off-duty.
Lucky slagger. They are too few to really be considered off. Ratchet himself is eternally on-duty, though he assigns minor repairs and hatchling maintenance to Knock Out when he wants to recharge or have a quiet moment to himself. And sometimes, he assigns Jack to watch over the kid or take over a shift. It's a slagging miracle no one's managed to cause themselves any serious harm.
He might get a full cycle of recharge yet.
“We are aware,” Dreadwing inserts, and if possible, it’s even stiffer than before. Not much of a sense of humor that one.
How Tracks, who has the driest wit Ratchet has ever met, gets along with him so well is another of life's greatest mysteries. Such as why TC hasn't managed to knock Skywarp senseless.
“And we aren’t the only ones guilty of seeking company,” Prowl adds with a smug flutter of his sensory panels. “Or has Drift suddenly developed a desire to become a medic?”
Touché, Prowl.
Thundercracker snickers.
Ratchet can't find it in himself to be annoyed. He's too happy to see Prowl so relaxed after the clusterfrag that was their frantic exodus from Earth. Jazz's loss is still a gaping chasm of grief for him. And compound that with his inability to save Hound, Prowl has been the poster-mech for post-traumatic stress.
To see him smile is, frankly put, a wonder.
“We'll see,” Ratchet concedes, though the idea of Drift becoming a medic in any form is amusing. For a mech used to slaughtering, he's not keen on the idea of internal fluid or energon in a healing capacity.
Rung would’ve probably had words to say about Drift's mental state. Frag, Rung would’ve paragraphs and datapads to say about all of their mental states, truth be told. But Rung is dead, like so many others, and what he’d have to say is moot. They've done what they've had to do to survive. None of them are sane, but they’re alive. Ratchet supposes that's a start.
Still, Ratchet would’ve liked the help. He's more than a little over his helm.
“Primus knows I could use the extra hands,” he muses aloud.
It's a burden, he thinks, and a concern. He's the only one with this knowledge, and what if something were to happen to him?
“Do you intend to spark another hatchling soon?” Dreadwing asks then, perhaps in a desperate bid to shift the conversation toward business.
“As soon as you volunteer to be the next donor,” Ratchet replies cheerfully.
He’s in no hurry to repeat the procedure himself. Sparking the hatchlings is a worthy endeavor, but the discomfort is still fresh in Ratchet's processor. As it is for so many of their clade. He imagines it's worse for the others, who let the energy build up gradually and carried the excess in their frames for an extended period. By that definition, Ratchet and Drift had the easiest time of it.
He's still not eager to go through it again. Not so soon. Besides, aren’t three newly sparked hatchlings enough for now? Most of them, aside from Red Alert, share that opinion. It's a heavy responsibility to teach and train the newsparks. And none of them want to make the same mistakes as Cybertron past.
Dreadwing grumbles at him, but Prowl at least understands they’re being teased.
“We will discuss it later,” he declares and makes a shooing motion with his hands. “You're off-duty, Ratchet. Enjoy it.”
Ratchet chuckles. “Yes sir.”
He sketches a facsimile of a human salute and takes his leave. But not before glancing over his shoulder in amusement.
An Autobot, a Decepticon and a Neutral.
Who would’ve ever guessed?
Certainly not Ratchet. He's still adapting to the new priority strings that tell him to hesitate when seeing the ‘Con emblem. He still has his Autobrand, and Ratchet can't explain why he's reluctant to part with it. There's no lingering loyalty to Prime, but there's something.
Once upon a time, Ratchet had trusted and believed in Optimus Prime. He’d loved his Prime with all the faith one can carry for his leader. Ratchet thought he would've followed him into the fires and slag of the Pit itself.
He still mourns the loss of that faith. He mourns Optimus as he remembers Prime. And often, he blames himself for not noticing sooner. For letting Optimus degrade to the point of no return. He should’ve seen something, read the signs. For Primus’ sake, he was CMO. It was his duty to ensure Optimus' continued health.
He’d failed in that regard. Perhaps because the changes had come so subtly that he missed them. Or maybe he hadn't wanted to see them for fear of what he'd glimpse beneath.
The past is past, however, and Ratchet can't change it. He knows this. All he can do is improve the future.
One link between them at a time.
He walked past a store room once, only to find the door open. He'd peered in to see Sunstreaker painstakingly painting the decals on Skywarp's wings. Dreadwing was waiting for his turn. Tracks was off to the side, offering well-meaning critique that Sunny snarled over.
They’re well on their way to becoming either the best of friends or mortal enemies.
Friends, by the way, is the eventual outcome. They enjoy sparring and then fixing each other's dents and scrapes and nicks afterward, which Ratchet’s pleased about because that means he doesn't have to do it. Let them bitch and moan to each other about scratches and let Ratchet fix more important things.
Dreadwing and Red Alert also have formed something of a bond. Ratchet attributes it to the fact that they’re the two more serious mechs, often exasperated by the noise and bluster of their cadre. Ratchet has found them on more than one occasion quietly discussing a favorite novel over a cube of bland energon. Prowl sometimes joins them.
