Vigil, Part 5
Title: Vigil
Rating: PG
Warnings: Just a bit of language, throughout.
Main Character(s): The Dinobots, Wheeljack, Ratchet, Optimus Prime
Genre: Introspective-y Drama
Summary: Swoop mostly dies. Everyone else spazzes out.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Reflexively, Grimlock looked up when the medbay doors slid apart and was surprised to see both Sludge and, of all people, Snarl striding through them. Snarl wore a mask of indifference on his face, as usual. Sludge, on the other hand, gave Grimlock a narrowed-eyed glare full of surprising defiance. Defiance was something that Grimlock could never recall seeing on Sludge's face before. He had never had reason to be defiant since he'd always seemed perfectly happy to obey every command tossed his way…
First time for everything, was the thought that crossed Grimlock's mind when he saw Sludge's expression. He pushed away from the wall against which he had been leaning and watched as Sludge marched up to him and looked him straight in the optics.
"You Grimlock not send me Sludge away again," he said without preamble, before Grimlock could say anything, and his tone brooked no argument. "Swoop friend. Swoop help Sludge all the time. Sludge stay here for him now. Sludge not leave."
Grimlock just stared at the other Dinobot for a moment, dumbfounded. He never expected in his life that Sludge would disobey a direct order, regardless of the circumstances. Yet here he was, standing in the medbay even though Grimlock had ordered him to stay in their quarters. It wasn't that Grimlock had issued that order out of heartlessness. He knew that Sludge cared about what happened to Swoop perhaps more so than any of the Dinobots, himself included. But Grimlock also knew, however, that Sludge had just the slightest tendency towards clumsiness, partly because of his size but mostly because that was simply the way that he was. He was massively strong, but sometimes that strength had a tendency to backfire on him and he would inadvertently break things or just get in the way, in general. Grimlock had feared a disaster if Sludge had stayed in the medbay and had gotten in the way of one of the hustling medics…
Still…At the moment, things were quiet in the medical bay. Ratchet and Wheeljack, after stabilizing Swoop as best they could, had retreated to Ratchet's office, no doubt to formulate a plan of attack against whatever it was that was ailing Swoop. They had been in there for hours. Grimlock, truth to tell, had become bored. There was nothing that he could do for Swoop, but he felt compelled to stay with him, regardless. And then suddenly Snarl and Sludge were there…And Grimlock realized that Sludge was staring at him. The expression of open defiance that he'd worn like a shield had transmuted itself to nervous hopefulness in the face of Grimlock's extended, appraising stare.
"You Sludge may stay," Grimlock finally allowed and smiled inwardly at the look of relieved joy that flooded Sludge's face when he said the words. Sludge happily went off to stand by Swoop's medical berth while Grimlock slid his gaze over to Snarl, who merely stood impassively, returning Grimlock's searching gaze with one of studied indifference.
"What you Snarl doing here?" Grimlock asked, genuinuely surprised that the loner of the Dinobots would deign to show his face at what had become a vigil for a fallen comrade. He was never one for solidarity, after all, and he usually preferred to be by himself.
But Snarl merely shrugged and asserted, "Me Snarl have nothing better to do."
"Where Slag?" Grimlock asked, suddenly remembering the task which he had assigned Snarl.
"Climbing rocks," Snarl answered succinctly, which was not surprising as far as it went with Slag. "Said he needed to think," Snarl added…and that was surprising.
"Slag? Thinking? Slag?" Grimlock responded, shocked.
Snarl shrugged again. "Today just full of surprises, isn't it?" he said tonelessly.
Grimlock stared at him for moment, wondering precisely what - or who - Snarl was talking about. He was about to ask when he was suddenly visited with an even greater shock. The medbay doors parted again and Optimus Prime, with Jazz in his wake, strode into the room. Like Sludge before him, Optimus Prime approached Grimlock and looked him straight in the optics. Grimlock almost felt the need to wince and ask what he'd done now, but there was...something...in Optimus Prime's somewhat limited expression that stayed him. There was an...uncertainty...there, perhaps? But Grimlock had never been a wonderful judge of facial expressions, and it was especially difficult with Optimus Prime. So he merely stared back at the Autobot leader and waited.
And waited.
It took quite a while for Optimus Prime to say anything...and when he finally did say something, it was uncharacteristically hesitant.
"Grimlock," Optimus Prime said after clearing his throat...nervously? "I've...been thinking about what you said before about...about we Autobots not understanding you Dinobots."
"Yes?" Grimlock said when Prime paused for a long moment. It was half acknowledgment and half prompt.
"And...what you said...Well, you did have a point, I admit, and, well..."
"What he wants to say," Jazz suddenly interrupted, "is that he's sorry for being a jackass when it comes to you guys. And, for what it's worth, so am I." When Optimus stared at him with optics widened in shock, he exclaimed, "What? You know I hate it when people beat around the bush, Prime. So I just went and said it for you." He slid a glance over at Grimlock, who was stunned into silence and had his gaze fixed upon Jazz as well, and added, "Great! Now I've got two of 'em starin' at me!" And with that, he threw his hands in the air in a gesture of frustration and went to stand by Swoop's medical berth, joining Sludge in watching over him.
Optimus Prime blinked then, shook his head to clear his thoughts, and stared at Grimlock.
"Yes," he said, finally finding words. "I meant what Jazz said, Grimlock. You and the other Dinobots have been treated unfairly over the years by myself and by many of the other Autobots. Please believe me when I say that most of us were not being intentionally cruel toward any of you. It's just that...well, as shameful as it is to admit...we just never really thought about your feelings and needs. I...I hope that this is something that both of us can work on, that maybe the Dinobots and the Autobots can one day be a real team with no barriers of misunderstanding and distrust between us. And I hope that you and the others can forgive us for our indifference and, in some cases, for our thoughtless dismissal of your feelings. I'm...sorry. For everything."
For a long time, Grimlock was silent, to the point that Optimus Prime found himself wondering if any of his words had sunk into Grimlock's skull. But just when he was about to say something else, if only to end the awful, uncomfortable silence, Grimlock finally spoke up.
"You Optimus Prime not only one who is sorry," he said quietly. "Us Dinobots not always try to be part of team because us sometimes get tired of being noticed only when us needed to pound Decepticons. And then us get angry. So us can be...what is word?...rebellious, me think? Yes. Rebellious. Even when us not need to be. And us not always try to understand Autobots, either."
He paused and his gaze slid over to Swoop's medical berth, where Sludge and Jazz were actually smiling at each other and talking quietly, probably about a shared memory of Swoop. Grimlock watched them for a moment and added thoughtfully, words emerging from his throat with correct syntax without having to think about it, for once.
"But maybe," Grimlock continued softly, "one good thing can come out of this bad thing with Swoop. Maybe it will make Autobots and Dinobots both try to understand the other side. Maybe we can meet in the middle...eventually."
Optimus Prime stared wonderingly at the Dinobot leader. He had never given Grimlock credit for being capable of such deep thought. And yet this was the second time in a single day that Grimlock had opened Optimus Prime's eyes to a side of Grimlock and the other Dinobots that he never knew existed. It was enough to make him regret ignoring the Dinobots for the past ten years... They stared at each other for a long moment, optics-to-optics, truly as equals for once.
It was then that Ratchet and Wheeljack emerged from Ratchet's office, announcing that they had a plan of attack against Swoop's condition and telling everyone, Autobot and Dinobot, to get out of their way...
* * * * * * *
"You are out of your ever-lovin' mind, Wheeljack!" Ratchet exclaimed, slamming a fist against the desk in front of him in exasperation.
"I am?" Wheeljack responded mildly.
"Yes!" Ratchet answered. "You are! We have no idea if it'd work. And even if it did, do you have any idea what this might do to him, assuming that he survives?!"
Slouched tiredly in a chair across the desk from Ratchet, Wheeljack glared at the medic.
"Um, hello? I seem to recall spending many hours designing his circuit pathways in the first place! I think I have just the vaguest inkling of what this might do to him!" he retorted. "And I have yet to hear any ideas from you, oh great medical master," he added sarcastically.
Ratchet snorted, but didn't answer for a moment. Despite the fact that he was exhausted and had a headache the size of Manhattan, he pushed himself up out of his chair and paced around his office, taking a few moments to cool his temper.
Wheeljack watched Ratchet pace for a moment, sympathizing with the medic's obvious feeling of helplessness. He sighed, slouched further down in his seat, and added tiredly, sadly, "Besides which, the alternative is losing him forever, anyway. You, uh...you do know that, don't you, Ratchet?"
