Look, Ma! No Veterinary License!
Nine Rings of Vos - Arc Two: Rebellion
A Transformers: G1 Fanfiction
Author: Sanjuno Shori Niko
Summary: Sometime the pain of living is the only thing that proves you're alive..
Timeline: More fic here.
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(In which there are memories and mourning and a promise made to be kept.)
“Is this my strong mechlet?” The deep voice matched the silver-and-gold hands that lifted him to a shining black chestplate. The familiar energy of a strong spark reached out to cradle his smaller energies with warm affection. “How you have grown! You will be larger than your elder brother soon, if you continue at this pace. Is that your plan, sparkling mine?”
The black sparkling squealed in joy and latched on to his genitor’s helm chevron in response. His Matter and Tor laughed together and their happiness radiated down the flock-bond, making the sparkling wiggle in glee.
/…/
“Jump, little one. Come on.” Welcoming arms opened wide and ice blue optics were warm with affection. “Might Genitor have a hug?”
“Tor!” The hatchling screaming in glee, leaping from his Formatter’s arms into his Genitor’s. The black hatchling clambered over the black and silver-gold frame, squealing happily as he dodged teasing claws. Only when he had explored every inch did he allow himself to be caught, grinning up at his genitor’s smile. “Tor! Where brother?”
“Your brother could not come, little one.” The hatchling’s face fell into a sulky pout as his genitor held him close. “I am sorry.”
“Bring brother soon?” The hatchling demanded, crawling up his genitor’s torso to cling to the larger mech’s audial array, staring into his genitor’s optics with a serious frown. “Want meet.”
“I wish I could allow it, little one.” His genitor lifted on hand to stroke the black hatchling’s dorsal plating as his formatter leaned against his genitor’s other side. “I wish I could.”
/…/
“Genitor, you came!” The black youngling made one of the tremendous leaps typical of Flightless Seekers to travel up the ramp to where his genitor was standing. “I did not think you were coming.”
“You did not believe I would miss this moment, did you, young one?” His genitor smiled, calm and caring and proud as he laid gentle claws on his offspring’s shoulder pauldrons. “Let me look at you. Ah, how much you have grown. I can only wish I had been here more often to watch as you did so.”
“It is fine, Genitor. I have Formatter, and my brother needs you more.” The black youngling tried to be subtle about looking around them, hoping against hope. “How… how is my brother?”
“He does well, considering.” The older Flightless spoke with grave seriousness, looking up in greeting as the youngling’s smiling formatter approached them. “He is not yet ready to be brought home, but he began his schooling an orn ago. He has chosen a path that his glitch does little to hinder, and enjoys his studies, so far as I am able to tell.”
“Will he ever come home?” The black youngling’s expression was plaintive, red optics dimming in disappointment. “I wanted my brother to be here today too.”
“I cannot say, young one.” His genitor shook his head, optics weary. A moment of silence passed, and then his genitor flicked his sensor array and straightened, gesturing to the building behind them. “Enough melancholy thoughts. This is your moment, my young one. You start the Academy this cycle, and that is enough to occupy anyone’s mind. Come, let us go. This will be a busy cycle, and it is best begun early as possible.”
“Of course, Genitor!” The black youngling laughed and ducked around his creators to race ahead in renewed excitement. He glanced back, once he was far enough ahead to hide the movement, watching as his creators clasped hands, claws tangling together in affection as they exchanged a bemused look and followed their in creation’s wake. For a moment, the black Flightless youngling allowed himself to picture another figure there, a black and white mirror to his own frame, with sharp blue optics and a subtle smile full of pride. The longing was strong and sharp and bittersweet, firmly quashed as his creators caught up with him by the main doors. The black youngling took comfort in the moment, as he always did. Counseling patience and appreciating what he had. Together with both his creators, the young Flightless took his first steps into the Vos Academy.
/…/
“Congratulations.” The familiar, precise dictation of his genitor sounded from behind him. “You have done exceedingly well. I am proud of you, fledgling.”
“Genitor!” The younger Flightless jumped and spun around to see one of the only mechs still capable of sneaking up on him without trying. “Is it safe for you to be here?”
“As if I would miss my own fledgling being accepted into the Guardian’s Intelligence training program.” The older mech’s look was both fond and amused as the fledgling’s formatter laughed in the background. “You will be working in the High Tower one megacycle, mark my words. I would be a poor creator indeed were I not here to witness this occasion.”
“Thank you, Genitor.” The fledgling forced himself to relax, dismissing the worry over his genitor’s role as a spy for Vos among the Peacekeepers being exposed, as his creator’s obviously had, and strove to just enjoy his genitor’s rare presence. “I will endeavour not to disappoint you.”
“You have never disappointed me, fledgling.” His genitor’s voice was quiet, but intense, and the fledgling found himself standing straighter at the sound of it.