Sideswipe and Skywarp are a combination that Ratchet discovered and wished he could yell at Primus over. They are two peas in a pod, so to speak, and have made every effort to wreak havoc. It's good. In a way. Ratchet worried about Sideswipe for a while. The changes in his brother had been difficult to accept and the cessation of his loyalty to the Autobots was just as upsetting.
But Sides, like the rest of them, has adapted. Has grown and changed a little himself and is returning to the cocky, cheerful slagger that Ratchet knows so well.
The sight of him, Knock Out, and Sunstreaker in a snarking match never ceases to be a point of amusement. Though the latter two often chat about the finer points of detailing, Knock Out is just sassy enough to hold his own against Sideswipe.
Skywarp's all but adopted Sunstorm, tucking the bright yellow mech under his wing. Except when Sunstorm escapes to track down Dreadwing, always interested in the older warrior's stories. Especially those that deal with Cybertronian history and legend.
And how many times has Ratchet walked past the laboratory only to hear Skywarp and Jack deep in discussion? He's poked his helm in more than once just to reassure himself that the sharp words are witty banter and not true argument.
They've never once come to blows though Wheeljack often gesticulates wildly, and Skywarp has a talent for barbed remarks. Even more of a miracle is that they've yet to have any accidents. Though Ratchet isn't going to drop his guard anytime soon.
There's still too much at stake.
Nine more hatchlings. Other bots to find and rescue. A home to discover.
Sunstreaker's confessed that he wants to go back and look for Bluestreak. For Prowl's sake if no one else's, and Ratchet won't begrudge him that.
Sides has a certain laboratory that he wants to see razed to the ground, and Ratchet isn't surprised there either. It's a blight on science that needs to be destroyed, and if they find any survivors, it might be a miracle.
Drift thinks Perceptor is still out there somewhere, and who knows? Maybe Primus will cut them all a break, and they'll find him. Right now, their species needs all the brilliant minds it can gather if they have any hope of rebuilding.
It feels a lot like starting over, like a second chance. It’s galaxies away from perfect, and they all have light-years to go before the healing is done, but it's enough, Ratchet thinks.
It's worth it.
All of it, Ratchet thinks as he does one last check on a resting hatchling, is worth it. He only wishes Prime could see this. See what they have accomplished.
“What's that look?”
He shutters his optics and shifs his attention to a peripheral view of Drift who must have crept into the medbay when Ratchet wasn't looking.
“Optimus.”
Drift studies him intently. “What about him?”
“He'll never know this peace.” Ratchet cycles a ventilation, comforting himself with the near-autonomic process. “For him, there’ll forever be a war.”
“You pity him.” Drift's helm tilts upward.
“He was my friend once, Drift,” Ratchet says, fully turning to look at his partner. “My friend and my leader both.”
Drift folds his arms over his chestplate. The swords on his hips rattle.
“We'll have to go back someday,” he acknowledges. “For Bumblebee at least. Maybe things will have changed.”
Ratchet doubts it, and his face must say as much as Drift watches him.
“You think you can save him.”
“I'm not Primus.” Ratchet tosses Drift a sharp look, full of censure.
Drift's lipplates quirk with a wry grin. “Didn't know you believed in him.”
Hmph. Cheeky slagger. Ratchet runs a hand over his helm.
“You enjoy being contrary, don't you?”
Drift unfolds his arms and approaches, daring to do so when others would smartly keep their distance. Then again, Ratchet has always attributed Drift to having more gall than smarts.
“If I told you that you made the right choice, would it help?”
Ratchet doesn't have an answer for that. Sometimes, the guilt of his decisions prove weightier than the relief. One of the hardest things he has ever done is walk away. From Earth. From Prime and the Autobots.
“We all owe you our lives, our sparks,” Drift adds, and in another startling display of bravery, he reaches for Ratchet's hand. “I don't think you realize that. If you hadn't taken that first step, who knows where we would be now?”
Ratchet snorts. “Rusting at the bottom of the Laurentian,” he mutters, but he allows Drift to take his hand, watching as Drift seems fascinated by the small mechanisms in his fingers. It's not unlike that first awkward overture Drift had made not so long ago.
“Along with the hatchlings,” he points out.
Ratchet's spark constricts at the thought of Knock Out, Sunstorm, and Fireflight. Bright minds and unending potential. Nine more hatchlings waiting to see the world. They don't deserve to turn to rust, to be discarded like so much trash.
Drift's field reaches out, requesting without expectation. His free hand rises, tapping Ratchet's chestplate right over the nigh-invisible seam. The touch means something, an acknowledgment, a gratitude, a reassurance. All three at once.
“There are different kinds of betrayal, Ratchet. And there's not a mech on this ship who thinks you are anything but loyal.”
His spark tightens.
Et tu, Ratchet?