Ratchet paused in his pacing by the window mounted in his office's wall, the one that looked out onto the main ward. At the moment, it offered only a depressing view of their ominously still Dinobot patient. Gathered around him was an interesting mix: Sludge, Snarl, and Jazz. They all appeared to be getting along well; Sludge and Jazz were even smiling. Optimus Prime and Grimlock, meanwhile were off in a corner, staring at one another. Ratchet idly hoped that an argument was not about to ensue. The last thing they needed was more tension between the Autobot leader and the Dinobot leader.
Without turning away from the window, Ratchet sighed and said quietly, "Of course I know that, Wheeljack. It's just that..."
"That what?" Wheeljack prompted gently when Ratchet's voice trailed off into a long moment of troubled silence.
"I don't know, Wheeljack," Ratchet answered dismally after a moment. "I'm so damn tired. And I just...I feel like I don't know anything anymore."
"Mmmm," Wheeljack murmured in wordless agreement.
Ratchet sighed again, turned away from the window, and paced back to his desk, settling himself once again into the chair behind it. It had been a very long twelve hours, Ratchet reflected. And in those long twelve hours, Ratchet felt as if he and Wheeljack had accomplished precisely nothing. Swoop was in just as much danger at the present moment as he'd been eleven hours and fifty-nine minutes before. In fact, he was in even more danger, since the circuit bypasses that were keeping the failure cascade out of his central operating programs could not hold out forever against the endless onslaught of systems failures that were the calling card of his condition. They had three or four hours, at the most, to stop that onslaught, before the bypasses failed, at which time the Swoop that they all knew would be gone forever.
It was a daunting task, one that had taxed his frustration threshold to the breaking point. Wheeljack's, too, apparently. He and Wheeljack usually worked very well together, their areas of expertise overlapping nicely. They didn't often snipe at one another, but they'd been doing so, on and off, since Swoop's crisis had started.
That was only twelve hours ago...and Ratchet realized it was a wonder, really, that Swoop was still alive at all, twelve hours later. It was largely the result of a series of happy coincidences more than anything else. Swoop was lucky that the initial onset of his condition had occurred while he was in the presence of others. He was lucky that Grimlock had been clear-headed enough to send for help as quickly as he had. He was lucky that Ratchet had been so close by. And he was lucky that, having gotten an inkling of what was wrong with Swoop from Wheeljack's vague description, Ratchet had brought the right equipment with him to the Romper Room. He'd been able to halt the failure cascade in its tracks long enough to get him to the medical bay. There, he'd been able to bypass just about every one of his vital circuits before the failure cascade could irrevocably damage them. All in all, it was truly a marvel that Swoop was still alive twelve hours after the onset of a failure cascade that was so acute and so devastatingly persistent.
And it was also utterly baffling.
Via Teletran One, Ratchet had accessed all of the old medical records on Cybertron that pertained to cascade failure. He'd looked for a case even remotely similar to Swoop's, to no avail. The old records rather unhelpfully told Ratchet only what he already knew.
Cascade failure was something that usually occurred in only much older Cybertronians, in those who were nearing the end of what to the humans was a staggeringly long life span. But it was usually not nearly so...cataclysmic as Swoop's case, not even remotely as acute. In every record that Ratchet had accessed, the patient's cascade failure was a comparatively slow, gradual, but ultimately irreversible process. The patient's systems failed one by one over the course of several of the humans' weeks until it finally affected their vital, primary systems and claimed their lives. Cybertronian physicians through the ages had come to regard cascade failure as the natural end to life, the same way that humans viewed death due to old age.
Now, of course, the war often precluded Cybertronians from dying of old age. It was now a dismal fact of Cybertronian life that many Cybertronians no longer lived long enough to die of old age, thanks to the unforgiving ravages of a seemingly endless civil war. So cascade failure was now a relatively rare occurrence.
And it was even rarer that such a young Cybertronian should fall prey to it. Swoop, in comparison to all of the other Autobots, was a mere infant, was only ten of the humans' years old. That was but a blink of an eye to a Cybertronian, whose life span humans measured in eons, not mere decades. And his condition was not something that was going to kill him over the course of a few weeks or so; he had gone from the perfectly healthy vigor of extreme youth to dangerously near death in the space of a few minutes. And, unless Ratchet and Wheeljack could find a way to stop it, cascade failure was ultimately going to kill him in less than an Earth day.
And it hadn't helped Ratchet's confidence in devising a treatment for Swoop when he'd learned, through looking at the records, that there were no recorded cases of such an acute case of cascade failure anywhere in anyone, young or old. This was a condition completely new to Cybertronian medicine. Which meant that he and Wheeljack had to come up with a completely new treatment.
And they had to come up with it quickly.
And it had to work the first time. There were not going to be any second chances. They didn't have that luxury.
And now Wheeljack, looking at the problem from an engineering perspective, had thought of something to try. They were contemplating taking Swoop completely off-line, quickly rerouting every circuit pathway in his body, down to the smallest and most insignificant microcircuit, and then getting him back online again - hopefully! - and hoping for the best. It was something that was dangerously unprecedented, something that might result in his death if they couldn't finish the procedure fast enough or if they couldn't convince him to come back online afterwards. Wheeljack was convinced that with himself, Ratchet, and the dozen or so medics under Ratchet's command they could reroute his circuits quickly enough. Reviving him afterwards was another question...But the "treatment" was also something that very well might be Swoop's only chance for survival, at least insofar as the Swoop that they all knew and - in one or two cases - loved was concerned. Ratchet knew that. Much as he didn't like taking chances such as the one that Wheeljack was suggesting, Ratchet realized that there were times when there was no other choice but to rely on dim hopes, faint chances, and untested procedures.
This was one of those times. There was no time for tests, no time for waffling, no time for soul-searching about the medical ethics of doing what Wheeljack had proposed. Ratchet knew that, even as his training as a physician screamed at him that to sanction a treatment that might put his patient in more jeopardy than he already faced was unjustifiable in the extreme, that to abandon traditional and safer procedures in favor of something untried and untestable was unconscionable. He argued back with himself that, sometimes, the rigid rules of medical ethics had to be bent when a life was at stake. And, as Wheeljack had pointed out, if they didn't do something Swoop was going to die anyway...
Resolutely, he turned away from the window, faced Wheeljack with a grim expression on his face.
"Let's get to work," he said.
* * * * * * *
The stark light of a full moon filtered through high, wispy clouds glared down upon Slag, leeching all color from the landscape like a vampire sucking the lifeblood from his victim. The splashy, watercolor hues of late spring, and the bright, primary colors of Slag's own body were all washed down to dismal shades of gray, shades that matched Slag's mood. A chill wind carrying a damp promise of rain blew its way down the cliff face upon which Slag was still sitting, motionless.
Rain, he thought bleakly as he stared up at the thicker clouds that were just beginning to gather around the moon. Just what I need... It was just one more bleak thought wedged within a stack of others. Hunching his shoulders against the wind, Slag settled into his thoughts once again.
He'd been up on the cliff, alone, for...hours now. He'd long ago lost track of how many hours it had been since Snarl had left him alone to ponder his situation and his emotions about Swoop. Part of Slag was glad that he'd been left alone, that everyone - Autobot or Dinobot - had chosen to leave him to his own devices. He preferred to be alone. He was Slag the fierce, the bully, the meanest of the mean and violent Dinobots, after all. He didn't need anyone else in order to survive. Not the Autobots, not the other Dinobots. In fact, on several occasions during the time that he'd been up on the cliff, he had considered leaving, walking away from Autobot Headquarters and never returning. A small part of him had even considered heading off and knocking on Megatron's door to see if he was hiring, but...something...stayed him. It was something that Slag didn't like, something alien to him. It was only a small, faint voice in his head, to be sure, but it nagged at him. It whispered to him to follow the Autobot party line not because he wanted to, necessarily, but because it was the "right" thing to do.
And, oh, was that phrase was familiar, indeed! Swoop was always telling him to do things whether he liked it or not simply because it was the "right" thing to do. Right for whom was what Slag had always wondered, and sometimes he'd even asked. "Rightness" was apparently of importance to Swoop, certainly, who cared about such things. Slag didn't care. As Snarl had pointed out to him, he cared about only one thing in life, and he had mastered it. He had mastered the art of war and of death and, to him, those were things of which to be proud. Those were the things that mattered, that were valuable in the current state of Cybertronian affairs...but it had occurred to Slag over the past few hours that he had not mastered the art of life, the art of peace, the art of contentedness, of happiness. Were they valuable as well? Maybe they were in the bright, happy future that those more optimistic than Slag predicted. Well, Slag would worry about such a thing if - and that was a big "if" - it came to pass.
