\o/ Fic!
Title: Borealis 65/84: Dance
Author: tainry
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing(s): ensemble, Prowl/TC/Ultra Magnus/OC Strake, TC/Prime, Evac/Blades, Wheeljack/Blurr, Kup/OC Oratorio
Warnings: PnP robosex, fluff
Summary: Wherein Starscream and Skywarp are not having fun, neither is Prime, Maggie surprises Ultra Magnus, Kup confronts Wheeljack about a certain invention’s nomenclature, Ultra Magnus finally gets to meet Prowl, the Autobots make a contribution to Burning Man, Prime tries to revise Strake and TC’s sentence, helicopters get snuggly, Blurr and Wheeljack merge, Kup and Oratorio merge, and Soundwave is feeling a bit cranky.
Notes: One chapter split into three. Hence the denominator up there keeps getting bigger. Oopsie. ^^; Suggested listening for this chapter: Lady Gaga - “Telephone”; Kitaro - “Matsuri”, “Tumba Dance”, “Dance of Sarasvati”, “Orochi”, “Mysterious Triangle”, “End Theme BEYOND”; Kodo - “Ibuki”, “Shake”, “Kyosui”, “Strobe’s Nanafushi”, “Niji no Nagori”; Cuzco - “Montezuma”, “Flute Battle”, “Ghost Dance”; Jorio - “Prayer”; and “The Landlord’s Walk” and “Nelson Mandela’s Welcome to the City of Glasgow” on some Narada album, probably Pure Moods or something I picked up from The Nature Company a decade ago. ^_^;;; The length of the playlist does in fact make sense. ;D
~7600 words.
BOREALIS: Dance
2030 - February
Skywarp grabbed Starscream and bounced. Audials fried, comms dead, it didn’t matter where, so long as the warp field didn’t smash them into solid rock. It only mattered that they get away, that Starscream wasn’t fighting him, and that thing couldn’t follow.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
It looked like a dance, Sam thought, the way they completely missed stepping on everyone. Except for Optimus’ horrified cry, and the grim look on Ultra Magnus’ face as he caught the staggering, then offline Prime. Sam gripped the edges of the podium. The press were already clamoring for whats and whys and whos, the collective bandwidth use in the room skyrocketing.
“It’s Galvatron,” Sam told them. “We’ll release more information as soon as we have it. Right now only Prime knows any details. Conference over for now, thank you for your understanding.” Kup leaned down and extended a hand. Sam stepped into it, but Secretary Williams waved him off, taking the podium instead. It wasn’t that Sam couldn’t handle the press, but Sam was family, and the way Ratchet, back at the embassy, was barking for access to scans this constituted a medical emergency. Prime never went offline these days.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
The next morning, Sam and Bee had to get back to New York to reassure the UN. Maggie headed for the med-bay first thing to check on Prime. Ultra Magnus had insinuated himself between Optimus and the repair table, cradling the unconscious Prime, Optimus’ head on Magnus’ shoulder. By the way the CMO was ignoring this arrangement, she could tell Ratchet approved. Their friendship was older than her species.
She climbed onto Mikaela’s gantry. (Mikaela was at her alma mater, MIT, with Dani, giving a lecture series.) “How is he?”
“Still offline,” Magnus said. Maggie thought he sounded like Smokescreen's older, taller brother; like someone who had smoked three packs a day through their teens but had since quit. Kinda sexy, pleasantly rough, resonant as an old-time radio announcer. Her inbuilt signals analysis software gave her a graphic representation so she could see the harmonics and other differences in his voice and Smokey’s, though she didn’t understand the harmonics the way Cybertronians did, nor could she actually hear them.
“Allspark or no,” Ratchet grumbled from across the chamber, “he could use the rest.”
“Agreed.” Magnus glanced up at Ratchet, smiling briefly, then returned his attention to Prime. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to comfort him in person.” Every hundred thousand years or so Magnus wondered how things would have been different if he had been Optimus’ twin, instead of Megatron. Would there have been a civil war? Or would Optimus have then been the one to lose himself and run mad?
He extended a hand to Maggie, bringing her over and setting her on Optimus’ shoulder. He agreed with Prowl’s early assessment. It was weird how readable these tiny, soft-bodied creatures were. Unlike Prowl at that time, however, Magnus had parsed the Web and knew the phrase “uncanny valley”. He supposed he was coming at it from the opposite side.
“Oooh, he’s warmer than usual,” she said.
“Recovery mode,” Ratchet explained.
Intriguing, Magnus thought. Such sympathy and concern in alien eyes. He had not anticipated this understanding from humans. He had thought Optimus had gone a bit loopy in settling here. He was beginning to comprehend.
Fleetingly, Maggie hoped Optimus didn’t jerk awake, then dismissed the thought. Optimus had the keenest situational awareness she’d ever observed. Even when Megatron had been throwing him around Mission City, Optimus had never fallen on anyone. The big bots were like that; not clumsy because of their size and both more intimidating and more comforting for it. She shifted on the smooth metal. He was getting warmer. The hums and whirrs and hydraulic hisses of his body were returning. He must be waking up. Ratchet came over just as Optimus’ optics lit.
“Hello, Maggie,” Prime said.
“Hiya. How was your beauty rest?”
“Galvatron has done something terrible.”
“We reckoned so, the way you were yelling.”
Ultra Magnus watched the exchange wonderingly. They spoke like old friends despite the disparity of their ages. The brevity of a human lifespan meant a human could never know a Cybertronian to the same extent, didn’t it?
“He has finally attempted to kindle a living spark in a robot body,” Prime explained. “Something went wrong.” He touched his chest. “I don’t understand what he did, precisely.”
“Whatever it is, it won’t be good news for us,” Ratchet said.
“I’m afraid not,” Prime agreed. “It felt to me as though Galvatron was more affected than I was at the kindling of the Graveyard Legion. We’re going to need more information. Countermeasure is still with Turmoil as far as we know, on their way to Chaar.”
“In which case he’ll soon know more about it than we do,” Ultra Magnus said. “Unless you want to send Silverbolt’s team out there, we’ll have to wait for that information.”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
“So, Wheeljack. Whaddya call those things again?” Kup peered into the tank, hands on hips.
"Those are the Killer Guppies," Wheeljack said eagerly. "Don't stick your fingers in there, that batch is programmed to chew up our alloys. We've got them down in the Laurentian cleaning up the abandoned Con base. We're leaving a lot of the superstructure for the critters down there to use as habitat, but there's a metric aftload of toxics and explosives the Cons kindly left behind."
"Uh huh."
"Yeah, we've got a couple other schools of these," Wheeljack continued. "Got great big swarms going in the trash gyres in the Atlantic and Pacific - we know it's kind of interfering, but since we had the things around already, and if we were going to not interfere we'd have to go back in time several thousand years, and...well, anyway."
"Uh huh." Kup's grin grew broader.
"And then we got another batch down on the Argentine coast cleaning up that oil spill. Shame about that, crude is interesting stuff. Remember the similar hydrocarbon gunk on P'rllx V? This is essentially the same stuff, it's just...oh well you got all that info with the rest of the web, never mind. Anyway, they're basically just little mobile nanoassemblers, modified specifically for aquatic use. They even have a bit of shielding to keep 'em from being eaten by small- to mid-sized critters, and they're sturdy enough to go right through the bigger guys."
"Jack."
"Beachcomber worked out the chemistry for the end products. There was concern about environmental impact, so we figured out which molecules were most inert for whatever inputs they were dealing with. We also made these Little Brown Birds and spider-analogs to catch and dispatch the insecticons Soundwave and Hook were putting out, but since they've been off-planet that hasn't been top priority."
"Jack," Kup said, leaning on the edge of the tank. "That's not what you call them."
"What, the Libbies?"
"The Killer Guppies. That's not what you really call them."
"Yes we...uh..." Wheeljack moved around the room, pretending to straighten the clutter. "Ya know, the militaries and governments love acronyms, so they call 'em KGs, like 'cagey' - puns are almost as common in English as-”
"Wheeljack."
"It was the humans! You don't understand what they're like! The minute you tell them not to do something, they run off and do exactly that!"
"You call 'em 'kuppies', don'tcha, Jack." Kup straightened and crossed his arms, optics twinkling as Wheeljack stammered. It was hard not to tackle him, but Kup didn't fancy overloading in here. Too many things might go off when the static charge hit. "I like 'em."
"We didn't know for sure if you'd ever be coming down here, and they didn't know it would end up being like your...you do?"
"Tough little guys with teeth like that? Helped you drive the Cons off this planet? Pit yeah I like 'em and no I don't mind about the name, you big glitch."
Blurr whirled down the ramp from the ground-level floor. "Hey, Wheeljack, whydidn'tyou ohhi, Kup, areyou showing him the ohmy, well Idon'tsee any smoking holes so he mustnot have minded after everyone wasso worried, too, that'sprettyfunny! So, Wheeljack, doyouwantmeto finish setting up that tachyon commset or didyou do it already?"
"Hi, Blurr," Wheeljack said. "Nah, I left it for you like I promised. You can do the calibrations too if you want."
"Woohoo!" Blurr sped down to the next level, shooting a grin at Kup's bemused expression.
You like working with old Jack, here, huh? Kup tight-beamed to the youngster. Brave mech.
Wheeljackdoesn't mind peopleaskingquestions, Blurr replied. Perceptor didn't mind either, but, unlike Wheeljack, if you asked Perceptor a stupid question - or not a stupid question, really, but a thoughtless question - Perceptor could get a little sharp with his answers. And I...I'm fast enough to get him out if something...goes wrong. Whichit doesn't! Notveryoften.
Like I said, brave mech. Kup sent a glyph-pat on the shoulder. Good lad.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Prowl stood at the north end of the mesa, the two Seekers arrayed behind him. Cueing off the angle of Prowl's doorwings, Strake came to attention as Ultra Magnus approached.
Prime was right, Magnus thought. That youngster, Strake, was too adorable. Nodding at Prowl, he turned to Thundercracker, optic-to-optic, both of them utterly still for long moments before the tension broke with a burst of tight-beamed comm and a ringing embrace.
"I'm glad, Thundercracker," Magnus said, leaning hard into the Seeker's shoulder. "I wish... Never mind. I'm glad to see you, TC, I really am."
