Protectobot Beginnings: Shield (3/4)
Title: Protectobot Beginnings: Shield (3/4)
Rating: PG
Summary: The Protectobots are caught up in the war far ahead of schedule, but how much will it cost them? First Aid pays the price for their first battle. Chapter 3 - The Protectobots finally meet one of their "big brothers."
Wordcount: 4275 words
Silverbolt wasn’t quite sure what to make of Wheeljack’s expression, when the engineer informed him there were some new mechs they’d had to house in the Aerialbots’ quarters. Wheeljack was looking very tired, of course. Wounded mechs were still arriving from neighboring areas, and Ratchet had overdone things trying to see all of the injured and salvage what was left of his medbay. The CMO was currently (and literally) tied to his berth, not that that seemed to stop him from ordering Wheeljack around and overseeing the treatment of his patients. That rather…gleeful…gleam in Wheeljack’s optics was not due to exhaustion, however. Silverbolt was not exactly thrilled about the idea of strange mechs living in their rooms, but he could certainly understand the need. He’d been shocked at the extent of damage to the base, and it was a pleasant surprise to learn that their quarters had survived mostly unscathed. He certainly wasn’t going to begrudge a bunch of poor injured mechs a quiet place to recover - did Wheeljack think he was going to throw a fit or something?
No…that didn’t quite explain the air of suppressed mirth in Wheeljack’s optics, as if he had a shiny new invention waiting in their quarters that he couldn’t wait to surprise them with. It made Silverbolt nervous. One of the first things the Aerialbots had learned after their creation was to be extremely cautious around Wheeljack’s shiny new inventions, even taking in to account they were themselves, one. Of his inventions.
Silverbolt shook his head. He was stalling. Resolutely he knocked on the door, (and despite his best intentions, he did feel a little miffed that he had to knock; it was his own door after all). He hoped their quarters hadn’t been too messed up, although, he remembered a little guiltily, they hadn’t been all that clean before they left.
He was greeted by a black-and-pale-blue fire truck with warm red optics, who took one look at him and breathed “Silverbolt” as his face cracked into the biggest, most delighted smile he had ever seen on a mech. Behind him were four other, smaller mechs scattered around the common room. One bore signs of major damage - a large area of paint on his back and side was patchy and peeling, revealing blistered and half-healed gray underplating beneath. The injured mech didn’t seem to be aware of his arrival. He was sipping slowly on a cube of energon, with another mech - a flier, helo-model, Silverbolt noted in startlement - standing protectively near him. He had moved slightly in front of the injured one, his expression clearly saying “touch this one at your peril.”
In contrast to the helicopter, the mech at the door couldn’t be happier to see him. Silverbolt didn’t see why this should be so, exactly, but he found himself responding to that welcoming smile with one of his own. “Come on in,” the fire truck said, taking him by a hand and drawing him through the doorway. “They said you and your team were on a mission. I didn’t expect to meet you so soon!”
“Yeah, the mission. Turned out to be another diversion by the Decepticons. False lead. We really fell for that one,” Silverbolt said in disgust. That had been quite the fiasco, not that any of it was their fault at least. “We made it back to help chase the slaggers out of Iacon, though,” he added in satisfaction.
“Is the rest of your team ok?” the friendly mech asked in swift concern, and Silverbolt nodded.
“For the most part. Just some minor damage, but we’re all airworthy, which is the main thing. Wheeljack and Ratchet are looking the rest of them over now.”
After a long pause in which the fire truck continued to gaze at him like he was Prime himself, Silverbolt finally asked, a bit awkwardly, “So…uh…what’s your name?” The other mech blinked in surprise.
“Oh! I’m so sorry! Haven’t met many other mechs, guess I need more practice,” he laughed. “I’m Hot Spot…and this is…” the mech trailed off as he seemed about to introduce the rest of the mechs in the room, looking slightly troubled. “Wheeljack didn’t tell you?”
“He just said that there were some new mechs camping out in our quarters that I should meet,” Silverbolt shrugged.