But Swoop had taken such things to heart already. Peace was what he seemed to live for, now. He'd put war and violence behind him, he claimed. Slag had always retorted that that was nothing of which to be proud. And he'd always looked contemptuously upon Swoop. He was weaker, physically, than Slag was. He questioned the need to fight at times, sometimes seconds before an imminent battle. The tendency angered Slag to no end, and he had no compunctions about letting Swoop know it. Swoop, in turn, had no compunctions about telling Slag that he was an idiot. In turn, Slag would call Swoop a coward, and the argument would go on from there. Slag, at times, almost looked forward to such a confrontation. He loved nothing more than a good fight, after all, physical or verbal.
But was it more than that? That was the question that Slag found himself pondering now. Was his tendency to put Swoop in his place indeed, as Snarl had suggested to him, a symptom of jealousy? Did he envy his lack of aggression and, he granted, his superior intelligence? Slag had been quick to dismiss the notion out of hand when Snarl had suggested it...Once alone, however, Slag had continued to think about Snarl's suggestion as he'd sat on the cliff, as he'd watched the sun set in a fierce display of heavenly fire, as he'd watched the moon rise, as he now sat and watched that moon riding high over his head, slowly being overtaken by the gathering clouds of an approaching storm. He had yet to reach a conclusion one way or the other.
But he did know one thing: Whatever the truth was about whether or not he was jealous of Swoop, he would never admit to being wrong about the issue. If he was jealous, he'd never admit it. After all, what was he to do about it now? Go groveling to Grimlock, begging for forgiveness for thinking Swoop contemptible and weak?
Of course not! Slag scoffed disgustedly to himself...even as he began to descend the cliff, searching for hand- and footholds strictly by feel in the moonlit midnight darkness. As he descended, random thoughts and memories came to him even as he concentrated mostly upon his descent. He even chuckled wryly as he recalled the first encounter he'd had with Swoop - when Swoop and Snarl had been trying to kill or at least incapacitate Slag because he and the other Dinobots had temporarily defected to the Decepticon side. And then Slag recalled all the times when some Autobot or another - usually Wheeljack - had attempted to teach the Dinobots to behave like civilized beings. Swoop had lapped up the lessons like a starving Earth cat with a bowl of cream all to himself, while Slag had resisted the lessons with every fiber of his being. Slag shook his head ruefully. He and Swoop were diametrically opposed forces of nature forced to work together in order to achieve a common goal. It was, Slag reflected, like trying to force the like poles of two magnets together: it could be done, but the end result wasn't likely to last.
And in that split-second lapse of concentration as he focused more on memories and less on what he was doing, Slag lost a foothold and then, in short order, a handhold. And then, before he realized what was happening, he had begun to slide down the cliff face, toward the point where the more gently inclined section of the cliff ended in a sheer vertical drop to the ground far below. Desperately, Slag tried to grab something - anything - to stop his slide, but if was as if the cliff face had suddenly turned into a smooth sheet of glass. There was nothing to grasp and, in a few seconds, Slag plummeted into a sheer drop, falling five hundred meters, at least, to the hard gray Earth below.
The fall seemed to take forever, yet it could only have been a few seconds at most. It had happened so quickly and was so unexpected that Slag made no sound, only a grunt when he'd initially lost his hold in the rocks and a few more grunts as he'd violently collided with the cliff face a few times as he fell. And fell. And fell...
A resounding crash and a terrible, all-consuming numbness were all that accompanied Slag's eventual, flat-on-his-back impact with the ground. For a long moment afterwards, he lay there, completely unable to move so much as a fingertip. There was no sound other than a horrible buzzing white noise that droned in his audios. And all that he could see was the moon, which loomed so huge in his field of vision that Slag would have sworn that it was hanging but a few centimeters over his nose. It appeared to be laughing at his pathetic condition. But then even that faded ever so slowly to black...
The first few blobs of rain splashed down onto his face, as if Primus was spitting on him, as Slag finally and mercifully lost consciousness.
* * * * * * *
Medics were hovering and buzzing over Swoop's berth like flies over an organic corpse when Slag staggered into the medical bay.
The world was spinning around him. He'd felt during his long hike back to Headquarters after regaining consciousness that the hike would never end. Dizziness had consumed him. He'd found himself staggering from tree to tree, pausing often to regain his equilibrium and renew his determination to get help, no matter how weak it might make him appear. Something was wrong with him. Many things, in fact, were apparently wrong with him. Frantic and dire messages from his internal diagnostics flashed in his field of vision as he'd stumbled toward Autobot Headquarters in the dark. Slag hadn't understood most of them, had never bothered to learn what such warnings meant. And the ones that he did understand he ignored. All he knew was that he had to get to Headquarters, had to get to the medical bay. It was as if some force of nature was dragging him there, leaving no room at all for Slag's personal feelings on the matter.
And it hadn't been easy. His equilibrium was way off, had been damaged, probably, in the fall. His sense of direction was dulled by the darkness. It was unnaturally quiet after the storm that had apparently passed over while Slag had been unconscious. The rain had stopped, but the moon had set and the sun had yet to make any hint of an appearance, which left only a murky, humid, dank-smelling darkness. Slag had no idea what time it was. He had no idea how long he'd been out. All that he knew was that he had woken up, that the almost-pleasant numbness that had accompanied his initial impact after the fall had transformed into a screaming cloak of pain that enveloped his entire body, and that he was drenched and lying in a sea of mud. He'd managed to flip himself over and push himself up to his hands and knees. He'd crawled to the nearest tree and then, using the tree for support, had managed to claw his way to his feet and set off on his trek, limping heavily. He'd tripped often over underbrush, over the trees that he'd toppled on his way out of Headquarters, a trip that to Slag now seemed to have happened years ago. He'd slipped in patches of mud and on slippery, moss-covered rocks, landing flat on his back - which sent painful echoes of his previous, much longer fall ricocheting through his body. He'd smacked into trees face-first more times than he wanted to count.
But he had survived the journey.
And he had never been quite so happy to see Autobot Headquarters in his life. Mellow, welcoming light spilled out from beneath the section of the old Autobot ship that jutted out of the side of the volcano in which it was currently housed, as if it were a beacon guiding Slag home. He had practically sprinted the last quarter of a mile to the base, despite the pain that pounded through his body because of it.
Those who were on night watch at the base gave him a few odd looks as he'd entered the base. Slag imagined that he looked a sight - caked in mud, his outer armor hideously torn in a few places and dented in many others, his circuitry sparking in a few places through the rents in his armor - but he didn't care. He had one destination in mind, and a million odd glances from each of a million random Autobots were not about to deter him from it. The medbay was calling to him like a siren, for more than one reason.
Certainly, he needed medical attention. That was patently obvious. Under normal circumstances, Slag would rather suffer in silence than actively seek out the help of an Autobot physician. Under normal circumstances, lately, Swoop - sensitive, perhaps, to Slag's preference to avoid any appearance of needfulness, especially where the Autobots were concerned - often patched him up when he needed patching. But Slag could not deny to anyone that he needed help this time…and Swoop, of course, was unavailable.
Which, when Slag was candid with himself, was the main reason that he found himself drawn to the medical bay. It was because he'd experienced an epiphany during his long, pain-filled hike back to Autobot Headquarters. Perhaps it was only because he was injured and had therefore been thinking with a part of his brain that he often kept tightly closed off in order to avoid it. Perhaps the fall had simply jarred something in his brain. But, for whatever reason, Slag had realized that, as obsessed with war and fighting as he often was, life and the freedom to live it in peace were still the more precious and desirable commodities. He'd realized that war and fighting and killing, while sometimes unavoidable, were not always preferable, that sometimes simply living and enjoying life and allowing others to do the same were the things that mattered, if only because life could be so terribly brief. It could end at any moment, whether in battle or because of a mysterious physical ailment or because of a stupid, inattentive error that subsequently caused a fall from a very high cliff. Long-lived creatures such as Slag's own species sometimes lost sight of the fact that life, no matter one's normal lifespan, could be a very fragile, ephemeral thing. But that lesson had been brought home to Slag not just once but twice in a single twenty-four hour span of time. He felt as if someone was trying to tell him something. And for some improbable reason he felt a strong urge to heed the message.
Fighting, Slag had realized, should not be his sole concern and certainly not his only joy in life, because there was so much more to do in what could be a very brief existence. That didn't, of course, mean that he couldn't enjoy fighting on occasion; it just meant that it shouldn't be all that he was. And, upon realizing that, he felt the need to make his peace - if only temporarily - with everyone, the Autobots, Grimlock…and Swoop.