"Likewise, Commander," Thundercracker said, relief and respect clear in his harmonics. "Feels good to be on the same side again."
We need to pipe a little Barry White up there for you guys? Jazz broke in.
Shut up, Jazz, Prowl said amiably.
Understanding trines well, Magnus maintained contact with Thundercracker as he brushed a hand over Strake's forearm. Polished black chased with silver. If Strake had chosen an Earth-made alt form it would have had to have been a showpiece, a concept jet. No human air force currently sported colors so elegant. He made a striking counterpoint to Prowl's metallic white and Thundercracker's storm-sky blue. Offering cables that were swiftly accepted, Magnus transmitted his admiration for their beauty and for the difficulty and importance of their shared task. He withheld behind firewalls the feeling that he knew who the next Command Trine would be if Prime chose to reinstate that level of military hierarchy.
He knew there were unquiet layers of things they concealed from him as well. Secrets kept, secrets maintained. Magnus found he was tired of revelations at the moment. Right now all that mattered was how they felt - and what they all felt right now was overclocked. He smiled. Alphas were high-tuned, precision creatures, easily provoked and volatile. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Magnus hadn’t ‘faced TC in 3.2 million years.
Optics flared, claws and fingers clenched on heated armor. Magnus lifted Prowl up between his own body and the Seekers’. Prowl was small, compared to them, but not fragile.
Primus, Prowl, Magnus murmured, hands roaming. Who built your body?
I-Ironfisssst, Prowl hissed, arching, his cheek flanges striking Thundercracker’s hull as he tossed his head.
Magnus would have guessed Skyfall, but Ironfist, yes, that made sense. A weaponsmaker of consummate genius. And, occasionally, aesthetic brilliance. You have the hypercoil series tetra musculature… unusual for your mass range. And are those, mmm, fermion-core recoilless repeaters in your shoulders?
Just like old times, Thundercracker commented to Strake. Magnus can’t get binary with a bot without running a catalog of their features.
I suppose that could be flattering, Strake said, grinning. And Prowl does have some pretty nice features. In complete agreement, the three larger mechs turned the full strength of their regard and desire upon Prowl, engulfing him with their bodies, cables sliding.
No, Prowl moaned, thrashing, face turned away from Magnus' seeking mouth. I am not so admirable a being as you imagine. Images and remembered emotions seared through them, the death throes of Coryx VII, the upturned faces of executed mechs. Magnus nearly dropped him, but shot his articulation locks and held on through as severe a storm as any he'd weathered in space. Watching the way Thundercracker and Strake understood Prowl’s distress - accepting and absorbing it rather than reflecting - was fascinating.
Sunkiller, Magnus named him, shuddering. Like the Lord Protector. We loved him, too, remember?
YES! Thundercracker cried.
Four minds coiled as one, rising up to strike. We can do this. We can weld ourselves whole again. Not only because we must, but because we believe in our basic nature. We have been a peaceful civilization for an enormous span of time. We will reclaim that heritage.
Their wave of intention thundered across the cloud mind, gathering consciousnesses and momentum. Laughing with elation, Prime made no effort to channel or curtail it, merely adding his own determination. From Beachcomber and Glyph in a deep Moroccan valley to Skyfire and Borealis in geostationary orbit, the Autobots united across all the bandwidths of joy.
The four on the mesa-top, now the focus of a returning wave like a hundred-meter tsunami, staggered and shouted and held on to each other as overload knocked them off their feet and offline.
Regaining awareness slowly, Ultra Magnus laughed and twined his fingers with Thundercracker’s and Strake’s, wishing he had another set of arms for Prowl spread so enticingly between them. I hear that Prime alone can bring Prowl to give voice to ecstasy, Magnus rumbled. That sounds like a challenge to me.
Not…not entirely true, Prowl felt compelled to point out.
Let’s find out, Magnus growled, and opened his spark chamber.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
On an asteroid in the shadow of the second moon orbiting a gas giant in solar system 539-26, Starscream pulled Skywarp's offline body deeper into the cave. The unusual combination of ores laced through the stone would help hide their energy signatures as long as they were quiet and conserved power. The multiple warp jumps had seriously depleted Skywarp. Starscream weighed the option of leaving him here and heading as swiftly as he could to the nearest space bridge. They were outside the old boundaries of Cybertronian space, so while there were a few wormholes in range of a fast ship like himself, the nearest functional bridge was a considerable distance. Skywarp might yet prove useful, once he recovered. If the monstrosity followed them, his warp jump was the most effective means of staying out of its grasp.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
2030 - September
Maggie and Glen's bedroom had one of the few skylights in the embassy. They could watch the stars, and let dawn wake them slowly. Their small, pod-like suite of rooms was tucked high inside the mesa, above and north of the human-scaled area and the med-lab. Not the lawn and dog and picket fence and two-and-a-half baths people were supposed to want. She and Glen often looked at each other and grinned. We live with giant robots! From outer space! That was way cooler than any lawn.
This morning, the deep voices were silent, and no heavy footfalls echoed from the stone walls. The usual human staff were all on vacation for the federal holiday. Maggie sipped her coffee and wandered the halls and chambers, Glen joining her once he'd completed his habitual daily systems check. "Hello? Tel?"
"I am here."
"Where is everyone?" They'd never seen the embassy empty before. If nothing else, Red was always in the security office. Kalis' pillar was in its customary place, but Teletraan was speaking to it via a focused beam of sound that could only be heard if one was standing in the right place.
"The Autobots have devised a surprise for the people of Earth."
"Uh, what kind of surprise?" Glen asked.
"They began at local sunrise," Tel said. "Would you like the live feed, shall I replay from the start, or both?"
Maggie and Glen looked at each other. "Replay," Maggie said. They raced down to the human-scaled entertainment alcove where Tel could put whatever it was up on the big screen.
Pale sand glowed beneath a vivid sky. A low line of mountains marched in shadow to the west, only their peaks limned in golden sunlight. Nearly seven hundred mechs were assembled on a huge, circular, fibrous mat laid out on the desert floor.
"Is that …everyone?" Maggie asked.
"Everyone embodied, yes," said Tel. "Except Countermeasure, who is offplanet, and Lifeline, who remains in Oregon. Ven is keeping an optic on her."
"What are they doing?" Glen asked. He checked the coordinates. "Black Rock dry lake. Hey, isn't that where they do Burning Man?"
"Yeah," Maggie said. "Labor Day weekend. Which is today. Oh my god."
Glen put his arms up in a victory pose. "The Autobots do Burning Man! OutSTANDing!"
Tel put up three different views - looking down from two or three hundred meters, looking westward from human-height ground level, and a high oblique view from the south - clearly using his own skyspy hoverbots, which were similar to but larger than Optimus' battle gnats. There were no humans in sight, though Glen added a dot on the satellite map to indicate where Burning Man's Black Rock City had been assembled. It was several miles away to the southeast. Maybe within visual range on the ground with Cybertronian optics or a good pair of binoculars.
As sunlight crept down the mountain peaks, the Autobots gathered on the mat, arraying themselves in a complex spiral pattern with Prime, Ultra Magnus and Springer visible in the center. Skydive, Air Raid, Fireflight, Slingshot, Thundercracker and Strake stood like henge stones in a ring about midway between the center and the edge, and the three deltas towered equidistant around the outside edge. There seemed to be further organization by height, but whatever convention they were using wasn't immediately obvious.
“When did the Aerials get back?” Glen asked.
“Late last night,” Tel said.
"They're going to dance," Maggie breathed.
"Yes," said Tel softly.
When sunlight touched the highest crest of Skyfire's helm, they began.
In perfect unison, every mech took a step or rolled counterclockwise. Music coalesced from silence, rising in long slow measures from alt-mode speakers and vocoders. They were singing, Maggie realized, though the human ear had difficulty distinguishing Cybertronian voices from instruments. Her acoustic analysis software was lighting up like Times Square on New Year's Eve.
Another step. Thirty-one motionless seconds elapsed between, the bots’ heads lifted toward the sky. Another - twenty-nine seconds; some of them turned, rotating stars within the galaxy-dance - they were counting down primes. Twenty-three seconds.
"Not exactly Carameldansen," Glen murmured, glued to the screen despite the geologic pace.
Nineteen seconds. Groups of mechs turned, slow-motion whirl of gravity, arms and hands swinging in complex arcs to intimate planets, mathematically precise. With hearts like theirs, Maggie thought, of course they were attuned to the stars. Seventeen. Thirteen. Eleven. Spiral arms narrowed in the overhead view, coalescing, and then suddenly they were a single stellar disk, reenacting the formation of the Cybertron home system, the large mechs in the center drawing together as a sun, the six jets becoming planets, circled and skirted by moons and rings, the three deltas moving back, galactic arms watching the smaller sequence unfold.
Low-slanting rays gilded their armor, casting a sheen of antiquity over even their brightest colors. They glittered like dragonflies after a rainstorm. Seven seconds. Five. Lines of mechs streamered between the spinning planets, mimicking electromagnetic or gravitational fields, fluxing and flexing as Prime flung out a solar prominence arm. Three. Two.
Their topography changed abruptly, plates and shards and spikes of armor flattening, spreading; and mountains, canyons, strung with jeweled garlands of towered cities sprang from the circling mechs.
Handfuls of mechs rose from the valleys, mouths open, arms reaching. The firstforged, awakening from nodes of swirled metals half-buried in the crust of the strange world the Allspark had made, created to its own requirements. With a toss of their heads, they evoked the emergence of an atmosphere, and as they opened their mouths again, the song grew louder, more joyous.
An hour and a half had passed before Maggie and Glen leaned back, stretching on the couch, easing their necks and shoulders.
“Are they still dancing out there now?” Maggie asked Tel, remembering they were watching a recording, not the live feed. Teletraan split the screen and put the live image up side by side. The dance as it had evolved had become nothing like anything humankind had seen, not like birds or dueling stags or interpretive dance or insects posturing. If they were still telling the tale of their earliest history it had passed beyond Maggie’s ability to decode.
“How long…?” Glen asked. The robots were, well, robots, but they’d been dancing for how long without even a brief intermission? He and Maggie had lazed around in bed until after eight, not even talking, just enjoying the weekend lethargy. The sun had risen at 6:27 AM. Three and a half hours, more or less.
“This dance will last five days,” Tel explained.
“Wow,” said Glen.