“Pardon me,” Hot Spot said, “it’s just…well, we were kind of classified.” Silverbolt noticed then that none of the mechs wore any sort of insignia, and underneath the grit and several scratches and score marks they all carried, their paint was almost painfully new and shiny. On the other hand he could hear Hot Spot’s hydraulics creak faintly as he shifted; he seemed to move stiffly, like some of the oldest mechs on base. Just how old were these guys anyway? The Aerialbots had been some of the last mechs created, once the war had intensified. Silverbolt had never met anyone younger than himself and his team, but something subtle about the way Hot Spot talked, held himself, his bright optics and innocent eagerness…Silverbolt had the strangest urge to pat the mech in front of him on the helm and get him a cube of energon. Were they neutrals maybe? Rescued from one of the off-planet colonies, could be, although it would make no sense to bring them here of all places, unless they had some type of top-secret information…
Hot Spot appeared to have come to a decision. “At this point…I guess it’s ok. Anyway,” he said briskly, “this is Streetwise, and Groove,” pointing to the two mechs in succession, and they both gave him friendly wide-eyed waves, “and over there we have Blades,” indicating the helicopter, who nodded, suspicious still, but seeming willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, “and First Aid,” the injured one, who still hadn’t responded to his presence. Blind maybe? Silverbolt wondered. Or some sort of major CPU damage.
“Thank you for the use of your quarters,” Hot Spot continued. “We really appreciate it. Hope we haven’t inconvenienced you or anything - we can be out of here in just a few kliks…” and Silverbolt waved him off.
“No no. We’re staying in the officer’s conference room, we’re comfy. Got our own energon dispenser and everything…you guys stay put. We won’t be doing much other than catching a few breems of recharge anyway,” Silverbolt added ruefully. “Superion’s been recruited to clear rubble.”
A whole multitude of emotions chased themselves across Hot Spot’s open face at this statement - sympathy, indecision, frustration, and that last one…if it wasn’t ridiculous Silverbolt would have called it a sort of wistful envy. His guess was confirmed however, when Groove spoke up.
“Hot Spot, you’re in no shape to go clearing rubble, don’t even think about it,” Groove warned him. “Remember, Ratchet said permanent joint and servo damage if we overdo it. We’re supposed to take it easy. You can do it, I have faith, just another two or three orns,” he said, switching from mock-stern scolding to teasing encouragement.
Hot Spot waved his hands as if fending him off, laughing. “I wouldn’t have to clear rubble, I could just…supervise…show everyone where to put the rubble, make rubble clearing charts, that kind of thing.”
Something about the fond, amused looks the three other mechs were giving Hot Spot made something stir in the back of Silverbolt’s processor. This was not just a group of random neutrals bunking together out of necessity. This was a team, and Hot Spot was their leader. There was something about the way they were tuned in to one another that was setting off little prickles of recognition through his circuits, but his CPU hadn’t given it a name yet. It was there, that thought, forming, he could see its shape, but a comm. from Air Raid distracted him.
Hey ‘Bolt, what’s taking you so long? Did the squatters trash our quarters or something?
No, they’ve been excellent guests actually. I don’t think they’ve even been in your rooms, just the common area.
Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to think what they would make of Fireflight’s organic rock collection.
Hot Spot was looking at him curiously. He could tell Silverbolt was receiving a transmission, but since it was a private line he couldn’t tell what they were saying.
Ratchet give you guys the all clear?
Pretty much, although he wants Wheeljack to keep Fireflight here and realign his flaps, Air Raid sent. You wouldn’t believe some of the stories they’re telling about the battle in here, and Fireflight’s eating it all up.
I am not, Fireflight broke in. Silverbolt, guess what! There was another gestalt during the base attack. A brand new one! And it was an Autobot gestalt because they were throwing Decepticons in the moat and then they stopped a disrupter cannon from blowing up the entire base. No one had ever seen them before, no one even knew they were here! Where do you think they came from, Silverbolt? Do you think they’re still here?
Fireflight, there’s no new gestalt, Air Raid interrupted him. We would have known about it. Some of these guys probably got their CPU’s jarred during the battle and were hallucinating one of the ‘Con combiners, probably Bruticus or something.
Another gestalt team. The nameless, blurry shape in Silverbolt’s processor suddenly zoomed into sharp focus. Five new mechs, a close knit team even on casual inspection. Disrupter cannon damage.
Silverbolt, you have to believe me! Ratchet keeps giving funny looks whenever they talk about the gestalt, and Wheeljack won’t answer any questions, and wouldn’t that be great? If there was another combiner team and we weren’t the only one?
Fireflight?
Uh, yeah Silverbolt?
Fireflight, I believe you. You are absolutely right, there was another combiner team at that battle.
What! Silverbolt, don’t encourage him! Air Raid sent indignantly.
Air Raid, he’s right. There’s another gestalt team. I’m standing right in front of them.