He thinks of Prime. Thinks of how he was at the end. At the last time they saw him, even as they fled. Taunt and tight. Seeming as if he were a rabid animal backed into a corner. As though his last piece of stable ground had broken open beneath him.
Prime is still wiping away the energon on his hands as his focus turns to Prowl and Ratchet by proxy. As he bellows out Prowl’s name and takes off towards them. He isn’t too far away, but Ratchet’s closer to him than his own cadre. He knows how it’ll play out. Knows exactly how the plans are lining up in Prime’s processor, who he’ll go for first. And Ratchet steps forward without thinking. Hoping, praying that he can give Prowl the time he’ll need to get away.
Even then, the medic can see Prime’s optics narrow. As if considering which traitor to finish first. As if wondering that it even makes a difference.
“Even you, old friend,” Prime shouts to him, face closed and unreadable. “Even you turn away. Turn to an enemy”
‘Just like Megatron,’ goes unspoken. ‘Just like Sentinel.’
Prime’s sword is already up, but Ratchet knows he still doesn’t have the spark or the skill to fight back. Unfortunately, Sunstreaker is there to make the choice for him. Rushing in thoughtlessly before Ratchet can even react. Taking blow after blow, even as Ratchet hears Sideswipe screaming out for him in the distance. Prowl, too, is turning. Door-wings drawn up tight.
But more than the fight. More than the beating Sunny is receiving. It’s the gleam in Prime’s optics. It’s the way he carries himself. It’s the way he attacks. As if he doesn’t care how much pain he causes or who he destroys as long as the job gets done.
But then, Skywarp is there. And TC and Dreadwing. Tracks. Jack, too. Stealing them all away. Saving them with smiles and whoops of glee and gentle hands that all but carry Ratchet to the ship.
The last he sees of Prime is him staring up at their ship. Optics blue but dead. Hands dripping with energon.
Ratchet shutters his optics.
“It was worth it,” he says, and something eases inside of him. A tightness he hadn't realized he carried.
Drift's field resonates with approval. “Of course it was. So maybe now, I can convince you to recharge.” He squeezes Ratchet's hand.
“I think you have an alternative motive,” Ratchet retorts with an edge of a grump as he unshutters his optics at his partner.
“Perhaps.” Drift gives him a coy look, optics brimming with promise.
Ratchet rolls his own and sends a command to power down the lights to a resting state and leaves the hatchling bay. They are fine for now, patiently awaiting their sparking opportunity. Knock Out's on call to check in on them in intervals.
Ratchet, after all, is off-shift. He’s going to take the opportunity for what it is.
****
a/n: And it's done. Wow. What a crazy ride. Three years later and I can finally stamp complete on the main storyline. Phew. I am so proud of myself. This fic is everything I ever wanted to do with Bayverse and I am so happy with how it came out.
It's not the end of the story. I have a whole list of side-fics I hope to eventually write. After all, we got some hatchlings to spark! There are some loose ends hanging around. They can't just leave Prime to fester. So on and so forth. I'll get to them all one by one eventually. :)
In the meantime, there did seem to be some interest in both character playlists and an after-fic FAQ so if you have the questions, now's the time to ask. I'm going to compile them and answer them and put up a separate post. I'll also post the character's playlists as I come up with them.
It's been great. It's been fun. I have the best readers and reviewers ever! Thanks to everyone who's stuck by me, who's commented and shown interest and been an awesome support. You rock! Much love, also, to my brain-twin, Azardarkstar. Without her, this fic would not have been possible. She truly made each chapter shine!
As always, I do hope you enjoyed the conclusion and feedback remains welcome and appreciated. Now... on to the next project! Whatever that may be. ^_^
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/289828.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Title: War Without End Epilogue
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, AU to AOE, War Without End
Characters: Ratchet and the Ark Crew plus new additions
Rating: T
Warnings: angst and fluff and humor, implied pairings, referenced character death
Description: In the end, Ratchet's only regret is that he didn't act sooner.
Times passes. Years by Earth reckoning. Ratchet's not sure how that computes given the distance they've traveled and the wormholes they've wandered through. He only knows that it's not long enough, and they've still only just begun healing.
Still, that they've managed to begin at all is telling.
The Ark is home, all they have. There's hope of finding a new planet, a place to call home, but it's not a matter of concern yet. They've plenty of energon and the capacity to make more and enough rooms on the ship that no one's cramped for space.
Even with the added burden of several more mechs.
Stumbling upon Blaster and Red Alert beyond Earth’s solar system had been both welcome and unexpected. Both mechs had been exhausted, damaged, broken in spark and spirit. Blaster, a carrier, alone in spark with all his symbiotes killed. Red Alert, clinging to protocol, struggling to keep himself from glitching with nothing to protect and no way to protect that nothing.
Prowl had given them a choice. He'd offered repairs and energon and a datapad filled with information. It was a collection of observations, experiences and facts from all the bots on the Ark. It was unfiltered truth, jumbled and messy, but unbiased enough for the two to make an informed decision.