…
Sarah had steered him to the TV to watch, but within minutes Will was on the phone to NEST headquarters at the Pentagon. “Get a cordon set up one and a half klicks out, keep the hippies from getting too close, and I want eyes on station across North America.” He understood that the Burning Man people would be curious, wouldn’t mean any harm, and the bots wouldn’t step on anyone on purpose. The press, however, might get pushy, even with the pristine feeds coming free to everyone from the Cybertronian AI. And if there were Decepticons hiding anywhere in the Sol system, this would be too great an opportunity to miss. Ultra Magnus and Kup wouldn’t have left the Sparkreaver entirely unmanned, but there was no sense taking any chances. He tried to ignore the cold feeling in the pit of his stomach and simply enjoy the gift.
…
At midnight they turned their lights on - a multicolored diamond illuminated from within. Mikaela clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp. They were so beautiful.
Dani hadn’t wanted to go to bed, but Tel had promised her he was recording everything. She could watch every second of it later. Mikaela pointed out that the adults had to sleep too, even if the bots didn’t. In the morning they were catching a flight to Vegas, but it looked like they’d have to rent a car to get to the embassy. Maggie and Glen were setting up the mother of all BBQs and the whole old crew was invited; Sarah and Anna and Anna’s suitably nervous boyfriend, though Will had declined, choosing instead to man his post at the Pentagon, Miles, Joey and Yasmina, Bobby Epps and Theresa were returning from Colorado, Ron and Judy Witwicky, John and Lucia Keller, Graham and Salazar were coming in from Heathrow, and Sam was gleefully abandoning his DC office in favor of a little unscheduled R and R with friends and family. Michael Banes hadn’t seen his granddaughter in a couple of months and thought he could take time away from the shop for a few hours, but Mikaela’s mother and grandmother didn’t like crowds and said they would watch the pretty robots dance from the comfort of their own living room, thanks.
Headlights and taillights and running lights flickered in synchronized patterns, Seaspray distinguishable by his sole red/port green/starboard, the jets blinking at wingtips. Every reflection and refraction was deliberate and choreographed, light seeming to bend, opening like a flower, narrowing to laser points, illuminating the desert or focused on Prime, who cut loose with the giant halogens in his chest, leaning back to slice a vertical beacon through the night.
As one every light was extinguished but their optics, becoming a shifting, whirling sea of blue. They did something with their shields and sheets of iridescence fluttered across their forms, touching, merging, rising up in vast sails of energy, bending and swaying in rhythm with the mechs below.
Mikaela tried to quiet her mind and just watch, to let herself absorb it, but her brain chattered away, faster than before, wanting to know what it meant, how they were doing that, how old this music was and were there words to the song or were they making musical sounds. She knew she would suck at meditation.
It was 3 AM when she remembered she and Dani would have to get up at six to catch their flight. “Slag,” she grumbled, dragging herself away from the TV to take a shower.
…
Dawn touched the fingertips of the uplifted hands of three starships in the chapel of the sky. Their booming voices rolled above the music, welcoming the return of the sun. A shimmer of white-gold crossed their shielding, spreading into the circle, an echo of the radiance suffusing the air.
The dance had taken on a stately rhythm, but not from fatigue. Leashed power and excitement ran visibly through the bots’ frames, moving with a collective grace that had nothing in common with ballet but stark athleticism.
Just outside the embassy hangar, Epps and Ron were jockeying for grill supremacy while their families and friends clustered around the big screen.
Keller reclined in one of the perennial beat-up La-Z-Boys, out of the way of the more energetic members of this extended and motley tribe. He’d been dubious about watching. It wasn’t dignified for a world leader, a planetary leader, to, what was the phrase? Get his groove on. Broadcast for the Earthlings to see. But he saw there was nothing hokey or undignified about it. Optimus moved with the careful deliberation required of his size, every swing of arm and heavy tread measured and distinguished without being ponderous. The samurai thing again.
With a peculiar shiver, the robots who had them dropped their Earthly guises, retracting their chameleon mesh to reveal the gleaming protoforms beneath. Merge scars shone from the chests of many. The pace of the dance increased and Mirage - still recognizable despite the lack of Veyron façade - led a spiral line that redoubled and folded upon itself, mechs swaying and gyring in a manner similar to the solo dance Mirage had demonstrated years before.
“Go OPTIMUS!” Maggie, Theresa, Sarah and Mikaela whooped, jumping on the big couch like teenagers. “SHAKE THAT THANG!”
Sam and Glen exchanged a look, half alarmed, half excited. Anna and Dani tried not to show their embarrassment. Judy wanted to join the girls, but she’d broken a toe on the landscaping last week.
By sunset, the dance shifted again, recapturing the wandering attention of the younger members of the audience. Out in the red-lit desert, the mechs were using each other and themselves as drums.
…
By the third day, the embassy had filled again with the human staff and NEST personnel. People were trying to get back to work but the big screen was always on and the alien music drew them. Out past the safety net, people from Burning Man who didn’t yet have to return home danced in a miles-wide ring, and though individuals came and went, the ring slowly grew in thickness as more humans arrived to celebrate.
Maggie shamelessly ensconced herself on the biggest couch, tossing off a few minor online duties now and then but mostly just watching. Her employers, after all, were engaged elsewhere. Glen brought her lunch and settled next to her.
“What are they doing n- Holy!” He almost dropped his soda. The gestalts were combining. The Aerials, the Pbots, the Bullet Trains and the Build Team, flowing into their enormous forms, still dancing, taking the deltas’ hands, drawing them into the center of the circle. The other mechs surrounded them in serried rows, bending and bowing, extending their arms in rippling patterns. It reminded Maggie of nothing so much as ferrofluid sculptures, with the big mechs in the middle forming a spiky, extraterrestrial column.
The column went abruptly still and solid. In a surging wave, the rest of the mechs climbed it, leaping and wheeling to the top, forming balconies and flying buttresses and convoluted, delicate structures whose purpose Maggie couldn’t guess, building a Tower out of themselves. A tower that sang, and slowly, slowly began to dance.
…
Through the night the dance had evolved to resemble a trance. Thursday’s dawn saw them stirring from the coded, repetitive forms into a wilder, more individual expression that oscillated from a fast ambling beat to long, curving arbors of lifted arms and joined hands, not unlike Regency-era ballroom dances. Pockets of jigs and sambas broke out, expanded, and transformed, becoming mazurkas or a conga line before altering again into unrecognizable Cybertronian sequences.
Springer leapt skyward, turning a leisurely back flip at the height of his arc and alighting precisely on Silverbolt’s shoulder before somersaulting to the ground. A flurry of cartwheeling, spinning leaps broke out, the rest of the bots inspired to push the dance into three dimensions.
The three deltas’ expressions shifted to unadulterated mischief. They gave no other warning, judging by the stumbling steps and surprised expressions on the faces of their comrades. In unison the three jumped straight up, as though to take flight, but without engaging their engines they landed with a boom felt as much as heard. With each leap they landed harder, and harder, trying to bounce everyone else off the ground. Fly with us!
Laughing, and finding their balance now that they knew what was intended, the others timed their own jumps to take advantage of the added force. The jets took off and wove the dance higher, in intricate patterns of speed and sonic booms.
…
On the fifth day, Thundercracker abandoned the pretense of avoiding Prime and began to maneuver his place in the array, edging closer and closer.
By sunset, hands that had brushed over armor now clung, blue gazes lingered as groupings accreted like planets and the diameter of the circle grew narrower. On Cybertron, it had been common knowledge that if a dance brought the Prime’s consciousness high enough, he could take the whole planet down through overload with him.
Teletraan turned off the feeds and hinted to the NEST teams in the cordon that backing off another hundred meters might be a good idea.
Falling into the shadow of the Earth, the sky deepened to sapphire. Optics glowed indigo and ribbons of aquamarine fire coruscated over armor, lashing the white sand, leaving behind strangely ornate shapes of molten glass.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
"Well. You look comfortable, Thundercracker," Ultra Magnus commented, rolling onto his side so he could see the Seeker better. Chromia punched him in an uncommitted sort of way for disturbing their heap.
Thundercracker was of no mind to move either. "Shu'up," he rumbled. "Don' wake Prime." Optimus was sprawled across his chest, a hot, comfortable weight. Thundercracker stroked the smooth plates of his dorsal armor, tracing the outlines of the flame design the chameleon mesh displayed. During those final moments of the dance it had been as though Thundercracker's body was composed purely of photons, not crass lesser particle-waves. Feeling himself re-coalescing around his spark, finite and mundane once again, had been disappointing.
"'Wake'? TC you said 'wake'. We don't sleep, you know." Strake, himself pinned by Trailbreaker's reassuring bulk, and the slight, twined shapes of Mirage and Hound curled in his lap, was amused. Only the Protectobots used human language like that. Sleeping and yawning and waking and sighing and grunting and coughing and clearing of throats that were not connected to the bellows of lungs. Groove and Streetwise had once had a sneezing contest. First Aid had proved better at it than either of them. Ratchet had been thankful it hadn’t been burping.
The sun was high in the desert sky before Prime stirred.
Thundercracker. Your spark, he tight-beamed softly, surprise and concern lacing his harmonics. The last time they had had spark-to-spark contact every cycle in every processor of Prime’s system had been taken up trying to establish a communications link between patterns within the Allspark and a living mech outside it. He hadn’t had attention left over to delve too deeply into the Seeker’s spark. You’re much older than you’ve-
Hush, Thundercracker said, petting Optimus’ helm. Hush. It doesn’t matter.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Prime, Ultra Magnus, Drift and Smokescreen stood to one side of the holotable. The doors to Prime’s office closed and locked behind Prowl, Thundercracker and Strake.
Given the circumstances after the dance, and those surrounding Drift’s choice to join us, Prime began, I am no longer convinced that the thousand year parole I placed upon Thundercracker and Strake is either effective or necessary. I welcome suggestions as to how to proceed.
No! Strake yelled without thinking, clutching Prowl close. Don’t make us…don’t make us leave h-… Uh… His outburst withered under the startled stares of the others.
Thundercracker scratched at a cheek flange. “Prime, sometimes regulations are a comfort rather than a constraint.”
“So I see,” Prime said as grins flashed around the room. “As you wish, then, Strake. Your and Thundercracker’s sentences stand.”