Assuming, of course, that Swoop hadn't died in his absence. That was the thought that relentlessly drove him toward the medical bay even as his body screamed at him to stop, to shut down, to cease the effort that he was demanding of it. Slag ignored his body's complaints. He had come so far that he'd been determined to make it all the way to the medbay under his own power.
And he had. Barely, certainly, but he'd made it. Some unconscious part of his brain took in the scene as the medbay doors parted in front of him and he staggered through them, smashing one shoulder into the doorjamb. As he leaned against the jamb to gather the last remaining shards of his strength, Slag noted the half-dozen medics working with quiet urgency on Swoop. He noted the other three Dinobots huddled in one corner of the room, oblivious to Slag's ungraceful arrival. And he noted Optimus Prime and Jazz watching the medics from another corner of the room. Slag watched with odd detachment as Jazz turned an alarmed gaze on Slag himself and started to move toward him. Determined, Slag pushed away from the supporting doorjamb and lurched, heavily limping, a few steps into the medbay, where, completely against his will, he collapsed down onto one knee. It was a collapse that some part of his mind noted was eerily similar to Swoop's initial collapse at the onset of whatever it was that was plaguing him...The thought brought an ironic smile to his face as Jazz, Grimlock, and Optimus Prime all knelt down near him at roughly the same moment.
"What happened?" all three of them asked in almost perfect unison, as if they'd practiced for the occasion.
With an effort, Slag raised his head to look squarely into the optics of Optimus Prime, simply because he was the one who had chosen to kneel directly in front of Slag.
"Fell," he said succinctly and was horrified at the weakness of his voice. The word sounded more like a pathetic moan... Still, he continued haltingly, "Me Slag...was angry...so me Slag climbed cliff... Was climbing down again when me fall...Fell hard, too. Fall...very bad." Pausing, he tried to stand up again, only to sink down again with an involuntary yelp of pain. "So...so dizzy," he moaned and collapsed still further, down onto his hands and knees, his elbows locked to support his upper body, preventing him from falling flat on his face. His arms were shaking terribly, though...and blackness was again eating away at the edges of his vision, the strain of the hike to Autobot Headquarters catching up with him...Despite his best efforts, his arms began to buckle...
And at that moment, to his utter shock, Grimlock grabbed him from behind, pulled him back so that he was half-sitting and half-leaning against the Dinobot leader. Grimlock supported at least half of Slag's weight with his own body, just as he'd done for Swoop earlier. Slag tried to crank his head around to stare in shock at Grimlock but found that it hurt too much to do so.
So instead, he muttered under his breath, "Thank you, Grimlock."
If Grimlock was at all surprised by Slag's appreciation, it didn't show in his voice.
"You Slag welcome," he said, equally quietly and then, to Slag's further shock, he added sincerely, "You Slag always welcome, but you just too stubborn to realize it."
"I'll get Ratchet," Jazz was saying meanwhile, unaware of the exchange between the two Dinobots. He started to rise, only to be halted by Slag, who stopped him by the simple expedient of reaching out a hand with lightning-quickness and wrapping it firmly around Jazz's forearm.
"No!" he said determinedly. "Swoop need all the medics now. Me Slag...I...will be fine...until...until they finish with him...and he OK again..."
And then, finally, the blackness finally did overcome Slag once again, and he melted down into the warm, dark embrace of unconscious oblivion. As his big body went limp, Grimlock, Optimus Prime, and Jazz exchanged a wondering glance. Self-sacrifice from Slag? Concern for Swoop from Slag? It was difficult for all three of them to comprehend...
Grimlock broke the silence that followed Slag's black-out with an explosive snort.
"Fall must have caused brain damage," he said wryly.
And as Optimus Prime and Jazz both chuckled at the comment, Grimlock managed to lever Slag's big, dead-weight body up into his arms. Grunting with effort all the way, he carried Slag to the nearest medical berth, leaving behind him one Autobot leader and one of that leader's dearest friends to marvel anew at the surprising nature of the Dinobots' interrelationship, one that they both had never taken the time to notice before...
* * * * * * *
A most improbable sight greeted Slag's optics when they came back online, a day or two later. Swoop's face hovered over his, blue optics alight with mischief and a wide, insufferable grin plastered onto his face.
"It's alive!" he exclaimed lightly. "Run for your lives!"
Ignoring Swoop for the moment, Slag frowned, trying to remember what had happened. Slowly, recollection came back to him...and when it did, he could come to only one conclusion.
"Me Slag dead?" he asked, sitting up and looking himself over, as if to make sure that nothing was missing from his body.
Swoop, meanwhile, laughed.
"Not dead," he said. "You have headache that make you wish you dead, but you not dead."
"But...you...me..." Slag's voice trailed off in confusion. He shook his head as if to clear it out, winced at the pain wrought by the motion - Swoop was right about the headache - and continued, "You Swoop were sick. And me Slag-"
"You fall down, go BOOM!" Swoop interrupted in his best Tweety Bird imitation. "But you OK now," he continued more seriously. "And me Swoop all better now, too." Swoop proclaimed. "Ratchet and Wheeljack and other medics fix both of us."
"Then why you here?" Slag asked.
Swoop was quiet for a moment, perhaps thinking about his answer. And when he finally spoke, all joking was suddenly put aside.
"Because me Swoop should be here," he asserted seriously. "It right thing to do."
Slag groaned and flopped back down onto his back again with a clang that made his head ring.
"Why you Swoop always say that?" he asked exasperatedly.
"Because it's true," Swoop said with a shrug. He folded his arms over his chest, narrowed his optics, and stared down at Slag with an expression of mixed amusement and worry on his face. "Because to do right thing is good," he continued. "And when friend hurt, it right that me Swoop is here for him."
It took a moment for Swoop's words to sink into Slag's foggy brain, but when they did he stared up at Swoop wonderingly.
"Me Slag...friend?" he asked.
Swoop chuckled. "Of course, you idiot!" he exclaimed. "You Slag always try to push others away, but no matter how hard you Slag try, you can't push me Swoop away. Or them, too," he added, jerking his chin over toward the other side of the room.
Slag blinked in confusion, and slowly turned his head to see Grimlock, Snarl, and even Sludge there, staring at him with varying expressions on their faces. Almost as one, they walked over to join Swoop at Slag's bedside, clustering around him. Slag looked over at Swoop again, a bewildered expression on his face.
"Life is too short to be mean to fellow Dinobots all the time," he said before Slag could say anything, consciously putting aside the odd Dinobot syntax. Slag gasped quietly as he heard his own unexpected realization echoed all unwittingly by Swoop. "You and I both learned that this week, didn't we?" he continued gravely. When Slag didn't reply, he held out one imploring hand, palm up, to Slag while the other Dinobots looked on curiously. "Friend?" Swoop asked with a small, hopeful smile on his face.
Sitting up again, Slag stared at Swoop's offered hand and then up into his face, indecisive for a moment. But only for a moment. Before he thought the better of it, he found himself clasping Swoop's hand and hanging onto it with desperate strength, as if he was drowning and Swoop was offering him a lifeline.
"Friend," Slag confirmed with a nod and a squeeze of Swoop's hand. He watched Swoop's small, hopeful smile bloom into a triumphant grin that threatened to split his face in two. At the same moment, the pit of coldness that had always festered and clawed at his core began to warm by just the tinest amount. He smiled back at Swoop tentatively. After all, he didn't smile very often, so he wasn't sure if he was doing it right...
And that was when Grimlock laid a hand over Swoop's and Slag's intertwined ones, drawing a startled gasp from both of them.
"Friend," he said gravely. It was an admission that he could be more to his fellow Dinobots than just their commander, and it was an admission that they meant more to him than simply being individuals under his command.
And then Snarl, shockingly, added a hand to the pile in a surprising show of emotion.
"Friend," he said quietly, almost uncertainly. It was as if it pained him to say the word, as if the thought of having friends - and the accompanying worrying and caring about them - was a daunting one to him. And perhaps it was...but he was apparently willing to meet the challenge and just then felt the need to proclaim his resolve to do so publicly.
And finally, Sludge added both of his hands to the pile-one atop the pile and the other below it, cradling the back of Swoop's hand-and crowed, "Friends, all of us, even when us not always get along. Friends...allllllllways!"
After that enthusiastic declaration, all was silent for a moment. It was a silence broken only by a small, affectionate snicker from Swoop, which then translated into a louder guffaw from Slag, which was then transmitted as a full-throated laugh to the other three Dinobots. The room, for the span of a few minutes, echoed with the entirely new sound of five Dinobot voices raised in laughter and camaraderie and - for the first time in their entire existence - complete solidarity. They would, perhaps, never be the same again…
Rating: PG
Warnings: Just a bit of language, throughout.