They stayed on the Ark.
The beacon was Red Alert's idea. He thought it’d be prudent to warn everyone - Autobot and Decepticon alike - of what waited for them on Earth. He’d embedded a file in the message, a truncated version of what he and Blaster had been given.
Any new arrivals could make their own decisions, come to their own conclusions. After all, once they arrived on Earth, their survival wasn't guaranteed. Nor could they be sure to leave if they desired.
It's an effective solution.
Time passes, as it's known to do. Ratchet takes joy in the changes it brings.
Blaster and Red Alert fit seamlessly into their family, their cadre.
The sparklings mature more and more each day. Their progression is a joy to behold. Ratchet sees them, and all he can think is worth it.
Healing is a step by step process. Ties have been re-strung. Frayed bonds re-stitched.
Blaster makes himself home in their communications network. He declares it inadequate and rips out wires by the fistful. He sets himself the task of restructuring it all, console by console, and both Wheeljack and Skywarp are happy to let him do it. The work serves a nice distraction for the grieving carrier.
As does his growing friendship with Tracks. Ratchet often catches them laughing over some private joke or cloistered in a corner, peering at a datapad.
Like the rest of them, Blaster's path to healing is measured in microns. But at least it’s begun. Tracks helps chase the shadows from his optics. Ratchet's even caught him smiling more than once.
Red Alert, in turn, nestles himself opposite from Blaster and promptly re-codes their entire security network and programs their firewalls. He upgrades their shielding and sets up a revolving encryption that ensures they’ll never be hacked. And he loves the hatchlings like no other mech, not even matched by Ratchet's own dedication.
His off duty time is spent in the medbay, caring for the ones in stasis. He holds them, speaks to them as though they’re aware, and perhaps they are. They aren't sparked, but still, the frames develop a color of their own and react like Knock Out's nascent personality before he'd been sparked.
Red Alert loves the sparked hatchlings as much as the stasis-locked ones. He can often be found teaching and training the newly sparked, programming their firewalls personally to ensure their safety. He’s particularly fond of Sunstorm, which comes as a surprise to everyone and yet no one.
He’s also the first to volunteer to split his spark when Prowl finally feel it’s safe for them to try again. He dotes on Fireflight as much as the others, showing no favoritism. Red Alert loves them all, and he's the fiercest protector.
Ratchet pities the fool who dares attack the Ark.
He'd expected Red Alert to protest the Decepticons when he first agreed to stay. But Red had only looked them over and declared it’d be nice to have some aerial back up. Ratchet had taken it for the good fortune it was and decided not to press the issue.
Red Alert takes it upon himself to offer an explanation. Though it’s much later when he’s ensconced in the medbay with Ratchet for his maintenance check since he'd finished Blaster first.
“I was Lord Megatron's security adviser once, did you know that?” Red Alert asks, holding still as Ratchet scans him.
He’s one of Ratchet's favorite patients for just that reason actually. He doesn't squirm, he doesn't whine, and he makes it so much easier.
Ratchet skims his memories, but it's harder to access those from before the war. Every tag search comes up empty, and he has to admit defeat.
“No,” Ratchet replies. “I didn’t.”
Though he should’ve known. Some senator.
Red smiles softly, optics going dim as though in fond memory. “My designation was Flare back then. I changed it when I surrendered my post to join Prime. I did so knowing full well I’d be protecting him from the very mechs I used to command.”
The ache in Red Alert's tone is unmistakable. As is the tentative request for comfort in his field. Ratchet obliges, quietly listening as he continues.
“I used to protect all Cybertronians. That was my duty, my function,” Red Alert continues, his optics distant as he stares at a point over Ratchet's shoulder. “I had to rip out code to merely function when the war first started. My programming wouldn't let me harm or allow harm to any Cybertronian. I was a protector in a time when there were no such things as factions.” Red Alert's field shimmers with a spark-deep sadness. “I long to be so again.”
The depth of yearning in his tone makes Ratchet's own spark ache. He sets his scanner aside, laying one hand over Red Alert's.
“I could’ve helped. Why didn't you tell me your glitches were a core programming clash?”
“I needed the struggle. The pain.” His optics focus, shifting to Ratchet and brightening with something akin to relief. “To remind myself what I had done and why.”
It makes sense and sounds familiar. Especially to Ratchet who remembers his own struggles. How he had spent hours shivering and redlining as he ruthlessly battled and stripped out every line of code that ceded his loyalty to Optimus Prime and Optimus Prime alone. If he hadn't done so, Ratchet knows he would’ve never been able to leave or stay hidden. Remorse would’ve driven him back to the Autobots and most likely to his death.
“Then I am glad that you can be here with us,” he offers instead, squeezing Red Alert's hand before drawing his own away. “It’ll be nice for all of us to find a measure of peace. To return to our prior functions.”
Red Alert smiles his agreement, and for a moment, Ratchet feels a stab of unreasonable grief.