Prowl patted Strake’s hands. “You can put me down now.”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Where do helicopters go to nest? Ideally, Blades felt, it would be isolated, elevated, and somewhere impossible for Slingshot jets to land without shifting to robot mode. There was a very nice mesa in Monument Valley that had been featured in a certain old television series about what was then a very advanced helicopter. Evac thought this was hilarious.
Running six meters from the ground at top speed, Evac pulled up barely in time, did a flip, transformed and landed neat-footedly on the mesa’s edge. “Still fun!” he said.
Blades spiraled around him once before making a more solid landing. Copter’s a new alt for you, huh?
Evac chuckled. Yes. I copied Topspin’s and Bluesky’s memories after Optimus rekindled us. A lot of that had gone around. Most of them had not been tanks before, either.
They moved to the center where there was a slight, weather-worn depression. Neither was perceptibly coy. They sat facing one another, legs sprawled in whatever direction was out of the way, hands wandering, their backs bent toward each other, mindful of their rotors.
Blades decided to ask then and there, shy but resolute. None of the Graveyard Legion had participated in a merge, and no one knew whether something about a twice-given spark forbade it or whether they had decided not to for reasons of their own. They were the front line, and the Cons were gearing up for something big. Something bad, given the way whatever Galvatron had done had made Prime spark-sick.
Helicopters don’t necessarily beget helicopters, Blades said, catching one of Evac’s nimble hands and kissing it, but you’re the last one in the Legion, and I… I know you mean to return to the Allspark, but…
Evac smiled and pulled Blades close, opening his chest teasingly slow, kissing the young mech thoroughly. I’d be honored.
Blades drew back for a moment. The Legion mechs were willing, had then no one ever asked them? He was appalled, guilty as everyone else. He offered cables and an apology.
Don’t worry about it, Evac laughed. We don’t exactly put out willing harmonics. We came back to fight, to help Optimus end the war. Forging new life is for the living.
“You’re alive now.” Blades drew their chests together again, rubbing the edges of his armor against Evac’s. The heat and fields from their coronae were making it hard to think.
“I’ve been dead.”
“Mmm. Does that matter?”
“Primus, you’re cute. I always did have a weakness for people with flight modes. This,” and he licked out a flare from his corona, making Blades shudder and moan, “this is not physically the same spark I had. I am not entirely the same person I was before I died.”
Blades leaned into Evac’s shoulder, shuttering his optics and mouthing Evac’s neck cables. Your s-sparks aren’t the same? How does that work?
“They’re not the same in a certain way. What good would it do to change our names and bodies if anyone who had known us would instantly recognize our spark? Ask Jazz. Ask anyone who knew Jazz before he was killed.”
"Um." Blades would rather not. The subject of Jazz's brutal death was considerably lightened by his rekindling, but people tried to hide how much it had nevertheless upset them. And if Blades left a trail of unhappy mechs behind him, then First Aid would be unhappy.
Never mind, dear one. Evac stroked Blades’ helm and opened himself wider, at last sinking them into full contact.
There was something familiar about Evac’s spark, in quality if not quantity. Blades couldn’t place it, though he also got a strong impression that Evac was making up for something. Blades pressed, seeking more detailed emotions, surrendering his individuality level by level.
That's enough of that, young spark. Evac drew his fingertips up Blades' rotors, sending a field pulse of a peculiar frequency through the hub. I thought Streetwise was the nosey one.
Nnnngh, Blades said. Groove, too.
I see. Which one are you, then?
Sensible. Only one with...uhhhnhh...self-preservation circuit... Protect them. This was transmitted with such complete smugness Evac tossed his head and howled with laughter, kicking his feet yet somehow not dislodging Blades.
You like being of Prowl's spark, hm? Good thing, then, because you're stuck with that connection, you know. You can't delete that from your memory core and make an end to it.
Never, Blades agreed happily.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
“You sure about this, kiddo?”
“Yes, Jackplease. Justyouandmedownhere. The tank’sready isn’t it?” Blurr took Wheeljack’s hands and the inventor drew him close.
“Yep. Just checking.” He chirped a tight-beam message to Ratchet, who wasn’t surprised. Everyone was feeling especially frisky these days, as though the entire Autobot army had gone into bloom at once. How they were going to keep this from the larger human awareness was beyond him. Wheeljack laughed. Blurr was vibrating against him, pushing him closer to the recharge table beside the tank. All right, Ratch. See ya on the flipside.
You be careful down there, said Ratchet. His vocal processors were practically looping with that message, but did anyone listen?
We will. Blurr’s eager, not stupid. Trust me.
Considering the last spark we got from you, Wheeljack, it’s not Blurr I’m worried about. We have neither the room nor the resources for another cityformer, understand?
That wasn’t my fault!
Of course not. Ratchet’s last glyph was fond.
Smiling, Wheeljack climbed on the table, opening his chest, filling the dim chamber with turquoise radiance. Blurr followed him precisely, move for move, optics wide and bright, engine revving hot, his spark a paler blue-green but dazzling, spinning fast.
Um, Blurr? Wheeljack hesitated, not for the world wanting to discomfit his friend. You…do know you don’t have to-
Even I know there are some things in life worth taking your time for, Blurr thrummed. Relax, Wheeljack. Lie down. I got this.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
2030 - October
He'd been afraid of this. Ratchet stared into the empty tank for long minutes before beginning the calibration and growth medium fill sequence.
"Oratorio, his spark has been spinning for over three billion years," he said quietly. "Four billion if you believe half his tales." He cast a dubious optic in Kup's direction. Kup grinned and chomped his rusty pipe. "I’m not convinced this is a good idea. I know his body can take the strain. I can’t stop you, but I recommend against this."
“All the more reason to try now,” Oratorio insisted, taking Ratchet's hands. Rio let his voice sink into its lowest, most resonant register. Ratchet felt this was not playing fair. “I don’t mean to sound flippant, but he won’t get younger if we wait. Please, Ratchet. He’s too wonderful, we need more mechs like him.”
"Definitely Prime’s kid, too," said Kup.
"Slag." Perceptor? Would you come down here and do one more diagnostic? It'd make me feel better, even if Kup's determined to be reckless.
"I think I'm old enough to decide for myself what's reckless," Kup said.
Do calm down, Ratchet, Perceptor said cheerily. I'll be there momentarily He was helping Wheeljack clear space in his tower for the new and very important construction project.
After several more minutes of Ratchet grumbling, Rio pleading and Kup approaching the point where he might consider losing his patience, Perceptor entered - deciphering Ratchet's lock without having to break stride, which did not improve Ratchet's humor.
"So what," Kup was saying. "If I snuff it doing this, then hey, what a way to go."
Primus, Perceptor. Couldn’t you even pretend it took a few seconds to hack my doors? Ratchet looked ready to chew titanium. "If you snuff it doing this you could take Oratorio with you. And the med-bay. And the rest of the embassy. And a non-trivial chunk of Nevada."
Kup wrangled his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. "Oh. Huh."
"He won't," Rio said. "We won't. I've done this before. We'll be careful. And Perceptor can stay and keep an optic on us. He'll be able to tell if something isn't right, even before we can, I bet."
"I have not had occasion to observe the process from the outside, as it were," Perceptor said, pleased. “Thank you, Oratorio. I am gratified to be of any assistance whatsoever.”
There ya go, Ratch, you don’t even have to be a party to our irresponsible shenanigans.
Fine. But you're taking the result with you when you and the Wreckers leave. I'm not raising any Kuplets. It's bad enough with all the Jazz-babies and Bee-children and Prime-kids around here.
Good thing there's only one Ratchetspawn, then, Rio said, ducking Ratchet's swing. And no Sons of Ironhide!
Primus preserve us, Kup intoned solemnly.
“Hrmph. The tank is ready.” Ratchet pointed a finger (on the hand that became a rail gun) at Oratorio. “You be careful. If Kup is damaged by this I’ll sic Springer on you.” His expression softened as he left them, locking the doors behind him. Using extra encryption.
“Promises, promises,” Rio said, leering. He followed Kup onto the recharge table. Plucking the pipe from Kup’s mouth and handing it off to Perceptor, Rio settled into a long, lingering kiss, pushing Kup firmly down. Their kiss grew hungrier, not entirely civilized, mouths and chests opening, vocoders and engines growling. A lot of sizzle left in the old bot yet.
Perceptor watched, and bit his fingers to keep from jumping up there with them.
…
Hoist, Perceptor thought, was probably the best growth tank attendant. He had even crocheted a pair of spark-handling mitts, though where he had gotten Kevlar in that color was a mystery. Perceptor wished he’d thought to ask Hoist to bring them when they’d all come down to Nevada for the dance.
The new spark fizzed and whirred in Perceptor’s hands, nearly bouncing out of his grip before he could get it into the tank. "Whoops! You're a lively little one," he said, watching it snuggle into the protomass. Kuplets indeed, he thought, amused. This one was going to be a handful.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
The Lord reposed on his dais, serene in recharge despite the melted chestplates. Soundwave stood guard in the shadows behind him; several symbionts ranged the great hall and adjoining spaces. There he would remain until Lord Galvatron came online and presented him with different orders. In orbit, within the assembly frame, Shockwave worked, steady and ruthless in his fury at the damage caused by the fled Thunderwing. Why had Galvatron kindled such a thing? If he had meant it to go after Starscream, to finally shut the treacherous Pit-spawn up, why not then simply kill Starscream himself and have done? Why make it look accidental? Unless there was some sport to be had, or further convolutions to Galvatron's plan that Soundwave was not yet aware of.
It was also conceivable that Galvatron had made a mistake, had catastrophically botched the kindling. Soundwave buried the hypothesis under the deepest layers of encryption. It would be dangerous to even hint that Galvatron had failed where Optimus Prime had clearly succeeded on several occasions.
In any case, Turmoil would be arriving soon, and it would be best if Galvatron was operating at optimum capacity when the rogue captain made planetfall. Soundwave pinged Scalpel for an update on the Lord's condition.
Coiled up in a space between armor plates at the angle of Galvatron's neck and shoulder, the tiny repair-bot flicked a delicate antenna in Soundwave's direction. Lord is in recharge. Self-repair at 87 percent. Further inquiry is unnecessary.
Stepping on Scalpel the next time Soundwave had the chance was also unnecessary, but would provide a small portion, however short-lived, of personal satisfaction and enjoyment.