Wait, they’re the guys in our quarters? No way!
You can’t be serious, that was Slingshot, who must have been listening in, and Skydive, who added, Silverbolt, it’s impossible. How could they have been constructed without anyone knowing…Skydive’s transmission paused for a moment. Wheeljack. That big top secret project he’s been working on.
The Aerialbots had been surprised but delighted to learn that the mech they considered to be the closest thing they had to a creator was at the base. He had told them he might be working on the project, staged at a secret location, for several vorns, and that he would probably only be able to see them for brief visits during that time. They had missed him a great deal, the vorn he’d been gone. Do you think…
That project only started a vorn ago Skydive, Air Raid sent. There’s no way he could have built a new gestalt that fast. And even if he had, they’d still be sparklings. What makes you so sure they’re a gestalt, Silverbolt?
They just…now that I know, I just see it. They’re like us. And I think they might be very young.
Less than a vorn? C’mon Silverbolt, Slingshot scoffed. It took us five vorns to form Superion, and another twenty before we got to be anything other than glorified message runners and cargo carriers. What are they, geniuses or something?
Well, they’re pretty sharp, I’d say, but I only just met them guys. Give me a few more breems here.
We’re coming to meet them too! Air Raid decided, and the rest added their excited agreement, Fireflight wailing, wait for me guys, Ratchet won’t let me go yet!
HOLD IT! Silverbolt roared, as much as one could roar through a comm. signal. You will do no such thing. These guys are still in pretty rough shape, and we don’t know the whole story yet. They don’t need four crazy jets barging in here and asking them questions.
But Siiilverbolt, came the fourfold whine.
I will fill you in as soon as I know more, and I’m sure they’ll be eager to meet you once I can give them a little warning, but for now STAY PUT.
Silverbolt emerged from his inner debate to find Hot Spot watching him with a quizzical look. “Brothers?” he asked, and at the understanding twinkle in his optics, Silverbolt felt sudden rush of warm kinship with this sturdy, cheerful fire truck. Silverbolt grinned back at him and said, “Well. Took me long enough to figure it out didn’t it.”
“No, I’d say you did pretty good! Sorry about that, we’re still supposed to be classified, so I couldn’t actually tell you, but since you know…I think Wheeljack was going to tell you pretty soon anyway.”
“Well, the rest of my lunatics know now too, and they’re very curious, but I’ll do my best to keep them away until you’re sure you’re all up for it. They can be a bit much, and it looks like you guys had a rough time. Fireflight was saying something about a cannon disrupter blast?”
Hot Spot glanced at First Aid, who had his head turned in their direction, tilting it slightly as if he sensed Silverbolt’s presence. “First Aid took the brunt of it, pretty much point blank,” and Silverbolt blanched.
“Point blank,” he breathed. “Primus, he shouldn’t -”
“- be alive,” Hot Spot finished for him. “We know. Ratchet keeps telling us,” he added with a broken half-laugh that held no humor. “I kinda wish he’d stop.”
“Yeah, I can see how that would get old quick,” Silverbolt told him, and Hot Spot took a deep breath, and gave him a shaky smile. Silverbolt wondered again how old they were. “How’s he doing now?”
“Still pretty sore and most of his systems are still glitching on and off, but it’s getting better, and his armor is healing. The main thing we’re worried about is his sensory network. We don’t know...Ratchet says some of the damage could be permanent.”
Blades frowned and pressed his lips together at that, and then tapped First Aid on the arm, trying to get him to drink some more from the cube he was ignoring. First Aid obediently took a tiny sip and then set the cube back down. “And he’s barely taking any energon,” Blades said. “He was drinking it a lot better before. What if he’s developed an error in his energon processing system? ”
“We’ll ask Ratchet about it, don’t worry Dr. Blades,” Hot Spot joked, although he was looking at First Aid with a concerned frown as well.
Blades nudged First Aid on the arm again, and First Aid reached over and patted him a few times on the leg, then stood up and made his way towards Hot Spot and Silverbolt. “I think he knows you’re here, or that someone’s here anyway. He can always tell when Ratchet or Wheeljack show up, we’re not sure how.” Hot Spot moved forward and gently took First Aid by the shoulders and steered him over to Silverbolt.
“Do you mind?” Hot Spot asked.