If only Prime could see this. Could recognize the miracle for what it is. If only the Prime Ratchet had loved could be here to celebrate.
That Optimus is dead. If he ever existed at all. And isn't that a sobering thought?
It's a painful memory, one that Ratchet keeps to himself. While all the Autobots here have served under Prime at one point or another, none had known him as long as Ratchet. Jazz isn‘t here. Ironhide isn’t here.
Only Prowl would remember, and Ratchet isn't going to give the tactician that burden. There’s an anger within Prowl still, a fury that Ratchet doesn't dare tap. Prime’s betrayal had been a knife to Prowl's coding. Prowl, who is coded to be loyal. Who had stayed for so much longer because surely Prime couldn’t have become so wrong.
Ratchet doesn't know how to help Prowl. He's glad he doesn't have to try. That particular burden he's given to Thundercracker and Dreadwing. Whatever they are doing, it seems to be working. That and the fact Sunstreaker is now up and about.
Watching Prowl and Sunstreaker interact is almost enough to make Ratchet jealous. It certainly baffles him. Sideswipe is no less affected.
The distance between he and his twin is closing by microns, but there remain stumbles.
Sideswipe has always made his emotions outward and clear. But Sunstreaker draws inward, and even Ratchet can see that the weight of loss drags him down.
And then, Ratchet finds Sunny in the memorial room. It's a storage space on deck three. Ratchet's not sure how it started, but it's where they keep their memories. Of Cybertron. Of their past lives. Of fallen soldiers, Autobot and Decepticon and Neutral alike.
It's a shrine to everything they've lost, the treasures they can't retrieve, the loved ones they'll never see again. After all, without the Allspark, not even Ratchet’s sure what comes next.
But one day, he finds Sunstreaker in there with a datapad, a holographic array, and Hound's likeness in exquisite detail. The array has been set within a small generator to keep it powered, and occasionally, it shifts from the portrait to playing video clips of Hound though there's no audio.
Sunstreaker, meanwhile, is fiddling with another array. As Ratchet gets closer, an image springs to life. Ratchet's jaw drops, and his spark startles with a surge of ache and grief.
It's Ironhide.
“Sunny--”
“I can't get the audio to work right,” the frontliner grunts, still fiddling with the device. “That kind of slag was Hound's department. I designed it. He animated it.”
Ratchet struggles to find words. “They're beautiful,” he says honestly and feels it a paltry compliment.
Sunstreaker tweaks something on Ironhide's array. The colors become more vibrant and life-like. Ratchet swears he can hear Hide's gruff vocals in the back of his processor.
“They don't deserve to be forgotten. For any reason.”
“Of course not,” Ratchet agrees.
A part of him wants to cross the room because that array is detailed enough to be real. He knows that it’s only a likeness, but his spark wants to ping that dark frame, expecting the familiar response.
Sunny moves back to Hound's display, standing in front of it. He watches the current array, which has moved into a video. On it, Hound’s laughing, his optics focused on someone or something. There's a small, tender smile on Sunstreaker’s lipplates. As though he's amused and affectionate it all at once.
Realization strikes Ratchet in a wave. The vidfile must be from Sunny’s own memory banks. Primus, but they must have been close. There's an intimacy in the image that one doesn't see in casual conversation.
“I want to do this for everyone we can remember,” Sunny says. “I even asked the ‘Cons. No one deserves to be forgotten.” He pauses, a bark of a laugh that's far from amusement escaping him. “Not even Starscream.”
Despite himself, Ratchet grins. “You've changed, Sunny.”
Sunstreaker half-turns toward him. “I know.” He smirks right back. “Sides tells me all the time. Can’t tell if he’s disapproving or proud.”
“I approve,” Ratchet insists
“Yeah. Me, too.”
Sunstreaker lifts a hand, resting it on the base of Hound's display. It's a delicate touch as though he fears breaking it. His field is a ripple of grief, tempered by something Ratchet would’ve never believed Sunstreaker capable of - peace.
If someone had told him vorns upon vorns ago that Sunstreaker would be the first to accept peace over Sideswipe, Ratchet would’ve scanned that mech's processor for damage. But the truth stands in front of him, obviously grieving, but just as obviously accepting the relief of peacetime.
Miracle of miracles.
Or maybe, Ratchet thinks, the true gift from Primus is what’s currently developing between Prowl, Thundercracker, and Dreadwing. It isn’t overt, but Ratchet has become adept at reading between the lines and beneath the surface.
Such as the time Ratchet shuffles onto the bridge to deliver his report in person and suddenly feels as though he's walked into someone else's hab-suite.
Prowl’s standing at the helm per the usual, but Dreadwing and Thundercracker stand to the left and right of him. The latter in particular is near enough to be in Prowl's field, which is highly intimate for their kind. That could possibly be considered innocent if not for TC's hand on Prowl's sensory panel as though on the tail end of a caress. Dreadwing is facing Prowl, and he's in the midst of pulling back as though having leaned forward to whisper.