Table of Contents
.
Author: tainry
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing(s): ensemble, Prowl/TC/Ultra Magnus/OC Strake, TC/Prime, Evac/Blades, Wheeljack/Blurr, Kup/OC Oratorio
Warnings: PnP robosex, fluff
Summary: Wherein Starscream and Skywarp are not having fun, neither is Prime, Maggie surprises Ultra Magnus, Kup confronts Wheeljack about a certain invention’s nomenclature, Ultra Magnus finally gets to meet Prowl, the Autobots make a contribution to Burning Man, Prime tries to revise Strake and TC’s sentence, helicopters get snuggly, Blurr and Wheeljack merge, Kup and Oratorio merge, and Soundwave is feeling a bit cranky.
Notes: One chapter split into three. Hence the denominator up there keeps getting bigger. Oopsie. ^^; Suggested listening for this chapter: Lady Gaga - “Telephone”; Kitaro - “Matsuri”, “Tumba Dance”, “Dance of Sarasvati”, “Orochi”, “Mysterious Triangle”, “End Theme BEYOND”; Kodo - “Ibuki”, “Shake”, “Kyosui”, “Strobe’s Nanafushi”, “Niji no Nagori”; Cuzco - “Montezuma”, “Flute Battle”, “Ghost Dance”; Jorio - “Prayer”; and “The Landlord’s Walk” and “Nelson Mandela’s Welcome to the City of Glasgow” on some Narada album, probably Pure Moods or something I picked up from The Nature Company a decade ago. ^_^;;; The length of the playlist does in fact make sense. ;D
~7600 words.
BOREALIS: Dance
2030 - February
Skywarp grabbed Starscream and bounced. Audials fried, comms dead, it didn’t matter where, so long as the warp field didn’t smash them into solid rock. It only mattered that they get away, that Starscream wasn’t fighting him, and that thing couldn’t follow.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
It looked like a dance, Sam thought, the way they completely missed stepping on everyone. Except for Optimus’ horrified cry, and the grim look on Ultra Magnus’ face as he caught the staggering, then offline Prime. Sam gripped the edges of the podium. The press were already clamoring for whats and whys and whos, the collective bandwidth use in the room skyrocketing.
“It’s Galvatron,” Sam told them. “We’ll release more information as soon as we have it. Right now only Prime knows any details. Conference over for now, thank you for your understanding.” Kup leaned down and extended a hand. Sam stepped into it, but Secretary Williams waved him off, taking the podium instead. It wasn’t that Sam couldn’t handle the press, but Sam was family, and the way Ratchet, back at the embassy, was barking for access to scans this constituted a medical emergency. Prime never went offline these days.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
The next morning, Sam and Bee had to get back to New York to reassure the UN. Maggie headed for the med-bay first thing to check on Prime. Ultra Magnus had insinuated himself between Optimus and the repair table, cradling the unconscious Prime, Optimus’ head on Magnus’ shoulder. By the way the CMO was ignoring this arrangement, she could tell Ratchet approved. Their friendship was older than her species.
She climbed onto Mikaela’s gantry. (Mikaela was at her alma mater, MIT, with Dani, giving a lecture series.) “How is he?”
“Still offline,” Magnus said. Maggie thought he sounded like Smokescreen's older, taller brother; like someone who had smoked three packs a day through their teens but had since quit. Kinda sexy, pleasantly rough, resonant as an old-time radio announcer. Her inbuilt signals analysis software gave her a graphic representation so she could see the harmonics and other differences in his voice and Smokey’s, though she didn’t understand the harmonics the way Cybertronians did, nor could she actually hear them.
“Allspark or no,” Ratchet grumbled from across the chamber, “he could use the rest.”
“Agreed.” Magnus glanced up at Ratchet, smiling briefly, then returned his attention to Prime. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to comfort him in person.” Every hundred thousand years or so Magnus wondered how things would have been different if he had been Optimus’ twin, instead of Megatron. Would there have been a civil war? Or would Optimus have then been the one to lose himself and run mad?
He extended a hand to Maggie, bringing her over and setting her on Optimus’ shoulder. He agreed with Prowl’s early assessment. It was weird how readable these tiny, soft-bodied creatures were. Unlike Prowl at that time, however, Magnus had parsed the Web and knew the phrase “uncanny valley”. He supposed he was coming at it from the opposite side.
“Oooh, he’s warmer than usual,” she said.
“Recovery mode,” Ratchet explained.
Intriguing, Magnus thought. Such sympathy and concern in alien eyes. He had not anticipated this understanding from humans. He had thought Optimus had gone a bit loopy in settling here. He was beginning to comprehend.
Fleetingly, Maggie hoped Optimus didn’t jerk awake, then dismissed the thought. Optimus had the keenest situational awareness she’d ever observed. Even when Megatron had been throwing him around Mission City, Optimus had never fallen on anyone. The big bots were like that; not clumsy because of their size and both more intimidating and more comforting for it. She shifted on the smooth metal. He was getting warmer. The hums and whirrs and hydraulic hisses of his body were returning. He must be waking up. Ratchet came over just as Optimus’ optics lit.
“Hello, Maggie,” Prime said.
“Hiya. How was your beauty rest?”
“Galvatron has done something terrible.”
“We reckoned so, the way you were yelling.”
Ultra Magnus watched the exchange wonderingly. They spoke like old friends despite the disparity of their ages. The brevity of a human lifespan meant a human could never know a Cybertronian to the same extent, didn’t it?
“He has finally attempted to kindle a living spark in a robot body,” Prime explained. “Something went wrong.” He touched his chest. “I don’t understand what he did, precisely.”
“Whatever it is, it won’t be good news for us,” Ratchet said.
“I’m afraid not,” Prime agreed. “It felt to me as though Galvatron was more affected than I was at the kindling of the Graveyard Legion. We’re going to need more information. Countermeasure is still with Turmoil as far as we know, on their way to Chaar.”
“In which case he’ll soon know more about it than we do,” Ultra Magnus said. “Unless you want to send Silverbolt’s team out there, we’ll have to wait for that information.”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
“So, Wheeljack. Whaddya call those things again?” Kup peered into the tank, hands on hips.
"Those are the Killer Guppies," Wheeljack said eagerly. "Don't stick your fingers in there, that batch is programmed to chew up our alloys. We've got them down in the Laurentian cleaning up the abandoned Con base. We're leaving a lot of the superstructure for the critters down there to use as habitat, but there's a metric aftload of toxics and explosives the Cons kindly left behind."
"Uh huh."
"Yeah, we've got a couple other schools of these," Wheeljack continued. "Got great big swarms going in the trash gyres in the Atlantic and Pacific - we know it's kind of interfering, but since we had the things around already, and if we were going to not interfere we'd have to go back in time several thousand years, and...well, anyway."
"Uh huh." Kup's grin grew broader.
"And then we got another batch down on the Argentine coast cleaning up that oil spill. Shame about that, crude is interesting stuff. Remember the similar hydrocarbon gunk on P'rllx V? This is essentially the same stuff, it's just...oh well you got all that info with the rest of the web, never mind. Anyway, they're basically just little mobile nanoassemblers, modified specifically for aquatic use. They even have a bit of shielding to keep 'em from being eaten by small- to mid-sized critters, and they're sturdy enough to go right through the bigger guys."
"Jack."
"Beachcomber worked out the chemistry for the end products. There was concern about environmental impact, so we figured out which molecules were most inert for whatever inputs they were dealing with. We also made these Little Brown Birds and spider-analogs to catch and dispatch the insecticons Soundwave and Hook were putting out, but since they've been off-planet that hasn't been top priority."
"Jack," Kup said, leaning on the edge of the tank. "That's not what you call them."
"What, the Libbies?"
"The Killer Guppies. That's not what you really call them."
"Yes we...uh..." Wheeljack moved around the room, pretending to straighten the clutter. "Ya know, the militaries and governments love acronyms, so they call 'em KGs, like 'cagey' - puns are almost as common in English as-”
"Wheeljack."
"It was the humans! You don't understand what they're like! The minute you tell them not to do something, they run off and do exactly that!"
"You call 'em 'kuppies', don'tcha, Jack." Kup straightened and crossed his arms, optics twinkling as Wheeljack stammered. It was hard not to tackle him, but Kup didn't fancy overloading in here. Too many things might go off when the static charge hit. "I like 'em."
"We didn't know for sure if you'd ever be coming down here, and they didn't know it would end up being like your...you do?"
"Tough little guys with teeth like that? Helped you drive the Cons off this planet? Pit yeah I like 'em and no I don't mind about the name, you big glitch."
Blurr whirled down the ramp from the ground-level floor. "Hey, Wheeljack, whydidn'tyou ohhi, Kup, areyou showing him the ohmy, well Idon'tsee any smoking holes so he mustnot have minded after everyone wasso worried, too, that'sprettyfunny! So, Wheeljack, doyouwantmeto finish setting up that tachyon commset or didyou do it already?"
"Hi, Blurr," Wheeljack said. "Nah, I left it for you like I promised. You can do the calibrations too if you want."
"Woohoo!" Blurr sped down to the next level, shooting a grin at Kup's bemused expression.
You like working with old Jack, here, huh? Kup tight-beamed to the youngster. Brave mech.
Wheeljackdoesn't mind peopleaskingquestions, Blurr replied. Perceptor didn't mind either, but, unlike Wheeljack, if you asked Perceptor a stupid question - or not a stupid question, really, but a thoughtless question - Perceptor could get a little sharp with his answers. And I...I'm fast enough to get him out if something...goes wrong. Whichit doesn't! Notveryoften.
Like I said, brave mech. Kup sent a glyph-pat on the shoulder. Good lad.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Prowl stood at the north end of the mesa, the two Seekers arrayed behind him. Cueing off the angle of Prowl's doorwings, Strake came to attention as Ultra Magnus approached.
Prime was right, Magnus thought. That youngster, Strake, was too adorable. Nodding at Prowl, he turned to Thundercracker, optic-to-optic, both of them utterly still for long moments before the tension broke with a burst of tight-beamed comm and a ringing embrace.
"I'm glad, Thundercracker," Magnus said, leaning hard into the Seeker's shoulder. "I wish... Never mind. I'm glad to see you, TC, I really am."
"Likewise, Commander," Thundercracker said, relief and respect clear in his harmonics. "Feels good to be on the same side again."