Main Character(s): The Dinobots, Wheeljack, Ratchet, Optimus Prime
Genre: Introspective-y Drama
Summary: Swoop mostly dies. Everyone else spazzes out.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Reflexively, Grimlock looked up when the medbay doors slid apart and was surprised to see both Sludge and, of all people, Snarl striding through them. Snarl wore a mask of indifference on his face, as usual. Sludge, on the other hand, gave Grimlock a narrowed-eyed glare full of surprising defiance. Defiance was something that Grimlock could never recall seeing on Sludge's face before. He had never had reason to be defiant since he'd always seemed perfectly happy to obey every command tossed his way…
First time for everything, was the thought that crossed Grimlock's mind when he saw Sludge's expression. He pushed away from the wall against which he had been leaning and watched as Sludge marched up to him and looked him straight in the optics.
"You Grimlock not send me Sludge away again," he said without preamble, before Grimlock could say anything, and his tone brooked no argument. "Swoop friend. Swoop help Sludge all the time. Sludge stay here for him now. Sludge not leave."
Grimlock just stared at the other Dinobot for a moment, dumbfounded. He never expected in his life that Sludge would disobey a direct order, regardless of the circumstances. Yet here he was, standing in the medbay even though Grimlock had ordered him to stay in their quarters. It wasn't that Grimlock had issued that order out of heartlessness. He knew that Sludge cared about what happened to Swoop perhaps more so than any of the Dinobots, himself included. But Grimlock also knew, however, that Sludge had just the slightest tendency towards clumsiness, partly because of his size but mostly because that was simply the way that he was. He was massively strong, but sometimes that strength had a tendency to backfire on him and he would inadvertently break things or just get in the way, in general. Grimlock had feared a disaster if Sludge had stayed in the medbay and had gotten in the way of one of the hustling medics…
Still…At the moment, things were quiet in the medical bay. Ratchet and Wheeljack, after stabilizing Swoop as best they could, had retreated to Ratchet's office, no doubt to formulate a plan of attack against whatever it was that was ailing Swoop. They had been in there for hours. Grimlock, truth to tell, had become bored. There was nothing that he could do for Swoop, but he felt compelled to stay with him, regardless. And then suddenly Snarl and Sludge were there…And Grimlock realized that Sludge was staring at him. The expression of open defiance that he'd worn like a shield had transmuted itself to nervous hopefulness in the face of Grimlock's extended, appraising stare.
"You Sludge may stay," Grimlock finally allowed and smiled inwardly at the look of relieved joy that flooded Sludge's face when he said the words. Sludge happily went off to stand by Swoop's medical berth while Grimlock slid his gaze over to Snarl, who merely stood impassively, returning Grimlock's searching gaze with one of studied indifference.
"What you Snarl doing here?" Grimlock asked, genuinuely surprised that the loner of the Dinobots would deign to show his face at what had become a vigil for a fallen comrade. He was never one for solidarity, after all, and he usually preferred to be by himself.
But Snarl merely shrugged and asserted, "Me Snarl have nothing better to do."
"Where Slag?" Grimlock asked, suddenly remembering the task which he had assigned Snarl.
"Climbing rocks," Snarl answered succinctly, which was not surprising as far as it went with Slag. "Said he needed to think," Snarl added…and that was surprising.
"Slag? Thinking? Slag?" Grimlock responded, shocked.
Snarl shrugged again. "Today just full of surprises, isn't it?" he said tonelessly.
Grimlock stared at him for moment, wondering precisely what - or who - Snarl was talking about. He was about to ask when he was suddenly visited with an even greater shock. The medbay doors parted again and Optimus Prime, with Jazz in his wake, strode into the room. Like Sludge before him, Optimus Prime approached Grimlock and looked him straight in the optics. Grimlock almost felt the need to wince and ask what he'd done now, but there was...something...in Optimus Prime's somewhat limited expression that stayed him. There was an...uncertainty...there, perhaps? But Grimlock had never been a wonderful judge of facial expressions, and it was especially difficult with Optimus Prime. So he merely stared back at the Autobot leader and waited.
And waited.
It took quite a while for Optimus Prime to say anything...and when he finally did say something, it was uncharacteristically hesitant.
"Grimlock," Optimus Prime said after clearing his throat...nervously? "I've...been thinking about what you said before about...about we Autobots not understanding you Dinobots."
"Yes?" Grimlock said when Prime paused for a long moment. It was half acknowledgment and half prompt.
"And...what you said...Well, you did have a point, I admit, and, well..."
"What he wants to say," Jazz suddenly interrupted, "is that he's sorry for being a jackass when it comes to you guys. And, for what it's worth, so am I." When Optimus stared at him with optics widened in shock, he exclaimed, "What? You know I hate it when people beat around the bush, Prime. So I just went and said it for you." He slid a glance over at Grimlock, who was stunned into silence and had his gaze fixed upon Jazz as well, and added, "Great! Now I've got two of 'em starin' at me!" And with that, he threw his hands in the air in a gesture of frustration and went to stand by Swoop's medical berth, joining Sludge in watching over him.
Optimus Prime blinked then, shook his head to clear his thoughts, and stared at Grimlock.
"Yes," he said, finally finding words. "I meant what Jazz said, Grimlock. You and the other Dinobots have been treated unfairly over the years by myself and by many of the other Autobots. Please believe me when I say that most of us were not being intentionally cruel toward any of you. It's just that...well, as shameful as it is to admit...we just never really thought about your feelings and needs. I...I hope that this is something that both of us can work on, that maybe the Dinobots and the Autobots can one day be a real team with no barriers of misunderstanding and distrust between us. And I hope that you and the others can forgive us for our indifference and, in some cases, for our thoughtless dismissal of your feelings. I'm...sorry. For everything."
For a long time, Grimlock was silent, to the point that Optimus Prime found himself wondering if any of his words had sunk into Grimlock's skull. But just when he was about to say something else, if only to end the awful, uncomfortable silence, Grimlock finally spoke up.
"You Optimus Prime not only one who is sorry," he said quietly. "Us Dinobots not always try to be part of team because us sometimes get tired of being noticed only when us needed to pound Decepticons. And then us get angry. So us can be...what is word?...rebellious, me think? Yes. Rebellious. Even when us not need to be. And us not always try to understand Autobots, either."
He paused and his gaze slid over to Swoop's medical berth, where Sludge and Jazz were actually smiling at each other and talking quietly, probably about a shared memory of Swoop. Grimlock watched them for a moment and added thoughtfully, words emerging from his throat with correct syntax without having to think about it, for once.
"But maybe," Grimlock continued softly, "one good thing can come out of this bad thing with Swoop. Maybe it will make Autobots and Dinobots both try to understand the other side. Maybe we can meet in the middle...eventually."
Optimus Prime stared wonderingly at the Dinobot leader. He had never given Grimlock credit for being capable of such deep thought. And yet this was the second time in a single day that Grimlock had opened Optimus Prime's eyes to a side of Grimlock and the other Dinobots that he never knew existed. It was enough to make him regret ignoring the Dinobots for the past ten years... They stared at each other for a long moment, optics-to-optics, truly as equals for once.
It was then that Ratchet and Wheeljack emerged from Ratchet's office, announcing that they had a plan of attack against Swoop's condition and telling everyone, Autobot and Dinobot, to get out of their way...
* * * * * * *
"You are out of your ever-lovin' mind, Wheeljack!" Ratchet exclaimed, slamming a fist against the desk in front of him in exasperation.
"I am?" Wheeljack responded mildly.
"Yes!" Ratchet answered. "You are! We have no idea if it'd work. And even if it did, do you have any idea what this might do to him, assuming that he survives?!"
Slouched tiredly in a chair across the desk from Ratchet, Wheeljack glared at the medic.
"Um, hello? I seem to recall spending many hours designing his circuit pathways in the first place! I think I have just the vaguest inkling of what this might do to him!" he retorted. "And I have yet to hear any ideas from you, oh great medical master," he added sarcastically.
Ratchet snorted, but didn't answer for a moment. Despite the fact that he was exhausted and had a headache the size of Manhattan, he pushed himself up out of his chair and paced around his office, taking a few moments to cool his temper.
Wheeljack watched Ratchet pace for a moment, sympathizing with the medic's obvious feeling of helplessness. He sighed, slouched further down in his seat, and added tiredly, sadly, "Besides which, the alternative is losing him forever, anyway. You, uh...you do know that, don't you, Ratchet?"