That Prowl looks so tiny between them is a source of amusement. He might be smaller in appearance, but Ratchet will lay a bet that one sharp word, and both Seekers would abate.
“Oh,” Ratchet comments and never one for retreating, barrels forward anyway. “Am I interrupting?” He doesn't bother to hide his chuckle either.
“Of course not,” Prowl replies, smooth as always and unruffled.
Dreadwing takes a step back. He wings twitch in obvious irritation.
“Shouldn't you be in recharge?” TC demands in a flat tone, armor puffing out in deference to his embarrassment as he tries to throw a cloak of dignity over his shoulders.
It takes all Ratchet has not to burst into laughter. He settles for a grin instead.
“I’ll be shortly. I wanted to deliver this first.” He holds out the datapad, making a point to scan their frames and the air.
No distinct scent of ozone, unsurprising. They might be getting all cuddly on the command deck, but propriety would keep them from outright crossing cables. However, is that a streak of white paint on TC’s right thigh panel?
It so is.
Ratchet's grin broadens.
“You could’ve waited until morning,” Dreadwing says with all the stiffness of a political opponent offended.
“And miss this?” Ratchet lifts his orbital ridges, making it a point to look at each guilty faceplate. “You do know someone has to watch the perimeter, yes? You're on duty after all.”
Except for TC. The Ark's rather fluid schedule has him logged off-duty.
Lucky slagger. They are too few to really be considered off. Ratchet himself is eternally on-duty, though he assigns minor repairs and hatchling maintenance to Knock Out when he wants to recharge or have a quiet moment to himself. And sometimes, he assigns Jack to watch over the kid or take over a shift. It's a slagging miracle no one's managed to cause themselves any serious harm.
He might get a full cycle of recharge yet.
“We are aware,” Dreadwing inserts, and if possible, it’s even stiffer than before. Not much of a sense of humor that one.
How Tracks, who has the driest wit Ratchet has ever met, gets along with him so well is another of life's greatest mysteries. Such as why TC hasn't managed to knock Skywarp senseless.
“And we aren’t the only ones guilty of seeking company,” Prowl adds with a smug flutter of his sensory panels. “Or has Drift suddenly developed a desire to become a medic?”
Touché, Prowl.
Thundercracker snickers.
Ratchet can't find it in himself to be annoyed. He's too happy to see Prowl so relaxed after the clusterfrag that was their frantic exodus from Earth. Jazz's loss is still a gaping chasm of grief for him. And compound that with his inability to save Hound, Prowl has been the poster-mech for post-traumatic stress.
To see him smile is, frankly put, a wonder.
“We'll see,” Ratchet concedes, though the idea of Drift becoming a medic in any form is amusing. For a mech used to slaughtering, he's not keen on the idea of internal fluid or energon in a healing capacity.
Rung would’ve probably had words to say about Drift's mental state. Frag, Rung would’ve paragraphs and datapads to say about all of their mental states, truth be told. But Rung is dead, like so many others, and what he’d have to say is moot. They've done what they've had to do to survive. None of them are sane, but they’re alive. Ratchet supposes that's a start.
Still, Ratchet would’ve liked the help. He's more than a little over his helm.
“Primus knows I could use the extra hands,” he muses aloud.
It's a burden, he thinks, and a concern. He's the only one with this knowledge, and what if something were to happen to him?
“Do you intend to spark another hatchling soon?” Dreadwing asks then, perhaps in a desperate bid to shift the conversation toward business.
“As soon as you volunteer to be the next donor,” Ratchet replies cheerfully.
He’s in no hurry to repeat the procedure himself. Sparking the hatchlings is a worthy endeavor, but the discomfort is still fresh in Ratchet's processor. As it is for so many of their clade. He imagines it's worse for the others, who let the energy build up gradually and carried the excess in their frames for an extended period. By that definition, Ratchet and Drift had the easiest time of it.
He's still not eager to go through it again. Not so soon. Besides, aren’t three newly sparked hatchlings enough for now? Most of them, aside from Red Alert, share that opinion. It's a heavy responsibility to teach and train the newsparks. And none of them want to make the same mistakes as Cybertron past.
Dreadwing grumbles at him, but Prowl at least understands they’re being teased.
“We will discuss it later,” he declares and makes a shooing motion with his hands. “You're off-duty, Ratchet. Enjoy it.”
Ratchet chuckles. “Yes sir.”
He sketches a facsimile of a human salute and takes his leave. But not before glancing over his shoulder in amusement.
An Autobot, a Decepticon and a Neutral.
Who would’ve ever guessed?
Certainly not Ratchet. He's still adapting to the new priority strings that tell him to hesitate when seeing the ‘Con emblem. He still has his Autobrand, and Ratchet can't explain why he's reluctant to part with it. There's no lingering loyalty to Prime, but there's something.
Once upon a time, Ratchet had trusted and believed in Optimus Prime. He’d loved his Prime with all the faith one can carry for his leader. Ratchet thought he would've followed him into the fires and slag of the Pit itself.