We need to pipe a little Barry White up there for you guys? Jazz broke in.
Shut up, Jazz, Prowl said amiably.
Understanding trines well, Magnus maintained contact with Thundercracker as he brushed a hand over Strake's forearm. Polished black chased with silver. If Strake had chosen an Earth-made alt form it would have had to have been a showpiece, a concept jet. No human air force currently sported colors so elegant. He made a striking counterpoint to Prowl's metallic white and Thundercracker's storm-sky blue. Offering cables that were swiftly accepted, Magnus transmitted his admiration for their beauty and for the difficulty and importance of their shared task. He withheld behind firewalls the feeling that he knew who the next Command Trine would be if Prime chose to reinstate that level of military hierarchy.
He knew there were unquiet layers of things they concealed from him as well. Secrets kept, secrets maintained. Magnus found he was tired of revelations at the moment. Right now all that mattered was how they felt - and what they all felt right now was overclocked. He smiled. Alphas were high-tuned, precision creatures, easily provoked and volatile. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Magnus hadn’t ‘faced TC in 3.2 million years.
Optics flared, claws and fingers clenched on heated armor. Magnus lifted Prowl up between his own body and the Seekers’. Prowl was small, compared to them, but not fragile.
Primus, Prowl, Magnus murmured, hands roaming. Who built your body?
I-Ironfisssst, Prowl hissed, arching, his cheek flanges striking Thundercracker’s hull as he tossed his head.
Magnus would have guessed Skyfall, but Ironfist, yes, that made sense. A weaponsmaker of consummate genius. And, occasionally, aesthetic brilliance. You have the hypercoil series tetra musculature… unusual for your mass range. And are those, mmm, fermion-core recoilless repeaters in your shoulders?
Just like old times, Thundercracker commented to Strake. Magnus can’t get binary with a bot without running a catalog of their features.
I suppose that could be flattering, Strake said, grinning. And Prowl does have some pretty nice features. In complete agreement, the three larger mechs turned the full strength of their regard and desire upon Prowl, engulfing him with their bodies, cables sliding.
No, Prowl moaned, thrashing, face turned away from Magnus' seeking mouth. I am not so admirable a being as you imagine. Images and remembered emotions seared through them, the death throes of Coryx VII, the upturned faces of executed mechs. Magnus nearly dropped him, but shot his articulation locks and held on through as severe a storm as any he'd weathered in space. Watching the way Thundercracker and Strake understood Prowl’s distress - accepting and absorbing it rather than reflecting - was fascinating.
Sunkiller, Magnus named him, shuddering. Like the Lord Protector. We loved him, too, remember?
YES! Thundercracker cried.
Four minds coiled as one, rising up to strike. We can do this. We can weld ourselves whole again. Not only because we must, but because we believe in our basic nature. We have been a peaceful civilization for an enormous span of time. We will reclaim that heritage.
Their wave of intention thundered across the cloud mind, gathering consciousnesses and momentum. Laughing with elation, Prime made no effort to channel or curtail it, merely adding his own determination. From Beachcomber and Glyph in a deep Moroccan valley to Skyfire and Borealis in geostationary orbit, the Autobots united across all the bandwidths of joy.
The four on the mesa-top, now the focus of a returning wave like a hundred-meter tsunami, staggered and shouted and held on to each other as overload knocked them off their feet and offline.
Regaining awareness slowly, Ultra Magnus laughed and twined his fingers with Thundercracker’s and Strake’s, wishing he had another set of arms for Prowl spread so enticingly between them. I hear that Prime alone can bring Prowl to give voice to ecstasy, Magnus rumbled. That sounds like a challenge to me.
Not…not entirely true, Prowl felt compelled to point out.
Let’s find out, Magnus growled, and opened his spark chamber.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
On an asteroid in the shadow of the second moon orbiting a gas giant in solar system 539-26, Starscream pulled Skywarp's offline body deeper into the cave. The unusual combination of ores laced through the stone would help hide their energy signatures as long as they were quiet and conserved power. The multiple warp jumps had seriously depleted Skywarp. Starscream weighed the option of leaving him here and heading as swiftly as he could to the nearest space bridge. They were outside the old boundaries of Cybertronian space, so while there were a few wormholes in range of a fast ship like himself, the nearest functional bridge was a considerable distance. Skywarp might yet prove useful, once he recovered. If the monstrosity followed them, his warp jump was the most effective means of staying out of its grasp.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
2030 - September
Maggie and Glen's bedroom had one of the few skylights in the embassy. They could watch the stars, and let dawn wake them slowly. Their small, pod-like suite of rooms was tucked high inside the mesa, above and north of the human-scaled area and the med-lab. Not the lawn and dog and picket fence and two-and-a-half baths people were supposed to want. She and Glen often looked at each other and grinned. We live with giant robots! From outer space! That was way cooler than any lawn.
This morning, the deep voices were silent, and no heavy footfalls echoed from the stone walls. The usual human staff were all on vacation for the federal holiday. Maggie sipped her coffee and wandered the halls and chambers, Glen joining her once he'd completed his habitual daily systems check. "Hello? Tel?"
"I am here."
"Where is everyone?" They'd never seen the embassy empty before. If nothing else, Red was always in the security office. Kalis' pillar was in its customary place, but Teletraan was speaking to it via a focused beam of sound that could only be heard if one was standing in the right place.
"The Autobots have devised a surprise for the people of Earth."
"Uh, what kind of surprise?" Glen asked.
"They began at local sunrise," Tel said. "Would you like the live feed, shall I replay from the start, or both?"
Maggie and Glen looked at each other. "Replay," Maggie said. They raced down to the human-scaled entertainment alcove where Tel could put whatever it was up on the big screen.
Pale sand glowed beneath a vivid sky. A low line of mountains marched in shadow to the west, only their peaks limned in golden sunlight. Nearly seven hundred mechs were assembled on a huge, circular, fibrous mat laid out on the desert floor.
"Is that …everyone?" Maggie asked.
"Everyone embodied, yes," said Tel. "Except Countermeasure, who is offplanet, and Lifeline, who remains in Oregon. Ven is keeping an optic on her."
"What are they doing?" Glen asked. He checked the coordinates. "Black Rock dry lake. Hey, isn't that where they do Burning Man?"
"Yeah," Maggie said. "Labor Day weekend. Which is today. Oh my god."
Glen put his arms up in a victory pose. "The Autobots do Burning Man! OutSTANDing!"
Tel put up three different views - looking down from two or three hundred meters, looking westward from human-height ground level, and a high oblique view from the south - clearly using his own skyspy hoverbots, which were similar to but larger than Optimus' battle gnats. There were no humans in sight, though Glen added a dot on the satellite map to indicate where Burning Man's Black Rock City had been assembled. It was several miles away to the southeast. Maybe within visual range on the ground with Cybertronian optics or a good pair of binoculars.
As sunlight crept down the mountain peaks, the Autobots gathered on the mat, arraying themselves in a complex spiral pattern with Prime, Ultra Magnus and Springer visible in the center. Skydive, Air Raid, Fireflight, Slingshot, Thundercracker and Strake stood like henge stones in a ring about midway between the center and the edge, and the three deltas towered equidistant around the outside edge. There seemed to be further organization by height, but whatever convention they were using wasn't immediately obvious.
“When did the Aerials get back?” Glen asked.
“Late last night,” Tel said.
"They're going to dance," Maggie breathed.
"Yes," said Tel softly.
When sunlight touched the highest crest of Skyfire's helm, they began.
In perfect unison, every mech took a step or rolled counterclockwise. Music coalesced from silence, rising in long slow measures from alt-mode speakers and vocoders. They were singing, Maggie realized, though the human ear had difficulty distinguishing Cybertronian voices from instruments. Her acoustic analysis software was lighting up like Times Square on New Year's Eve.
Another step. Thirty-one motionless seconds elapsed between, the bots’ heads lifted toward the sky. Another - twenty-nine seconds; some of them turned, rotating stars within the galaxy-dance - they were counting down primes. Twenty-three seconds.
"Not exactly Carameldansen," Glen murmured, glued to the screen despite the geologic pace.
Nineteen seconds. Groups of mechs turned, slow-motion whirl of gravity, arms and hands swinging in complex arcs to intimate planets, mathematically precise. With hearts like theirs, Maggie thought, of course they were attuned to the stars. Seventeen. Thirteen. Eleven. Spiral arms narrowed in the overhead view, coalescing, and then suddenly they were a single stellar disk, reenacting the formation of the Cybertron home system, the large mechs in the center drawing together as a sun, the six jets becoming planets, circled and skirted by moons and rings, the three deltas moving back, galactic arms watching the smaller sequence unfold.
Low-slanting rays gilded their armor, casting a sheen of antiquity over even their brightest colors. They glittered like dragonflies after a rainstorm. Seven seconds. Five. Lines of mechs streamered between the spinning planets, mimicking electromagnetic or gravitational fields, fluxing and flexing as Prime flung out a solar prominence arm. Three. Two.
Their topography changed abruptly, plates and shards and spikes of armor flattening, spreading; and mountains, canyons, strung with jeweled garlands of towered cities sprang from the circling mechs.
Handfuls of mechs rose from the valleys, mouths open, arms reaching. The firstforged, awakening from nodes of swirled metals half-buried in the crust of the strange world the Allspark had made, created to its own requirements. With a toss of their heads, they evoked the emergence of an atmosphere, and as they opened their mouths again, the song grew louder, more joyous.
An hour and a half had passed before Maggie and Glen leaned back, stretching on the couch, easing their necks and shoulders.
“Are they still dancing out there now?” Maggie asked Tel, remembering they were watching a recording, not the live feed. Teletraan split the screen and put the live image up side by side. The dance as it had evolved had become nothing like anything humankind had seen, not like birds or dueling stags or interpretive dance or insects posturing. If they were still telling the tale of their earliest history it had passed beyond Maggie’s ability to decode.
“How long…?” Glen asked. The robots were, well, robots, but they’d been dancing for how long without even a brief intermission? He and Maggie had lazed around in bed until after eight, not even talking, just enjoying the weekend lethargy. The sun had risen at 6:27 AM. Three and a half hours, more or less.
“This dance will last five days,” Tel explained.
“Wow,” said Glen.