“Of course not,” Silverbolt told him, and Hot Spot guided First Aid’s hands to meet Silverbolt’s. The smaller mech’s optics widened a little at the unfamiliar touch, but he smiled eagerly. Hot Spot grinned at them both, appearing completely relaxed. He seemed to have given Silverbolt his complete trust, but the other three watched Silverbolt closely. Friendly, but watching. Silverbolt had no doubt that if he made one even slightly off move towards their teammate they’d be on him in a nanoklik. Silverbolt didn’t mind. In fact, he rather approved. He would feel the same way about any of his wingmates if the situation were reversed (not that that bore thinking about for long…the idea of Fireflight, or Air Raid, or any of them this badly injured, cut off from the world…he flinched away from the image. Definitely not something he wanted to consider).
Poor little ‘bot probably couldn’t tell much about him from his hands, Silverbolt figured, so he crouched down and ducked his head, inviting First Aid to feel his face and helm and then turning to let him trace gentle fingers over his wings. It tickled, and Silverbolt tried not to squirm. First Aid drew air through his intakes, sharply, and Silverbolt turned to see if something was wrong and heard First Aid laugh softly, as he found himself engulfed in a surprisingly strong hug.
“I think he knows who you are,” Hot Spot said, smiling broadly. Silverbolt tentatively hugged First Aid back, being very careful of the raw patched places. Poor kid, he really was a mess. First Aid let out a contented sound, a short hum, but then frowned suddenly as his hand slid higher up Silverbolt’s arm, encountering a fairly deep scrape left from when Air Raid had been knocked into him by Thundercracker. It wasn’t serious, although Ratchet had told him to come and get it (and the rest of him) looked at later. First Aid seemed to be taking it very seriously though, carefully mapping out the boundaries of the injury, fingers so gentle they didn’t even cause it to twinge, and then proceeding to check over every inch of his frame for anything else that might be damaged. He looked up helplessly at Hot Spot, who was making a rather heroic effort not to laugh at Silverbolt’s “what do I do now?” expression.
Streetwise and Groove made their way over to be able to see the “show.” Streetwise had a damaged leg, Silverbolt hadn’t noticed before, and Groove had to support most of his weight. Both of them were stifling small snickers of amusement.
“Silverbolt, I’m afraid you are now officially a patient in Aid’s book,” Groove told him. “You’re doomed. You might as well resign yourself to getting examined any time he can get his hands on you.”
“Really, I’m fine,” Silverbolt murmured, as First Aid lifted his arm, testing the range of motion. He gasped as something caught unexpectedly, and First Aid paused immediately, lips pressed together in concentration as he carefully felt in and around the shoulder joint.
“At least it’ll distract him from me for a little bit,” Streetwise said, amusement and fondness appearing in quick succession across his mobile face as he watched his brother. First Aid opened one of his panels and pulled out what looked like a long narrow pair of tweezers, and Silverbolt’s expression grew alarmed.
“Uh, should I be worried here?”
“Just hold still,” Streetwise recommended. “He uses us as practice ‘bots all the time, and we’ve all survived so far. He never takes anything apart that he can’t put back together again. Just don’t tell Ratchet. Technically he’s not cleared to work on real patients yet.”
That was not exactly reassuring, and Silverbolt held very still as First Aid slipped the tweezers in between the cables and wiring of his shoulder joint. There was a brief twinge, and First Aid drew out the tweezers slowly, his other hand firmly grasping Silverbolt’s arm to keep it from moving.
“Wow, look at that!” Groove exclaimed, as First Aid removed a long bolt, the kind used to hold shipping crates together, from Silverbolt’s shoulder joint.
“That was in my shoulder?” Silverbolt marveled. “I didn’t even notice it.” That wouldn’t have been fun, if he’d tried to transform with a loose crate bolt in his shoulder. He let First Aid move his arm around a few times, and this time it moved easily, no twinges or catching anywhere. “Thanks. Thank you, First Aid,” he said, patting the little red-and-white mech on the shoulder a few times trying to convey his appreciation. First Aid gave him a happy smile and patted his arm a few times in return, apparently giving him a clean bill of health.
Hot Spot was watching First Aid with a proud expression, but the little furrow on his brow plates also conveyed his anxious concern about his teammate, and Silverbolt wondered again how well he would be handling this in the same situation. What if it was Fireflight…and a surge of dread rolled through his circuits at the very thought. He would be a basket case. No need to wonder. He would be in full-out panic mode. He wasn’t sure how Hot Spot was managing to stay so calm.