He still mourns the loss of that faith. He mourns Optimus as he remembers Prime. And often, he blames himself for not noticing sooner. For letting Optimus degrade to the point of no return. He should’ve seen something, read the signs. For Primus’ sake, he was CMO. It was his duty to ensure Optimus' continued health.
He’d failed in that regard. Perhaps because the changes had come so subtly that he missed them. Or maybe he hadn't wanted to see them for fear of what he'd glimpse beneath.
The past is past, however, and Ratchet can't change it. He knows this. All he can do is improve the future.
One link between them at a time.
He walked past a store room once, only to find the door open. He'd peered in to see Sunstreaker painstakingly painting the decals on Skywarp's wings. Dreadwing was waiting for his turn. Tracks was off to the side, offering well-meaning critique that Sunny snarled over.
They’re well on their way to becoming either the best of friends or mortal enemies.
Friends, by the way, is the eventual outcome. They enjoy sparring and then fixing each other's dents and scrapes and nicks afterward, which Ratchet’s pleased about because that means he doesn't have to do it. Let them bitch and moan to each other about scratches and let Ratchet fix more important things.
Dreadwing and Red Alert also have formed something of a bond. Ratchet attributes it to the fact that they’re the two more serious mechs, often exasperated by the noise and bluster of their cadre. Ratchet has found them on more than one occasion quietly discussing a favorite novel over a cube of bland energon. Prowl sometimes joins them.
Sideswipe and Skywarp are a combination that Ratchet discovered and wished he could yell at Primus over. They are two peas in a pod, so to speak, and have made every effort to wreak havoc. It's good. In a way. Ratchet worried about Sideswipe for a while. The changes in his brother had been difficult to accept and the cessation of his loyalty to the Autobots was just as upsetting.
But Sides, like the rest of them, has adapted. Has grown and changed a little himself and is returning to the cocky, cheerful slagger that Ratchet knows so well.
The sight of him, Knock Out, and Sunstreaker in a snarking match never ceases to be a point of amusement. Though the latter two often chat about the finer points of detailing, Knock Out is just sassy enough to hold his own against Sideswipe.
Skywarp's all but adopted Sunstorm, tucking the bright yellow mech under his wing. Except when Sunstorm escapes to track down Dreadwing, always interested in the older warrior's stories. Especially those that deal with Cybertronian history and legend.
And how many times has Ratchet walked past the laboratory only to hear Skywarp and Jack deep in discussion? He's poked his helm in more than once just to reassure himself that the sharp words are witty banter and not true argument.
They've never once come to blows though Wheeljack often gesticulates wildly, and Skywarp has a talent for barbed remarks. Even more of a miracle is that they've yet to have any accidents. Though Ratchet isn't going to drop his guard anytime soon.
There's still too much at stake.
Nine more hatchlings. Other bots to find and rescue. A home to discover.
Sunstreaker's confessed that he wants to go back and look for Bluestreak. For Prowl's sake if no one else's, and Ratchet won't begrudge him that.
Sides has a certain laboratory that he wants to see razed to the ground, and Ratchet isn't surprised there either. It's a blight on science that needs to be destroyed, and if they find any survivors, it might be a miracle.
Drift thinks Perceptor is still out there somewhere, and who knows? Maybe Primus will cut them all a break, and they'll find him. Right now, their species needs all the brilliant minds it can gather if they have any hope of rebuilding.
It feels a lot like starting over, like a second chance. It’s galaxies away from perfect, and they all have light-years to go before the healing is done, but it's enough, Ratchet thinks.
It's worth it.
All of it, Ratchet thinks as he does one last check on a resting hatchling, is worth it. He only wishes Prime could see this. See what they have accomplished.
“What's that look?”
He shutters his optics and shifs his attention to a peripheral view of Drift who must have crept into the medbay when Ratchet wasn't looking.
“Optimus.”
Drift studies him intently. “What about him?”
“He'll never know this peace.” Ratchet cycles a ventilation, comforting himself with the near-autonomic process. “For him, there’ll forever be a war.”
“You pity him.” Drift's helm tilts upward.
“He was my friend once, Drift,” Ratchet says, fully turning to look at his partner. “My friend and my leader both.”
Drift folds his arms over his chestplate. The swords on his hips rattle.
“We'll have to go back someday,” he acknowledges. “For Bumblebee at least. Maybe things will have changed.”
Ratchet doubts it, and his face must say as much as Drift watches him.
“You think you can save him.”
“I'm not Primus.” Ratchet tosses Drift a sharp look, full of censure.
Drift's lipplates quirk with a wry grin. “Didn't know you believed in him.”
Hmph. Cheeky slagger. Ratchet runs a hand over his helm.
“You enjoy being contrary, don't you?”
Drift unfolds his arms and approaches, daring to do so when others would smartly keep their distance. Then again, Ratchet has always attributed Drift to having more gall than smarts.
“If I told you that you made the right choice, would it help?”