…
Sarah had steered him to the TV to watch, but within minutes Will was on the phone to NEST headquarters at the Pentagon. “Get a cordon set up one and a half klicks out, keep the hippies from getting too close, and I want eyes on station across North America.” He understood that the Burning Man people would be curious, wouldn’t mean any harm, and the bots wouldn’t step on anyone on purpose. The press, however, might get pushy, even with the pristine feeds coming free to everyone from the Cybertronian AI. And if there were Decepticons hiding anywhere in the Sol system, this would be too great an opportunity to miss. Ultra Magnus and Kup wouldn’t have left the Sparkreaver entirely unmanned, but there was no sense taking any chances. He tried to ignore the cold feeling in the pit of his stomach and simply enjoy the gift.
…
At midnight they turned their lights on - a multicolored diamond illuminated from within. Mikaela clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp. They were so beautiful.
Dani hadn’t wanted to go to bed, but Tel had promised her he was recording everything. She could watch every second of it later. Mikaela pointed out that the adults had to sleep too, even if the bots didn’t. In the morning they were catching a flight to Vegas, but it looked like they’d have to rent a car to get to the embassy. Maggie and Glen were setting up the mother of all BBQs and the whole old crew was invited; Sarah and Anna and Anna’s suitably nervous boyfriend, though Will had declined, choosing instead to man his post at the Pentagon, Miles, Joey and Yasmina, Bobby Epps and Theresa were returning from Colorado, Ron and Judy Witwicky, John and Lucia Keller, Graham and Salazar were coming in from Heathrow, and Sam was gleefully abandoning his DC office in favor of a little unscheduled R and R with friends and family. Michael Banes hadn’t seen his granddaughter in a couple of months and thought he could take time away from the shop for a few hours, but Mikaela’s mother and grandmother didn’t like crowds and said they would watch the pretty robots dance from the comfort of their own living room, thanks.
Headlights and taillights and running lights flickered in synchronized patterns, Seaspray distinguishable by his sole red/port green/starboard, the jets blinking at wingtips. Every reflection and refraction was deliberate and choreographed, light seeming to bend, opening like a flower, narrowing to laser points, illuminating the desert or focused on Prime, who cut loose with the giant halogens in his chest, leaning back to slice a vertical beacon through the night.
As one every light was extinguished but their optics, becoming a shifting, whirling sea of blue. They did something with their shields and sheets of iridescence fluttered across their forms, touching, merging, rising up in vast sails of energy, bending and swaying in rhythm with the mechs below.
Mikaela tried to quiet her mind and just watch, to let herself absorb it, but her brain chattered away, faster than before, wanting to know what it meant, how they were doing that, how old this music was and were there words to the song or were they making musical sounds. She knew she would suck at meditation.
It was 3 AM when she remembered she and Dani would have to get up at six to catch their flight. “Slag,” she grumbled, dragging herself away from the TV to take a shower.
…
Dawn touched the fingertips of the uplifted hands of three starships in the chapel of the sky. Their booming voices rolled above the music, welcoming the return of the sun. A shimmer of white-gold crossed their shielding, spreading into the circle, an echo of the radiance suffusing the air.
The dance had taken on a stately rhythm, but not from fatigue. Leashed power and excitement ran visibly through the bots’ frames, moving with a collective grace that had nothing in common with ballet but stark athleticism.
Just outside the embassy hangar, Epps and Ron were jockeying for grill supremacy while their families and friends clustered around the big screen.
Keller reclined in one of the perennial beat-up La-Z-Boys, out of the way of the more energetic members of this extended and motley tribe. He’d been dubious about watching. It wasn’t dignified for a world leader, a planetary leader, to, what was the phrase? Get his groove on. Broadcast for the Earthlings to see. But he saw there was nothing hokey or undignified about it. Optimus moved with the careful deliberation required of his size, every swing of arm and heavy tread measured and distinguished without being ponderous. The samurai thing again.
With a peculiar shiver, the robots who had them dropped their Earthly guises, retracting their chameleon mesh to reveal the gleaming protoforms beneath. Merge scars shone from the chests of many. The pace of the dance increased and Mirage - still recognizable despite the lack of Veyron façade - led a spiral line that redoubled and folded upon itself, mechs swaying and gyring in a manner similar to the solo dance Mirage had demonstrated years before.
“Go OPTIMUS!” Maggie, Theresa, Sarah and Mikaela whooped, jumping on the big couch like teenagers. “SHAKE THAT THANG!”
Sam and Glen exchanged a look, half alarmed, half excited. Anna and Dani tried not to show their embarrassment. Judy wanted to join the girls, but she’d broken a toe on the landscaping last week.
By sunset, the dance shifted again, recapturing the wandering attention of the younger members of the audience. Out in the red-lit desert, the mechs were using each other and themselves as drums.
…
By the third day, the embassy had filled again with the human staff and NEST personnel. People were trying to get back to work but the big screen was always on and the alien music drew them. Out past the safety net, people from Burning Man who didn’t yet have to return home danced in a miles-wide ring, and though individuals came and went, the ring slowly grew in thickness as more humans arrived to celebrate.
Maggie shamelessly ensconced herself on the biggest couch, tossing off a few minor online duties now and then but mostly just watching. Her employers, after all, were engaged elsewhere. Glen brought her lunch and settled next to her.
“What are they doing n- Holy!” He almost dropped his soda. The gestalts were combining. The Aerials, the Pbots, the Bullet Trains and the Build Team, flowing into their enormous forms, still dancing, taking the deltas’ hands, drawing them into the center of the circle. The other mechs surrounded them in serried rows, bending and bowing, extending their arms in rippling patterns. It reminded Maggie of nothing so much as ferrofluid sculptures, with the big mechs in the middle forming a spiky, extraterrestrial column.
The column went abruptly still and solid. In a surging wave, the rest of the mechs climbed it, leaping and wheeling to the top, forming balconies and flying buttresses and convoluted, delicate structures whose purpose Maggie couldn’t guess, building a Tower out of themselves. A tower that sang, and slowly, slowly began to dance.
…
Through the night the dance had evolved to resemble a trance. Thursday’s dawn saw them stirring from the coded, repetitive forms into a wilder, more individual expression that oscillated from a fast ambling beat to long, curving arbors of lifted arms and joined hands, not unlike Regency-era ballroom dances. Pockets of jigs and sambas broke out, expanded, and transformed, becoming mazurkas or a conga line before altering again into unrecognizable Cybertronian sequences.
Springer leapt skyward, turning a leisurely back flip at the height of his arc and alighting precisely on Silverbolt’s shoulder before somersaulting to the ground. A flurry of cartwheeling, spinning leaps broke out, the rest of the bots inspired to push the dance into three dimensions.
The three deltas’ expressions shifted to unadulterated mischief. They gave no other warning, judging by the stumbling steps and surprised expressions on the faces of their comrades. In unison the three jumped straight up, as though to take flight, but without engaging their engines they landed with a boom felt as much as heard. With each leap they landed harder, and harder, trying to bounce everyone else off the ground. Fly with us!
Laughing, and finding their balance now that they knew what was intended, the others timed their own jumps to take advantage of the added force. The jets took off and wove the dance higher, in intricate patterns of speed and sonic booms.
…
On the fifth day, Thundercracker abandoned the pretense of avoiding Prime and began to maneuver his place in the array, edging closer and closer.
By sunset, hands that had brushed over armor now clung, blue gazes lingered as groupings accreted like planets and the diameter of the circle grew narrower. On Cybertron, it had been common knowledge that if a dance brought the Prime’s consciousness high enough, he could take the whole planet down through overload with him.
Teletraan turned off the feeds and hinted to the NEST teams in the cordon that backing off another hundred meters might be a good idea.
Falling into the shadow of the Earth, the sky deepened to sapphire. Optics glowed indigo and ribbons of aquamarine fire coruscated over armor, lashing the white sand, leaving behind strangely ornate shapes of molten glass.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
"Well. You look comfortable, Thundercracker," Ultra Magnus commented, rolling onto his side so he could see the Seeker better. Chromia punched him in an uncommitted sort of way for disturbing their heap.
Thundercracker was of no mind to move either. "Shu'up," he rumbled. "Don' wake Prime." Optimus was sprawled across his chest, a hot, comfortable weight. Thundercracker stroked the smooth plates of his dorsal armor, tracing the outlines of the flame design the chameleon mesh displayed. During those final moments of the dance it had been as though Thundercracker's body was composed purely of photons, not crass lesser particle-waves. Feeling himself re-coalescing around his spark, finite and mundane once again, had been disappointing.
"'Wake'? TC you said 'wake'. We don't sleep, you know." Strake, himself pinned by Trailbreaker's reassuring bulk, and the slight, twined shapes of Mirage and Hound curled in his lap, was amused. Only the Protectobots used human language like that. Sleeping and yawning and waking and sighing and grunting and coughing and clearing of throats that were not connected to the bellows of lungs. Groove and Streetwise had once had a sneezing contest. First Aid had proved better at it than either of them. Ratchet had been thankful it hadn’t been burping.
The sun was high in the desert sky before Prime stirred.
Thundercracker. Your spark, he tight-beamed softly, surprise and concern lacing his harmonics. The last time they had had spark-to-spark contact every cycle in every processor of Prime’s system had been taken up trying to establish a communications link between patterns within the Allspark and a living mech outside it. He hadn’t had attention left over to delve too deeply into the Seeker’s spark. You’re much older than you’ve-
Hush, Thundercracker said, petting Optimus’ helm. Hush. It doesn’t matter.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Prime, Ultra Magnus, Drift and Smokescreen stood to one side of the holotable. The doors to Prime’s office closed and locked behind Prowl, Thundercracker and Strake.
Given the circumstances after the dance, and those surrounding Drift’s choice to join us, Prime began, I am no longer convinced that the thousand year parole I placed upon Thundercracker and Strake is either effective or necessary. I welcome suggestions as to how to proceed.
No! Strake yelled without thinking, clutching Prowl close. Don’t make us…don’t make us leave h-… Uh… His outburst withered under the startled stares of the others.
Thundercracker scratched at a cheek flange. “Prime, sometimes regulations are a comfort rather than a constraint.”
“So I see,” Prime said as grins flashed around the room. “As you wish, then, Strake. Your and Thundercracker’s sentences stand.”
