Commentary Meme: Old Songs
DVD commentary on Old Songs, for eerian_sadow.
Title: Old Songs
Verse: Animated
Characters: Ratchet, Omega Supreme
Warning: mentions of (canon) character death.
The background for this fic is that Cybertron used to have specific songs for specific circumstances; funerals, victory parties, sending soldiers out, inviting them home, etc. They were as expected and integrated into daily life as singing "Happy Birthday" right before someone blows out the candles. I mentally compare the songs to the Nicene Creed and the other litergy of the Episcopalian church I grew up in. We had specific readings for Communion, the Christmas Eve service, and Easter. They could at times feel long and repetitive, but at the same time they were something special; they had spiritual and emotional weight. The first time I went to a Christmas Eve service that was in a completely different denomination, it was so disappointing because to me it lacked that sense of awe that those traditional words had always inspired. That kind of emotional lack is the one I wanted Omega to be confronted with upon learning they no longer do something that he still considers integral to the day to day happenings of his life.
"Why are they shouting?" Omega asked of the wild crowds filling the streets around his landing struts. Official barriers kept their bodies at bay, but not even Omega's thick plating was enough to stave off the thunderous roar of an entire city gathered around them.
"They're welcoming us home."
"Welcome? With shouting?"
My dislike of huge crowds, let me show you it. The greeting these guys get at the end of the series struck me as somewhat nightmarish for someone still hurting over things like what these guys have just been through. The noise, and all those people... *shudder* Also, to someone who is accustomed to excitement expressed in the form of a loud but still organized song, random shouting would be unexpectedly chaotic, something associated with anger and danger rather than celebration.
"They don't sing the traditional songs anymore," Ratchet replied, thinking of the old chanted melodies. At the time, he'd hated them. He didn't think he liked this any better, all clamorous noise that grated against the audios and a spark still sore from fresh loss.
Ratchet leaned back in the pilot's chair, rubbing his hand against his chest as if it would help soothe the ache. The others would be unloading their prisoners, gathering Prowl's shell. He ought to go help.
"No songs for celebration?"
"Not like we knew them."
"Funeral songs?"
"No."
"The songs" were one of the many things their society lost during the war with the Decpticons; their use was on the decline even
during the time Omega was online, but the tradition of using them held on longer in the military than it did elsewhere, as it helped soldiers make sense out of the chaos of what was happening around them.
That came out shorter than he'd intended.
Guilt was an emotion he'd been slowly getting back into the practice of paying attention to; there were very few bots for whom he'd make the effort. Omega was one. (Optimus' tenacity in regards to cracking through Ratchet's rusty old shell is maybe kind of starting to have an effect. Not that Ratchet will admit it.) "There are a lot of things still not right with the world, old friend." He put a hand on the console, crusty voice wavering. Lights around him blinked, unseen processors whirling. Ratchet waited with a calm patience he reserved for this bot alone.
"Can you sing him a song?"
Something inside Ratchet twisted and froze at the thought. It took two false starts before he could speak. "I don't think I can," he admitted, voice gruff.
Not quite the response Ratchet was expecting. While Ratchet never particularly liked the formality of the songs when they were actually used, they still hold incredible significance for him. The thought of actually singing one of them would hurt no matter the circumstances. Ratchet is suddenly having to confront both that yes, he is hurting a great deal over Prowl, and that maybe he considers those songs more important than he wants to admit. To Omega, on the other hand, no real time at all has passed; they're still a part of his routine, so they're still comforting.
"I remember the songs," Omega said, slow, thoughtful. Ratchet shuttered his optics, his hand tightening against Omega's plating. He said nothing, wishing that this conversation would stop.
Yeah. At this point, Ratchet pretty much just wants to run away before he loses control over himself.
“I need to go help the others with Prowl.”
Omega rumbled his agreement. The pilot's station began to rise with no further prompting, but Omega wasn't ready to let the topic drop. “He should have a song.”
Ratchet bowed his head, the fierce ache inside growing insufferably worse. Below him, Omega's voice took up a chant; long, rolling wails to accompany departed sparks on their journey to the Well.