Ratchet doesn't have an answer for that. Sometimes, the guilt of his decisions prove weightier than the relief. One of the hardest things he has ever done is walk away. From Earth. From Prime and the Autobots.
“We all owe you our lives, our sparks,” Drift adds, and in another startling display of bravery, he reaches for Ratchet's hand. “I don't think you realize that. If you hadn't taken that first step, who knows where we would be now?”
Ratchet snorts. “Rusting at the bottom of the Laurentian,” he mutters, but he allows Drift to take his hand, watching as Drift seems fascinated by the small mechanisms in his fingers. It's not unlike that first awkward overture Drift had made not so long ago.
“Along with the hatchlings,” he points out.
Ratchet's spark constricts at the thought of Knock Out, Sunstorm, and Fireflight. Bright minds and unending potential. Nine more hatchlings waiting to see the world. They don't deserve to turn to rust, to be discarded like so much trash.
Drift's field reaches out, requesting without expectation. His free hand rises, tapping Ratchet's chestplate right over the nigh-invisible seam. The touch means something, an acknowledgment, a gratitude, a reassurance. All three at once.
“There are different kinds of betrayal, Ratchet. And there's not a mech on this ship who thinks you are anything but loyal.”
His spark tightens.
Et tu, Ratchet?
He thinks of Prime. Thinks of how he was at the end. At the last time they saw him, even as they fled. Taunt and tight. Seeming as if he were a rabid animal backed into a corner. As though his last piece of stable ground had broken open beneath him.
Prime is still wiping away the energon on his hands as his focus turns to Prowl and Ratchet by proxy. As he bellows out Prowl’s name and takes off towards them. He isn’t too far away, but Ratchet’s closer to him than his own cadre. He knows how it’ll play out. Knows exactly how the plans are lining up in Prime’s processor, who he’ll go for first. And Ratchet steps forward without thinking. Hoping, praying that he can give Prowl the time he’ll need to get away.
Even then, the medic can see Prime’s optics narrow. As if considering which traitor to finish first. As if wondering that it even makes a difference.
“Even you, old friend,” Prime shouts to him, face closed and unreadable. “Even you turn away. Turn to an enemy”
‘Just like Megatron,’ goes unspoken. ‘Just like Sentinel.’
Prime’s sword is already up, but Ratchet knows he still doesn’t have the spark or the skill to fight back. Unfortunately, Sunstreaker is there to make the choice for him. Rushing in thoughtlessly before Ratchet can even react. Taking blow after blow, even as Ratchet hears Sideswipe screaming out for him in the distance. Prowl, too, is turning. Door-wings drawn up tight.
But more than the fight. More than the beating Sunny is receiving. It’s the gleam in Prime’s optics. It’s the way he carries himself. It’s the way he attacks. As if he doesn’t care how much pain he causes or who he destroys as long as the job gets done.
But then, Skywarp is there. And TC and Dreadwing. Tracks. Jack, too. Stealing them all away. Saving them with smiles and whoops of glee and gentle hands that all but carry Ratchet to the ship.
The last he sees of Prime is him staring up at their ship. Optics blue but dead. Hands dripping with energon.
Ratchet shutters his optics.
“It was worth it,” he says, and something eases inside of him. A tightness he hadn't realized he carried.
Drift's field resonates with approval. “Of course it was. So maybe now, I can convince you to recharge.” He squeezes Ratchet's hand.
“I think you have an alternative motive,” Ratchet retorts with an edge of a grump as he unshutters his optics at his partner.
“Perhaps.” Drift gives him a coy look, optics brimming with promise.
Ratchet rolls his own and sends a command to power down the lights to a resting state and leaves the hatchling bay. They are fine for now, patiently awaiting their sparking opportunity. Knock Out's on call to check in on them in intervals.
Ratchet, after all, is off-shift. He’s going to take the opportunity for what it is.
****
a/n: And it's done. Wow. What a crazy ride. Three years later and I can finally stamp complete on the main storyline. Phew. I am so proud of myself. This fic is everything I ever wanted to do with Bayverse and I am so happy with how it came out.
It's not the end of the story. I have a whole list of side-fics I hope to eventually write. After all, we got some hatchlings to spark! There are some loose ends hanging around. They can't just leave Prime to fester. So on and so forth. I'll get to them all one by one eventually. :)
In the meantime, there did seem to be some interest in both character playlists and an after-fic FAQ so if you have the questions, now's the time to ask. I'm going to compile them and answer them and put up a separate post. I'll also post the character's playlists as I come up with them.
It's been great. It's been fun. I have the best readers and reviewers ever! Thanks to everyone who's stuck by me, who's commented and shown interest and been an awesome support. You rock! Much love, also, to my brain-twin, Azardarkstar. Without her, this fic would not have been possible. She truly made each chapter shine!
As always, I do hope you enjoyed the conclusion and feedback remains welcome and appreciated. Now... on to the next project! Whatever that may be. ^_^
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