Ratchet paused in his pacing by the window mounted in his office's wall, the one that looked out onto the main ward. At the moment, it offered only a depressing view of their ominously still Dinobot patient. Gathered around him was an interesting mix: Sludge, Snarl, and Jazz. They all appeared to be getting along well; Sludge and Jazz were even smiling. Optimus Prime and Grimlock, meanwhile were off in a corner, staring at one another. Ratchet idly hoped that an argument was not about to ensue. The last thing they needed was more tension between the Autobot leader and the Dinobot leader.
Without turning away from the window, Ratchet sighed and said quietly, "Of course I know that, Wheeljack. It's just that..."
"That what?" Wheeljack prompted gently when Ratchet's voice trailed off into a long moment of troubled silence.
"I don't know, Wheeljack," Ratchet answered dismally after a moment. "I'm so damn tired. And I just...I feel like I don't know anything anymore."
"Mmmm," Wheeljack murmured in wordless agreement.
Ratchet sighed again, turned away from the window, and paced back to his desk, settling himself once again into the chair behind it. It had been a very long twelve hours, Ratchet reflected. And in those long twelve hours, Ratchet felt as if he and Wheeljack had accomplished precisely nothing. Swoop was in just as much danger at the present moment as he'd been eleven hours and fifty-nine minutes before. In fact, he was in even more danger, since the circuit bypasses that were keeping the failure cascade out of his central operating programs could not hold out forever against the endless onslaught of systems failures that were the calling card of his condition. They had three or four hours, at the most, to stop that onslaught, before the bypasses failed, at which time the Swoop that they all knew would be gone forever.
It was a daunting task, one that had taxed his frustration threshold to the breaking point. Wheeljack's, too, apparently. He and Wheeljack usually worked very well together, their areas of expertise overlapping nicely. They didn't often snipe at one another, but they'd been doing so, on and off, since Swoop's crisis had started.
That was only twelve hours ago...and Ratchet realized it was a wonder, really, that Swoop was still alive at all, twelve hours later. It was largely the result of a series of happy coincidences more than anything else. Swoop was lucky that the initial onset of his condition had occurred while he was in the presence of others. He was lucky that Grimlock had been clear-headed enough to send for help as quickly as he had. He was lucky that Ratchet had been so close by. And he was lucky that, having gotten an inkling of what was wrong with Swoop from Wheeljack's vague description, Ratchet had brought the right equipment with him to the Romper Room. He'd been able to halt the failure cascade in its tracks long enough to get him to the medical bay. There, he'd been able to bypass just about every one of his vital circuits before the failure cascade could irrevocably damage them. All in all, it was truly a marvel that Swoop was still alive twelve hours after the onset of a failure cascade that was so acute and so devastatingly persistent.
And it was also utterly baffling.
Via Teletran One, Ratchet had accessed all of the old medical records on Cybertron that pertained to cascade failure. He'd looked for a case even remotely similar to Swoop's, to no avail. The old records rather unhelpfully told Ratchet only what he already knew.
Cascade failure was something that usually occurred in only much older Cybertronians, in those who were nearing the end of what to the humans was a staggeringly long life span. But it was usually not nearly so...cataclysmic as Swoop's case, not even remotely as acute. In every record that Ratchet had accessed, the patient's cascade failure was a comparatively slow, gradual, but ultimately irreversible process. The patient's systems failed one by one over the course of several of the humans' weeks until it finally affected their vital, primary systems and claimed their lives. Cybertronian physicians through the ages had come to regard cascade failure as the natural end to life, the same way that humans viewed death due to old age.
Now, of course, the war often precluded Cybertronians from dying of old age. It was now a dismal fact of Cybertronian life that many Cybertronians no longer lived long enough to die of old age, thanks to the unforgiving ravages of a seemingly endless civil war. So cascade failure was now a relatively rare occurrence.
And it was even rarer that such a young Cybertronian should fall prey to it. Swoop, in comparison to all of the other Autobots, was a mere infant, was only ten of the humans' years old. That was but a blink of an eye to a Cybertronian, whose life span humans measured in eons, not mere decades. And his condition was not something that was going to kill him over the course of a few weeks or so; he had gone from the perfectly healthy vigor of extreme youth to dangerously near death in the space of a few minutes. And, unless Ratchet and Wheeljack could find a way to stop it, cascade failure was ultimately going to kill him in less than an Earth day.
And it hadn't helped Ratchet's confidence in devising a treatment for Swoop when he'd learned, through looking at the records, that there were no recorded cases of such an acute case of cascade failure anywhere in anyone, young or old. This was a condition completely new to Cybertronian medicine. Which meant that he and Wheeljack had to come up with a completely new treatment.
And they had to come up with it quickly.
And it had to work the first time. There were not going to be any second chances. They didn't have that luxury.
And now Wheeljack, looking at the problem from an engineering perspective, had thought of something to try. They were contemplating taking Swoop completely off-line, quickly rerouting every circuit pathway in his body, down to the smallest and most insignificant microcircuit, and then getting him back online again - hopefully! - and hoping for the best. It was something that was dangerously unprecedented, something that might result in his death if they couldn't finish the procedure fast enough or if they couldn't convince him to come back online afterwards. Wheeljack was convinced that with himself, Ratchet, and the dozen or so medics under Ratchet's command they could reroute his circuits quickly enough. Reviving him afterwards was another question...But the "treatment" was also something that very well might be Swoop's only chance for survival, at least insofar as the Swoop that they all knew and - in one or two cases - loved was concerned. Ratchet knew that. Much as he didn't like taking chances such as the one that Wheeljack was suggesting, Ratchet realized that there were times when there was no other choice but to rely on dim hopes, faint chances, and untested procedures.
This was one of those times. There was no time for tests, no time for waffling, no time for soul-searching about the medical ethics of doing what Wheeljack had proposed. Ratchet knew that, even as his training as a physician screamed at him that to sanction a treatment that might put his patient in more jeopardy than he already faced was unjustifiable in the extreme, that to abandon traditional and safer procedures in favor of something untried and untestable was unconscionable. He argued back with himself that, sometimes, the rigid rules of medical ethics had to be bent when a life was at stake. And, as Wheeljack had pointed out, if they didn't do something Swoop was going to die anyway...
Resolutely, he turned away from the window, faced Wheeljack with a grim expression on his face.
"Let's get to work," he said.
* * * * * * *
The stark light of a full moon filtered through high, wispy clouds glared down upon Slag, leeching all color from the landscape like a vampire sucking the lifeblood from his victim. The splashy, watercolor hues of late spring, and the bright, primary colors of Slag's own body were all washed down to dismal shades of gray, shades that matched Slag's mood. A chill wind carrying a damp promise of rain blew its way down the cliff face upon which Slag was still sitting, motionless.
Rain, he thought bleakly as he stared up at the thicker clouds that were just beginning to gather around the moon. Just what I need... It was just one more bleak thought wedged within a stack of others. Hunching his shoulders against the wind, Slag settled into his thoughts once again.
He'd been up on the cliff, alone, for...hours now. He'd long ago lost track of how many hours it had been since Snarl had left him alone to ponder his situation and his emotions about Swoop. Part of Slag was glad that he'd been left alone, that everyone - Autobot or Dinobot - had chosen to leave him to his own devices. He preferred to be alone. He was Slag the fierce, the bully, the meanest of the mean and violent Dinobots, after all. He didn't need anyone else in order to survive. Not the Autobots, not the other Dinobots. In fact, on several occasions during the time that he'd been up on the cliff, he had considered leaving, walking away from Autobot Headquarters and never returning. A small part of him had even considered heading off and knocking on Megatron's door to see if he was hiring, but...something...stayed him. It was something that Slag didn't like, something alien to him. It was only a small, faint voice in his head, to be sure, but it nagged at him. It whispered to him to follow the Autobot party line not because he wanted to, necessarily, but because it was the "right" thing to do.
And, oh, was that phrase was familiar, indeed! Swoop was always telling him to do things whether he liked it or not simply because it was the "right" thing to do. Right for whom was what Slag had always wondered, and sometimes he'd even asked. "Rightness" was apparently of importance to Swoop, certainly, who cared about such things. Slag didn't care. As Snarl had pointed out to him, he cared about only one thing in life, and he had mastered it. He had mastered the art of war and of death and, to him, those were things of which to be proud. Those were the things that mattered, that were valuable in the current state of Cybertronian affairs...but it had occurred to Slag over the past few hours that he had not mastered the art of life, the art of peace, the art of contentedness, of happiness. Were they valuable as well? Maybe they were in the bright, happy future that those more optimistic than Slag predicted. Well, Slag would worry about such a thing if - and that was a big "if" - it came to pass.