Title: Old Songs
Verse: Animated
Characters: Ratchet, Omega Supreme
Warning: mentions of (canon) character death.
The background for this fic is that Cybertron used to have specific songs for specific circumstances; funerals, victory parties, sending soldiers out, inviting them home, etc. They were as expected and integrated into daily life as singing "Happy Birthday" right before someone blows out the candles. I mentally compare the songs to the Nicene Creed and the other litergy of the Episcopalian church I grew up in. We had specific readings for Communion, the Christmas Eve service, and Easter. They could at times feel long and repetitive, but at the same time they were something special; they had spiritual and emotional weight. The first time I went to a Christmas Eve service that was in a completely different denomination, it was so disappointing because to me it lacked that sense of awe that those traditional words had always inspired. That kind of emotional lack is the one I wanted Omega to be confronted with upon learning they no longer do something that he still considers integral to the day to day happenings of his life.
"Why are they shouting?" Omega asked of the wild crowds filling the streets around his landing struts. Official barriers kept their bodies at bay, but not even Omega's thick plating was enough to stave off the thunderous roar of an entire city gathered around them.
"They're welcoming us home."
"Welcome? With shouting?"
My dislike of huge crowds, let me show you it. The greeting these guys get at the end of the series struck me as somewhat nightmarish for someone still hurting over things like what these guys have just been through. The noise, and all those people... *shudder* Also, to someone who is accustomed to excitement expressed in the form of a loud but still organized song, random shouting would be unexpectedly chaotic, something associated with anger and danger rather than celebration.
"They don't sing the traditional songs anymore," Ratchet replied, thinking of the old chanted melodies. At the time, he'd hated them. He didn't think he liked this any better, all clamorous noise that grated against the audios and a spark still sore from fresh loss.
Ratchet leaned back in the pilot's chair, rubbing his hand against his chest as if it would help soothe the ache. The others would be unloading their prisoners, gathering Prowl's shell. He ought to go help.
"No songs for celebration?"
"Not like we knew them."
"Funeral songs?"
"No."
"The songs" were one of the many things their society lost during the war with the Decpticons; their use was on the decline even
during the time Omega was online, but the tradition of using them held on longer in the military than it did elsewhere, as it helped soldiers make sense out of the chaos of what was happening around them.
That came out shorter than he'd intended.
Guilt was an emotion he'd been slowly getting back into the practice of paying attention to; there were very few bots for whom he'd make the effort. Omega was one. (Optimus' tenacity in regards to cracking through Ratchet's rusty old shell is maybe kind of starting to have an effect. Not that Ratchet will admit it.) "There are a lot of things still not right with the world, old friend." He put a hand on the console, crusty voice wavering. Lights around him blinked, unseen processors whirling. Ratchet waited with a calm patience he reserved for this bot alone.
"Can you sing him a song?"
Something inside Ratchet twisted and froze at the thought. It took two false starts before he could speak. "I don't think I can," he admitted, voice gruff.
Not quite the response Ratchet was expecting. While Ratchet never particularly liked the formality of the songs when they were actually used, they still hold incredible significance for him. The thought of actually singing one of them would hurt no matter the circumstances. Ratchet is suddenly having to confront both that yes, he is hurting a great deal over Prowl, and that maybe he considers those songs more important than he wants to admit. To Omega, on the other hand, no real time at all has passed; they're still a part of his routine, so they're still comforting.
"I remember the songs," Omega said, slow, thoughtful. Ratchet shuttered his optics, his hand tightening against Omega's plating. He said nothing, wishing that this conversation would stop.
Yeah. At this point, Ratchet pretty much just wants to run away before he loses control over himself.
“I need to go help the others with Prowl.”
Omega rumbled his agreement. The pilot's station began to rise with no further prompting, but Omega wasn't ready to let the topic drop. “He should have a song.”
Ratchet bowed his head, the fierce ache inside growing insufferably worse. Below him, Omega's voice took up a chant; long, rolling wails to accompany departed sparks on their journey to the Well.