Fic: Back Up Again
Title: Back Up Again
Canon: Transformers: Movie continuity
Characters / Pairing: Ratchet, Sideswipe, Bumblebee
Notes / Warnings: SPOILERS for the Dark of the Moon. BIG FAT SPOILERS. WHOA THOSE ARE BIG SPOILERS THERE.
Follows Goodnight.
Soundtrack: 1 2 3
Betrayed.
Sentinel.
Run |
Three words. One last transmission, and then the link is silent. “NO SIGNAL” beams back for every ping he tries to send in response. There was more, the flashing indicator on the text says so. There was supposed to be more to that short, erratic burst of data.
The fact nothing comes turns something in his chest to ice. His wheels burn against the pavement, sending up a shower of scorched rubber. He's dodging through traffic, speeding back to the base as quickly as he can. Already, a report is incoming - Mirage, filling him in on the crazed highway chase, but he's only half listening. How can there be no signal? Did the old fool turn off the comm? And why... run? What was the meaning of it? Even in the face of brutal combat, there was always a response, always an explanation. There was always something.
Something, this time, is a message from not only Bumblebee, but Sideswipe as well. The words are different - but both are frantic, and Sideswipe's voice is a numb shadow of its usual, smug self. The meaning is the same, told through Bumblebee's halting text. And Ratchet nearly stops short in the middle of the street, his systems abruptly locking in place while he tries in vain to comprehend what he's being told.
It can't be true. They're young. They're panicking.
He has to get there.
In the end, he forgoes driving altogether, opting instead to transform, and run the rest of the way, actually stepping on a bus stop in the process. Something tells him this isn't what the transmission meant by “run”. It doesn't stop him. He nearly trips, but the vice around his spark heaves him back up to his feet, keeps him going, running on a sudden fear and denial burning through him like bad fuel. Before he even hits the right block, he can see the column of rising smoke.
The yard is trashed. There is debris everywhere, holes blown into the concrete and pavement. An even larger hole bashed into the side of the building itself. It looks as if an entire war just occurred within their compound itself. He slows down, one hand resting atop his gun, a gesture certain walking gun turrets could never break him of, cautious, scanners attuned for any potential Decepticons lurking where they were hidden from mere sight alone. There is nothing. Only a familiar, yellow-armored form, sitting slumped toward the back of the yard. Small whines, the closest he can get to words, are coming from his ruined vocalizer as he stares vacantly forward.
Staring... at a scorched, blackened pile of rust and parts.
He stops. He's staring, unable to understand, to even really see, the sight before him. His body is in motion, dropping beside the unrecognizable mound as his processor struggles with it, labors to make some sense at all of this. At some point, something lanky and silver vaults the wall as if it were nothing more than a speedbump, landing squarely on its wheels and making for the same spot he can't look away from.
Before he can react, Bumblebee has heaved himself to his feet, and thrown his arms around Sideswipe's narrow torso, holding the taller Autobot back from reaching his goal. Sideswipe is swearing, his wheels churning against the pavement as he fights the other's hold. Bumblebee snaps something back - a whirring buzz of static and chirps. He's being dragged forward, the sheer force of Sideswipe's acceleration pulling him, despite the weight difference. The young Autobot is livid, half-mad with grief, and all Ratchet can do is stand there, staring numbly, feeling as if he might go falling over into the sudden, aching hole in his spark.
“I have him.”
Sideswipe screaming, bodies covering the hangar floor, and one voice rising above it all, bringing order to a world suddenly gone insane. Heavy armor marching into view, taking things in hand - and suddenly, it was quiet. It was all right. That voice, that form, could weather any storm.
“That is not what Optimus would want.”
Stubborn. Steadfast refusal to bend. Or break, even in the face of a grief that should have consumed them all. Grim determination to carry on.
“I hate flying.”
Black armor, leaning subtly against neon yellow in the dark. Thick fingers wrapped comfortably around more dexterous, slender ones. Scarred faceplates flicking in a brief, faint smirk.
“I invite you to listen to their music...”
A cannon volley. The pound and thump of rapid fire artillery. A booming, unchecked laugh of sheer, giddy joy as the target went up in a cloud of smoke and fire.
…
He can feel himself slipping, teetering on the edge of that yawning chasm. His hand actually reaches out, grasping at the air to save himself. And nothing reaches back. No one grasps his hand, shoves at his shoulder.
Ironhide...
When Ratchet sinks awkwardly to the ground, there are no hands there to steady him. Some distant part of him is screaming too, joining Sideswipe's vehement, broken curses, and Bumblebee's buzzing sounds of distress. It shouldn't be possible. It can't be possible. He kneels there, too stunned and cold to get up, to move, to do anything save watch the scene play out in front of him as if it's some documentary their human allies loaned him. One of Sideswipe's elbows catches Bumblebee in the face. Their struggle is bringing them closer and closer to the miserable pile of rust - all that remains of a friend, a comrade... a constant. It should be saved, preserved, revered. And the two Autobots are only inches from disturbing it.
“Get up! Make something of yourself!”