But Swoop had taken such things to heart already. Peace was what he seemed to live for, now. He'd put war and violence behind him, he claimed. Slag had always retorted that that was nothing of which to be proud. And he'd always looked contemptuously upon Swoop. He was weaker, physically, than Slag was. He questioned the need to fight at times, sometimes seconds before an imminent battle. The tendency angered Slag to no end, and he had no compunctions about letting Swoop know it. Swoop, in turn, had no compunctions about telling Slag that he was an idiot. In turn, Slag would call Swoop a coward, and the argument would go on from there. Slag, at times, almost looked forward to such a confrontation. He loved nothing more than a good fight, after all, physical or verbal.
But was it more than that? That was the question that Slag found himself pondering now. Was his tendency to put Swoop in his place indeed, as Snarl had suggested to him, a symptom of jealousy? Did he envy his lack of aggression and, he granted, his superior intelligence? Slag had been quick to dismiss the notion out of hand when Snarl had suggested it...Once alone, however, Slag had continued to think about Snarl's suggestion as he'd sat on the cliff, as he'd watched the sun set in a fierce display of heavenly fire, as he'd watched the moon rise, as he now sat and watched that moon riding high over his head, slowly being overtaken by the gathering clouds of an approaching storm. He had yet to reach a conclusion one way or the other.
But he did know one thing: Whatever the truth was about whether or not he was jealous of Swoop, he would never admit to being wrong about the issue. If he was jealous, he'd never admit it. After all, what was he to do about it now? Go groveling to Grimlock, begging for forgiveness for thinking Swoop contemptible and weak?
Of course not! Slag scoffed disgustedly to himself...even as he began to descend the cliff, searching for hand- and footholds strictly by feel in the moonlit midnight darkness. As he descended, random thoughts and memories came to him even as he concentrated mostly upon his descent. He even chuckled wryly as he recalled the first encounter he'd had with Swoop - when Swoop and Snarl had been trying to kill or at least incapacitate Slag because he and the other Dinobots had temporarily defected to the Decepticon side. And then Slag recalled all the times when some Autobot or another - usually Wheeljack - had attempted to teach the Dinobots to behave like civilized beings. Swoop had lapped up the lessons like a starving Earth cat with a bowl of cream all to himself, while Slag had resisted the lessons with every fiber of his being. Slag shook his head ruefully. He and Swoop were diametrically opposed forces of nature forced to work together in order to achieve a common goal. It was, Slag reflected, like trying to force the like poles of two magnets together: it could be done, but the end result wasn't likely to last.
And in that split-second lapse of concentration as he focused more on memories and less on what he was doing, Slag lost a foothold and then, in short order, a handhold. And then, before he realized what was happening, he had begun to slide down the cliff face, toward the point where the more gently inclined section of the cliff ended in a sheer vertical drop to the ground far below. Desperately, Slag tried to grab something - anything - to stop his slide, but if was as if the cliff face had suddenly turned into a smooth sheet of glass. There was nothing to grasp and, in a few seconds, Slag plummeted into a sheer drop, falling five hundred meters, at least, to the hard gray Earth below.
The fall seemed to take forever, yet it could only have been a few seconds at most. It had happened so quickly and was so unexpected that Slag made no sound, only a grunt when he'd initially lost his hold in the rocks and a few more grunts as he'd violently collided with the cliff face a few times as he fell. And fell. And fell...
A resounding crash and a terrible, all-consuming numbness were all that accompanied Slag's eventual, flat-on-his-back impact with the ground. For a long moment afterwards, he lay there, completely unable to move so much as a fingertip. There was no sound other than a horrible buzzing white noise that droned in his audios. And all that he could see was the moon, which loomed so huge in his field of vision that Slag would have sworn that it was hanging but a few centimeters over his nose. It appeared to be laughing at his pathetic condition. But then even that faded ever so slowly to black...
The first few blobs of rain splashed down onto his face, as if Primus was spitting on him, as Slag finally and mercifully lost consciousness.
* * * * * * *
Medics were hovering and buzzing over Swoop's berth like flies over an organic corpse when Slag staggered into the medical bay.
The world was spinning around him. He'd felt during his long hike back to Headquarters after regaining consciousness that the hike would never end. Dizziness had consumed him. He'd found himself staggering from tree to tree, pausing often to regain his equilibrium and renew his determination to get help, no matter how weak it might make him appear. Something was wrong with him. Many things, in fact, were apparently wrong with him. Frantic and dire messages from his internal diagnostics flashed in his field of vision as he'd stumbled toward Autobot Headquarters in the dark. Slag hadn't understood most of them, had never bothered to learn what such warnings meant. And the ones that he did understand he ignored. All he knew was that he had to get to Headquarters, had to get to the medical bay. It was as if some force of nature was dragging him there, leaving no room at all for Slag's personal feelings on the matter.
And it hadn't been easy. His equilibrium was way off, had been damaged, probably, in the fall. His sense of direction was dulled by the darkness. It was unnaturally quiet after the storm that had apparently passed over while Slag had been unconscious. The rain had stopped, but the moon had set and the sun had yet to make any hint of an appearance, which left only a murky, humid, dank-smelling darkness. Slag had no idea what time it was. He had no idea how long he'd been out. All that he knew was that he had woken up, that the almost-pleasant numbness that had accompanied his initial impact after the fall had transformed into a screaming cloak of pain that enveloped his entire body, and that he was drenched and lying in a sea of mud. He'd managed to flip himself over and push himself up to his hands and knees. He'd crawled to the nearest tree and then, using the tree for support, had managed to claw his way to his feet and set off on his trek, limping heavily. He'd tripped often over underbrush, over the trees that he'd toppled on his way out of Headquarters, a trip that to Slag now seemed to have happened years ago. He'd slipped in patches of mud and on slippery, moss-covered rocks, landing flat on his back - which sent painful echoes of his previous, much longer fall ricocheting through his body. He'd smacked into trees face-first more times than he wanted to count.
But he had survived the journey.
And he had never been quite so happy to see Autobot Headquarters in his life. Mellow, welcoming light spilled out from beneath the section of the old Autobot ship that jutted out of the side of the volcano in which it was currently housed, as if it were a beacon guiding Slag home. He had practically sprinted the last quarter of a mile to the base, despite the pain that pounded through his body because of it.
Those who were on night watch at the base gave him a few odd looks as he'd entered the base. Slag imagined that he looked a sight - caked in mud, his outer armor hideously torn in a few places and dented in many others, his circuitry sparking in a few places through the rents in his armor - but he didn't care. He had one destination in mind, and a million odd glances from each of a million random Autobots were not about to deter him from it. The medbay was calling to him like a siren, for more than one reason.
Certainly, he needed medical attention. That was patently obvious. Under normal circumstances, Slag would rather suffer in silence than actively seek out the help of an Autobot physician. Under normal circumstances, lately, Swoop - sensitive, perhaps, to Slag's preference to avoid any appearance of needfulness, especially where the Autobots were concerned - often patched him up when he needed patching. But Slag could not deny to anyone that he needed help this time…and Swoop, of course, was unavailable.
Which, when Slag was candid with himself, was the main reason that he found himself drawn to the medical bay. It was because he'd experienced an epiphany during his long, pain-filled hike back to Autobot Headquarters. Perhaps it was only because he was injured and had therefore been thinking with a part of his brain that he often kept tightly closed off in order to avoid it. Perhaps the fall had simply jarred something in his brain. But, for whatever reason, Slag had realized that, as obsessed with war and fighting as he often was, life and the freedom to live it in peace were still the more precious and desirable commodities. He'd realized that war and fighting and killing, while sometimes unavoidable, were not always preferable, that sometimes simply living and enjoying life and allowing others to do the same were the things that mattered, if only because life could be so terribly brief. It could end at any moment, whether in battle or because of a mysterious physical ailment or because of a stupid, inattentive error that subsequently caused a fall from a very high cliff. Long-lived creatures such as Slag's own species sometimes lost sight of the fact that life, no matter one's normal lifespan, could be a very fragile, ephemeral thing. But that lesson had been brought home to Slag not just once but twice in a single twenty-four hour span of time. He felt as if someone was trying to tell him something. And for some improbable reason he felt a strong urge to heed the message.
Fighting, Slag had realized, should not be his sole concern and certainly not his only joy in life, because there was so much more to do in what could be a very brief existence. That didn't, of course, mean that he couldn't enjoy fighting on occasion; it just meant that it shouldn't be all that he was. And, upon realizing that, he felt the need to make his peace - if only temporarily - with everyone, the Autobots, Grimlock…and Swoop.