“I pray I never do, Genitor.” The fledgling’s response was equally soft, equally determined, and his creator’s smiled at him with pride shining in their optics. Silently, he repeated his vow to himself. He would never add to the grief and hopelessness he sometimes glimpsed in his creators when they forgot to guard themselves. He would not.
/…/
“No!” It was pain like nothing he had ever experienced in training. A ripping tear in his psyche. An anguished sundering in his spark.
:love/loss-worry/love/sorrow-apology/love:
“Genitor!” He screamed, there was no shame in it. In denial, in distraught entreaty, he screamed like a panicked hatchling. “Tor! No, please no, Tor! Don’t go!”
Loss, and pain, and a sorrow so deep he thought to never see the end of it, they coloured the next few cycles. The haze of grief blocked out all but a few fragmented scenes from active recall. His probationary partner carrying him to his flock’s home. His always-cheerful formatter broken and weeping in equal parts rage and devastation. His Progenitor, barely holding on to his faith-granted serenity even as he mourned deeply for his lost offspring. The last of his creations, no longer surviving.
‘At least Genitor managed to continue the family line.’ It was an inane thought, and a cruel one considering the circumstances. It was still true. ‘Progenitor is far too devoted to his faith, and has lost too many creations to bear being asked to fulfill that duty again. For do his duty he would, even with his spark broken beyond salvaging. As I would. As… as Genitor would have. Our adherence to duty is both the gift and doom of our line.’
The flockbond felt tattered. Strands drifting aimless around the gaping, aching hole where his Genitor’s solid presence should be. Had always been, until now. His spark kept reaching for something - someone - who was no longer there. Who was gone. Who was… dead. Dead and dust and gone, gone and fresh grief, sharp and all-encompassing hit with the weight of the world. A world he would have to face now without his genitor’s quiet, steadfast strength at his back. A daunting task. Impossible to consider doing so.
For the first time in his life since he had reached an understanding of just what his brother’s glitch was and why it kept him from coming home, he envied his brother’s curse. That his brother did not and could not suffer the full pain of missing their genitor, as he did, seemed tremendously unfair. Yet the faint, ghostly presence that was his one-way connection to his missing sibling tasted of deep grief, and echoed with pain, and he knew that his brother mourned their genitor with them, to the fullest extent that his glitch allowed him.
That barely there link was enough for him to face the world again, to put his back to the howling wind of despair and brace himself against it. A meagre start, the thinnest of imaginable patches, but it was enough. Enough for him to stand on his own. Enough to stumble, vision hazed with grief-glitched static, over to where his formatter had been reduced to trembling whimpers. Enough for him to offer comfort in turn as his Progenitor lent his tired strength to the remnants of their flock.
It was enough. Not enough to dim the pain, not enough to soothe, but enough to prove it could be survived. Enough to provide them with reason enough to continue on. It was enough. It was enough to remind him that there was a duty left to them, in order to ensure that his genitor had not died in vain.
‘No matter what, Genitor, I will not give up.’ Barricade swore. Silently, viciously, he swore to Interceptor’s departed spark. ‘No matter what, I will see your dream and duty fulfilled. I will bring Prowl home. I promise you.’
(Word Count: 1,528)
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Slowly but surely I'm getting closer to finishing the first two Arcs in this series. You have no idea how much I am looking forward to being able to stamp 'DONE' on one of these sections. No idea.
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Dear Friends, today your fic update was delayed because my mother's Boxer (a bulldog breed, for the unaware) decided to have fresh duck for dinner. I came back from three hours of errands in town to my foster sister telling me that two of the six-month-old ducklings (the only two males from that batch, in fact) "probably won't last the night." Then I says: "Fuck that. I need horse hair, rubbing alcohol, paper towel folded into pads, surgical gloves, and a small needle."
Little sister and foster sister ran away making faces like the weak stomached little hothouse flowers that they are. Younger sister and I, on the other hand, laid down plastic sheeting, grabbed a pair of scissors, and went to town. I darned those little buggers like a pair of loudly protesting socks while she held them down. I am a sewing machine. Pun most certainly intended!
The things you learn you can do, when you've got limited options. I spent two hours putting their necks back together. If either one of them dies I'm going to be severely dissapointed.
For the curious, the hair from a horse's tail was historically used for sutures before modern medicine came up with their fancy-assed dissolving threads. If we're lucky, the hair will come out on its own as the ducks heal.
Also? You know that moment in the medical drama where the nurse pats the doctors head to remove sweat from the heroic surgeon's brow? Apparently not just something they do for dramatic tension! I was dripping on the floor by the time I was fifteen minutes into fixing up the first duck. I feel gross, my adrenaline crashed like the Hindenburg, and the kitchen stinks of hardcore disinfectants.
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HERE THERE BE DRAGONS!! (Yeah, so I'm totes playing catch-up right now... and attempt number one to breed a Hell Horse failed. Boo.)
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