He's on his feet then, spurred forward by a memory. By the oft-heard growl of disappointment and frustration. Sideswipe is taller, but Ratchet outweighs them both. He sets hands on their shoulders, yanking them back from the pile - from the body, his processor numbly corrects - with borrowed strength. He doesn't stop dragging them until they're several feet away, several safe feet away. Only then does he look at them, his expression flat, fighting down the pain threatening to beat its way out.
Bumblebee wisely backs off, chirping a faint note of thanks. Ratchet barely gives him a nod. Already, information is flooding in from the others. Situation updates, orders. They need to get moving, and they need to do it quickly.
“Get Sam,” he says. “Get out of here. Hurry.”
A nod, and Bumblebee is in motion. He pauses, just once, to look back at the body, his posture tightening, something in his face shutting down. And then he's gone, taking off like a shot, leaving Ratchet alone with Ironhide's student. He rounds on Sideswipe, then, fingers digging into silver shoulders.
"We have neither the time, nor the resources to devote to putting you into emergency lockdown again, soldier,” he snaps, his optics fixed on Sideswipe, on the mirrored, shared loss. It threatens to break him down, but the sudden surge of steel in his chest won't let it. Not yet. Not now. “We are needed elsewhere right now. So, All Spark help me, you will hold together."
Somewhere in the midst of the order, it occurs to Ratchet that he is no longer speaking to the younger Autobot. The words aren't meant solely for Sideswipe, nor only for his sharp, stinging grief. They aren't his words. And they both know it. Silver armor is shaking in his hands, but he can see the pain slowly fade, closed off, locked away.
“This... is not what Ironhide would want.”
Sideswipe's optics dim, and then he draws himself up, tearing away from Ratchet and vaulting the wall again in one smooth motion. He doesn't have to ask - he knows where the young 'bot is going. A rendezvous with the others, with the surviving humans, to regroup, to plan. To take action. It's where he needs to be right now.
“Made one for you, too.”
It's tempting, to go back inside, and lose himself in a collection of his old friend's memories. To pretend they're real, and this is not. He shutters his optics, once again going to his knees. It won't close the gaping wound, won't let him seal over the sudden hole in his very being. There is no point to it, now. His fingers brush against the rusted corpse.
Later, you old fool. Later.
It takes him all of five minutes to secure the body to his liking. All of five minutes to cover it with broken pieces of metal. It's not nearly enough. But Optimus is calling. The others are waiting. He transforms, finally, answering their hails with only the briefest of messages. Speaking opens the channel, opens the pathway back to that pain he shut away by only the briefest of margins. And he can't do that.
He is needed elsewhere right now. And he will hold together. He will have to.
Ironhide would have expected nothing less.
Canon: Transformers: Movie continuity
Characters / Pairing: Ratchet, Sideswipe, Bumblebee
Notes / Warnings: SPOILERS for the Dark of the Moon. BIG FAT SPOILERS. WHOA THOSE ARE BIG SPOILERS THERE.
Follows Goodnight.
Soundtrack: 1 2 3
Betrayed.
Sentinel.
Run |
Three words. One last transmission, and then the link is silent. “NO SIGNAL” beams back for every ping he tries to send in response. There was more, the flashing indicator on the text says so. There was supposed to be more to that short, erratic burst of data.
The fact nothing comes turns something in his chest to ice. His wheels burn against the pavement, sending up a shower of scorched rubber. He's dodging through traffic, speeding back to the base as quickly as he can. Already, a report is incoming - Mirage, filling him in on the crazed highway chase, but he's only half listening. How can there be no signal? Did the old fool turn off the comm? And why... run? What was the meaning of it? Even in the face of brutal combat, there was always a response, always an explanation. There was always something.
Something, this time, is a message from not only Bumblebee, but Sideswipe as well. The words are different - but both are frantic, and Sideswipe's voice is a numb shadow of its usual, smug self. The meaning is the same, told through Bumblebee's halting text. And Ratchet nearly stops short in the middle of the street, his systems abruptly locking in place while he tries in vain to comprehend what he's being told.
It can't be true. They're young. They're panicking.
He has to get there.
In the end, he forgoes driving altogether, opting instead to transform, and run the rest of the way, actually stepping on a bus stop in the process. Something tells him this isn't what the transmission meant by “run”. It doesn't stop him. He nearly trips, but the vice around his spark heaves him back up to his feet, keeps him going, running on a sudden fear and denial burning through him like bad fuel. Before he even hits the right block, he can see the column of rising smoke.
The yard is trashed. There is debris everywhere, holes blown into the concrete and pavement. An even larger hole bashed into the side of the building itself. It looks as if an entire war just occurred within their compound itself. He slows down, one hand resting atop his gun, a gesture certain walking gun turrets could never break him of, cautious, scanners attuned for any potential Decepticons lurking where they were hidden from mere sight alone. There is nothing. Only a familiar, yellow-armored form, sitting slumped toward the back of the yard. Small whines, the closest he can get to words, are coming from his ruined vocalizer as he stares vacantly forward.
Staring... at a scorched, blackened pile of rust and parts.