Assuming, of course, that Swoop hadn't died in his absence. That was the thought that relentlessly drove him toward the medical bay even as his body screamed at him to stop, to shut down, to cease the effort that he was demanding of it. Slag ignored his body's complaints. He had come so far that he'd been determined to make it all the way to the medbay under his own power.
And he had. Barely, certainly, but he'd made it. Some unconscious part of his brain took in the scene as the medbay doors parted in front of him and he staggered through them, smashing one shoulder into the doorjamb. As he leaned against the jamb to gather the last remaining shards of his strength, Slag noted the half-dozen medics working with quiet urgency on Swoop. He noted the other three Dinobots huddled in one corner of the room, oblivious to Slag's ungraceful arrival. And he noted Optimus Prime and Jazz watching the medics from another corner of the room. Slag watched with odd detachment as Jazz turned an alarmed gaze on Slag himself and started to move toward him. Determined, Slag pushed away from the supporting doorjamb and lurched, heavily limping, a few steps into the medbay, where, completely against his will, he collapsed down onto one knee. It was a collapse that some part of his mind noted was eerily similar to Swoop's initial collapse at the onset of whatever it was that was plaguing him...The thought brought an ironic smile to his face as Jazz, Grimlock, and Optimus Prime all knelt down near him at roughly the same moment.
"What happened?" all three of them asked in almost perfect unison, as if they'd practiced for the occasion.
With an effort, Slag raised his head to look squarely into the optics of Optimus Prime, simply because he was the one who had chosen to kneel directly in front of Slag.
"Fell," he said succinctly and was horrified at the weakness of his voice. The word sounded more like a pathetic moan... Still, he continued haltingly, "Me Slag...was angry...so me Slag climbed cliff... Was climbing down again when me fall...Fell hard, too. Fall...very bad." Pausing, he tried to stand up again, only to sink down again with an involuntary yelp of pain. "So...so dizzy," he moaned and collapsed still further, down onto his hands and knees, his elbows locked to support his upper body, preventing him from falling flat on his face. His arms were shaking terribly, though...and blackness was again eating away at the edges of his vision, the strain of the hike to Autobot Headquarters catching up with him...Despite his best efforts, his arms began to buckle...
And at that moment, to his utter shock, Grimlock grabbed him from behind, pulled him back so that he was half-sitting and half-leaning against the Dinobot leader. Grimlock supported at least half of Slag's weight with his own body, just as he'd done for Swoop earlier. Slag tried to crank his head around to stare in shock at Grimlock but found that it hurt too much to do so.
So instead, he muttered under his breath, "Thank you, Grimlock."
If Grimlock was at all surprised by Slag's appreciation, it didn't show in his voice.
"You Slag welcome," he said, equally quietly and then, to Slag's further shock, he added sincerely, "You Slag always welcome, but you just too stubborn to realize it."
"I'll get Ratchet," Jazz was saying meanwhile, unaware of the exchange between the two Dinobots. He started to rise, only to be halted by Slag, who stopped him by the simple expedient of reaching out a hand with lightning-quickness and wrapping it firmly around Jazz's forearm.
"No!" he said determinedly. "Swoop need all the medics now. Me Slag...I...will be fine...until...until they finish with him...and he OK again..."
And then, finally, the blackness finally did overcome Slag once again, and he melted down into the warm, dark embrace of unconscious oblivion. As his big body went limp, Grimlock, Optimus Prime, and Jazz exchanged a wondering glance. Self-sacrifice from Slag? Concern for Swoop from Slag? It was difficult for all three of them to comprehend...
Grimlock broke the silence that followed Slag's black-out with an explosive snort.
"Fall must have caused brain damage," he said wryly.
And as Optimus Prime and Jazz both chuckled at the comment, Grimlock managed to lever Slag's big, dead-weight body up into his arms. Grunting with effort all the way, he carried Slag to the nearest medical berth, leaving behind him one Autobot leader and one of that leader's dearest friends to marvel anew at the surprising nature of the Dinobots' interrelationship, one that they both had never taken the time to notice before...
* * * * * * *
A most improbable sight greeted Slag's optics when they came back online, a day or two later. Swoop's face hovered over his, blue optics alight with mischief and a wide, insufferable grin plastered onto his face.
"It's alive!" he exclaimed lightly. "Run for your lives!"
Ignoring Swoop for the moment, Slag frowned, trying to remember what had happened. Slowly, recollection came back to him...and when it did, he could come to only one conclusion.
"Me Slag dead?" he asked, sitting up and looking himself over, as if to make sure that nothing was missing from his body.
Swoop, meanwhile, laughed.
"Not dead," he said. "You have headache that make you wish you dead, but you not dead."
"But...you...me..." Slag's voice trailed off in confusion. He shook his head as if to clear it out, winced at the pain wrought by the motion - Swoop was right about the headache - and continued, "You Swoop were sick. And me Slag-"
"You fall down, go BOOM!" Swoop interrupted in his best Tweety Bird imitation. "But you OK now," he continued more seriously. "And me Swoop all better now, too." Swoop proclaimed. "Ratchet and Wheeljack and other medics fix both of us."
"Then why you here?" Slag asked.
Swoop was quiet for a moment, perhaps thinking about his answer. And when he finally spoke, all joking was suddenly put aside.
"Because me Swoop should be here," he asserted seriously. "It right thing to do."
Slag groaned and flopped back down onto his back again with a clang that made his head ring.
"Why you Swoop always say that?" he asked exasperatedly.
"Because it's true," Swoop said with a shrug. He folded his arms over his chest, narrowed his optics, and stared down at Slag with an expression of mixed amusement and worry on his face. "Because to do right thing is good," he continued. "And when friend hurt, it right that me Swoop is here for him."
It took a moment for Swoop's words to sink into Slag's foggy brain, but when they did he stared up at Swoop wonderingly.
"Me Slag...friend?" he asked.
Swoop chuckled. "Of course, you idiot!" he exclaimed. "You Slag always try to push others away, but no matter how hard you Slag try, you can't push me Swoop away. Or them, too," he added, jerking his chin over toward the other side of the room.
Slag blinked in confusion, and slowly turned his head to see Grimlock, Snarl, and even Sludge there, staring at him with varying expressions on their faces. Almost as one, they walked over to join Swoop at Slag's bedside, clustering around him. Slag looked over at Swoop again, a bewildered expression on his face.
"Life is too short to be mean to fellow Dinobots all the time," he said before Slag could say anything, consciously putting aside the odd Dinobot syntax. Slag gasped quietly as he heard his own unexpected realization echoed all unwittingly by Swoop. "You and I both learned that this week, didn't we?" he continued gravely. When Slag didn't reply, he held out one imploring hand, palm up, to Slag while the other Dinobots looked on curiously. "Friend?" Swoop asked with a small, hopeful smile on his face.
Sitting up again, Slag stared at Swoop's offered hand and then up into his face, indecisive for a moment. But only for a moment. Before he thought the better of it, he found himself clasping Swoop's hand and hanging onto it with desperate strength, as if he was drowning and Swoop was offering him a lifeline.
"Friend," Slag confirmed with a nod and a squeeze of Swoop's hand. He watched Swoop's small, hopeful smile bloom into a triumphant grin that threatened to split his face in two. At the same moment, the pit of coldness that had always festered and clawed at his core began to warm by just the tinest amount. He smiled back at Swoop tentatively. After all, he didn't smile very often, so he wasn't sure if he was doing it right...
And that was when Grimlock laid a hand over Swoop's and Slag's intertwined ones, drawing a startled gasp from both of them.
"Friend," he said gravely. It was an admission that he could be more to his fellow Dinobots than just their commander, and it was an admission that they meant more to him than simply being individuals under his command.
And then Snarl, shockingly, added a hand to the pile in a surprising show of emotion.
"Friend," he said quietly, almost uncertainly. It was as if it pained him to say the word, as if the thought of having friends - and the accompanying worrying and caring about them - was a daunting one to him. And perhaps it was...but he was apparently willing to meet the challenge and just then felt the need to proclaim his resolve to do so publicly.
And finally, Sludge added both of his hands to the pile-one atop the pile and the other below it, cradling the back of Swoop's hand-and crowed, "Friends, all of us, even when us not always get along. Friends...allllllllways!"
After that enthusiastic declaration, all was silent for a moment. It was a silence broken only by a small, affectionate snicker from Swoop, which then translated into a louder guffaw from Slag, which was then transmitted as a full-throated laugh to the other three Dinobots. The room, for the span of a few minutes, echoed with the entirely new sound of five Dinobot voices raised in laughter and camaraderie and - for the first time in their entire existence - complete solidarity. They would, perhaps, never be the same again…