Silverbolt was getting near constant pings from his own teammates, but he ignored them for now, although he’d have to get back soon before they started taking more drastic measures to get his attention. Hot Spot asked for information about what had been going on since the battle, and Silverbolt was shocked to realize they didn’t even know that the Allspark had been rescued and recovered from the Decepticons, relocated to a new, secret, and hopefully more secure location. (The Aerialbots knew the new location. It had been Skydive that had carried the Allspark to its new hiding place, and Silverbolt was beyond relieved that that nerve-wracking operation had gone off without a hitch.)
Hot Spot also seemed to be under the impression that they were deserving of some sort of reprimand or punishment for breaking cover during the battle and revealing their gestalt form ahead of time, and Silverbolt felt a protective indignation on their behalf. From what he little he had already gathered, the actions of the Protectobot team had probably saved the base. It wasn’t fair to leave them hanging, ignored, and worried about punishment when instead they should probably get commendations or something. He couldn’t really blame Optimus or Prowl - they certainly had more than enough on their processors, but he resolved to do a little prodding if the opportunity arose.
It turned out that the Protectobots had been at the base for less than an orn, just long enough to meet Prowl, and Optimus Prime, who wanted to explain what they were fighting for, give them as unbiased a perspective of both sides as he could, and make sure they would be (one day, far in the future) joining the war effort of their own free will. (“Optimus, he’s nice, but he worries too much,” had been Blades’ opinion, and the other three nodded in agreement.) They were all badly missing Wheeljack, who had been with them nearly every day since they first onlined, and this confirmed his initial suspicions. The Protectobots were not even a full vorn old yet. Sparklings. It wasn’t obvious at first, but despite the aura of level-headed intelligence they all had about them, these Protectobots were very, very young.
Silverbolt would have liked to stay longer, and talk to Hot Spot especially. There was so much he wanted to ask, compare experiences with another gestalt leader. He had resigned himself to being the only one (there were other gestalt leaders of course, but they weren’t exactly on casual speaking terms, although there were times…), and now here was someone who might actually understand! And he got the feeling that, despite Hot Spot’s composure and cheery demeanor, the fire truck had been considerably more shaken by the battle and injuries to his team than he was letting on. They were all getting tired, though. First Aid had curled up against Blades, tucked his hands under his chin, and nodded off after Groove had given him a dose of painkillers (Silverbolt was glad to see that; he had not missed the pained catching in First Aid’s air intakes when he was checking him over). The rest of them were in varying degrees of droopiness, although Hot Spot didn’t seem to notice he was listing off center as Silverbolt filled him in on the events occurring outside their quarters.
When he left them finally, reluctantly, he was not particularly surprised to find Air Raid, Fireflight, Skydive, and Slingshot backing away from the door to their quarters, guilty expressions on their faces. Hot Spot peered around Silverbolt, and Air Raid and Fireflight both shoved past their team commander to begin bombarding Hot Spot with questions. Skydive and Slingshot both held back - Skydive out of politeness, and Slingshot pretending disinterest. Hot Spot, not phased in the least, answered the questions as fast as they could come up with them (“Yes, we’re a really a gestalt.” “Wheeljack built us but he had lots of help.” “No, no one has asked us if we explode yet, why?” “Our combined form is designated Defensor.” “Yeah, throwing the ‘Cons in the moat is about all we could do - Wheeljack hasn’t activated Defensor’s weapons yet, but we really weren’t supposed to be fighting in the first place.”) seeming as delighted by the attention from the two jets as they were fascinated to meet him. They were playing “guess the Protectobots’ age” (“15 vorns?” “No.” “20 vorns?” “No, lower.” “12 vorns?” Hot Spot laughing, “Lower.”) when Silverbolt finally dragged the two miscreants out by their ailerons.
That little helo is so cute! Fireflight sent as he reluctantly backed out the door. Can I have him? Please?
No! Silverbolt sent back firmly. Good grief, that was the last thing he needed, Fireflight trying to kidnap one of Hot Spot’s team members. You cannot ‘have’ Blades, Fireflight.
“We’ll come back later,” Silverbolt said, once he got them shoved mostly out the door, and at Hot Spot’s wistful look he added, “not long, I promise. You rest, take care of your team.”
Their optics met in a sort of unvoiced understanding, and Silverbolt saw things there, in Hot Spot’s warm red gaze, things that a frightened sparkling who was also a capable gestalt commander might need to talk about.
“There’ll be plenty of time to get to know my pack of lunatics, don’t worry. Maybe we can share some tips.”
Hot Spot smiled. “I’d like that very much.”
Chapter Four