He stops. He's staring, unable to understand, to even really see, the sight before him. His body is in motion, dropping beside the unrecognizable mound as his processor struggles with it, labors to make some sense at all of this. At some point, something lanky and silver vaults the wall as if it were nothing more than a speedbump, landing squarely on its wheels and making for the same spot he can't look away from.
Before he can react, Bumblebee has heaved himself to his feet, and thrown his arms around Sideswipe's narrow torso, holding the taller Autobot back from reaching his goal. Sideswipe is swearing, his wheels churning against the pavement as he fights the other's hold. Bumblebee snaps something back - a whirring buzz of static and chirps. He's being dragged forward, the sheer force of Sideswipe's acceleration pulling him, despite the weight difference. The young Autobot is livid, half-mad with grief, and all Ratchet can do is stand there, staring numbly, feeling as if he might go falling over into the sudden, aching hole in his spark.
“I have him.”
Sideswipe screaming, bodies covering the hangar floor, and one voice rising above it all, bringing order to a world suddenly gone insane. Heavy armor marching into view, taking things in hand - and suddenly, it was quiet. It was all right. That voice, that form, could weather any storm.
“That is not what Optimus would want.”
Stubborn. Steadfast refusal to bend. Or break, even in the face of a grief that should have consumed them all. Grim determination to carry on.
“I hate flying.”
Black armor, leaning subtly against neon yellow in the dark. Thick fingers wrapped comfortably around more dexterous, slender ones. Scarred faceplates flicking in a brief, faint smirk.
“I invite you to listen to their music...”
A cannon volley. The pound and thump of rapid fire artillery. A booming, unchecked laugh of sheer, giddy joy as the target went up in a cloud of smoke and fire.
…
He can feel himself slipping, teetering on the edge of that yawning chasm. His hand actually reaches out, grasping at the air to save himself. And nothing reaches back. No one grasps his hand, shoves at his shoulder.
Ironhide...
When Ratchet sinks awkwardly to the ground, there are no hands there to steady him. Some distant part of him is screaming too, joining Sideswipe's vehement, broken curses, and Bumblebee's buzzing sounds of distress. It shouldn't be possible. It can't be possible. He kneels there, too stunned and cold to get up, to move, to do anything save watch the scene play out in front of him as if it's some documentary their human allies loaned him. One of Sideswipe's elbows catches Bumblebee in the face. Their struggle is bringing them closer and closer to the miserable pile of rust - all that remains of a friend, a comrade... a constant. It should be saved, preserved, revered. And the two Autobots are only inches from disturbing it.
“Get up! Make something of yourself!”
He's on his feet then, spurred forward by a memory. By the oft-heard growl of disappointment and frustration. Sideswipe is taller, but Ratchet outweighs them both. He sets hands on their shoulders, yanking them back from the pile - from the body, his processor numbly corrects - with borrowed strength. He doesn't stop dragging them until they're several feet away, several safe feet away. Only then does he look at them, his expression flat, fighting down the pain threatening to beat its way out.
Bumblebee wisely backs off, chirping a faint note of thanks. Ratchet barely gives him a nod. Already, information is flooding in from the others. Situation updates, orders. They need to get moving, and they need to do it quickly.
“Get Sam,” he says. “Get out of here. Hurry.”
A nod, and Bumblebee is in motion. He pauses, just once, to look back at the body, his posture tightening, something in his face shutting down. And then he's gone, taking off like a shot, leaving Ratchet alone with Ironhide's student. He rounds on Sideswipe, then, fingers digging into silver shoulders.
"We have neither the time, nor the resources to devote to putting you into emergency lockdown again, soldier,” he snaps, his optics fixed on Sideswipe, on the mirrored, shared loss. It threatens to break him down, but the sudden surge of steel in his chest won't let it. Not yet. Not now. “We are needed elsewhere right now. So, All Spark help me, you will hold together."
Somewhere in the midst of the order, it occurs to Ratchet that he is no longer speaking to the younger Autobot. The words aren't meant solely for Sideswipe, nor only for his sharp, stinging grief. They aren't his words. And they both know it. Silver armor is shaking in his hands, but he can see the pain slowly fade, closed off, locked away.
“This... is not what Ironhide would want.”
Sideswipe's optics dim, and then he draws himself up, tearing away from Ratchet and vaulting the wall again in one smooth motion. He doesn't have to ask - he knows where the young 'bot is going. A rendezvous with the others, with the surviving humans, to regroup, to plan. To take action. It's where he needs to be right now.
“Made one for you, too.”
It's tempting, to go back inside, and lose himself in a collection of his old friend's memories. To pretend they're real, and this is not. He shutters his optics, once again going to his knees. It won't close the gaping wound, won't let him seal over the sudden hole in his very being. There is no point to it, now. His fingers brush against the rusted corpse.
Later, you old fool. Later.
It takes him all of five minutes to secure the body to his liking. All of five minutes to cover it with broken pieces of metal. It's not nearly enough. But Optimus is calling. The others are waiting. He transforms, finally, answering their hails with only the briefest of messages. Speaking opens the channel, opens the pathway back to that pain he shut away by only the briefest of margins. And he can't do that.
He is needed elsewhere right now. And he will hold together. He will have to.
Ironhide would have expected nothing less.