Prowl patted Strake’s hands. “You can put me down now.”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Where do helicopters go to nest? Ideally, Blades felt, it would be isolated, elevated, and somewhere impossible for Slingshot jets to land without shifting to robot mode. There was a very nice mesa in Monument Valley that had been featured in a certain old television series about what was then a very advanced helicopter. Evac thought this was hilarious.
Running six meters from the ground at top speed, Evac pulled up barely in time, did a flip, transformed and landed neat-footedly on the mesa’s edge. “Still fun!” he said.
Blades spiraled around him once before making a more solid landing. Copter’s a new alt for you, huh?
Evac chuckled. Yes. I copied Topspin’s and Bluesky’s memories after Optimus rekindled us. A lot of that had gone around. Most of them had not been tanks before, either.
They moved to the center where there was a slight, weather-worn depression. Neither was perceptibly coy. They sat facing one another, legs sprawled in whatever direction was out of the way, hands wandering, their backs bent toward each other, mindful of their rotors.
Blades decided to ask then and there, shy but resolute. None of the Graveyard Legion had participated in a merge, and no one knew whether something about a twice-given spark forbade it or whether they had decided not to for reasons of their own. They were the front line, and the Cons were gearing up for something big. Something bad, given the way whatever Galvatron had done had made Prime spark-sick.
Helicopters don’t necessarily beget helicopters, Blades said, catching one of Evac’s nimble hands and kissing it, but you’re the last one in the Legion, and I… I know you mean to return to the Allspark, but…
Evac smiled and pulled Blades close, opening his chest teasingly slow, kissing the young mech thoroughly. I’d be honored.
Blades drew back for a moment. The Legion mechs were willing, had then no one ever asked them? He was appalled, guilty as everyone else. He offered cables and an apology.
Don’t worry about it, Evac laughed. We don’t exactly put out willing harmonics. We came back to fight, to help Optimus end the war. Forging new life is for the living.
“You’re alive now.” Blades drew their chests together again, rubbing the edges of his armor against Evac’s. The heat and fields from their coronae were making it hard to think.
“I’ve been dead.”
“Mmm. Does that matter?”
“Primus, you’re cute. I always did have a weakness for people with flight modes. This,” and he licked out a flare from his corona, making Blades shudder and moan, “this is not physically the same spark I had. I am not entirely the same person I was before I died.”
Blades leaned into Evac’s shoulder, shuttering his optics and mouthing Evac’s neck cables. Your s-sparks aren’t the same? How does that work?
“They’re not the same in a certain way. What good would it do to change our names and bodies if anyone who had known us would instantly recognize our spark? Ask Jazz. Ask anyone who knew Jazz before he was killed.”
"Um." Blades would rather not. The subject of Jazz's brutal death was considerably lightened by his rekindling, but people tried to hide how much it had nevertheless upset them. And if Blades left a trail of unhappy mechs behind him, then First Aid would be unhappy.
Never mind, dear one. Evac stroked Blades’ helm and opened himself wider, at last sinking them into full contact.
There was something familiar about Evac’s spark, in quality if not quantity. Blades couldn’t place it, though he also got a strong impression that Evac was making up for something. Blades pressed, seeking more detailed emotions, surrendering his individuality level by level.
That's enough of that, young spark. Evac drew his fingertips up Blades' rotors, sending a field pulse of a peculiar frequency through the hub. I thought Streetwise was the nosey one.
Nnnngh, Blades said. Groove, too.
I see. Which one are you, then?
Sensible. Only one with...uhhhnhh...self-preservation circuit... Protect them. This was transmitted with such complete smugness Evac tossed his head and howled with laughter, kicking his feet yet somehow not dislodging Blades.
You like being of Prowl's spark, hm? Good thing, then, because you're stuck with that connection, you know. You can't delete that from your memory core and make an end to it.
Never, Blades agreed happily.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
“You sure about this, kiddo?”
“Yes, Jackplease. Justyouandmedownhere. The tank’sready isn’t it?” Blurr took Wheeljack’s hands and the inventor drew him close.
“Yep. Just checking.” He chirped a tight-beam message to Ratchet, who wasn’t surprised. Everyone was feeling especially frisky these days, as though the entire Autobot army had gone into bloom at once. How they were going to keep this from the larger human awareness was beyond him. Wheeljack laughed. Blurr was vibrating against him, pushing him closer to the recharge table beside the tank. All right, Ratch. See ya on the flipside.
You be careful down there, said Ratchet. His vocal processors were practically looping with that message, but did anyone listen?
We will. Blurr’s eager, not stupid. Trust me.
Considering the last spark we got from you, Wheeljack, it’s not Blurr I’m worried about. We have neither the room nor the resources for another cityformer, understand?
That wasn’t my fault!
Of course not. Ratchet’s last glyph was fond.
Smiling, Wheeljack climbed on the table, opening his chest, filling the dim chamber with turquoise radiance. Blurr followed him precisely, move for move, optics wide and bright, engine revving hot, his spark a paler blue-green but dazzling, spinning fast.
Um, Blurr? Wheeljack hesitated, not for the world wanting to discomfit his friend. You…do know you don’t have to-
Even I know there are some things in life worth taking your time for, Blurr thrummed. Relax, Wheeljack. Lie down. I got this.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
2030 - October
He'd been afraid of this. Ratchet stared into the empty tank for long minutes before beginning the calibration and growth medium fill sequence.
"Oratorio, his spark has been spinning for over three billion years," he said quietly. "Four billion if you believe half his tales." He cast a dubious optic in Kup's direction. Kup grinned and chomped his rusty pipe. "I’m not convinced this is a good idea. I know his body can take the strain. I can’t stop you, but I recommend against this."
“All the more reason to try now,” Oratorio insisted, taking Ratchet's hands. Rio let his voice sink into its lowest, most resonant register. Ratchet felt this was not playing fair. “I don’t mean to sound flippant, but he won’t get younger if we wait. Please, Ratchet. He’s too wonderful, we need more mechs like him.”
"Definitely Prime’s kid, too," said Kup.
"Slag." Perceptor? Would you come down here and do one more diagnostic? It'd make me feel better, even if Kup's determined to be reckless.
"I think I'm old enough to decide for myself what's reckless," Kup said.
Do calm down, Ratchet, Perceptor said cheerily. I'll be there momentarily He was helping Wheeljack clear space in his tower for the new and very important construction project.
After several more minutes of Ratchet grumbling, Rio pleading and Kup approaching the point where he might consider losing his patience, Perceptor entered - deciphering Ratchet's lock without having to break stride, which did not improve Ratchet's humor.
"So what," Kup was saying. "If I snuff it doing this, then hey, what a way to go."
Primus, Perceptor. Couldn’t you even pretend it took a few seconds to hack my doors? Ratchet looked ready to chew titanium. "If you snuff it doing this you could take Oratorio with you. And the med-bay. And the rest of the embassy. And a non-trivial chunk of Nevada."
Kup wrangled his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. "Oh. Huh."
"He won't," Rio said. "We won't. I've done this before. We'll be careful. And Perceptor can stay and keep an optic on us. He'll be able to tell if something isn't right, even before we can, I bet."
"I have not had occasion to observe the process from the outside, as it were," Perceptor said, pleased. “Thank you, Oratorio. I am gratified to be of any assistance whatsoever.”
There ya go, Ratch, you don’t even have to be a party to our irresponsible shenanigans.
Fine. But you're taking the result with you when you and the Wreckers leave. I'm not raising any Kuplets. It's bad enough with all the Jazz-babies and Bee-children and Prime-kids around here.
Good thing there's only one Ratchetspawn, then, Rio said, ducking Ratchet's swing. And no Sons of Ironhide!
Primus preserve us, Kup intoned solemnly.
“Hrmph. The tank is ready.” Ratchet pointed a finger (on the hand that became a rail gun) at Oratorio. “You be careful. If Kup is damaged by this I’ll sic Springer on you.” His expression softened as he left them, locking the doors behind him. Using extra encryption.
“Promises, promises,” Rio said, leering. He followed Kup onto the recharge table. Plucking the pipe from Kup’s mouth and handing it off to Perceptor, Rio settled into a long, lingering kiss, pushing Kup firmly down. Their kiss grew hungrier, not entirely civilized, mouths and chests opening, vocoders and engines growling. A lot of sizzle left in the old bot yet.
Perceptor watched, and bit his fingers to keep from jumping up there with them.
…
Hoist, Perceptor thought, was probably the best growth tank attendant. He had even crocheted a pair of spark-handling mitts, though where he had gotten Kevlar in that color was a mystery. Perceptor wished he’d thought to ask Hoist to bring them when they’d all come down to Nevada for the dance.
The new spark fizzed and whirred in Perceptor’s hands, nearly bouncing out of his grip before he could get it into the tank. "Whoops! You're a lively little one," he said, watching it snuggle into the protomass. Kuplets indeed, he thought, amused. This one was going to be a handful.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
The Lord reposed on his dais, serene in recharge despite the melted chestplates. Soundwave stood guard in the shadows behind him; several symbionts ranged the great hall and adjoining spaces. There he would remain until Lord Galvatron came online and presented him with different orders. In orbit, within the assembly frame, Shockwave worked, steady and ruthless in his fury at the damage caused by the fled Thunderwing. Why had Galvatron kindled such a thing? If he had meant it to go after Starscream, to finally shut the treacherous Pit-spawn up, why not then simply kill Starscream himself and have done? Why make it look accidental? Unless there was some sport to be had, or further convolutions to Galvatron's plan that Soundwave was not yet aware of.
It was also conceivable that Galvatron had made a mistake, had catastrophically botched the kindling. Soundwave buried the hypothesis under the deepest layers of encryption. It would be dangerous to even hint that Galvatron had failed where Optimus Prime had clearly succeeded on several occasions.
In any case, Turmoil would be arriving soon, and it would be best if Galvatron was operating at optimum capacity when the rogue captain made planetfall. Soundwave pinged Scalpel for an update on the Lord's condition.
Coiled up in a space between armor plates at the angle of Galvatron's neck and shoulder, the tiny repair-bot flicked a delicate antenna in Soundwave's direction. Lord is in recharge. Self-repair at 87 percent. Further inquiry is unnecessary.
Stepping on Scalpel the next time Soundwave had the chance was also unnecessary, but would provide a small portion, however short-lived, of personal satisfaction and enjoyment.
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